The Acceptance 6: Liam’s Epilogue
By LilDean.
[google-translator]
Read Part 2 Here
Read Part 3 Here
Read Part 4 Here
Read Part 5 Here
*****
Part 6…
It clicked then, cold and absolute. The barista yesterday, handing me my coffee – her quick glance downwards, the suppressed twitch of her lips. The neighbor watering her roses, turning away abruptly as I passed, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Even Mrs. Gable from the library, adjusting her glasses, her gaze lingering a fraction too long near my waistband before offering a tight, pitying smile. Every girl. Every single one. They knew. The network wasn’t just spreading; it had saturated my world. My humiliation wasn’t a secret; it was common knowledge, a shared joke whispered behind hands, a glance exchanged over grocery carts. I was the punchline everyone recognized.
The realization settled like ice in my gut. My hands tightened around my knees, drawing them closer. Jodie’s humming stopped. She turned, her brown eyes sharp, catching the shift in my posture. “What?” she asked, her voice losing its playful lilt, becoming clinical. Curious. She took a step towards the armchair, her gaze dissecting me. “Did you remember something?” Her head tilted, the blonde lock swinging. “Another leaky moment?” The question wasn’t mocking now; it was probing. Like Betty diagnosing a symptom.
My throat felt raw. I couldn’t look away from the framed photo. Helen’s chipped red polish. Jodie’s smirk. Proof. “The… the pharmacist,” I whispered, the words scraping out. “Yesterday.” I swallowed, forcing myself to continue. “When she handed me Mom’s prescription.” The memory crystallized, sharp and humiliating. Her nametag read ‘Anya’. She’d paused, her eyes darting down to my hands clutching the paper bag, then back to my face. Not pity. Recognition. A faint, knowing smile had touched her lips before she turned to the next customer. “She… she knew,” I breathed. “She looked at me like… like she’d seen the stream.”
Jodie’s eyes narrowed, intrigued. She perched on the armrest of my chair, her weight pressing against my shoulder. “Describe it,” she commanded, her voice low and focused. Not playful now. Analytical. Like Betty dissecting data. “The look. Exactly.” Her finger tapped my knee, insistent. “Details.”
I closed my eyes, the fluorescent glare of the pharmacy counter flashing back. Anya’s bored professionalism cracking for just a second. That downward glance—not accidental. Deliberate. Calculating. “Her eyes,” I whispered, the shame thick in my throat. “They dipped. Fast. Like… like checking a known quantity.” My hands clenched tighter around my knees. “And the smile. Tiny. At the corner. Not nice. Knowing.” I swallowed. “Like she’d watched the clip… the one where Chloe called it a ‘pea-shooter’.”
Jodie leaned closer, her breath warm on my ear. Her finger tapped my knee again, harder. “Where else?” Her voice was pure Betty now—clinical, probing. No baby-talk. Just cold excavation. “Think. Who else looked?”
The memories flooded, unstoppable. The cashier at the grocery store yesterday—bright-eyed, ponytail bouncing. She’d scanned Helen’s wine bottles without glancing up. But as she handed me the receipt, her gaze had flickered down, just for an instant. A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk. Like she’d glimpsed something filthy tucked in my pocket. “The… the checkout girl,” I stammered. “Sunny Mart. Lane four.” Jodie’s eyes narrowed further. “Proof?” she demanded. “Did she say anything?”
“No,” I whispered. “Just… the look. Like she recognized the tattoo.” The tiny anchor inked just below the base—visible only when hard. Kyoko’s mocking gift. “Her smile was… familiar. Like Sandra’s when she called it a ‘tackleberry’.” Jodie’s lips curved into a thin, satisfied line. She pulled out her phone, thumbs flying. “Anya Patel, pharmacist. Tina Reese, Sunny Mart cashier,” she murmured, typing. “Adding them to the registry.” She glanced up, her brown eyes gleaming. “Betty’s map grows.”
