I looked at her. At her thick body — the wide hips, the heavy breasts straining against her green dress, the soft belly visible beneath the fabric. At her flushed face. At her trembling hands.
"Mother-in-law," I said. My voice dropped. Low. Warm. The voice I'd used on Vespera last night. The voice that had made a thirty-two-year-old academic prodigy beg for formulas and cock in the same breath. "Please. I just want to try anal once with you."
She trembled. Her hand on the wall tightened. Her knuckles went white.
"No — what are you saying—" She swallowed. The sound was audible. "That is — I am your mother-in-law — you cannot—"
She ran.
Her thick body moved down the hallway — her hips swinging, her dress pulling, her footsteps rapid and unsteady. She disappeared around the corner. A door slammed. The sound of a lock clicking.
I laughed. Inwardly. The sound didn't escape my lips, but the amusement filled my chest like smoke.
'Emotional manipulation.'
