The Slumber Party Pt. 02 by lustychimera

Literotic asexstories – The Slumber Party Pt. 02 by lustychimera,

Note: This is the second half of a story that I posted a while back. I wrote this almost a year ago and should have posted it sooner to follow the other, it was just lacking an epilogue. It’s definitely weirder than i remember it being, lol. I think I was going for daytime telenovela with some heavy dollops of fetish spice.

Part 2:

Bzz, bzz. Bzz, bzz. Hearing that, my grin is automatic and goofy. I roll over and grab my phone from the nightstand. It’s been eight weeks since the slumber party, and this morning, same as every other morning since then, I wake up to a text. It’s an image of a slim dusky belly with a violet shirt pulled up just far enough to show a teasing sliver of nipple in the top corner of the screen.

Sophie’s hands pull a tape measure around her stomach. The ends meet right at her belly button, right at twenty-seven and a half inches.

She’s captioned it below: Bruh! Its uh teenth of uhn inch bigger!!!

My fucking heart melts.

A little higher up on my body, my half-wit hamster really has to fight back the urge to correct her grammar. At this point, she’s doing it just to annoy me–Blair’s corrupting influence, no doubt. I tap back: “217 days to go!!!”

That’s my…I cringe, thinking of the best way to describe it; I really really hate this phrase, but yeah, Sophie’s my “baby mamma.”

It’s been confirmed.

More than that, I just think of her as my Sophie who blesses me with daily updates. Her girlfriend Blair’s pregnancy didn’t take at the slumber party. Turns out, we were a week off her cycle.

Which, and I shudder thinking about how it went down, me and Blair “corrected” five weeks later with a new conception both equal parts horrifying and erotic. Goddamn Blair. The worst part is, I kind of want to do it again…

Goddamn Blair.

But regardless of how it went down, I’m now a soon-to-be father of two even if the girls insist that I don’t need to do anything.

I haven’t quite worked out my feelings about that. Those two have their odd little family, and I guess to them, I’m just their sperm donor. Kind of sucks thinking about it like that, but that’s certainly how the girls see me.

Baby mumblings aside, today is extra special just on its own: It’s December twenty-sixth.

The corners of my lips curl upwards, but I can’t really tell if it triggers any dimples or not.

I didn’t see my sister at Thanksgiving. They couldn’t make it.

I texted her everyday. “Hey, what’s up?” Just minor proddings like that.

She’d send back things like “Nothing” or “Same ol’.” No follow up questions or any considerations for my circumstances. I had to pry every reply from her, and eventually, I just quit trying. It’s hard to accept just how much she doesn’t care.

I genuinely hope that today’s different. I text her: “I missed you at Thanksgiving. What time you guys gonna be here today?”

I lock the screen and stare at it for at least twenty minutes. Still, she never replies. Oddly, I think I understand Brooke’s twisted smile now.

Even though she doesn’t acknowledge me via text, her and Brian pull in the driveway around four this afternoon.

Downstairs, I hear their suitcases slide across the hardwood floor. Mom going “Well, hellooo!”

Dad’s slap on the back. “Hey, son!” A pause beat. “Brooke.”

Brian and Brooke’s voices are much more subdued. I can only hear the melody of their words overlap, not their actual meaning.

And all the while, I’m laying on my bed upstairs, locked in my bedroom, hugging a goofily wrapped gift, one that’s crinkled together with at least three different scraps of wrapping paper that Mom had laying around. For girth, I stuffed the present with two whole packages of tissue paper. I don’t know; that just seemed like the thing to do, make the insides a little harder to guess.

To, Brooke.

Love, —

“Mason!” Dad’s voice cracks like a bullwhip; a jolt of electricity shocks my spine completely rigid–just for a moment. “Brian just got in. Your sister, too. Get your ass down here, say hello.”

I obey. Trace aftershocks still clench several muscles in my back. My breath shudders in careful heaves. That tone of his, it does this to me every time. Fortunately, he wasn’t actually upset. It’s a minor attack; I can still function. Good thing, too–keeps Dad from yelling again.

Downstairs, Brian says hello to me. Smiles, layers and layers of teeth, angelic whites. We shake hands. “Good to see you.” “You, too.” “Long drive?” “Seven hours.” “Traffic?” “Not really.” “I see.”

His fiance–my sister–engulfs my peripheral. I stretch out the idle chit-chat with Brian, kill some time, steel my nerves.

Putting it off…putting it off…putting it off…

Deep breath. Sigh. Turn. Smile. There’s Brooke. Oh and look at that, isn’t she just the epitome of a modest mouse?

Big puffy coat, still buttoned up. Hair prim, braided back and tied up into a bun. Skirt well past her knees. Sensible flats. Pink blouse peeking out, buttoned one just below the collar. High collared undershirt, of course. Touch of rouge on her cheeks. Very light foundation. Zero lipgloss. Eyes…

Wow. There’s the crack.

