Chapter 35
I was kinda finishing up organizing the closet when I heard the key in the door. My brother was back, and with him, the delivery guy making him go downstairs again to pick it up. He didn't complain about anything — just dropped the bag on the entry table, gave a quick "be right back" and headed down to the lobby to grab the package. I rushed to the kitchen to set the table: plates, crooked silverware, and napkins. My mom was already in the living room, arms crossed, looking at me like I was a walking problem.
"Nicole, look at how you dress. You're a grown woman and you look like a guy. Those baggy jeans, that old t-shirt… and that greasy hair! When's the last time you washed it properly?"
I listened to it all with my back turned, folding a napkin into a triangle to play it off. It didn't hurt as much as it used to — it annoyed me, sure, but I'd learned to tune it out. It was like her words just slid right past me without really sinking in. I just mumbled a quiet "okay, Mom" without looking her in the eye. When she got closer and let out, nose wrinkled:
"God, you stink. What's that smell?"
I almost laughed right in her face. A nervous laugh, the kind that bubbles up your throat and threatens to burst. Part of me wanted to yell: "Your favorite son smells the same, Mom. Smell of sex, of wet pussy, of a mouth that sucked not long ago." But I swallowed it. My nose was good, but hers was divine — Catholic, sharp for sin. She smelled it, but didn't get it. Good thing.
Jonathan came back with the pizza boxes, dropped them on the table and sat next to me. The whole dinner was like that: him picking on me, backing up Mom. "Yeah, Nicole, you could clean up more," "look at that sleepy face, like you haven't slept in days." He said it in that same annoying big brother tone, smirking at the corners of his mouth, eyes sparkling with mischief. I got it right away. It was all an act. He was behaving exactly like always — teasing, messing around, being the outgoing son she loved. No one would suspect a thing. And the worst part: he was really enjoying it. His biggest thrill in life was watching me turn red, go quiet, swallow hard while he poked at me.
My mom, in the middle of the pizza, dropped the bomb:
"You know, I'm interested in a guy from work. A new administrative assistant. He's polite, goes to church…"
I stopped chewing. Stared at my plate. It wasn't a dating announcement, it was a trap. She wanted us to tell Dad. She wanted jealousy, wanted him to call in a panic, begging to come back. She said "interested," not "dating." That gave it all away. She wanted to see Dad hear it and suffer — or at least that's what she wanted. I just nodded, mumbling a "that's good, Mom." Jonathan shot me a discreet little smile on the side, like "see what I mean?".
The whole time I kept glancing at him from the corner of my eye, trying to spot any pharmacy bag hidden away. Nothing. Not in his hand, not in his pants pocket, not under his shirt. Did he tuck it in his waistband? Or forget? The idea of waiting longer hurt in my ass — a thin, anxious ache that clenched and released on its own. The lube was the only thing on my mind now. Everything else was just noise.
Dinner ended. My mom went to the sink to wash the dishes, grumbling that "nobody helps around here." Jonathan left his dirty plate on the table and vanished into his room. I went to the bathroom to take a shower. Hot water pouring down hard, washing away the sweat, the dried wetness on my thighs, the scent that still clung to my skin. I soaped up slow, fingers brushing my sensitive clit — still swollen, still throbbing faintly —, tried to touch myself again, because a shower without rubbing one out isn't a shower! But it didn't come. It didn't work.
When I got out of the shower, wrapped in the old towel, my mom came down the hall. She gave me a dry, quick kiss on the forehead and said:
"You need to go to confession, Nicole. That weight you're carrying… God sees everything."
She headed to her room with a full glass of water in hand — pills. I knew in half an hour she'd be out, TV on some Catholic channel, snoring loud.
Now it was time to wait.
You must be wondering: why not do this at your dad's place, where you have all the time in the world and you're alone most of the time? Why here, at Mom's, with her right next door?
Because I couldn't wait until tomorrow.
This fire doesn't wait. It burns now. And when it burns, it burns everything. My ass twitching in anticipation, my pussy still damp, the emptiness in my chest begging to be filled. I needed it. Needed it now. And my brother was gonna bring what I needed.
Another half hour. That's all.
I sat on the edge of the bed in our old room, towel still wrapped around me, hair dripping cold drops that ran down my back and soaked the old sheets. The silence of the house weighed on my ears, broken only by the TV in Mom's room — some priest droning low about redemption and temptation, a monotonous voice I knew by heart. She always watched for about twenty minutes, yawned, took the last sip of water with her pills and passed out. Always passed out.
I dried my hair with the towel as best I could, no rush, feeling the wet ends stick to my neck and back. I dropped the towel on the floor, opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and grabbed a nightgown — thin, white, going down to mid-thigh, one of those Mom bought "to sleep decently" that I only wore to avoid a lecture. I didn't put panties on underneath. No point. The light fabric clung straight to my still-warm skin from the shower, brushing lightly against my swollen outer lips that still throbbed faintly, against my ass that clenched and released on its own every time I thought about the lube. Every move made the nightgown ride up a bit on my skinny thighs, the cool air hitting my wet pussy, making me even more restless without even needing to touch.
And the door opened.