Blow That Load For Mommy Ch. 02

Chapter 2

The white sundress had been tactical, not accidental. Heather stood at the kitchen counter with her weight shifted onto one hip, watching the kettle and pretending she wasn't cataloguing every inch of her own body. The cotton was thin. Not see-through, but close enough. Close enough that when she'd checked herself in the hallway mirror, she'd seen the shadow of her nipples through the fabric. The heavy roundness of her unbound breasts moved with each breath. The hem fell mid-thigh, just shy of decent. The sort of dress a woman might wear to fetch the post and not think twice about it, because she lived alone. Because nobody was looking.

Somebody was looking. Or would be, the moment he came downstairs.

She'd been up since six. Couldn't sleep. Had lain in bed running through scripts in her head, lines and gestures and choreography, and by five she'd given up and gone for a run. Three miles along the canal in the pale grey morning, trying to burn off the jitters in her stomach. It hadn't worked. The jitters had rearranged themselves into something warmer, something lower, something that had her wet by the time she'd got home and into the shower. She'd shaved her legs again, even though she'd done them the night before. Twice. Then her armpits. Then she'd stood under the hot water with her eyes closed and told herself, it's a game, it's a game, it's just a game, ten grand, ten grand, ten grand.

The kettle clicked.

Above her head, the floorboards creaked. Charlie's bedroom. He was up.

Her stomach did a small flip.

She made tea. Two mugs. She didn't normally make him tea in the morning but she was making him tea this morning because tea required him to stand near her, to take it from her hand, to say thanks Mum. All the small domestic rituals that she planned to weaponise into something filthy by the end of the week. She set his mug down at his place at the table. Black, two sugars, the way Richard had taken it and the way Charlie had taken it ever since he'd started drinking it at fourteen. Copying his dad. Missing his dad. Never quite saying so.

She tried not to think about Richard.

Richard wouldn't have approved.

Richard would have laughed first, then thought about it, then disapproved very quietly in his way. The way he'd disapproved of most of her better ideas. Richard had been a good man, a kind man, a slightly boring man. He'd been dead four years and her body had its own opinions now about being a widow.

She poured her own tea. Sat. Crossed her legs. The dress rode up. She tugged it down, then thought, no, and let it ride back up an inch.

Charlie came down the stairs.

She heard him before she saw him. The heavy, unhurried tread of a six foot one boy who took the stairs two at a time when he was running late and one at a time when he wasn't. He wasn't. His feet were bare on the wood, the soft slap of skin. She knew without looking that he'd be in joggers and one of those grey hoodies he wore like armour. The bet armour. The don't look at me, don't tempt me, don't think about it uniform he'd been wearing since the beginning of June.

He rounded the corner into the kitchen.

He stopped.

Not a long stop. Half a second. The sort of stop that anyone else would have missed but she didn't miss because she was watching for it. His eyes did the thing his face couldn't lie about. They went to her chest before he'd even processed she was there. Registered what they were seeing. Then snapped up to her face, then sideways to the cereal cupboard, then to the floor, then to the cereal cupboard again.

His Adam's apple moved.

"Morning, baby."

"Morning, Mum."

The voice was rough from sleep, lower than it usually was. She filed that away.

He walked past her to the cupboard. Gave her a wide berth. The sort of wide berth a man gives a wasp. He pulled down the Crunchy Nut, set it on the counter, opened the cutlery drawer for a spoon. Conducted the entire operation without once turning his body toward her.

"There's tea for you," she said. "On the table."

"Oh. Cheers."

"Sleep okay?"

"Yeah. Fine."

"You don't look fine. You look tense, sweetheart."

"I'm not tense."

"You are. Your shoulders are up by your ears."

She stood. He didn't notice because he was pouring cereal with the focus of a man defusing a bomb. She walked the four steps from her chair to his back. He felt her coming. She watched him feel her. Watched his spine go very straight as she came into his orbit. She put both hands on his shoulders.

He jumped.

Genuinely jumped. A small, contained, full-body flinch.

"Bloody hell, Mum."

"Stand still."

