The low thud came from the bedroom — soft, distant, the sound of something giving way. Pebbles's head snapped up from where he'd been napping against Hazel's thigh, his black beady eyes fixing on the hallway. He let out a questioning quack.
Hazel's face went pink. Not the warm flush of arousal Ivy had learned to read, but something older — a rush of heat that rose from her collarbones to her cheeks, the kind that came with memory. Old shame surfacing. Her hand went still on the lavender balloon in her lap.
"It's nothing," she said, too quickly. "Just — one of the older ones. Must've gotten weak."
Ivy watched her. Didn't say anything. Just let the silence hold the space, the way she'd learned to do in the weeks since that first night in the kitchen. She reached over and pressed her palm flat against Hazel's on the lavender balloon. A small pressure. A reminder.
Hazel's breath came out shaky. Then she laughed — a real one, surprised out of her. "God. It's still — I heard that noise and I thought —" She shook her head. "Nothing. I thought nothing. It's fine."
Pebbles, satisfied there was no danger, waddled off Hazel's lap and across the floor to where the orange 36-inch balloon sat wedged under the armchair. He nudged it with his beak, sending it rolling. Then he pounced — a small feathered missile, his webbed feet scrabbling against the latex as he pushed it across the living room floor, quacking with delight.
Hazel watched him, the pink fading from her cheeks. "He really loves that one."
"He picked it himself," Ivy said. "It matches his beak."
They watched Pebbles chase the orange sphere around the coffee table leg, the balloon bouncing and wobbling with each peck. Outside the window, the sky had gone from rose to violet. Nearly night.
Hazel stretched, her back arching, her sundress riding up her thighs. "We should probably think about dinner."
"Probably," Ivy agreed. She didn't move. Neither did Hazel.
Then Hazel looked at her — that particular look, the one that had started appearing more and more in the past weeks. A little shy, a lot hungry. She bit her lower lip, worrying it between her teeth. "Ivy."
"Yeah?"
"Blowing up that orange balloon earlier." Hazel's voice dropped, went rough at the edges. "It put me in the mood."
Ivy's pulse ticked up. She said nothing, just waited.
Hazel leaned in, close enough that Ivy could smell her — the faint musk of her skin, the lavender of her soap. Her hand found Ivy's knee. "Can I," she said, voice barely above a whisper now, "go to my bedroom and enjoy my toys?"
There it was — that word. Toys. Not something to be ashamed of. Something to be asked for. Permission sought, and given, from someone who understood.
Ivy looked at her — the soft curve of her cheek in the lamplight, the way her honey-brown curls fell across her forehead, the slight tremor in her hand on Ivy's knee. Beautiful. Cute. Adorable in her vulnerability, devastating in her want.
She didn't answer with words. She leaned forward and caught Hazel's mouth with hers.
The kiss was slow at first — a press, a breath shared. Then Ivy's hand came up, cupping Hazel's jaw, tilting her head back, deepening it. She tasted coffee and something sweet. She felt Hazel's quiet gasp, the way her lips parted, the small sound she made against Ivy's tongue.
Ivy drew back just enough to speak, her mouth brushing Hazel's. "Only if you think of me."
Hazel's eyes fluttered open. Those hazel-green irises, dark in the dim light, pupils blown wide. She smiled — a slow, knowing thing — and pecked Ivy on the lips. Quick. Teasing. Then she pulled back.
"Always," she said.
She stood, leaving the lavender balloon on the couch, and walked toward her bedroom. Her skirt swayed with each step. At the doorway she paused, looked back over her shoulder, and then disappeared inside.
The door clicked shut, but not all the way — a sliver of light remained.
Ivy let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She pushed herself up from the couch and walked to the kitchen, where she busied herself filling the kettle, pulling down two mugs, trying not to think about what was happening on the other side of the wall.
She failed.
---
Hazel's bedroom was dim, lit only by the salt lamp on her nightstand, casting everything in a warm amber glow. The room smelled like her — lavender, clean sheets, the faint chemical tang of latex from the box of balloons under her bed.
She knelt beside the bed and pulled out the box. Inside: a dozen 36-inch balloons in various colors — turquoise, magenta, lemon yellow, a deep wine red. She ran her fingers over them, feeling the slick smoothness of the latex, the way the rubber gave slightly under her touch.
She chose three. The turquoise. The magenta. The red.
Her hands were steady now. The old shame had burned off in the kitchen, in Ivy's kiss, in the whispered permission. She was allowed this. Ivy had said so.
She brought the turquoise balloon to her lips, pinched the neck between her thumb and forefinger, and blew.
The first breath was always the hardest — the resistance of the latex, the slight give. She breathed again, feeling the balloon swell, the pressure building in her lungs. Another breath. Another. The rubber stretched, growing taut, the surface smoothing out as the air filled it.
She tied it off with practiced ease — a loop, a twist, a pull — and set it aside. Then the magenta. Then the red.
Three balloons, fully inflated, bouncing gently against the carpet.
She undressed slowly. Her sundress pooled at her feet. She unhooked her bra, let it fall. Her panties followed. Naked, she knelt among the balloons, the latex cool against her thighs, her stomach, the curve of her breasts.
She picked up the turquoise one first. Held it against her chest, feeling the smooth surface, the slight give. She brought it to her face, pressed her lips against it — a kiss, soft, almost reverent.
"Ivy," she whispered.
