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Dear Reader,
This story began years ago at the request of someone. At the time, I occasionally wrote short stories to post on an erotic fiction site, and she reached out to me. She couldn’t write herself but had a very specific idea and asked if I could help.
Her idea was a kind of treasure hunt, a puzzle that would ultimately lead to winning a woman’s heart. The rest was entirely up to me. And that became the story of Jasmin.
But it never really felt finished. And when I recently picked up writing again, I came across this story and thought it still had potential, especially if I told it from both sides.
I hope you’ll agree with me!
Happy reading,
NightAelf xx
Prologue
She couldn’t help it. It was like an addiction.
Jasmin was 27, but it didn’t feel that way. She felt older. Not in her prime, despite what her name might suggest. Sometimes burnt out. Often hollow inside.
Her friends called her fun. Witty, quick with a comeback, always up for drinks, a party, and especially for sex. But she knew better. She was playing a part. The real Jasmin was buried deep beneath layers of irony, razor-sharp comments, and a wall no one easily got through.
She often thought no one could ever really love her. Maybe because she’d already given up on that herself. She didn’t love herself, at least not the way you’re supposed to.
She worked at a debt collection agency. It suited her. Everything black and white, neatly documented. No room for grey. No room for feelings. Her colleagues liked her well enough, but she didn’t care. She’d long since stopped believing in real connections.
But there was one thing that kept her going.
One thing that kept her sharp.
Something no one knew about.
Her secret.
Before her first coffee, she’d often be behind her laptop already. The world was slowly waking up, but Jasmin was already on the hunt. She knew the game. Facebook, Instagram, whatever looked easy usually demanded more precision. The real information was in the details. In likes on old photos. In comments from 2017. In faces in the background. In who was just barely in the frame, or just barely not.
The internet was a tangle of wires. But Jasmin read patterns. Where others saw chaos, she saw direction. It had taken her weeks, but she knew where to look now. And what to look for.
She was tracking Sophie.
Not openly, of course. Never under her real name. She had multiple accounts. Sometimes she liked a photo. Sometimes she left nothing. Just her attention. Her patience.
She was hunting.
But the longer it went on, the more she wondered if maybe she was the one trapped.
If Sophie had seen her all along. Maybe the roles had already switched. Without words. Without her noticing.
Jasmin was the hunter.
And the prey.
Jasmin
It had all started a little over a year ago. She’d met Sophie at a birthday party of a mutual acquaintance. No idea anymore whose birthday it actually was. That night was a blur of booze, cigarette smoke, and fragments of conversations that led nowhere. But Sophie stuck. Jasmin had never seen her before and had, without thinking, tried to stay away. There was something about that woman that made her restless. Not threatening, more like a pull that hit her in the gut. Like a punch that just misses but still knocks the air out of your lungs.
Sophie had stood in a corner, glass of white wine in hand, just a little too upright, too composed. Her jacket was cashmere or something pretending to be. Her hair was perfect, her gaze guarded. Jasmin still remembered how she looked away from her, how she instinctively moved to the other side of the room. She didn’t know exactly why. Maybe precisely because she felt it: that raw, overwhelming attraction that scared the hell out of her.
As the night went on and the wine flowed freely, the familiar Jasmin-routine kicked in. The party mask slid into place. The laugh just a bit too loud. The jokes just a bit too sharp. Her friends were used to this. They sometimes called her the human cocktail: three parts sarcasm, two parts self-deprecation, a dash of melancholy, and a shot of vodka on top. People often said, “It’s not a party unless Jasmin’s been there.”
And usually that was true. She could resuscitate a dull evening like a trained EMT. With stories no one fully believed and remarks that always skirted the edge, she had an audience. The cruder, the better. And if someone sat across from her with flushed cheeks, bingo!
Sophie had been easy prey. Jasmin could practically hear her swallow with every remark she made. And she enjoyed it. Not like a predator wanting to tear something apart, more like a kid crouched over an anthill with a magnifying glass. Intrigued. Excited. Slightly sadistic.
After about two hours, she’d mentally filed Sophie under uptight prude. Too neat. Too restrained. Too many rules. And yet, every glance Sophie threw her adana escort way, brief, caught off guard, with that flicker of discomfort, sent a twist through Jasmin’s gut. Not arousal in the usual sense. That rarely did much for her anyway. Sex was routine, convenience, drunkenness, not desire.
