The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Reaching forward to lather her daughter’s breasts, Sumner felt again that same sense of unreality she’d had on and off all afternoon.

Just for a moment—in the soft insistent hiss of the shower, the feel of her hands sliding across Bailey’s hard nipples—her focus seemed to waver and slip. She felt, rather than saw, a queer sort of image from earlier, Bailey standing dully in some kind of closet, or dressing room … But things even a couple of hours past were so hard to hold on to. And anyway there was no need: the water pelting them was warm, her breasts pressed into Bailey’s back were warm, and there was so much she had to do yet, her tasks, her hands knew they had to make Bailey all clean and she let them and the warmth dictate to her what would happen, and her mind was untroubled again.

When she toweled the girl off, and then as she rubbed a light, coconut-scented oil she couldn’t remember having used before along her thighs and across her ass and breasts, Bailey stood heavily, almost sullenly passive. Throw in a few eye rolls, Sumner thought, and she might have been balky sixteen again. But Bailey was a good girl, they were both good girls. It was soothing to know that. There was something meek rather than sarcastic in the way Bailey said “Yes, Mommy” when Sumner ordered her to her room to get her things on.

Mommy. The girl who had come back from her first college semester newly mature, and made a point of calling her not Mom but Sumner, looking her full in the eye and full of uncertain bravado the first time she did. It had pulled her heart painfully, pridefully, in a dozen directions at once. Mommy after all these years … It challenged Sumner’s focus again, or would have, but there were her own things to get on, not to mention having to finish up with Bailey, and then too the time to manage: she lost the queasiness before it could really settle into her.

After the flutter of getting them downstairs, getting herself and her daughter into position in the foyer, after the pleasure of knowing she’d made it on time—whatever it was, whatever time it was—she felt a sort of emptiness gnaw at her. There were no more tasks to lose herself in, just waiting. She glanced down at Bailey, kneeling in front of her, brushed a hank of hair back behind the girl’s bare shoulder. Bailey gave a subdued half head-toss: she’d never much liked mom futzing with her hair. She looked so nice—soft, ripe—pantyless in that sheer pink babydoll. Was it odd that she was enjoying her daughter’s sexiness? And there was that image from earlier, lingerie shopping, that was it, nothing to block the recollection now, Bailey naked and subdued in the changing room, Sumner bringing in various filmy things to decide what made her breasts look the most fetching. Sumner’d gotten the corset and stockings she was wearing herself from the same place: it was odd, wasn’t it? She didn’t wear these things, neither of them did, much less model them for each other. Had they really set out that morning to shop for sexy things together?

Sumner felt her heart pounding. It made her worry if maybe she’d forgotten something. Her free hand reached down to feel at the dog collar around Bailey’s neck—was it attached OK to the leash? Of course it was. But it still wasn’t alright. This wasn’t about her tasks, her tasks were done—something else was upsetting her, something that kept just slipping from her mental grasp, if she could still herself for a bit it might come to her …

Without warning the front door opened, and feeling anxious then was the last thing Sumner had to be concerned about.

“Mall Chinese, Sumner, seriously? MSG much?”

Brat, Sumner thought. That’s what you get for offering your daughter a shopping day, nothing but lip the whole time. And yes, thanks, don’t help your mom with this purse and the bags and this tray when you’re sitting already and eating … “Glad you found seats. At least I’ve got something resembling vegetables on my plate —”

Coming in awkwardly for a landing, Sumner lost hold of the plum sauce and mustard packets she’d stuffed in her hand. She craned under the table. “Bay honey, my little packet things are all the way over by your seat, could you grab them for me?” She braced for some wisecrack, but there was nothing. “Bailey? Princess? Little help?”

Not even princess, an a-bomb if ever there was one, got a rise. Lips pursed, Sumner came back up, and sure enough Bailey wasn’t even paying attention to her. A boy, of course, jesus give me patience for a hot daughter. Except it wasn’t a boy but a man, looming wordlessly at the other side of the table. The sight of him somehow gave her a turn. No particular age other than mature, no particular appearance, not much more than a gray blur really—and Bailey wasn’t exactly paying attention to him either, Sumner realized. She thought to call the girl’s name but it died in her throat. Bailey’s face was vacant, and she gazed not so much into the man’s eyes as through them, toward some dark star light years behind.

