March 15, 2014
The Mallory household is blandly stately with its three car garage, with the little tree in its little circle of tiny gray stones in an off-center spot on the manicured lawn, with the attic's circular window, with a neat side path leading to a picket-fenced backyard complete with below-ground pool. The interior is just the same: brightly lit with a clean, predominantly white color palette and high living room overlooked by the second floor hall, alcoves near the ceiling decorated with fake plastic ferns that must surely be a nightmare to dust.
Mrs. Mallory leafs through some of the mail that she picked up on her way in the door, tossing the junk in a recycling bin under a side-table by the coat racks, keeping the spare few important items in hand. Now, picking up a letter opener and slicing into the first envelope, she pauses to tell you: "I smell onions -- Saul must be getting started!"
You sniff at the air. Yeah, there it is: the inviting scent of caramelizing onions, plus wine.
"We have spaghetti Friday every week," Mrs. Mallory explains. "Saul makes a sauce that's just divine! We skipped yesterday's--" she pauses, without explaining why, but of course it's because they were at the funeral. After a beat, she continues: "I told him to make it tonight instead, for you. I think you'll love it."
Mrs. Mallory unfurls the letter in her hands and scans it, frowning. "How many times can the humane society ask for a donation?" She grumbles. "We just gave them $1500!"
And yet, despite her grumbling, she grabs a gold pen from the marbled side-table, leans over it and begins to fill out the donation form included with the letter.
These are the Mallorys. Cooking wine-based marinara in their mansion and dropping thousands of dollars in charity to animal shelters the way a normal person would buy a candy bar on impulse at the checkout lane.
Mrs. Mallory puts her donation form in the postage-paid envelope included with the ask letter, licks the seal with her little pink tongue and closes it. She sets it in an outbox of sorts, a dark brown wicker basket on top of the side-table. She smiles at you. "Take off your shoes. Make yourself at home, Alabaster. Oh, and -- if you decide to move in, we'll convert the guest bedroom for your use--"
"Guest bedroom," you murmur, mostly to yourself.
She firmly rubs your shoulder. "You're not just a guest, of course. It'll be your bedroom, with all of your things in it. You're a member of this family, too. Remember that. No matter what."
"What about Cerise?"
"You're such a dear," she says. "Worrying about your sister first. Well, no need to. We have space for her as well. The basement is fully finished. We'll let her use it as a bedroom while she's trying to get herself started in a place of her own."
Your sister the basement dweller. In less dire times, you would have ribbed her endlessly about it. Now the thought brings you no joy at all. You only feel sorry. For her, for you.
As Mrs. Mallory leads you towards the stairs, you pass the arched entry to the kitchen, and see Mr. Mallory walking back and forth, busily cooking. He wears an apron and carries a wooden stirring spoon. He tastes a dollop of his sauce, considers it, and begins adding more spices to the steaming pot on the stove. His apron is pink and frilly -- talk about pussy-whipped.
Mrs. Mallory hollers up the stairs: "Rose, honey! Come out of your cave!"
A few moments later you hear a rustling sound and then out comes Rose Mallory, queen bitch of North High, a girl you've diligently avoided for the past couple school years. The politics and cliquey culture clashes of your school never interested you in the slightest, so she's been easy to duck all this time. You're quite well aware of her, of course, and her reputation as tyrant; she's also quite well aware of you, since you're captain of the school's most successful competitive team by far. You've even shared the stage at pep rallies a few times. But you don't recall ever having spoken to her directly, even once. Sadly, you won't be able to keep the streak going any longer. In a way, this is the first time you've ever met.
"Rose, this is Alabaster Soliloquy. He's Scarlett's son. He might be coming to live with us, so I wanted you two to be better acquainted."
She frowns down the stairs at you. This girl is maybe a few hairs over five foot, and nicely fills out her conservative blouse and midi skirt -- enough to make the frumpy secretary-core getup look almost indecent. You'd maybe find her attractive, if you didn't know what kind of person inhabited that body -- and also for the fact that she's your... cousin? Some flavor of cousin, anyway.