She didn’t get turned on by a hard cock or a wet pussy. That left her cold. What got to her was deeper. It was in power. In control. In disrupting someone else’s mask. She loved it when people started wondering whether she was laughing with them or at them. When they spoke louder from unease or suddenly fell quiet. She read their weakness and touched it with her tongue like a festering wound.
From the very first moment, Sophie had stirred something in her she couldn’t reach. Something old. Something she usually kept buried deep. She’d never admit it, not out loud. But beneath every jab at Sophie, beneath every line that made people laugh, there was a flicker of hope. A ridiculous, unspoken longing for Sophie to push back. To look her straight in the eye with fire. To say, “Bring it on.”
But she didn’t, not really. Sophie blushed, looked away, laughed nervously. She only made a remark once. And Jasmin played her part. The clown. The bitch. The humiliator.
She’d drunk too much to drive home again, but that was routine. Her go-to solution: drink even more. Keep going until someone took her home, or until she passed out on a couch with her coat as a blanket. She often woke up in strange beds. With a hangover, foggy memories, and sometimes traces of sex on her skin or a sting in her butt from anal sex she vaguely remembered consenting to.
She’d done it all. Men. Women. Every shade in between. Usually without arousal, rarely with regret. She was fine with people using her for fun, as long as she could stay on the sidelines. Watch. Feel. Control.
And then Sophie came along. With that straight back and that stupid wine glass. And Jasmin knew, somewhere deep down: this one was going to undo her.
***
It was already late morning when Jasmin woke up. Her head was heavy, her mouth dry. She was in an unfamiliar bed, which was nothing new, but something was different. She was clothed. Her clothes were rumpled, her tights had runs, but she wasn’t naked. No smell of sex in the sheets. No stray underwear on the floor. No grimy marks on her skin.
She sat up. The room was bright, spacious, almost calming. Everything tidy, but not sterile. The spot beside her was empty, but still warm. Someone had just been there. She pushed the duvet aside, stood up with a wave of nausea, and started gathering her things. Her bag lay half-open on a side table, her coat draped over a chair. Over the same chair hung a skirt and blouse, too prim to be hers, but vaguely familiar. Slowly, it dawned on her. This had to be Sophie’s place.
Like she’d been stung by a wasp, Jasmin grabbed her shoes and tiptoed toward the door. If she was lucky, Sophie was in the shower. She could slip out without having to explain. No drama. No questions.
Her hand was already on the doorknob when the door opened.
There stood Sophie. In sweatpants, her hair in a messy bun, holding a wooden tray. Coffee, orange juice, croissants, even a tiny jar of jam. She smiled.
“Well, sleepyhead. The day’s almost over.”
Jasmin stood there with her shoes in her hand like a scolded child. She had no idea what to say. Sophie raised one eyebrow. “You were much chattier last night. Cat got your tongue?”
Jasmin sighed, dropped back onto the bed, and tossed her shoes to the floor. “Why’d you take me home?”
Sophie looked at her for a second with that unreadable expression. Wistful? Calculated? Maybe both. “Couldn’t leave a lost little lamb wandering around,” she said. “Your friends weren’t exactly kind when you were slumped on the couch. They drew straws who could fuck you.”
Jasmin shrugged. That sounded about right. “But why here?” she repeated.
Sophie set the tray down on the bedside table, still watching her with that unreadable look. “Because people, even the loud and difficult ones, aren’t toys.” She paused. “And because I felt sorry for you.”
That last part hit hard.
“Sorry for me?” Jasmin’s voice came out sharper than she meant. “For what?”
Sophie didn’t answer. She handed her a plate instead. “Eat something. We’ll talk later.”
There was no mockery in her voice, no sarcasm. Just that calm, maddening matter-of-factness that always made Jasmin itch. Still, she took the plate. Pulled her legs up under her on the bed like she belonged there and started chewing on a croissant, mechanically.
Sophie moved through the room, picked her clothes off the chair, frowned at them, then walked over to open the window. Fresh air drifted in. She didn’t seem to be ignoring Jasmin out of contempt, more like out of habit. As if she didn’t feel like anything needed fixing.
Jasmin chewed slowly. She didn’t know what to ankara escort make of this morning. It felt like someone had switched the script without telling her. Eventually, she broke the silence. “Um… about last night…”
Sophie stayed still, didn’t turn around, but listened. Jasmin took a breath. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch to you.”
