He managed to get about a step into the door before she pounced on him, giggling like a schoolgirl holding hands in class with her first crush. He held her up easily, arms wrapped around her legs, laced under her butt, hers on his shoulders. “You’ve been a bad boy-toy, you know”, she purred, pressing her forehead against his. She put her lips to his in a single, long, passionate kiss, and he returned it with equal passion.
 
When he broke the kiss, he cocked his head to the side, grinning wolfishly. “Oh? I thought I was being good. Getting good grades, working, taking care of my girlfriend, all that... I thought you said I deserved a present?” He pouted fiercely at that last word, having learned from the master herself. She laughed, and wiggled in his arms, trying to get free. He eased her to the ground, until her bare feet padded softly against the wood floor.
 
“Well, that’s an idea.” She turned, pirouetting on a single foot, and he took the opportunity to land a single slow, soft swat against the flesh of her high-class rump. She wheeled about again, towards him, a look of mock scandal on her face, mouth agape and eyes wide. He smirked, advancing towards her with his arms outstretched, a low rumbling chuckle pouring out of him. She danced backwards, hands covering her rear, protecting it from another slap, but she couldn’t keep the smile from her face, enjoying playing the game as much as he did. He followed her prancing backwards. “Well, you are bad”, she said, falling into the relative safety of the couch. “But two weeks! Whatever were you doing? Nothing takes two weeks these days. I missed your birthday!” He followed her to the couch, sitting down heavily, his hands wandering over her body, unable to choose whether they wanted to caress or tickle her. At last, they decided on tickling, and she squirmed on the couch, laughing, trying to curl up to defend herself.
 
“I told you, I went skiing. With my family, don’t worry; none of my secret girlfriends came along”, he added, seeing a single thin eyebrow rise, even through the tickling onslaught.
 
“Hmph. The family”, she choked out, swatting at him until he retreated. “Where’d you go, Dodge Ridge? I could’ve ta—*hiccup*—taken you to Val Thorens.”
 
“Yes, I know that, but then I’d have to tell them that, oh, hey, I’m going to France with my girlfriend for two weeks, no big deal. And they’d want to meet you. ‘Hi, mom, this is my girlfriend, I believe the two of you’ve known each other for twenty-plus years?’”
 
She groaned, pushing his face away with a playful hand. “Oh, don’t ever remind me abo—*hiccup*—about my age, darling.”
 
They sat back for a moment, every few seconds or so another hiccup rolling out of Rarity. He glared at him. “Your fault.” But it gave them time to think, and she mulled over his words. How long had she been preying on this poor, innocent boy? Six months? Eight? She’d lost track. And yet, here she was, a grown woman, afraid to leave her house, to be seen in public with the one she loved, for fear of a bit of drama. Staying inside, making love all day was fine—she smirked; he wasn’t too innocent, from when she could tell—but even that got boring after a while.
 
She stood, her mind made up. “You’re right, darling. We’re going to have a chat with your mother.” He stared at her, dumbfounded. “Are you sure?”
 
She gulped, and took a long, slow, steadying breath. “God no. You drive. I need a fucking drink.”
 
*
 
She couldn’t sit still in the car as they drove, twiddling her fingers then tapping her feet then checking her hair in the visor mirror then simply bouncing in the seat, then repeating the whole shebang over again and again. It wasn’t until the fifth time she tried to crack her knuckles that he finally lost his patience with her. “Knock it off. You’re making me nervous”, he snapped. She mumbled an apology, but she couldn’t help herself. She felt like she was back in junior high, getting sent to the principal’s office for starting a fight. Nervousness was the appropriate feeling in this situation.
 
She was starting to recognize landmarks, a building here, an oddly-shaped tree there. She’d used to come this way quite often, years ago, back when he was still just a child. She still remembered bringing Sweetie and her friends over here for his tenth birthday party—Sweetie didn’t really know him, but she’d heard that there was to be a bounce-house, and that was that. She still remembered sitting with his mother on the patio, legs crossed, basking in April sunlight, sipping at iced tea (with just a drop of rum, of course). She still remembered looking over to her left, across the patio, and seeing a wild mop of hair above a pair of eyes peeking out from behind a corner. She’d smiled at his shyness, thinking it was adorable—and it most definitely was. “Well, hello there, birthday boy”, she chirped, and he sunk further back behind the wall, embarrassed. She could see tinges of red creeping up his face.
 