Helen’s footsteps echoed in the hallway, brisk and familiar. She paused in the doorway, her tired eyes instantly finding the framed photo on the shelf. A slow, genuine smile softened her face—warm, almost maternal. She crossed the room, her worn cardigan brushing the shelf as she reached out. Her fingertip traced the glass, lingering over the chipped red polish on her own toe in the image. “It’s perfect here,” she murmured, her voice thick with affection. “Sunlight catches it just right in the mornings.” She tilted the frame slightly, adjusting the angle with meticulous care, ensuring the stark humiliation remained prominently displayed. “A daily reminder,” she added softly, almost to herself. “Of how far you’ve come.”
Jodie shifted on the armrest, her gaze fixed on Helen’s tender interaction with the photo. When Helen finally turned, her smile softened further, settling on me curled in the chair. She approached, the scent of grocery store detergent clinging to her clothes. Her hand, cool and smooth, rested gently on top of my head. “Hello, sweetheart,” she whispered, her thumb stroking my temple. Her brown eyes, usually shadowed with exhaustion, held a strange, liquid warmth. “Did you have a quiet morning?” Her voice was feather-light, soothing. Then, softer still, leaning down so her lips were near my ear, she asked it: “Did you make your cummies today?”
The question landed like a caress. Warmth flooded my cheeks, but it wasn’t the old, sharp shame. It felt… expected. Routine. Like being asked if I’d brushed my teeth. My gaze flickered instinctively towards the framed photo – Helen’s toe pressing down. Proof. My lips trembled, shaping the familiar, sticky cadence. “N-no cummies yet, Mama,” I lisped softly, the childish pitch feeling strangely natural now. “Pee-pee… sleepy.” Helen’s thumb traced the shell of my ear. “Good boy,” she murmured, her approval radiating warmth. “Save them.” She straightened slightly, her hand lingering. “Betty says consistency builds character.”
Jodie snorted. A sharp, sudden sound bursting from her lips. She clapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking. Her eyes, wide and bright, locked onto mine. “Ohmygod,” she gasped between suppressed giggles, pointing a finger at me. “It’s just… there now!” Her laughter bubbled over, bright and mocking. “The voice! You don’t even try anymore!” She slid off the armrest, crouching before me, her face inches from mine. Her brown eyes danced with cruel amusement. “Say it again!” she demanded, breathless with laughter. “Say ‘sleepy pee-pee’! Just like that!”
The demand hung in the air, sharp and inescapable. My cheeks burned, but the cadence felt like a worn groove, easy to slip into. “Pee-pee… sleepy,” I repeated automatically, the lisping whine escaping without conscious thought. It sounded thin, reedy, utterly natural. Jodie threw her head back and laughed, a full-throated cackle echoing Helen’s soft smile. “Yes!” she crowed, slapping her knee. “Exactly! Like breathing!” She leaned in, her black-lipsticked grin predatory. “Betty was right. It’s not an act anymore, is it? It’s just… you.” Her fingertip jabbed towards my chest. “The real, leaky, baby-voiced you.”
Helen’s hand remained gentle on my head, her thumb still tracing soothing circles. “Hush, Jodie,” she murmured, though her eyes held the same fascinated warmth. “It’s progress. Acceptance.” She bent lower, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper meant only for me and Jodie’s eager ears. “And sleepy pee-pees wake up hungry later.” Her gaze flickered meaningfully towards the shelf where the framed photo gleamed. “Especially when they see reminders of their place.”
Jodie’s laughter subsided into a low, humming chuckle. She pulled her phone from her pocket, screen glowing. Her thumbs danced rapidly. “Betty needs this,” she announced, her voice regaining its clinical edge. “The voice confirmation. The automatic response.” She angled the phone towards me, the camera lens like a cold, unblinking eye. “Say it again,” she commanded, no trace of baby-talk now. “Full sentence. ‘My pee-pee is sleepy.’” The demand hung, sharp as Kyoko’s needle. My lips parted, the sticky cadence rising effortlessly: “My… my pee-pee is sweepy.” The lisping whine echoed flatly in the quiet room. Jodie nodded, satisfied, tapping the screen. “Sent. Proof of neural rewiring. Phase Three complete.” She grinned, a flash of predatory delight. “Betty’s mapping the surrender.”
