Dinner With The In-Laws

Small Hands can't stop grinning about how the night will play out when he finally brings his bride-to-be around to the house. Emma's not sold. His two step-moms, Kenzie and Briana, could peel paint with their glances alone and she hasn't even met them yet. Still, she tosses her hair back and walks inside. The women light up for their son, kissing both cheeks, but go arctic when they give Emma the once-over. “You’re tiny,” one says, the word dripping disapproval. The conversation grinds like gravel under heels. Nothing she offers lands. They act like their perfect boy deserves royalty; all they see is some bleach-blonde distraction doomed to fade. Small Hands shrugs off his jacket and steps away to change, leaving the three women alone. The mothers close in—low voices, sour smiles. Emma doesn’t flinch. Instead she moves first, fingering the hem of Briana’s slinky dinner dress and yanking it up. Cool air hits Kenzie’s bare thigh as Emma’s other hand slides straight between her legs, cupping the damp lace. Both mothers freeze; then their breath catches at once. Dinner starts anyway. But every time Small Hands turns for the wine, a hand disappears. Briana’s head ducks beneath the tablecloth; a warm tongue flicks across Emma’s slit right beside his knee. He laughs at some dumb joke and takes a sip while Kenzie hides a moan behind her napkin. Footsteps fade toward the hallway for a quick phone call and the switch gets thrown. Clothes tear. Tongues shove deep. Thighs slam against polished wood. They fuck on the table, over the chairs, across the marble island—wet, greedy, indifferent to everything but the heat. The house fills with stifled gasps and the sharp slap of skin. When Small Hands strolls back in, all three women sit straight again, blushing and breathless. He’s clueless, smiling like the luckiest man alive. His bride and her brand-new in-laws exchange a secret smirk that tastes like trouble. They’ll be getting along just fine.