Chapter 1: Red Lips and a Broken Bulb
The house looked wrong.
It wasn’t the peeling white siding or the way the overgrown shrubs clawed at the brickwork.It was the silence. It swallowed the click of the garden gate, the crunch of gravel under Leo’s sneakers. A single streetlamp flickered overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow that made the shadows in the windows seem to breathe.
He’d texted Mike an hour ago.Hey, you around?No answer.Maybe he was gaming, headphones on. Leo rang the bell, the chime echoing hollow inside. He shifted his weight, the evening air cool on the back of his neck.Just as he turned to leave, the door creaked open.
It wasn’t Mike.“Leo. Sweet of you to drop by.” Patricia stood framed in the doorway, a silhouette against the warm, floral-papered gloom of the hall. She was wearing a silk blouse, the top buttons undone, and her lips were a slash of bright red. “Mike’s not here. He’s at his father’s for the weekend.”
“Oh.” Leo’s voice came out thin.“Sorry, I didn’t know. I’ll just…”
“Don’t be silly.Come in.” It wasn’t an invitation. It was a command. Her hand closed around his wrist, her grip firm, and she drew him inside.The door shut with a soft, final click.
The living room was exactly as he remembered, yet somehow alien.The floral wallpaper was too bright, the pattern dizzying. The air was thick with the smell of old perfume and something underneath—sharp, metallic, like the scent of rain on hot pavement. The couch, that faded floral monstrosity, sat in the center of the room like a tired animal.“Can I get you a drink?” she asked, already moving toward the kitchen. Her heels tapped on the hardwood.“No, I’m okay, Mrs. D’Amico. Really, I should just…”
“Patricia.” She reappeared without a glass, her eyes roaming over him.“You look tense. Boys your age carry everything in their shoulders.” She moved behind him, and before he could react, her hands were on him, kneading the muscles. Her fingers were strong.He flinched. “See?”
“I’m okay,” he said, his face heating.
“Upstairs,” she said, her voice dropping to a murmur near his ear.Her perfume enveloped him—gardenias and something darker. “I’ve got some muscle relaxers in the bathroom. Mike would want me to look after you.”
“It’s fine, really.”
“It’s not a request, Leo.” The words were soft, but they left no room. Her hand slid from his shoulder to the small of his back, propelling him toward the staircase.The steps groaned under their weight. The upstairs hallway was dim, a single nightlight plugged in near the bathroom.She didn’t stop there. She guided him past Mike’s closed door, past the linen closet, to the master bedroom at the end of the hall.
The room was large, dominated by a high four-poster bed. The air here was different, closer, saturated with the same perfume. She released him, walking to the center of the room before turning to face him.The red of her lips seemed to be the only color in the world.
“You’re a good-looking kid, you know that?” she said, her head tilting. “All those girls Mike talks about. Do they know what to do with you?”
Leo’s mouth was dry. “I don’t…”
“I didn’t think so.” She took two steps forward, closing the distance.She was taller than him in her heels. Her gaze held his, unblinking. Then her hand came up, not roughly, but with a devastating certainty, and cupped the back of his head.Her other hand traced his jaw.“Pretty,” she whispered.
And then she kissed him.It wasn’t exploratory.It was conclusive. Her mouth was hot and insistent, the taste of her lipstick waxy and sweet. He made a sound, a muffled gasp of shock, and his hands came up, unsure, hovering in the air beside her waist. His brain short-circuited.This was Mike’s mom.Mike’s mom. A violent, thrilling wrongness shot through him, paralyzing and electric.
She pulled back an inch, her breath mingling with his.Her eyes were dark pools. “Taste me,” she whispered, a low command.
Before he could process it, her mouth was on his again, her tongue pushing past his lips. He tasted the lipstick, the ghost of wine, and something else, something fundamentally and unnervingly her. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, a surge of heat coiling in his gut. One of his hands settled on her hip, the silk slippery under his palm.She broke the kiss, a strand of saliva connecting them for a brief second. Her thumb brushed his lower lip.
Her thumb brushed his lower lip. “Swallow it,” she whispered, her voice husky and thick.“Swallow my tongue, Leo. Don’t just let it sit there.”
She kissed him again, deeper this time, her tongue thrusting past his teeth in a slow, invasive rhythm. He hesitated, then obeyed, his own tongue moving tentatively against hers, sucking gently.A low hum of approval vibrated in her throat. When she pulled back, her lipstick was smeared around his mouth.