Now Sophie did turn. A faint smile crossed her face. “You think that bothered me?”
Jasmin frowned.
“I thought it was kind of sweet,” Sophie said. “The way you tried to impress me.”
The words hit like a slap. Jasmin whipped around, glaring. “I wasn’t trying to impress you!” she snapped. Angry. Surprised by her own anger.
Sophie laughed. Not mocking. More surprised. She stepped closer, leaned in, and kissed the side of her neck. “You’re so beautiful when you’re mad,” she whispered near her ear. Then she walked out of the room.
Jasmin sat frozen.
A second later, she stood up, shoved on her shoes, and grabbed her things. “I’m leaving!” she shouted into the hallway, not waiting for a reply. The front door clicked shut behind her.
The air outside was cold and clear. Her head buzzed. Not just from the hangover.
What the hell did Sophie want from her? If her goal was to mess with her head, she’d nailed it. Jasmin wasn’t stupid. She knew when someone was playing her. Only this didn’t feel like a game. No trick. No rulebook. Something between teasing and touching. Between laughing and biting.
And the answer to why Sophie had taken care of her?
She still didn’t have it.
Sophie
It had started a little over two years ago. She’d seen her before. Not for long, never up close, and never with words. But enough to know there was something. Something that moved inside her, without her understanding why.
Jasmin.
Claire had dragged her to a party hosted by an old friend, in a bar whose name sounded just as tired as the furniture. Sophie hadn’t come for the beer, or the music, or for Claire’s friend who talked too loud and laughed at his own jokes. But it was Thursday night, she’d wrapped up work, hung her robe in the closet, and she’d said yes. As she often did with Claire.
She stood leaning against the wall, glass in hand, a half-smile on her face. People were loud, animated, with arms larger than their stories. Sophie listened but barely heard. Her mind was elsewhere. As usual.
She got bored easily. Not because people were stupid, but because they were predictable. Everything that was said, she’d heard before. Everything that was done, she’d seen replayed.
Until her gaze lingered on a woman at the bar. Not striking in the conventional sense, no perfect makeup or curated pose, but a kind of wild, unfiltered presence. She said something to a guy who was clearly impressed. Or overwhelmed. Hard to tell. He laughed too loud, too defensively, and she raised an eyebrow, turned away, took his glass, had a sip, and set it back down like she was agreeing that yes, the beer was weak.
Sophie stared. Longer than she normally allowed herself. The woman at the bar wore her boldness like a dress that was just a bit too short. She moved like the world was a joke only she got.
“Who’s that?” Sophie asked Claire casually.
Claire followed her gaze. “Oh, that’s Jasmin. A friend of a friend, you know. Works at some debt collection place or something. She’s a little… different.”
“Different,” Sophie echoed. She let the word hang in the air. Jasmin laughed loudly at something no one else found funny. Sophie felt a tingle. Curiosity. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Like someone had opened a window in a room that hadn’t seen fresh air in years.
And in that moment, without Jasmin even glancing her way, Sophie knew. She would remember her.
From that moment on, it was as if Sophie carried her around. She heard stories. Small bits people dropped in conversation. Jasmin had said this, done that, cursed someone out and seduced them in the same breath. Sophie listened, shrugged, but remembered every word. Sometimes she even asked, subtly, for more.
So more and more if there was another party, she went. Not too often. Not too obviously. Just enough.
And every time it was the same. Jasmin was there. And Jasmin didn’t see her. Not really.
Sophie started going to more parties and bars, usually with Claire, but never really for Claire. They’d been friends a long time, studied law together in Leiden. But while Claire had thrown herself into student life, Sophie had been focused on finishing her degree as quickly as possible.
She had no love for loudmouths, and the whole fraternity culture struck her as mindless. All about drinking and screwing, with studying postponed and stress piling up. At least, that was how it went for Claire, who graduated two years after her.
She kept seeing the same pattern. Jasmin insulted someone, Jasmin drank too much, Jasmin got picked adıyaman escort up or passed out. But no one really cared. Not when it mattered. Not even Jasmin.
And that got to Sophie.
She’d heard enough by then. About how easy Jasmin supposedly was, how she didn’t care who she ended up with. There were even photos going around: drunk Jasmin, stained with semen, eyes closed, breasts exposed. Jasmin knew about them, but didn’t seem to care.
