“I’m sorry honey, it wasn’t right of me to tease you. I was just surprised. Getting all twitchy for your old mommy.”
“Jesus! It was just an involuntary response!”
“Duh, I know. That was wrong, both the act and the joke. I’m sorry, I won’t do it again.”
“It’s okay mom. I’m sorry I freaked out. I was just a little…” i trailed off. What I didn’t want to admit was that I had liked it and I was actually feeling my body getting closer to cumming due to the dream and her proximity. Even with as open as my mom was, I was pretty sure she didn’t want to feel me cum in my boxers against her ass.
It took about two weeks total, but eventually mom and Dugan had a showdown where she said, essentially, that living here required he get rid of at least the majority of the cats. After a lot of yelling, he finally packed up and left, and mom gave him some gas money and a quick hug before he pulled away complaining at her. We both breathed a sigh of relief, before going into full disinfecting mode, spraying urine removing compound all over the place, scrubbing like crazy, trying to remove all of the traces of him and his disgusting animals.
We’d started about 10am, right after he left, and didn’t finish until it was about 8 at night, despite the fact that it was a tiny place, only about 1000 square feet. At the end of it all, we went to the store, and then my favorite local Mexican restaurant, where we got some combos to go. We sat at our little kitchen table, eating in quiet peace with the doors open as the house aired out and the carpets dried, a steady cold NW winter rain falling outside. We were both grungy and covered in dried sweat, hunger slowly dissipating, when I suggested ice cream.
“Actually, I have another idea that may be more appropriate,” she replied, digging out a small plastic tub of some mix and a bottle of booze. “You ever have a hot buttered rum?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“It’s perfect for cold nights like this. Plus we could probably use something for painkiller. I don’t know about you, but I’m sore as a motherfucker.”
I was also pretty tender, so I readily agreed. She quickly set about the kitchen, boiling some water, scooping the mixture in, a small spoonful of vanilla ice cream, and then a shot of rum in each mug. As she started to stir, she hesitated, then dumped another shot in each. “You aiming to get me drunk?” I joked.
“I’m aiming to get me drunk. Your intoxication is incidental. Considering you have a good 80 or so pounds on me, I think you’ll be fine.” I shrugged and took the mug proffered.
So we talked and drank. About the situation with Dugan, and about his falling out first with their parents, then with her other brother and the rest of the family. How he had claimed people said things to him that were against their stories and also completely out of character. It seemed, we both agreed, as we refilled the mugs a second and then a third time, that he might be mentally ill. Nothing else explained his actions or fit as well. It obviously hurt her, but she seemed to be coping with it well.