Page 17 of CTRL+ME
“Of course, shoo shoo.” She waves me out of the kitchen.
Back in my office, I notice that my uploads are complete, so now it’s time to check video requests and see how many of them I’m actually willing to do.
I usually ignore the weirder stuff, like food for lube requests. Like, no, I won’t be putting peanut butter anywhere near any of my openings. I’m not new to fetish content by any means, but I value my vaginal health.
One specific request catches my eye.
User: NotYourBabes
Have you ever done any girl-on-girl videos?
I’ve never featured content with another woman on my channel. It’s my way of keeping my sexual orientation a secret, I guess. My way of keeping one more identifiable trait aboutmyself hidden. The username isn’t one of my regular commenters, and when I click the profile, I see why. They joined less than twenty-four hours ago.
The username is far from telling, but I don’t need any clues; I watched Lylah scan that QR code in my room. Bubbles thought no one was watching, but I haven’t been able to take my eyes off her since she first walked through my door.
THIRTEEN
MA’AM… MOMMY
LYLAH
As I watch Tatum’s hips sway back and forth while walking out of the kitchen to her office, my mind floats back to last night when she returned from dropping Josie off. Before a drop of wine was sipped, the sexual tension was already vibrating between us. Then the bottles of wine were like throwing gasoline on the flames, but fuck was I ready to watch it burn.
And burn we did. I can feel the blush running up my chest just thinking about what those bathroom walls saw. My cheeks practically have a heartbeat when my mind replays waking up mid-fucking-orgasm with what I’m sure was Tatum’s name onmy lips.
My eyes landed on her bare body so early in the morning, breasts engorged, begging to be emptied, water dripping down every curve, and her hair clipped up out of the way, but those few front pieces falling perfectly to frame her face. And what did I do? Got up and ran from her like that wasn’t one of the best nights I’ve ever had with someone.
But I’m going to make it up to her with this amazing lunch I’ve planned out, one that will be better than takeout.
Sorting through what I have, I find the baby potatoes, broccoli, and chicken, moving it to the marble countertop. The chicken is already cooked, thankfully, so I just toss it into the bowl with all the chopped-up veggies to season. Lining the way-fancier-than-mine air fryer with foil, I evenly spread everything out, pressing the start button.
I happily prop my ass against the drawers under the counter and start to doom scroll, making my rounds of my fav social media apps. When the timer goes off, I practically jump out of my skin.
Tossing our food on some plates, I yell out to Tatum to let her know it’s ready. “It’s finished, unless you would like to eat in—” I cut myself off when I turn around, plates in hand, to heralready sitting at the table. “How long have you been there?”
La La Land is where my head was, apparently.
“Not that long… It smelled too good. I had to come see what was going on.” She pushes up on the armrest of the blush-pink kitchen chair she’s sitting in, trying to get a better look at what’s on the plates. I’m in front of her, setting hers down before she has to wait too long. “This is the most action this kitchen has ever seen.”
My eyebrows pull together in concern. “But I only used the air fryer…”
She just nods, and I have to school my features, because it’s rude to judge her. Some folks just don’t care about cooking.
“I’m one of the worst cooks you’ll ever come across. I have a few meals I know how to make well, and that’s what I stick to. If I veer off, things catch on fire.” She chuckles, but at the same time, I can tell this is a sore spot for her.
“Well, good thing cooking is my anxiety reliever—or more like, happy place? Yeah, whatever that is, is what cooking is for me. I can shut my brain off and let my hands create whatever concoction it comes up with.”
Tatum sighs like she knows the exact feeling. “That’s what laundry is for me.”
“I’d rather pull my hair from my head than do laundry willingly,” I joke, but there’s way too much truth in that statement.
“I’ll do your laundry if you cook.” She shoots me a wink, but I hope she knows I’m not dumb enough to turn that down.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, ma’am.” I give her a nod, but she’s quiet.
I meet her eyes, and it’s the same look she had last night, way too many times.
“It’s Mommy, not ma’am.”
