Women's Work

Gabbie handles the house the way she handles her body: she gives it everything. Morning to night she moves through the rooms, clears the plates, straightens the papers, keeps the man’s world in order. At dusk he arrives with a second set of hands—Oliver steps in, Michael already waiting. Gabbie drops to her knees between them, skirt still hitched from the day’s work. She takes Michael first, lips stretched wide, throat opening deep until her eyes water. Oliver grips her hair, feeds her the next length, pushes past the same wet heat. She gags, pulls back, strings of spit clinging to her chin and the heavy curves of her tits. Back and forth they trade her mouth, using it like another tool she keeps ready. When she rises, breasts bare now, they bend her over the same table she set an hour earlier. Michael drives in from behind while she swallows Oliver again, the rhythm never breaking. Sweat gathers between her breasts, drips onto polished wood. They finish across her chest, thick ropes sliding over skin she just lotioned smooth. Gabbie stays on her knees, breathing hard, chest glistening, the day’s last task finished.