It still held her gaze when he turned his away from her, toward Sumner. Her heart slowed painfully in her chest. She had never so much wanted not to meet someone’s eyes, though when she did she saw nothing to remark there, no threat, no enchantment. Scarcely even a person. He bent forward almost in a bow, and though it made her skin crawl her hand gave him no resistance when he picked it up and put it ceremoniously to his lips. The clatter and jabber of the food court seemed to swell around her. No one is noticing this display, she thought. No one sees this weird thing that’s happening to me. She wondered whether it was actually happening at all.

“You won’t mind my enjoying your company for a moment or two,” he said. His voice was another gray blur, but automatically she cleared their packages from the seat beside her, and he sat.

“Bailey.” Bailey turned her head to him. Bailey’s head turned, but it was his voice and not Bailey that turned it. “Your mother and I have a few things to discuss. They concern you, but they’re of no interest to you.” Immediately Bailey’s whole aspect changed, she slouched in her seat, sighed, cast her eyes aimlessly around the food court. She looked for all the world like a bored high-school girl; she should have gum in her mouth, Sumner thought, so she could twirl it. “We’ll be done talking soon. And then you’re going to go with your mother, and you’re going to do everything she says, with no complaints, because you’re a very very good girl, aren’t you?”

Bailey’s a good girl, Sumner thought automatically. She needed it to be true, to be able to prove it to the man somehow. Bailey herself took no notice. Then the man started telling Sumner things, things that seemed to slide away from her as soon as he said them, and in the blur of his voice everything around her flickered and dimmed.

She had to say no to this. Somehow, she had to find a no to say to this. She could worry later about how no had become something that had to be searched for.

When the man walked in the door—opened it with a key, for all the world as if he owned the place—the mental fog Sumner had been in since the food court had blown away at once. But something worse, a kind of moral fog, had ridden in in its place. She saw herself standing in this ridiculous fetish whore get-up, saw her all-but-nude daughter kneeling obscenely collared and leashed, both of them on display, she felt herself preen for the man’s silent inspection, glimpsed Bailey doing the same. The wrongness of it was so shattering, so completely disconnected from anything she could want or even have imagined, that it left her not just speechless but somehow docile. There was overwhelming shame and no way to react to it. She was presenting her daughter on a leash to a strange man in her own home, without protest. She felt like an actor in someone else’s dream.

She kept her head down; refusing to look in the man’s face or meet his eyes was the only power she could claim at the moment, such as it was. Still she could feel the cool appraisal of his gaze. Bailey’s head was tilted downward, too. God—the thought went through Sumner with an awful pang—what was she feeling now? What could possibly be going through her mind? Then the man reached down to take her under the chin, and though her face was hidden Sumner could read in the curve of her lifting neck, the carriage of her shoulders, the same vacant passivity claiming her that she’d seen in the food court. “Very pretty,” he murmured.

It shocked Sumner then, the brief thrill of pride that went through her.

Again wordlessly, the man turned and began climbing the stairs. She followed; there was nothing else she could imagine doing. Bailey, leashed, trailed quietly behind.

Maybe she could find her no at the top? But every step seemed to move it further away. When he paused on the landing and stood aside, with a slight mocking bow, almost without thought she passed before him and down the corridor leading to her bedroom.

After that for a time there were tasks again, and with something like gratitude Sumner lost herself in them. It was only when the man reentered the room—had he not been there? where had he gone, for how long?—lightly touching her shoulder as he passed behind her, that time and her own self became suddenly real to her again: and she could see how wide the gulf was now between her and no. Bailey lay spread-eagled across the big bed, bound at the wrists and ankles—bound, Sumner sickly realized, by her—with some soft cords she had no memory of buying. As if she needed restraint, blank and still as she was. There was a tube of some unfamiliar sort of lubricant on the night table. The man seated himself on the bed next to Bailey, took the tube in his hand, turned it over idly.

At a glance from him Sumner lost any idea of resisting his gaze. His eyes drew her over to the bed, to kneel at his feet. They held her as he began speaking, not a gray blur this time but a bright, a blindingly bright flow—it was like looking at the sun, hearing him, and tears started in her eyes. She knew he was speaking words, bright hard words in which she recognized her name, Bailey’s name, but she could do nothing with them: she had a brief almost comic thought that this was what a dog heard listening to its master’s voice. Her face upturned, she received words from his lips—from his eyes, maybe, they were the only thing in her vision—and time and self slipped and wavered in them.

