Wake up and have a "normal" saturday morning - Valerie's POV

Chapter 8

Valerie POV

I woke up at eight o’clock on Saturday morning with my face in the pillow, my mouth open, drool soaking one side of my neck, and one hand shoved down the front of my shorts, cupped over my pussy like I’d been trying to hold something in.

The sun was blazing through the curtains. My phone was dead on my chest, my earbuds tangled in my hair.

The last thing I remembered was pressing play, just to prove him wrong.

I sat up, slowly. My head felt great. Clear. Light.

I fell asleep.

Of course I did. I’d been up late. I was exhausted, and I’d lain down to watch one dumb video, and I’d passed out. That’s all. It was a good video, I’d give him that. Beautiful animation. But clearly, obviously, it hadn’t worked on me.

I was still myself. I still thought for myself. It had just been a nap.

See, Brian?

First, though, a shower. I smelled like chlorine and old sweat and, faintly, like my own drool.

The bathroom was blessedly empty. I turned the water up as hot as I could stand and stepped in, and for a minute I just stood there with my forehead against the tile, letting it pound the back of my neck.

No touching yourself. Not until the house is spotless. He said so.

I can’t. Even if I wanted to, I can’t.

I soaped my arms and my stomach, very efficiently, like a nurse. My chest, which was sore from yesterday and which I absolutely did not think about. My legs. And then, because there was no way around it, between my legs, quick and clinical. Two strokes. Rinse. Done.

My whole body jumped anyway.

Stop. I can’t. I can’t, I can’t.

I yanked my hand away like I’d touched a hot stove, and I cranked the water to cold for the last thirty seconds, shrieking through my teeth, until I couldn’t feel anything at all.

See? Totally in control.

I turned off the water, shivering and very proud of myself.

I dried off, padded back to my room in a towel, and opened my underwear drawer. The black lace set, the one I’d never worn: thong, bra, the works. Obviously. You don’t wear cotton under a maid uniform. Then I took the uniform off the hanger and put it on. Brian had said to put it on. There wasn’t a version of this morning where I didn’t. The skirt barely covered my ass. The top left half my tits out. The stockings snapped tight around my thighs, and when I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized the girl in it, small, tight, flushed, a pretty little doll in black and white.

I look so good, I thought. And then: he’s going to love this.

I went downstairs.

Dad was in the kitchen, humming.

He was at the stove, scrambling eggs, with his back to me. He was wearing a tiny women’s crop top again, and the pink apron, the heart-covered one, tied at the waist. And below the apron, there was nothing. Nothing at all. His bare ass, pale and skinny, was right there. And when he turned around to flip the bacon, I saw it, his cock, hard and red, sticking straight out through the heart-shaped hole in the front of the apron.

“Good morning, Valerie,” he said cheerfully.

“Morning, Dad,” I said.

It was the most normal conversation in the world. He smiled at me. I smiled back. I took a rag from the drawer, and I started wiping down the counter. My face was burning. My thighs were shaking. And I did not look down.

Well. I looked down a few times.

We stayed like that for a while, him cooking, me cleaning, both of us pretending the sun wasn’t blazing through the window onto his hard, trembling cock. The eggs sizzled. The coffeemaker gurgled. After about ten minutes, he wiped his hands on the apron.

“I’d better go wake your brother and your mother,” he said. His voice was rough. “Breakfast will be ready in a minute.”

He left, and I heard him climb the stairs.

I kept wiping the same spot on the counter. I could hear his footsteps. A door opening.

Then, a few minutes later, he came back down, still in the apron, his eyes shining.

“They’ll be down soon,” he said.

He went back to the stove. And I stood there with a rag in my hand, listening. At first there was nothing. Then, faint, muffled, from far upstairs, I heard it.

A bed creaking. Rhythmic. Fast.

A low, male groan.

Then my mother’s voice, high, wet and helpless, moaning my brother’s name.

I stopped breathing. Dad kept scrambling the eggs. His cock was bobbing, and he was crying softly, and he didn’t turn around. The moans got louder. The bed hit the wall, thump, thump, thump. My mother gasped, and sobbed, and begged for more, please, and then she let out a long, shattering scream that went on and on, a cry of pure, ecstatic release.

I gripped the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles went white.

I’m not allowed to touch myself. Not until the house is spotless.

