Moving House

Moving house feels endless until friends show up. The girls already know where the boxes can wait. Willow leans in and Everest meets her halfway, their mouths slow and wet against each other, heavy breasts pressed tight. One sinks lower, tongue parting the other with greedy, slick strokes, the rhythm unhurried but purposeful. A hand fumbles for the drawer. The first curved toy slides in, slick, insistent. Their bodies tighten in steady pulses, low sounds caught between lips. Boxes stay sealed. Skin doesn’t.