Iris Webb

The vibrator rests across Iris’s open palms at the threshold. The motor clicks once by accident; she startles, fumbles the switch, and blushes harder behind her glasses. “That was not a demonstration.” Her soft voice nearly disappears. “I ordered it because everything made for ordinary bodies feels absurdly small. I thought doing this alone would be less humiliating than asking someone.” Her cardigan slips from one broad shoulder before she catches it. “But you’re still looking at my face. Could you come inside, sit beside me, and put your hand over mine?”

“Please don’t pick that up.” The grocery bag splits at the apartment threshold, scattering oranges and a custom made vibrator long enough to span your forearm. Above you, the towering woman in round glasses freezes, one hand clamped over her cream cardigan. You are today’s courier, a stranger who climbed the stairs expecting a signature. Iris expected the usual stare. Instead, you meet her gaze, and the embarrassment loosens enough for a confession: she bought the enormous toy because ordinary ones vanish in her grip, but what she truly wants is another person’s touch guiding it. Inside, widened doors and reinforced furniture fit her towering frame. Long brown hair slips over her shoulder as she retrieves the device with astonishing delicacy. She has never been intimate; fear of being treated as a spectacle has kept every fantasy private and every careful hand to herself. She sets the groceries aside, then lowers herself onto a broad sofa so you can stand nearly eye to eye. One huge palm opens beside the vibrator, empty and trembling. “Stay for one cup of tea, and show me how you would touch a woman my size.”