“How does it taste?” she asked, her eyes locked on his.“The lipstick.Tell me.”
He swallowed, his throat tight. “Sweet,” he managed.“Waxy. Like… cherries.”
“Good,” she purred, her hands moving to the buttons of his shirt.Her fingers worked quickly, expertly. “You should see yourself. My red all over your pretty boy mouth.” She pushed the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Her palms slid over his lean chest, fingernails grazing his nipples, making him gasp.“Does that shock you? That a woman my age tastes like candy? That I’m fifty-five and married, and I’ve got your shirt off before you’ve even said a word?”
It did. The words landed like physical blows, each one a violation of a rule he hadn’t known he was following. The wrongness was a live wire in his gut, sparking against a terrifying surge of want.He couldn’t speak.
“I asked you a question.” Her hand drifted down, palming him through his jeans. He was hard, painfully so, and her touch drew a sharp, shuddering breath from him. “Does it shock you?”
“Yes,” he breathed.“I know it does. That’s the point.” She unfastened his jeans, tugged them and his boxers down in one rough motion. The cool air of the room hit his skin, followed immediately by the heat of her hand wrapping around him. Her grip was firm, practiced.She stroked him slowly, watching his face. “Your friend’s mother. Your married friend’s mother, with her old perfume and her wedding band.” She brought her other hand up, the gold band glinting in the low light, and pressed it against his cheek.“You’re thinking about him right now, aren’t you? Wondering what he’d say.”
“Stop,” he choked out, but his hips bucked into her hand.
“No.” She increased her pace, her thumb smearing the bead of moisture at his tip.“You don’t get to tell me to stop. You’re here for my use.And I’m just getting started.” She released him suddenly, leaving him throbbing. “Lie down on the bed. On your back.”
He moved numbly, the comforter soft beneath him.He watched as she stepped out of her heels. She unzipped her skirt, let it pool at her feet, revealing sheer black stockings and a lace garter belt. Her blouse followed. She stood before him in just the stockings, the garter, and a black lace bra. Her body was softer, the lines of age present, but she wore it with a command that made it seem fierce, deliberate. She climbed onto the bed, straddling his hips, her weight pinning him down.“You have a beautiful cock,” she said, looking down at him. She didn’t touch him again, just studied him.“Perfect for a boy.Uncomplicated. Eager.” She leaned forward, her breasts against his chest, and kissed him once more, biting his lower lip.“Tonight, it’s mine. But I’m not selfish.”
She shifted, moving backwards, settling her weight over his face. The smell of her perfume intensified, mixed now with the intimate, musky scent of her. The world narrowed to the dark triangle of lace before his eyes. She hooked her thumbs in the sides of her panties and pulled them down, past her thighs, and dropped them beside his head.
“Taste me,” she commanded, lowering herself onto his mouth.“Really taste me.Lick me like you mean it, Leo. Show me you’re not just a pretty boy.”
He was drowning in her. The salt and heat of her filled his senses. He closed his eyes and obeyed, tracing the folds of her with a tentative tongue.She groaned above him, a sound of pure satisfaction, and ground herself against his face. “Harder,” she demanded.“Flick your tongue, right there.Yes. Just like that.”
He lost track of time, of thought. There was only the rhythm, the wet sounds, the tightening of her thighs around his head, the pressure of her hands gripping his hair. Her sounds grew louder, less controlled, sharp cries that filled the silent bedroom. She rode his face with a desperate, grinding intensity, and he served her, a willing instrument of her pleasure.
With a final, shuddering cry, she stilled, her body trembling. After a moment, she lifted herself off him.His jaw ached. She looked down at him, her face flushed, her smeared lipstick giving her a savage, broken look.She wiped his wet chin with her thumb.
“Good,” she panted. “Very good.” She rolled off him, lying on her side, propped up on an elbow.Her eyes traveled the length of his body, back to his face. “But we’re not done.Not by a long shot.I have friends, Leo. Other mothers on this street.We talk. We share.”
He stared at her, the meaning cutting through the fog in his brain.
“They’re on their way,” she said, a cruel smile touching her ruined lips.“Karen from number forty-two.Susan from the corner house with the pool. You’re going to meet them all tonight. Consider it your… neighborhood welcome.”