She pressed her thumbs into the meat of his trapezius. The muscle there was like rope. He'd been carrying it all week, all month. The sort of tension that lived in the shoulders of men who weren't getting any sleep and weren't getting any release. She worked her thumbs in slow circles and let her body lean against his back. Just a lean. Just her weight. Just enough that her breasts, heavy and unsupported under the thin cotton, settled themselves against the back of his hoodie. He could feel them. There was no universe in which he couldn't feel them. She felt the exact moment his breath stopped.

"That is a lot of tension, baby. At nineteen. You shouldn't be this tight."

"It's just rugby."

"Rugby season ended in April."

"Pre-season."

"Mm."

She squeezed. He made a small sound she didn't think he'd meant to make. She filed that one away too.

"You need to relax more. Do you ever just, you know, let go of things?"

"I'm fine, Mum. Honestly."

"Honestly." She let the word hang. "You boys are all so honestly. Honestly fine, honestly tired, honestly not hungry. Honestly nothing." Her thumbs dug deeper. "Tell me when it hurts."

"It's fine."

"That's not what I asked."

He didn't reply. She felt the heat of him through the hoodie. She let her hands slide a fraction lower, to the top of his shoulder blades. Leaned a fraction further forward. The soft underside of her breasts pressed against the back of his neck where the hood had fallen open. His skin there was hot. Hotter than skin should be.

"Right," she said, and patted him twice, cheerful and motherly and breezy. "All done. Eat your cereal."

She turned away before he could react. Walked to the fridge. Heard him exhale behind her like a man who'd been holding it for a fortnight.

The fridge was a setup she'd planned in the shower.

She'd put the orange juice on the bottom shelf, at the back, deliberately. Tucked behind the milk and a tub of yoghurt and the lettuce, so she'd have to bend. Properly bend. Not a polite knees-together crouch but a full from-the-waist forward fold. The way she did at spin class when she stretched her hamstrings. The way Charlie had walked in on her doing in the living room last March and gone the colour of brick.

She opened the door. Bent.

"Where's the bloody... Hang on. Where did I put..."

The dress rode up. She knew exactly how far it rode up because she'd practised in front of the bedroom mirror. It rode up to the very top of her thighs, to the crease where thigh became arse. The white thong she'd chosen, the one that was barely two triangles of cotton and a length of string, would be on full display to anyone who happened to be sitting at the kitchen table looking in her direction.

Charlie was sitting at the kitchen table.

She made a show of rummaging. Moved the milk. Moved the yoghurt. Moved the lettuce. Took her time. The fridge was cold against her thighs and the cool air rushing out hit her between her legs. She realised, with a small private shock, that her thong was already damp. Not from anything he'd done. From thinking about it. From the planning. From the moment in the shower when she'd let herself imagine his face when he saw her in this dress. Her body had drawn its own conclusions about what was funny and what wasn't.

"Oh, there you are."

She straightened. Slowly. Orange juice in hand. Closed the fridge door with her hip and turned around.

Charlie was looking at the cereal box.

He was looking at the cereal box the way a man looks at a holy text. The way a man looks at the only piece of paper in the world that might save him. His spoon was suspended halfway between the bowl and his mouth. Milk was dripping back into the bowl from the spoon. He had not blinked.

"Charlie."

"Yeah."

"Your spoon."

"Right. Yeah."

He shoved the cereal into his mouth. Chewed. Stared at the box. The box was advertising a free toy aimed at seven year olds. Charlie was reading it like there'd be a test.

She sat opposite him. Crossed her legs slowly. The motion lifted the dress further. She didn't fix it. Poured a glass of orange juice. The carton glugged. She raised the glass and drank with her head tipped back, throat working. She didn't stop until the glass was half empty. Set it down. Sighed. Long. Satisfied.

"God, that's good. Sometimes you just need to swallow something cold first thing in the morning, don't you?"

The chewing stopped.

Started again.

"Mm."

"Wakes you right up."

"Mm."

"Do you want some?"

"Got tea."

"Tea's hot."

"Yeah."

"I'm just saying. There's a lot to be said for the cold stuff. Goes down so much easier."