"You've met before, right?" Mrs. Mallory asks.
"Sort of," you reply. You don't break eye contact with Rose. She doesn't break eye contact with you. She regards you like an apex predator stalking a wounded gazelle that got separated from the pack. No sir, you don't like it.
"It's rather interesting," Rose says, still staring. "We've known each other for so long, but I had no idea that we were cousins all this time."
"You're one generation removed, actually," Mrs. Mallory corrects.
"First cousins, once removed -- I'll make a note of that," Rose muses.
"Why don't you show him around the house?"
She slowly descends the stairs, the royal highness deigning to mingle with a commoner. As she slinks down the final couple steps, her height draws level with yours, and then lower, and lower again, until she's at last her real size relative to you, the crown of her head coming barely past your chin.
"This way," she demands.
You already don't like that -- the bossy tone of her voice, and not even a hello, or a how are you, or a nice to see you. But you would rather not give Mrs. Mallory the impression that you're impolite. Too much aggravation lies that way. Better for now to go with the flow.
Rose leads you through the kitchen, where she stops to listlessly indicate its size. Unlike his bitchy daughter, Mr. Mallory does greet you hello and asks how you're holding up. You reply that you're doing fine. Although you hardly hear him, are hardly paying any attention, nor are you paying attention to room's opulence, its asymmetric travertine tiling, its cherry mahogany cabinets stacked with food, its smart fridge and granite countertops. Your focus is undivided, eyes squarely on Rose Mallory the entire time, who's making rather a show of her own disinterest -- who seems keen that you know exactly how little she wanted this task she's been handed.
Into the enormous garage now, through the entry connected to the kitchen. She shuts the door behind you, and it feels like being locked in a cell with an unhinged cellmate.
There's an African grey parrot in a large enclosure here, which Rose takes a moment to feed. It eats seed right from Rose's cupped palm as she ruffles the feathers on the side of its head.
The parrot throws its neck back, and swallows happily, and then steps a little forward on the twig serving as it perch. It nuzzles Rose's fingers through the cage's wires. And then it says: "Fuck patriarchy. Fuck patriarchy. Fuck-fuck."
Rose coos. "That's right, Myrna. You're so smart."
Heaven help you.
Rose fills Myrna's feeder and tops off its water bottle, too. Then, turning to face you, she says: "I don't really know what my mother wants... she's got it in her head that we're going to be friends or something, I guess. Wants us to have a play date."
You gaze back at her, wary, but say nothing in turn.
"I'm very sorry for everything you've been through," she says, and this actually seems sincere. "But you understand of course that we're not going to be friends."
"Of course," you repeat.
"Good. That's good."
A lingering silence encroaches. You awkwardly stand there staring at one another. You're not sure why, or what it means. Sizing one another up, you suppose.
Finally, Rose breaks the standoff: "this way."
"No," you tell her.
"Excuse me?"
"No. I'm not going to follow you around like a dog on a leash. 'This way' -- Jesus. I'm not your pet. Show me the upstairs. I want to see this guest bedroom your mom wants me to stay in."
Rose folds her arms, pokes the side of her cheek out with her tongue. She obviously isn't used to people refusing her -- to not getting her way. No sir, she doesn't like it.
"After you," you say, with faux-graciousness. You motion towards the door that leads back to the kitchen.
"Let's get one thing clear," Rose says, standing her ground. "Now I'm going to do my very best to be understanding, of the trauma you've been through. I can't imagine the pain and suffering you're experiencing. But I won't let you bark orders at me, either. You're not my fucking owner."
"But it's perfectly fine for you to bark orders at me--"
"I'm not ordering you around. You're imagining things. I'm simply trying to be a good host, and show you my home. If you don't want me to do that, then I'm perfectly happy to let you show yourself around--"
"--and another thing, Rose. I don't need your quote-unquote understanding. Your fake compassion. Not from you, of all people."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"You're a phony. Everything about you is phony. You might fool the other morons at North High but you don't fool me. So you can drop the bleeding heart act."