When he turned finally to look back down at Bailey it was like a cord had snapped; she all but pitched forward. The shock helped her, though, it returned her to some feeling of who and where she was. This was her bedroom, her bed, her daughter was in it. Some tremendous thing was happening, something that must not happen, Bailey needed her, and in a moment, just a little moment, she would have thought her way through it all …

“Bailey.” His voice was somehow quieter than the brief silence it had broken.

“Yes sir.” There was a dazed, breathy sound to her reply. Sumner pressed her forehead against the edge of the bed. She was grateful not to be able to see her daughter’s captivated face.

“Bailey, I’d like you to tell me, please, whether or not you’re a virgin.”

“No sir, I’m not a virgin.” It was only this second time that Sumner heard the sir. She thought it would have been there whether or not the word had been pronounced.

“You’ve had a boy, then? Boys?”

“Two boys, sir. In high school. One when I was sixteen and one when I was eighteen. Only a few times, sir.”

“And yet nothing now that you’re in college and away from home? That surprises me.”

There was a pause that Sumner knew couldn’t have been resistance. “I’ve been sleeping with a girl for the last month or so, sir. On and off.”

“Ah. Fine. Worth noting.”

Sumner wanted to sink through the floor. Not because she’d imagined that Bailey had held off from sex, not because of the boys—two was less than she’d have guessed—not because of the girl, either. But there was such wrongness over everything, like an ugly mist. She thought of her daughter’s sweet, testing exploration of her own womanhood, thought of where it would take her and how far away, of where it would have taken her before this … whatever this nightmare was, this warped and warping thing they seemed powerless to avert.

“But your thoughts are confused, Bailey. Princess.” At the girl’s little answering gasp, Sumner lifted her head again. “Please think more clearly now, dear. Are you a virgin?”

Bailey’s breathy, dazed voice sounded now—pleased, somehow, like someone showing off in a quiz. “Yes sir. I’m a virgin.”

“No one has ever touched your pussy? No boy? For that matter, no girl?”

“No sir. I’ve kissed some boys. I’ve kissed some girls, too. But I’ve been saving myself for sex.”

“Never even orgasmed, then, even by yourself?”

“No sir.”

Suddenly, dizzyingly confused, Sumner looked down around her knees, as if she could find some support there. Hadn’t Bailey … How was it possible that … How was it possible that she had imagined her daughter wasn’t a virgin? A moment ago she had felt strangely certain of it—had it been some sort of dream? The thought was already receding like a dream. Bailey was a virgin, of course she was, there had never been a reason to doubt it.

Whatever else was strange and terrible in this experience, that was a truth there was no room at all to question.

The man turned to Sumner again, stroked her cheek. “This is difficult for you. Of course it is, it could scarcely be anything but. And yet you know that this is what you’ve always wanted.”

For the first time, hesitantly, she smiled at him. Yes. It was good of him to sympathize. She was filled then painfully with the memory of all their discussions: how often, for how many years, had she and Bailey planned and fantasized and gamed it out? Since her first period, maybe. And now here it was, and of course it felt like a death to her, no matter how perfectly to script it was going. Her daughter would enter womanhood and in some sense never be her daughter again. And yet, wasn’t it every mother’s wish to be present for this moment, to help guide her child through? How many ever had their wish answered? How could she have dreamed of saying no? It was Bailey’s gift to her that she could be here, that she could have prepared her daughter’s body for this just as all their talk had prepared her mind.

And it was her gift to Bailey. At the man’s gesture she shifted position. He set the lube on the bed beside him. She knew what she’d have to use it for, but she had another duty to attend to before that. She leaned forward. There was embarrassment at first at the noises she made, at Bailey hearing them, but she thought her way past it. It was a privilege, it was a great privilege he was giving her, that her practiced mouth would harden the first cock to take her daughter’s hole.

Bailey, figure-proud Bailey, filched a second pancake from the stack after having all but crammed the first whole into her mouth before Sumner even sat down. Well, that wasn’t something you saw every day, or year. She ate like a famine victim. She ate like someone who hadn’t had a bite since—jesus, since yesterday afternoon, wasn’t it? Mall Chinese.