He didn't answer. He'd located a small printed cartoon on the cereal box and was willing himself into it.

She watched him for a moment. The set of his jaw. The way the muscle there ticked. The flush that had crept up his neck, past the collar of the hoodie, into his ears. His ears were red. The tops of his ears, where Richard's used to go red when he was embarrassed or aroused or both. Genetic, apparently.

She reached for the fruit bowl.

The fruit bowl was on the middle of the table and she had to lean forward to get to it. The dress had its own ideas about what leaning forward meant. The neckline, modest on a hanger, gaped. She felt it gape. She felt the cool morning air on the inside of her cleavage. Felt her nipple, the left one that had been hard since she'd put the dress on, brush against the cotton as she moved.

She picked up a banana.

It was a good banana. She'd picked them up at the shop yesterday with this exact morning in mind. Had stood in the produce aisle holding three different bunches against each other and choosing the one with the longest, thickest specimens. The one she selected from the bowl now was eight inches at least, gently curved, a deep yellow that suggested perfect ripeness. Heavy in her palm.

"Want half?"

"No."

"You sure? You should have something more than cereal, sweetheart. Growing boy."

"I'm not growing anymore, Mum."

"You'd be surprised what can grow when it gets the right encouragement."

His spoon paused. Started again.

"I'm fine."

"Suit yourself."

She turned the banana in her hand. Considered it. Then peeled it. Slowly. Not pornographically slowly, not yet, just unhurried. The way a woman peels a banana when she's enjoying her breakfast and has nowhere to be. The skin came away in long strips. She set them on the table. Lifted the fruit. Looked at it.

"Mm."

She bit her bottom lip. Looked across the table.

"Honestly, baby. You don't know what you're missing."

"It's a banana, Mum."

"It is, but... You know." She turned it slightly, examining it. "I'm picky about my bananas. Some are too small. Bit disappointing, you know? You go to the effort of peeling them and then there's just nothing there. And some are too big, properly too big, you can't even get your mouth around them. Your jaw aches for days." She paused. Tilted her head. "But this one. This one is just right. Thick enough to be satisfying. Long enough to last. Bit of a curve to it." She traced the curve with one finger. "I like a curve. It hits in nice places."

She looked up.

Charlie was looking at her.

He shouldn't have been. He'd been holding the line for ten minutes. But she'd said the word curve the way she'd said it, with the small intake of breath at the end. His head had come up before his brain had caught it. Now he was looking at her and she was looking at him and the kitchen had gone very quiet.

She brought the banana to her mouth.

She did not bite.

She wrapped her lips around the tip. Closed her eyes. Made a small, low sound in the back of her throat that was not quite a hum and not quite a moan and would haunt him later when he tried to identify it. Then she opened her mouth a little wider and slid the banana in. Two inches. Three. Held it there. Pressed her lips around the shaft and dragged them slowly back, hollowing her cheeks. When the tip emerged from her mouth there was a thin, glistening film of saliva down the length of it.

She opened her eyes.

His were already on her.

"Sorry." She licked her lips. "I haven't eaten properly since yesterday. I'm just so, you know..."

She thought for a moment, like she was searching for the word.

"Backed up."

Charlie made no sound.

"You know that feeling? When you've been holding off something you really wanted for ages, and then you finally just... Let go. And the whole thing just... Releases. All at once." She took another small bite, this one with her teeth, a neat clean bite. Chewed thoughtfully. "It's the best feeling in the world. Really. The bigger the build up, the better the release. Don't you think?"

"I'm going to take this upstairs."

He stood. The chair legs scraped. He bent forward over the table as he stood, awkwardly, the way a man stands when he's trying to keep the front of his joggers concealed from the woman opposite him. His bowl wobbled. Milk slopped.

"You haven't finished your cereal."

"Not hungry."

"You've barely touched your tea."

"I'll take it with me."

He reached for the mug. His hand wasn't quite steady. She watched his fingers close around the handle. Watched him try, without success, to angle his body away from her line of sight as he straightened up. The grey joggers weren't designed for concealment. The grey joggers were, in fact, the worst possible material for concealment. There was a hard, obvious ridge running down the inside of his left thigh that was several inches longer than any ridge had any right to be.