I looked around the kitchen. The dishes were done. The counters, the stove, the floor, none of it was really dirty. But it wasn’t spotless. Not yet.

So I picked up the rag, and I started again.

They came down twenty minutes later.

I heard Mom’s heels first, slow and unhurried on the stairs, like she was descending a red carpet. I was on my knees by the pantry, wiping a baseboard that didn’t need wiping, and I looked up without meaning to.

Oh. My. God.

Mom was wearing a dress. A vintage-looking one, powder blue with little white flowers, nipped in at the waist with a thin white belt, the kind of dress a 1950s housewife wears in a cartoon. Except the neckline plunged so low that her pearl necklace rested on bare cleavage, and the skirt ended about three inches below her ass. Under it, I could see the garter straps. White lace, holding up white stockings. And under the thin fabric of the top, the outline of a lace bra, and a little pink bow between the cups. A frilly white apron was tied over the whole thing, as if cooking breakfast was what she’d dressed for. She’d curled her hair. She’d put on red lipstick. She looked like a pin-up version of every mom on a cereal box.

Mom. Dressed like that. In front of me.

I was still staring when someone came down the stairs behind her.

Brian was completely naked.

No shirt, no boxers, nothing, just my brother, pale and soft around the middle, with his hair sticking up and his glasses crooked, strolling down the stairs like it was the most normal thing in the world. And between his legs, hanging there, heavy and thick and swaying slightly with each step…

Don’t look. Don’t. Don’t, Val.

I looked. For two, maybe three seconds. I’m not proud of it.

It’s… okay, it’s bigger than I’d have thought. I mean, I’ve literally never seen… ugh. Stop. STOP.

“Like what you see?”

His voice cut right through my head. I snapped my eyes up. Brian was looking down at me from the bottom of the stairs, with this lazy half-smile, one eyebrow raised, not even bothering to cover himself.

My whole face went hot.

“In your dreams,” I said, and I turned around so fast that I almost knocked the bucket over, and went back to scrubbing the baseboard with burning cheeks.

Behind me, he laughed.

Breakfast was the most surreal meal of my life, and I wasn’t even eating it.

Dad served. He moved around the table in his pink apron with the heart-shaped hole, his cock bobbing, delivering plates of scrambled eggs and bacon and perfectly cut fruit, refilling juice, never once saying a word unless somebody spoke to him first. Mom and Brian sat side by side at the head of the table. Brian was in the big chair, bare-ass on the wood, shoveling food into his mouth, and Mom sat so close to him that her knee pressed against his thigh.

And he talked.

“—and that’s why episode three works,” Brian was saying, with his mouth half full. “Like, you think he’s just a guy in a cell, right? But the whole point is he’s already won. He just doesn’t know it yet. And then the moon scene in the next one, where they make the promise? Peak writing.”

“That’s so profound, sweetheart,” said Mom, nodding slowly, her eyes shining like he was reading her a sonnet. “You notice such wonderful things.”

I had stopped scrubbing. I was standing at the counter with a damp cloth in my hand, pretending to wipe a spot that was already gone.

My mother just said “that’s so profound” about a cartoon. My mother, who thinks anime is “the reason people don’t have hobbies.”

Okay. Okay, hold on. Maybe I messed up. Maybe yesterday, when I said “go up and dominate Mom and Dad,” I’d missed that part where there was an off switch. Great job, Val. Super smart. Really thought that one through.

I was about to look away when Mom picked up a strawberry. She held it up in front of Brian’s mouth, and he leaned forward and took it between his teeth, and she giggled like a girl at her first dance.

His free hand slid up her side and cupped her breast through the thin blue dress. Squeezed. And she didn’t stop him. She just smiled, soft and dreamy, and leaned into his hand.

My pussy gave one long, hot, unmistakable pulse.

Nope.

Nope, nope, nope. I can’t watch this. If I keep watching this, I am going to put my hand in my panties right here, in my kitchen, in this ridiculous outfit.

I couldn’t tell if it was disgusting or hot. And I really didn’t want to find out.

So I grabbed the broom and left the room.

I was sweeping the living room when they migrated.