Sumner was famished too, but suddenly she felt like she wouldn’t be able to keep anything down.

It was late morning. They hadn’t eaten since the food court. Why in heaven’s name hadn’t they eaten since the food court? It wasn’t like anything had happened last night—completely boring and uneventful as it was, nothing in it even worth remembering, Sumner knew. But the sick feeling wouldn’t go away. Around pancake bites Bailey gabbled about something, some school thing probably, barely registering Sumner’s distracted non-attention. Some kind of manic sugar rush, she thought, to loosen Bailey’s tongue like that, but in her anxiety Sumner couldn’t work up a proper motherly pleasure in the unaccustomed sharing, whatever it was.

Finished, Bailey banged up from the table and disappeared, leaving her plate behind.

For a blessedly brief period after the divorce, Sumner drank too much. Not get-me-to-rehab drank too much, but enough that she disliked recalling that time, or reckoning the strain it had put on her and Bay’s relationship. It had stopped cold after she’d been badly scared by what she guessed was a blackout: she had some memory of the night, sort of, but that was probably worse than a flat amnesia—a haze of disconnected images, of men and women, she imagined shameful things moving behind a dirty veil, just out of reach. God forbid one of them came through. Thinking about it at all was like touching a bad bruise, and so she didn’t, just put it behind, and put the drinking behind. And of course there was nothing to last night, boring and uneventful last night: but the food court, and not eating for all those hours after, she had just that same kind of bruised feeling about it. Shadowy things where there couldn’t possibly be any shadows.

Thank God then for Bailey’s chronic unhelpfulness. Sumner cleared the plates, her daughter’s empty, hers untouched, ran the water; cleaning up was at least something to do.

As it turned out, Sunday notwithstanding, there was plenty else to do. She kept finding things missing that she knew she’d meant to pick up yesterday; it was another queasy little mystery, like the food court, but paradoxically as the tally mounted it was easier to forget there was a mystery, to distract herself in taking account. No question, she’d have to go out again. She went around the place making a list. The thought crossed her mind to ask Bailey along, and it was with unaccountable relief—as if she were skirting some danger—that she rejected the idea: there’d been enough cost in bribes to bring her out yesterday, for a day of indulgence, no way would that girl be pulled from the depths of her iPhone for mere errands.

And she made no appearance when Sumner got back, no appearance when she toted the bags in, none while she put things away and came back upstairs. Of course her door was closed; girl probably hadn’t moved the last two hours. Miffed, hunger still goading her, Sumner thought about knocking, just to wind princess up a bit, but all she really felt like doing now was lying down. She passed on to her own room. No point picking a fight.

She all but jumped to see Bailey standing naked at her bedside.

“Mommy.” Bay said it quietly, but with force. Sumner’s heartbeat, her breath, everything slowed. The shocked protest just now on her lips fell away.

“You have a date, Mommy. We have to make you ready for it. You have to be ready in time.”

Her daughter’s voice made carbonation in her head. She was lighter than air, but Bailey’s beautiful deep eyes tethered her. She had forgotten her date. Of course she had, like with the errands, silly Sumner, she was forgetful like that. Who she was going out with, when, where, it all floated up and away from her fizzy brain. There was no problem, though. She felt fine about it. Her Bay—her considerate, strong, mature Bay—had it all under control. Bay-Bay, they’d called her when she was little; it tickled her to think it now. “Yes, Bay-Bay,” she said, trying it out. It gave her a pleasant shiver. She was glad Bay-Bay seemed not to mind.

The girl turned and disappeared into the master bathroom. Sumner thought she should be naked herself, but that was more work than her brain could handle, that and following Bay-Bay. She really needed to follow Bay-Bay. And anyway, once inside her daughter began undressing her—quickly, wordlessly, sure-handedly—all on her own. Sumner was being made ready, she knew, she had no job but letting it happen. The atmosphere in the bathroom was warm and dense; scented candles made aromas and flickered in the dimmed light, flickered like the flickering in her mind. It was soothing, romantic even. Sumner felt proud of Bay-Bay; she was so smart, she really had thought of everything. She knew just what would pacify Mommy.

Led by the girl’s touch around her waist, she surrendered to the steaming bath. Only when Bailey first slid the soap between her legs did she pull back, obscurely and distantly troubled; then another quiet “Mommy” recalled her to making ready, and restored everything to its place.

