The House Cleaners

Kenna’s mouth crashes into Khloe’s again, a desperate tongue fuck while their bills nag louder than reason. Khloe sighs against it, already wetter than what tomorrow’s paycheck could buy. She whispers, fuck work, fuck everyone. For half a heartbeat Kenna lets the invitation bleed through, then pulls back, thumb grazing Khloe’s spit-slick lower lip. Later. They still owe rent. Khloe shoves cleaning supplies into a duffel like she’s burying a grudge, drives too fast, parks too hard. Inside the client’s house, the mattress feels wrong without their mess on it. Khloe stares at the pristine linen and scoffs—clean sheets that have never been sweated on? Pointless. She hooks Kenna’s belt loop and slams her onto the mattress. The springs squeal like they’re already judging. Kenna’s giggle breaks into a moan when Khloe claws zipper and cotton away. Khloe grinds, greedy, shoving Kenna’s thighs open, tongue lapping the seam of her cunt with zero mercy. Kenna clutches her head, trying to hush her, moaning that the owners could walk in, fuck, they’ll get canned, fuck. The danger only swells Khloe’s hunger; she buries her face deeper, sucking Kenna’s clit like it owes her money. The bed frame knocks the nightstand; every rattle says quit this job, stay down here, lick until their bodies are as wrecked as the sheets they’re about to wash.