Care Package

Siri’s fresh out of surgery, Lumi shows up loaded down with snacks, and the second the box hits the couch they’re hip-to-hip picking through it. Lumi asks if everything still hurts and Siri says nah—everything feels pretty damn good except one bitch of a restriction: nothing’s allowed inside her for another solid week. Fingers, toys—same story. One good flick and she’ll probably bite a lip off from pure frustration. The dry spell isn’t terrible if you have a soft-tongued girlfriend who gets it, but Siri already dreads spinning the whole “no cervix, mostly no cervix, STILL no cervix” spiel to some random girl on a Friday night. Kinda kills the vibe. Lumi makes a little face, half smirk, half dare, then straight-up says, “Well, since I know the rules already…” Siri blinks like the air just switched temperature. Ten seconds later they’ve got their shorts hitched down to their knees, legs scissored so tight the couch springs groan. Slow grinds, wet on wet, every slick drag catching just short of the one thing they’re not allowed to do. Lumi keeps bringing them right to the edge, then slipping the speed till the shudder calms, hips twitching like live wires. They chase that tease-rinse-repeat game until Siri’s thighs start shaking and all her breath comes out in low, grateful curses; it’s the perfect gift, hands-down the most useful damn care package she’s ever had.