She didn't look at it.

She looked at his face.

He saw her not looking at it and his ears went a deeper shade of red.

"Sweetheart."

"What."

"You shouldn't skip the most important blow of the day."

A pause.

"Meal," he said.

"What?"

"You said blow."

"Did I?" She frowned. Picked up her tea. Blew on it gently with her lips pursed and her eyes wide. "Sorry. I've been blowing on my tea all morning. It must be on my mind." She took a sip. Set the mug down. "Off you pop, then. I'll be in the garden if you need me."

He went.

He went fast. Not a run, because running would have been an admission, but the brisk, controlled walk of a man whose only ambition in life was to be on the other side of a closed door in the next ten seconds. The mug was in one hand. The bowl was in the other. Cereal was sloshing. He took the stairs the way he hadn't taken them in years, two at a time, three at a time. The floorboards thumped over her head.

She listened.

The landing.

The bedroom door.

The bedroom door shut. Did not slam. Shut with the very specific, very controlled care of a man who badly wanted to slam it and badly couldn't because slamming it would tell her something he was trying not to tell her.

The click of the lock.

She smiled.

The smile started small, in one corner of her mouth, and then it spread, slow and wide. She covered her face with both hands and let out a long, shaky breath into her palms. Her cheeks were hot. Her whole face was hot. She lowered her hands and looked at the banana on the table, still half eaten, still glossy with her saliva. She picked it up and turned it in her fingers.

She bit off another piece.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

Upstairs, somewhere, the en suite shower started.

Heather closed her eyes.

She could picture it. She didn't want to picture it and she pictured it anyway. Her son, behind that closed door, with the shower running, with the water as cold as he could stand it, telling himself to think about anything else. Anything. Cricket scores. Maths. The periodic table. Anything other than his mother's mouth around a banana. His mother's tits in a dress that wasn't a dress, that was barely a suggestion of a dress. His mother bent into the fridge. His mother saying backed up. His mother saying release.

She wondered if he'd hold.

She wondered if he'd be holding the line. Fourteen days, Jules had said. Fourteen days of monk-like discipline. Her precious sensible boy with his books and his protein shakes and his early nights, white-knuckling it for twenty grand. He would hold. He'd be furious with himself for getting hard. He'd be furious with her for making him. He'd run that shower cold and he'd stand under it and he'd grip the tiles and he'd recite the names of every player in the England squad until the swelling went down.

He wouldn't touch himself.

She was sure of it.

She picked up the last of the banana. Slid it into her mouth. Chewed slowly. Swallowed. Wiped a thread of saliva from the corner of her lip with one thumb and licked it clean.

Beneath the table, beneath the white sundress, the white thong that had been damp before breakfast was now, frankly, soaked. She could feel it. The cotton was clinging to her in a way cotton wasn't supposed to cling. Every time she'd crossed and uncrossed her legs during the performance she'd felt the slide of her own wetness against itself. She had been wet watching her son try not to be hard. She had been wet listening to him fail to come up with a single word that wasn't yeah or mm. She had been wet feeding herself a piece of fruit in front of a boy she'd given birth to.

She uncrossed her legs.

Crossed them the other way.

The friction sent a small, sharp pulse through her that she didn't appreciate. She sat very still for a moment. Breathed. The kettle ticked as it cooled. The shower upstairs hissed faintly through the ceiling.

She wondered how big a load he was carrying.

Fourteen days. A nineteen year old boy. Fit, healthy, no porn, no wanking, no nothing. She'd read somewhere once, in one of those women's magazine articles she pretended she didn't read, that the longer a man went, the bigger the load. Volume. That was the word the article had used. Volume increased with abstinence, up to a point. The point was usually somewhere around the two week mark, after which it plateaued and then started to decline. He was at the peak. Whatever his body was making, it was making the maximum amount of it right now. It was sitting there in him, building, waiting, with nowhere to go.

She wondered what he'd look like when he finally let go.