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The smell of sizzling bacon tickled Amy’s nostrils as she stepped through the door from the breezeway. Nothing better to walk into after a morning workout and a hot shower. Her mouth began to water as she rounded the corner, ready to greet her son with a pat on the shoulder and a peck on the cheek. Entering the kitchen, she was sorely disappointed.
Rose stood at the stove in a bright yellow tank top and denim shorts, scrambling an egg in the cast iron skillet. Cinched in a ponytail her curls swished back and forth across her shoulders as she bopped to whatever pulsed through her neon earbuds. The sun lit her legs through the patio door, smooth and gently tanned, supple in their youth.
On the table were two plates of food. Seasoned potatoes with melted cheese, spicy pico de gallo, and hot crispy bacon waiting to be topped with the contents of the pan on the flame. She had to admit the girl knew how to cook. Almost as well as she did. Particularly Mexican cuisine. Which was infuriating since her grandmother was from Veracruz and Rose was from fucking Nebraska.
“Morning Mom,” Rose chirped over her shoulder, a sassy smile dashed across her face. Amy shook her head, waving a hand for emphasis.
“Nope,” she replied, drifting toward the table. “I’ve got three weeks before you two get to make me feel old for the rest of my life and I’m going to savor every single day.” She bristled at Rose’s laugh, but held her pleasant countenance, masking everything she’d discovered the night before. “What’s…what’s all this?”
“Breakfast! I made lunch for Osmar before he left and had some ingredients left over. So I thought you might like something other than Pop Tarts and coffee after the gym.”
“Aww,” Amy smiled, “that’s sweet, thank you.” Inside she fumed. Every time she thought she’d justified her dislike of this bitch she went and did something to counter it. She pinched herself behind her back. That wasn’t fair to Rose. She really was quite a catch. Kind. Considerate. The type of woman most mothers would want to marry their sons. Well, except for that one little matter of The List.
Rose split the eggs between the bowls and joined her at the table. Amy watched her settle in, comfortable and familiar, betraying no hint of anything Amy had discovered last evening. How could she be so effortlessly deceptive? Shouldn’t there be some aversion of eyes, or stammering speech, or…something indicating a conflict of conscience?
“Haven’t seen much of you lately,” she offered between delicious nibbles of egg and potatoes.
“I know,” Rose apologized, “I’m sorry. I’m filling in for another girl at work on top of my regular assignments. And the wedding’s getting close.”
“How’s that going? You have everything under control?”
Rose laughed. “No. I think I have the important stuff nailed down though.” She sighed. “I wish I had more time,” she added. “There’s so much left to do.”
The words rang in Amy’s ears. They spilled out, innocent, with no hint of irony. She stuffed her mouth with food to stifle her response. After several bites and a sip of juice, she waded cautiously back into the conversation.
“You know, I can help if you need me to.”
Rose shook her head no. “You’ve done so much already.” She leaned over and nudged Amy with her shoulder. “Thank you, but I can handle it. There are just some things I need to take care of myself, you know what I mean?”
Amy smiled wide to cover her scowl. “Of course. You do what you have to do, right?”
She fumed through the rest of her bacon and eggs, casting side-eye glances between the smattering of small talk. It didn’t make sense. She was such a sweet girl. But the longer she thought about it, the more sense it made. Rose wasn’t marrying her. She was marrying her son. And like it or not, according to Osmar, she wasn’t lying to him.
The sound of a chair scraping the tile plucked her from her trance. Rose had finished her food and was halfway to the sink with her dishes. Amy glanced down at her half-full plate and wondered just how long she’d been daydreaming.
“Taking off already?” she queried, feebly attempting to cover for her sluggishness.
Rose nodded. “Lots of stuff on the list this morning. Gotta get started.”
Amy frowned, then rolled her eyes at herself for over-thinking. “Well thank you for breakfast. Oh, and Osmar said to remind you the masons are coming this morning to fix the chimney.”
“Oh, they’re already here.”
Confused, Amy leaned forward, searching for signs of life in the living room. “They’re outside,” Rose added. “They wanted to do all the outside work before it warms up.”
“Oh,” Amy replied, settling back into the chair. “Sounds like you have everything under control.”
Rose laughed. “I do. Take your time. When you’re finished, just go relax. It’s gonna be hot today. Pour yourself a glass of wine and enjoy your air conditioning. I’ll take care of them.” As she swept past she ducked down and gave her mother-in-law-to-be Buca travesti a quick peck on the cheek before disappearing around the corner and down the hall.