Brian got up from the table and walked to the couch, still completely naked. Mom followed him, picking up her skirt a little so it wouldn’t wrinkle, and sat beside him with her hands folded in her lap like a good girl. Dad trailed behind them like a shadow. He stopped beside the couch, hesitated, then dropped to his knees on the carpet, right next to the armrest, facing the two of them, with his hands on his thighs.

He didn’t say anything. He just watched them. Like a dog waiting at the foot of the bed.

Dad. Dad, you’re kneeling.

Brian grabbed the remote and flipped on the TV. Some animated guy with spiky hair was brooding on a rooftop. Brian settled in, put his feet on the coffee table, and his hand went straight up Mom’s skirt. She spread her knees for him, automatically, and kept her eyes on the screen.

“This one’s a rewatch,” Brian said, to nobody. “Best fight scene of the season.”

My brother was watching anime while he fingered our mother.

I picked up my broom and swept with my back to them. Hard. Fast. Like the floor owed me money.

Here’s the thing about cleaning that nobody tells you: it’s all bending.

The baseboards. The corners. Under the coffee table. Behind the TV stand. I bent, and stretched, and crouched, and reached. The skirt rode up. The little ruffled top slid sideways. I didn’t fix it.

I dusted the bottom shelf of the entertainment center with my knees straight and my ass in the air, and the tile was cold under my fingertips.

“Missed a spot,” Brian said, from the couch. “Above the TV. See it?”

I looked up. There was a little line of dust on the top shelf. I’d definitely missed it.

“Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”

I dragged the stepstool over, climbed up on my tiptoes, and stretched as far as I could reach. The skirt slid up the back of my thighs, up and up, and I felt cool air on skin I hadn’t exposed to the room in years.

And I felt eyes.

I glanced down over my shoulder. Brian wasn’t watching the TV. He wasn’t watching anything but me. His gaze moved slowly up my legs, and past the hem of my skirt, and stayed there.

Something inside me went tight, and warm, and shivery.

He’s looking at me.

He’s looking at ME.

I turned back to the shelf very quickly. My heart was going crazy. My nipples had gone hard under the stiff ruffled fabric, and I could feel myself getting wet, which was ridiculous, it had been, like, a minute. I dusted the same spot four times.

Okay, so that was weird. That was just weird. Moving on.

I moved on to the next shelf and bent as low as I could. Then the window, and I turned my hips toward the couch. And when I felt his eyes on me again, I peeked, and he was still watching, and the heat in my stomach doubled.

It went like that. Every time I felt his eyes, I felt hotter, and every time I felt hotter, there was another shelf to reach, another corner, another spot on the floor. It was this stupid, perfect loop.

Girl dresses sexy, girl acts sexy. That’s just how it works. Nothing weird about it.

The weird part is that it turns me on. That is NOT normal.

And I didn’t want to stop.

The last thing I did was drop my cloth.

It landed by the foot of the couch. I walked over, bent from the waist with my legs straight, slowly, and picked it up from the floor. My skirt rode all the way up. I felt the cool air on my thong, and about six inches of bare ass in the middle of my family’s living room, aimed directly at my brother’s face.

“Valerie.”

My mother’s voice.

“What are you doing?”

I froze.

I froze completely, bent over, cloth in my hand. And for one whole, glorious, wonderful second, I thought: She’s back. Oh, thank God. She’s back.

She saw me. She’s going to yell at me. She’s going to send me to my room, and my mom is back, and everything is back to normal.

I could have cried with relief.

“The woman of the house is me,” Mom said, in her firmest teacher voice, and my stomach dropped. “The only one who gets to show your brother her ass is me.”

I straightened up, very slowly. I turned around.

Mom was sitting up straight on the couch, arms crossed, her lips pressed in a tight, offended line. Her cheeks were pink. Not with embarrassment. She was jealous. My mother was sitting there with Brian’s hand on her thigh, in a slutty cartoon dress, jealous that her daughter had shown him her butt.

She’s not back.

She’s not back at all.

And the heat in my stomach turned into a fire.

Mom is jealous. She’s JEALOUS of me. Because Brian was looking at me and not at her.

I don’t know why that was so hot. I only knew that my legs had gone weak.

“God,” said Brian from the couch, in a soft, lazy voice, staring at where I’d been bending. “I’d love to give that ass a good spanking.”

I smiled.

I actually, honestly smiled, a stupid little pleased smile, like he’d complimented my hair. And then I remembered who had said it.

