Good God! Those screams are sounding again! I sometimes wonder how the fuck I can live under this regime. No, I always wonder why the fuck I still live under my parents regime. Let’s set a preamble: 23 year old male, law school graduate, home office, consulting attorney, single, and… enjoying life as a fucking 16 year old. That’s right, my mother is yelling at me again, from the other side of the apartment. What would Freud think of this? I get my lazy ass off my desk (as told) and make my way to the kitchen where… what are those? They are envelopes. “Take these to Claudia’s, will you?” “Please, how hard is it to just say…” “Don’t pull that please bullshit on me, William; give these to the neighbor.” No matter how many times we call Ataşehir Escort the post office, our address is still registered as Claudia’s. An ass-hat, Billy-Boy, 23 years old and you are still quite an ass-hat; now do as mommy tells you. The 23 year old lame ass is now getting up the stairs, thinking about jumping right down the staircase when (conveniently) the door marked with a rusty 36 opens up revealing a couple of kids who get out screaming at the top of their lungs and laughing their heads off. They rush down the stairs, most likely heading to the backyard. There she is: that early 40’s, blonde, curvy, tanned piece of ass. A towel is curled around her head; drops slide down her neck, the sweet Ataşehir Escort Bayan eau de toilette aroma gets to me, along with some soapy scent. Good God. She is quite joyful (my mind thinks ‘playful’) for a single mom, she knows my name and asks me to come in; I hear something about me looking like shit (or any other horror film rip-off quote). I take a seat in the living room while she disappears down the hallway. I hear a hair drier. I help myself a glass of water (previously offered, of course) as I imagine her appearing naked with fishnets or something. She instead appears with her hair half dried and the same outfit with which she opened the door (tight blue jeans and a loose black velveteen Escort Ataşehir blouse). She is still bare feet and I imagine her soles lightly caressing my dog, then my lips brushing her toes (damn! There is a band aid in one of them). I realize the envelopes are covered in a light coat of my sweat (high school sweaty palms all over again, buddy). She sits next to me in the couch and I deliver the mail. She is wearing dark blue eyeliner. I imagine her makeup smeared across her cheeks, running down with semen, sweat and saliva as she throats me. Moaning, gagging and choking sounds would fill the room while she’d bob her head up and down, fluid dripping onto the maroon suede of the couch. I am beginning to wonder how her ass would feel if she rode me. Good God. She is now running around some light talk topics which my mind completely dismisses. I see her fresh nail polish and surreal me feels those hands cupping my balls, my legs spread lewdly as she tickles my taint; afterwards proceeding to taste the sweat that has dropped into her palms.