Junkie Mom Chapter 3

Claire again trades cunt for drugs, husband becomes suspicious and family starts to fall apart.

Claire woke at 9:33 a.m. in the double bed, sheets twisted and damp around her calves. The pillowcase on Gary’s side was still indented but cold; he had left for work without a word. The room smelled of stale sweat and something sourer, the chemical reek that now lived in her pores. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, coated in a film that tasted like burnt foil. A low throb sat behind her eyes and wouldn’t leave. She had no memory of the morning: no packing lunches, no brushing Emma’s hair, no kissing Liam’s forehead at the door. Those moments had simply disappeared.

Every joint felt swollen and grinding. Her stomach rolled in tight, nauseous contractions that sent sour spit into her throat. The worst was the itch, deep under the skin, especially at the crook of her elbow where she had scratched until the skin split and wept clear fluid that dried into yellow crusts. She rolled onto her side, opened the nightstand drawer she kept locked in her mind, and pulled out the sock hidden at the back. Inside lay the pipe and the tiny black remnant of last night’s shard, a tiny speck, really, not even enough to pretend it was relief.

Her hands shook so badly the lighter flame danced away twice before she caught it. She inhaled the weak smoke. It scorched her throat and did almost nothing. Heart stuttered once, jaw clenched, then settled back into the same sick emptiness. She stayed on the edge of the bed, staring at the sock in her lap, until the craving sharpened into something that hurt more than the headache.

By late morning her thoughts were breaking apart. She saw Emma’s gap-toothed smile from last week’s school photo, Liam asleep with his rocket nightlight glowing blue across his cheek, then both images collapsed under the weight of one screaming want. She dialled Mark. Voicemail twice. On the third ring he answered, voice thick and annoyed. “What?”

“I need it. Please. I can’t—” Her voice cracked open.

Short, ugly laugh. “Come over. Bring something. No free rides today.”

“I’ll find what I can.”

“Better be more than promises.” Line dead.

She sat motionless until her legs would move, then went to Emma’s room. The pink piggy bank sat on the dresser, ceramic, painted with clumsy flowers Emma had done herself with a brush set from the pound shop. Six months of 50p pieces, birthday money, tooth-fairy coins. Claire carried it to the kitchen and smashed it against the sink. Coins scattered like broken teeth. She knelt on the tiles, gathered them with shaking fingers: £18.47. That was all. She shoved the coins into her coat pocket, left the shattered pieces on the floor, pulled the hood up, and walked out.

Daylight hurt. Streets were too loud. She kept her head down the six blocks, passing the playground where the swings moved empty in the wind. A girl in a red coat laughed exactly like Emma; Claire looked away so fast she stumbled.

Mark opened the door and looked her over like spoiled meat. “You look like death warmed over.”

She pulled the coins from her pocket before he could speak again. “This is everything. £18.47 from Emma’s piggy bank."

He stared at the small pile in her palm, then laughed, a flat, barking sound that echoed in the hallway. “That’s it? That won’t buy a fucking breath mint. Pathetic.”

“Please—”

“Strip.” He cut her off. “Everything. If the cash is short, you pay with cunt. That’s the price today.”

She stripped in the hallway, coat, jumper, jeans stiff with old sweat, bra, knickers crusted at the crotch, socks, boots, until she stood naked on the filthy lino. Skin goose-pimpled, scabs on her arms and thighs catching the dim light. Mark stepped close, grabbed her arse hard, dug fingers in until she winced. “Still got enough meat on you for a junkie mum. Shame about the smell.”
He pushed her into the kitchen. “Floor. Face down. Arse up.”

She dropped to her knees, then lowered her cheek to the cold tiles. The smell hit hard, old grease, bleach, something fungal from under the cabinets. Mark dropped his tracksuit, knelt behind her. No spit, no warm-up. He pressed the dry head against her and shoved. Pain ripped through her, burning stretch, raw friction. She gasped; he sank deeper, groaning as he bottomed out. “Still tight. Husband must’ve given up on this hole.”

He fucked hard, no rhythm, just mechanical pounding. Each thrust scraped her cheek against the tiles, leaving red patches. He slapped her arse hard, open-handed cracks that echoed. “Thieving slag. Smashing your little girl’s piggy bank so you can get high. What kind of mother does that?”

The words punched into her gut. She saw Emma finding the broken pieces later, clutching a painted shard, asking Gary why Mummy would break her money. Tears leaked sideways, pooling under her face. Mark laughed low.
“Cry all you want. Makes it tighter.”
He pulled out, flipped her onto her back like a rag doll. Legs forced apart, he shoved back in raw, pinned her wrists above her head with one thick forearm, the other hand around her throat, not choking, just heavy enough to remind her she couldn’t breathe freely. “Look at me while I finish in you.” She stared up through wet eyes as he sped up, balls slapping wet and obscene against her. “Gonna flood this mummy cunt. Send you home leaking for the school run.”

