Home Visit
"He's fighting for custody of his sister. The social worker assigned to his case is thorough—multiple visits, detailed questions. Each visit lasts longer. She starts coming after hours."
The first visit is by the book.
Denise Washington arrives at exactly 2 PM, clipboard in hand, county ID badge clipped to her blouse. She's Black, mid-forties, professional in a way that makes me nervous—like she's seen every sob story and doesn't believe any of them anymore.
She's also large. Not the word I'd normally use, but it's the one that fits. Her body fills the doorway, wide hips straining against a navy skirt, breasts heavy under a white blouse that's buttoned to the collar. She moves with purpose, every step deliberate.
"Mr. Connor?" She doesn't smile. "I'm Denise Washington, Child Protective Services. I'll be conducting your home evaluation."
I step back to let her in.
My apartment isn't much—two bedrooms in a building that's seen better decades. But it's clean. Safe. And the second bedroom has been prepared for Lily, my sister, who's been in foster care for three months while I fight to bring her home.
"The bedrooms are down the hall," I say. "Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?"
"This isn't a social visit, Mr. Connor." She scans the living room, makes a note. "Let's begin."
She's thorough.
She checks the kitchen—opens cabinets, inspects the fridge, runs her hand along the counters looking for dust. She examines the bathroom for mold, the closets for adequate space, the windows for working locks.
She spends ten minutes in Lily's room.
"The bed is new?" she asks.
"I bought it last week. And the desk. She'll need somewhere to do homework."
"You've thought about her schooling?"
"Lincoln Elementary is three blocks away. I've already spoken to the principal."
She makes another note. Her pen moves constantly—scratching observations I can't see, judgments I can't contest.
"Mr. Connor." She turns to face me. "Your parents died four months ago. You're twenty-eight, single, working as an electrician. No prior experience with child-rearing. Tell me why I should recommend placing a ten-year-old girl in your care."
It's not a hostile question. It's not friendly either. It's the question she asks everyone—measuring my answer against whatever rubric lives in her clipboard.
"Because she's my sister." I meet her eyes. "Because she's been in foster care for three months and she cries every time I visit. Because I promised my mother, before she died, that I would take care of her."
Something flickers in her expression. Not sympathy—something more like recognition.
"I'll need to conduct multiple visits," she says. "Your work schedule?"
"I'm off by four most days. Earlier if I push."
"I'll be in touch."
She leaves without another word.
Second Visit — Two Weeks Later
This time she asks about my finances.
I show her my bank statements, my pay stubs, my rental agreement. She examines each document like it might be forged, makes notes, asks follow-up questions.
"You're spending most of your savings on this apartment."
"Lily needs her own room."
"And if your income decreases?"
"I've got a good reputation. Work is steady."
She studies me over her reading glasses. They're new—tortoiseshell frames that somehow make her look softer, more human.
"You're alone," she says. "No girlfriend? No support system?"
"I have friends. They'll help."
"Friends who are prepared to assist with a ten-year-old?"
"Friends who show up when it matters."
She writes something down. I catch a glimpse—determined and isolated.
"Same time next week?" she asks.
"I'll be here."
Third Visit — One Week Later
She arrives with groceries.
"The inspection protocol includes observing food preparation," she explains, setting bags on my counter. "You'll make dinner. I'll watch."
I stare at her. "You're serious?"
"Nutrition is a key factor in child welfare." She pulls out vegetables, chicken, rice. "Show me what Lily would eat."
I cook. She watches. Her presence fills my kitchen—not just her size, but the weight of her attention. I'm aware of every move I make, every choice. Garlic or onion. Steam or sauté.
"You're comfortable in the kitchen," she observes.
"My mother taught me."
"The mother you promised."
"Yes."
She's quiet after that. When I plate the food—chicken stir-fry, nothing fancy but nutritious—she samples it with a fork I didn't see her grab.
"Good," she says. Just that.
But I catch her writing competent and genuine in her notes.
