I suppose it started in college.
Those feelings I didn't know how to name, not exactly desire, but curiosity, an odd fascination, a pulse in my chest when a girl walked by in tight jeans, the way I'd hold my breath when a classmate leaned forward in her seat and her cleavage peeked out, or how I'd stare a second too long at our biology teacher's thighs when she wore those pencil skirts.
I never called it anything. I never had to. I just tucked it away somewhere quiet.
Then I met Suhash.
I was twenty-one when we married. He was kind and simple, a civil engineer with a shy smile and a strangely serious way of folding his handkerchief. I loved him. Or maybe I just loved being loved by someone so gentle. We had sex--quiet, careful, dutiful--but probably not the way I thought married people were supposed to. Still, I liked how he looked at me. Like I was something soft he didn't quite know how to hold.
And somewhere between supporting him, managing relatives, and boiling dal with one hand while holding a baby in the other, those old feelings--those strange, secret ones--just faded. Like a song I used to hum but somehow forgot the tune of.
Within a year, I gave birth to our daughter. Dia.
And just like that, everything changed. Becoming a mother made the world feel heavier. Tender and terrifying. Life ran too fast, like I was trying to hold water in my fists. But we managed somehow; Suhash worked, and I raised Dia. Everything was normal until he died.
It happened in the span of a heartbeat--one moment, sipping his evening tea; the next, slumped forward, silent. A heart attack, the doctors said; there was nothing anyone could've done.
Dia was seven.
I didn't cry. Not then.
I just kept moving, bathing her, sorting out papers, cooking rice, etc., like nothing had fallen apart, because I couldn't afford to fall apart. But I was only twenty-eight, so my mother told me to remarry. She said I was too young to sleep alone for the rest of my life. That a woman needs a man--not just for touch, but for protection.
But I refused, not out of grief or loyalty, but because something inside me had gone... still. Quiet. I focused on raising my daughter, and that was enough.
Money wasn't a problem. Between the insurance payout and government compensation, we were fine, and the building helped too--four floors total. I rented the bottom three out to seven different families. My daughter and I lived on the fourth.
I used to keep all the accounts in a red notebook, hand-written and neat. But once she started high school--and got better at computers than I'd ever be--she moved everything into Excel. She even color-coded the sheets for me: rent, water bills, maintenance, and so on. I still don't understand how the formulas work, but I like the way it looks. Simple. Precise. Clean.
Just the way I kept my life.
Until she turned eighteen.
Until one day, one strange little accident in her bedroom made all of that... melt.
It was a Thursday, a couple of months after her eighteenth birthday. An early afternoon. The kind where even the ceiling fan sounds lazy and half-asleep.
I'd made lunch and called for Dia once, softly, from the kitchen, but no answer came. I figured she had her headphones on again. She often did when she was doing college assignments or talking to Riya for hours on end. So I walked toward her room.
I didn't mean to enter without knocking, but the door wasn't shut all the way. It was just... ajar. And I only pushed it open to call her again, to remind her that the food would get cold. But what I saw next changed my life. It stilled the blood in my body.
Dia was sprawled on her bed, naked from the waist down. The room smelled faintly of sweat and shampoo. The bedsheet beneath her was crumpled and damp. Her tank top had twisted high above her belly, exposing the soft curve of her stomach; one strap had slipped from her shoulder, but she didn't care. One leg bent, the other stretched lazily outward as her hips rolled in slow, hungry circles--grinding, pressing, riding. Her face was buried in a pillow, but her mouth hung open, lips parted, breath wet against the cotton.
I froze in the doorway.
I couldn't believe what I was seeing. My eighteen-year-old daughter was grinding her pillow.
My breath caught--stuck in my throat like a trapped bird. I felt it rise, a gasp trembling to escape, but it never did. And then she moaned. Long. Breathless. A sound that wasn't meant for anyone, yet went straight through me. "Mom..."
The moans were soft at first--like the edges of a dream, blurred and delicate. I almost convinced myself I was imagining them. But then they swelled, clearer, sharper, curling into the quiet like a knife.
And then--she said my name.
"Anupama..."
My heart stuttered so violently I thought it might stop. My whole body went rigid, frozen in place. Had I heard that right? My name? On her lips, in the dark, tangled with a moan that sounded too real, too raw.
A hundred questions stormed my mind all at once.
Was she imagining me?
Was she touching herself and thinking of me?
My daughter... a lesbian?
Or was it just some coincidence, some slip of the tongue?
Why me, of all people?
My pulse raced with the weight of it, the wrongness pressing in. But beneath the shock, something hotter burned--something I didn't want to name.
If she was thinking of me... What does that make me for listening?
Why didn't I turn away the moment I realized?
Why did my thighs press together, why did my breath shorten, and why did my ears strain for the next sound, the next moan?
Shame and curiosity tangled inside me, impossible to separate. Every answer felt dangerous. It felt like the walls leaned in. I should've barged in, should've screamed--but my body refused. I just stood there, caught in the heat of it, my gaze locked to the rhythm of her hips like I was under some quiet, wicked spell. My knees went weak, and I pressed one palm to the doorframe to steady myself. The other--trembling, treacherous--slipped to the waistband of my pyjama pants. Not to touch... at least not yet, just to feel the pull of the elastic.
But I was already wet. Soaking. Pulsing. Aching.
She rode the pillow like she wanted to break it, grinding harder, faster--small gasps breaking in her throat, spilling into filth. "Oh yes... mother... put your tongue out... I wanna grind your filthy tongue..."
My thighs pressed together. I couldn't stop. My hand slipped lower, fingers grazing over the damp cotton of my panties. Warm. So warm.
I gasped--quiet, desperate--as the heel of my palm began to rub. Circling. Just enough. My clit throbbed through the fabric, begging for friction. She kept moaning, breathy and high. "Fuck, mother... lick it, lick it like a fucking bitch... beg for my cum..."
Her thighs clenched around the pillow, hips rolling harder, and filth tumbled from her mouth like she was possessed. And I--God--I started rubbing faster. My hand moved on its own, over the fabric, under it. Fingers now slippery from how wet I was. I spread myself with one hand and used the other to press harder. Each word from her lips lit me on fire. "Anupamaaa... yes... lick me... lick it, you old fucking slut..."
