Chapter 2: The Pool Party Debacle
The sun hung heavy over the Butterfield backyard, turning the pool into a shimmering blue mirage. Brandi lay sprawled across the margarita float, her oiled-up body glistening like a waxed sports car. The strings of her barely-there bikini dug into her overstuffed flesh, but she didn’t care. She had *plans*.
"Bart, baby?" she called, stretching her arms overhead with an exaggerated sigh. "Mommy *aches*."
Bart, perched on the edge of a lounge chair, squinted at his tablet. Something about plasma dynamics in *Star Trek* warp cores. He adjusted his glasses. "Uh. Tylenol’s in the bathroom?"
Brandi pouted, rolling onto her stomach. The float wobbled dangerously under her shifting weight. "Not *that* kind of ache, silly." She batted her lashes. "My back’s *killing* me. You know how *sensitive* my skin gets."
Bart blinked. "Oh."
"Be a sweetheart and rub my lotion in?" She flashed him a grin, lips slick with gloss. "You’ve got such *gentle* hands."
Bart hesitated. His fingers twitched over his tablet. "...Sure."
---
The moment his palms touched her skin, Brandi nearly moaned. The lotion was cool, but his hands—*god*, his hands—were warmer than she expected. She pressed her face into the float, inhaling the cheap plastic smell, willing herself not to arch into his touch.
"Harder, sweetie," she murmured.
Bart dutifully pressed deeper, his fingers kneading the thick, tanned flesh of her lower back.
*Closer.*
She wriggled, letting the bikini bottom ride up. "Oh, *right there*—"
Bart’s fingers froze.
She craned her neck. "Honey?"
His face was beet-red. He snatched his hands back like he’d been burned. "I—uh—forgot! Homework! Gotta—yeah." He bolted, tablet clutched to his chest.
Brandi groaned, thumping her forehead against the float. *Again.*
---
By dusk, she was pacing the hall outside his room, bare feet silent on the plush carpet. The house was quiet. The only sound was the muffled clack of Bart’s keyboard from behind his door.
She bit her lip.
Then she leaned against the wood, pressing her ear to it. The faint *click-clack* of keys. A sigh. The creak of his chair.
She exhaled, slow. "Bart?"
The typing stopped. "...Yeah?"
"Baby, can you *please* open the door?" She traced the grain of the wood with a manicured nail. "Mommy just wants to talk."
Silence.
Then, hesitant: "About what?"
Brandi swallowed. Her pulse thudded in her throat. "I *saw* you."
Another pause. "Saw... what?"
She pressed her hips against the door, rolling them in slow, deliberate circles. The wood was cool against her bare thighs. "Don’t play dumb." Her voice dropped, husky. "I *know*, sweetie. And I *want* it."
The chair squeaked. A nervous cough. "Uh. I—I don’t—"
She licked her lips. "Let me *help* you."
The doorknob rattled. Locked.
Brandi whined, grinding harder. "Bart—"
"*Go to bed, Mom!*" His voice cracked.
She froze. Then snarled, slamming her palm against the door. "*Fine!*"
She stormed off, heels clicking, hips swaying—but halfway down the hall, she paused. Glanced back.
The light under his door still glowed.
She smirked.
*Not over yet.