"You're in pain. You're lashing out. I understand, Alabaster--" she reaches for you, to touch your hand. But you jerk back, and step away from her.
"Don't touch me."
"Are you going to make this harder than it has to be?"
You narrow your eyes at her. Just what is that supposed to mean? Her pursed lips betray only the slightest hint of a grin at their edges. She suppresses it, but you get the sinking sense that she wanted you to glimpse it all along.
You give as good as you get, though: "I'd still like to see the upstairs. If I come to stay here, I'll be sleeping just a short walk down the hall from your bedroom. I want to get a look at what our new living arrangement might look like, before I decide."
A shadow passes over her face. There's nothing wrong in what you said, on the surface. But a worried mental calculation is clacking away inside her skull as she processes the possible implications. It's only brief, blink-and-you'll-miss it. She smooths her skirt and composes herself right away, and on again comes the mask, a bright sun-shiny smile: "That's fine. I was going to take you upstairs next, anyway, so no need to argue back and forth like this. Please, Alabaster --" she pauses. "This way..."
You follow her. It's hard to say who came out on top here.
Upstairs, Rose points you to the door to what is apparently the guest bedroom, the one that may belong to you for the next year or so. Of course, you were clear about where the two of you stand, and now it's time to make your point. You don't open the door she directs you to, but rather the one right beside, which leads to her bedroom.
You cast an appraising glance up and down. It's different from what you expected: cherry-pink walls, a dresser lined with lace and stacked with stuffed animals. A four-post bed with a gossamer veil over it, fit for a fairy-tale princess. And on top of the sheets, still buzzing, a Hitachi magic wand. Mrs. Mallory dragged Rose away from something quite important, it seems.
You have but a moment to take this in before Rose is physically removing you, grabbing you from behind and tugging you away from the threshold with strength that surprises and, frankly, frightens you. "What are you doing?!" She wails. She slams her door shut.
The cub is in danger and mama bear is on high alert: Mrs. Mallory is at the foot of the stairs in a millisecond. "Is everything all right?" She asks up at you.
Rose turns and smiles down at her mom. "It's fine. Alabaster accidentally went into the wrong bedroom... that's all."
Mrs. Mallory laughs. "It takes some getting used to."
"Of course," Rose agrees.
Mrs. Mallory goes away again. Rose meets your eyes -- she's far from happy. "I didn't give you permission to go into my bedroom."
"No, you didn't."
"I'm going to tell my mother that you're dangerous. You won't be living with us."
"You had a chance to tell her, just now. You didn't take it. Why?"
Rose says nothing, so you turn again for her room, and reach again for the door handle. Rose, much quieter than her first outburst, but still forceful, tries to tug you back a second time. You're prepared for it now, and you use the momentum to reverse things, to spin around with her and get her up against the wall separating the two bedrooms. You lay your palms flat against the drywall on either side of her and lean in, leering down at her. The size difference is acutely apparent to her all of a sudden, and she begins to tremble before your penetrating gaze.
"I told you not to touch me," you say.
"I told you not to go into my room," she says, trying at fearless, but her voice quavers.
"Are you going to make this harder than it has to be?" Unlike Rose when she used this line on you, you let her see your grin.
"I knew it. You're a creep. A nerdy, anime-watching, know-it-all, quiz-virgin loser--"
You lean in even closer -- your lips are practically touching. "I've had a rough week, Rose. I'm not in my right mind at the moment. You'd better watch what you say to a boy who's in pain, and lashing out..."
Her breath catches. You let the fear percolate through her for a brief moment. And then you step back, freeing her.
"You think you scare me?" Rose says, already forgetting herself. "You're pathetic. A little freak like you is nothing to me. For your own sake, you'd better not come to stay here. I'll make your life a living hell, Alabaster, I swear to god. Go live in a group home with the other rejects where you belong."
You adopt a chipper tone. "No, I think I've already decided. I'll come to live here after all."
Rose searches your face, trying to gauge it for a hint of sarcasm, or some kind of tell, and comes away empty-handed.
