Homesick

Natasha and Sheena run a private practice. They're doctors, married to each other. They wait for their stepdaughter Nadia at the front door, fresh off the plane from college. Nadia looks pale, shoulders hunched, tired in the eyes. The wives exchange glances and lead her inside. Sheena takes her temperature first. Checks ears, throat, pupils. Nothing. Natasha listens to her chest through layers of fabric but gets nothing clear. She tells Nadia to strip. The girl obeys, folding each piece carefully. Stethoscopes move across bare skin. Reflex hammers tap knees and elbows. Hands trace shoulders, ribs, waist. They find no fever, no irregularity, nothing clinical. They ask when the symptoms started. Nadia hesitates. Then she admits: the morning she left for the airport. Their eyes soften. They move closer, holding her between them. Chest to back, chest to chest. Nadia rests her face against Sheena's breast, then turns to Natasha. She opens her mouth. Lips close around a nipple. She sucks. The tension leaves her shoulders. The women watch the shift. Nadia hardens under their palms. Her nipples stand tight. Between her legs she glistens. Natasha glances at Sheena. No words pass. They know what the girl needs. They lay her back on the bed and move over her, skin to skin, until the only thing left is heat.