Chapter 2: Kitchen Conversation

Charlotte

I waited patiently in the kitchen of the farmhouse, having been left there several minutes ago by the dark-haired woman who I only knew as ‘Lila’. She reminded me a little of the native woman that was the doctor’s assistant on that old show Northern Exposure, but she was much taller and prettier. I felt like I was being appraised each time she looked at me. Like she was wondering if I would measure up to some mysterious criteria she was using to judge me with.

All I really wanted was to see my children. I had sent Mark away over a year away in a fit of rage after my husband Frank and I walked in on them about to have sex. Mark was lying on top of his sister, who was urging him to put it in her and make a baby. Then a little over five months ago, Carrie emptied out her bank accounts that also had my name on them and disappeared. I knew Mark had gotten out of physical therapy not long after that out in Texas, and I felt so guilty that I had not gone to see him. He’s my baby boy, and I should have been there for him.

I was so angry with both of them at the time, and I knew now that I had overreacted. Sometimes my temper overwhelms me, but that was the first time I had completely lost it with my children. It seemed simply insane to me that they were about to try to make a baby, all based on some bullshit DNA test that said they weren’t really siblings. My rage had made me lose control, and lose my children, but now I was here, standing in this kitchen after weeks of negotiating the terms of visiting them out here in this godforsaken corner of a flyover state.

Okay, so I’m not being completely honest. For all this time, every night when I tried to go to sleep, all I could see in my mind was my son’s cock, about to enter his sister’s kitty inside that bedroom back in Nashville. The image of that long, thick, beautiful shaft was burned into my memory, and the only thing that let me get any sleep after seeing it was to touch myself while I imagined it was thrusting into me. I had no idea how being out here would help that situation, but the odds of having any type of resolution seemed to be greater in Oklahoma than back at home.

Standing there impatiently, I examined the kitchen again. It was at one end of this old ranch style house, much like the ones in the suburbs of Nashville where I grew up. The kitchen was clean, but dated. The appliances looked like they were at least twenty years old. Taking a step closer to the refrigerator, I examined all the stuff that was on the front, pinned with various magnets. There was a shopping list, a list of phone numbers with names like ‘Uncle Jim’ and ‘Aunt Susan’ on it. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a list of phone numbers. How quaint.

There were several strips of black and white images from a photo booth, stacked on top of each other with a goofy banana magnet holding them in place. The first showed Mark, Carrie, and Lila all shoved together in the booth, making silly faces at the camera. I stared at Lila in the photo, using this time to study her face without needing to stare at her in person.

The face I saw was young, maybe in her mid to late twenties, but she carried herself with a knowing confidence that seemed far beyond her years. Her Native American heritage was written in the striking, strong angles of her face and the high, elegant cheekbones, giving her a timeless, almost regal beauty. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes held a spark of mischief that I found incredibly attractive, a stark contrast to the tired, calculated expressions I was used to seeing in my world. She was raw and genuine, and I felt a pull toward her that was both unsettling and undeniable.

I moved that one to the side and the one under it showed just Carrie and Mark laughing. I froze when I looked at the last photo, which was them engaged in a deep kiss. Their eyes were closed and it looked like Carrie was melting into her brother. It wasn’t possible, was it? They couldn’t possibly be truly in love. My thoughts were about to get carried away in anger about my daughter seducing and trapping my son, but I felt enough guilt to bring me back. If I’m being honest again, part of me wished it was me in that picture instead of Carrie, feeling Mark’s lips on mine, letting his hands roam all over my body.

Still, that was all just fantasy. I agreed to come out here; to bumfuck Oklahoma with all their ridiculous conditions so I could put a stop to this nonsense. They went through a lot of trouble to keep it secret where here was, but I paid a lot of money to investigators to find them. If Carrie really was pregnant, it was not too late to have it terminated. Then I could convince them both to come home so we could work to put this behind us. I smiled, relaxed in the knowledge that I always got my way, one way or another. My law partners didn’t nickname me ‘The Stone-Cold Killer’ for nothing, now, did they?

