𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐭 || ᴊᴇɴʟɪsᴀ

𝐟 𝐨 𝐮 𝐫 𝐭 𝐞 𝐞 𝐧

I woke before dawn, as was my habit and lazed in bed for a few minutes. I was alone. Last night she’d left me in the kitchen, a wet, quivering and unsatisfied mess. Brushing her lips over mine once more, she’d informed me of her plans.

“Sorry, Nini but I am going to be masturbating in your guest room, so you can just think about that.” So rude.

She left me to go to bed and help myself, thinking about her barely ten steps away probably doing the same thing. And think about it I did. I came under my own fingers with my teeth in my hand to stifle the sound as I climaxed. Damn her.

The background noise here never changed. The hum of the AC, livestock competing to see who could make the most noise, and the distant sound of trucks making their way to the highway. I slipped from my bed, dressed quickly and headed out for a run. As I passed the guest bedroom I stopped, hand on the doorknob. I had every intention of stealthily opening the door to look at her until I realized just how creepy it would be.

A quick scrawl of RUNNING on the kitchen whiteboard—Mama would worry if she woke and I wasn’t in the house—my music cranked up and I was off. I made my way north as the sun started to peek over the horizon, bringing a tentative orange glow with it. I looped around the fairgrounds, bass pounding in my ears to set pace for my feet. For thirty glorious minutes, my head was clear as I ran. Cars were starting to appear on the streets, people on their way to wherever and I raised a hand to greet each and every one that passed.

The air felt moist in my lungs, different to the cool crispness I was accustomed to. It was almost six forty-five by the time I slowed to a cool-down walk up the driveway. The chickens were milling noisily in their coop and rushed out when I opened their door. I tossed out mash for them, gently nudging them out of the way so I could check for eggs. I made a nest in my sweaty tank, scooped up the eggs, and left them on the counter for Mama when she came down to start breakfast.

Mama had exited her room at precisely seven fifteen every morning for as long as I could remember. Her only exceptions were illness, when she pushed it back to seven thirty or the days my granddaddy and Grams died when she didn’t come out at all. I had thirty minutes to myself.

My laptop was on the coffee table, still open from last night. I refreshed my market updater and glanced at figures. Then I logged onto the office servers and made a few transfers. Mama came down the stairs as I was stretching on the floor of the den. I craned my neck to look at her.

From my upside down angle, her frown could be taken for a lopsided smile. “Lord, I wish you’d relax when you’re here,” she grumbled. “I’ll put coffee on. Go shower.”

There was no indication from the guest room that Lisa's was awake. Odd. I knew, from our sleepovers, that she was an early riser like myself. A few steps past the guest room door, I heard a muffled groan. No, she wasn’t…she wouldn’t. I stopped and strained to listen and I heard it again. Though it was muted, it was a sound I knew well. Yes, she was. Damn her again.

Knowing she was pleasuring herself in the guest room made it very hard to shower without attending to myself. I gave in, leaned my head against the cool tiles and slipped my fingers between my legs. There was nothing slow or sensual about it. It was quick and rough, designed only to ease the pressure she’d caused.

By the time I’d finished my shower with self-service and dressed, I smelled coffee. The guest room was empty, bed neatly made and Lisa nowhere to be seen. Sounds of their conversation carried up to me. The stairs in this house didn’t squeak. I could eavesdrop. Laughter. My name. I paused at the base of the stairs. Mama was starting a story about my fourth grade Christmas pageant. It was time to intervene. I bounded down the last few stairs and into the kitchen.