"Oh, sweetheart," Mom squeals, in that little girl voice of hers. I cringe and almost tell her to talk like a grown woman. "He's so..." For a moment, I betted against myself: was I going to puke on the spot or not? But I managed to push the nausea down. "Just perfect, dear." Hand on her chest, her eyes glazed over and focused on the ceiling. The Oxford Street prime real estate courtesy of marriage number four. Together with the other loot, Mother had sure come a long way. Don't remind her of where she came from, though. Kansas. Not the rich part of town, or even the suburban middle-class area—she wishes.
These days, Mother acts like she was born in the shadows of kings and queens, not run down trailers and littered yards where she stood a better chance of tripping over empty beer cans than spotting a blooming flower. At least she acquired the means to live like royalty; a shame that fat ass American accent kinda ruins the act. I, of course, am always good enough to lay my accent on thick and fat when I have the misfortune of being confronted her friends—the ones who appear to have broom sticks permanently installed up their asses.Of course, inserted only by the best plastic surgeon money can buy.
Half an hour in their presence is enough to make me wish for a case of the bubonic plague to sweep through town. So I stay as far away from them as I can and leave it to Mother to play the role of the socialite, a tabloid favorite. Busying myself with my studies, I'm perfectly happy in the shell I’ve created for myself. I guess that's why I didn't see the latest disaster coming.
"Perfect? Like the others, you mean?" I say, unable to resist.
"Oh, sweetie," Mother says. She makes a dismissive gesture, as if telling me to stop being silly. "This one is different." Mother sighs dramatically, as if to underline how seriously swept away she is by her latest conquest. Barf, barf, and barf again, Mother. But she is so far gone in her imaginary world that I doubt she'd notice if her daughter barfed all over the Persian carpet at her feet.
His lips find mine again, and like a woman possessed I kiss back. A moan escapes from the back of my throat when I feel him hook his thumbs under my panties. The voice of my conscience doesn't stand a chance against the scorching heat between my legs, and I almost feel sorry for myself. Almost. But I'm too much in need to think about consequences and pride. Arching my back, I press myself even harder against him, my pussy spasming when his hard on stirs powerfully against me. In truth, I never stood a chance. All the time I resisted his draw, I was just fooling myself.
"He is just perfect, dear. Nothing like the others," Mother says and sighs again. A stranger might think she's orgasming on the spot, but this is simply Mother's way of communicating. She communicates in sighs and simple hand gestures. Don't expect anything complex from Mother. She keeps it simple.
Can you blame me for rolling my eyes?
"This time it will be different," Mother muses, lost in the imaginary world where she is queen, lording over her latest billionaire prize-hubby like a benevolent dictator. Benevolent in her eyes, that is.
That's the thing with Mother; she imagines she always knows best when it comes to men. I wonder if the reason she doesn't boss me around is because I wasn't born with a cock. Shivering at the thought of how she'd treat a son, I contemplate leaving for the safety of my room, calling Cathy, or indulging Mother dear and listening to whatever bullshit she's decided to confuse for reality. It is easy to opt for the privacy of my room.
"Steve," I say, my voice husky like it’s never sounded before, when he pulls my panties down. I'm so wet that the material sticks to my swollen pussy and more blood rushes to my neck and face. I really need to put a stop to this now. I really do. What kind of woman is dying to spread her legs for a guy she knows will be family, soon enough?
But that is reason, and even though I know that's what I should listen to, it goes against everything I instinctively crave.So I don't object when he pulls my panties down my hips. Nor do I step away from him to pick up my dress and cover myself when my panties fall to the floor. That's what a sane woman would do, and I'm no longer accountable for my actions. That's love and passion for you. So, instead of doing the smart and decent thing, I rejoice when his strong hands land on my skin and I look up to find his eyes.
Those intense blue eyes, set in a stunningly handsome face, gave me pause when I first laid eyes on him; they were enough to stop me dead in my tracks. A face of perfect symmetry and masculine lines, framed by naturally waved blonde hair and eyes that would have been intimidatingly cool if it wasn't for the sparkle that seems to be a permanent fixture. Tall and with just the right amount of muscle, not buff like a guy high on steroids, but buff like a guy used to physical exertion. A guy who makes his tailor-made suit look good, not the other way around. A guy who you know looks even better naked, and one look is enough for your biology to send out all the signals that you really want to see him naked.
That's the man I lost my heart to. The man who will be my stepbrother, soon enough. Steve MacCarty. The kind of guy who leaves you self-conscious of how you look and makes wish you'd spent at least an hour doing your hair and makeup instead of allowing
a minimum amount of face-time in front of the mirror.
The kitchen is the best part of the house. Cozy, and with a colonial look about it, but massive. There are people in downtown Manhattan who have houses with less surface area. A long wooden table stands parallel the kitchen counter and massive stove, and the autumn sun streams in through the high windows, which offer a perfect view of the garden and the cherry trees that will bear fruit when the time is right.
I don't think Mother ever set foot in the kitchen and I'm glad for it. The kitchen is the domain of Mrs. Elkins, our cook—and a hell of a great one she is, too. We have more in-house personnel, but Mrs. Elkins is my favorite by far. Over the years, she has become more of a surrogate mother than just another servant.
She is a short stout woman in her sixties, with full and smooth cheeks and pleasant green eyes, and black hair that doesn't show any grey yet. Where Mother is high on a cloud by default, Mrs. Elkins feet never leave earth. Quick to laugh, and never shy to say whatever comes to mind, her kitchen is a bullshit-free zone that has been my refuge from Mother's craziness since she arrived. I believe I would revolt if Mother ever decided to fire her.
Mrs. Elkins is working her magic while I nurse a cup of rooibos tea in my hands, and I sigh, certain that she will respond. I need to let off some steam and, as usual, Mrs. Elkins will be my soundboard.
"It's that bad?" Mrs. Elkins says, not pausing from rolling dough or even looking up from her work. She doesn't share my sense of drama, and I know that is a huge part of her appeal. Mrs. Elkins breezes through life with a smile and an unbeatable sense of humor. It is also a daily reminder of the fact that I inherited more than just my looks from Mother.
"You have no idea," I say and sigh again, not surprised when Mrs. Elkins' warm laughter washes over me. When she laughs, it is with her entire body. It always rubs off and I can't help but smile. Doesn't change the fact that I'm up to meet my future stepfather and whoever else he is dragging into this mess.