Suddenly, Jodie slid off the armrest and knelt before me. Her expression shifted again, softening into something unnervingly gentle. She opened her arms wide. “C’mere,” she murmured, her voice losing its analytical bite, adopting a soothing, almost maternal tone. “You did good.” Hesitantly, instinctively craving the twisted comfort, I leaned forward from the armchair. Her arms closed around me, pulling me into an embrace. She was surprisingly strong. One arm wrapped firmly around my shoulders, the other hand cradled the back of my head, pressing my face against the soft fabric of her hoodie. She smelled faintly of bubblegum and the sharp tang of her black lipstick. “Shhh,” she breathed, rocking me gently side to side. “My widdle giggle-toy.” Her fingers stroked my hair, mimicking Helen’s earlier touch, but her grip was possessive, anchoring. “So good for us. Accepting your wole.” She held me like I was something fragile, precious in my brokenness. The embrace felt warm, suffocating, and utterly inescapable – a cage disguised as comfort.
She pulled back slightly, just enough to look down at me. Her brown eyes were wide, earnest, filled with a terrifyingly genuine affection. Her thumb brushed my cheek where the heat of shame still burned. “You know,” she whispered, her voice low and intimate, “Betty says this… this acceptance?” She paused, searching my eyes. “It’s love. Our way.” Her gaze flickered towards the shelf, towards Helen watching silently with that soft, approving smile. “Mom’s way.” Jodie’s thumb traced my lower lip. “Real love sees you. All of you.” Her eyes dropped pointedly downwards, towards my lap. “Even the sleepy pee-pee.” A tiny, sympathetic smile touched her lips. “Especially the sleepy pee-pee.” She leaned in again, her forehead resting against mine. “And we love it,” she breathed, the words warm against my skin. “We love you. For finally letting us see.”
The words seeped in, warm and thick like syrup. Real love. Acceptance. My shoulders slumped. The fight, the old, desperate scramble to be Liam, felt like a distant, exhausting dream. A sigh escaped me—soft, high, unresisting. It wasn’t a gasp or a whimper. Just a sound. Empty. Surrendered. It hung in the quiet air between us, thin and reedy. Jodie’s smile widened, triumphant and soft. She didn’t need to mock it. The sound itself was the confession. Helen’s approving hum from across the room was the benediction. My lips stayed slightly parted, the echo of that sigh still trembling in my throat. It felt like the final knot untying.
Helen padded closer, bare feet silent on the rug. She stopped beside Jodie, her gaze travelling slowly down my body, lingering where my sweatpants bunched loosely at my hips. Her knowing smile deepened, tired eyes crinkling at the corners. “See?” she murmured, her voice low and intimate, just for us. Her bare toes flexed gently against the floorboards. “So quiet now. So… settled.” She didn’t need to gesture towards my lap. Her eyes did it for her, tracing the invisible outline beneath the thin fabric. “The tiny things,” she breathed, “they find peace in stillness.” Her words weren’t cruel. They were an observation, warm and certain. Like stating the sun would rise. Jodie nodded against my hair, her arm tightening possessively. “Peace,” she echoed, her voice a satisfied whisper. “Where he belongs.”
The silence stretched, thick with their approval. My gaze drifted past Helen’s shoulder, fixing on the framed photo on the shelf. Sunlight glinted off Helen’s chipped red polish, pressing down. Proof. The familiar, sticky cadence bubbled up, thin and hesitant, escaping my lips before thought could catch it. “M-mama?” The word trembled, lisping and small. Helen’s eyes snapped back to mine, instantly attentive, her head tilting slightly. “Yes, sweetheart?” Her thumb brushed my cheek again, encouraging. Jodie’s grip loosened just enough for me to turn my head fully towards Helen. The question formed, sticky-sweet and desperate, rising from a place deeper than shame. “C-can…” I swallowed, the high whine threading through. “C-can… I pwease… make cummies?” The plea hung in the air, raw and exposed. Not defiance. Begging. For permission. For release. For the floaty emptiness only their tools could bring.