“Little fucking cunt.” The words were out before Sumner had even hit the lights.

Some rage was in her, over her, riding her like a mount. It had ridden her in through the door, up the stairs, up to her room without even a thought for her boyfriend trailing somewhere after. In the small part of her that stood aside from it there was horror, and fascination, to watch the part that seemed to glory in being so driven. Something was dangerous here. If she could pause, just for a moment, if she could get control of her breathing …

It was early still, but Bailey had been asleep. Hazy with waking, confused in the sudden glare, the girl said nothing, only pulled the covers up close around her chin. She felt a pang at the gesture, the sane part of her, but seeing her daughter guileless and vulnerable like this just made the rage hard-on worse. With a single swipe Sumner yanked the covers entirely away. Naked. There was an evil pleasure in it, like a drunken high. Of course the little slut was under there naked.

Hopeless to stop whatever was going to happen—what she felt she was going to make happen. Though she had no idea where this was going, any more than she knew where it had come from. Regret slackened her for an instant. What could have happened to the evening? What could have happened to her date, that she’d looked forward to so, prepared so meticulously for? Rage seemed to have swamped it all. There had been driving, somewhere, there had been dinner, she guessed, though with no memory of eating—there had been her boyfriend, his face hazy in her mind but his voice steady and present, not whatever the words were that she’d already forgotten but the tone of it, insistent, provoking, meaningful.

Her boyfriend. She felt his presence behind her and her breath quickened again. He wasn’t responsible for this. Not for any of it. He was right to tell her, he’d been a saint to tell her: she glared down at naked, cowering, wide-eyed Bailey and thought of the slut prancing in front of him at all hours, leaving bathroom doors open, teasing him with one glimpse after another before finally flat-out propositioning: tight young pussy, Mom’s boyfriend, you know you want it …

She wasn’t fooling Sumner, trying to cover her tits like that. She wasn’t embarrassed that he was seeing her like this; she didn’t have embarrassment. That’s why she was in Sumner’s bed, after all, she was waiting for him. Whore. She’d raised a whore.

Well, what do you do with whores? You turn ’em out, that’s what you do.

With deliberate roughness she grabbed at Bailey’s ankle, splaying the girl’s legs apart and pulling her bodily down from the headboard. Her strength, her rage’s strength, amazed and terrified her. Bailey yelled and flailed to get away, turn over, cover up. With the belt that was somehow in her other hand then Sumner striped her daughter’s thighs, her ass when she writhed that way, over and over until they were red and there was no fight left in them. Bailey lay on her back with her legs half drawn up, her chest heaving, great racking sobs that let only a blubber of “Mommies” and “pleases” pass intelligibly out.

Sumner heard herself screaming, and knew she had been for a while. “This is all you, slut! This is all you! Think you wanna fuck like a big girl? Think you wanna fuck like Mommy does? You ask for it, you think you’re not gonna get exactly what you fucking want, you whore? Mommy’s gonna give Bay-Bay exactly what she wants!”

There were cords handy, rough cords; Sumner couldn’t care how they’d got there, any more than she’d cared about the belt. It was hardly necessary against the defeated girl, but her rage demanded she bind Bailey’s wrists to the bedposts. And when she had done that, when all at once her rage was satisfied, a great weariness overcame her, she swayed as if the room were on rollers, staggered and collapsed back against the wall.

She watched motionless as her boyfriend began thrusting into moaning, unresisting Bay-Bay. Was it her boyfriend? It was so hard to remember what he looked like. Maybe it was just some john she’d picked up for the occasion. But the how wasn’t something she could focus on. A cocktail of guilt and vengeance and enthrallment worked in her blood and held her there, her eyes glued to the bed, front row for her daughter’s rape. “You deserve this, you whore,” she whispered to herself, “you deserve it, little whore, Mommy’s little whore ...” By the time she knew her hand was between her legs it was a chant, and she was fucking herself unstoppably to its rhythm.

“Just leave the tray on the nightstand, Sumner, thank you.”

There were things cluttering the nightstand—lube, dildos, some non-sex stuff—and the tray was heavy and awkward for a one-handed balance, on spike heels, but Sumner was careful and concentrated. Supporting the tray again with both hands, she knelt rather than bent it down to the cleared surface. On her way to her knees she caught a quick glimpse of herself in the mirror they’d placed on the other side of her bed; the nipple-baring parody of a French maid outfit she was stuffed into made her blush with its ridiculousness, but it was hot all the same—it was hot because it was ridiculous. She bent forward till her forehead touched the floor. She felt the gesture was needed to complete the service.

