Nightly Needs
-Chapter 1-
by Olivia Palmer, © 2017
Beverly Dall couldn’t take another second of it. Not one second! If her mopey, bitchy daughter didn’t grow up a little and take more responsibility for her own life, she’d never be able to move back out of the damn house. Beverly would be stuck with her forever. Christina would never get another job, never do anything on her own, never amount to more than just a failed kid hiding from the world after a horrible marriage to a terrible woman.
She couldn’t help but feel a little guilty about her motivations, though. Beverly had to admit it, finally: she wanted a life, too!
At forty-nine, she felt like she was just entering her professional prime. Her real estate business had really hit its stride just ten years prior—now her own private company brokered only the richest homes in the area, dealt with only the best land, built only the highest-class condos, corporate offices, and private retreats. The last few years she had branched out into more and more of the ownership side, the development end, and she even had her first hotel on prime beach property. It was her time!
And physically? Emotionally? Beverly still had it going on, too. She was a rock solid hot and confident bitch, and she knew it. She had to be, in her line of work. As a woman in a man’s business, she couldn’t swing the kinds of deals she managed without being three things everywhere, all the time: gorgeous, fearless, and funny. The “gorgeous” part? It was first for a reason, of course. Beverly wasn’t stupid.
Even out of her favorite red-bottom heels, she stood five-foot-nine, with long soft dirty blonde hair (with help from a regular wash to fight the encroaching gray) and platinum highlights—these days usually in a messy bun. Her legs were long, strong, and tanned. She possessed firm hips and round hard ass, a tight belly, C-cup tits still high and perky, and a neck that was made for kissing. She was proud of the fact that she hadn’t had any “work” done yet—except for the brutal effort it took her to constantly eat right and regularly sweat her ass off in her home gym, her office gym, and out on the beach sometimes, where it was fun to jog along the sand, half-naked, and watch even the teenagers turn their heads to marvel.
She didn’t need to be chained down at home, constantly fretting over Christina and her fragile, melodramatic recovery. Sure, that let her work out even more—and lately that meant adding to her swimming regimen in the massive pool out back—but it drove her crazy, being such a homebody all of a sudden. She needed to be Out There, working deals, making men smile and go soft in the head, making money, making her mark!
“Thanks a lot, bitch-face,” Beverly muttered at the irritating memory of her former daughter-in-law, whose calm, panty-melting smile suddenly came to mind. “Hope you’re having a great time in prison.”
It had been a rapidly-evolving workplace romance. The Cunt, Senior Trader Steffi Fittälska, was fifteen years older than Beverly’s daughter and a tall beauty—in a butchy athletic way—in her own right. Stef had clearly had taken advantage of fresh-faced Christina’s innate eagerness to work hard and please everyone around her. She and Christina began officially dating less than a month after she’d been hired. They got engaged a month after that. Married by the end of the quarter. Apparently fraternization rules—sororitization rules, perhaps?—did not exist for upper executives in the securities division. Sexual harassment policy had obviously been chucked out the window, too.
On the night before their wedding, after an evening of celebratory drinking with close family and friends, Christina blearily, blissfully confessed to Beverly on the ride home that she’d been eating out her wife-to-be in Stef’s large corner office every work day since her second morning in the building. Right off, Beverly had seen that as a bad sign, but since she’d only found out about it a few hours before the nuptials, her course of action wasn’t all that clear.
It shamed her now, looking back, but she’d decided by the next morning to try not to worry about it. After all, Christina had been good and drunk when she’d made the confession, and it had been impossible to tell if her daughter regretted it at all. In fact, she’d sounded quite proud of herself. At the time, Beverly had wondered if maybe that’s how the young adults did it nowadays. Maybe that’s like cocktails used to be. Forget about Happy Hour flirtations, just go give each other oral!
Or maybe Christina was simply a slut. A lesbian whore. Beverly had wondered, with no small thrill, just how horny and kinky her daughter might be in private. What lengths would she go to in order to rise up through the corporate ranks? Seemed like Beverly’s daughter wasn’t above using her pretty face and sexy young body to get herself ahead.