Then she lay back on the bed, the turquoise balloon between her thighs.
She pressed her legs together, trapping the latex against her cunt. The sensation was immediate — the slick resistance, the cool pressure against her heat. She rocked her hips, a small experimental motion, and the balloon slid against her, the latex dragging over her clit.
Her breath hitched. She did it again, harder, and felt the first pulse of warmth bloom low in her belly.
"Ivy," she said again, louder this time. A name. A prayer.
She rode the balloon with slow, grinding motions, her hips rolling in a lazy rhythm. The latex grew warmer against her, slick with her wetness. She reached down, guided the balloon so it pressed directly against her clit, and whimpered.
In the kitchen, Ivy froze, the kettle halfway to the stove. She'd heard it — a sound through the wall, muffled but unmistakable. A whimper. Her name.
She set the kettle down slowly. Listened.
---
Hazel had three balloons now. The turquoise one was slick with her, tucked under her thigh. The magenta one she'd positioned beneath her back, arched over it like a bridge, the rubber pressing into her spine.
The red one she held between her hands, squeezing it rhythmically as she ground against the turquoise. Each squeeze sent a pulse through the latex, a vibration that traveled through her palms, up her arms, settling in her chest.
She was close. She could feel it — that electric tension gathering in her belly, her thighs trembling with the effort of holding the rhythm. She kept her eyes closed, and behind her lids, she saw Ivy. Ivy's hands. Ivy's mouth. Ivy's voice, low and sure, whispering only if you think of me.
"Ivy," she gasped. "Ivy, Ivy, Ivy—"
Her orgasm crested, broke, and she cried out, her back arching off the magenta balloon, her thighs clamping around the turquoise, her whole body shuddering through the wave. She came with Ivy's name on her lips, a broken sound, a surrender.
In the kitchen, Ivy pressed a hand to her chest. Her heart was pounding. She could hear it — Hazel's voice, muffled through the wall, saying her name like it meant something. Like it was the only word that mattered.
She smiled. A slow, private thing.
---
Hazel didn't stop. She couldn't.
She pushed the spent turquoise balloon aside and reached for the magenta. Still full, still tight. She positioned it between her thighs, this time on her stomach, lying face-down, the balloon beneath her. She pressed her weight into it, the latex supporting her, cradling her hips.
She rocked against it, a slower rhythm now, building again from the ground up. The balloon pressed against her mons, against her clit through the soft flesh of her belly. Each roll of her hips sent a pulse of pressure through her, deep and spreading.
She thought about Ivy's hands. How they'd looked on the lavender balloon earlier — long fingers, ink-smudged, gentle. She imagined those hands on her instead. Cupping her breasts, sliding between her thighs, holding her steady while she rode the balloon.
"Ivy," she moaned, her voice thick. "Please—"
She didn't know what she was asking for. More. Always more. She reached down, found the knot of the magenta balloon, and pressed it directly against her clit. The hard nub of latex sent a jolt through her, sharp and electric. She gasped, grinding harder, chasing that sensation.
The second orgasm came faster, a sharper peak, and she sobbed into the pillow as it took her, her hips stuttering against the balloon, her fingers white-knuckled on the knot.
Through the wall, Ivy heard the sob, the muffled cry of her name. Her hand was still pressed to her chest. She could feel her own pulse, fast and strong. She wanted to go to her. She wanted to watch. She wanted to be the one making those sounds.
But she stayed in the kitchen, because Hazel had asked for this. Because this was Hazel's space, Hazel's surrender, and Ivy had been invited in only as far as she'd been invited. She would wait. She would listen. She would smile at the sound of her name on Hazel's lips.
---
Hazel was shaking now, the aftermath of two orgasms trembling through her muscles. She lay sprawled across the bed, the magenta balloon crushed beneath her hip, the red one still full and waiting on the pillow beside her head.
She reached for it. Turned onto her back. Positioned the red balloon between her thighs, against her soaked cunt, and pressed her legs together, trapping it in place.
She was so sensitive now. Every movement sent sparks through her, too much and not enough. She rode the red balloon with slow, deliberate rolls of her hips, each one building the tension higher, threatening to push her over again.
"Ivy," she breathed. "Ivy, I'm—"
She didn't finish. The third orgasm rolled over her like a wave, pulling her under, and she let it, her mouth open in a soundless cry, her body arching off the bed, her fingers gripping the sheets. She came with Ivy's name in her throat, a word she couldn't stop saying, didn't want to stop saying.
The red balloon popped.
The sharp report echoed through the room, and Hazel collapsed onto the mattress, panting, the shredded latex clinging to her thighs. She lay there, slick and trembling, her heart hammering, a smile spreading across her face.
In the kitchen, Ivy heard the pop. She paused, listening. Then she heard it — a laugh. Low, breathless, happy. Hazel's laugh, muffled through the wall, floating through the quiet apartment.
Ivy smiled. She turned back to the kettle, filled it, set it on the stove, and clicked the burner on. She pulled down two mugs, dropped a tea bag in each, and waited for the water to boil.
Through the wall, she could hear Hazel moving — the creak of the bed, the soft rustle of sheets, a contented sigh.
Ivy leaned against the counter, her arms crossed, her smile still there. The kitchen was warm. The water was almost ready. And on the other side of the wall, Hazel was still saying her name — under her breath now, a murmured mantra, a promise.
Ivy closed her eyes and let herself feel it. The weight of it. The gift of it.