Amy picked at the remainder of her potatoes. Despite her best efforts she really did like Rose. This other side of her just didn’t make sense. It wasn’t her. There had to be some misunderstanding – on her part or on Osmar’s. The woman who made her breakfast couldn’t be the same one who penciled the list. Could she?
After loading her plates in the dishwasher Amy wandered back out to the carriage house. The whine of the wet saw pierced her ears as she traversed the winding stone path through the back yard. She couldn’t see the men working – the south corner of the house obscured them from view. She thought about wandering over. Just to say hi, of course. Nothing more scandalous than that. But glancing down she caught a glimpse of her flip-flops, gray sweats and half zip hoodie and decided that wasn’t the way she wanted to introduce herself. Maybe later, when they were wrapping up.
****
Stretched out on her couch Amy scrolled through the newspaper on her tablet, pausing at the business pages to review the performance of her investment portfolio. Given the market performance it seemed she was still on track for her September cruise. She smiled, picturing herself, nude, in a lounge chair on the deck, browning her tan in the Caribbean sun.
She felt the heat on her skin. Smelled the salt in the air. No phone, no appointments, no unwanted distractions. Just her and the sea and a mango martini. And the chiseled young man in the chair next to her ready to reapply the tanning lotion to the parts she couldn’t reach. And some she could reach but would prefer him to take care of instead.
The music paused, buffering. The saw was now silent. She listened carefully and still heard nothing. They must have finished, gone inside. She wondered what they looked like. Tall? Strong? Handsome? Old enough to understand what she needed, but young enough to keep up? She drummed her fingers on her lips. There was only one way to find out.
Stretching to her feet Amy headed for her closet, looking for something more flattering in which to make her entrance. She slid the hangers right to left, giving each outfit the once-over before proceeding to the next. As she did, a voice swelled between her ears. Rose’s voice. Something she’d said near the close of their breakfast conversation. A throwaway she dismissed as a figure of speech suddenly seemed less harmless in the presence of her short dresses and low-cut tops. “Don’t worry,” the voice repeated, “I’ll take care of them.”
Amy frowned. Her imagination was getting the best of her. Swiping a slinky black number she shed her sweats and slipped it on, intentionally neglecting underwear and a bra. Rose was probably glued to her laptop trying to sort out the table arrangements for the reception before she left for her shift at the station. Those masons would be bored to tears with no one to talk to. Straightening the dress in the mirror, she hurried down the stairs and out to the yard.
****
She shut the back door quietly behind her and eased down the hallway, her sandals silent on the tile floor. The faint smell of fresh mortar nipped at her nose and the scrape of steel on cement scratched at her ears between paces. There was something else too. Voices. Male voices. Low volume banter as yet unintelligible. She slowed her advance; straightening her posture and prepping her smile. Then – mere strides from the corner – she heard it.
A giggle.
A female voice.
Rose.
Amy froze at the end of the hall, just tucked away from any wandering eyes in the living room. She eased her back against the wall, turning her head and bending an ear toward the banter.
“Thanks for the drinks,” said a resonant Baritone. “And…sorry about the little…spill there.” By the depth of his register and the rasp in his voice she judged him to be late forties/early fifties, and a one-time smoker clean for several years.
“It’s water,” Rose replied, “it’ll dry fine. You guys look like you need a break.”
Her voice sounded different. A half-tone lower. Breathier than usual.
“Nah,” the Baritone replied, “we’re okay. Job’s not too complicated so it’s easier to just work straight through and get it done.”
“Oh. How about you?”
A third voice answered. A Tenor. Much younger and cleaner. “Yeah, same. You kinda get into a rhythm, you know?”
Rose sighed dramatically. “Well,” she countered, mischief in her timbre, “it might be easier, but it’s not as much fun. Wouldn’t you rather have fun?”
There was a muffled rustling from the sunlit room, flowed by a slight pause, then a feathery thump on the old hardwood planks. A shard of color caught Amy’s eye. She stared, narrowing focus until suddenly her eyes popped wide and a hand snapped up over her mouth. Rose’s yellow top lay crumpled on the floor.
Amy warred with the urge Buca travestileri to storm through the room and slap her future daughter-in-law across the face before dragging her out to the alley by the hair and running her over with the car. How dare she do this to Osmar. And in his own house.
