Mom And Son In Poverty Share One Bedroom Apartment (Part 1) free porn video

1.

The room had been listed online as a "studio apartment", which called to mind the sleek minimalists spaces of college students and starving artists. My mom and I knew that an apartment in rural Nebraska wouldn't be anything special.

But even with tempered expectations, marketing the place as a pre-furnished studio apartment did sugarcoat the sale more than we had realized. It was a motel room that had been converted into a functional but not quite comfortable living space.

Still, it would work and we wouldn't be there for long anyway. At least, that's what we thought at the time.

The "furnishings" were standard motel fare, except one of the double beds in the room had been removed for a small kitchen space and cupboard. There were a couple wooden chairs around a motel room table, but the only real piece of furniture in the room was the bed. The ceiling was old popcorn stucco and the walls were papered with faded floral designs.

It was 2016, but the TV was a small box with bunny ears and an external DVD/VHS player attached. Dead flies and bees lined the window sill and there were light cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling.

When we first arrived there we were disappointed, but more by the lack of any furniture and cupboard space than by the size or condition. We went right to cleaning up the place and in a few days, it was cramped but clean and plenty livable. We have always been poor.

I lived my entire life in a two-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment on the outskirts of Minneapolis. My mother was a nurse and my dad was a mechanic. They were good parents by all accounts, though I rarely saw them. I was an only child. They had wanted to have more kids, and I have early memories of my mom talking to me about how one day she'd like me to have siblings to play with, but they never had enough money. My dad was at work all day and my mom worked night shifts.

We got by, barely. My dad insisted that we didn't apply for welfare or any kind of benefits, and he gave speeches about our independence and dignity, which had always seemed both like something he sincerely believed as well as his coping mechanism for denying the reality of our poverty. My parents had always seemed - and I think they were - deeply in love. Despite the hard circumstances, whenever they had time off they would split it between each other and me, doting on each other, having little dates in the living room.

But work and poverty had prematurely aged them and there didn't seem to be much of a romantic spark - even when I was little and they were in their late twenties and thirties, they had the pleasant but largely platonic relationship that you might see with an old married couple.

My dad always slept on the couch. He said it was because of his snoring, but he didn't snore much, and as I got older I got the sense that however much they got along there wasn't much intimacy. But they seemed to be really in love.

That's why it was so difficult to accept the truth that came out after my father died in an accident at the mechanic shop. As you might imagine, this was horrible enough as it was. It's always horrible to have family die, it's indescribable, especially in such a senseless accident.

But when you're poor it's worse. All the usual horror is there, but suddenly you also can't afford to live in the way you did before, and you need to reconcile grief with immediate material security.

But it got worse. Pieces started to come together that didn't make sense until we found out that, not only did my father make far more money than we had thought (we thought he made around $30k a year, we learned it was actually around $60k), but he had a second family.

A mistress and two kids, a son and a daughter. They were no better off than us, living in a pleasant but cheap trailer park. But he had been splitting his earnings, some of which was unreported and came from a money-laundering operation at the mechanic's shop, between my mother and his mistress.

So all that talk about independence and self-sufficiency, when in fact we were just never eligible for any government benefits or welfare, because he had more income than he told us, and he didn't want the government reviewing his income because he had been involved in money laundering.

He died the summer that I graduated high school. My mom was at my graduation and my dad was not, he said he had to work. Maybe he was working, maybe he was with his other woman and kids.

All my life he had been conservative, especially about sexuality and women. He was never belligerent about his beliefs but I got the sense that my mom disagreed with him but kept quiet about it for the sake of their relationship.

The revelation of my father's long-term infidelity upended my own (and I suspect my mother's) assumptions about love, sex, and family, and I think it was this, compounded with the grief of his death, that led to the season of mistakes that me and my mom made. I recount them out of gnawing guilt and regret and the hope that expressing this will temper some of that.

I don't know if any of it was really wrong on any deep moral level, but I know that it has made me consistently uncomfortable since. I hope she doesn't feel the same. But even in recounting these memories I can't help but remember them fondly. It was nice. It felt good. We did it together and we felt alive.

We needed the comfort and we needed human touch and I wish it had not have happened but it did and it felt good. I am ashamed to admit that I hope she feels the same.

After my dad's death, my mom and I were both devastated nearly to the point of apathy, but we couldn't afford to keep the apartment. We were supposed to renew the lease that September, but my mom's hospital had downsized significantly and my job at the gas station wouldn't move me up from part-time.

But the medical network of my mom's hospital had some job openings around the country. For the month after the funeral, we managed to distract ourselves from the grief and confusion by planning the best place to move. The cheapest place to live was a little Nebraska town with a little health clinic my mom could transfer to. The town was basically a strip mall along a state road with some apartments tucked away behind the shops, and I managed to confirm a job at a gas station there before we moved.

The apartment was an afterthought. We had thought we would only be there until the end of our six-month lease, hopefully leaving in February off to greener pastures. We knew there was only one double bed, but it didn't bother us.

We had shared a bed before, not only when I was a child but several times later: twice in high school we got bedbugs and shared my mom's bed for two weeks, and another time there was a leak that flooded my mom's room and she shared my bed for a week. There was nothing weird about it, it was something we needed to do, and the necessity of living in close proximity meant that a lot of minor instances considered taboo are common and never resulted in especially odd situations.

For most of my life, my mom would do her laundry in only her panties and bra, sometimes without her bra, just because she was in a rush and didn't have time to get dressed into a different outfit just to switch her clothes. It wasn't until I was well into puberty that I even noticed this was potentially odd.

I remember an instance clearly when I was around sixteen and had just begun to masturbate. I realize I was a late bloomer. There was only a shared computer in my parents' room so I wasn't really familiar with porn -- most of my masturbation was fantasizing about women whose nude proportions I couldn't quite work out in my head because I didn't have a good frame of reference.

Our washer and dryer were stacked on top of each other in a closet in the kitchen, next to the small sink. I was sitting on a reclining chair after school watching TV, and my mom came out of her room with a basket of dirty laundry in only her panties.

As I mentioned, this was not at all unusual in our house, and my father and I would also leave the shower nude without a thought if we forgot our towel or our clothes. But it happened infrequently and some time must have passed between when I had last seen this and when I started to actively start thinking about women's bodies in a sexual way.

For a naive teenager like myself at the time, my attractions oriented around models and actresses, there would have been no question that she was not attractive even if she had not been my mother. And that she was my mother, and that this meant that beyond a shadow of a doubt there could not have been sexual interest, I felt comfortable observing her out of curiosity.

I need to be clear that at this point there was nothing sexual whatsoever in thought or action.

At this time my mom would have been in her early thirties and she looked like a middle-aged working white woman. She was especially fair-skinned - no freckles or other fair features, but her skin was nearly paperwhite. Her hair didn't quite reach her shoulders, and was always straightened and dyed a dark brown, near black. Mom's hair was straightened almost haphazardly, like she was just trying to get it out of the way. Sometimes it looked a little greasy after long shifts.

She was tall for a woman, around five foot ten, but her wide hips, full thighs, and generally plump figure gave the impression of someone a bit shorter. As a child, I had thought she was fat, because she always wore large shirts and shorts and dresses that obscured the curves of her body and seemed to make her seem larger than she was.

But observing her then, without sexual feeling but with the eyes of a boy recently experiencing sexual feelings, I realized that she was not really fat at all. She was plump in places - she had a belly with some stretch marks, and when she bent over it folded into soft rolls. But the fat of the belly gave way to wide hips below without any hanging, and the belly ascended into an abdomen and ribs that, while not slim, were proportional with the belly.

She had very large breasts. They hung fairly low but didn't quite sag - they fell nicely into their own weight, lightly swaying as she stepped. She had big areolas, which is something I didn't expect. I didn't know they could look like that. There were also some light stretchmarks along the side of her breasts, and I could just barely make out blue veins snaking around her wide areolas.

She had a slight jowl under her chin when she looked down or smiled, and had a soft round face with perpetual bags under her brown eyes. She bent over to put the laundry in, and her breasts dangled above the basket as she rummaged through it. She had thick thighs, also with dark pink stretch marks and slightly perceptible blue veins.

Her butt was large as well. I was surprised that it was wrinkly, and jiggled when she moved. She finished up loading the laundry, went back to her room, and a moment later ran out the door in her scrubs. I clearly remember a pang of compassion for my mother, thinking, based on what I had gleaned about women and attractiveness at that age, that she was unattractive.

Having a big butt was bad, I thought. I didn't know about stretch marks, about folds of skin, about blue veins barely visible under the skin like cloudy ice. She had big breasts, but they were all wrong, they looked too soft and they fell away from her chest. It's funny looking back, but that's what I thought when I observed her like this when I was sixteen and assessed her with the neutrality of peering at the inside of an appliance you had never seen before.

Even as my experience with women expanded and I developed my own sexuality, I would have never looked at my mother in that way. I think there's some biological component, some kind of safeguard for that kind of thing. Or maybe it's only social taboo, but it's a good taboo. Family should not be sexualized. I never had to even consciously adhere to that principle until my second year in the tiny Nebraska apartment with my mom.

Though I didn't know it when I was sixteen and observing her body, I've now come to the conclusion that my mom dressed the way she did - in a way that disguised her features and made her seem fatter than she really was - because she did really have large breasts, a large round butt, and wide hips, and my father with his conservative views around sexuality and women did not think she should wear anything that put those features on display.

I would not say she is traditionally attractive. She might be if she had time to nitpick about her appearance, to get her hair done, to take care of her skin, to exercise and tone out the plump ends, but as it is, she works constantly. But most people aren't traditionally attractive, and plenty of people are more than happy to settle for someone who doesn't have a nice body, let alone someone who has a nice body that falls short of the ideal. That's what I imagine the rationale is, anyway.

But there are also those of us who try to develop an idea of beauty and eroticism away from what's coded as attractive in movies and TV and promoted in internet pornography.

This was a pleasant realization for me in high school, when I started dating a girl whose appearance I was indifferent to at first, but who I became deeply infatuated with. This girlfriend's appearance was average or below average by most standards.

Some girls spitefully said I could do better than her - more to put her down than pick me up, and I didn't have the means or desire to pick and choose anyway. I was only slim and wiry because I had a fast metabolism, I was relatively tall, and didn't have the money to order out and we never kept snacks or soda around the house. We didn't get many channels and I only had a couple of old video games, so I spent a lot of my free time at the basketball court down the street shooting around with a group of Ojibwa kids.

This kept me in decent shape, but I could never afford any fashionable clothes, and was generally on the outskirts of any social groups. Not ostracized, and I had some good friends, but I never felt like I could align with the rhythm of their lives well enough to get really close.

This girlfriend had some acne, she was slim but had fat in the wrong places, and had a bit of an odd posture. But she was very pretty and moved with a subdued grace, and her eyes would light up when she was talking about something she cared about. We broke things off towards the end of high school, but it was a very nice relationship, filled with gentle but passionate sex and exploration, and I still remember her as beautiful.

2.

My mom and I thought we would be out of Nebraska and that little apartment before the end of the six-month lease we signed the first September. But then we renewed the lease that February. We were making decent money here with the low living expenses and had nowhere else to really be, why not stay and keep saving so that we had a cushion? At that point I was twenty-one and she was forty-one.

When we had first moved in, everything was a blur. Once we were settled we never talked much besides quick updates about work and the living situation or deciding who would go shopping. After some time it became clear that we were holding back our emotions, refusing to talk about our anger at my dad, refusing to talk about the grief of his death and his confusion.

We tried to deal with this and there were bursts of sobbing, of manic pacing and chattering, of calls during breaks at work when one of us would call the other and recall something about my dad that we now thought was suspect or had never liked but never had been able to talk about.

It was a very dark time. Nebraska has cold, cold winters, and there was nowhere to go in town, or anywhere nearby out of town. I began to drink too much, and then stopped because I couldn't afford the drinks alone, let alone a drinking habit that got out of control.

Then, the first spring there, after about eight months of living there, we stopped talking about him. It didn't feel like we had dealt with it, but we didn't know what dealing with it was supposed to be. It was still a dark time. We were both bored and lonely.

But the spring helped and the summer helped. We both found some dates around town, went out to different bars and hung out with people our own age. It wasn't a happy time or a good time but it was a hopeful time. I noticed my mom bought new clothes. They were relatively modest, most from the thrift store, but they showed off her figure. She got scrubs that fit her figure. At one point I noticed that some of her shirts were showing a little cleavage. Then I wondered why I had noticed that, and maybe I wondered too much.

That was the summer and we were trying to save money by not running the A/C unit. Looking back, I was definitely being too hard on myself, and probably scared myself into making something out of nothing. But the truth was that I missed sex very deeply.

In high school, I had a great intimate relationship, and a few good friends, and a decent social life. Now, I was isolated in this strip mall of a town and starting to think that I might not find anything nearly as good as that again. At first, I was happy just to be dating, but after three dates with two different women in a month, I hadn't been able to find anything else. I think I scared them away by grimly mentioning my dad dying, but it was the only way to explain why I was in this little town, and they always asked why I was there.

And there just weren't enough women in this town to keep dating. I had been masturbating in the bathroom, but it was difficult. My mom and I got home from work at the same time and both had only a few hours before getting into bed, so she would be trying to come in and shower, shave, brush her teeth, use the toilet, whatever. And I had no headphones, so I would be trying to rush to masturbate looking at muted videos on my phone with the knowledge that my mom might knock to come in at any time.

A couple of times when she knocked I had left the bathroom frustrated with my erection pressing against my sweatpants in a way that would've been clear if someone looked down. There was no sexual signaling or anything like that to it - I was just exhausted from days of work and just wanting to relieve the tension in my groin if nothing else, and I wanted to possibly signal that without having to actually discuss masturbation habits with my mom in our one-room, one-bed apartment.

But the way it worked out, I was only masturbating about once every two weeks, whenever the pressure in my groin grew enough to become distracting. That summer, when I made too much out of noticing the really minor cleavage that some of her clothes now showed, there were a couple of times when I was lying in bed in the warm room (we had the A/C set to only come on when the room got above 75 degrees) and I would see my mom tossing in her sleep.

We had been very modest and private about our sleeping arrangement, considering we were sleeping in the same bed. We had a blanket that we always kept rolled up between us so that we didn't roll into each other at night. This was more so that we wouldn't wake each other up than anything else; the potential awkwardness of rolling into each other hadn't really been considered, but it ended up serving that purpose as well. We also slept with sweatpants and t-shirts on, or if it was too warm for that, kept light blankets over us.

There wasn't much thought into it -- it's just the kind of etiquette you default to when sharing a bed with someone you're not romantically involved with. But for a few nights in a row that summer, when it had been especially warm and I had not been able to masturbate in weeks, I had been looking at my mom's body. One day I came out of the bathroom after brushing my teeth and saw her getting dressed for work. I often did, but never thought anything of it.

But I had come out as she was putting her bra on, pushing her large, soft breasts into the sports bras cups. I looked at her cute belly, her modest tan panties. I noticed that she had begun to curl her hair a little bit, that she had let it grow longer. She put on her scrubs, but they were the right size scrubs for her so there was no covering up her hips or her big chest.

I noticed that my mouth was watering and hurried off to work. At this point I realized that obsessing over something as simple and innocent as having noticed a slight change in her wardrobe had probably been a self-fulfilling prophecy, reverse psychology I was pulling on myself. I put it out of my mind, pretty successfully. I didn't think about it at all, and when I did I pushed the thought out of my mind with ease.

A week later I woke up in the early morning. It was four A.M. I needed to be awake in four more hours for work. I looked across the bed. My mom was splayed out, the flood flights from a department-store parking lot falling through our blinds in slivers across her sleeping body - she had kicked off the light blanket in her sleep. It happened sometimes.

She was in a t-shirt and panties, with no bra. I knew not to think about it, I knew not to interrogate myself over stray thoughts quickly pushed away. I knew that if I had refused to look at her it would've only rooted the idea deeper. But without any thought or fantasy, lazily glimpsing across the bed to her breasts rising and falling with her breath under her thin cotton shirt, I immediately got an erection.

Instead of slowly filling with blood, my dick throbbed three or four times and was then pressed firmly and painfully against the side of my sweatpants. I pushed it down to the side but that was painful. I pulled my blanket up further so I could form a little tent over my waist and pulled out my dick.

I was not thinking - really, I was still half asleep. I switched a few times between staring at the ceiling and looking at my mom. I would look at the ceiling and tell myself that it had nothing to do with her, it was normal, I'm imagining something else to cum and go back to sleep.

But my gaze settled on her waist, her panties. The way the elastic pressed into her soft, pale skin. The way they had pulled down in her sleep just a little bit, and a tuft of dark pubic hair peeked out from the top.

I came, in my hand and on the inside of the blanket. I quickly got out of bed and washed my hand and the blanket. I barely managed to get back to sleep and I was disgusted with myself and filled with guilt. How could I do that? I didn't do much, did I?

No, no, you don't masturbate looking at someone while they're asleep. That is exploitative, it's perverted. And it is, I was right and I still believe that. I still feel like, in any deep moral sense, me masturbating to my sleeping mother like that was in a sense worse than everything else that was to happen later that year, in the winter. Later, at least, it was undeniably mutual. But later it went a lot further, and there was a lot more to regret.

3.

Our apartment building -- that converted motel that was a shoddy excuse for one, anyway - was in the middle of town, and my mom's health clinic and my gas station were at the far east and west ends of the main street respectively.

This was a little town but there was no idyllic Americana about it. It was, functionally, a strip mall of gas stations and fast-food franchises stretched out over ten miles of asphalt and stubborn prairie grasses springing up in the few places that were neither state road, parking lot, or stores.

We renewed the lease again in September. The gentle hope of the spring and summer had begun to wear off, and things were feeling difficult and dark again. Though nothing compared to the horrible grief and confusion of the previous winter, in some ways that next fall was worse, because our concerns weren't so much about grappling with sudden death and dramatic revelations.

They were about paying the bills, sharing one cramped room and a bed, the poor variety of food available in a tiny Nebraska strip mall town that had a single supermarket without even the selection of cheap Hispanic and Asian ingredients. And we were very lonely, and very bored.

When we had first got here, we were lonely because I had lost my dad, and she had lost her husband, and not only had he died, but we lost our entire perception of him as a faithful, dignified man who was doing his absolute best to provide for us. That was terrible, but it was dramatic, and the drama gave a kind of theatrical numbness to the loneliness.

Now we had both tried to get back into the world and make friends and find lovers. There had been nice people, good dates, but they all quickly fizzled out. And there were not many people living here. It was a truckstop town, a town for refilling on gas between the two larger towns twenty miles away each. We had tried to find people, even just friends, but it was difficult.

We worked all the time, and spending a few hours at the bar or at dinner meant that we couldn't sleep much that night. We were already exhausted, and the effort of starting and maintaining new friendships and relationships would have been enormous even if we had found good prospects. And we had not found good prospects anyway.

But sometime in November, something changed. The situation didn't, but me and my mom's relationship did. We started talking more. Not about our lives or our living situation or chores or errands, but about small things that happened in our days, about little thoughts and ideas we had.

We started to tell jokes and laugh. We started to hum to ourselves around the house, and did our chores with a little bounce in our step. When we got ready for work in the morning, or cleaned up after work at night, it felt like we were going through our daily routine together in a comforting way.

Our life was hard but we were facing it together and we could manage it. One day, my mom surprised me with some Mexican food she went and got from a town over after her shift ended early. The next week I brought her home some flowers.

Far from there being any flirtation or wooing here or anything to that effect, it felt like a reaffirmation that we were a family and that we had a relationship outside of two people caught up in the same mess sharing a room. This actually soothed my previous anxieties about having looked at her sleeping body while I masturbated.

I was still guilty and disgusted with myself for it, but now it made sense and I could more gently treat it as a lesson. I was lonely, I was frustrated, I needed human contact, and I had only been able to violate her confidence like that because I had stopped thinking of her as a person I had a relationship with. She had become only a body I was lying next to.

If I had been more attentive to the fact that she was my mother, I never would have even thought to do something like that.

4.

One day in the second week of December I came home from work to find my mom already there, laying back on the bed watching TV in her scrubs, shoes kicked off, drinking a cup of coffee.

"You're home early," I said. Normally she was home a little later than me, or we got in at about the same time.

She looked over:

"Hm? Oh, yeah, Barb asked me if I could take two of her days around Christmas if I covered for her some time." She looked back at the TV and absentmindedly tapped the remote against the side of her jaw and recited the details, "And Tamay asked Barb if Barb minded taking some of her shifts right after Christmas, and she said she couldn't, and I thought, fuck it, I'll take it!"

She snorted and looked at me and smiled wide, affecting some kind of vague enthusiastic character's accent: "That's right, momma's on vacation!"

I laughed and smiled back, "Great! How long?"

"Four days, can you believe it?" She said. "I can't remember the last time I got four days off, Jesus."

I nodded, "Good, good, you need it."

"Yeah, I got some kind of knot in my shoulder..." She reached her hand up and rubbed her own shoulder and her voice trailed off, muttering to herself.

I grabbed a towel and got in the shower. Bending over to wash my feet I felt the ache in my back. I hadn't even considered taking some time off. I was hurting too.

There were two new cashiers at the gas station and both had been complaining about not getting enough hours. I had been one of two cashiers, the other being the owner, for so long that I was prioritized for hours. The owner wouldn't be glad about it, but I had worked there long enough and hard enough that he wouldn't object if I said I needed some time off.

I probably never would've considered it if my mom hadn't mentioned it - I wouldn't want her to think I was going to slack off on our expenses. But we had been getting along well recently, and since we would both inevitably be working for Christmas, it might be nice to spend some time together.

I dried myself off, got dressed, and left the bathroom.

"I'm thinking mom, I might take off a few days too. New cashiers want some more hours anyway," I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat in the chair by the little table.

She looked at me, a little surprised. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, we can do like, I don't know, a little Christmas. Since we'll both be working for Christmas," I said.

She smiled warmly and tilted her head, "That's so sweet, baby! What do you want to do?"

I shook my head, "Nothing really," and laughed. "Just rest. Maybe get dinner, see a movie. We can just go shopping together. You know."

She pointed the remote at the little box TV and exaggerated a little pout, "Snowstorm coming."

I looked at the screen. They were saying six to twelve inches, blizzard conditions, starting tomorrow night.

She said, "That's a really nice idea, though. Do you want to decorate?"

I hesitated and thought about it.

She smiled.

"Not really," I laughed.

She shook her head and laughed aloud, "Neither do I. Let's just go shopping tomorrow before it starts coming down, make some dinner together. We can get some movies from the Redbox."

I nodded, "Sounds good."

I called my boss to tell him I wouldn't be coming in for a few days. I phrased it so that it sounded like I wanted to make sure I would be able to come in on Christmas and was getting the terrible inconvenience of family time out of the way, so he sounded glad that I was calling out.

We slept in the next day and around ten got ready to go to the store. I threw some of our dirty clothes, as well as my blanket and pillowcase in the wash because I was pretty sure it had been a couple of weeks since they had been cleaned.

In this apartment, we had a small washer and dryer stacked on top of each other in a little closet next to the kitchen stove and cabinets. Actually, it was a lot like the one we had in the apartment I grew up in.

We dressed in casual, comfortable clothes that neither of us had worn since the summer when we ventured out to bars and restaurants to make friends and go on ill-fated dates. Besides that, it had all been work uniforms and pajamas.

She took a little while to curl her hair, which I could tell was only for her own benefit, and she felt good doing it. I wore my favorite jeans and a nice sweater and beanie. She wore a baggy sweatshirt with the name of a college none of us knew on it, and a pair of tight red sweatpants.

As we walked out the door, she backed up to turn the light off, and her wide, soft butt bumped against my hand and groin. It was just a quick, passing glance, but the sweatpants were tight enough that I felt my hand between her cheeks and felt how full they were. I had the beginnings of a thought that I dutifully tossed away without much effort.

It's funny, and a little sad, how nice going grocery shopping can be when it's one of the only times you leave the house outside of work. And we had fun with each other, laughing and making jokes about stupid things like knock-off cereal brands and the music they play in grocery stores. My mom suggested getting some wine and picked up a liter of red, glancing at the label before she put it in the grocery cart but stood there for a minute looking at it, pursing her lips.

"Hey, why not? You can relax, you earned it," I said.

She looked at me suppressing a laugh and smirking. She slapped me lightly on my chest and said, "I'm trying to decide whether I should get another one," and she laughed.

I laughed and took another liter of red off the shelf and put it in the cart.

When we rolled the cart out of the store, it had already started snowing, earlier than the news had said, and it was mixed with some sleet.

"Wait, do we want to get a movie?" My mom said. She pointed at the Redbox DVD vending machine by the doors to the grocery store.

We went over to pick out a couple of movies. She wanted to watch a spy movie. My first thought was to gently say that she wouldn't like it, because from what I saw of the previews it seemed very risque, but why wouldn't she want to see it? Just because she and my dad never watched anything like that?

He also wouldn't have approved of her wearing those sweatpants that showed how wide and soft her butt was. I said that the spy movie sounded good, and chose another one that I hadn't heard of but from the cover and title looked like a safe drama.

We pushed the cart back to the car through the sleet and snow and unloaded the groceries quickly, then repeated the same process in reverse when we got back to the apartment, carrying the bags up the stairs to the second floor in two trips.

We were both wet and shivering from the sleet and snow. By the time we had brought in the final bags from the house, the wind was blowing hard enough that the snow was falling sideways and even the small flakes stung when they hit our cheeks and hands.

When we closed the door and locked it we were both rubbing our hands together, taking off our wet shoes and socks. The bottom of our pants were wet from walking through the slush.

"Do we want to live in luxury?" Mom said, bending over to turn on our space heater. She turned her head for an answer.

"Sure," I said, then nodded quickly, "Yes, yes please."

She turned the heater on high instead of low, and I turned on the humidifier, because the space heater dried out the room too much. We rarely used them. The space heater cost five hours of myTo continue reading this story you must be a member. Join for FREE here.