"You're not used to it, are you," you say.
"Used to what?" She spits.
"You know what. A person who doesn't buy the bullshit. A person who isn't afraid of you. A person who you can't control."
She shakes her head. "You think you know everything about me, don't you? But you know really very little."
"No. I know your type. Rah-rah social justice hypocrites, out to be the fucking fun police because it's the only way you can feel like you've got a little power over someone else."
"Is that so?" Rose asks with a smirk, the way a mother might humor a child describing an outlandish daydream.
"It is."
She folds her arms underneath her breasts -- as if to purposely accentuate them. "I'm not opposed to fun at all, Alabaster. You'll find that out. But you're right on one account -- yes, I seek success and influence. There's absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to win in life. Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean--"
"How fucking stupid. What's the point of trying to win if you don't even care what it is you're achieving?"
"And here is where you're wrong, again. There's something very important I want to achieve."
"Which is what," you say flatly.
"Not just to win. To make sure everyone else loses."
You can't help wincing at such a nakedly brutal admission of the inner workings of her mind. A beat passes, then without anything further Rose turns, and goes back to her bedroom. She slams the door behind you. It's hard to tell, maybe your mind just playing tricks, but the thin buzz of that magic wand doesn't seem to stop.
This situation may be even more difficult than you expected.
---
Mr. Mallory's spaghetti sauce is fucking delectable, 10/10, a savory treat, a scrumptious feast. If you hadn't already decided on it, the promise of having this as your weekly dinner fare, free-of-charge, would have decided it for you. This motherfucker can cook.
Unfortunately, it's accompanied by the bitter after-taste: Rose sitting directly across from you at the table. Between her presence, and the persistent nausea that's been dogging you all week long, you can only poke at your food, and you end up eating very little, as amazing as the cooking is. This in turn gives Mr. and Mrs. Mallory the impression that you're depressed. Which you are, but for the time being you're less focused on your inner demons and more focused on Rose, on how quickly you're growing to hate her, in a very real and visceral way. It's honestly all you can focus on at the moment. She thinks she's so fucking great... you'll show her.
She made a point of bringing a book to the table, and has it propped open in front of her, rather than eating. You keep reading and rereading the subtitle on the cover, trying to make sense of it: an intersectional critique of video games through the lens of gender politics, race and class? What?
Mrs. Mallory tries to distract you from what she thinks is brooding over your recent loss. "Cerise tells me that you're on a quiz bowl team, is that so? You made the state championship this year?"
"Yeah," you say, twirling your fork through the pasta, gaze still fixed on Rose, who's still reading -- although she hasn't turned the page in quite some time, you notice. Is she really reading after all?
"Will you be on the team again next year?" Mrs. Mallory prompts.
"Probably."
Now Mr. Mallory's turn to try getting more than one-word responses out of you. "We'll keep you trained through the summer. You know -- I'm something of a trivia hound myself. Hey, I've got one for you."
You wait.
"Who's buried in Grant's Tomb?"
You begin to reply, but Rose cuts you off. "No one is buried in Grant's Tomb. It's above ground -- a mausoleum."
She finally turns her page, but pauses for just a moment to look up, and grin slyly at you.
"Rose..." Mrs. Mallory chides.
"What?" She says, defensive. "If Alabaster knows the answer, he still has to say it first. That's how the quiz bowl works, isn't it?"
"Uh-oh," Mr. Mallory says. He nudges you. "You've got trouble, Alabaster. I don't know what you did -- but Rose must think you're a threat."
"He's no threat," Rose says, airy. She turns another page -- way too quickly for the pace she was on before -- she's definitely faking. Is there a single genuine thing about this cunt?
"I wish you would be less rude," Mrs. Mallory says. "Like it or not, he's family."
"It's fine," you say. "I don't mind a little competition. I'll win, anyway."
Rose pulls a face.
Mr. Mallory quirks an eyebrow at you, but doesn't say whatever is on his mind. Mrs. Mallory puts a hand on yours: "Have you given any more thought -- you know -- to the living situation?"