Fourth Visit — One Week Later
She stays for dinner.
I don't remember offering. She doesn't mention the protocol. I just cook, and there are two plates instead of one, and we sit across from each other at my secondhand table while evening light fades through the windows.
"Tell me about Lily," she says between bites.
I do. I tell her about the gap in Lily's front teeth and the way she laughs with her whole body. About her obsession with dinosaurs and her fear of thunderstorms. About how she still sleeps with the stuffed rabbit Mom made her when she was three.
Denise listens. Not like a social worker cataloging details—like a woman hearing a story she wants to follow.
"You love her," she says. Not a question.
"She's all I have left."
Denise sets down her fork. Studies me with those sharp brown eyes.
"The preliminary evaluation is complete, Mr. Connor. I'll be submitting my report next week."
My heart stops. "And?"
"And I think you're going to be an excellent guardian." She stands, collects her things. "But the final decision isn't mine. There are procedures. Timelines."
"How long?"
"Another month. Maybe two. Maybe more, depending on the judge's schedule."
"That's—"
"I know." She pauses at the door. Turns back. "I'll do what I can to expedite. You've shown me something I don't see often, Mr. Connor."
"What's that?"
"Someone who actually deserves what they're asking for."
She leaves. But this time, she looks back.
Fifth Visit — Six Days Later
It's not a scheduled visit.
She shows up at 7 PM, after hours, in civilian clothes—a wrap dress that hugs her curves, earrings I've never seen her wear. Her hair is down, soft and natural instead of pulled back.
"Ms. Washington?" I step back, confused. "Is something wrong with the case?"
"The case is fine." She doesn't move toward the door. "I'm not here about the case."
"Then why—"
"I've been thinking about you, Mr. Connor." She steps closer. "About this apartment. About the way you look when you talk about your sister. About whether I'm crossing every professional line that exists."
My mouth goes dry. "Denise—"
"I shouldn't be here." She's close enough now that I can smell her perfume—something warm, with vanilla and spice. "I should go home, file my report, and maintain appropriate boundaries. That's what the handbook says."
"What do you say?"
She looks at me. Those sharp brown eyes, but something new in them now—heat, hunger, a need that mirrors my own.
"I say I've been doing this job for eighteen years, and I've never once wanted to kiss someone on my caseload." Her hand finds my chest. "Until you."
I shouldn't.
She's still technically assigned to my case. If anyone found out, it could jeopardize everything. I could lose Lily. I could lose the only family I have left.
But her hand is warm on my chest, and her body is close enough that I can feel the heat of her, and when she looks up at me with those eyes, I stop thinking about what I should do.
I think about what I need.
I pull her inside and close the door.
She comes willingly—more than willingly. Her arms wrap around my neck, and her lips find mine, and she tastes like wine and something sweeter underneath. She's soft against me—soft everywhere—and my hands find her hips, feel the curve of her, the weight.
"Is this okay?" I whisper against her mouth.
"No." She kisses me harder. "But I don't care anymore."
We don't make it to the bedroom.
The couch is closer—the secondhand thing I bought from a neighbor—and she's on it before I can think, pulling me down with her, her dress riding up thick thighs.
"I need you to understand something," she says, breathless. "I don't do this. I've never done this."
"I believe you."
"I've thought about you every night since the third visit." She reaches for my shirt, tugs it over my head. "Wondered what your hands would feel like. What your mouth would feel like."
"Show me where."
She takes my hand. Guides it to the wrap of her dress. The single tie at her waist.
"Here," she says. "Start here."
I pull the tie.
The dress falls open.
She's wearing a black bra. Lace, barely containing her.
Her breasts are enormous—heavy, full, straining against the fabric. Her belly is soft and round, a cascade of brown flesh that I want to bury my face in. Her thighs are thick, dimpled, spreading on the cushions like an invitation.
"Well?" She sounds almost nervous. "It's been a while since anyone's seen—"
"You're beautiful." I mean it. "God, Denise, you're beautiful."