He’s my brother. That’s my BROTHER. Why am I smiling? Stop smiling, you freak.

I wiped the smile off my face.

“Diana,” Brian said, in a sharper voice, and Mom turned to him at once, sitting up like a child called to the principal’s office. “Let Valerie clean the house however she wants. If she wants to show off while she does it, she can.”

“But Brian—”

“Diana.”

Mom closed her mouth. She sank back against the cushions, sulky, lower lip stuck out, arms crossed tight, like a little girl who’d just been told she couldn’t play with her dolls. I almost laughed. It was ridiculous. She was fifty.

Brian looked at her. Then, slowly, he put his hand on the back of her head.

“If you’re a good woman,” he said, “and you stop whining about Valerie, I’ll let you suck my cock.”

Mom’s whole face lit up.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, breathless, in a high, sweet, delighted voice, like he’d just handed her a puppy. “Thank you, Brian. I won’t complain about Valerie again. I promise. Thank you, thank you.”

And she slid off the couch onto her knees between his legs, right in front of me, right in front of Dad, and took my brother’s cock in her mouth.

The sound was wet.

I’d like to say I looked away. I did try. I stared at the ceiling, and the window, and the bucket by my foot, but my eyes kept sliding back to the couch like they were on a leash.

Mom’s head bobbed slowly in my brother’s lap. The pearls around her neck swung against her chest. One of her hands was wrapped around the base of his cock, the other was flat against his thigh, and the red lipstick left a shiny ring around him every time she pulled back. Brian had his arm slung across the back of the couch. He wasn’t even looking at her. He was looking at the TV. He was looking at the TV like she was a pillow.

And Dad, kneeling by the armrest, watched his wife choke on another man’s cock with his hands on his thighs and his eyes shining, and said absolutely nothing.

I gripped the broom so tightly my knuckles went white.

Okay. Okay. Don’t touch yourself. You can’t. He said not until the house is spotless, and I can’t.

Mom is on her knees. In the middle of the living room. At ten in the morning. And she said “thank you.” She actually said thank you.

My thighs were pressed so tightly together they ached. My panties were soaked. I could feel it, cool and slick against the inside of my legs every time I shifted.

And under all the heat, there was a small, stubborn part of my brain that kept turning over what Mom had said. The woman of the house is me. The only one who gets to show your brother her ass is me. It made no sense. I hadn’t done anything weird. When you dress sexy, you act sexy. Why would Mom be upset about something normal?

Mom’s not making sense. Dress sexy, act sexy. Everyone knows that.

I turned my back on the couch. I got down on my hands and knees. And I started scrubbing the floor by the window with my face burning and my breath coming too fast, to the sound of my mother’s throat working behind me.

It took me a minute to notice that the tile beneath my knees was wet.

Not with water. I’d been kneeling in the same spot for a while, and there was a small, shiny, unmistakable patch on the floor between my legs.

Oh my God.

Oh my God, I’m dripping. On the floor I just cleaned.

I grabbed my cloth and wiped it up, as fast as I could, hoping nobody had noticed.

Great. This is going to be impossible. How am I supposed to finish this if every spot I clean, I mess up?

The rest of the morning blurred together.

Brian finished with Mom (I didn’t watch. I could hear everything), and then he put on a game, one of those big, sprawling adventure ones, with a guy on a horse and a lot of cutscenes. He sprawled on the couch with the controller and Mom curled up at his side, wiping her mouth with the corner of her apron, and Dad got up off the carpet and went back into the kitchen to start lunch.

Mom, apparently, had become a cheerleader.

“Go, Brian! Go, go, go!” she said, every time his character swung a sword. She clapped her hands. She bounced a little on the cushion. “You’re so good at this, sweetheart! Nobody plays like you!”

Every now and then, when a cutscene started, Brian would reach over and squeeze her tit, or pinch her nipple through the dress, or slide a hand up her thigh, and she’d gasp and giggle and keep clapping. Like it was all part of the game.

And I kept cleaning.

I dusted. I wiped. I vacuumed the rug and polished the windows and scrubbed every inch of the baseboards. And Brian, from the couch, with his eyes on the TV and his hands on the controller, kept saying things.

“Val, could you grab me some water?”

I brought him a glass. I had to bend over the coffee table to set it down.