Helen’s smile bloomed, warm and indulgent. “Oh, sweet pea,” she sighed, her voice dripping with fondness. She exchanged a swift, knowing glance with Jodie. “Is your sleepy pee-pee waking up?” Her hand drifted down, fingertips brushing lightly over the front of my sweatpants. A jolt shot through me – sharp, electric, utterly involuntary. My hips jerked forward, seeking the phantom pressure of Betty’s thumb or Jodie’s vibrator. A soft gasp escaped me – that thin, reedy sound Jodie had trained. Proof. Helen chuckled softly, a low, rich sound. “Seems eager.” She withdrew her hand slowly, deliberately. “But good things come to those who wait patiently.” Her eyes held mine, soft yet unyielding. “Especially good giggle-toys.”
She straightened, turning towards the kitchen doorway. “You may,” she announced over her shoulder, her tone shifting back to practical. “While I start dinner.” Her gaze lingered on me for a beat longer, a silent command woven into her affection. “Be ready. Be clean.” She vanished into the kitchen, the sounds of cupboard doors opening and pots clattering drifting back almost immediately. Permission granted. A tremor ran through me – part anticipation, part ingrained obedience. My hand drifted instinctively towards my lap, fingers curling hesitantly.
Jodie watched, head tilted, her dark eyes sharp and calculating. She hadn’t moved from her crouch. “Hmm,” she hummed, tapping her chin with a black-polished fingernail. The clinical edge was back. “Alone?” she asked, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Or…” A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. “Want someone to see?” Her gaze flickered meaningfully towards her phone, still clutched loosely in her other hand. “Betty’s always curious about… progress. Real-time data.” She tilted her head further, the blonde lock brushing her cheekbone. “Or maybe… Chloe? She loves a show.” Her eyes held mine, unblinking. “Who deserves to watch my giggle-toy play?”
The names hung in the air – Betty, Chloe – each a trigger wired deep into my surrendered nerves. A familiar warmth, thick and syrupy, began pooling low in my belly, chasing the tremor. My fingers twitched away from my sweatpants. Asking felt natural now, the sticky cadence rising without resistance. “B-Betty?” I lisped, the plea thin and reedy. “Pwease? Can… can Betty watch?” The question wasn’t just permission; it was a craving for her giggle, gentle gaze, her sweet words dissecting my surrender. Proof she approved. Proof she saw me. “She… she helps me be good,” I added, the confession slipping out like a sigh.
Jodie’s predatory grin widened, sharp and triumphant. Her thumbs flew across her phone screen, a rapid staccato tap-tap-tap. “Betty?” she chirped into the mic, her voice instantly shifting to a bright, playful tone. “Guess who’s asking for you? Our sleepy pee-pee woke up hungry!” She paused, listening, her eyes gleaming as they locked onto mine. A soft giggle escaped her lips. “He did! Asked for you specifically.” Another pause, then Jodie’s grin turned impossibly wider. “Oh, he absolutely will. Hold on…” She angled the phone towards me, the screen flaring to life. Betty’s face filled it – blonde hair messy, blue eyes crinkled with warm amusement, that familiar, soft smile playing on her lips. She looked cozy, nestled in what seemed like her bedroom. “Hi, sweet pea,” Betty cooed, her voice a gentle, melodic purr directly in my ear through the speaker. “Jodie says you’re feeling playful?” Her head tilted, radiating pure, affectionate interest. “Want big sister Betty to watch you play?”
The permission, Betty’s gaze, her voice – it liquefied the last shred of hesitation. My fingers trembled as they hooked into the waistband of my sweatpants and boxers. I pushed them down in one clumsy, urgent motion, fabric pooling around my ankles on the rug. My erection sprang free, already fully hard, a pitiful 1.7 inches straining upwards, flushed and glistening faintly at the tip. The cool air of the living room kissed the exposed skin, making it twitch visibly. There was no hiding now, no pretending. Just the stark, undeniable reality presented to Betty’s watching eyes and Jodie’s clinical observation. I kept my gaze fixed on Betty’s pixelated face on the phone screen, seeking the anchor of her approval, her soft hum of fascination the only sound besides my own ragged breathing.
