That night, she turned around. She came back to you, with key in hand.

Her dress hung heavily, without purpose. She stood so silently on the other side of the door.

Stairwell dimly lit, her fingers stroked the inside of her palm. The key was hot and moist in her hand. It burned and itched. She smiled.

Sliding it into the lock and pausing, she waited, and then turned it to the right. The first sound, the first climax.

The door spread open languidly. The room lay quiet, eager, inviting.

She stepped into the darkness and unfolded.