“Thanks. Oh, the remote fell, can you get it? It rolled under the couch.”

I got down on all fours and reached under the couch with my ass in the air.

“Hey, nice job on the shelves. You really got in the corners.”

I dusted the top shelf on tiptoe, and felt his eyes crawl up the backs of my legs.

Every time I bent, every time I stretched, I could feel him looking, and every time I felt it, the fire in my stomach went up another degree.

By noon, I was so turned on I felt dizzy.

Lunch was “in family.” If you could call it that.

Dad had made pasta, and he served it with the same quiet efficiency as breakfast, apron, bobbing cock, no eye contact, plates delivered to the table in order of importance. Brian first. Mom second. Then, after a long beat, me.

“Sit,” Brian said, when I started to take my plate to the counter. “You’ve worked hard. Eat with us.”

I sat. The chair was cool and hard against the backs of my thighs, and my ass was practically bare on the seat, and as I squirmed to get comfortable, I caught Brian’s eyes on me from across the table.

He smiled. Just a little.

I stuffed a forkful of pasta into my mouth to give my face something to do.

Mom fed Brian off her fork. Dad stood at the end of the table with his hands clasped in front of the heart-shaped hole, waiting. Nobody said a word about the morning. Mom said the pasta was lovely, and Brian said it needed more garlic, and Dad said “Yes, Brian. I’ll remember next time,” and that was the entire conversation.

My family is eating lunch. This is a family lunch. This is a totally normal Saturday.

My dad is naked from the waist down in a cartoon apron.

I ate very fast.

Brian went to take a nap at two.

“I’m beat,” he said, yawning, stretching his arms over his head, totally unashamed of his nakedness. “Morning was a lot. Wake me up around six.” He walked to the stairs, scratched his ass, and went up like a king retiring to his chambers.

Then Mom stood and smoothed her dress.

“I’m going to do the shopping,” she told Dad, in her ordinary voice. “I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

“I’ll get what Brian asked for,” said Dad.

And they both went upstairs, and when they came down again, twenty minutes later, they were different people.

Mom wore beige slacks and a cream cardigan and her little gold hoop earrings. Hair pulled back, small purse over her shoulder, reading glasses on a chain around her neck. She looked like she was on her way to a book club. Dad was in the khakis and navy polo he wore every Saturday, with his wallet in his back pocket and his keys in his hand. They looked exactly like my parents. Like the people who’d raised me, who’d come to every one of my meets, who’d never in their entire lives said the word “master” in front of me.

It’s so weird.

It was weirder than the nudity. Weirder than the blowjob on the couch. Seeing them in their normal clothes, I could feel how far they’d gone, the way you only notice how far you’ve walked when you look back at the road.

“Make sure you finish the floors, sweetheart,” Mom said, kissing my cheek on her way to the door. She smelled like her normal perfume. “Don’t forget the stairs.”

“Bye, Val,” Dad said, with a little wave.

“Bye,” I said.

The front door closed. I heard the car start, and back out of the driveway, and drive away.

And then the house was silent.

It was just me, in a house with my brother asleep upstairs, and the whole afternoon stretched out in front of me like a field of dirty floors.

I hadn’t been alone in hours. I hadn’t had a second to catch my breath. And my whole body was still humming, from my scalp to my toes, with the memory of the morning: Mom on her knees, Brian’s eyes on my bare ass, the wet sounds from the couch. My nipples ached. My thighs were slick. Every time I moved I could feel the heat between my legs, like a sore tooth I couldn’t stop touching.

I can’t touch myself.

Not until the house is spotless. He said so.

So I did the only thing I could think of.

I cleaned.

I cleaned like my life depended on it. I scrubbed the kitchen floor on my hands and knees until my wrists hurt. I wiped every cabinet. I mopped the hallway, and the stairs, step by step, and the bathroom downstairs, the tub and the sink and the tiles. I rearranged the shoe rack. I alphabetized the spice jars, for no reason. I opened the windows. I took out the trash and dragged the bins to the curb and swept the porch.

And with every surface I wiped, with every corner I shined, the tight, hot knot in my stomach loosened a tiny bit.

Not a lot. Just a little. Enough that I could breathe.

I kept going.

I kept going, because I knew that if I ever stopped, even for a second, I’d start thinking again.