Not Even Remotely Sick

Allie stretches out on her bed alone and slips a remote-controlled vibrator inside herself, the deep steady buzz rolling through her core. She breathes hard against the sheets, getting lost in it. Keys jingle at the door. Bea walks in with an armful of groceries. Allie yanks the blanket to her chin, face burning. Bea takes one look at Allie red-cheeked, sweating, all tangled in covers and decides she must be running a fever. She drops the groceries, kicks off her sneakers, and perches on the edge of the mattress. The weight of her hip crushes the tiny remote hidden under the blanket. The vibrator jumps to its strongest pulse. Allie’s mouth flies open, a soft strangled sound slipping free. Bea leans in, cool palm on Allie’s forehead, apologizing she didn’t text first, asking if she needs water, medicine, anything. Every concerned word lands while the toy thrashes inside Allie, soaked, relentless. Her thighs shake. She tries to swallow a moan but it shudders out. Bea pauses, brow knitting, and asks what’s wrong. Allie blurts it out, breath ragged, confesses about the toy, the remote, the accident. Bea stares at her, pupils blown wide, and says she’s the one who should be sorry for barging in like an asshole. Allie wets her lips, voice low. Then make it up to me. Bea reaches under the blanket, pulls out the slick remote, thumb already hovering over buttons. She clicks it higher and smiles, already moving in close.