The Weekly Ritual - Sex Stories

The Weekly Ritual

... place, once again covering her. She sets the hot pan on the stovetop and blows a strand of loose hair out of her face.

"Whew, hot oven!" she says, fanning herself. Her cheeks and chest are flushed pink from the heat.

I nod, trying to act casual, and ignore a different kind of heat I feel creeping up my neck. "Yeah, you look hot!" I joke lamely. She gives me a look and swats me with the oven mitt as she walks past to grab a spatula.

I clear the mental image from my mind and hop up onto one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter, my bare legs swinging freely. I love the feeling of the cool air on my thighs each time I kick my socked feet back and forth.

"So, what about you? How was work today?" I ask as Mom drops a hot brownie into each of our bowls. The sweet, chocolaty aroma fills my nose.

"Ugh, more drama," Mom says, rolling her eyes. "Actually pretty similar to your ordeal. The university is trying to take some of our funding away from the lab." She scoops a generous portion of vanilla ice cream on top of each brownie.

"What? Why?"

"The provost thinks the funds would be better used to expand the football program." She punctuates her point by throwing the ice cream scoop into the sink.

"So football is more important than Alzheimers?"

Mom has been studying Alzheimer's disease for over a decade now. As a neuroscientist, she runs a lab at the university and is close to a major breakthrough in understanding the underlying causes.

"Apparently," ...

... she replies, annoyance in her voice.

She pushes a bowl and spoon towards me, which I accept eagerly.

I dig my spoon in, scraping up a big scoop of gooey brownie and ice cream, and take a bite. I let out an involuntary moan of pleasure. "Oh my god, this is insane," I mumble through the mouthful.

Mom looks pleased, leaning forward on her elbows across from me at the counter. "Yeah? The brown sugar caramel makes all the difference, right?" I nod vigorously, already going in for another giant spoonful.

"So tell me more about this budget fight. Why can't they just get more funding for football but let you keep what you need for the lab?"

Mom sighs, taking a small bite of her brownie. Even when annoyed she manages to eat daintily.

"I wish it were that simple. But funding is limited so it becomes an either/or situation." She shakes her head in frustration. "The committee that decides these things is run by a bunch of old guys who care more about the football team's ranking than groundbreaking scientific research."

"Fucking sexists," I say I say through a mouthful of brownie.

Mom shoots me a look. I get ready for the "Language young lady!" scolding, but it never comes. Instead, she just smiles, "Yeah. Total fucking sexists."

I love having these types of adult conversations with Mom. A year ago I probably wouldn't have cared at all about her research and budget problems. But it seemed like right around the time I turned eighteen, Mom started confiding in me ...