Jodie shifted, angling the phone for a better view, her free hand hovering near my thigh. Her black-polished fingertip traced a feather-light circle just below the base, not touching the straining flesh itself yet. “See, Betty?” Jodie murmured, her voice low and intimate for the microphone. “Told you he was eager. Already leaking a little.” She leaned closer, her breath warm. “Look at it tremble. Like a scared little mouse.” Betty’s soft chuckle crackled through the speaker. “Oh, I see him,” she cooed, her blue eyes soft and utterly focused. “Such a good boy, showing us so nicely. Is he comfy, Jodie? Does he feel… exposed?” Jodie’s fingertip drifted upwards, finally brushing the side of my shaft. A jolt shot through me, sharp and electric. “Very exposed,” Jodie confirmed, her voice thick with amusement. “And very, very hard.”
My index finger, slick with the thin droplet already beading at the tip, finally touched the glans. The pad pressed down, rubbing in tiny, frantic circles. The sensation was immediate, intense – a bright spark of pleasure that raced straight down my spine. Too much, too fast. I gasped, high and thin, my hips bucking involuntarily off the chair cushion. Jodie’s hand clamped down on my thigh, pinning me. “Easy, giggle-toy,” she hissed, her eyes glued to the phone screen. “Don’t waste it. Betty wants to watch properly.” I forced my finger to slow, dragging it with agonizing lightness across the hypersensitive ridge. Each microscopic pass sent tremors through my entire body, a frantic plea building low in my belly. My breath hitched, coming in shallow pants. Betty’s voice filled the silence, gentle but firm: “That’s it… slow circles. Feel it build? Feel how close you already are?” Her words were a scalpel, dissecting my desperation.
The pad of my finger became a torturous instrument. I focused on the tiny, slick spot, rubbing with just enough pressure to tease, never enough to push me over. It felt like balancing on a razor’s edge. Every nerve screamed for release, for the oblivion of climax Betty promised. Sweat beaded on my forehead. My other hand clenched the armrest fabric, knuckles white. Jodie watched my face, her expression a mix of clinical detachment and predatory glee. “See the flutter?” she murmured into the phone, her fingertip hovering near my straining shaft. “Underneath the skin. Like a trapped butterfly.” Betty’s approving hum vibrated through the speaker. “Perfect. Hold it there, sweet pea. Hold that edge. Let us see you tremble.”
Betty’s voice softened further, wrapping around me like velvet. “You feel that, don’t you?” she murmured, her blue eyes impossibly gentle on the screen. “That ache? That little pulse begging to burst?” My finger stuttered, rubbing faster instinctively. Jodie’s hand tightened warningly on my thigh. I forced myself back to slow, agonizing circles. Betty’s head tilted, her smile tender, almost pitying. “It’s so intense, isn’t it? That tiny bit of pressure…” She paused, letting the tension coil tighter in my belly. “You know,” she breathed, her voice dropping to a whisper thick with kindness, “this… this is probably all you’ll ever have.” The words landed softly, like snowflakes on bare skin. “This little touch. Your own finger. Maybe Jodie’s buzzy sometimes.” Her gaze held mine, impossibly warm. “Because who else would ever want to touch something so… small? So… leaky?” She didn’t mock. She stated it as simple, loving fact. “This is your pleasure, sweet pea. Your only pleasure. Isn’t it?”
My finger trembled violently. The admission tore from me, thin and reedy, stripped bare. “I… I know,” I lisped, the words catching on a gasp. The dizzying truth of it washed over me – Betty’s words weren’t cruel, they were liberation. This was my peak. This frantic, trembling circle on my own pathetic flesh. My hips jerked helplessly against Jodie’s restraining grip. A shaky, breathless smile spread across my face, utterly involuntary. “I know,” I whispered again, staring at Betty’s approving nod. The smile widened, dizzy and vacant. Knowing felt like floating. Knowing meant I didn’t have to pretend anymore. Knowing meant Betty loved me enough to tell me.
