“Yes,” I said. “That would be nice.”
She really wanted to comfort me. She was just aching to soothe me. She was dying for it. I felt beautiful and treasured as she cooed and rubbed my lower abdomen over my cotton pajamas (I was wearing cotton pajamas as I touched myself in reverie).
“I’m going to take this off,” she said of her robe. “So I can be more comfortable in rubbing you.”
“Okay,” I said.
When she opened her robe, a waft of her white floral perfume came toward me like a sweet and filthy wind. There was also the smell of her pussy in the air, salty and a little fishy. Her breasts were gorgeous pendulums with big nipples the color of dusky valentines, ample and perfect. But that bump below her waist, just above her pussy, where the flesh had gathered in her aging, drove me the craziest. I wanted to rub against it, then work my way down to her pubic hair: unshaved and unwaxed, a thick mound of dark and coarse femininity.
I could hear her breathing as she rubbed my abdomen softly.
“How does that feel?” she asked.
“Good,” I whispered.
“Good,” she said.
I was beginning to get the feeling she liked me as more than a daughter. I mean, she was naked. But she hadn’t yet touched any parts of me that a mother wouldn’t touch.
“I want you to feel good,” she said, as she continued to tenderly stroke my tummy.
She moved her body over me so that her face was by my face, her hair brushing against my cheek. She nuzzled my forehead, the tip of my nose, my neck. Then she kissed me very lightly on the lips. There was a pause. Then she kissed me again, this time with her mouth open. Her tongue was in my mouth, tasting for mine like a ripe strawberry.
So it was confirmed. Mommy wanted me! She was seducing me, and she didn’t even seem the least bit ashamed. If she wasn’t ashamed, then I wouldn’t be ashamed. I was merely the seducee. I was the innocent one here.
“You are the innocent one here,” she said.
I loved being the innocent one. I heard a soft moan come out of my mouth, filling hers. Gently, she lifted up my shirt and moved her lips to my nipples. I felt like I was made of liquid, viscous, throbbing with ache. I continued to rub myself frantically, imagining what would come next. I replayed that first tongue kiss again and again. Then she let her tits dangle over my face. I suckled on each one, thinking: Feed me, Mommy! So that I may live!
My real mother had not breastfed me. She said I hurt her nipples too much. I knew that if Ana were my mother, she would have breastfed me as a little baby. Now she was doing it again. I sucked as much as I could of her nipple into my mouth. I wanted to choke on her, to gag on her, to be filled up entirely with her breast, all the way down my throat. I made little squelching noises as I sucked.
Her legs straddled my thigh. Then she began to ride me. Her thigh moved on my pussy in a circular motion. Her pubic hair was thick and wiry. I could feel her wetness, how much she wanted me. I could smell her fish and flowers. She was doing everything. I only had to lie there and be myself.
Every time I got close to coming, I would stop masturbating and let the wave of my pleasure simmer back down.
I want you to eat me, I thought as I edged closer.
The consuming mother, I thought as I pulled away.
I want you to eat me, closer, closer.
The consuming mother, further, further.
Then I got so close that I could not pull myself back from the edge. I spilled over, dissolving into pure light.
When the wave of pleasure receded, Mommy Ana had disappeared. In her place was office manager Ana. She was seated in a Staples ergonomic chair, headset on, eating a shrimp Caesar from Simply Salad, answering the phone.
“The Crew, please hold.”
CHAPTER 9
Ofer was unhappy with the company that sold the fake Instagram followers we purchased for our clients.
“They aren’t paying enough attention to diversity along the lines of race, ethnicity, and gender,” he said as we sat down together at Last Crush.
“But the followers are fake,” I said.
“They should look real. When we get back to the office, I want you to start researching other companies. Find out prices, longevity, the diversity of the fake followers, and—what’s that crinkling sound?”
The crinkling sound was me. I was attempting to extricate a piece of nicotine gum from its foil wrapper in my purse. Usually, I’d remove at least five pieces of the gum and place them bareback in the purse, along with a ball of toilet paper for the chewed ones, prior to any client lunch. This enabled me to access the gum soundlessly. But I’d forgotten to pre-release the gum, and was now forced to extricate in-booth while we waited on the arrival of Ofer’s prize pig—an actor named Jason Blagojevich, who called himself “Jace Evans”—and his two agents.
Jace had a lead role as “Liam” on a hot new CW show, Breathers, about three sexy young people who survive a zombie apocalypse. The show had become a phenomenon in the teen market and was growing popular with the types of adults who acted ironically anti-intellectual but were maybe just dumb. Breathers had just been renewed for a second season, and Jace was sitting pretty. He’d only been out of Akron for less than two years.
Ofer began repping Jace before he had an agent. He managed to secure him the part without agency representation, which was rare. Jace’s agents, two heat-seeking sheep named Josh and Josh, had “joined the team” just in time to do the contract. They never would have touched Jace without a pilot, but now they acted like they’d birthed him.
“My duuudes!” grunted Ofer, rising to greet Jace and the Joshes.
He secretly hated the Joshes, claiming they lacked a moral compass, but I knew the real reason for his animosity was because they thought he couldn’t hack it in the agency world. I was happy the Joshes were in attendance. The more people at the table, the less anyone paid attention to what I ate.
I was there to take notes on my phone. Mostly, I googled calorie counts and tried not to stare at Jace. I couldn’t decide if I was attracted to him. His hair was exhausting, a shaved undercut with a skyward floof on top. The floof was straining to stay erect, while the overall look struggled to find itself: punk or pompadour, skinhead or sculpture, it didn’t know what it was. Jace clearly invested a lot of time and money in his hair, though I didn’t imagine any salons survived the zombie apocalypse.
Jace was the type of dude who always seemed like he was wearing a fedora—even when he wasn’t. He wore two rosaries around his neck, which I assumed were from Fred Segal. His motorcycle jacket appeared new, yet pre-distressed, and the stacks of leather and metal bracelets on his wrists suggested he was headed off to battle in an ancient war right after lunch. On his left hand, he had a freckle the size of a pencil eraser. I decided it was ugly.
“I’m concerned about Liam’s love triangle going into next season,” said Jace, caressing his own jaw with his freckle hand. “I hope the writers don’t make it the central conflict of the show.”
I typed the words central conflict in my notes. I was surprised he knew what that was.
“Agreed, it’s a show about survival, not love,” said Josh.
I typed: survival not love.
“Ofer, let’s find a constructive way to express Jace’s concern to the network,” said the other Josh.