Home > The Storm

The Storm
Author: Samantha Towle

Fuck, I’m hot. Why am I so hot? My arm is dead, and—what is that in my mouth? Hair?

It’s definitely hair.

Belle.

She’s in our bed again.

I push the mass of curly black hair from my face and mouth. I stare down at my sleeping three-year-old daughter and chuckle.

She must’ve got in our bed during the night.

I glance over at the empty space beside me.

Tru must already be downstairs with the boys.

I can barely remember the time when my life wasn’t like this, when my life was empty and lonely.

Now, it’s filled with everything I never imagined I could have.

Tru, and she has given me a life beyond my dreams, and three beautiful, amazing children—JJ, Billy, and Belle.

This, right here, is fucking perfection. My life is perfection.

I know how lucky I am. I know because there was a time when my life wasn’t perfect.

But that was then, and this is now. And now is awesome.

Guess I’d better haul my ass out of bed. I’ve got a meeting at the label this morning. I’ll leave my little sleeping Beauty, so she can get a few more minutes of shut-eye before I wake her.

I slip my arm out from underneath Belle as carefully as I can. Then, I quietly climb out of bed and make my way to the bathroom.

I’m just mid piss when I hear my baby girl’s sleepy voice from behind me, “Dada, why I not have a peenis?”

Shifting to the side so that I’m covering myself from Belle’s view, I glance over my shoulder, a chuckle escaping me. “’Cause you’re a girl, Beauty.”

“But I wanna be a boy, like you, JJ, and Billy.” She juts her lips out, pouting. “I wanna peenis!”

She’s standing there, demanding a penis, in her Disney princess pajamas, with her arms folded across her chest, her foot tapping.

God, she is exactly like her mother. Not that Tru ever wanted a cock—well, aside from mine inside her, of course.

But Belle has Tru’s steely determination, and she looks exactly like her mother, which means trouble for me when she’s older.

But like I know how to handle my wife’s temperament, I know how to handle Belle.

“Okay, Beauty, how about this?” I say in a pacifying tone, holding in my laughter. I tuck myself back into my pajama pants and go to wash my hands. “Why don’t you ask Santa for a penis for Christmas?” The second that I’ve said it, I know that it sounds all kinds of wrong. It’s so wrong that I wish to God I could take it back.

“Santa, give me a peenis!” Belle starts squealing, jumping around and clapping her hands.

“Fuck. Shit! No!” I panic as soon as the words leave my mouth, knowing exactly what Belle is like.

A goddamn parrot is what she’s like.

“Fuck! Shit! Santa, peenis!” Belle starts to mimic, hands still clapping together.

Crap. Tru is going to kill me. Kill me dead.

“Christ.” I cover my face with my hands. “Belle, no.”

I reach down and pick her up. She wraps her little chubby legs around my hips, her hands clutching at my neck.

“Don’t say those words. Bad words.” I touch my fingertip to her nose, staring into her big brown eyes—Tru’s eyes.

“Fuck. Sh—”

“Bad words,” I reiterate, giving her a serious look. “We do not repeat those words. Ever. And especially not in front of Mommy. Okay?”

“So, Santa gimme peenis if I say no bad wowds?”

“Oh God,” I groan.

“Santa! Peenis!” She giggles.

“Breakfast, Belle!” I exclaim. “You want some Frozen cereal?” I say to distract her.

That fucking annoying Disney film is her favorite, and she will only eat that particular brand of cereal.

“Fwozen!” she shrieks.

Then, she launches into the chorus of “Let It Go” as I carry her out of the bathroom, heading downstairs to the kitchen where my tribe should be.

By the time I reach the bottom step, I’ve actually joined in singing along with her. When you’ve heard that fucking song played a trillion times, it’s hard not to sing it.

“Mama!” Belle yells the instant we enter the kitchen. “Dada say Santa gimme peenis on Chwissmas!”

Fuck.

Tru’s eyes meet mine. “Did he now?”

I see a tickle of a small smile at the corner of her mouth.

I grin, shrugging. “What my baby girl wants, my baby girl gets.”

I set Belle in her seat at the breakfast bar.

“Morning, JJ, Billy.” I kiss the tops of my boys’ heads, their eyes glued on the TV.

I get a, “Morning,” from Billy and a grunt from JJ.

I head over to Tru, who is buttering toast, and I slip my arms around her waist. Turning her to face me, I cup her ass, which is now out of the kids’ view, and I give it a firm squeeze. “Morning,” I whisper as I press my lips to hers.

God, she feels good. She always feels good.

“Morning.” She kisses me back, her hand pressing against my bare chest. “And good luck explaining to Belle why she didn’t get a penis from Santa on Christmas Day.”

She laughs softly as I glide my lips over hers again, the sound vibrating down to my cock.

“She’ll have forgotten by then.” I stare deep into Tru’s eyes.

“Yeah, sure, she will. Just like she forgot about when you told her you’d buy her a pink Ferrari for her third birthday.”

Shit. I forgot about that.

Belle pitched a total fit when she realized there was no pink Ferrari.

I might spoil Belle a bit. Well, I might spoil all my kids. But when you had nothing as a kid, you want to give yours everything.

“So, Mum and Dad said they’ll have the kids tonight, and I thought we could go out…or stay in.” Tru runs her finger down my chest to my stomach, stopping just above the waistband of my pajama bottoms.

Of course, my cock sits up and pays attention. He always pays attention to Tru.

“If I get a vote in this, I vote on staying in, and no clothes are allowed for the whole night.”

She smiles, a light flickering in her eyes. “Stay in and no clothes, it is.”

“Mama! Bweakfast!” Belle squeals.

Chuckling, Tru shakes her head.

“She wants cereal,” I tell Tru. “I’ll get it.” I give her one last lingering kiss.

“Bweakfast!” Belle yells again.

Releasing a sigh, I let go of Tru but not before giving her fine ass another squeeze. I grab the cereal from the cupboard and then get Belle’s princess bowl and favorite spoon. I pour the cereal and milk, and then I take the bowl over to her.

Look at me, the model of domesticity.

“What do we say, Belle?”

“Tank you, Dada.” She smiles up at me before digging into her cereal.

God, she’s cute. No wonder I’m putty in that little girl’s hands.

“You want coffee, babe?” I ask Tru.

“Sure.”

I pour us both coffee and take hers over to her while she busies herself with making lunch for the boys in between eating her toast.

“You want me to do anything?” I ask her.

“Nah, I’m good.”

“You want me to take the boys to school on my way to the label?”

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