The Slumber Party Pt. 02

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.

Sophie does that for me. "You don't sound right, Mason." She's silent for a moment, then adds in, "Did Brooke make it back?"

"Oh yeah, her and Brian got in yesterday."

"Are you okay with that?"

My voice catches in my throat. I can't reply.

The call timer ticks up in silence.

1:28...1:29...1:30...

But Sophie doesn't hang up.

1:51...1:52...1:53...

Clear on up to two then three minutes, the timer counts. By this point, we've been silent longer than we'd actually talked on this call. Still, she's right here, right on the other end of that line all the while. That really means a lot to me today.

Stop being a bitch, Mason. My lips are dry and stick together. Only a fool like me could turn a quick 'Merry Christmas' call into a whole ordeal. Still, I don't think that I could make Sophie think any less of me than I already have.

I tell her, "No, I'm really not alright with that."

"Talk to me," she says.

I hesitate.

"I got your baby. We're family now. Come on, Mason."

I feel a brief but intense flicker of irritation when she says that. I don't know what the hell she means by family, but those feelings are quickly smothered out by picturing her dusky belly with a tape measure wrapped around it and a revealing hint of nipple.

I talk to her. I really do.

At the end of the call, after we've said our goodbyes, Sophie slips in a half-frantic "Love you, Mason," and then hangs up before I can even reply. Fuck. That feels good. I force myself not to dwell on the actual distance between us in real life.

I don't even know when I redialled her number. "Sophie," I say.

"Uh, yeah?"

"Love you, too." I don't hang up the phone, but I pull it from my ear. The timer counts upwards, and I cradle it between my knees, just watching the numbers climb. She doesn't hang up, either. She's right here, right now.

Neither of us speak, but then after three minutes, I realize that I'm being unreasonable. She's got a husband and a girlfriend and they all live in one big happy pile, and here I am, keeping her on the line two days after Christmas, not even saying a word.

She's got her real family to get back to.

I end the call.

*********************

It's four o'clock in the afternoon again, and I'm in my room. The door is closed, but the lock is undone.

The lights are off, and the curtains are drawn. And while those curtains are the most prominent decor in here, they're really nothing special, just some cheap nylon horseshit. But they are purple enough to stain the sun as it bleeds through, and I swear, I'm swimming in that fucking color.

It's like they say, those people from the anti-drug posters. Maybe I have fried my brain on Molly after that one time I tried it. As I'm laying on my bed, my thoughts veer...odd, and an epiphany strikes me: Purple really is a horseshit color! Red and blue mixed together, no commitment to one's passion nor the other's indifference, and that really pisses me off for some reason.

"Why, hello! I'm Red!" "...hello, Red. I am Blue." "Oh, aren't you just precious! Let's fuck!" "...I guess I don't have anything better to do" "Oh, Blue! Look, we had a baby." "...let's name it Purple." "Wonderful. Look! It's got your chroma." "...and it's got your value."

Red or Blue, just pick a side already, Purple, you indecisive fuck!

And Jesus fucking Christ! I hear a floorboard squeak out in the hall, and there's another pair of those goddamn shadow toes lingering under the crack in the door. "In or out, figure it out," I holler, just fucking done!

The handle turns, and Oh! what a surprise! There's Brooke. She holds up her phone. It's on call to Sophie. They've been talking for twenty-seven minutes, it says.

I really have to bite my tongue here to keep myself from cursing out the girl who I just said "I love you" to not even an hour ago.

"Hang up," I say. Somehow, even Brooke realizes that I'm talking to Sophie, not her.

Sophie blares some "Mwah, mwah, mwah, mwah, mwah" Charlie Brown gibberish through the speaker.

I enunciate much clearer, raise my voice a little. "Hang up the phone, Sophie."

It doesn't even cross my mind to ask Brooke, but then again, why would I? She's a fuck.

Call Ended. Blink. Blink. Blink.

Brooke's standing there with the door open, completely awkward. She's all but got her purse triangulated in front of her cunt again.

"In or out," I tell her, "close the door."

She wavers, eventually picks "in," and closes the door softly. I notice her turn the knob so it doesn't slap against the latch.

I eyeball her up and down as crassly as possible. "You look like a reformed whore about to preach her testimony from the pulpit."

