Chapter 3: Morning Feast
The purple couch had left a permanent ache in Derek’s lower back, a dull throb that felt more like a souvenir than an injury. He woke to sunlight slicing through the gaps in the blinds, illuminating galaxies of dust motes dancing over the glittery romance novel avalanches. The space beside him on the couch was empty, but the deep, body-shaped depression in the cushions still held her warmth and scent.
He found her in the kitchen.
The scene was a golden disaster. Batter dripped from the counter onto the linoleum. A sticky river of maple syrup snaked from an overturned bottle. And there she was, at the stove’s epicenter, humming a tuneless pop song.
She wore a robe of shimmering peach silk, so short it barely covered her backside. It was tied loosely, the front sagging open as she leaned over the griddle. With every slight movement, the fabric gaped wider, offering him a full, unobstructed view of the enormous, pillowy curves of her augmented breasts. They swayed heavily, almost touching the hot stove surface.
“Morning, sleepyboots!” she chirped, without turning. “Mommy’s making your favorite! Chocolate chip smiley-face pancakes!”
Derek stood in the doorway, his glasses smudged, his hair a chaotic mess. He watched the hypnotic shift of her body. The phantom weight of her from the night before was still pressed against him, a memory etched into his nerves. That same low, warm hum from the wine filled his head again, but now it was pure, sober desire.
He moved without thinking.
Crossing the sticky floor in three silent steps, he came up directly behind her. The vanilla and baby powder scent was stronger, mixed with the greasy smell of frying butter. He didn’t hesitate. His hands, which had hovered so uselessly last night, came up and covered her.
He palmed the full, staggering weight of her breasts through the thin silk. They were hot, impossibly smooth and firm, yet yielding at the same time. The hard roundness of the implants was unmistakable beneath the soft outer layer.
Brenda gasped, a sharp, theatrical inhalation. She went utterly still, the spatula frozen in mid-air.
Then she melted back against him, pushing her body into his hands. “O-oh, Derek…”
He squeezed. Experimentally at first, then with more pressure, his fingers sinking into the impossible softness. A low moan rattled in her throat. She dropped the spatula with a clatter and reached back, her hands finding his hips and pulling him tighter against her. His morning erection, already stiff and insistent, pressed against the silk-covered swell of her rear.
“They’re… they’re yours, you know,” she breathed, her head lolling back against his shoulder. She guided his hands, moving them in slow, circular motions over her. “All for you. Your mommy’s whole… everything. Is yours. You can have whatever you want.”
She emphasized the last word by rocking her hips back, grinding the massive softness of her ass against him. The silk was a maddening, slick barrier. Derek’s mind was blank, wiped clean by a static of pure sensation. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of her neck, smelling her perfume and pancake batter.
“Whatever I want?” he mumbled into her skin. His voice was rough with sleep and want.
“Mmmhmm.” She twisted in his grasp, turning her head to plant a wet, smacking kiss on his cheek. Her inflated lips were sticky with gloss. “You’re the man of the house now. My big, smart, college man.”
She turned her body fully, forcing his hands to stay on her as she moved. Now facing him, the robe fell completely open. He stared, his mouth slightly agape. The augmented landscape of her body was fully visible, from the large, dark nipples to the dramatic surgical scars curving under the pale swell of her breasts, down to the cinched waist he could almost circle with his hands.
“See?” she whispered, giggling. “All yours. Now let’s get some food in my genius!”
She turned back to the stove with a final, deliberate rub against him, leaving him achingly hard and dazed. She served two massive, lopsided pancakes onto a plate, drenching them in syrup, and pressed it into his hands. “Sit! Eat!”
He sat at the small, cluttered kitchen table. She didn’t sit opposite him. She loomed. She leaned over his shoulder, her breasts pressing against his arm, her breath on his ear as he cut into the too-sweet, doughy mass.
“Is it good? I used extra chips. For brain power.”
“It’s good, Mom,” he said, mouth full.
“Brenda,” she corrected, nipping his earlobe playfully. “Call me Brenda. Or… whatever you wanna call me.” Her hand drifted down from his shoulder, her fingers tracing a slow line down his spine before slipping away.
He ate under her watchful, adoring gaze. Every chew was scrutinized. Every sip of orange juice was met with a delighted sigh. She narrated his meal as if it were a sporting event.
“Look at that appetite! That’s my boy. Oh, you got a little syrup… here.” She leaned in, her tongue darting out to lick a drop of syrup from the corner of his mouth. The touch was hot and shockingly intimate. She tasted of sugar and artificial lip gloss.
Derek didn’t flinch. He turned his head and looked at her, really looked at her—the too-blue eyes, the puffy lips, the desperate, eager plea in her expression. The last shred of the old Brenda, the one who packed sensible lunches and helped with algebra, evaporated. This was all that was left. This warm, overwhelming, silicone-and-desperation creature who called him her big man.
He felt a stupid, powerful grin spread across his face.
She saw it. Her own expression lit up like a sunrise. “There it is! There’s my Derek’s smile!” She clapped her hands, making everything jiggle. “I knew you’d be happy to be home. It’s gonna be so fun! We can watch movies, and I can make more snacks, and you can tell me all about your smart books, and I can just… take care of you.”
He finished the last bite, the syrup making a shiny pool on the plate. He was full, buzzing with sugar and something else, something darker and sweeter.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice clearer than it had been in days. He reached out, his hand finding the smooth skin of her thigh where the robe had fallen open. He gave it a soft, possessive squeeze. “Sounds perfect, Brenda.”
The sound of her name on his lips, in that context, made her shiver. A tiny, happy sob escaped her. She sank to her knees beside his chair, her head resting on his leg, her arms wrapping around his waist in a clinging, smothering hug.
“Perfect,” she echoed, her voice muffled against his jeans. “It’s gonna be so, so perfect.”
Derek left his hand on her thigh, staring out at the chaotic, golden kitchen. The future, which had once been a straight path leading away from this house, now curved back in on itself, a strange, sweet, closed loop. He was inside it now. And for the first time, the thought of spring break ending, of leaving, felt like the real taboo.