Beverly had to admit, it did turn her on, daydreaming of Christina sucking and fucking (fisting?) her way to the top. She thought of her daughter’s long naked legs wrapped around the head of some saggy middle-aged lady executive as she bent over her daughter’s body, writhing atop her desk. She imagined her daughter’s silky dark-auburn hair hanging all around her face as she licked and sucked on a geriatric matronly CEO’s bushy old pussy. She shuddered blissfully imagining the light dusting of freckles across her daughter’s perfect nose as they were suddenly, messily splattered with Grade A rich businesswoman squirt. Or piss. Oh God!
Yes, Beverly was forced to face a simple fact: her daughter’s wedding eve confession had opened up a whole new world of fantasizing for the lonely, horny widow. Rarely did a masturbation session go by now that Beverly wasn’t cooking up some new scenario in which Christina was up to her high tight ass in some kind of scorching, athletic, woman-on-woman sex. More and more, much to Beverly’s astonishment and guilty pleasure, Christina was even stealing into Beverly’s own fantasy bed, between her own strong, long legs. Licking her own mother. Fingering her. Fisting her. Flipping her over and gnawing, sucking on her tender quivering ass. Oh, if only! Beverly couldn’t help it, her orgasms had become the strongest in years, and so she gave in to the fantasies. Christina now dominated them.
But then, after six months of marriage, Christina showed up at Beverly’s door one night in tears. Steffi had taken to beating her regularly. She would grab her and not let go, delivering vicious slaps to her face and bare breasts, followed by spankings, sometimes with a belt, but usually with her bare hand. Then she would shove whatever object was nearest into whatever hole she wanted.
Christina sobbed all night, telling her mother how she’d grown to hate Stef and how she’d often tried to fight back. She’d been spanked for any and all kinds of reasons, sometimes her wife even invented mistakes or offenses just to get her new, pretty little plaything over her knee. Beverly let her daughter stay indefinitely, no more questions asked. It lasted almost a month.
Then one day Christina texted her from work.
“Moving back home, thx. Love you,” and that was it.
Beverly returned to her house to find her daughter cleared out and truly back with her dominating wife.
“What happened?” Beverly had texted back. “I thought you were through with her???”
It was nearly an hour before Christina replied. By then Beverly was out on the road again, heading to a millionaire client’s massive, somehow inadequate home. Her daughter called her rather than texting. Beverly had been so out of sorts by the situation that she hadn’t even paired her phone to the hands-free mode in her car. She’d have to hold the damn thing up to her ear the old fashioned way and still try to drive. But it was her only child, and she needed her! There was no time for fucking bluetooth bullshit!
After a fumbling moment, Beverly fished her phone out of her purse, accepted the call, and crammed the device against her head. Christina’s voice sounded soft, vague.
“I don’t know, Mom,” she muttered. “It was weird. I went back to the house to get the rest of my clothes, and... and... well, I guess somehow I fell asleep on the bed. When I woke up, Stef was there, and... well... we got back—you know—naked... I mean, together.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want,” Beverly asked. She heard strange, muted tones in her daughter’s voice that she’d never, ever heard from her before. She did not sound like her normal self. Not. At. All.
“Is it?” Christina asked, her voice dwindling until it was a small trembling thing on the other end of the call. “Maybe?”
Beverly had heard enough. Fuck the insecure millionaire and the amazing house he inexplicably hated. His issues could wait. She’d been driving to the opposite end of town on the bypass, out toward the beach, but with a quick set of maneuvers she was soon across the grassy median and turned around, heading out to her daughter’s place, ready to rescue her.
“I don’t like this at all, Chrissy,” Beverly declared. “She’s done something to you, hasn’t she? Has she hurt you? Threatened you? I’m heading over there right now!”
“Oh, please, Mommy don’t!” Christina begged, suddenly sounding much more sure of herself. “You don’t understand. She’s—I’ve—well, I changed!”
Her sobs turned to howls, and Beverly found herself slowing the car, pulling over onto the shoulder of the busy four-laned highway. She realized after a moment that she was pressing a palm against her chest, her heart pounding. Then she slid fingers inside her blouse, inside her thin demi-cup bra, cupping her own breast, one stiff, sure finger against the tip of her swelling nipple.
Christina sounded truly panicked, utterly desperate. “Please don’t come over here. Oh God, please don’t!”