"Yes," you say. You tear your eyes away from Rose for the first time, long enough to give Mrs. Mallory a warm smile, false as it may be. You can be just as phony as Rose. Here's a demonstration for her: "I'll stay here... if you're okay with it... I don't want to be a burden."
Mrs. Mallory hugs you tight. A little too tight -- your air is somewhat restricted. Rose rolls her eyes at you while her mother can't see.
"That's wonderful, just wonderful," Mrs. Mallory says. "We'll get a moving crew right away -- tomorrow! Of course we're okay with it! Alabaster, you're no burden! You and your sister are always welcome in this house!"
Your turn to grin slyly at Rose.
August 16, 2014
Rose was supposed to be grounded. Charlotte was quite clear about it. The things that girl says and does to Alabaster honestly horrify Charlotte sometimes -- Rose can be so cruel towards him. And Alabaster is such a sensitive soul, one who really can't handle the bullying. He came to Charlotte in tears about it, and that cinched it. She had had enough. She laid down the law and revoked all of Rose's privileges for two weeks.
Unfortunately, Saul has exactly the opposite take on things. He's got it in his head that Alabaster is some sort of master manipulator and that Rose is the real victim here. It's easy to see why. Rose has Saul wrapped around her pinky finger, commands the kind of authority over him that Charlotte only wishes she could. He seems almost constitutionally incapable of saying the word no to her. All Rose ever has to do is turn on the waterworks, tell a distorted version of events, and call him "daddy" gratuitously, and all of a sudden she magically gets whatever she wants. Charlotte could almost respect the con if she wasn't at least a little bit jealous of it too. Saul isn't 1/1000th as yielding to her over anything.
So rather than being confined to the house this Saturday, Rose is at the shooting range with Saul. He claims that giving them time apart from one another will cool the tensions between Rose and Alabaster, but Charlotte is peeved all the same. Saul didn't discuss it with her beforehand. Just texted her when he was already on his way to the range with Rose. The nerve of that man. She could honestly throttle him.
Alabaster said that he was going to a friend's house today, which means that Charlotte is facing another lonely Saturday, stranded at home with nothing much to do. She hates taking up all the domestic duties when she could be doing much more stimulating things, but the rates for maid services are absurd nowadays. With the extra expenses of having another dependent to care for, something had to give. So, bored, and knowing that none of the slovenly pigs sharing this roof with her will do it themselves, Charlotte resigns herself to laundry duty.
She goes room to room, gathering clothes into hampers. It always makes her marvel. Rose is so meticulously organized in nearly every aspect of her life, but as soon as she's in her en-suite bathroom at the end of the day, she just tosses her underwear on the ground like a litterbug tossing away a candy wrapper. It's disgusting, and indecent, especially now that she has to share the bathroom with Alabaster. Not that Alabaster is any better -- Charlotte once discovered a sock dangling from the blade of his bedroom's ceiling fan. That level of dedication to being a slob almost loops back around to admirable. Almost.
This afternoon, when Charlotte leaves Rose's bedroom with a hamper-full of laundry on her hip and turns now towards Alabaster's room, she unexpectedly hears noise from within. Alabaster hasn't left yet after all. She raises a hand to tap on his door, to warn him that she's coming in. But she stops herself and considers what sort of noise it is she hears in there. It's a wet, rhythmic slapping, like someone tenderizing meat. She puts her fingers to her lips in sudden realization. Oh my. That's precisely what it is she hears.
Blushing deeply, she turns for the stairs. Alabaster is a red-blooded young man, so this sort of thing is perfectly normal -- and stumbling across it is an occupational hazard of raising a teenage boy. He deserves a little bit of privacy. At least, Charlotte reasons, he isn't sleeping around with loose girls. She'll give him the space he needs for his fun.
At the top of the staircase, Charlotte sets the laundry down, wheels back around, and walks to Alabster's door again.
