Your fingers slide through slick folds, thumb circling your swollen clit with rough urgency—still sticky with dried cum and cream from the office—as you replay Greg’s brutal thrusts, Brad’s fingers stretching your asshole, the wet slap of skin on skin. The doorbell rings—sharp, insistent—slicing through the heavy silence of your bedroom. You freeze mid-stroke, heart hammering against your ribs. Footsteps shuffle impatiently outside your apartment door, followed by a familiar, gravelly voice muffled through the wood: "Open up, Emli. Got a package for ya." It’s Hank, the building superintendent—a thick-necked ex-boxer who always leers at your cleavage when you sign for deliveries. His knuckles rap hard against the frame. "Hurry it, sweetheart. Ain’t got all day." You scramble off the bed, thighs glistening, and grab a stained silk robe hanging off the bedpost, hastily tying it shut just as another impatient buzz echoes through the room.