There were more sobs, more howling cries of horror from Christina at the thought of her mother ruining whatever it was that had now happened. Beverly listened to her daughter’s primal urgency, not understanding her words at all anymore. But she understood the feeling behind it. At least, her pussy did. Every syllable of every word seemed to pulse through Beverly’s body, as if her daughter’s fear and anguish had been transformed into some kind of erotic heat, melting her all over. Beverly moved on from her breasts and pressed her fingers against her mound, through her skirt and tight sexy panties, as Christina wailed once more into the phone, pleading.
“It’s OK, Mommy! Unghh... Oh, God! Oh fuck! I swear it’s OK! It really is!!”
Before Beverly could say anything to comfort her, Christina’s wails and sobs had turned into something else. Moans. Groans. Husky, heavy breaths.
For several long minutes neither mother nor daughter said anything. Beverly thought she could vaguely hear another woman’s voice on the other end, far, far away, murmuring soft reassuring words. Was that Stef? But she couldn’t be sure. It could have just been a TV in the background, or just her imagination. Without a doubt, though, Christina’s breathing rapidly grew more rapid, more ragged.
Panting into the phone, she grunted, low and loud. Over and over.
Then she squealed. So loudly that even the voice in the background was drowned out. It was as if Christina was getting tickled to death. Beverly could hear her gasping for air and half-laughing, half-screeching at whatever was being done to her.
Finally, she cried out in pure animal ecstasy, obviously deep in the throes of orgasm.
“Oh, Mommy!” Christina screamed. “MOMMY! Oh GOD, fuck me Mommmmmmmmyyyyyy!!!”
And that was it. The line went dead.
Before she even knew she was going to do it, in a split second Beverly had flung the phone onto the passenger seat, raised her ass, pulled up her calf-length A-line skirt, and quickly yanked the damp crotch of her panties to one side. She drove her perfectly manicured fingers down deep into her swampy, needy cunt. As traffic whisked by just a few feet away, it only took a few moments. She came loudly, shrieking nonsense, arching her back and biting her lip, her shoulders pressed hard against the seat, her body popping out in sweat all over, her high heels gouging into the floor mats of her Benz.
Eventually, she moved again.
What an amazing orgasm! Beverly had never done something so bold before. Right there on the shoulder of a busy four-laned road—in broad daylight! And... and... because Christina, she’d called out to her, coming, crying for her with deep and desperate pleasure. How wicked and sick and utterly amazing! And... and... because of something else, too. What had she said? What was it? Something else she’d heard... or was she imagining things? There had been something else, right?
After collecting herself, Beverly rearranged her panties and skirt, fixed her hair, and then retrieved her phone. “OK baby, I trust you and I love you,” she texted to Christina. “I support whatever makes you happy!”
For nearly a year Beverly didn’t hear another complaint from her daughter about Stef’s cruel ways. Everything seemed perfectly normal. Christina was always smiling and happy, even if sometimes she seemed a little too dreamy, a little too distracted, so unlike the focused and intelligent young go-getter who’d graduated summa cum laude from business school just a few years ago. The two of them met for lunch once a week, talked on the phone at least once a day, and texted all the time. Of course, neither mentioned Christina’s orgasmic breakdown that day she’d reconciled with Stef. How could they? Better to pretend it had never happened.
Eventually, though, Beverly crossed a line. It got so annoying to be asked—at least once a week—how she was “really doing” that Christina finally screamed at her mother and told her off. They didn’t speak for another six months after that.
But then, thankfully, Slimy Stef got herself investigated, arrested, and indicted. After that, as it all unraveled, Beverly finally understood just how fucked up Christina really was. What a job that monster had done!
The divorce had been the easiest part of the whole ordeal. Since Stef was convicted on multiple racketeering and insider trading charges, their marriage could be dissolved by a judge if the sentence didn’t offer a chance for parole any sooner than three years out. Well, the cunt’s first chance for parole was set at five, so before she’d even served a month Christina’s divorce was finalized, thanks to a sympathetic court and a competent lawyer.
Problem was, Christina stumbled back home to live with Beverly with not just a shattered marriage to recover from, but with the rest of her life in ruins, too.
It was as if her wife’s incarceration had robbed Christina of her will to do anything at all on her own. Her job fired her after she stopped showing up. Who walks away from a six-figure salary as an investment banker?! She barely ate. She almost never bathed. She didn’t speak except to complain or to argue. After driving herself to Beverly’s house, unpacking her few things, and officially moving back into her old bedroom, Christina had simply stopped trying to do much of anything besides breathe.