What is wrong with you, Charlotte? She doesn't know. It's true that she has stolen some very unmotherly glances in Alabaster's direction before, and has harbored some very unchaste thoughts. She has appreciated the view through the kitchen window when Alabaster swims in the pool, the way his wet swim trunks adhere to the obviously sizable package he's blessed with. She has enjoyed seeing him lick an ice cream cone and imagined what else that tongue might be capable of. But idle passing fantasies are one thing. To stand outside his door and listen to him play with himself is entirely another. That crosses a line, surely, yes? She's supposed to be a mother to him. Here she is eavesdropping on how he beats off -- acting like a horny teenager herself.
It's so wrong. She can't tear herself away. She wants to. But the increasing volume of Alabaster's self-abuse transfixes her. Charlotte has seen the rubber masturbation device he keeps stowed under his bed and thinks he must be using it right now. The slick wet sloshing and squishing isn't at all like the noise merely jerking off would create. The idea sends a nasty shiver down Charlotte's spine and makes her tingle between her legs. Alabaster is fucking a synthetic pussy... right now... he's not just masturbating, he's trying to mate...
Charlotte thinks about that. The youthful desperation Alabaster must be going through. The indiscriminate need to fuck something and cum inside it, whatever or whoever it is. That need has to be especially strong for a boy like him, with a penis like his, so big, and meaty, and throbbing with manliness beyond his years. It must cause him such terrible pain and discomfort when it gets erect. The poor thing. She hates to think of Alabaster in pain, of course... she'd dearly like to help him through it in any way she can... she'd be very good at it.
Charlotte feels her breath hitch and is keenly aware of how wet she's getting. What a shameless whore you are, she thinks to herself, to lust after your adopted son. But she can't help it. The wild sound of Alabaster relieving that ache in his big dick, is just too alluring: the squeak of the chair he's sitting in, the thudding of his ass bouncing up and down as he humps his plastic pussy. Come out of your room, Alabaster, she thinks deliriously... come out of there and I'll give you a nice, warm, real pussy to use... to relieve that achey dick inside of. You won't be truly relieved until you cum inside a real woman, will you? Your big dick will just keep hurting and throbbing and pulsing and looking for a cunt to fuck. Mommy understands... of course she does...
Alabaster starts to grunt and groan a little. He's really getting into it! What a virile young man. She wonders whether she'd be able to withstand the full brunt of his animal lust. If he pinned her down and fucked her like that... would it hurt? She definitely wouldn't be able to stop him, not when he's like this. But that's okay, she thinks. She doesn't mind if it hurts her a little, as long as it takes some of the stress off his shoulders. He deserves it for everything he's been through. Though there are also other ways to take proper care of a boy like him. She rubs her massive breasts through her sweater, her own genetic blessing... these would give Alabaster some much-needed pleasure, too. And as a bonus -- she'd get to see that big fucking cock thrusting up and down right in front of her face. She licks her lips. That would be such a wonderful sight.
Charlotte runs a hand down between her legs, and lewdly rubs the crotch of her jeans. She's so hot right now. Alabaster isn't the only one who needs a little relief; she wants to enjoy herself, too. As Alabaster's primal lust carries him to higher heights, Charlotte presses her eardrum right up against the door, listens in. She unbuttons her pants and finds her clit through her panties.
"Ungh... ungh..." she hears Alabaster grunt. His exhalations are muffled, he's trying to suppress them. But she can tell he's close to orgasm. Her hand against her cunt quickens. And then all of a sudden it arrives; she can hear the masculine forcefulness of his climax even though he keeps it barely more audible than a hissed whisper. "Ungh... oh, fuu-uuck... oooh..."
That's it, baby, she thinks. Cum for me. Get it all out. I hope it feels really good for you... it feels really good for me, too...
She loses herself in her own lustful thoughts. She stands there with her jeans half undone and continues to masturbate in front of Alabaster's door. But a few moments later, she hears movement from within, and startled, she makes herself decent again. She picks the laundry hamper up and hurries downstairs, still in a state of terrible need, her head filled with obscene and incestuous images.