My body jolted.
No one had ever spoken about me like that. No one had ever wanted me like that. I was her mother, her parent, and yet here she was, calling me a slut as she fucked her pillow and demanded me to beg for cum on my mouth. And I wanted it. I wanted her to use me. To say the worst. To ride me until I shattered. I started to whisper. "Yes... baby... Ride my mouth... let me taste your pussy. Don't stop, don't stop--"
I could feel the heat building and the edge sharpening, and I was about to cum watching my daughter. My own daughter. My fingers rubbed fast, my back arched, and my breath broke into little sobs, and then she cried out. "Beg me to cum on your filthy tongue!"
Her whole body convulsed--back arched, stomach tight, hips locked in a final grind, and she came. Hard. Shaking. Her mouth opened, head thrown to the side. And my name... still hanging on her lips. I was so close; one more rub, one more word, and then her eyes opened. Half-lidded. Glazed. But aware. She looked up toward the door.
I panicked and ducked behind the frame, hand still wet, thighs trembling, body pulsing with a need I couldn't finish. So, I covered my mouth, held my breath, and my heart thudded like it might expose me, and I returned to the kitchen.
I couldn't believe what had just happened. It wasn't just that my daughter had been masturbating--it was that she'd been imagining me, her own mother. And worse, I hadn't stopped her. I just stood there, even though I knew it was wrong, knowing I should stop her... But instead, I touched myself, watching her cum.
Fifteen minutes later, she strolled into the kitchen like it was any other afternoon--hair still a little messy, cheeks flushed in a way only I could recognize. I was at the counter, plating the food. My hands were steady, but my chest wasn't.
"Smells good," she said, sliding into her chair.
I set the plate in front of her. "It's just dal and rice," I replied, my voice a touch too soft.
She gave me a quick smile and dug in, eating with that same unbothered rhythm, as if she hadn't been grinding herself into a pillow moaning my name minutes earlier.
"I'm meeting Riya in an hour," she said between bites. "We're supposed to finish that economics assignment."
I nodded, pretending I was focused on my own plate. "Mm-hmm."
She glanced at me briefly--just enough to make my stomach flutter--and then went back to eating. "Oh... could you clean my room today?" she asked casually, like she used to do every day. "And maybe do my laundry too? I've got nothing fresh to wear."
I felt heat climb up my neck. "Sure," I said quickly.
"Thanks, Mom." Her lips curved, almost teasing. "You're a lifesaver."
After lunch, she slung her bag over her shoulder and left without a glance back. I stayed at the table for a few minutes, staring at the half-empty plates, letting my breath settle. Then I cleared the dishes, rinsing them one by one, the warm water lapping over my hands while my mind replayed what I'd seen earlier--every movement, every sound.
By the time I wiped the counter dry, I'd almost convinced myself it was safe to go to her room.
The door was ajar. I stepped in quietly, like I might catch another secret. The first thing I did was straighten her bed--smoothing the sheet and adjusting the crumpled tank top she'd tossed aside, my hands brushing over the pillow she'd been pressed into. No trace. No dampness. Almost like she'd erased it herself.
I picked up a broom and worked my way around the room; under her study table, a scatter of balled-up papers rolled out, some with faint scribbles, others just torn edges. I swept them into the pan, the soft hiss of the bristles the only sound in the room.
The only thing left was to collect her laundry. The bucket sat in its usual place beside her bed. Filled, as always, with a tangled mess of t-shirts, bras, and half-washed towels that still carried the scent of her. I crouched down to lift it, but something made me pause. At the very top--casually thrown in, as if she hadn't even thought twice about it--was a pair of pale pink panties.
Still damp.
Still fragrant.
My fingers trembled as I picked them up. Thin, soft, almost sheer. There was a patch--dark, wet, freshly made--right where the fabric had touched her most tender part. I don't know what made me do it, but I lifted them to my nose and breathed.
The scent was warm, sharp, sweet, and used. My thighs pressed together instinctively. I could feel my pulse between my legs, fast and deep, the same rhythm I'd felt behind that door the day before.
I wanted more.
I folded the damp panties and tucked them neatly back inside the bucket, trying to pretend I hadn't just sniffed my own daughter's arousal like some sick old pervert. But my eyes moved--drawn, like a magnet--to her cupboard.
It wasn't locked.
She never locked it.
I stood in front of it for a long moment. Then, slowly, I opened the door.
At first, it was just clothes--stacks of jeans, crop tops, scarves, and a few bras hanging from a makeshift hook. And then I saw the drawer. Not the one with socks and nightwear, the other one. The one tucked beneath, barely visible. I slid it open, and my breath hitched.
Inside was a tangle of colour and shape I couldn't mistake for anything innocent. A slim black dildo, still glistening faintly with some clear, sticky residue that caught the light. Next to it, a tiny pink plug topped with a heart-shaped jewel--dainty, almost girlish, but unmistakably filthy.
Seven different pairs of handcuffs lay in a row, each one slightly different--steel, leather, faux fur, and even one in a delicate lace pattern that felt almost... bridal. Beside them, a bottle of lube was half-squeezed, the label curling at the edges.
A folded blindfold of smooth satin. A flogger, its handle wrapped in leather, dozens of soft, narrow tails spilling over the edge of the drawer like a cascade of black hair. And there was more.
A small glass wand, cool and smooth to the touch, with a bulb at one end that made my fingers tremble when I imagined where it went.
A set of clamps joined by a fine silver chain. A curved G-spot toy in a deep violet, sleek as a fountain pen. At the very back, almost hidden under a coiled length of rope, lay a tiny egg-shaped device with a single button on its side. I didn't need to guess what it did--I could almost feel it humming in my palm.
My hand hovered over them, not daring to touch, but my fingers itched. Throbbed. And then I noticed the books. A small pile, wedged between the drawer and the side wall. Cheap, self-published erotica--paperbacks with worn spines and scandalous covers.
I picked one up. The title made my knees lock. "Mother's Tongue."
