Chapter 6: Dinner and a Show
The ignored messages from his friends piled up. Derek saw the notifications on his phone, a little stack of digital frustration, and swiped them away. It was easier. Everything was easier here, in the warm, vanilla-scented haze of the house.
She’d cooked. A thick, expensive-looking steak, asparagus, mashed potatoes that were probably from a box but she’d put butter on them so it didn’t matter. She’d set the dining room table like it was a holiday, with candles that smelled like cotton candy and a pink tablecloth. It was too much. The room felt like the inside of a birthday cake.
“For my big, strong man,” Brenda beamed, placing the plate in front of him. She was wearing a strapless summer dress, pale yellow and tight enough to show every surgical contour. It strained across her chest, the neckline dipping dangerously. She hovered, her perfume enveloping him. “You need your protein. Gotta keep your strength up for… stuff.”
“Thanks, Mom,” he said, the word feeling strange and thin in his mouth now. He picked up his knife and fork.
He got two bites in. The steak was good, seared on the outside, pink in the middle. He was concentrating on cutting a third piece when he felt her presence shift. She wasn’t sitting across from him anymore. She was beside his chair.
Then she was in his lap.
She swung one leg over him, facing away, her back to the table. She settled her weight down slowly, her enormous ass spreading across his thighs, pinning him to the dining room chair. It groaned under the combined load. The warmth of her seeped through the thin fabric of his shorts. He could feel everything.
“You looked lonely over here,” she giggled, her voice a whisper in his ear. She began to move, a slow, circular grind of her hips. The soft, dense flesh of her ass massaged him through their clothes. His body reacted instantly, a blunt, automatic response.
He let the fork clatter onto the plate. His hands, sticky from the steak juice, hung in the air for a second before he let them rest on her hips. The dress was silky.
“Mmm, that’s it,” she cooed. She reached her arms behind her, her hands finding his and pulling them up. She placed his palms flat on her breasts, guiding him to squeeze. They were heavy and full, spilling over the top of her dress. “See? You’re so hungry. Not for icky cow meat. For me.”
She kept grinding, the rhythm lazy and possessive. His erection pressed against the seam of his shorts, trapped and throbbing. He could smell her hair, her skin, the candle wax. The dinner plate sat forgotten, the steak congealing in its juices.
“Brenda,” he muttered, not sure what he was even protesting.
“Shhh, baby. Just feel.” She lifted her hips, just an inch. One of her hands slipped down, between her own legs, fiddling with the fabric of her dress and her underwear. He heard a wet sound. Then her hand was on him, pulling him free from his shorts. The cool air was a shock, followed by the hotter, shocking slickness of her as she guided him, not inside, but up, against her.
She notched him between her folds, a hot, wet pressure that made his breath hitch. She sank back down, letting him slide through the slickness, the tip of him bumping against her entrance but going no further. A tease. A promise.
“Mom,” he gasped this time. His fingers dug into her breasts.
“You wanna eat, big man?” she whispered, rolling her hips, gliding him through her wetness again and again. “Or you wanna be eaten?”
She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the table, and the movement shifted everything. The neckline of her dress gaped, and her breasts swung forward, almost touching his forgotten plate. The sight was so absurd, so blatant, that a dumb laugh choked in his throat. This was his life now. A cold steak and a hot, desperate woman using his dick as a toy on a fancy tablecloth.
He gave up. He let his head fall back against the chair, his glasses skewing. His hands slid from her breasts down to the phenomenal swell of her ass, gripping it, encouraging her rhythm. He was just along for the ride.
She took that as her cue. With a happy sigh, she pushed back, taking him inside her in one smooth, deep motion.
The breath left his lungs in a rush. She was so tight, so warm, a silken fist clutching him. She began to ride him in earnest, her movements less a twerk now and more a steady, rising fall. Each descent sent a jolt through him. The chair scraped an inch backward on the hardwood with every thrust.
“That’s my boy,” she panted, looking back over her shoulder. Her bimbo lips were parted, her eyes glassy. “That’s my big man. Right where he belongs. Don’t you belong here, Derek? Don’t you wanna stay home with Mommy?”
He couldn’t form words. He just nodded, a jerky movement. His hips bucked upward to meet her, driving himself deeper. The table shook. A candle wobbled, spilling a rivulet of pink wax onto the cloth.
She screamed when she came, a high, theatrical wail that echoed in the dining room. Her body clamped around him, pulsing, and that was all it took. He followed, spilling into her with a groan that was half relief, half defeat.
For a long minute, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the drip of the candle wax. She collapsed backward against his chest, a sweaty, satiated weight. She nuzzled his neck. “See? Better than steak.”
He looked over her shoulder. His plate was there, the food cold. His phone, face-down on the table, vibrated again. Another message. Probably Mark. Or maybe someone from class. The world outside was just a faint, buzzing annoyance.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her there. The candlelight flickered, casting their merged shadow, huge and distorted, against the wall. He didn’t answer her. He just kissed the top of her head, tasting her shampoo. He knew she was right.