Mommies' Boy

Greg’s obsession runs filthy and deep. He watches Tara and Leslie in the kitchen, tongues swirling, hands sliding under tank tops, nipples pinched through cotton. They laugh when they catch him staring, then keep going anyway. Every squeeze and wet kiss drives the knife in deeper. Night after night he jerks off to the sounds leaking from their room—moans, the slap of skin, a vibrator buzzing—until he hates the walls between them. They corner him in the hall. His jaw’s clenched, cock half-hard just from the smell of their perfume. “Talk,” Leslie says. Greg snaps. All the weeks of watching and wanting come out in one messy rush: they touch each other like porn stars but treat him like a neighbor kid. He spits the ultimatum hard and ugly: either they start treating him the way they treat each other, or the next time he snaps, the blood’s on their hands. Tara’s breath catches. Leslie licks her bottom lip. The air crackles with something neither of them can laugh off.