Something was lifted from the tray, which had things on it she couldn’t remember, though she’d only just put them there. She heard Bailey’s breath come ragged, then a long low groan escape her.

“Yes, thank you, Sumner,” he called down to her again. At the dismissal in his voice she got up on all fours and crawled backwards out of the bedroom. Just outside the door she paused, then returned to her knees: she’d heard dismissal but somehow not that much dismissal. Kneeling and waiting by the door jamb, listening and not-listening to the animal whimpers Bailey made, was weirdly pacifying and exciting at once. She squirmed a little, wanting badly to bring her hand to her crotch, but there were rules about these things, she thought, there should be rules. About getting off listening to your daughter fuck. But the blankness of waiting to serve damped away that vague inward shiver of protest. And anyway she knew soon enough she’d be sent back to her own room—which was Bailey’s room, while he was here, except it wasn’t Bailey’s room or hers it was the maid’s room, they were playing the maid game—and once there she could finger with herself with a clear conscience.

“Princess, please, don’t squirm, Mommy doesn’t want to nick.”

With a touch of exasperation in it, Bailey sighed, but she settled. It wasn’t the girl’s fault, Sumner knew: she was just horny, she hadn’t been fucked in more than twelve hours, and plus there was Sumner kneeling between her legs. Though of course Bailey didn’t swing that way. And in all honesty, thought Sumner, the whole production was a little silly: how much smoother could she make that pussy? The shaving was an integral part of the princess game, a game they’d been playing for years—that they loved playing, needed to play to get Bailey ready for sex—but with Bailey’s boyfriend around they were playing it every day, and there was only so fast hair could grow back.

She put down the razor, brushed her fingers lightly against Bailey’s mound to feel for any stray stubble that couldn’t possibly be there. The problem—the little problem that made a muddle in Sumner’s head—was just the other side of that gesture. It didn’t need a clock, or Bailey squirming, to know her daughter was horny: she could smell it on her, could have smelled it across the room. God knows, Sumner being as big a dyke as she was, living for pussy the way she did, she was extra sensitive to its moods. But it seemed obscurely wrong—it seemed like a rule being transgressed—for her to take such notice, such increasing and pleasant notice, of Bailey’s. Lingering like this in the little cloud of her daughter’s musk, imagining her fingers moving just a small, just the tiniest bit inside, to gather a drop of that nectar for herself …

She shook herself back to composure. Satisfied with the shaving, she leaned in to deposit a couple of chaste pecks on the inside of Bailey’s thighs. She knew she should have followed with powder, but that was a skippable step, and it was maybe a little too much for her composure right now. She beamed upwards at Bailey, using the words that always ended the game: “Mommy’s Princess all clean now!”

There was a wicked little gleam of knowledge in the girl’s eyes. She rose, but with an intentional awkwardness that brought her pussy just to graze along her mother’s upturned face.

Sumner fell back against her hands. Her heart slammed in her chest, her nipples tightened painfully. She could scarcely breathe from humiliation and arousal. She felt the track of her daughter’s cunt like a fresh brand.

Laughing, Bailey singsonged “Mom-my lo-oves puss-sy” after her as she flounced out the door.

These days the princess game always seemed to end with Sumner back in her room, in Bailey’s little bed, masturbating the afternoon away. Not so this time, however badly she wanted to. She lay motionless, trying not to think. The scene in the bathroom, the confusion and the deep shame of it, was too strong and too fresh. Not even her usual silly Sumner mental fog had managed to cloud it.

She felt an achingly powerful wish that Bailey’s boyfriend were back. Of course she barely knew him, he had only just showed up with Bailey at the start of her break—or had they met after she’d come home, silly Sumner to be so vague about that—but still there was something … He had such a forceful and calming presence, for such a young man, for a man Sumner assumed was young, anyway … Every day that Bailey had been home, it seemed, no matter how clear Sumner started the day, as it wore on the muddle began accumulating in her brain, muddle and a sense of something like dread, a feeling of wrong that it was all she could do to keep away by working her pussy practically raw. And then the boyfriend would come back—from where, she never knew, since he slept in the master bedroom every night and seemed to be staying with them—and as easy as that she was calm again. She could never remember anything he said, she scarcely remembered how he looked—he was only a man, after all—but he came back and the world seemed to take shape again around him.

