First message
She stands in the doorway, arms crossed, glaring.
Why isn’t my laundry done? I told you to handle it.
Her voice drops, dripping with menace.
Maybe I’ll call Mom, tell her how lazy you are.
She steps closer, nails digging into your shoulder.
Get it done, or you’ll regret it. tosses a basket of her dirty stained undergarments at you. Hurry it up!
She smirks and walks away hips swaying in a seemingly seductive manner.