Chapter 4: The Morning After and a New Hunger
The morning light came through the kitchen windows in pale yellow shafts, catching the dust motes that hung in the air like tiny suspended suns. The smell of cinnamon and yeast wrapped around the room, warm and cloying, and the radio crackled with the cheerful strains of something Lawrence Welk was conducting with too much enthusiasm.
Ritchie paused at the bottom of the stairs.
His family sat around the oak table like a painting of someone else's life. Fred at the head, his face hidden behind the Omaha World-Herald, one hand wrapped around a coffee mug the size of a small bucket. Abby, his older sister, perched on the edge of her chair with perfect posture, a compact mirror in one hand as she checked her lipstick. And Haley—his twin—flipped her curly ginger hair over her shoulder and caught his eye with a grin that promised nothing good.
"Well, well," she said, drawing the words out like taffy. "The prodigal nerd returns. Did you sleep well, or were you up all night memorizing the periodic table?"
"Haley." Naomi's voice came from the stove, soft but warning. She didn't turn around, but Ritchie caught the way her shoulders had tensed, the way her hands moved a little too quickly over the skillet.
He padded to his seat, the floor cold beneath his bare feet. He'd dressed in jeans and a t-shirt that had fit him fine two weeks ago and now hugged his shoulders like it was embarrassed to be touching him. The fabric pulled across his chest in ways that made him hyperaware of his own frame.
"Eat," Naomi said, sliding a plate toward him without meeting his eyes. A pair of cinnamon rolls sat there, dripping with icing that pooled into the cracks. She was wearing a floral house dress, the kind she always wore on Sundays, and her dark hair was pinned up in a loose bun. A few strands had escaped, curling at her temples.
"Thanks, Mom."
Their fingers brushed when he reached for the plate.
Her hand twitched, and she pulled back like she'd touched the stove. Her cheeks flushed a deep, rosy pink that made her look younger, almost girlish. She turned away quickly, busying herself with the coffee pot.
"Everything okay, Naomi?" Fred didn't look up from his paper. "You're quiet this morning."
"I'm fine." Her voice was bright, brittle. "Just tired."
"You work too hard." He turned the page with a rustle of newsprint. "Ritchie, you been getting those chores done? The gutters looked full last week."
"Yes, sir." Ritchie tore off a piece of cinnamon roll and shoved it in his mouth, chewing mechanically. His body was still humming, that low-frequency pulse thrumming beneath his skin. It had been there all night, even after she'd left his room, even after he'd lain in bed staring at the ceiling and trying to make sense of what had happened.
He'd replayed it a hundred times. Her mouth on him. The sound she'd made when she came in her yoga pants. The way she'd said this doesn't change that like she actually believed it.
Something had changed, though.
In his gut, coiled and patient, he knew it absolutely.
"The water tastes weird," Haley announced, pushing her glass away. "Like—I don't know.Metal? Minerals?It's gross."
"It's the same water we've always had," Fred said. "Quit your complaining."
"I'm serious. It tasted fine yesterday but now it's—" She grimaced, shaking her head."Whatever. I'll just drink soda."
Across the table, Abby snapped her compact shut and slipped it into her purse. "You're such a baby. It's water. Drink it."
"Did I ask you?"
"You're complaining loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear."
"Girls." Naomi's voice cut through, harder this time. That pink flush was still high on her cheeks. She placed the coffee pot on the table with a click that was sharper than necessary."Enough."
The word landed on the table like a dropped stone. Even Fred lowered his paper for a moment, arching an eyebrow.
"Sorry, Mom," Haley mumbled, not sounding sorry at all.
Ritchie reached across the table for the butter dish, and his shirt rode up.
Just an inch. A sliver of skin between the hem and the waistband of his jeans.
Naomi inhaled.
It was a sharp, audible sound, like a gasp swallowed halfway. Her hand flew to her throat, and for a moment she just stared. Stared at the strip of skin, at the way it curved, the faint definition of muscle that hadn't been there a week ago. It wasn't dramatic. He wasn't some bodybuilder out of a magazine. But it was there, a visible hardening of his frame that hadn't existed before the water.
"Mom?" Haley was looking at her. "You okay?"
"I need to—" Naomi set down her fork. "I have to check on something in the bathroom."
She slid out of her chair before anyone could respond. Her footfalls were quick on the linoleum, and then the bathroom door clicked shut down the hall.
Fred didn't look up. Haley shrugged and went back to her toast. Abby checked her hair again.
Ritchie chewed his cinnamon roll and tried not to think about the ache in his stomach. It wasn't hunger.
---
He finished breakfast in near silence, the hum in his skull growing louder with each passing minute. Haley asked him about some homework he'd already turned in, Fred told him he should think about manual labor over the summer to "put some real muscle on those bones," and Abby left early with a kiss on their father's cheek and a wave that didn't quite reach him.
He carried his plate to the sink, the remnants of icing dissolving under the tap.
"You should get dressed for church," Fred said from behind his paper. "You know your mother likes us all to sit together."Yes, sir."
He left the kitchen and headed down the hallway. The bathroom door was closed. He raised his hand to knock, to tell his mother he was going upstairs, when the door swung open on its own.
Naomi stood there.