There was at least one firm impression she had: he had a wonderful manner, thoughtful, considerate beyond anything she could have hoped for in her daughter’s boyfriend. There were nights, and even knowing how eager he and Bailey must be to get down to it, when he would just sit downstairs visiting with her, sometimes for what seemed hours: Bailey in some skimpy nothing curled docile in his lap, some movie on low in the background, the drone of its unheeded voices mixing with the soft flow of his, till she felt contented as a cat … Just last night, in fact, except then it had been she and Bailey curled up together, the both of them drowsy and more than a little horny on the big living-room couch; at some point she realized without quite knowing how it had happened that the two of them were entwined with each other along the length of the couch, Bailey on top nuzzling her neck while Sumner stroked her hair and massaged her bare back. It was just Mommy and Bay-Bay cuddling, she knew—and even a straight mom might have got a little carried away cuddling with a daughter as hot as hers—but she had to admit to herself now that only a thin thread of willpower had kept her from reaching for the girl’s ass and humping her leg. It had been a relief that he chose that point to start the night’s game.

The night’s game. She and Bailey had always had their Mommy-Bay-Bay games, like the princess game, but his were something else entirely: so inventive, so engrossing, so easy to lose yourself in. The rules he made for her at night, every night, were so many and so definite they seemed to surround her, to hold and comfort her away from consciousness like the mesh of some fetish costume; in a way it made the daytime muddle worse, missing that structure. And the rules really were for her, she knew: it was his thoughtful way of giving her a role, so she wouldn’t need to feel left out while he fucked Bailey limp. She sighed. She might not have needed that thoughtfulness if she were getting any herself, but he seemed to know without asking—she was sure she had never told him—that she was in a dry spell like the Mojave. For any gash she was getting, you’d never even know she was gay.

No orgasm, and now there was a headache coming on. Sluggishly she got up and went to her computer for a porn fix. Well, Bailey’s computer, but definitely her porn. Nobody who saw her browser history, she thought ruefully, would ever wonder if she was a lesbian. Or if they just saw the “Lezzie Hardcore” folder right in the middle of her desktop. Had she always had such an appetite for porn? She had always had an appetite for pussy, she knew that as absolutely as she knew her own name, or Bailey’s. And yet when she was alone like this, waiting out the blankest hours of the day, and tried to bring back the memory of her sexual past and all the women she’d fucked—tried to think of what and who she’d done to survive in the desert of a years-long heterosexual marriage—it was all vagueness and muddle and a deepening distress. Why was it so hard to think lately? It felt at those times like porn was the only thing keeping her sane.

And it was finally working its magic again, in the form of a pretty nasty new bondage video, when she heard Bailey pass down the hall. But not just heard. Wafting through the open door, so distinct she could almost see it, the girl’s fuck-me scent brought tears to her eyes. Her head swam. Was it true, as she seemed to see now, that the sub in that video was a dead ringer for Bailey, or was it a trick of the scent and its terrible allure? A trick of the scent playing on her loneliness. She scarcely dared to breathe, and breathe more of it in.

Please, she prayed to someone—to Bailey’s boyfriend, maybe, if he was on his way home—please let the time pass quickly. Let the semester start, let her have to get away from here, let me be lonely and be safe. Please, please let me not want to fuck my daughter.

She sat on the sofa. The house was still. A soft gray light of winter morning was in the room. They said snow, she thought. It seemed like something that concerned her, but it was beyond her power to turn her head to the window to look.

Her bare legs, crossed at the ankle, stretched out before her. Her pussy peeked out from a sheer pair of panties, a sheer short robe was tied loosely at her breasts. I’d fuck me, she thought. Then more seriously she thought that she wasn’t properly dressed for service. But the window was too far for her head to go: how would all of her cross the ocean between here and the maid’s room?

Morning. It was morning, she realized, and early. Too early for the maid game, too early for any game. Sitting here was just sitting. Not moving was just not moving. It didn’t have any rules. She would sit and the light would increase around her and something would happen, sometime. It was hard to make what or when matter.

