Chapter 6: Need It Bad
The morning after the bed-wrestling fiasco dawned with a grim, greasy light. Derek had escaped at first bird-chirp, fleeing to the shaky sanctuary of the shower, but the water pressure was a pathetic trickle and the only soap left was a sliver of glittery body wash that smelled like a stripper’s purse. He felt marked.
The house hummed with a new, frantic energy. The whispered negotiations he overheard from his door—“you get the head, I get the balls” “no way, I saw it first after the dish soap—”—had ceased. A heavy, desperate silence had taken its place.
By lunchtime, it snapped.
Derek was in the kitchen, attempting to pry the lid off a jar of peanut butter with crusted knuckles, when they descended.
Verricane and Crystal didn’t enter. They manifested. Veronica, in a leopard-print robe hanging open over nothing, her bolt-ons swaying with each step, cornered him at the counter. Crystal, wearing what appeared to be a neon green dish towel tied around her hips and her own arrogance, blocked the doorway.
The air, already thick with the smell of old frying oil and that suspicious milk, grew heavier.
“We can’t take it anymore, baby,” Veronica breathed, her voice raspy. Her eyes were glazed, pupils wide. “Momma’s gotta know. We both gotta know.”
“It’s not fair,” Crystal whined, but her hands were already on her own tiny hips, pushing the dish towel down an inch. “We’ve been so good. We’ve been, like, dying.”
“You’re killing us, Derek,” Veronica said, taking a step closer. The linoleum was sticky under her bare feet. A burnt popcorn kernel cracked under her heel.
Derek’s back pressed against the fridge. The hum vibrated through his spine. “Know what?” he squeaked, the baby face in full effect.
“Don’t play dumb!” Crystal snapped. She strode forward, her bubble butt clapping once, a sharp report in the stifling kitchen. “The meat. The mystery. The anaconda in your sweatpants. We felt it last night. It was like a tree root.”
“It was a beautiful, smelly tree root,” Veronica corrected, dreamily. She licked her lips. They were already swollen. “We had a conference. We’re gonna be good. We’re gonna share.”
“Like a sampling,” Crystal said, her eyes dropping to his frayed gym shorts. “A little taste-test. For science.”
Derek’s mind was a screaming void. The dish soap was right there, on the edge of the sink, next to a mound of fuzzy plates. It felt a million miles away. He shook his head, a frantic, tiny motion.
Their patience, a threadbare thing, vanished.
“Fine,” Veronica growled, and the sound was unhinged. “We’ll pay for it.”
She turned to Crystal, her expression a mess of lust and rivalry. “You wanna be first? Prove it. Earn it.”
Crystal’s bratty smirk faltered for a microsecond, then hardened into resolve. “You think I won’t? Watch me, you old cum-receptacle.”
What happened next was not foreplay. It was a demolition.
Crystal dropped to her knees on the greasy floor, not gracefully, but with a wet thud. She didn’t hesitate. She lunged forward, burying her face between her mother’s thighs, her tongue making a sound like a dog lapping at a spilled milkshake.
Veronica shrieked, her head hitting the cupboard behind her with a crack. “OH, YOU LITTLE SLUT!” she howled, but her hands fisted in Crystal’s hair, shoving her deeper. Her robe fell open completely, her body a trembling monument to bad surgery. “That’s it! Get in there! Taste what your momma’s been saving!”
Crystal’s response was a gurgled, defiant moan. Her shoulders worked, her tiny body a piston of desperate effort.
But Veronica wasn’t passive. Her eyes, wild and victorious, locked on Derek’s horrified face. “My turn, bitch,” she slurred, and then she was sinking down too, her knees popping, her massive ass settling onto the floor like two sacks of wet cement. She shoved Crystal’s thighs apart and dove in, face-first.
The kitchen filled with a symphony of degradation. The sloppy, wet, obscene sounds of two mouths working with furious, competitive zeal. The slap of skin. The guttural, choked curses. “You taste like pennies and regret!” Crystal spat, coming up for air with a shiny chin.
“You taste like failure and Juul pods!” Veronica retorted, before diving back in with a snorkeling sound.
They were a tangled, writhing pretzel of limbs and desperation on the dirty floor, each trying to out-perform the other, each trying to prove their worth as the first to get Derek’s… sample. Their performance was for him. A grotesque audition.
Derek stood trapped, the peanut butter jar forgotten in his white-knuckled grip. He was paralyzed. This was louder, wetter, more visceral than anything he’d ever heard through walls. The smell of their mutual arousal mixed with the kitchen’s decay into a nauseating perfume.
Finally, they broke apart, panting, their faces glistening and furious. They turned to him, a united front of need.
“Now,” Veronica gasped, chest heaving. “Now you give us something. A crumb. A peek. Something.”
“Just the tip,” Crystal begged, her brattiness gone, replaced by a raw, hungry whine. “Just let us see it. Please, Derek. We’ll be so good.”
The plea hung in the rancid air. Derek’s own heartbeat was a drum solo in his ears. The silent suffering of years, the bathroom jerk-offs, the shame, the curiosity—it all coalesced into a single, trembling moment of defeat. He couldn’t run. The doorway was blocked by their discarded, sweating bodies.
With a shuddering breath that felt like his last, he gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
It was all the permission they needed.
They scrambled towards him on their knees, a dual surge of hungry mouths and grabbing hands. The frayed waistband of his gym shorts was the final barrier. Four hands clutched at it. There was a harsh, tearing sound of elastic.
The kitchen’s humming fridge, the buzzing fluorescent light, the drip of the faucet—all sound ceased. For a fractured second, there was only stunned, reverent silence.
Then, a choked, dual exhalation.
“Holy… fucksticks,” Crystal whispered, her eyes wide as dinner plates.
Veronica made a sound like a dying balloon. “My sweet baby boy,” she wept, tears of joy cutting tracks through the mess on her cheeks.
The secret was out. It unfurled, heavy and veiny and impossibly thick, a monstrous, ruddy reality that seemed to suck all the space from the cramped kitchen. The smell that wafted up—musky, animal, profoundly male—made both women’s nostrils flare in unison.
Their earlier competition was forgotten. In the face of this, there was only awe and a desperate, shared hunger.
“Mine,” Crystal breathed, but it was a question, not a statement.
“Ours,” Veronica corrected, her voice trembling.
As one, as if pulled by the same gravitational force, they leaned forward from their knees on the sticky floor. Their swollen lips parted. Their eyes rolled back in their heads.