Mommy At Home


“Just a minute,” Heather said, putting aside her coffee mug and rising from the floor. I rolled my eyes and sighed.

“Mommy!” the young voice wailed from the other room.

“I’ll be right there,” Heather shouted, her voice erupting from the depths of her lungs, startling me with the sudden burst of sound.
“Mommy,” the young boy repeated monotonously, seemingly oblivious to his mother’s emphatic promise of attention. Heather left me to attend to the matter.

“Peter?” she said, bending down toward the small boy. Heather’s voice had shifted in a matter of seconds to the reassuring lilt of an adoring mother. Stretched out on our family room floor, I leaned back on my arms, watching my pretty wife kneel down to adjust the wooden railroad that vexed our youngest son. Her pigmented blue jeans filled out roundly as Heather bent low to the carpet. My appetite for her had been growing apace since my playful sleepmate awoke me with the brush of a bare breast on my slumbering lips, and I felt my hunger thicken by degrees as I stared at the blue moon of her well-lifted bottom.

“All right, now,” the young mother said, rising again from the floor, her fingers gently brushing down the white rings of soft hair on the small child’s head. A grin crossed my face. How gladly I would tickle hers, those diminutive wisps of gold curled against her lap. Heather teasingly raised her brows as she caught my gaze, easily reading my lascivious thoughts. Her hips swayed playfully as she walked. Sunlight sparkled in golden streams through her hair when Heather strolled past our kitchen window.

“Everything back on track?” I asked, suddenly distracted by the bulge of her fluid breasts bouncing in andante my way.

“Behind schedule,” Heather said, smiling, “but on line.”

“That’s no way to run a railroad,” I insisted dogmatically as my wife sat down beside me. I turned to kiss her, bumping her coffee as she lifted it up. An amorphous drop of the tepid liquid splashed onto her cotton sleeve. “Sorry,” I said, wiping her arm with a small grey sock that had been hiding partly under the sofa behind us. Heather smiled.

“It’s all right,” she said sweetly. “This blouse is already a mess.” Heather pointed out the smear of chocolate on her shoulder and the brush of red mud below her left breast. “I’ll gladly trade a stain for a kiss,” Heather said with a coy smirk that often accompanied her elegantly forward approach. I leaned forward again, more carefully and touched my lips to hers.

“Mommy!” another boy hollered. Heather looked back toward the train station. I lifted myself off the floor, rapidly anticipating her next move.

“My turn,” I said. Heather nodded and took another sip of lukewarm coffee.
“I need to heat this up,” she said and followed me into the kitchen.

“Daddy,” the older of the boys whined, seeing me approach.

“Kurt,” I said as I knelt by the track. “You can’t do that without one of these.” I reached into a large cardboard box for a small piece of track. “You see?” I asked, pushing the grooved wooden flat into the gap, finishing the circle of track. “Better?”

“Play with me?” Kurt asked. I mussed his yellow-blonde hair as I stood.
“Maybe later, buddy. I’m trying to play with your mother right now.”

“Mmm,” said Heather as I turned around and into her arms. She looked up into my eyes. “I’m so glad you stayed home today.” Heather paused with an expression of concern. “You won’t get in trouble for playing hooky will you?” she asked. I tickled her waist.

“You weren’t much concerned about getting me in trouble when you teased me into staying home,” I chided. Heather flashed a familiar, blue-eyed “who me?” gaze. “Don’t give me that,” I said, tickling her with greater ferocity.

“Stop,” Heather laughed.

“You knew what you were doing. Don’t deny it.” I squeezed her bottom with a rogue’s hand and brought her body close. Heather shut her eyes to kiss me.

“I don’t want you to get into any trouble,” she said softly, touching her lips to mine.

“I do,” I said, lifting her slightly to meet my hungry mouth. “I love trouble.” My hands quickly roamed, finding the softness of her stained left breast as I turned Heather against the kitchen counter and kissed her hungrily.

“Daddy!” Peter said from the other room. I selfishly ignored the child’s plea. “Daddy!” he wailed again and walked in behind us.

“What do you want, Alex?” I asked, a little exasperated by the intrusion.

“Popsicle?” the toddler asked, smiling sweetly.

“Kurt? Do you want a Popsicle, too?”

“Red one,” said Peter. “Red one, red one, red one, red one.”

“Green one,” said Kurt, walking into the kitchen, “green one.”

“Sorry Kurt,” said Heather, pulling the thin box from the freezer. “I have red and purple.”

“Red one!” said Peter.

“Red,” said Kurt. Heather stripped the white paper wrapping from the two rocket-shaped shards of colored ice and handed one to each of the boys. Taking hold of the yellowish stick, Kurt touched the cherry-red treat to his cherry-red tongue.
“Mmmm,” he said, taking another lick.

“Stay in the kitchen with those,” said Heather in a serious voice. I wandered back toward the family room, hoping to lead my wife astray. She quickly followed, leaving the boys to their frozen pops. “It never ends,” Heather said, folding her leg under as she sat down on the sofa. I took the place beside her and rubbed her denim thigh.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said.
“I just get so frustrated,” said Heather, laying her head back as my fingers travelled her jean’s stiff folds. “I can’t even steal a moment for myself.”

“Mmm,” I said, still stroking her lean thigh. “I can help.” Heather frowned for a second.

“You do help,” she said. “I don’t know what I want. Just a moment to indulge.”
I squeezed the muscle of her leg. “So tense,” I said. ”

Oh,” Heather murmured. I let my fingers drift down to tease the tight band of her calf. “That’s sweet.”