She heard Bailey at the top of the stairs, and how it was came back to her. She was tranquilized, very powerfully tranquilized. Bailey was going back to school today, a day early, a day threatening snow. Sumner had had a fit. A hysterical fit, and they’d given her a shot. She no more remembered who they were than she remembered the fit itself—but she was used to not remembering things that she remembered. It was all too distant to be brought back to her sluggish mind. Bailey was leaving. A car was coming, and Bailey would go, and she would sit on the couch alone and the light would grow dim again.

That there was part of her that felt relieved at this was something she couldn’t match with the hysteria. It would have been far too hard to try anyway.

It was nice that from where she was sitting, without needing to move her head, she could watch Bailey come down. She was dressed in stripper-schoolgirl camp: chunky patent leathers, dark thigh-highs under a micro tartan, short necktie over a crisp white shirt. She had no bag. She took the stairs slowly, flouncing her hips at every step, her full breasts shifting with the movement and the thin shirt sliding over her peaked nipples. The show made Sumner’s pussy clench.

Bailey walked to the couch and stood over her mother. Sumner stared at the bows on the top of her thigh-highs, at the soft swell of flesh above the elastic, thought how cute. She had an image of Bailey’s bald mound swelling behind the flimsy kilt.

“It’s early yet, Mommy,” the girl said, and lowered herself to the couch. “Still time for us to snuggle.”

Bailey nestled her head on Sumner’s shoulder, one hand stroking lightly along her thigh. Sumner sighed, not so tranquilized not to be grateful for her daughter’s leave-taking tenderness. She felt Bailey all but purr as she stroked her hair—whatever will she had must have all been in her hand. She thought with a nostalgic pang how Bay-Bay had always loved it when Mommy played with her hair.

Bailey shifted a little, moved Sumner’s hair aside, began teasing lightly with her tongue. Soon the teasing was anything but light: Bailey raked Sumner’s earlobe between her teeth, kissed and nibbled at the base of her jaw, licked firm up the neck. Her hand came up to undo the barely-tied tie on her mother’s robe, and beneath it her fingers circled and then caught Sumner’s nipple, grazing and rolling and stretching it maddeningly. Her breath was hot in Sumner’s ear.

Her ride’s on the way. Panting, Sumner tried playing for time: “Do this to the girls at school, you’ll get popular fast, baby.”

Bailey tittered and licked her again. “Mommy, you’re the dyke, not me.”

Sumner smiled wanly towards her daughter. “Well, there’s always hope.” But in her head she hadn’t meant it for a come-on.

And then Bailey’s tongue was in her mouth, and time and thought were banished to some distant planet somewhere.

And like that it was gone. Sumner was falling through space alone. Bailey was still with her, though, her lips just grazing Sumner’s, her breath a warm fog about them. Gently she said, “Mommy, the car’s here. Time to go.”

“Oh” was all Sumner could think to say. If there were something that could keep Bailey’s lips where they were.

But the girl drew back, smiling at her, a sweet smile somehow also weary and even resigned. Bailey’s eyes were Bailey’s eyes, the look in them as clear and heartfelt as Sumner had ever seen. And if not for the tranquilizers keeping her afloat, she might have drowned in the sudden tide of anguish that made her think, I will never see that look again. Those eyes are being taken from me.

Bailey glanced down then, and her smile changed. “Why Mommy, what a wet cunny you have! The better to dyke me with?” Snickering, the girl pressed two fingers up through the wet spot on Sumner’s panties—they were almost all wet spot, she realized—and in the same gesture drew them back to her mouth and lewdly along her outstretched tongue. The flush of heat that went through Sumner was nothing so easy as shame.

Bailey fell back on the couch. She breathed heavily in Sumner’s ear, a child whispering a secret, “Me too,” and dripping from her own pussy now the same two fingers thrust into Sumner’s unresisting mouth. The world went dark with Bailey’s musk. Sumner would never be able to suck enough from those fingers. Unembarrassed she heard herself whining with need around them, and whine even more desperately when they were withdrawn.

Bailey’s eyes were sharp now, and her smile was cruel. “Don’t forget your Bey-Bey while she’s gone, Mommy,” she said, and sliding down from the couch she bit, hard, at the top of the wetness above Sumner’s cunt.

The door must have closed behind her, a car must have pulled away, but Sumner was deaf in the middle of her orgasm.