I nodded. Still she remained, her thumb caressing me with the softest touch. “Close your eyes, sweetheart.”
When I opened them again, my bedroom was bathed in the light from the sun, leaving a wide band across the floor and onto my bed, warming me. It was the middle of summer; no school, no homework, nowhere to be, and nothing to worry about. I stretched, yawning, groaning. Then I lay there another few minutes before rolling out of bed. I needed to pee. And I was hungry.
I returned to my room for a pair of panties, my gaze landing on the pair I’d removed last night. There wasn’t much contrast between the white satin and the pink cotton of my comforter and I wondered if my mother had noticed them last night. If she had, she hadn’t said anything.
I entered the kitchen to find her standing at the stove, a stack of pancakes forming on a plate, another in the pan. She raised her arm, settling it over my shoulder, pulling me to her, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “How did you sleep, sweetheart?”
I squeezed her, nodding, my cheek against her breast, her scent combining with that of the pancakes. “Good. Thank you for sitting with me.”
“You’re welcome. Why don’t you get something to drink, and grab the syrup.”
“Kay.”
I spent the day with my friends; at the mall, at the park near our house, talking about boys and music and girls we liked and didn’t like. And all through the day my mind would drift to my father; to the feel of him hard against me, to the scent of him, to the feel of his warm breath in my ear.
And at dinnertime, I stole glances at him, admiring, as I did often, his wavy, dark hair and his bright blue eyes and his soft lips and the dimple on his chin and his big, strong hand as he lifted his glass.
I helped my mother clean the kitchen while my father went to take a shower. She asked about my day and I told her all the things we did. She said, “You know I don’t like it when you talk mean about other people, honey.”
My brows drew. “We weren’t talking mean.”
“Yes, you were. Referring to a boy as a dork is mean. Please don’t do that again.”
I nodded, feeling ashamed, like I’d let her down. She hugged me then. “I still love you, honey, but you’re getting too old to act like that.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled.
She hugged me for several minutes, swaying us, then she kissed my head. “Your father’s out of the shower. Why don’t you go take yours.”
“Okay.”
I stood under the spray of the shower, arms hanging limp, eyes closed as I fantasized about my father coming in, slipping in behind me, pulling me to him, wrapping me up in his strong arms, his penis pushing into my back as his hands slipped over my skin, teasing my nipples, pinching them, making me moan as I leaned back into him, my head against his chest.
I finished my shower frustrated, having tried to relieve the itch between my legs, but ultimately giving up. It wasn’t my fingers I wanted inside of me; I wanted him touching me, him taking me to the place I so desperately wanted to go.
I towel dried my hair and slipped into a pair of panties and a tee shirt, then, brush in hand, I made my way to the front room. My father was laying across the sofa, his head on the arm, his feet pressed to my mother’s thigh. I could feel his eyes on me as I knelt on the floor at my mother’s feet, holding the brush out to her.