Chapter 1: Breakfast Table Revelation
The Butterfield kitchen smelled like vanilla body spray and overripe bananas. Bart sat at the island, hunched over his cereal bowl, pushing soggy loops around with a spoon. His glasses slipped down his nose again. He nudged them back up with one finger, leaving a smudge on the lens.
Across from him, his mother leaned against the counter, her silk robe barely tied. The morning light caught the unnatural swell of her cleavage, casting shadows deep enough to lose a pen in. She sighed dramatically, stirring her coffee with a long, manicured nail.
"Your father left for Geneva *again*," Brandi pouted, her inflated lips glistening with gloss. "Fourth time this month. Says it’s ‘business,’ but honestly, Bart, do you *believe* that?"
Bart blinked. "Uh. Maybe?" He adjusted the pocket protector over his Star Trek shirt, unfazed. "He *is* in international finance."
Brandi rolled her eyes so hard her fake lashes fluttered. "Men are *pigs,* sweetie. All of them." She took a sip, leaving a pink lipstick stain on the rim. "Except you. You’re my sweet little nerd."
Bart shrugged and slurped his orange juice.
---
By noon, Brandi had tried everything. Yoga (too boring), scrolling through Instagram (too many happy couples), even reorganizing her shoe closet (distracting, but not *that* distracting). The ache between her thighs was relentless. She flopped onto the couch, fanning herself with a tabloid.
"Ugh. *Unfair.*"
The AC hummed. The house was too quiet. Too *empty*. She needed—
A door clicked open down the hall. The shower hissed to a stop.
Bart padded out, towel around his waist, hair dripping. He didn’t see her. Didn’t notice her perched on the armrest, frozen mid-sip of her mimosa.
Then the towel slipped.
Brandi choked.
Her mimosa glass hit the carpet, silent against the plush pile. Her lips parted. Her brain sputtered like a stalled engine.
There it was. Hanging there. Thick. Heavy. *Obscene.*
Bart scratched his stomach, yawned, and turned the corner toward his room.
Brandi sat there, pulse hammering in her throat.
---
That night, her bedroom door stayed locked.
The dildo was *pathetic* in comparison. Cheap silicone, laughably inadequate. She rode it anyway, biting her knuckle to stifle the noises. Sweat made her hair stick to her forehead. Her mind rewound the moment—*the towel, the swing of it, the sheer* **impossibility**—over and over until her thighs shook.
She collapsed onto the mattress, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Reginald: *Missing you, darling.*
She rolled her eyes and tossed it aside.
Silence. Then—
A creak in the hallway. Footsteps.
Bart’s muffled voice: "Mom? You okay? Heard a noise."
Brandi’s breath hitched. She yanked the sheets up to her chin.
"Fine!" she squeaked. "*Perfect!* Just—uh—doing *yoga!*"
A pause. Then, "…Okay. Night."
She exhaled, shaky.
The dildo glistened on the floor, accusing.
She kicked it under the bed.
The house settled back into quiet.
Somewhere, a clock ticked.
Brandi stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed, until dawn.