“Pancakes!” she cries before jumping onto the bed with me, jostling me as she bounces on her hands and knees.
I laugh, reaching for her and pulling her close as I tickle her belly. Clara giggles happily as she rolls on top of me.
“Will you be home today, Mommy?” she asks, her tone filled with innocent concern that wrings my heart dry.
“Yes, baby. I get the day off, so we can spend the whole day together.”
“Yay!” Clara wraps her arms around my neck and hugs me tightly.
“Now, go wake Auntie Patritsiya while I get dressed, and we’ll make pancakes.”
I give her bottom a light swat as she scoots enthusiastically off the bed. She dashes from the room without a moment’s hesitation, and I sit up to swing my legs over the edge of the mattress. An involuntary groan escapes my lips at the way my body protests.
My legs are mildly sore from maintaining such a deep stretch for so long yesterday, but what really hurts is my ass. While it was far less painful this time when Nicolo took it more slowly at first, and he distracted me by playing with my clit, he still brutalized my tender hole as he finished. I’m left with a hollow ache where he filled me so utterly I felt I might tear in two.
But the worst part of it is that I still enjoyed it. I came when he flogged me, and I came again as he fucked me in the ass. Something must be wrong with me that I can still get turned on by Nicolo when all he seems to want to do is hurt me. The one kiss he gave me set my everloving soul on fire, and that he only kissed me once was almost more punishment than the whip and the forceful anal.
I feel like I’m falling apart, like my mind must be unraveling at the seams. That Nicolo could come bursting in on me and drag me from my friend’s presence like he did, that he could humiliate me, ruin my clothes without batting an eye, tie me down, and flog me, and still, I could come for him? I must be broken. I wonder if it’s a weakness in me that I’ve always possessed. Certainly, it must have something to do with why I fell for him so naively in high school.But why, now that I have seen him for all that he is, can I still find him attractive?
“Mom, hurry!” Clara calls from the kitchen as she and Aunt Patritsiya start banging pots and pans in preparation for pancakes.
“I’ll be right out!” Forcing my dark thoughts from my mind, I dress quickly, finding a loose pair of sweats and a T-shirt that will cover the pink welts from my beating without pressing against them.
Then I step out of my room and walk the short distance down the hall toward the open living room/kitchen combination area. Pulling my hair up into a messy bun, I join my little girl at the fridge as she stands on her tippy toes to reach the carton of eggs and pull them out. I grab the milk from the top shelf, and then we both head to the brown Formica counter, where a tiny step stool awaits Clara.
Climbing up onto it, she sets the eggs carefully on the counter. She waits patiently as I reach up into the white-painted plywood cupboards for the flour, salt, and sugar. Aunt Patritsiya passes me a measuring cup, and Clara helps me measure out two cups of flour. Then comes the sugar and the salt.
Clara watches closely as I crack the eggs and add them before slowly stirring them into the mixture.
“Can I taste the ’nilla?” she asks as I measure out half a teaspoon of the extract.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “It won’t taste like the vanilla in ice cream,” I warn.
Clara’s hazel eyes grow wide with fascination. Then she nods enthusiastically. I laugh lightly and tap a few drops of vanilla extract onto a tiny spoon for Clara before holding it out for her. She slurps it up greedily, and I can’t help but laugh as her face puckers in distaste.
“Eeeew!” she squeals, dancing on her stool as she waves her hands in front of her mouth.
Suppressing my humor, I grab a glass and pour her a little milk. “Here, this will make it taste better,” I offer.
Clara grips the glass between her tiny hands and tilts it back to drink. When she’s downed the whole thing, she releases a gasp that could rival a drunk’s after slugging an entire bottle of beer.
“Better?” I ask.
“Mm-hmm,” Clara agrees.
When we’re finished mixing the batter, I hand it over to Aunt Patritsiya, who mans the skillet. Clara and I set the table together as the sweet scent of cooking batter fills the kitchen. I love our Sunday routine. It’s one my aunt and I set in place back when I first moved in with her in high school, and when Clara was born, she became a priceless addition to the quality time.
Sometimes we mix it up and cook omelets or waffles. Still, pancakes are the main Sunday breakfast food, simply because we all love them–each in our individual ways. I top mine with cinnamon apples, Aunt Patritsiya with fresh berries, and Clara’s new favorite is smothering them in syrup, now that I’ve introduced her to the horribly sticky and impossible-to-clean topping. But I can’t deny her the pleasure after seeing the way her face lights up every Sunday when she takes her first bite.
“What do you want to do today?” I ask Clara as we all sit around the table to enjoy our meal.
“Dance party!” Clara shouts enthusiastically.
“It’s all she’s been talking about this week,” Aunt Patritsiya says with a gentle smile. “She wants to see what her mommy is spending so much time on these days. Right, Clara?”
Clara nods before scooping another messy forkful into her mouth.
My heart twinges knowing that Clara’s noticed how absent I’ve been. It kills me to think she’s home missing me as much as I’m missing her. “Well then, dance party it is,” I agree, forcing a smile onto my face.