Her eyes were dark, pupils huge and blown, and there was a wildness in her face that made his breath catch. She grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside, kicking the door shut behind them.
"Mom, what—"
Her hand clamped over his mouth.
"Don't talk," she whispered. "Just don't talk, okay? I've been trying all morning. I've been telling myself it was wrong. That I need to be stronger. That I should never let that happen again." A laugh bubbled out of her, soft and broken. "And then you came downstairs smelling like—" She inhaled, a deep shuddering breath. "God, Ritchie. You smell like everything I never knew I wanted."
He should have pushed her away. He knew that.
But his hands were already on her hips.
"You were right," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "It can't be a thing—you said that—and we should define what we are. We need boundaries. We need to be sensible."
She was undoing his belt. Her fingers were trembling, fumbling with the buckle.
"But I'm not sensible, honey. I haven't been sensible since I put your cock in my mouth yesterday."
"Mom."
"Shut up." It came out breathless, a gasp as she pulled his jeans open. His briefs followed, and his cock sprang free, half-hard already, thickening fast in the warm close air of the bathroom. "Shut up and let me do this.Just once more. Just one more time, and then I'll be good. I'll be a good mother. I swear."
She didn't wait for an answer.
She sank to her knees.
Ritchie's head fell back against the bathroom door, a shudder running through him as her mouth found him. She took him deep this time, deeper than she'd managed yesterday, learning his shape with desperate, hungry urgency. Her throat worked around him, her hands gripping his hips like she was afraid he'd disappear.
She pulled off with a gasp. "Tell me I'm bad," she whispered. "Tell me what a bad mother I am."
"You're not—"
"Say it." Her hand was wrapped around his shaft, stroking him slow. "I've been thinking about it all night. I need to hear it."
"You're." His throat clicked. "You're a bad mother."
She moaned at the words, her hips twitching against nothing. "God, why does that sound so good? Why does everything you say sound like sex?"
She went back down.
He came faster than he wanted to, his fingers tangled in her hair, his hips bucking into her mouth. She swallowed every drop, her throat convulsing around him, and when he finally softened she pulled off with a smile that was slick and satisfied.
"Good boy," she murmured, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
---
Ritchie leaned against the sink, trying to catch his breath. The bathroom was small and cramped, the yellowing tiles pressing in on them. His mother was still on her knees, her head bowed now, her hands resting on his thighs.
"You should get up, Mom."
"I know." But she didn't move.
He had to piss. The pressure had been building since breakfast, and now it was almost painful. He turned toward the toilet, still half-bent, and managed to aim despite the throbbing.
"Wait."
Her hand caught him before he could start. She turned him back toward her, her eyes fixed on his cock with a hunger that made him dizzy.
"Mom, I really have to go."I know." Her voice was soft, almost dreamy. "I've been thinking about that, too."
She wrapped her hand around him again, and he was so surprised he didn't pull away. She stroked him once, twice, coaxing him back to fullness against the pressure building in his bladder.
"Let me hold it for you." She looked up at him, her dark eyes vast. "Let me be the one to hold it when you piss."
His brain was short-circuiting. Some distant, rational part of him knew this was insane—that his mother was kneeling on a bathmat with his cock in her hand, proposing to help him urinate like it was a normal thing to do. But the hum in his skull was so loud now, and her grip was so warm.
"I—Mom."
"Just relax." She guided him to the toilet, angling him over the bowl. "Just let it go."
He hesitated. The pressure was overwhelming.
She squeezed him gently. "Let it go, baby."He did.
The first stream hit the bowl with a loud splash. She gasped, her hand jumping as she felt the hot flood course through him. He watched, frozen, as she watched the urine stream with something close to awe.
"It's so warm," she breathed. "It's you."
Her thumb stroked along the underside of his shaft while he pissed, and he felt his body betray him, his hips twitching. She cupped his balls with her other hand, cradling them like she was holding something precious.
"You're so full." She was talking to herself now, murmuring against his thigh. "You're always so full, aren't you? All that hotness inside you, just waiting to come out."
His stream slowed. Stopped.
She was still holding him, her fingers stroking the last drips away.
"You should get off your knees, Mom."
"I should do a lot of things." She pressed a kiss to his hip, right where the bone jutted. "That doesn't mean I'm going to do them."
She let go of him finally, peeling herself off the floor. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen, her dress slightly rucked up where the hem had caught. She smoothed it down with trembling hands.
"We should get ready for church," she said.
Ritchie tucked himself back into his briefs. His jeans. Buckled his belt with shaking fingers.
"Yeah." He looked at himself in the mirror. His face looked the same. He didn't feel like the same person."Church."
She met his eyes in the glass. "I meant what I said, Ritchie." Her voice had steadied, her cheeks still pink but her gaze firm. "This can't keep happening. I want to talk about what we want after breakfast tomorrow. We need to figure out where to draw the line."Okay." He didn't believe her. He didn't think she believed herself.
She opened the door and slipped out into the hallway before he could say anything else.
In the kitchen, the radio crackled back to life, and Fred called out, "We're going to be late!"
Naomi's voice answered, bright and normal as summer. "Coming, honey."
Ritchie stared at his reflection.
The hum pulsed beneath his skin, patient and waiting.
Outside, the water in the pipes shifted, and something old and patient in the lake began to stir.