I’m not sure how long I stood there in that kitchen; it may have been twenty minutes. I was about to become impatient enough to start calling out when I heard tires crunching on the gravel outside at the other end of the house. A few moments later I heard a screen door open and slam shut somewhere deeper in the house. That was followed by the sound of heavy, booted steps echoing down the hall as they approached the kitchen.

Staring hard at the doorway in anticipation, when I saw who it was, one hand flew up to cover the surprised gasp I let out. It was my son, Mark! It had been almost a year since I had last seen him. He was wearing blue jeans along with a wide leather belt with a large buckle on the front. The jeans covered most of his pointed cowboy boots. He also had on grimy white t-shirt and an honest to God real cowboy hat.

“Mark,” I called out, but he didn’t acknowledge me. Instead, he stepped over to a separate white porcelain sink that was mounted on the wall near the end of the counter. He pulled off his hat and hung it on a hook above that seemed to be placed there for that reason. Then he hauled off his t-shirt in that strange way that men do it, grabbing it by the back of the collar and pulling it over his head. He laid it across the side of the sink.

Seen from behind, my son’s upper body had much more muscle definition than I remembered. His upper arms seemed much bigger, and his shoulders sloped down from his neck, bulging up and making the classic V-shape. Good God! This was not my boy anymore; this was a man. I felt a shock running though me, starting at the top of my slit and racing up my groin into my spine. My entire body gave a shiver, and I knew the gusset of my panties was currently soaked.

As I continued to stare at his back, Mark turned on the water in the sink then splashed some on his face then up and down his arms. He grabbed a small towel off a rack where it hung by the sink, then turned to face me as he dried himself off. He had still not made eye contact.

Now that I could see his front, I marveled even more at his muscled chest. His pecs were so defined and while he didn’t come across as a body builder, he definitely looked like a young man that was not afraid of work or lifting heavy things. As he finished drying himself, he looked up at me then craned his head around, making his neck pop a few times. Finally, he looked me in the eyes with a small smile.

“Hello, Mother.”

I felt cheeks start to blush, and that wet spot in my panties definitely got a bit larger. Without even realizing what I was doing, I pressed one hand down on my dress, directly above my mound as another shiver ran through me.

Oh fuck, what have I gotten myself into? I can’t believe my own son is making me feel this way.

I tried desperately to clear my naughty thoughts, taking a deep breath through my nose and letting it out slowly through my mouth. “Mark,” I said finally. “I’m so happy to see you. You look ... wonderful.” I took a few steps towards him, and he didn’t move or raise his arms to stop me. He just stood there with that calm smile on his face.

I gave him a quick peck on the cheek while I squeezed his arm just below the shoulder. He flexed it while I was doing that, and I gave out a small gasp at how hard his muscles were. Mark made no effort to hug me back, and when I stepped back, he still had the same expression on his face.

“Do you hate me, Mark?” I asked, tears beginning to well in my eyes as I looked up at him. “You won’t even give me a hug?”

His smile got slightly bigger. “Of course I will, Mother,” then he stepped forward and put his arms around me, using one hand to pull my head sideways onto his chest. A chest I couldn’t help but notice was also hard with muscles. The other hand was on the small of my back, but I swear it brushed across the top of my left ass cheek, ever so briefly.

Letting me go, he stepped back and moved over to the refrigerator, opening it to pull out a pitcher. He raised it towards me and asked, “would you like a glass of sweet tea?”

Normally, I don’t drink sweet tea, but I nodded, still admiring the muscles on my son’s torso. He set the pitcher down on the counter and reached into a cabinet to bring out two tall glasses. He filled each then replaced the pitcher in the fridge before he moved over to the round table and set them down.

Mark pulled out one of the chairs and the table and indicated that I should have a seat. As I sat down, he gently pushed the chair in for me, then stroked his hand along my shoulder as he moved to have a seat on the other side of the table. I reached out to take the glass near me so I could take a sip, trying to cover how nervous I was at the moment. Should I ask him to put on a shirt? Did I really want him to?