Mastur-Baiting Mommy

Emma slips into the living room, quiet. She sets her laptop on the table, eyes alive as she types. “This’ll hit her where she needs it,” she whispers, wicked and giddy. A few clicks later and the room fills with slick sounds, moans rolling out from speakers. “Honey, any laundry for me?” Dee’s voice drifts down the hall. Emma ducks behind the door just as Dee walks in, basket at her hip. She doesn’t notice the screen, just mutters about kids leaving stuff everywhere, snaps the lid shut, and leaves. Emma sags. So close, yet nothing. Next night she runs a bath, lights a candle, presses the heat. When Dee steps into the bubbles and closes her eyes, nothing more happens. Emma leans against the doorframe, frustrated heat beating between her legs. Third day she plants a well-thumbed book about touching yourself right where anyone would see it. She crouches behind the sofa again. Dee finds it, flips pages, breath catching. Her hand drops to her waistband, then slips inside. The book thuds onto the table. Pants and panties slide off. Dee’s fingers spread, dip, circle harder. The room smells warm, wet. Moans, thick and real. From the doorway Emma’s mouth parts, stunned and bright with hunger. This time it’s working. When she’s sure, Emma steps out. She says nothing, just waits to be seen. Caught, she spins a story, voice soft: she’s never known how. Eighteen years, nothing to show. Even her younger friends already know their bodies better.