She takes a deep breath, holds up one finger. Wait a second. Gathers her thoughts and tells me, "Mason, listen. I really need to apologize to you. What happened...what I did...there's no excuse for my actions. You're a highschooler. I'm a grown woman." The bitch even bows her head to me a touch. "Someday, I really hope we can just put that behind us."

Something about that last line, like she was reciting a corporate statement. "Is that all?"

She nods.

I reach behind my pillow, pull out my Frankenstein-wrapped present. It's illustrated with everything from Santa Claus to doodled Christmas Trees to Snoopy and that yellow twat on a doghouse, no artistic cohesion to any of it. I toss Brooke her gift.

I got good aim. It slaps her left tit. Can't see any jiggle through that goddamn blouse/undershirt/padded bra combo but damned if it doesn't stun her. The paper crunches as it plops onto the floor. A burst of dust wafts out. Fortunately, there's nothing breakable inside.

She kneels--doesn't reach over to pick it up--she fucking kneels on the ground, right before my gift like it's the fucking holy chalice of St. Assprick or something. Even more than that, her knees might as well have been velcroed together, tight as she has them pressed--that chaste hussy.

I'm feeling super petty--scratch that--I'm feeling downright malicious, so I sit on the edge of my bed, tilt my head and just stare at the imaginary gap between Brooke's smothered thighs, makes her really uncomfortable. She shifts, re-situates, swallows. Good. Fuck her.

Paper tears, neon inner-packing tissues glide to the floor, and Brooke's at the heart of it. She pulls out my gift. With a flick, she uncoils the adult onesie that I gave her. It drapes across her hussy thighs, bulges around her knees. See that, bitch? This one's Courage the Cowardly Dog themed. "I thought you could be Muriel," I explain.

She wads the paper scraps into a pile and scrunches it all into a manageable ball. I see her stuff the litter into the side pocket of her knitted cardigan. Brooke stands up, whips her new Muriel onesie out in front of herself, then wraps the sleeves across the chest, doubles the length over and over again onto itself, and really does a downright professional job of folding that outfit. Like, just wow. She's really going to make some lucky guy very happy one day.

Again, as if she's reciting from some corporate HR script, she tells me, "I apologize if I'm misinterpreting, but it's important that we set some boundaries going forward, and while I appreciate the pajamas, I feel as if the spirit behind this gift is inappropriate."

I just want to slap her and get my crass sister back.

"Inappropriate?" I stand up. I lumber over to her. She takes two steps away, ends up backing into a wall.

"Mason..." She's uneasy.

I dig two fingers into the waistband of her Puritan skirt.

She puts her hands on mine. "Mason, stop." Oh? Sister sounds serious.

I start to pull the waistband out. It's not elastic. A button pops and shoots off.

"Mason, please. Please, stop. I'm really uncomfortable right now." That's what HR bitch tells me.

I don't peek at her privates. It isn't about that. I let her waistband go. It doesn't snap, and she clutches the fabric together to keep her skirt from falling; oh, her poor sweet modesty!

I leave her leaning against the wall and back away until my calves press against my mattress on the other side of the room. I hook my thumbs around the hem of my shirt then slide it up my torso and over my head, once again standing bare chested before my sister.

Brooke doesn't move a muscle. She's backed against the wall, clutching my present to her stomach with one arm, and with her free hand, she pinches the clasp of her skirt, holding the fabric up.

We hold eye contact as I reach down, unbutton my jeans, slip them and my briefs off all in one go. Then I sit there on the edge of the bed, nude as fuck, and absolutely reveling in just how uncomfortable this is making my sister.

I fall backwards onto the bed, all two-hundred plus pounds of me. The springs creak and groan, and while the bed is bobbing up and down, I scooch myself up to the pillow. My legs part slightly. My meaty fist wraps around my limp cock.

She likes this. I know she does. She watched me doing this at the slumber party. Brooke, my sister, wholly paid attention to me and only me despite the smut of her two friends.

My thumb and forefinger wrap around my uncircumcised foreskin and roll that frictionless joy up and down the head of my cock. I don't know, maybe after twenty or so long slow strokes I peek back over at her.

"What?" I say to Sis. "You still here?" I shoo my hand at her. "Fuck off."