She hides it so well. It blends in seamlessly. But I notice. Her freckles are dim up top and brighten as they cascade down into the lighter foundation on her cheeks. She’s wearing a ton of concealer under her eyes. Must have spent an hour fading it down into nothing, all to hide the bags that I am sure are there.

I step toward her. She almost steps back, like it’s an instinct, but you know, it’s me? She’s clutching the straps of her purse down in front of her waist, those leather bands stretched tight, perfect triangulation with her arms. Either she’s the picture of modesty, or she’s hiding her cunt.

I hug her with two arms. She shifts her purse, wraps one hand around my back and pats me there, and she does it so politely, too.

Fuck you, Brooke. I want to say. That comes out as “Hey, good to see you, Sis.”

“Hey, you too.”

Dinner:

The turkey’s dry; the ham is decent, honey glazed, far too sweet around the edges. I gorge on cheesy potatoes. Dad glares. I feel that with every bite. But he doesn’t speak so I can cope.

Brian talks and talks and talks over our wine glasses. “…oh, about six months in now. Transferred to Rothwell and Burdok back in July…no, no, Mrs. Hedgewick–” He clears his throat. “—sorry, Mom, no, my title’s not that fancy, just a glorified errand boy, but…yes, it does pay very well, but that’s mostly because I’m working under a close associate of Burdok…yeah, as in the name on the sign. Good upward mobility. They have me positioned well, good future.” He squeezes Brooke’s hand. She bats her eyes and smiles.

Later on, out in the living room, Dad and Brian discuss which direction they think that ol’ Joey McGuire seems like he’s taking the program, both swirling a few lowballs of some of that good Lagavulin. Brian agrees with Dad on every point.

Mom and Brooke clean up, and Lord, is it a mess in the kitchen. I help. Some. I finish carving the turkey and separating the meat into tupperware, but that really is all I can stand to be around Mom and Brooke right now. We can all hear Dad and Brian laughing and back slapping and having a great ol’ time out on the couch while Mom and Brooke plow through the wastes. Not a complaint on their lips.

Fucking spineless women.

Hypocritical

Don’t care.

I’m in bed by nine.

Next day:

Dad: “Speaking of that, I got one hell of a muley up in Montana last spring…yeah, her brother’s got a place up there. I’ll have to take you next year, Brian. Great spread. Full thousand acres. Absolutely unbelievable, grassy plains, you’d swear it’s the bush of Mother Earth herself…haha, well, I won’t comment on that…yalp, yalp, well, anyway, come on out to the garage. I’ll show ya. Got the rack out there, scored it at one hundred and forty-two points. Just unbelievable.”

And then in the sunroom, the girls sit between a pitcher of sweet tea, gossip, and play Canasta. Ice rattles; lemons bob; cards flick.

Mom: “Oh say, do you remember Betty Stillwell…no, had a boy in Chase Jefferson’s class…yeah well anyway–and if anybody asks, you have no idea where you heard this from but–her brother in law claims he saw a gloss white Coupe DeVille outside of that vile store, the one that ‘claims’ to be a men’s sauna…and we all know who that car belongs to.”

Explode.

Next I recollect, I’ve wandered outside, and I’m slouched behind the garage, plopped right between the lilac skeletons and winterized tulip nubs, just sitting on a pile of half decomposed mulch. It’s a bright sunny forty degrees down here in Texas. Great day. Wonderful day. So I pull out my phone and call someone; really nice weather for a chat, can’t stress that enough.

Explode.

“Mason! Hey! Wait…” A bright cheery voice is on the other end, but she pauses. “…bruh, you never call.”

“I just wanted to make sure you all were done with your Christmas stuff before I bugged ya,” I say.

“You’re not–” I can hear the frustration in Sophie’s voice. It’s so easy to picture her shaking her head on the other end of the phone. “–nevermind. So, what’s up?”

“Oh you know, I just wanted to wish you and the baby a Merry Christmas.” My affect is dead flat. I don’t realize this until the words have settled between us.

“The baby? Don’t sound so excited, Mason.” A drip of venom seeps through her voice.

The cold dead mulch saps the heat from my rump.

I laugh it off–hollow–thoughts are jumbled. “Ha ha, no, I’m excited. September is just around the corner.”

“My date’s July.” She’s curt. “Blair’s is September.”

I know that. I put two marks on my calendar each and every day: Red for Sophie. Blue for Blair. I just–I flubbed it.

“Have you guys thought of a name yet? You don’t have to tell me if you–”

“In what world would I not tell you the name of our baby?”

She’s right. I can’t even articulate why I said that. “I just meant that you guys have your world over there, and I have mine over here. That’s what you said.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

The sun is hot; the ground is cold. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” There’s a silence as I ponder how to salvage this conversation.