“What you need,” I said, slipping off the sofa so that I rested just below my wife. “What you need,” I repeated and I softly kissed the lap of her jeans.

“What I need,” Heather said faintly.

“Mom!” screamed Anna from the top of the stairs. I wrapped my arms around Heather’s waist and kissed her nipple through several layers of clothing. A stiffness developed below as my lips nibbled the gentle curve of flesh. “Mom!” our daughter yelled again.

“What?” called Heather in reply. I pushed myself away from my wife reluctantly. Anna appeared in the doorway.

“Can I have . . . ,” she began to ask, stopping before she reached the point.

“We’re going to have lunch in a minute,” Heather said.

“But why did the boys get Popsicles?”

“I know,” said the girl’s mother, standing and moving out of my reach. “But I’ll fix some macaroni. How’s that?”

“Yeah!” said Anna with sincere delight. At seven, she seemed a perfect reflection of her mother, transported through time. Long golden hair flowed past their shoulders like July sunlight, while a glance from either girl’s limpid blue eyes took away any semblance of control I pretended to exert. Though perhaps master by title, I am only a pawn to my queens.

“Let me fix lunch,” said Heather apologetically to me. I nodded in understanding and watched my wife move while the pans clattered and the water ran.
Lunch proceeded like the feeding at a circus, the kitchen echoing with childish growls, squeals, barks and howls. I ate my sandwich calmly, helping to oversee the small beasts while they fed, keeping them perched on their chairs with their food sloppily shifting from plate to fork to face. Heather walked and turned and walked again the circle of six steps from sink to stove to table to refrigerator and back again a thousand times while the cubs asked for one thing after another. I laughed aloud when they finally excused themselves and left me alone for an instant with my wife. We sighed relief in the short lull in our constant storm. The squall quickly returned.

“Mommy!” each called out in turn for no apparent reason other than to interrupt my story. I shooed them away. Finally bored with the game, Anna and Kurt went next door to play. Peter fell asleep on the sofa, watching some simple childish show on the television. I left the table as the first real moments of silence struck.

“Come here, pretty,” I whispered lecherously, crooking my finger at Heather and I started up the stairs.

“Sure,” said Heather, pushing in a chair and picking up the basket of clean clothes she had left on the landing. She put the laundry at the foot of our bed and leapt onto the comforter.

“Listen,” I said, crawling beside Heather and nonchalantly fiddling with the button atop her jeans. She fell back onto the bed, readily exposing the brass nub to my awkward manipulations. I worked the metal piece through the thick denim crevice, unleashing the waist of Heather’s jeans. “Do you hear that?” I said, cocking my head.

“What?” she asked, pushing her head up again, concerned.

“No kids,” I said, pulling at her zipper. Heather giggled and wiggled as I kissed her soft belly, gently yanking down on her pants. She lifted her bottom as I peeled the denim skin past her hips and along her lean thighs. Black satin covered the valley between. I teased the slick fabric with a stretch of my tongue, kneading the furrows below with familiar blindness. “Time for dessert?” I asked, pulling at the waistband of her panties, kissing her golden floss.

“Lick the plate clean,” Heather purred. My tongue tickled her lips as I nuzzled in close, pressing her legs wide apart. I indulgently drank in the musk of her damp cunt, teasing her pink swelling lips with a thick swipe, pausing to watch as the water seeped from within. Heather’s clit pushed upward to beg my attention, lifted full against my mouth from below. I cupped the firm swells of her ass in my hands, pulling her hard against my warm tongue. Heather moaned and lifted her shirt to fondle her rigid brown nipples.

My prick ached as I stepped up the rhythm of licking, excited to taste her cunt’s river bed, taking guidance in the force of her breath, the arch of her back, catching glimpses above as she squeezed her tits hard. I fingered her ass easily, the path drenched with her juice, and Heather twisted to provoke more excitations while I licked her clitoris wet after a long dip in her well.

“Mmm,” she said, probably biting her lip. I heard a faint call from outside and below. I hurried; licked her cunt harder, drove deeper, pushed faster, digging my short nails in her fleshy ass cheeks, anxious to finish the act before the curtain came crashing down. Heather squirmed and moaned lowly, bucking the beat. I licked fiercely, frightened by the sound of soft steps methodically mounting the stairs. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Heather shouted, grabbing my hair, pulling me nearly into her widened cunt. I licked desperately and with a sudden nervous howl, the shudders within Heather played over my buried fingers.

“Yes,” Heather cried out, pouring slick lust over my jaw.

“Mommy,” a small voice called.

“Yes,” Heather squealed, letting my tongue take one more long slip along her deep gorge.

“Mommy,” the young boy yelled. The door knob rattled.

“Yes,” she said pleased, pulling me up to her smile for a sloppy kiss. Heather scooted off the bed and I watched as she quickly squeezed her ripe ass into the blue denim shell.

“Mommy,” Peter groaned painfully. Heather opened our door to discover the distraught child. She gave the child a hug.

“It’s all right,” she said, in a soothing sweet voice.

“Juice,” he whined mercilessly. “Orange juice.”

“All right,” the young mother said, lifting her son up in her arms. She offered me a wry smile. My prick throbbed painfully as she vanished down the stairs.

“Someday,” I said, picking myself up. “I’ll go crazy.”

“Mom, we’re home,” another voice called as the front door burst open.

I sat up, my heart still thumping. I licked my damp lips, savoring the lost moment’s memory and then with a sigh of resignation, I tried to turn my thoughts toward other things; of ships and strings and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings.