You're always late for shit like this. 

It's not your fault the universe works against you. You’d got stuck on a call at work, the line at Starbucks had been wrap around long, the usual. Murphy’s law, you know? If something could go wrong, then it would. 

Newton Massachusetts; gorgeous, in that old East Coast kind of way. Expensive in it too, the neighborhoods lined with historic and modern build alike, nearly all of them million dollar homes. Doctors, Lawyers, Fortune 500 owners the population was littered with socialites- 

And all of their children went to Archer. The Middle School was harder to get into then most state colleges- which in your opinion had always been ridiculous but potato, potatoh, as you pull into the parking lot littered with shiny Benz’s and Range Rovers in every shade and model your stomach flutters, uncomfortably nervous.

You’d gone to Asher, and even then. You could feel the classism, the tiers so clearly established- It was one thing to be a student there. And a completely different thing to be a parent. 

Asher Middle School is a shark tank. A very nicely decorated one, but a shark tank none the less. Full of PTA moms, dorsal fins standing on high alert as they sniff out the waters for any trace of blood.

Parking is a pain, as always. And as you run across the campus greenery, as quick as your tall chunky boots will allow, you fight the intrusive thoughts about setting the pretty fish tank on fire. 

------------

It's not that you hate the school, no. You just hate what it stands for. Hate that it represents the massive responsibility that you’d taken on. When you used to walk these halls, life was boundless. No end in sight, no care in the world. Nostalgia settles heavy in your chest, as it usually does. Longing- 

You check your phone and curse,

You’re so fucking late. 

As you round the corner to Conference Room B, 

You have to wonder. Was it the universe keeping away from the school? Or your conscience? It wasn't Jiminy Cricket small and whispering. It was something heavier, and it screamed at the top of its lungs.

Especially as he comes into view.

Gripping the venti green tea latte, tight, you hold your head up high. Practiced nonchalance blanketing your features. 

“Look who’s late. Again” he remarks, small smirk tugging on his too pink lips. He’s put together, impeccably, as he always is. Pressed dress pants, long dark trench. His beard lined up razor sharp and his hair coiffed. “At this point, its habitual”

“Andy, If I wanted your opinion, I'd pay for it” you strike back, your heart dancing an uneven two step, hidden away in your chest. 

“I don't think you could afford my rates” He chuckles low as as you pass him, go for the door. You know better then to say anything more, then to exchange more then a friendly handful of words, even if the hallway is empty, it’s not. 

There’s too many eyes, cameras, whispering mouths. 

You just quirk your manicured brow, give him a small private smile “And what about a discount, hmm? For a friend” the word is exaggerated, pinpricked and bratty. 

You don't wait for a reply, 

If you can't even be seen talking to one another, you sure as shit can't walk in together.

You let the heavy wooden door close behind you, slamming in his face.

------------

The meeting for the Fall Fest Formal goes painlessly enough, there's a jab here and there about your timing. A few stares at your exposed legs, even if they are encased in sheer black tights. 

Just because you’d been forced into the role of motherhood, didn't mean you were going to dress the part. You’d play their game for them, if only for the sake of Lottie. Take on the decorating committee. “Yeah, sure- I could come a couple hours and help set up. No probs” 

What about the bake sale? The fundraiser? The blood drive. 

They circle you, in open water. You’re a decade, maybe two, younger then most of them. No established career or big earning husband. Fresh meat, raw and bloody. 

You don't sway as they verbally push and pull. Their smiles are fanged, but you avoid them. If only narrowly. 

“I bake a mean Red Velvet cupcake. Gluten free, of course” translates to get fucked, you hope Joan Rifkin understands the subliminal message loud and clear. 

You're eager to leave, busy, always on the run. The last period bell rings shrilly and it floods you with relief. You kiss cheeks and exchange numbers, and not once do you look at Andy Barber. 

You pat yourself on the back about it as you grab Lottie, pack her into your compact SUV and take off- 

Your days not over, not by a long shot. 

Why your niece is such an extroverted creature, you’ll never know. Her social calendar drains your battery, yet she stays bubbly. Smile. Very much thirteen years old. 

“And then Trish said that Miles doesn’t like Everly, even though he obviously does. Jealousy’s ugly-”

“Just like her new haircut” you interject, because Trish’s mom was a cunt, and she was raising her daughter to be one too. 

“That’s mean!” Lottie whines, before she giggles “She does kinda look like Lord Farquaad, though” 

She jabbers on as the speakers play the new Billie Eilish, you always let her connect her Spotify after school. Decompressing and expressing and all that, the therapist had said. 

Lottie’s so well adjusted, the last half a year had rolled off her back and right onto the floor. She’s not weighed down, not that you can tell. And that’s what matters. Taking the brunt of the pressure really isn't that big of a deal, not when Lottie beams as she talks about the upcoming Science Fair. 

You’d commute across town and back for Soccer, and Gymnastics. For Ballet on Sundays and Student Council on Wednesdays-

The dash of your car beep and flashes with an incoming text and you quickly swipe it away when you see who from, before Lottie can read it. 

She shrugs it off, continues to gossip about her fellow eighth graders and you listen, half-heartedly. 

It’s not until you drop her off, her brunette ponytail bobbing as she enters the mouth of the Recreation Center that you pull the unread message backup.

From Andy, it reads in bold. 

I want to see you. Tomorrow night? 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You promised yourself that you were going to end this toxic shit. That your plate was too full for Andy and his family sized baggage. Vented to your best girlfriends about it, drank about it, cried under your thick duvet about it 

Can’t. I’m busy, it’s a friend’s birthday dinner. Already RSVP’d

You respond, feeling strong. Saying no- 

Your weak bitch, dickmatized brain ruins it all a moment later, your fingers moving without your permission. 

Thursday? Wanna take a long lunch? I can meet you after Yoga?

It’s not until later that night, cooking dinner in your dead sister's kitchen, that your phone dings with a reply.  You stir at the stir-fry with the large wooden spoon as you open it. 

Can’t wait. Send me the location and I’ll be there.

------------

You’d fallen in love with Yoga your junior year of college, and it had never really faded. You like pushing your body to limits that you never knew you could pass. Short and stout, your plus sized body wasn't a limitation, except to society's eyes. And even then, as you leave Orangetheory, see how the Gym Rats look at your ass in your neon pink athslethure. Fatphopic by day, Chubby Chasing in the shadows. It’s how it's always been. 

In white suburbia, it only seems to be worse. 

No matter, you ignore them. Drop dead, eat your heart out. 

Still down for lunch? Your nails clack against your phone screen as you text. Your heart rate still hasn't gone down from your workout and this sure didn't help its cause.

You know I am. Hungry? Wanna do Yard House or that Bistro you liked?

Both are well out of the suburbs, closer to the city. Boston and its overpopulation an easy cover. 

You don't want to sit across from him in some restaurant, you don't want to politely order a club salad and make small talk while the two of you burn and simmer and ache. 

I’m horny, we’ll do lunch after. Meet me at Olmstead park- i’ll drop a pin

You boldly reply, chewing on your bottom lip, fiddling with your keys. Your already shaky, endorphins pumping, excited. 

See you soon, daddy. 

You're behind the wheel when your phone chimes over and over, Andys texts coming in quick, eager succession. 

------------

Olmstead Park is acres big, littered with tons of different running paths. A grand lake, heavily wooded. 

Secluded, especially this early in the day. 

“Fuck” you squeal, tears rolling down your face as Andy gives a particularly rough thrust- you feel it in your throat, have to grit your teeth and work through the pleasure pain of him hitting your cervix. 

It’s good, so good. Too good, the added layer of voyeurism doing something unexplainable to the both of you. 

You’d both parked in an empty lot, Andy’s Audi more than half hidden by an old overgrown willow, It doesn't matter that you're all but in the clear, he assures you. That no one will find you here, he’d attested.  

There’s something about the fact that they could.

Someone could stumble down a path, catch a glimpse from across the lake.

See you bent over in Andys back seat, your tight leggings pulled off and thrown to the ground, your plump ass arched high up into the air as he takes you from behind. Andy’s still mostly dressed, his navy button up askew and undone, his charcoal dress slacks pooled around his knees. 

It’s hot. The hottest thing you’ve ever done. Every time you think sex with Andy cant get any better, it just does. Like he’s not even trying. 

You’ve been at it for a while, the space is steamy and reeks of sex. Your groin burns, your thighs ache, you’re gasping for breath like a fish out of water. 

He’s already made you come, twice. Once around his fingers, his tongue laving at your swollen fat clit and the other just moments after he’d slid into you. It’s wet and messy. Your thick thighs, his drenched beard. It rubs irritation against your shoulder as he presses his face into your shoulder. 

“Andy” you blubber, overheating. You feel like your dying. 

“Take it, baby. Be good for me” He gruffs, demanding. Begging. “You’re so good for me. You need it, huh?”

Your vision swims, at the praise. At the sound of his sandpaper voice. All you can do is nod, too overwhelmed to answer. He knows fully well how bad you need him. 

You can't give this up. 

His pace picks up and your pussy burns, overstimulated. Raw. Stretched to its max, you’d never been with anyone so big. You weren't blowing smoke up his as the first time you’d told him that, four months ago. It hurt then and it hurts now. Your blood sings for it, for the grounding pain that came with Andy fucking your brains out.

He never goes easy on you. He knows, always had, that that’s not what either of you need. He has his waif like wife to fuck softly, to lay out and make love to. A sick part of you revels in the nation, in the fucking fact, that you know she can’t take him like this. Can’t take this ramming pace. Can’t take his dick the way he truly likes to give it- 

“Feels so good huh? Why’d you make me wait” He’s speech is broken grunts, his thrust pauses in between his words “Why’d you try to take this pussy away from me?”

You’re going to pass out, there’s no air in this humid car. Your lungs are going to burst. Your chest is going to concave in. “C-can’t” 

“Can’t what? Can’t believe you we’re able to hold out for two weeks? Can’t believe you could handle it?”

It had been a hard two weeks, empty. Longing. 

You don't think you could ever do that again. Ever.

The thought is terrifying and final and you reach backwards for his hand, needing him closer. Needing him to hold you. 

“Shh- it’s okay” Andy coo’s, his entire weight pressing down on your back. Smothering you. Perfect. It changes the angle and you have to bite the leather interior, your screams still echoing. 

You wonder how he'd explain the teeth imprints near the left side window control. 

Andy spews more filth, most of it muddled nonsense as his hips begin to shift restlessly, as his grin on you turns vice tight and painful. When he comes it's quiet, intense. He holds you as he floods you and you whine at him, about how much you love it. 

You almost tell him how much you love him. 

You don't feel guilty after, and you know that's horrible. You feel lighter, happier. Floaty, you giggle as he kisses your cheeks, temples. His beard reeks of you, and if you had the time you'd lick it clean and push his dark head back between your thighs.

Cleaning up is awkward, especially in the back of his car that seen so much smaller now that you’re regaining your bearings. You’d shower later, and as hot as it is it's also pretty gross that he’d be dripping out of you until you got home. Dash stashed napkins really couldn't do the trick.

“Are you going to freeze me out again?” He inquires as he tucks himself back into his slacks. He’s all too casual about it. 

“Probably” you answer honestly. 

It’s quiet- and you hate that you can't give voice to all of the thoughts in your head. 

“I’ll be here if you need me” 

It’s sure, confidently spoken. A promise. 

You don't acknowledge it, but you tuck it away somewhere deep. Cling to it. 

Ignore the fact that he’s already spoken those same vows to someone else. 

Welp when I said I was back I meant it. Double posting? In this economy? Pls enjoy it while it lasts.