She exhales. Like she's been holding her breath for years.
"Then show me."
I lower my mouth to her belly first. Kiss the soft flesh, taste the salt of her skin. She gasps—surprised, maybe—and her hands find my hair.
"No one ever—" Her voice catches. "They always go straight for—"
"I'm not in a hurry." I kiss lower, find the curve where her belly meets her thigh. "We have time."
I explore her. Every inch. The soft swell of her stomach, the dimples on her hips, the way her skin shivers when I trace my tongue along her panty line. By the time I reach her bra, she's trembling.
"Please," she whispers. "Please, I need—"
I unclasp the bra. Her breasts fall free—massive, heavy, nipples dark and hard. I take one in my mouth and she moans, loud and shameless, her hips bucking against nothing.
"Yes—yes—don't stop—"
I don't stop. I worship her breasts while my hands find her panties, slide them down her thighs. She's shaved, wet, almost dripping. When I finally touch her, she cries out.
"I need you inside me." She's pulling at my belt, my zipper. "Need to feel—"
"Not yet." I slide down her body. "I want to taste you first."
I part her thighs.
She's glistening. Swollen. When I press my mouth to her, she screams.
"Oh God—"
I lick slowly. Tasting her—salt and musk and something sweeter. I find her clit, circle it, and her thighs clamp around my head.
"Right there—fuck—right there—"
I've never heard her curse before. The word sounds sacred coming from her mouth.
I eat her like she's the last meal I'll ever have. Licking, sucking, finding the rhythms that make her gasp and the ones that make her scream. Her hands are in my hair, on my shoulders, anywhere she can reach. Her hips are grinding against my face.
"I'm going to—" She's shaking now. "Going to—yes—"
She comes with my tongue inside her.
Her whole body convulses. Her thighs crush my ears. She screams my name—not Mr. Connor, but James—and the sound of it pushes me past any remaining caution.
I climb up her body and thrust inside.
She's tight. Hot. Perfect.
Her body welcomes me, soft flesh yielding as I push deeper. She wraps her legs around my waist—thick thighs holding me in place—and pulls me down onto her.
"All of it," she gasps. "Give me all of it."
I do.
I fuck her into the secondhand couch while she moans and whimpers and digs her nails into my back. Her breasts bounce with every thrust. Her belly ripples. She's everywhere—soft and warm and consuming me completely.
"I've wanted this," she pants. "Wanted you—since the second visit—couldn't stop thinking—"
"I know." I thrust harder. "I know."
She comes again. And again. Each orgasm tighter than the last, her body clenching around me while she shakes and screams.
When I finally let go, it's like an explosion.
I pump into her—deep, hard, filling this woman who holds my future in her hands. She wraps around me, holds me inside her, takes everything I have to give.
We collapse together.
Breathing. Sweating. Tangled on the couch that's definitely too small for both of us.
"The report," I eventually say. "The case—"
"Is already submitted." She traces a finger along my jaw. "As of this morning. Favorable recommendation. You'll have Lily within the month."
I stare at her. "You submitted it before—"
"Before I came here. Yes." She smiles—warm and real and nothing like the stern gatekeeper I first met. "I don't mix professional and personal, Mr. Connor. That's why I waited until the report was filed."
"You planned this?"
"I hoped for it." She pulls me closer. "Big difference."
I kiss her. Long and slow, tasting myself on her lips.
"What happens now?"
"Now?" She shifts beneath me, and I realize I'm getting hard again. "Now you're not my case anymore. Now you're just a man I'm very interested in getting to know better."
"And when Lily comes home?"
Denise looks at me. Something soft in her eyes—something that might be the beginning of more.
"Then I'll meet your sister. Properly. As your—" She pauses. "What would you call this?"
"I'd call it a home visit that went very right."
She laughs. It's a beautiful sound.
In the apartment that will soon hold my family, I begin building something I didn't expect to find.
Hope.