“Please… don’t—”

“Shut up.” Thrusts turned short, violent. He snarled, buried deep, and came, thick, hot pulses that felt endless. She felt every spurt coat her insides, warm and wrong. He stayed inside until he went soft, then pulled out with a wet sound. Cum ran out immediately, thick white trails down her crack, pooling under her arse on the tiles in slow, sticky puddles.

Mark stood, wiped his softening cock on her inner thigh, leaving a smear. “Now you stay. Mate’s coming in twenty. You give it up to him too. No rubber. No bullshit.”

She looked at the cum still leaking from her, then nodded once.

He left the room. Naked on the kitchen floor, legs splayed, she watched his semen drip in slow strings while she loaded the pipe with the fat rock he tossed her. Inhaled deep. The hit slammed, skin buzzed, pupils blew, cunt throbbed with ugly, unwanted heat. She rubbed her clit mechanically, fingers slipping in the mess of cum and her own slick, feeling nothing except the void that demanded filling.

Twenty minutes later the door. Mark let in the mate, big, late thirties, beer gut hanging over his belt, forehead slick with sweat, reek of onions and stale BO rolling off him. Eyes lit up when he saw her naked and leaking on the floor. “Fuck me. This the posh one?”

“Junkie mum. Desperate. Use her however.”

The mate dropped his jeans. Cock short, thick, already oozing. Grabbed her hair, yanked her to her knees. “Open wide.” She did. He shoved in, gagging her instantly, fucked her mouth with short, brutal thrusts. Drool poured down her chin, soaked her chest, mixed with drying cum from earlier.
Mark watched, smoking. “Tell him.”

She pulled off gasping: “I’m a junkie mum who sells her holes for meth.”

He laughed, slapped her face with his wet cock, shoved back in. “Keep talking round it.” Muffled choking sounds. He pulled out, ordered her onto the table. She climbed up, back on scratched wood, legs wide. Cum from Mark still oozed out, mixing with fresh slick. He climbed on, shoved in rough, no care, just grunting animal fucking, sweaty belly slapping her stomach, stink of his armpits filling her nose. “Tight little mummy cunt… your kids would puke if they saw this.”

Claire closed her eyes. Rocket nightlight. Stuffed rabbit under Emma’s chin. Tears. He didn’t last, pulled out, jerked fast, sprayed thick, stinking ropes over her stomach, tits, neck, face, into her hair. Hot globs landed in her eyelashes, ran down her cheeks like tears. He wiped the last drop on her upper lip, zipped up, left with “Worth every penny.”

Mark tossed one tissue. “Clean yourself. You’re rank.” She wiped what she could; most dried sticky, crusting in her hair, between her thighs. He handed her the rest of the bag. “Tomorrow. Bring real money.”

She dressed slowly, clothes clinging to wet skin, jumper soaking up cum and sweat. Walked home in dusk, face crusted, hair matted, inner thighs slick and chafing. Passed the empty playground; swings swayed like accusations.

When she got home the kids were at the kitchen table eating dry cereal from the box because no one had cooked. Emma looked up. “Mummy your hair’s all sticky. Yoghurt?”

Claire’s cracked lips tried to smile. “Yeah, love. Silly Mummy.”

Liam stared. “Why’s your face red and spotty?”

“Wind burn.”

She turned away, climbed the stairs, locked the bathroom. Sat on the toilet. Watched thick globs of Mark’s cum drip into the bowl, slow, obscene plops. Loaded another hit from the bag, smoked fast. High roared back, jittery, electric, false. On the seat she forced fingers inside, three, then four, stretching the raw, swollen hole while she rubbed her clit until it stung. Came hard, silent, violent; thighs shook, fresh tears leaked.

Downstairs Gary came in at 7:18. Saw the broken piggy bank pieces still on the floor, coins gone. Looked up as Claire descended, her hair matted with dried semen, face flushed and puffy, eyes unnaturally bright.
“Where’s the money?”

She shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe the kids took it.”

Emma’s head snapped up. “We didn’t!”

Gary stared at her, long, silent. “You did this.”

She started crying, loud, wet, snotty sobs.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He didn’t move. Just watched her fall apart. The Kids stared too. Emma began to cry. Liam looked terrified. Claire dropped to her knees, reached for them. They shrank back. Gary stepped between. “Upstairs. Now. Both of you.”

The children ran. He looked down at her on the kitchen floor. “You’re killing this family. You know that?”
She nodded, tears dripping onto the tiles. “I know.”
He walked past her, up the stairs and locked the bedroom door.

Claire stayed where she was. Pulled the bag out. Loaded the pipe again. Smoked slowly this time, he wouldn'tcome back down. The high wrapped around her like wet, dirty rags. She stared at the broken pink shards on the floor, half a flower, edges sharp. Picked one up, squeezed until it cut deep into her palm. Blood welled, dripped slowly, on the tiles.

She didn’t wipe the blood. Didn’t clean anything. Just sat in the quiet kitchen that used to smell of baking and children’s shampoo, now smelling only of smoke and sex and despair, smoking the last of the rock while the house settled into darkness around her.

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