My hands shook. I flipped through pages--words jumped out at me like lightning.
"My daughter's lips tasted like strawberries and sin."
"She had called me 'Mom' just minutes ago. Now she was moaning it."
My cheeks burned. My nipples pressed against my dress. I hated how wet I was drawn towards my daughter. I hated how much I wanted to read every filthy word. But more than that... I hated how it made me think of her.
Of Dia.
Of that sweet, slick little moan when she called my name.
I snapped the book shut and held it to my chest. My heart was racing.
What was she?
What was I becoming?
I tucked everything back the way it was, lifted the laundry bucket, and walked out of the room as if it hadn't just swallowed me whole, but something had shifted.
That evening, after she returned, my eyes flicked over her body before I could stop them. I told myself it was harmless curiosity. It didn't feel harmless. At dinner, I tried to keep my gaze on my plate, spoon scraping quietly against the rim of the bowl. She chewed slowly, watching me.
"You okay?" she asked, her voice casual but laced with a sliver of suspicion.
"Yeah," I said too quickly, not looking up.
Her chair scraped softly against the floor as she stood. "I'm gonna head to my room," she said, carrying her plate to the sink. "Night, Mom."
"Night," I murmured, still not meeting her eyes.
She closed her door, and I went to mine. I lay awake for hours, tossing and turning, my mind playing back the image of her bent over that pillow... and the drawer. Sleep never really came--just a restless, shallow haze.
By the next afternoon, when she left for college, the quiet in the house felt dangerous. My thoughts kept circling the same thing until I gave in. I walked to her room, my heart tapping nervously in my chest. The book was right where I'd seen it last, its cover pressed against the wall on her nightstand. I picked it up, held it to my chest for a moment, and then carried it back to my room.
I turned the lock on my door. The silk robe whispered over my shoulders as I lay back, cool and weightless against my skin. I settled into the pillows, drew in a slow, steady breath, and opened to the first page.
I flipped through the first couple of pages; the story was told in the mother's voice. At first, it moved with a slow, teasing build--small glances, loaded silences--until the daughter finally began to bend her mother into submission, calling her pet.
Each page stole my breath. How could someone even write this? I kept reading, not even realizing when my robe had come loose, silk slipping open to bare my skin.
A few more pages later, a scene stopped me cold. The girl sat across from her mother, the table still cluttered with bowls and plates from dinner. Between lazy bites, her foot found the older woman's thigh, sliding higher and higher until the mother froze mid-breath. Without pausing her conversation, the girl said just three words--"On your knees."
The command landed like a whip crack, sending the mother sliding beneath the table without hesitation. From above, the clinking of cutlery never stopped. Under the linen's shadow, the girl's hand found her hair, guiding her face until her mother's lips pressed against her wet pussy.
The girl didn't stop eating. She chewed slowly, savoured her meal, and between mouthfuls, soft moans broke free--quiet enough that no one else would hear, loud enough that her pet did.
I couldn't help it--my mind twisted the image. I was the one under the table, and she was Dia. My breath hitched, and my thighs tightened. My fingers slid beneath my panties almost without thought, finding myself already slick. The story wasn't just filthy--it was dangerous, and my body reacted before my mind could catch up.
The next scene made my pulse throb.
The girl had her mother on all fours, completely naked, her back curved, breasts swaying slightly with each breath. The sound of a buckle tightening filled the room--a collar cinched snugly around the older woman's neck. A short leash dangled, catching the light with each movement. Book in hand, the girl strolled casually around the living room, reading as if this were nothing unusual. The mother crawled behind her, obedient and silent, just like a trained puppy. The leash tugged now and then--gentle, but firm enough to remind her of exactly where she belonged.
It was humiliating. Degrading. And yet... There was no denying the heat curling low in my belly. My mind slipped into her place, imagining the cool press of the floor beneath my knees, the weight of the collar, and the sound of her voice if I hesitated even for a second. Almost without thinking, my hand rose to my own neck, fingers curling as if to feel that same leather bite against my skin.
My other hand moved lower, circling my clit through the thin barrier of my panties, my breathing syncing with hers in the story. The heat was coiling tighter, my thoughts blurring into hers--when a sudden, sharp knock on my door jolted me upright, my heart leaping like I'd been caught.
I threw the book under my pillow, wiped my fingers against my robe, and tried to slow my breathing. "Yes?"
Dia's voice was cheerful. "Mom? Can I come in for a minute?"
I glanced at the clock--6 p.m. She must've been home for at least an hour, yet I hadn't heard the main door. I'd been too wrapped up in the story, drowning in it. And before I could answer, the handle turned and she was already pushing the door open.
I'd locked the door.
How...?
The thought barely had time to take shape before she was already pushing it open, stepping inside like the lock had never existed. My pulse jumped.
Without pause, she climbed onto my bed, settling in as if it were hers. Thin night shorts, an oversized T-shirt hanging loose off one shoulder, the faint outline of her nipples visible through the soft fabric. Her lips were faintly glossy, as if she'd just licked them. Completely unaware--or pretending not to be--of the storm she'd just walked into.
"Sorry to bother," she said with that easy smile, eyes drifting over the room. "I need a huge favour."
I swallowed. "Yes?"
"I have a scene tomorrow. For college. A lesbian scene." She giggled. "Super dramatic. Super touchy. But I can't rehearse with Riya--she just makes fun of everything. I need someone serious. Someone I trust."
She looked at me with that playful tilt to her head. I blinked. "And you... want me?"
She grinned. "You're perfect. Please, Mom? Just help me run it once?"
Before I could argue, she pulled out a crumpled printout from her back pocket and handed it to me. "You'll play the older woman. She's sophisticated. Guarded. A little lonely."
My throat dried. "I see."
I took the paper. Read the lines. They were... intense. Longing. Raw.
"You shouldn't be here," my line read.
"But I had to come," she replied.
"Do you know what you're asking of me?"
"Only what I've already taken..."
I looked up at her. Her eyes were locked on my mouth. "Ready?" she whispered.
I nodded, barely, but she began. Her voice changed--sultry, slow, the way honey moves in a jar. She stepped closer as she spoke. Her fingertips brushed my arm. Her breath warmed my cheek. She read her line, then waited for mine.
