That afternoon, after toweling off and drifting through the still house, I stretched out on the old white couch under the back porch’s tin roof. I lay there listening to the rhythmic pulse of Dad’s pool filter, the fat plinks of summer insects ricocheting off the screens, the muted bustle of Mom—Peter—inside.
My skin tingled from chlorine and sun, and my limbs, still heavy with water, fell into perfect alignment with the cracked vinyl cushions.
And almost immediately, I started to dream.
In the dream, I was Mom—Mary’s body all around me, but I sat inside like a roadside passenger, watching every movement as though it belonged to someone else. I found myself alone in our kitchen, the morning light spilling across the Formica, and there I was, gently peeling oranges at the counter.
I hummed a tune under my breath—something she clearly knew, though I couldn’t name it.
I moved to the sink, wetting her hands and then tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Through the microwave’s dark glass I saw her face: unwavering, confident, free of doubt.
That’s when Dad appeared in the doorway. And Mary was hungry for her husband...
As soon as his shadow darkened the kitchen threshold, I felt the hunger—a real, physical appetite—coil in my stomach and rise up behind my breastbone.
Mom wanted something, and wanted it from him.
I moved toward him with a feline certainty. My mouth opened and the laugh that came out was Mom’s, effortless and warm and edged with a flirtatious undercurrent.
Her attention turned towards his crotch with a greedy, possessive intensity I had never imagined possible.
It was unthinkable, yet it was happening: I kissed him right there, mouth open, reckless, the way I had seen them kiss when I was younger before I learned how to be embarrassed by it. He responded instantly, one hand finding the small of my back and drawing me in, the other settling firmly on the side of my breast, thumb grazing the edge of the cup with maddening slowness. My caged heart pounded in my chest as I felt him harden against me.
I was Mary, and he was mine. Entirely, absolutely, hungrily mine.
My hands—her hands—went straight for the waistband of his khakis, tugging open the button and zipper with the brisk efficiency of a woman who neither asked nor waited for permission. His cock, surprising in its readiness, sprung to life against my thigh, and as I reached for it I felt the pulse of desire surge upwards, unbidden and huge. I wanted him. I needed him.
Then, in the next instant, we were in bed, and he was thrusting into me with a slow, grinding ferocity that sent pleasure slicing up my back in electric, ragged shocks. He held my thighs open, hands broad and insistent, and I felt every ounce of the possessiveness and need in him, every old marital rhythm played out with total, animal honesty.
My breasts jounced and rippled in time with his thrusts, nipples dark and heavy, sweat beading in the hollow of the neck. I clawed his shoulders, yanked him lower, and bit his ear as a hot, savoring pulse rose between my legs.
It should have been shameful, or at least awkward, that all this passion was directed at my own father, but in the moment it made perfect, horrifying sense. I didn’t feel disgust—I felt predatory glee, the sensation of taking something that had always belonged to her, and now belonged to me.
I woke with a gasp, a shudder through the diaphragm that left me clutching the edge of the couch, heart jackhammering and the crotch of the borrowed swimsuit wet not with pool water but the slick residue of desire.
The sky beyond the porch had gone from summer blue to glassy late-afternoon haze, cicadas rasping their infernal buzzsaw. The house was still. The only movement was the slow drip of water off the porch roof, the small, periodic gusts of air that sent the fading scent of hot grass through the screens.
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