Clenching her fist she pushed off the wall, but failed to force herself round the corner. Her soles were like lead, rooted to the floor; her body stiff, unable to move. She ground her teeth, furious. With Rose. With herself. With the fact she was frozen in place. Something morbidly powerful tethered her to the spot.
Curiosity.
Flattening her shoulder to the wall she swelled her chest with a cleansing breath and peered cautiously around the corner.
Rose was on her knees before the Baritone, her bare back bronzed by the late morning sun streaming through the skylight. The clinking of cheap metal and the rustle of denim alluded to what was taking place just out of view. Baritone was frozen in place, ruddy, muscular arms hanging nervously at his sides, face caught twisted between shock and bewilderment.
Tenor stood dumbstruck; water bottle still pressed to his lips. He was much younger – probably early twenties – slim and wiry, hands still soft, not yet used to this work. His eyes shifted, looking to the older man for some kind of guidance. None was forthcoming.
Rose rocked slowly back and forth, her butt lifting off her heels and shoulders following the motion of her head. Neither hand was visible from Amy’s vantage. But the rippling of her upper arm suggested a long smooth stroke applied to the shaft of the cock lodged in her mouth.
Her left hand appeared, stretching toward Tenor, beckoning him closer. He glanced at Baritone, eyebrows raised in query. The senior man gave a long shrug of his shoulders, then a broad white smile and a nod of his head. Tenor set the bottle on the mantle and stepped his bulge forward into Rose’s waiting palm.
She wasted no time twisting the button from the eyelet, pulling the zipper clear of the prize without so much as a glance. Before he could push them down Rose reached into the bright green boxers and fished out a long veiny penis, stiffening at her touch and rising to attention. She released the older man from her suckling, swiping her left hand slowly in front of her face before wrapping wet fingers around Tenor’s rod. One deliberate stroke and it glistened with her saliva. Resetting her pace she returned to work on the cock in her face.
Amy watched in disbelief. Osmar had described her as innocent – inexperienced perhaps more accurately. Unacquainted with more advanced sexual techniques. But she moved here in sync, hands following the lead of her mouth. Both men’s eyes rolled back in their heads. Their hips shuddered under her touch. She couldn’t be new to this.
The air conditioning clicked on in the house. Cool air billowed from the floor vent, ruffling the hem of Amy’s dress and chilling the dampness between her legs. She smoothed the fabric over her mound, caught off guard by the state of her arousal. Her lips pursed. Cheeks caved around her tongue. Despite herself her body reacted, empathizing with the woman across the room.
Rose swapped hand and mouth, engulfing the head of Tenor’s cock and massaging Baritone’s member with strands of her spit. He shuffled forward just a little, his rumpled jeans slipping down, draping over her thighs. He stiffened his arms, biceps rippling and fingers twitching. They drifted toward her before swinging and clasping behind his back. Rose slurped off Tenor’s rod just long enough to giggle and quip, “You can touch them if you want.”
Amy’s hand skimmed up over her belly and under her boobs, cupping the curve and giving each a gentle squeeze. Pleasure stabbed at her nipples as she bit her tongue to keep from sighing aloud.
Baritone’s large, calloused paw rolled over Rose’s shoulder before slipping under her arm and smothering her breast. The right side of her body drooped toward him, and she moaned on Tenor’s cock like she was making music.
His eyelids closed and his chin drifted toward the ceiling. He turned toward his partner. “This happen a lot on your jobs?”
Baritone chuckled. “First time in 30 years.”
He dimpled the spongy flesh with his fingertips and brushed his palm over the straining pink nipple. Rose swooned. The heel of her right foot wedged itself between the back pockets of her shorts.
“You complaining?”
“Not one bit,” Tenor replied. “Just curious who I need to thank for setting up my apprenticeship.”
The rush of blood to Amy’s ears drowned out the laughter. She tugged at the neckline of her dress until her breasts spilled out over top. They were plump and full, like halved honey dew melons, hanging heavy on her chest. Pursing her lips she pawed at them. Goosebumps puckered her warming skin. Straightening her back she crossed her legs and clenched her quivering thighs around her vulva. She cursed under Travesti buca her breath. The little bitch was making her squirm.
