18-09-2020, 03:59 PM
I jumped up and stripped my clothes off, lunged to the dresser and grabbed a pair of pajama bottoms and jockey shorts, yanked them on and then searched for a t-shirt. After that I turned for the door.
Too quick, I thought, turning back. I'd better finish the hot chocolate. I strode to the desk and picked up the mug, taking a big swig. Shit! I sprayed frothy brown foam all over my LCD screen. Christ, that was hot! I picked up the front of my t-shirt and stuffed it into my mouth, trying to relieve my burning tongue. Jesus!
Seeing the stain on my t-shirt, I pulled it off and tossed it to the floor. I began looking for another one but changed my mind. The hell with it. I go the way I was. Thinking about it, I took my pajama bottoms off, stripped off my jockey shorts, and put the pj's back on by themselves. No guts, no glory, I thought, suddenly riding a wave of confidence again. I returned to the computer desk and slowly sipped the hot chocolate until it was gone. As fast as I could, mind you, but without burning myself again. With confidence and anticipation, I strode out my door.
By the time I reached the door to my parent's room my anticipation was unchecked but my confidence had waned somewhat. Mom hadn't actually asked me to come. What if Dad was awake? My pajama's weren't exactly tenting, shrinkage having wreaked havoc with my new found anxiety, but I was still loose and fancy free under there and anything could happen. I looked down; not now, anyway. I was through the door, having continued walking.
The room was dim and filled with the sound of my father's heavy breathing periodically broken by a soft snore. Mom was sitting in front of the dresser, her back to me. I approached slowly, stepping quietly on the thick carpet. She looked up and smiled as I neared, lifting her right hand over her shoulder, offering the hairbrush. My fingers trembled as I took it. Saying nothing, Mom turned her eyes down, and waited.
I pulled the brush through her hair with my first tentative stroke. Mom's hair was damp and I had to pull harder to force the bristles through her thick mane but not so hard that it would hurt. I worked diligently and actually lost myself in the task, pulling the hair away from her back with one hand to avoid snagging the robe, while tugging the brush through, slowly parting and straightening smaller and smaller bundles of hair. Eventually, I was stroking the full length of her hair without hitting a snag but found it harder to hold her hair away from her back. I kept snagging the robe.
Too quick, I thought, turning back. I'd better finish the hot chocolate. I strode to the desk and picked up the mug, taking a big swig. Shit! I sprayed frothy brown foam all over my LCD screen. Christ, that was hot! I picked up the front of my t-shirt and stuffed it into my mouth, trying to relieve my burning tongue. Jesus!
Seeing the stain on my t-shirt, I pulled it off and tossed it to the floor. I began looking for another one but changed my mind. The hell with it. I go the way I was. Thinking about it, I took my pajama bottoms off, stripped off my jockey shorts, and put the pj's back on by themselves. No guts, no glory, I thought, suddenly riding a wave of confidence again. I returned to the computer desk and slowly sipped the hot chocolate until it was gone. As fast as I could, mind you, but without burning myself again. With confidence and anticipation, I strode out my door.
By the time I reached the door to my parent's room my anticipation was unchecked but my confidence had waned somewhat. Mom hadn't actually asked me to come. What if Dad was awake? My pajama's weren't exactly tenting, shrinkage having wreaked havoc with my new found anxiety, but I was still loose and fancy free under there and anything could happen. I looked down; not now, anyway. I was through the door, having continued walking.
The room was dim and filled with the sound of my father's heavy breathing periodically broken by a soft snore. Mom was sitting in front of the dresser, her back to me. I approached slowly, stepping quietly on the thick carpet. She looked up and smiled as I neared, lifting her right hand over her shoulder, offering the hairbrush. My fingers trembled as I took it. Saying nothing, Mom turned her eyes down, and waited.
I pulled the brush through her hair with my first tentative stroke. Mom's hair was damp and I had to pull harder to force the bristles through her thick mane but not so hard that it would hurt. I worked diligently and actually lost myself in the task, pulling the hair away from her back with one hand to avoid snagging the robe, while tugging the brush through, slowly parting and straightening smaller and smaller bundles of hair. Eventually, I was stroking the full length of her hair without hitting a snag but found it harder to hold her hair away from her back. I kept snagging the robe.
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