And masturbate.
Beverly was no prude. She’d had her fair share of sexual fun over the years. Even after her husband had died suddenly of a heart attack, back when Christina was just beginning her freshman year of college, Beverly had continued to pursue regular, satisfying orgasms. It was a part of staying fit, after all. Sexual health was something she firmly believed in. “An orgasm a day...” as they say! She owned an extensive collection of vibrators and dildos, and she regularly chatted online with other horny people, and sometimes she even turned on her web cam. Beverly had no problems with masturbation!
She’d even slid back into her old ways, back into her earlier, more natural urges—back before high school and pressure to fit in had knuckled her under. Beverly had spent the last several years of her solitary masturbatory life remembering just how much she had enjoyed kissing and licking her girlfriends in elementary and junior high. Just how much she liked a tongue wiggling inside her pussy. Inside her ass. Just how much she craved to taste a wet hot cunt and tight sweet asshole again. The feel of those sensitive fingers! And the scent, oh that aroma!
So her chats? They were with other women. Her camming? With other women. The younger the better! But usually they were just like her—moms in their forties and fifties, sexually frustrated, horny and about to pop. Wet for anything. Like full naked self-fucking, bare feet up on the edge of the table, the laptop camera pointed down at sweaty big tits and wet shaved crotches, impossibly thick dildos jammed full-length up inside sloppy cunts, usually with a finger or knobby dildo stretching assholes at the same time. They’d come and curse and even piss for each other. One woman in particular—a grandmother in Iowa—even liked for Beverly to watch her drink whole glasses full of her warm golden juice and to watch as she poured it over her saggy, sexy boobs and her bare gaping pussy. A thirtysomething mother of two from England liked to show her even more perverse things than that, and it always surprised Beverly just how much harder she would come, the dirtier those other moms would be.
But sometimes a much younger woman would find her and play. They were usually stoned or drunk college girls. Those times were the best! Beverly would imagine it was Christina on the other end of the cam. Christina with a pierced eyebrow and lip this time. Pierced nipples the next time. And fuck!—a pierced hood?—Oh, yes! Sometimes they were even younger than they should have been, Beverly was sure, but her pussy didn’t care. What those girls lacked in experience and technique (and so few had proper toys!) they certainly made up for in blushing, giggling, raw excitement. Beverly loved watching them moan and shake and fumble around with themselves. She loved even more to show them how a mature goddess like herself gets off. The wonder and hunger and gratitude in their young eyes made Beverly burn hotter than just about anything!
Beverly even spent a few tentative, tantalizing nights at the local lesbian bar, accepting drinks from strangers, flirting, and generally overheating until she had to excuse herself and rush home to masturbate. Every time, at least so far, that was her limit. Not even kissing yet, but she was almost ready! Until then, though, Beverly contented herself with speeding back to her house and stumbling into bed alone—but oh so excited and happy and horny!
A woman’s flirtations were so different from a man’s—there was artistry to it, so many layers, such friendliness and safety, yet such emotional intensity and deep vulnerability, too. And the animal need was just as clear and every bit as strong. She knew it wouldn’t be long before she was ready. Soon she would leave that bar and go to someone else’s home... to slip her tongue into another woman’s soft mouth, to finally run her hands over those sweet curves, to suckle on stiff, spongy nipples, to slide her fingers up and down that slippery, hot crease, until at last her mouth found its new home, licking, sucking, slurping pussy once again, after all those years!
Of course Beverly had easily accepted her daughter’s lesbianism—she hadn’t come out to her mother until Daddy was a whole three days buried and gone, and there was a solemn, butch-as-hell girlfriend in cargo pants and a tight black muscle shirt out on the front lawn waiting to take her back to school, and what could Christina really say at that point? Beverly had merely kissed the tears away from her pretty daughter’s anxious cheeks and had been honest: “Baby, I’ve always known. And so did your dad. It’s all right. He loved you. I love you. Go be yourself.”
And that was all it took. Christina smiled the first free smile of her post-pubescent life, and she ran back to college a free and newly-confident young woman. Wall Street, watch out!! It didn’t take long before her ambition caught up to her libido, and then she was unstoppable.
Until Steffi Fittälska, that is.
