We Mustn't Upset Him

Katie just buried her parents. She landed on Wanda's doorstep looking like hell—red eyes, one duffel bag. Wanda smiled too wide and said Harold had rules. Katie didn't even meet the guy, yet the rules swallowed everything. Don't go out after nine. Don't dress like that. Don't use the front door. Katie kept her mouth shut. She needed a roof, not war. Weeks dragged. Harold never showed. Always gone, always coming, never visible. But Katie felt him in the walls—the way Wanda hovered by the window, phone glued to her ear, whispering about schedules and consequences. More rules piled up. Katie couldn't have friends over, couldn't wear headphones after eight, couldn't leave dishes in the sink for ten minutes. Wanda's hands shook when she delivered each new restriction. Katie saw fear, not discipline. Late one night she cornered Wanda in the kitchen. Asked if Harold hit her. Wanda froze, then laughed, brittle. Katie told her she could fix it. Offered herself. She pulled her shirt over her head, bra still on. "Spank me if it helps. Make him disappear." Wanda's eyes darkened. The first slap landed across Katie's ass, sharp, surprising them both. Then came another—harder, louder—until the sound filled the quiet house like a gunshot. Wanda's breathing turned ragged. She pressed Katie over the counter, yanked her jeans down, didn't bother with gentleness. Fingers replaced the belt. Wet heat, soft skin. Katie arched back, cursing, grinning. They ended up on the floor, legs tangled, mouths open, Wanda's face buried between Katie's thighs while Katie clawed at her hair. Skin slapped skin, sweat slicked their thighs, moans cracked sharp as glass. Wanda came hard, shaking, shouting Harold's name like a curse instead of a prayer. They lay there breathing hard. Katie wiped her mouth, waited. Wanda's eyes cleared—different now, lighter. But somewhere in the dark house the front door creaked. Harold was finally home.