Teaching Sinead

Sabrina Sweet came back from her week away and couldn’t find words for everything she’d felt. So she let her body talk. She wanted Sinead to know the jaw-dropping stretch of being fisted, and since words wouldn’t cut it she drove her hand straight into her friend the way she herself had been opened—slow at first, then suddenly deeper, knuckles crowding, palm sliding, until her whole wrist disappeared. Sinead arched, breath catching, muscles clutching the intrusion like it belonged there. They moved together with brutal grace—muscles quivering, wetness spilling down Sabrina’s forearm—each grind, twist, thrust carrying its own hushed obscenity.