Meanwhile, Beverly’s nightly masturbations featured more and more Christina. More and more daughter at her crotch, daughter licking her asshole, daughter sliding her pretty slender hand deep inside her mother’s hungry, moist, open holes. Beverly loved every second of every perverse, thrilling fantasy, safe at home in her stained, comfortable computer chair, staring at other middle-aged closeted lesbians like herself, knowing they were all not-so-secretly lusting for their own daughters.
So masturbation was decidedly not a hangup for Beverly. When her daughter finally moved back in after Stef’s first week of imprisonment, Beverly had actually been gratified the first few nights, hearing Christina moaning and coming with vocal abandon over in her old bedroom. It had seemed almost normal at first, that seeking of release, that need for pleasure and comfort and control over one’s own urges.
But the constant, nightly, enthusiastic way Christina fucked herself? Well, soon enough it became disturbing. All night long her daughter focused on rubbing herself, shoving things inside herself, moaning, groaning, and coming so loudly Beverly was sure the neighbors could hear. The poor girl had to be so sore! And dehydrated. And definitely a little crazy.
Who dealt with the end of a bad marriage like that, anyway? Whatever happened to revenge-fucking her friends or binge-drinking or good old rebound-sex with any horny bitch who happened to be nearby?
But oh, despite herself and her motherly concerns, how Beverly loved to watch her daughter do it!
The first few nights, of course, Beverly had fought the guilty, taboo-ridden feelings that told her not to indulge in spying. She’d just listened. Her conscience had screamed at her, “Don’t watch! Don’t enjoy this!” But as soon at it became clear that her daughter was profoundly distracted, oblivious to anyone and everything around her—so long as it wasn’t helping her to achieve an orgasm, Christina didn’t notice it—Beverly quickly realized that her voyeurism was in fact the greatest thrill she’d known to that point in her entire sexual life. She spent half of every night peeking through the cracked door into her daughter’s bedroom, watching as Christina methodically rubbed, fingered, fisted, and fucked herself into orgasm after wet, squishy, amazing orgasm.
When it didn’t stop after those first few days, though—and when it became rather obvious that her only child had been transformed into some kind of weird lesbian masturbation vampire—Beverly decided she had to find some kind of way to snap Christina out of it.
Before she could adequately deal with the situation, however, Beverly had to clean up the rest of her daughter’s mess.
She auctioned off the possessions that Christina had left in her old house and hired a crew of cheap, careless movers to pack her ex-wife’s expensive things off to cheap, inadequate storage. Their settlement left her with the house, but Christina couldn’t be bothered to list it, even though she swore she’d never live in it again. Beverly’s job as a real estate maven made that part a snap, thankfully, but it still irritated her that she had to do all the work for a daughter who’d rather just sleep all day and fuck herself all night long.
And the fact that she did it without toys, web cams, not even her smart phone to help her—well, it was weird! Beverly couldn’t keep the house stocked with enough cucumbers, carrots, and hot dogs—really, any kind of cylindrical edible item would do (even string cheese!): Christina used them on herself nightly. Then ate them. And that was ALL she’d eat! Same thing with wine. She’d snag one bottle, drink it, then fuck herself with it. In the mornings, after the sun had risen and Christina had passed out, naked, wherever she happened to be, Beverly would pick up the bottle and toss it into the recycling bin in the garage. Then she’d leave for work, hoping like always that maybe her daughter had finally gotten it out of her system.
But then, once the sun had set, Christina would begin fucking herself again.
No matter where she was, once twilight came on, Christina’s fingers would creep into her panties. If something was nearby that could fit inside her pussy, she shoved it in. Didn’t matter who else was around. Her eyes glazed over. Her clothes came off. Her legs spread. Her pussy leaked all over the place.
And she fucked herself.
All. Fucking. Night.
What the fuck was Beverly supposed to say to her daughter? How could she even begin to talk to her precious only child about her insane sexual habits? She was barely more than an animal these days! An orgasm-seeking little bitch in heat. No mother should have to talk to her grown, adult, educated, professional, gorgeous daughter about masturbating with vegetables and bed posts and her own fists! Her own balled-up panties! Her own Loubuitons!
But there sure as hell was somebody ELSE she could talk to. Somebody responsible for it all. Some way. Some how.
Just what had Stef done to her sweet little girl?!