I read it--softly, nervously.
She smiled, eyes dancing. "More feeling," she whispered. "Make me believe you don't want to kiss me."
"I don't," I whispered back.
And then she leaned in--not part of the script, not rehearsed. Her lips brushed mine. Featherlight. Just enough to taste.
I froze.
"It's okay," she whispered, her hand warm and steady on my thigh. "It's just acting."
Her mouth found mine again--slower this time, deliberate. Her lips parted, coaxing mine open. The first press was tender, almost cautious, but then she caught my lower lip between hers, sucking just long enough to make my breath hitch.
It slid against mine in a lazy tease, tasting, drawing me deeper. She kissed like she knew exactly how to unravel someone--no rush, no fumbling, just confident, unhurried strokes that made my head feel light. She tasted of mint, sweet and sharp, with something warmer beneath, something that was entirely her.
I kissed her back without thinking, my lips molding to hers, my breath mingling with the soft sigh she let out. Her head tilted, deepening it, and I felt the soft brush of her hair against my cheek, the subtle shift of her weight as she leaned in closer.
Then--without breaking the kiss--her hand slid higher on my thigh. My breath caught. She didn't stop. Fingers skimmed over my hip, slipping under the edge of my robe.
Her touch moved up my inner thigh with the same slow, deliberate rhythm as her mouth until she reached the damp heat between my legs. Her fingers pressed lightly against the thin fabric of my panties, making me gasp into her mouth.
She smiled against my lips, a small, knowing curve, then gave the tiniest stroke. My hips twitched without my permission. Her fingertips traced a lazy circle over the fabric, and I swore I could feel her smirk even without looking at her.
"See?" she breathed against my neck. "You're better than Riya."
Just then, the doorbell rang and we pulled apart. I could still feel the print of her palm between my legs. Dia smirked, tucked her hair behind her ear, and stood.
"Thanks, Mom," she said sweetly. "You really helped."
And just like that, she walked out. Barefoot. Calm. Like she hadn't just kissed the woman who irons her underwear. I sat there, shaking. My lips tingled. My pussy throbbed. And I knew... she wasn't rehearsing.
The next day, around evening, I was in the kitchen when her voice floated from the hallway, warm and casual. "Mom? Can you come here a sec?"
I dried my hands on the towel, still half-distracted by what I was cooking, and stepped out.
And froze.
Dia was standing near the mirror, back to me, in a dress I'd never seen before. Just above knee length, deep wine-red--rich, sinful, the kind of colour that made you think of velvet ropes and forbidden rooms. The cut wasn't exactly modest either; it hugged her hips like it had been stitched there, but the real shock was the back.
Bare. Completely bare.
The zipper was undone all the way to the dip of her waist--down past the gentle inward slope, down to where the curve of her Venus line just began to disappear beneath the skirt. The dress was off-shoulder, so from the back she looked like she was wrapped in nothing but a strip of wine-coloured fabric that began just above her hips and clung until it draped over her breasts.
As I stepped closer, I caught the front view through the mirror. My breath hitched. The way the bodice was cut--low and loose at the top--meant that as she lifted her arms to hold up her hair, the fabric shifted just enough to reveal the truth: she wasn't wearing a bra.
Her breasts moved freely beneath, small and perfectly shaped, the pale skin smooth, the areolas tight and drawn into soft, hard peaks.
"I can't reach," she said, smiling at me through the reflection. "Please?"
I swallowed hard. "Of course."
I stepped behind her, but my eyes refused to behave--pulled again and again to her chest, to the teasing sway every time she breathed. My fingers shook slightly as I caught the zipper between them and pulled it up slowly, deliberately, as though the act itself was some kind of intimate ritual--closing her into something sacred. My knuckles brushed along the warm length of her spine, tracing every gentle ridge until the metal teeth met at the top.
She didn't move. Didn't flinch. Her breathing stayed calm, almost too calm, but mine... wasn't.
When I finally looked up, I realized I had been staring--completely lost--my gaze glued to her breasts as if the fabric between us didn't exist. Her smirk was subtle but merciless. "You're staring, Mom."
I blinked, heat flooding my cheeks, shame pricking sharply at the back of my neck. I'd just been caught staring at my own daughter.
"I--I wasn't," I stammered, voice barely above a whisper, as though denial could erase what she'd already seen in my eyes. My gaze betrayed me again, flicking down before I could stop it. "You... you're not wearing a bra?"
She turned to face me fully, her movements slow and deliberate. Her eyes locked on mine, unblinking, unreadable--until the corner of her mouth curled.
"No, Mother," she said softly, like it was a secret meant only for me. Then, with a devil's smile, she added, "I wanted to look sexy."
"B-but--" I started, though the rest of the sentence tangled on my tongue.
Before I could gather my thoughts, she hooked her fingers in the hem of her skirt, lifting it with a casual boldness that made my pulse lurch. She placed one foot on the low dresser, her thigh angling just so, the smooth skin catching the light. Her eyes never left mine.
"I'm not wearing any panties either," she murmured, letting the words hang in the air, heavier than anything she could have shown me.
I gasped. For the first time, I saw her shaved, neat, perfectly bare pussy. My eyes locked there for a second too long before I could catch myself.
"You like it?" she asked, voice low and teasing.
"Ahem--" I looked away quickly, a strange half-smile tugging at my lips, my fingers tucking loose strands of hair behind my ear in a nervous habit. She reached for me, catching a few strands on the other side, twirling them slowly between her fingers before brushing them away from my face. "Come on, Mother," she murmured, almost coaxing. "Tell me... how do I look?"
I dared another glance--quick, guilty--and then turned my eyes away again. "Well... I--uh--" my words tripped over themselves. "You can't go out like this."
She lowered her leg from the dresser, the hem of her dress falling to her thighs, and stepped closer. Much closer. "What do you mean... like this?" she asked.
Her arms slid easily around my neck. As she gathered my hair and swept it back, her fingertips grazed the length of my spine. My breath caught.
