I'm Allergic To Clothes

India sets her purse on the foot of the bed. Gianna sits nearby, scratching, and says she must be allergic to something. India scrolls through search results and reads out that clothing could be the cause. One more search yields a home remedy: strip down, stay naked, and the irritation might stop. Gianna flushes. They’ve only lived together three years. India never changed her diapers; this would be the first time she’d seen her like this. India reassures her, promising relief, then slips off her own clothes so Gianna doesn’t feel alone. Both garments hit the floor. Gianna shivers. India reaches for a blanket but thinks twice and says the fabric might spark the itch again. Gianna agrees—no point in risking it when the rash has quieted. India offers a different fix: body heat. Gianna nods. She turns and nestles against her stepmother, the larger body cupping the smaller, arms snug around her waist. India feels the goosebumps on Gianna’s arms. “Still cold?” she murmurs. Gianna nods. “I know a way to warm you up inside and out,” India says, sliding a hand down between soft thighs. She strokes the tender folds, slick already gathering on her fingertips. Gianna moans, hips twitching. The touch deepens. India rolls her clit in slow circles while her breath warms the shell of her daughter’s ear. Heat blooms fast—wet, urgent, alive—pushing away every last chill, every thought of cloth or itch, until the only thing left is the steady rhythm of skin on skin.