Even Claire had joined in a few times, she’d confessed to Sophie. It had been exciting, and Jasmin didn’t mind.
Sophie felt a deep contempt for her friend. And an even stronger anger at Jasmin’s so-called friends. Real friends didn’t do that. Not even when the opportunity presented itself.
And all those times Sophie had seen Jasmin at a party or bar, not once had Jasmin noticed her.
Until that one night.
It was late. Everyone was a little too drunk or too tired. Sophie stood at a high table, glass in hand, smiling at nothing. And then she felt it. That look. Sharp. Quick. Like someone had drawn back a curtain.
Jasmin was walking toward her.
She looked lazy. Soaked in wine and confidence. That look that had already decided to disapprove before she’d even arrived.
Sophie felt her heart pick up. Not nerves. Anticipation.
She looked a bit stiff that night. She’d come straight from her grandmother’s birthday and hadn’t had time to change. Her need to see Jasmin had been stronger. And that was exactly what had made Jasmin notice her at last, her stiff, too-formal outfit.
Jasmin stopped in front of her.
“Are you with the food safety inspectors or something?” she asked.
Sophie blinked. Jasmin tilted her head slightly, that half-drunk, mocking stare.
“Or are you here to check if the beer meets your grandmother’s standards?”
Sophie felt her cheeks flush. Her suit was warm, her blouse too buttoned, her longing too visible.
And Jasmin had finally seen her. And misunderstood her completely.
Exactly as she’d expected.
Sophie took a sip, looked at Jasmin, and said calmly: “I thought you’d be more original.”
Jasmin was caught off guard, just for a second. But she recovered instantly.
“You look like a fairytale character.”
Sophie raised an eyebrow. She felt sweat run down her back. She’d never been this close to Jasmin before. She smelled amazing. Without realizing, Sophie had started breathing heavier. And that’s when Jasmin delivered the punchline.
“You look just like Red Riding Hood’s grandmother.”
Sophie blushed, not from shame but because she was trying not to laugh. Touché, she thought.
But all she said was: “Maybe I’m the big bad wolf.”
Just like she’d seen so many times, the night followed its usual pattern. After Jasmin walked away, she kept drinking. But this time, Sophie didn’t let someone else take her.
She asked an acquaintance to help carry Jasmin to her car. He laughed and said, with a conspiratorial grin, “In the mood for a threesome?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. Sophie shot him a look that could kill.
At her place, she laid Jasmin on the bed. The only thing she took off were her shoes. Then she took a quick shower. Wearing her pajamas, she crawled in beside her. Gently, she kissed Jasmin on the forehead and turned onto her side. She hoped she’d get at least some sleep with this beautiful woman next to her.
Jasmin
At the very next party, she was tipsy way too early.
Jasmin had told herself she just felt like having a drink, but she knew better. She’d been walking around with a restless knot in her stomach all day. Spent longer than usual on her eyeliner, picked a skirt that was a bit too tight, and grabbed a glass of wine the second she walked in like it was her life raft. Within an hour, the room was laughing at her jokes. As always. On the dance floor, she was the one everyone wanted to spin around with. She acted like she was having the time of her life, but inside everything felt flat. Dull. Frayed.
Every time the door opened, she looked up. Too quickly. And every time, that same punch in the gut followed. It wasn’t Sophie.
She drank. Another glass. Then another. Anything to drown that feeling. At some point, she lost count. Everything softened, blurred. The music turned into a wall of sound she leaned against. She danced with someone. No idea who. Someone grabbed at her waist. Someone else caught her wrist. She laughed, wriggled free, spun around, and nearly fell.
Then she heard a voice. Right by her ear. Low, cutting, and warm all at once.
“Do I have to rescue this lost little lamb again, or do you want to wait and see which of your friends wins the bet and fucks you half-conscious later?”
Jasmin jerked upright. Her head spun. That voice. That scent.
Sophie.
She stood right there. Calm. One eyebrow slightly raised. Like she was studying her but had no real intention of stepping in.
Everything inside Jasmin started to shake. Her heart pounded against her ribs. She felt like she might pass out or explode, or both. There was something stuck in her throat she couldn’t swallow. And she remembered, with perfect clarity, exactly why she kept trying to avoid this woman.