Page 6 of Mommy

The girl underneath me moans again, and this time I can feel my annoyance kick up a notch.

What the fuck?

Another whimper has me sitting up before her.

Even staring at my knot work doesn’t help change my cocks mind. He’s done with this one, and knows what else he wants.

Groaning, I start loosening the knots again.

The girl’s eyes widen in confusion when I help her get up.

“What are you⁠—?”

“We’re done here.” I interrupt, and throw her an apologetic smile.

It’s not her fault my mind is getting in the way.

She huffs and picks up her clothes from where I let them fall to the floor earlier.

Bringing her back to the front door, I wave as she exits, but my thoughts are already elsewhere.

In the kitchen I pour myself two fingers of whiskey and down the drink in one big gulp. I don’t drink often, but sometimes I allow myself the pleasure.

The house is quiet around me, and I let myself wander off through the large living space and generous dining room.

This house was built for a family, but I live in it alone and sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have kids here. And a wife.

I’m certain I will have both one day. I just haven’t found the right one for it yet…

Or maybe I did?

Shaking my head, I refill my glass with water and down that too.

Looks like I need to stop by the shelter tomorrow and get a better look at a particular employee.

Chapter five

Ivory

I wake up on the thin mattress of my own bed and groan.

Getting home from the shelter yesterday was a nightmare.

I had pushed it off for as long as I could, but coming home late still meant coming home, and it didn’t get any better with the setting darkness.

It wasn’t that my mom had missed me or been worried. It wasn’t like she’d yelled at me or asked where I was. No, the most awful thing that happened was that she hadn’t even noticed I hadn’t been there the night before.

She greeted me with a weak smile from her place on the couch, and when I told her I had already eaten she had drifted back off into blissful nothingness.

I had lied about the food. At some point it had turned into a habit to tell her I had eaten because otherwise she would worry or feel guilty and stressed. She was more likely to take something when she was stressed, and I could handle a little hunger better than her on her meds. Even when she wasn’t fully here without pills, I prefer her sober version. Or, what you could call sober.

Sick parents don’t ever really feel sober. Ever. Sometimes when I was younger I felt like I only had half a mom, there and gone in the blink of an eye.

Depression ate at her like she was its last meal, stretched out to savor over decades.

I’d helped her to her bedroom before slipping into my own small room at the end of the corridor.

The bed squeaks as I roll onto my back and peel my eyes open.