My mother wasn’t a particularly good cook. She had a standard meal format. Some kind of meat cooked to leather, some kind of potato mashed, some kin... of vegetable limp and tasteless. And ice cream. Breakfast was cold cereal and milk four days a week and bacon and eggs two days a week. And on the seventh day, God ate oatmeal. I’d steadily gained weight from the time Willa was born. After Mother and Dad died, I wasn’t much motivated to cook except to make sure Willa was fed. I tended to snack all. She was still expressionless but I could hear her breathing begin picking up pace as I pulled her gown up to her belly button and was staring down at her tiny little pale blue panties that had the word Saturday on the front of them. I slowly took my index finger and began tracing the outline of her little cunt lips through the cloth. I heard her let out a small sigh. I noticed though, while doing this, the two little titty bumps had produced a little hard nub of nipple trying their best to push. More

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