Rose disengaged from Tenor’s dick with a pop and a smack of her lips. Saliva clung to the corners of her mouth. She lifted Tenor’s shaft against his belly and pressed her face into his groin, sucking his balls into her mouth one by one before dragging her tongue along his package from root to tip. She switched back to Baritone, swabbing his cockhead several times with her lips before thumping it against her chin. Broad smile on her face and a cock in each hand she rocked to her feet.
Backpedaling in tiny steps she led them near the couch. Baritone leaned forward to take a seat, but Rose shook her head no. Instead, she released them, her sticky fingers finding their way to her waistband and peeling apart the zipper. She shimmied the shorts down to her knees exposing her smooth snatch and perky ass to the chilling air.
She twisted round to face the sofa and tumbled into the cushions. Wriggling to her knees she bent forward again until her tits smooshed against the back of the couch. Ass raised, she looked slowly over her shoulder, and with a roll of her eyes motioned for Baritone to make his way around. Turning toward Tenor she parted her lips and waggled her ass. There was no misinterpreting what she wanted.
White heat boiled up in Amy’s gut. This whore was going to fuck these men in her son’s living room. On the couch where they watched movies together and took naps on Sunday afternoon. She was spreading her legs to take them in, their filthy hands groping her flesh, their sweat smearing her skin. Her mind flew off the wall and wrenched around the corner.
But her body still refused to follow.
Something inside her melted. The pink flush of her chest burst up through her cheeks and down through her hips, spilling wetness from her pussy dribbling down the backs of her legs to her feet. The strength in her knees waned and she sank silently to a squat, dress riding up around her waist. Five fingers remained smashed over her mouth, two others forced their way inside her vagina.
Tenor skimmed his hands over her buttocks, forward and back, to finish with a gentle squeeze. His mouth rounded and his head shook slowly, gazing down at the unblemished invitation before him. Rocking side to side he steadied himself center stage. Then, pursing his lips, he stepped forward and sank deep inside.
A low desperate moan crawled from Rose’s throat. Her head rose, neck craned. Her back arched sharply, knees slipped further apart. She reached back for Tenor’s hip and held him still while she adjusted to the intruder. Tenor’s hands settled in around her waist, and when she released him, he used that grip to nudge her away before hauling her back along the length of his shaft.
Baritone closed in, seeking a measure of the attention his apprentice was receiving. Rose propped her elbows on the back of the couch and kneaded his erection in her fists. She flicked out her tongue and lapped at the pre-cum oozing from the tip. Baritone chuckled softly. He rested his hands on his hips and bowed them forward toward her face.
She guided him into her mouth and squeezed her lips around the barb of his glans. She sucked him in till her lips touched her fingers, lingering and swabbing the underside of his dick with her tongue. Baritone groaned his approval. She repeated the routine several times, until her motions matched the gentle back and forth of Tenor’s member in her pussy.
A satisfied sigh deflated Baritone’s chest. His arms swung limp, head lolled back, eyes closed to the ceiling. He seemed to be somewhere else, absorbed in the moment. As if unencumbered by gravity, his hands floated up and came to rest, one on the top of her head, the other at the back.
Amy shuddered with rage. Or… something else? The flashes of heat from the motion of her fingers inside her muddied the waters. She didn’t know what to feel. Her daughter-in-law was taking dick at both ends on the living room couch from men who were not her son. And yet, it was damn near the hottest thing she’d ever seen.
She swept hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. Her neck and chest sparkled with little beads of sweat. Everything about this was wrong. So wrong. It was one thing to read phrases on a crumpled slip of paper. It was another thing altogether to watch it, hear it, smell it unfold in sloppy, lurid, vivid detail just 15 feet away.
She pressed the heel of her hand to her clit, pushing down as her fingers beckoned against the soft fleshy ridges on the roof of her canal. The sensation blinded her, halting her mid-breath. Her thighs snapped shut around her wrist. Rose’s muffled moans pricked her ears. Her brain polluted reality with memory. She felt throbbing girth in her pussy. Tasted cock in her mouth.
She watched Rose’s ass ripple under Tenor’s assault. He had started slow and steady, with long, deliberate strokes halting short of the hilt. But his pace had picked up and his thrusts grew erratic. He fucked shorter and harder, urgently slapping his flesh against hers. His face grew stern, jaw set square and stiff. His forehead crinkled and nose flared as he commented to his friend, “Fuck this shit is tight.”
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