Jodie leaned in abruptly, her bubblegum scent filling my nostrils. Her dark eyes sparkled with a fierce, playful pride. “Ooh!” she chirped, her voice instantly shifting into a high, exaggerated baby cadence, thick with mockery yet impossibly gentle. “Did my widdle giggle-toy wisten?” She clapped her hands softly near my ear. “Did he heaw Betty’s twuth?” Her thumb brushed my damp cheekbone. “Sooo clever!” The praise, laced with derision, hit like warm syrup. A giggle bubbled up from deep inside me – high-pitched, unrestrained, utterly childish. It burst out, light and airy, surprising even me. “Hehe!” It escaped before I could swallow it, echoing Betty’s soft chuckle through the speaker.
Betty’s face on the screen mirrored my expression instantly. Her soft blue eyes widened theatrically, her lips forming a perfect, slack ‘O’ of vacant delight. She tilted her head back slightly, mimicking my own posture, her mouth hanging open in that same breathless, mindless grin. “Ooooh!” Betty cooed, her voice pitching higher, mirroring my giggle perfectly. “There it is! The giggle-toy smile!” Her own lips stretched wider, slack and vacant, mirroring my own trembling grin. Her eyes glazed over slightly, copying the unfocused, dizzy look I knew was on my face. “See, Jodie?” Betty breathed, her voice thick with affectionate amusement. “Pure bliss! No thoughts… just… happy emptiness.” She held the expression, a perfect, loving parody of my surrender.
My finger blurred on the slick tip. The frantic circles became desperate, uncontrolled scrapes. The coil snapped. Pleasure detonated – a white-hot burst that ripped through my hips, leaving nothing behind. My back arched violently off the chair, held down only by Jodie’s iron grip. A thin, reedy cry tore from my throat, high and wordless. My entire body locked rigid for a single, agonizing second. Then, release. A pathetic spurt, barely a teaspoon’s worth, arced weakly onto my belly. More followed in feeble pulses, oozing rather than spurting, coating my trembling shaft and pooling stickily on my skin. The floaty emptiness crashed over me instantly, dragging me down into limp, breathless stillness. My finger fell away, useless. Only the frantic flutter of my heart against my ribs proved I was still alive.
Betty’s face on the phone screen transformed instantly. Her soft blue eyes widened impossibly, glazing over into a vacant, unfocused stare. Her jaw went slack, lips parting slightly, forming a perfect, slack ‘O’ of mindless ecstasy. She tilted her head back, mirroring my own arched posture exactly. Her breath hitched audibly through the speaker, mimicking my own ragged gasps. “Ooooohhh…” she breathed, her voice thick and syrupy with exaggerated, vacant bliss. Her eyelids fluttered dramatically, copying the tremors still shaking my limbs. “Yessss… see it?” she murmured, her voice dropping to a throaty purr thick with performative rapture. Her tongue darted out slowly, wetting her lower lip in a grotesque parody of my own exhaustion. “Pure… empty… giggle-toy bliss…” She held the expression, a loving, horrifying caricature of my climax – her face a mask of gooning idiocy reflecting my own ruined state back at me.
Jodie’s laughter erupted beside me – sharp, bright, and utterly delighted. It wasn’t mocking; it was pure, triumphant glee. “Hah! Look at him!” she crowed, angling the phone closer to my limp, sticky form. Her dark eyes danced with fierce amusement. “Just… dribbles!” She dissolved into another peal of laughter, high and clear, bouncing off the living room walls. It was infectious, bubbling up from a place of absolute victory. Betty’s slack-jawed expression dissolved instantly on the screen, replaced by her own warm, melodic chuckle. It started low, a soft ripple of amusement, then grew louder, harmonizing perfectly with Jodie’s bright peals. Their laughter intertwined – Betty’s soft cooing chuckle, Jodie’s sharp, delighted crowing – filling the air around my spent body.