“Oh, c’mon out, sweetheart, it’s fine. She doesn’t bite”, his mother called to him, and he shuffled out, making a beeline to his mother’s side, clutching something in his hand. She smiled warmly, trying and failing miserably to put him at ease. He whispered something in his mother’s ear, handed her whatever was in his hand, and ran off, bushing fiercely. She cocked her head in confusion.
 
“This is for you, apparently, my dear”, his mother said with a smile, handing her a single yellow flower, one of hundreds that grew in the garden.  “Also, he thinks that, and I quote, ‘Miss Rarity is very pretty’.” His mother sat back, smirking at her, and she twirled the flower between her fingers, staring at it.
 
She still remembered all that. She remembered watching him grow up from a little boy into a man, and she remembered going from ‘Miss Rarity’ to ‘Auntie Rarity’ to simply ‘Rarity’ to, finally, ‘babe’, going from that family friend that he knew but didn’t really know, just his mother’s friend, to his girlfriend. And most of all, she remembered the day she’d decided to give in to her inner cougar’s natural instincts. She’d come over for God-knows-what, probably just to gossip and drink with a friend. He was outside, mowing the front lawn as she pulled up, stepped out of her car. He was covered in tiny flecks of cut grass, and she realized (with a small thrill) that he’d have to take a shower once he was done. That thought most definitely piqued her interest. He cut the engine and greeted her loudly, waving to her. He definitely wasn’t subtle, she thought to herself. She waved back, but she wasn’t really paying attention—she was far too busy, because she fancied she saw a twinkle in his eye, fancied that she could feel his gaze roaming over her body. She was glad she was wearing something flattering.
 
He turned around and resumed working, and she bit her lip. She resolved, as she was greeted at the door by his mother, crossed the threshold, and sat down, that she wasn’t attracted to her friend’s son, that she wasn’t going to sleep with him, that she wasn’t old enough to be a cougar yet. But then, her body decided that she was.
 
She sighed. “Darling, I hate to impose, but I have a favor to ask you. My lawn—you know how big it is, yes?—well, my lawn is getting a bit out of control. The man I had to care for it, he left. Got deported back to Mexico, I assume.” She waved her hand about idly, trying to look casual, and made a mental note to fire Gabriel when she got home. “And it’s simply gotten too wild. I can’t do it. But could I possibly borrow your son? I’ll pay him, of course.” She was practiced at the art of deception, having worked in the fashion industry for as long as she had, and she betrayed nothing of her true intentions. His mother had smiled, agreed, told her that she’d have to ask him, of course, but she didn’t think it would be a problem at all.
 
It wasn’t, of course. He was a good boy, did what was asked of him. She hoped that would hold true for a while longer. She didn’t have to wait long for him to show up, either, just a few minutes after she got home. She had had scarcely enough time to hop in the shower and act like she hadn’t been expecting him, for God’s sake. And the rest, as they say, was history. Very pleasurable history.
 
She was snapped back to reality and back to the present by the sudden sound—or rather, the lack of sound—of the engine. She started to panic. “Oh, God. Let’s go home. Can we go home? This was a bad idea. I don’t want to do this. Don’t make me do this, please.” He ignored her pleas, so she tried promises instead. “You know that thing I do with my cheeks? Oh, darling, you haven’t seen anything yet. We can go back now and be in bed in twenty minutes. All you have to do is take me home, big boy.” Still, he ignored her. He was already out of the car, walking around to the other side, opening the door for her. Her mind reeled, trying to come up with a way to escape. “I’m never going to forgive you for this!” she hissed at him as they walked up the front steps. “No sex, ever! No more presents, no more anything. No more me!”
 
All of it, to no effect. He reached out, and his finger pressed the buzzer. She braced herself, expecting at any moment a giant, bat-winged dog-headed monstrosity to appear in the doorway and drag her down to the bowels of hell, the special hell for women who dated their friends’ sons. Moments later, she wished that demon had appeared.
 
His mother opened the door, beaming from ear to ear. “Hi, sweetie!” she cooed, embracing Rarity in a tight hug. “Long time no see. You’ve been avoiding me.” She laughed as she said it, and Rarity managed a half-hearted chuckle. She stood back, eyeing the two of them. “Wait. Don’t tell me. He broke something, right? Oh, jeez, how much does he owe you, Rarity?”
 