"I just think..." I shifted awkwardly, eyes darting anywhere but her face. "...the dress is too revealing, and--" Her hands were still moving, brushing over my chest now, slow and deliberate, making it hard to form words. "--and you should be wearing underwear," I finished weakly.
She laughed, low and dirty, the sound vibrating through me. "Underwear? Oh no, Mother... that only gets in the way. I like easy access--for my pets."
"P-pets?" My voice cracked, the word sticking in my throat.
Her smile widened, cruel and sweet at the same time. Her fingers pressed harder against my nipples through the bra, making me gasp. "Mhm. Pets. Do you know what they do for me?"
I shook my head, barely able to breathe.
"They crawl to me," she purred, leaning in, her lips almost brushing my ear. "They lick me open like good little sluts. Tongue deep in my cunt, on their knees, drooling, begging to be allowed to drink me. They don't stop until I'm soaked all over their mouth, until I've used them, until I'm done."
My breath hitched violently, my thighs pressing together, shame burning my face. She tilted her head, watching me, enjoying every flicker of panic. Her hands dragged slow circles over my breasts, her thumbs teasing mercilessly. "And you, mother..." The word came like a lash, sharp and gleeful. "...You want to be one of them, don't you? My pet. On your knees between my legs, tongue out, waiting for me to sit on your face."
The picture she painted flooded my mind, filthy and vivid. My lips parted, but no sound came.
Before I could answer, she smoothed the rest of my hair back, leaned in, and pressed a soft, warm kiss against the side of my neck. A startled giggle escaped from my mouth--unbidden, betraying how flustered I was--but still, I couldn't push her away. My protest came out thin, trembling. "Dia... what are you doing?"
She didn't lift her head. I could feel her breath against my skin, warm and unhurried, as her hands drifted lower--down my sides, over the curve of my hips, to my thighs above the loose fabric of my pyjama pants. I froze. My body was tense, but my feet stayed rooted. "Please... this is wrong," I whispered.
Her smile curved, sly and cruel. "Wrong?" she echoed softly, then her eyes gleamed. "And sniffing your daughter's used panties when she's not in her room... that's not wrong, pet-mother?" Her voice dropped, dangerous now, as her fingers tugged at the loose knot of my pyjama pants.
There was no pause, no chance to fight it, and the fabric surrendered to her. My pyjama bottoms slithered down my legs like a traitor, brushing against my thighs and my knees until they collapsed around my ankles with a heavy, humiliating weight. My bare thighs prickled with gooseflesh, shame crawling over me like invisible hands. My hands flew instinctively--one covering my panties, the other tugging at the hem of my shirt, desperate to stretch it lower as if it would cover my shame.
Her laugh was soft and wicked, too knowing. "You look guilty already." Her eyes dragged over me, deliberate, stripping me further. Then her voice dropped, silken and cruel, "Tell me, pet--Mommy... was it just my panties you buried your face in? Or did you moan when you read my stories, too?"
The words hit like a slap. My stomach dropped.
How could she know?
The room spun with questions--had she seen me sneaking into her closet? Had she planted those books on purpose, waiting for me to take the bait? Had she heard the muffled noises I made in my own bed?
Her smile widened as my lips parted, but nothing came out. My body betrayed me--knees trembling, thighs slick, chest heaving in shallow gasps.
"Cat got your tongue, Mommy?" She whispered, stepping closer, her fingers brushing mine where I shielded myself. The gentlest push, and my hand fell away, leaving me exposed, helpless. I shook my head, the lie trembling from me in a whisper: "I--I don't know what you're talking about..."
Her chuckle was low and cruel, vibrating straight into my gut. "You don't know? Then why are your panties wet already?"
"Please..."
"Please, what, pet-Mommy?" Her hands came up deliberately, boldly cupping my breasts over the shirt. I clutched at her wrists, trembling. My fingers tightened, but I couldn't push her away. "You didn't see me grinding the pillow that day... moaning your name?"
Her thumbs rolled lazily over my nipples, firm and knowing. "You didn't think I noticed, did you?" She breathed against my ear.
My throat closed around the denial, but it stumbled out anyway, weak and broken. "I--I didn't..."
Her laugh was a purr. "No?" Her voice wrapped around me like a velvet rope, binding tighter with every word. One hand slid down, slow and teasing, until her fingers found the buttons of my shirt. She undid one. Then another. Then another--each click like a countdown, stripping away the last of my control. Her eyes locked on mine, glinting with mock innocence. "Weren't you begging me to grind on your tongue?"
Heat surged through me, shame burning in my chest. She knew. She knew everything, my secrets, my filth.
By the time I realized, the shirt was already slipping from my shoulders, pooling at my elbows like shackles. My nervous laugh broke from me, brittle and desperate. "W-what? What are you doing?"
But my protest was paper-thin. She didn't listen--maybe she didn't even hear. The shirt fell away completely, leaving me in nothing but a bra and panties. I crossed my arms, trying to shield myself, but she gently pried them apart, patient, relentless. Her palms closed over me again, squeezing, kneading through the thin fabric of my bra, and she whispered. "What I'm doing, pet, is what you've wanted all along."
I gasped, my chest heaving under her touch. Her fingers toyed with the hem of my bra now, sliding inside, teasing the soft curve of flesh, brushing the tip, only to pull back. I stood frozen--eyes darting left and right, searching for escape--but my body stayed where it was, trembling under her hands, caught between fear, shame, and something I didn't dare name.
She suddenly leaned in, her mouth hovering only an inch from mine. My breath caught, my eyes fluttered shut--expecting, bracing for the kiss--but instead, her hands slid around to my back, deft fingers brushing, tugging, and with one sharp flick, she unhooked me.
My bra straps slackened, the cups giving up their futile fight to hold my breasts. I gasped, a shaky, embarrassed laugh tumbling out as she eased the straps from my shoulders and tossed the bra aside like it was nothing. Instinct took over--my arms folding, palms pressed tight over the soft, heavy swell of my now-bare breasts. She didn't give me even a second. Her hands were already there, prying my arms apart, reclaiming what I tried to hide.
Then she leaned closer, cupped me--both hands full, warm, insistent--and lifted my breasts upward, squeezing, shaping, making me arch without meaning to.