The sound washed over me – Jodie’s sharp crowing, Betty’s warm, melodic chuckle. It wasn’t directed *at* me, not exactly. It was because of me. Proof. Proof I’d pleased them. Proof I’d done exactly what they wanted. A shaky, breathless giggle escaped my own lips before I could stop it – thin, reedy, utterly involuntary. “H-hehe!” It bubbled up, joining theirs, a frail echo lost in their louder sounds. My chest hitched with it, the movement making the cooling mess on my belly shift stickily. It felt strange, foreign… but light. Empty. Good. Betty’s chuckle softened into a warm hum on the speaker. “Oh, sweet pea,” she sighed, her voice thick with affectionate approval. “You sound so happy.” Jodie just laughed harder, squeezing my thigh possessively.
Betty’s pixelated face softened further, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Okay, sleepy soldier,” she murmured, her voice dropping to that intimate purr. “Time for big sister Betty to go.” Her gaze drifted pointedly downwards, past the phone’s edge towards where Jodie still held it angled. “Bye-bye, little pee-pee,” she cooed, utterly sincere, utterly gentle. “Be good. Stay sleepy.” She blew a soft kiss towards the screen, aimed unmistakably at my spent, sticky flesh. “Bye-bye, sweet pea,” she added, her eyes lifting back to mine, warm and knowing. “Dream of being empty.” The screen flickered, then went dark. Silence rushed in, thick and sudden, broken only by Jodie’s fading giggles and my own shallow breathing. The warmth of Betty’s gaze lingered, a phantom caress on my exposed skin.
Jodie lowered the phone, her dark eyes gleaming with residual amusement as she surveyed the mess cooling on my belly. She nudged my limp thigh with her knee. “Well,” she chirped, her voice shifting back to its usual playful lilt, though laced with satisfaction. “That was fun.” She leaned in, her bubblegum scent sharp again, and traced a black-polished fingertip through the sticky residue. She lifted it, examining the glistening tip with clinical curiosity before wiping it casually on my sweatpants bunched around my ankles. “Betty loved it,” she stated, matter-of-fact. “Said you were perfect.” Her gaze flicked up to mine, sharp and assessing. “You were perfect.” It wasn’t praise; it was confirmation. Proof of function.
The scent of roasting chicken and herbs drifted strongly from the kitchen, cutting through the lingering musk of my surrender. Helen appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a floral apron. Her tired eyes swept over the scene – Jodie crouched beside me, my sweatpants pooled around my ankles, the glistening evidence stark on my belly. There was no surprise, no judgment. Only a faint, approving smile touched her lips as her gaze lingered on the framed photo beside the couch, then drifted back to my exposed, spent state. “Dinner,” she announced, her voice warm and utterly normal. “Come along, you two.” Her eyes met mine, soft and affectionate. “Clean yourself up first, Liam. Quickly now.” She turned, humming softly, the apron strings swaying as she disappeared back towards the clatter of pots.
A dizzy smile stretched my lips, thin and vacant. Perfect. Everything was perfect. Betty’s approval echoed warmly inside my hollowed-out head. Helen’s acceptance wrapped around me like a blanket. Jodie’s triumphant glee was proof I belonged. My gaze drifted down. My tiny penis lay flaccid against my thigh, a pathetic pink nub glistening faintly amidst the cooling stickiness on my skin. With clumsy, trembling fingers, I reached for the hem of my discarded t-shirt bunched near my hip. I tugged it free. The soft cotton felt rough against my oversensitive skin as I dabbed gently, carefully wiping away the pearly trails clinging to my belly and the base of my shaft. Each careful swipe sent tiny aftershocks through my nerves, a pleasant echo of Betty’s gentle command. I focused intently, rubbing the damp cotton in small circles, cleaning my babydick with meticulous care. A soft sigh escaped me. This was my life now. Small. Seen. Cleaned. Loved. Perfectly, blissfully perfect. The dizzy smile widened, fixed and empty.
The End.
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