She hesitated, fear killing the words in her throat. He sensed it, and began to speak. “No, nothing like that, mom. We just—“
 
 “We have something to tell you, darling. May we come in? My legs are a bit tired, don’t you know.” At last, faced with what she had feared for so long, she found her voice, and he struggled to keep the mixed expression of stunned silence and absolute pride for her off of his face.
 
“Ah, dammit. Where are my manners? Yes, please, come in, come in!” His mother stepped back, grabbing the collar of a massive brown dog and pulling it away from the door. “Back, Owl, back. Sorry, honey, he’s a little overexcited. Only just got him a while ago. I don’t think you’ve met yet?” They followed her into the living room, Owl bounding along after them, trying to bait them into playing with him, or perhaps trying to determine if they were threats. She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t much of a dog person.
 
The two of them sat on the couch, his mother across from them in an armchair. Owl ran between them, resting his head on each of their legs in turn. “Now, what can I help with?” his mother asked, looking at them expectantly.
 
Her mouth opened to speak, but nothing came out. The sudden bravery that had gripped her at the door had fled again; it was one thing to tell someone you needed to speak to them, but it was quite another to actually do it. She could feel their hands next to each other. Slowly at first, his fingers weaved over and between hers, inching closer, pulling their hands together. She squeezed as hard as she could. Out of her peripheral vision, she could see him grimace from the strength of her grip. She was glad he was here. She could never have done this on her own.
 
When they came, the words spilled out of her mouth all at once, and they didn’t stop until she had told her everything: how they met, the party, the entire eight-month history of their sordid little affair, and how, at last, she had decided to come clean. She glossed over a good bit of the sex, of course, not telling her about how she had deceived her that first day so long ago, nor about that time they had made love in a bathroom, nor recently, when they had done it on a dance floor, but she told her that they had indeed made love, and that was the perfect term to describe it, because she did love him—he butted in briefly to add that he loved her as well, at which both ladies glared at him, and reminded him that this had nothing to do with him—and that she hoped that he felt the same way about her as she did about him (he rolled his eyes at this, but wisely said nothing).
 
By the time she finished talking, his mother sat forward in her chair, her face unreadable. “So, I suppose what I’m trying to say”, Rarity added, “is that we love each other, and it would mean the world to me—us—if you gave us your approval.” Rarity slumped back in her chair, physically and emotionally exhausted.
 
At this point, Rarity couldn’t care what his mother said. She could have told her that she thought she was the scum of the earth, a cradle-robbing bitch who was only focused on getting fucked, and that she never wanted to see her again for as long as she might live, and it wouldn’t have bothered her overmuch. Her conscience was clean, and she was with the man she loved. He, however, sat forward in his chair, very much interested and invested in what his mother had to say.
 
After a much-to-long silence, in his opinion, his mother finally spoke, and it was with a small, smug smirk across her lips. “Well, good Lord, I knew all that. You’re an intelligent woman, sweetheart, but did you really think you could keep the gossip machine out of the loop? I start hearing from all the girls about Rarity’s torrid romance with her new boy-toy, and then my son starts disappearing for long periods of time almost immediately after going over to her house for the first time? I’m no fool, dear.”
 
She turned her gaze over towards him, and he looked down, a sheepish, embarrassed grin on his face, a fact that his mother picked up on immediately. “Yes, you should be embarrassed. You’ve been caught with your hand in the cookie jar, huh? I mean, honestly, wasting all that money living here when you could’ve moved out almost an entire year ago! Do you know how much I could’ve saved just from not having to feed you? You can take him with you when you leave, darling, I wish you the best of luck.”
 
*
 
It took the better part of the rest of the day, and three trips back and forth, for them to move all of his stuff out of his mother’s house and into Rarity’s, but they managed to accomplish it in one day. That in itself wasn’t terribly impressive, but the fact that he had managed to convince Rarity not to micromanage where he put his things was nothing less than a Herculean feat. They waved, bade goodbye to his mother (who explained that she wasn’t, and for that matter, had never been, angry at Rarity—“Who wouldn’t be a bit embarrassed by that?” she sympathized—as she was at him for not telling her and thinking that she wouldn’t find out.
 
The only thing they didn’t take was his bed. It didn’t fit in or on the Fiat, Rarity had pointed out, but the real reason wasn’t difficult for any of them to fathom. His bed was soft, yes, but she was softer.