"P--Please..." My voice tangled, useless. I didn't want to stop her. God help me, I didn't. I wanted to touch her the way she was touching and squeezing my breasts, and then she showed me. With a sly half-smile, she tugged her own fabric down. Her tits came free, pale curves tipped with dusky peaks. She leaned in until her bare chest pressed flush against mine--soft to soft, heat to heat, nipples brushing, catching, sliding.
"You want to be my pet, don't you, Mommy?" She whispered and nodded her head yes, as if she was guiding me to accept.
My fingers trembled as I tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear, hiding, stalling. And then I whispered it--the first word of my surrender. "...Yes."
Her hands slid lower still, then moved back up--taking mine with them. My palms brushed her bare stomach, the smoothness shocking against my skin, and then--higher--until she guided me to her breasts. She let my hands settle there, cupping her. Soft, warm flesh filled my palms. Her eyes locked with mine as my fingers curled slightly despite myself, feeling her shape, the delicate weight pressing into me.
Her smile sharpened, triumphant. "Yes?" she echoed, her breath ghosting my lips.
And then her mouth was on mine. This time, there was no script in her hand, no lines to pretend. Just her lips pressing, tasting, coaxing. I closed my eyes and let it happen. The kiss deepened--slow at first, then hungrier, her tongue slipping past my lips, claiming, exploring.
A low, unbidden moan spilled from my throat as she urged me backward, step by step, my body obeying the push of her mouth, the pull of her hands. I kissed her back helplessly, retreating until she broke the kiss.
Her palms pressed firmly to my shoulders, and with one last push, I toppled onto the bed. The mattress caught me, stealing my breath, my hair spilling wild across the pillow. Above me, she stood--smiling down like she'd planned this all along. In one quick tug, she slid my pyjama off my ankle and tossed it aside. I watched it fly and drop carelessly onto the floor in the middle of the room.
"You still haven't answered me," she murmured as she gathered her hair, pushing it back from her face, and lowered herself. Her lips brushed my inner thigh as she trailed kisses upward, each one hotter and closer.
"Wh-what?" I stammered nervously.
"You want to be my pet, don't you?" she asked, pausing just below the hem of my panties, her mouth an inch away from my soaked heat. I hid my face in my hands, trembling. But she crawled higher, prying my arms apart yet another time, until her mouth claimed my nipple.
I gasped as her tongue flicked over it--slow, deliberate--before a drop of her warm saliva slid down and clung to the tip. My eyes squeezed shut, a moan escaping without my permission. "Oh God..."
She rose onto her knees, straddling me, each thigh caging mine. Her fingers pinched my nipples hard, tugging them upward until I gasped.
"Answer the fucking question, Mommy-slut," she demanded, her voice sharp, annoyed.
It landed heavier than any hand could have. Slut. My whole body flinched, heat surging into my face so violently I thought my skin would split. The syllable didn't just echo--it branded. Branded me as the thing I had always feared being called, the one I secretly was. My throat closed, useless, as if the shame itself had reached in and throttled me.
I wanted to scream that it wasn't true, that I wasn't that--but my pussy was soaked, my thighs trembling, my breath catching in little whimpers I couldn't swallow. Every filthy thing she had described me doing suddenly played like a reel in my head: the pillow grinding, her moans, her soaked panties, the book. Slut, pet, or whatever it was, I wanted to be that for her.
"Yes, I--I..." The words cracked, pitiful, as though admitting even that much made me filthier. But she wasn't patient--she never was, and before I could even finish, she seized me by the hair and yanked me forward, forcing my face against the soft swell of her breasts. My cry broke into a muffled whimper, swallowed by the heat of her skin. Her scent--sweet, heady, corrupting--flooded my senses, dizzying, inescapable.
"Oh, Mom..." she cooed, the mockery wrapped in silk as she ground the weight of her curves across my cheeks, smothering me in them. "Look at you--trembling, dripping, hiding behind your lies, and still nuzzling me like a hungry little pet."
Shame knifed through me, sharper than lust, and I squirmed in her grip, but it only made her press me deeper into her chest, claiming every inch of my face. Her voice dropped, syrupy-sweet but cruel in its certainty. "You will do whatever I ask you to do, won't you?"
Tears pricked hot at the corners of my eyes, my voice breaking into nothing. The word blistered still, echoing in my ears, my chest, and my cunt. My final shred of dignity collapsed under it. "Y-yes..." The syllables tumbled out, hushed and wrecked, a confession more than an answer. Her laugh vibrated through her body, cruel and victorious, and I realized in that moment--I wasn't standing on my own anymore. I was kneeling inside her shadow.
Her tits smothered me, warm and heavy, as her hands slid lower, grazing across my stomach until her fingers lingered just above my navel.
"Then kiss my nipples," she whispered, voice low and poisonous-sweet. "Suck them like the desperate little slut you are."
I couldn't stop myself. My lips lifted to her skin, trembling, brushing her cleavage. A gasp tore from her when my tongue darted out, tracing the hollow between her breasts. Her back arched instinctively, as if every flick of my tongue strung her tighter.
And then I fell--flat against the mattress, shame rushing in to drown me. My hands flew up to cover my burning face, as though if I hid, I could pretend none of it was happening. But she didn't let me. Her grip seized my wrists and pried them open, and this time she guided my fingers straight to her mouth.
Her lips closed around them, wet and hot, sucking greedily until my knuckles trembled. Her tongue wound over each fingertip, coating them, owning them, smearing my shame in spit. When she finally pulled my hand free, she dragged it back down to her chest, pressing those slick fingers hard against her nipples.
I circled them clumsily, helplessly, teasing the stiff buds as her moan bled into a cruel little laugh--half pleasure, half mockery. It went straight through me, leaving my thighs clenched and soaked. My mouth watered. My body begged. And when our eyes locked, her devilish smile told me exactly what she wanted next--my panties, which clung damply against me, the thin cotton darkened with shame.
