The House Cleaners

Kenna leans in, lips brushing Khloe’s. Khloe pulls back, breathless, already wet. "Forget the job. Fuck me all day." Kenna tastes her again, a sigh, and for one slow beat her resolve slips—then sets. "Later. We need the money." Khloe groans, gathers bags, keys, resignation dragging at her feet. At the client’s they drift upstairs. Bedsheets, laundry, busywork. Khloe points to the white duvet. "Nothing on it. Why wash it?" Kenna checks the list. "Just do it." Khloe shoves her flat. "We make a mess first, then it earns its wash." Kenna laughs—tiny, nervous—then Khloe is on her, teeth at a collar, fingers tearing cotton. Khloe yanks Kenna’s jeans down, shoves her knees apart. Every door creak makes Khloe wetter. She thinks, *Fire us, catch us—whatever.* Her tongue finds Kenna’s cunt; she feasts like rent means nothing.