From the downstairs hallway, dropping clothes into the washing machine, Charlotte spies Alabaster heading for the front door. "Back later," he says to her, when he notices her staring at him. Even though he just came, he looks so energized, vital -- male. A boy like him is going to be horny again in about five minutes, she just knows it. It's all she can do not to grab him and pin him down and demand that he blow his next load directly inside her.
She waits a little over a minute after he leaves before she runs upstairs and straight into his room.
It stinks like teenage boy, that unfortunate combination of hormonal sweat and stale cum. She's in heaven. Or more like a pig at a trough. Atop Alabaster's desk, glistening, is his rubber cum-sleeve... and on the floor in front of his computer chair, discarded without a thought, are his soiled boxers. He must have used them to wipe his cum on. The blue fabric is stained a pearly white and stuck together in places. She falls to her knees and grabs the sticky underwear, and she no longer cares about anything like dignity. She mashes the boxers right against her face and inhales deeply, and adores the way his musky dick-reek overloads her brain. She needs to taste it, too.
Frustrated and needing to get off now more than ever, she tugs her pants and panties down, and tosses them aside. She sits on her plump butt spread-eagle on the floor of the bedroom, huffing and licking Alabaster's cum straight off his underwear while she diddles her oozing cunt. His load is still warm. It's salty and bitter the way cum should taste, and so incredibly thick. It sticks to the back of her throat and fries anything left of her rationality. She begins to grunt, voice muffled by the material: "that's right baby, inside... cum inside me, please... you need my pussy, don't you? You need my pussy... you need my pussy so fucking bad."
Faster and faster her fingers work -- harder and harder she cums. Awash in her own perversion, she rants. "Feel good with mommy... feel good with my body... oh I'm so sorry I'm such a slut, baby... get your dick wet in Mommy's slut pussy... cum inside it... feel good..."
She hears thudding, approaching footsteps, but she doesn't care. She's close to getting off, and Alabaster's cum is too delicious to stop. She keeps playing with her horny cunt as the steps draw closer. It's only by Charlotte's blind luck that on his way up the stairs, Alabaster coughs, and Charlotte recognizes the voice. It pulls her back from the brink but only long enough to panic. There's no time to get decent. Alabaster is about to walk in on her masturbating, right there in the open on his bedroom floor. He's about to see his adoptive mother using his discarded cum rag to get off with.
She does the only thing she can do: she rolls onto her back and slides under his bed. From her position, she sees the door creaking open and Alabaster's tennis shoes coming in. She's naked from the waist down and her bottoms are still lying out in plain view. Fear battles with lust in her brain. He's going to see her clothes there and get suspicious. He'll know what she's doing.
In her hands, she still clasps his messy underwear -- despite the fear, she needs to get off, and now she presses the cum-stained thing directly against her pulsating cunt lips. She rubs the rough, slimy, sticky cotton against her clit like a madwoman. The texture of it is so nasty and dirty and wonderful. She pulls the collar of her sweater up and chews it like a horse's bit to keep from wailing in ecstasy.
Alabaster walks around his room, looking for something. He apparently finds it and leaves again. He didn't notice Charlotte's clothes on the floor, or at least gave no indication he did. Charlotte shudders, full of adrenaline, and ready for the best climax of her life. Alabaster's cum is warm and wet against her pussy. She paws her tits, tweaking the nipples, as she rubs Alabaster's hot fertile sperm into her hot fertile cunt-hole. She actually screams when the orgasm hits; can't help it. The debauchery and disgusting awfulness of what she's doing only accentuates how fucking good it feels. God does she want Alabaster to blow his fucking nuts inside her. She needs it so bad.
Breathless, spent, she sprawls out in the narrow space under his bed and just basks in the afterglow. For many long minutes, she idly sucks his cum-smeared underwear like a lollipop. It's the best thing she's ever tasted. She sucks on it, her tongue swirling around and savoring the smelly load, until all of it is gone and the underwear is clean. She smiles to herself. Just doing her baby boy's laundry for him. That's all.