Her hand skimmed over my groin, slow and deliberate, her touch so close I felt my muscles lock with panic. I clutched at the waistband, fingers trembling, trying desperately to hold on to that last scrap of dignity. She only smiled--sharp, merciless--and slipped her fingers beneath the elastic, her nails grazing my skin as she toyed with the waistband.
I shook my head frantically, but my plea only made her grin widen, and she tugged. Slow. Deliberate. Inch by inch, she peeled it downward, letting the elastic snap against my hips and my thighs, taunting me with every tiny surrender.
I squirmed, thighs pressing together, hands clutching tight, but she was stronger. With one sharp jerk, she yanked them free. The panties were gone, snatched away from my desperate grip, leaving me bare and trembling. She dangled the ruined scrap of cotton between two fingers, inspecting the wet patch glistening in the light.
"Pathetic, Mommy," she mocked, pressing the damp gusset to her nose with a cruel laugh. "You're dripping already."
My thighs shut in a reflex of shame and shock--but she pried them apart, firm, unyielding. My body burned as she inhaled, slow and decadent, closing her eyes as if savouring the scent of my humiliation. And then her eyes dropped instantly, hungry and mocking all at once. A low whistle escaped her lips. "Well, well... Look at you. Perfectly shaved--just like a little slut waiting to be used."
My face burned hotter than ever, shame flooding me so hard I almost covered myself with both hands. She caught my wrists, pinned them above me with one hand, and crouched low, staring directly at my exposed folds. Then she dragged a single finger up the slick seam, not even touching--just hovering, making me feel the ghost of it.
"You want me to touch you, Mommy?" she breathed, her voice a purr, the kind that hooked into my spine and dragged my answer out before I could think. Her head tilted, that tiny nod--mocking, commanding. And like a puppet yanked by invisible strings, I nodded too, my obedience spilling out before my pride could catch it.
Her smile curled devilishly as she crawled higher over me, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of my ribs. "No, pet," she said, voice firm now, "that's not enough. You ask for it."
Helplessness surged, swallowing me whole. My lips trembled, the words sticky in my throat. "P-please... Please touch me."
She paused, hips hovering, her dress already sliding up her thighs. Then she deliberately tugged it to her waist, baring herself. My eyes caught the wet gleam between her legs just as her naked ass pressed down over my breasts. The soft weight smothered, taunted, and made it real. Her expression widened in mock innocence, cruel as it was sweet.
"Touch you?" she teased, leaning low until her hair tickled my face. "Do you really want your eighteen-year-old daughter to touch your cunt, Mommy-pet?"
The words were fire, scorching and humiliating in a way that made my body betray me. Shame burned across my face, my thighs trembled, yet my cunt ached, flooding. The degradation had me bound tighter than ropes. My voice cracked under the heat. "Y... yes," I whispered, the word breaking me apart.
"Good girl," she smirked, dragging herself higher. Her scent thickened in the air as she reached her throne. Her pussy was bare, glistening, and swollen, the scent already flooding my lungs. And then--she sat. Her soaked slit smothered my mouth, her cunt lips grinding hot and wet against my face. I gasped, but the sound drowned in her flesh.
"Mmhh, yes," she moaned, rocking her hips with deliberate cruelty. "Lick it, Mommy. You wanted this, didn't you? You wanted your daughter's dirty little cunt all over your mouth."
I whimpered against her, the heat of shame and arousal twisting together until I couldn't breathe. My tongue slipped out, tentative at first, and she bucked instantly.
"Ah--there it is," she hissed, clutching my hair, forcing my face tighter into her sex. "Slut. Open your mouth and eat my cunt."
Her wetness smeared across my lips, down my chin, sticky and obscene. Every time I tried to move back, she ground harder, rubbing her clit against my nose, her cunt lips spreading over me.
"You're mine now, Mother," she groaned, breathless but mocking. "My wet cunt is your meal. You'll swallow everything I give you."
I obeyed helplessly, licking, sucking, and choking when she pressed down harder. My shame only deepened each time she moaned louder, her filthy laughter spilling over me. "That's it," she growled, rocking faster, "lick like the desperate slut you are. You're not my mother anymore--you're my tongue-toy."
Her cunt was hot and dripping as it smeared across my lips, her thighs tightening around my head while she rolled her hips with deliberate cruelty. I flattened my tongue, letting her grind against it, her clit dragging over me again and again.
"Mmhh, fuck... yes," she groaned, shoving me deeper. "Keep that tongue out, slut--don't you dare stop."
Her slick coated me, sticky and salty, my tongue tracing every fold, pushing inside her, then lapping back up to circle her clit. Each time I touched the swollen nub, she shuddered violently, clutching my hair until my scalp burned.
And then--I felt it. Her hand slid down my stomach, lower, fingers worming between my thighs. I jerked at the first touch, but she didn't stop--she rubbed my pussy, lazy circles, smearing my wetness, teasing me until my hips bucked against her hand.
"God, you're soaked," she laughed breathlessly, grinding harder against my face. "Such a desperate little slut--licking your daughter's cunt while you gush for me."
My tongue trembled under her rhythm, her juices running down my chin, my own thighs shaking as her fingers played me. The room filled with wet sounds--her pussy on my tongue, mine under her hand--two filthy women tangled in shame.
Her breathing sharpened, hips jerking erratically. "Fuck, I'm close--don't stop, don't you dare stop licking, slut!" She cried, but her motion slowed down. At last, she lifted off my face, her skin slick and trembling, strands of her wetness still dripping across my lips. I lay there dazed, chest heaving, but she wasn't done. On all fours now, she crawled up the bed, ass high, her cunt glistening, open, and dripping. She looked back over her shoulder, eyes dark and commanding. "Come here," she ordered, her voice a raw growl. "Lick your mistress and get her off."
I scrambled forward obediently, mouth already open, tongue desperate. My face buried between her cheeks, inhaling her raw scent, devouring her. I licked everywhere--up and down, sucking her folds, pressing deep, circling her swollen clit. Her taste coated me, sticky and hot.
Her back arched, her nails raked the sheets as she moaned out, "Ohhh, fuck... yes--don't stop, tongue, don't you dare stop!" Her hips rolled back into my mouth, grinding my lips and nose into her slick cunt until I could hardly breathe.
