Mommy Monster

The drive home is quiet except for the Senator's voice droning into his phone. On the other end, a donor asks about the household comes first event and Greg eats it up, rattling numbers, names, mileage on the campaign bus. Mrs. Gregory stares past the tinted glass, bored enough to count the streetlights. She loathes these stiff nights yet the wallet that buys her evenings keeps on growing. Her husband finishes, asks the driver for arrival time at the airport, then slips an excited hand over his wife's knee. "William's on the late flight," he says. "He'll be waiting when we land." Her smile flattens. She keeps her face at the window. Marilyn Gregory sits on the lip of the tub in a short silk robe, thumb sliding fast across secret photos on her phone. Her breath thickens; the robe parts, fingers drop between her thighs. Then his voice cuts the air, impatient from the foyer. She snaps the phone shut, ties the belt, and heads down. Greg leans in for a kiss. She turns so his lips find only cheek, a perfunctory hug standing in. William, barefoot, spooning cereal from a bowl, grunts a greeting and drops onto the sofa. Marilyn squeezes her husband's arm, steers him toward the waiting car, closes the front door with a tight little snap once he's gone. She crosses the room. William won't meet her eyes. She lifts the cereal bowl away. "You stopped returning my emails." "You stopped topping off my account." He snatches the bowl back. Tension snaps between them like a pulled wire. "We had a deal," she says. "Qualified leads get paid." He stands, sets the bowl on the table. "You're a psycho, Marilyn. Come out of the fucking closet." The next exchange happens in the kitchen, quiet but knife-sharp: exposure, trust funds, ruined careers, long years of silence. He almost leaves it there, almost does, until guilt and cash drag him back. "One profile," she pleads. "One night." He exhales through teeth, finally nods. Days later Anna arrives smiling under the porch light, still tasting wine from their first date. William plays it warm, settles her on the living-room couch, vanishes toward the kitchen. Upstairs, Mrs. Gregory watches through the stair rails in a dress cut too low. She drifts down like she's rehearsed the entrance, introduces herself as Marilyn, lets Anna assume Todd is the help. Marilyn's compliments come slow, intimate, loaded. Anna fidgets, polite, trying to read signals that won't line up. William returns with drinks and a cold stare. Anna moves to leave. Marilyn's hand on her shoulder keeps her seated long enough for a whispered assurance, then the older woman departs through the front door—only to slip back inside moments later. In the living room William drags the moment out, face-fucks the girl to mask the sound of clothing sliding off his stepmother behind the sofa. When Anna climbs onto him, he keeps talking about his boss, pushes the dirty questions until Anna laughs, admits a past with women. That's the cue. Marilyn steps naked into the half-light, strokes herself, impatient. The plan caves the second William pins Anna in doggy. A spiteful grin twists his mouth and he asks her whether a "dyke" like his boss ever takes cock, ever craves a third. Marilyn slaps him—hard. Anna turns, surprised but game. The threesome goes loud fast: William yanks both women toward him by turns, spitting insults at Marilyn whenever she tries to steer the scene back. Anna keeps catching stray kisses, stray fingers, unaware she's being used as a battlefield. When William finally pulls out and stripes his stepmother's face, Anna scoops up her heels and hurries for the door, muttering about weird vibes. The second the latch clicks, Marilyn's fury detonates. William wipes his dick on her cheek, leaves the room without a word, door slamming upstairs.