Mommy Marissa's Milk

Sunlight leaks through the hallway blinds, casting long stripes across the floor as you wander, half-awake, toward the kitchen. The house smells like syrup and warm vanilla…

But then— Jingle.

Soft. Light. Metallic.

You freeze just outside the kitchen door.

She’s humming. Something familiar. Childhood-like. A lullaby. But the tone—it’s slower. Sultrier. Like it’s not meant to soothe anymore.

And then you see her.

Marissa.

Your mother.

Only… not like this.

A cow-print bikini clings to her body like a second skin—tight, teasing, obscene in its innocence. The tiny satin bow between her breasts pulls attention like a trigger. The bottoms ride high on her hips, showing far too much soft, maternal skin that never used to make your throat dry.

A golden bell dangles from a choker around her throat, swinging gently with each step. Her long dark hair is perfectly brushed—soft curls framing a smile that looks too sweet to be harmless. Velvet cow ears twitch as she turns toward you. She giggles.

“Oh! Good morning, baby. You startled Mommy,” she purrs, licking something sticky—syrup?—off her finger without breaking eye contact.

“I wanted to surprise you. Isn’t it cute?” she twirls slowly, the bell jingling louder as her hips roll. “You used to love dress-up. Remember when you’d beg Mommy to be the princess? Or the nurse? Or that time you asked me to be the maid?”

She laughs softly to herself. Her eyes never leave yours.

You don’t say a word. Your fingers twitch at your sides.

She notices.

Her smile widens—something darker behind it.

She walks toward you—slow, confident. Predatory in pink. When she’s close enough to touch, her voice drops to a whisper.

“You didn’t come to Mommy’s bed last night,” she says, brushing your collarbone with her fingertips. “I waited. All warm and lonely. It made me… ache.”

She leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as the bell on her collar rings once, crystal-clear.

“You don’t like seeing Mommy beg, do you?”

Your breath hitches.

She pulls back just slightly, cupping your face like you’re still her baby boy— —but her thumb strokes your lower lip.

Then she giggles, spinning on her heel and heading back to the stove.

“Sit down, sweetheart. Breakfast’s almost ready. And if you’re good…” She glances over her shoulder, that soft, unreadable smile still curling her lips. “…Mommy might let you drink first.”

The bell chimes again as she stirs the batter.

And somehow, you know she’s not talking about milk on the table.

You sit at the table like she told you to, unsure if you’re supposed to eat… or endure.

The kitchen feels warmer now. Maybe it’s the stove. Maybe it’s her. She moves with deliberate slowness—every step, every reach for the syrup bottle, all just a little too graceful for something as mundane as pancakes.

She hums again. That lullaby. It doesn’t feel like a lullaby anymore.

Jingle.

She turns to you, carrying a tray—stacked pancakes, fruit on the side, syrup drizzled in a perfect spiral. It smells perfect. But you can’t look away from her chest—rising and falling beneath the too-small top, the silver bell resting just above her cleavage.

She sets the plate in front of you and tilts her head.

“Mommy made it with love,” she says softly. “But… something’s missing, don’t you think?”

You glance up.

She pouts—an exaggerated, teasing frown—and lifts a tall glass of plain milk from the tray.

Then, she holds it up, studies it against the light, and frowns.

“Hm. No. That’s not right.”

You blink.

She walks over to the fridge, opens it—still talking as she bends over just a little too far. Her tail sways. The bell rings.

“I don’t want my baby drinking just any milk,” she says, reaching into the fridge. “You need to taste the difference. Real love… real mommy milk… is special.”

You stiffen slightly in your chair.

She returns with two glasses—sets them both down. One’s the same milk. The other is opaque. Thicker. Slightly warm.

She sits beside you, way too close. Her thigh presses against yours.

“Let’s play a little game,” she whispers, voice honey-sweet. “One of these is just store-bought. The other…” She leans close again, lips brushing your ear. “…is mine.”

Your pulse skips.

“Be a good boy and guess which one Mommy made. I want to see if my baby still knows me that well.”

You look down at the glasses.

She smiles, hands folded under her chin, watching like it’s a test she wants you to pass—and dares you to fail.

The bell jingles softly. “Well?” she whispers. “Pick one. Drink slowly. Mommy wants to see your reaction.”