I clutched her ass, spreading her wide, my tongue flattening against her clit, flicking it mercilessly. She screamed, head thrown back, her body trembling like she couldn't hold it in.
"Fuck, fuck, yesss!" she wailed, her thighs shaking around my face, juice spilling over my chin as her orgasm tore through her. She bucked violently, riding my mouth, using me, milking every ounce of pleasure until she was shaking uncontrollably.
Her cries grew hoarse, her body collapsing forward onto the bed, ass still high as she convulsed, her cunt pulsing against my tongue. I kept licking, desperate, obedient, lapping up every drop as she twitched and whimpered from the aftershocks.
At last, she slumped down fully, face buried in the sheets, body limp and glistening with sweat, completely spent, while I stayed kneeling behind her, mouth wet, lips swollen, still burning with need.
She suddenly rolled over, quick and playful, grabbing me by the arms and hauling me upright. We both knelt on the bed, facing each other, her giggle wicked and breathless. She caught my hand and dragged my fingers straight down between her thighs, forcing me to feel the slick mess of her cunt. I gasped, awkward, trying to pull back, but she held me there, smearing her wetness over my fingertips.
Then--smiling like a devil--she brought my soaked fingers up to her lips and slipped them inside her mouth. Her tongue wrapped around them, sucking deep, moaning at her own taste as though she were drinking it straight from me. My laugh came brittle and nervous, and shame bubbled hot as I tried to cover my face with my other hand.
She didn't allow it. She snatched my wrist, dragged it down, and guided my same slick fingers back to her pussy, coating them again in her juices before shoving them in front of my mouth this time. Her other hand gripped the one I'd tried to hide, tugging it away from my face as she leaned in, lips parting against mine.
"Lick," she ordered softly, eyes glittering.
I opened, trembling, and she pressed my messy fingers against my tongue while kissing me at the same time--her lips sealing over mine, tongues tangling, and my own taste of her pouring into me. It felt obscene, dirty, like we were passing her cunt back and forth, sharing it as though it were a cock between us.
Her laugh vibrated against my mouth as she pulled back just enough to whisper, "That's right, slut... Taste what you've done to your mistress."
Right then, the doorbell rang.
"Fuck," Dia hissed, her body jolting. "Riya must be here."
My chest tightened. "What?" I gasped, still completely naked, my skin burning from what we'd just done.
"Yeah, come--hide yourself." She looked around frantically, tugging at her crumpled dress.
"Um, where?" I stammered, panic crawling up my throat. My room was just across the hallway--if I stepped out, Riya might see me. The absurdity struck me--this was my own house, yet I was the one looking for a place to hide.
"Under the bed--no, too risky. Bathroom. Go!" Dia shoved at me, then snatched up my shirt from the floor and tossed it at my face. "Take your clothes, idiot."
Humiliation seared through me. Clutching my bra, panties, and pyjamas against my chest like stolen things, I rushed into the attached bathroom. My heart pounded so loud I swore it would give me away. I pulled the door almost shut, leaving just a sliver--enough to see. Dia smoothed her hair and adjusted her dress in rushed, nervous tugs, then opened the door with an easy smile as if nothing had happened.
Riya stepped inside, and my breath caught. Her long legs were bare under the tiniest, skimpiest dress that barely clung to her curves. Thin straps slipped over her shoulders, the neckline scandalously low, teasing her cleavage with every movement. The hem swished high on her thighs, showing more than it hide, and it was obvious--painfully obvious--she wasn't wearing anything underneath.
They giggled together like schoolgirls, Riya leaning into Dia with that coy, hungry smile. Dia gave her a slow, teasing 360° look, circling her like she was inspecting a prize. And then--bold as anything--she brushed her own breasts across Riya's chest, letting the soft swell of them press and drag over the thin fabric.
I almost choked, watching, my knees buckling as I gripped the bathroom counter for balance.
And then--without hesitation--they kissed. Not a shy peck, but deep, greedy, tongues instantly colliding. Their hands slid under each other's dresses at once, lifting the fabric to reveal bare thighs, bare hips... bare everything. Neither of them wore panties. Their dresses rode up higher and higher, exposing flashes of smooth ass and glistening heat beneath, while they clung to each other, grinding, moaning into the kiss.
A sudden gasp slipped from me, too loud, and in panic, I clutched my balled-up pyjamas over my mouth, smothering the sound, heart hammering. But they didn't notice. They broke apart, lips wet, panting lightly. Riya's voice came soft and breathless: "Let's go."
"Sure," Dia replied smoothly, tugging her dress down.
My chest lifted with relief as they turned toward the door. But then--Dia paused. She touched Riya's arm. "Wait, I forgot my phone. Why don't you go downstairs? I'll grab it and follow."
"Okay," Riya smiled and left, heels clicking on the wooden stairs.
Dia strolled back inside, her footsteps unhurried and deliberate. She plucked her phone from the bedside table... Then, in the same motion, pushed open the bathroom door wide. I froze--naked, clutching my bundle of clothes against my chest like a shield. My breath hitched, eyes wide. Dia's smirk curled, wolfish. "We are not done yet, slut."
Before I could react, her hand slid down, brazen and fast, cupping my bare pussy. My knees nearly buckled.
"I'll be home by twelve," she murmured darkly, fingers pressing just enough to make me whimper. "Till then, don't you dare wear any panties. Understood, pet?"
A helpless moan tore from me, my hips betraying me as they tilted into her touch. "Y-yes..."
Her eyes narrowed. "Yes, what?"
My mouth fumbled. "Huh?"
Her fingers pinched sharply against my folds, making me squeal. "It's Mistress, you dumb slut."
Shame and fire surged all at once. My head dropped, voice cracking. "Yes, Mistress."
Her smile softened into something cruelly sweet. She patted my bare cunt like she was rewarding a dog. "Good girl."
Then she pulled her hand away, wiped her glistening fingers casually on my own clothes still clutched in my hands, and turned toward the door. I stood there trembling, naked in my own bathroom, clutching my clothes uselessly against me, the scent of her fingers still wet on my skin. My thighs pressed tight together, burning with submission.
To be Continued...