Why Are You Doing This!?

Alison paces the living room like a trapped animal, palms clammy, heart punching holes in her ribs. A hard knock snaps her spine straight. Bradley strolls in without waiting, plants a wet smack on her cheek, then drops onto the couch and throws his boots on the table like he owns deed, title, and everything in between. So, big night, yeah? he drawls, eyes crawling over her. I don’t think I can, she mutters. He snaps his fingers, pats his lap. When she tries to sit beside him he hauls her straight onto his bulge, knocks a shocked gasp out of her throat. Tells her he loves her, isn’t forcing a thing, it’s all her choice—then his voice drops like an elevator in free-fall: but she knows what happens if she flakes. Her pupils blow wide. He’s not worried though, he promises with a poisonous little smile. She’ll love it. She nods, hollow. His gaze drags up and down like he’s pricing meat. Cute little slut tonight, he purrs, the mask cracking. His tongue spears her mouth; he grabs a handful of ass and growls, You mine? Yeah baby. Gonna tongue that pussy right, aren’t you? Yes, she gasps. Good, ’cause I’m gonna watch every lick. Keys rattle. Here comes Mommy, clueless as Christmas. He shoves Alison off his lap, swaps the leer for dazzling teeth just as Connie steps inside. Polite hello, polite smile, Alison’s shaky Hi, Mom. Dinner plates clatter. Bradley sops up gravy with a biscuit, grins at Connie like butter wouldn’t melt, then corrects her on his name with a flash of real teeth. Conversation drifts to rent discounts and dead dads; Connie’s eyes go shiny. Anything for my girl, he says, leaning in to kiss Alison’s cheek—and his lips brush her ear, two razor words: Do it now. Alison swallows air like glass. Mom, there’s something—private. Connie beams, ready for girl talk. Bradley plays concerned boyfriend, offers to scrub dishes while they chat upstairs. Once the bedroom door clicks, he creeps after them, cock already half-hard against his zipper. He lingers in the shadow of the doorway, watching Alison perch beside Connie on the bed. The practiced speech spills out: she’s been noticing her mom—beautiful, warm—thinking about her all the time. I’m in love with you, she whispers, sliding a shaky palm onto Connie’s knee. Connie yanks it away. Boundaries, honey. Moms don’t— Alison’s fingers sneak beneath the hem of Connie’s skirt anyway, stroking where heat gathers. Connie’s protest dies on a strangled gasp. Bradley kicks the door wide, all mock surprise. Jesus, ladies. Connie jerks back, smoothing her skirt like she can erase the moment. Bradley drops into the armchair, legs spread, enjoying the show. Don’t stop now, he says, voice syrup and venom. I want the front-row seat we talked about. Connie’s eyes ping-pong between daughter and boyfriend; the math turns ugly fast. She realizes it was a setup, fury cracking her voice. Bradley just laughs, tells her whose name is on the deed. One call to Daddy and they’re curbside with garbage night. So strip, he orders, pleasant as Sunday. Two shaking sets of fingers fumble buttons and zippers. Alison sinks between Connie’s spread thighs, tongue dragging long stripes over her clit while Connie bites a pillow to stay quiet. Bradley leans forward, stroking himself through denim, already planning his next demand.