My mother-in-law is a good person. Good to her two grown children. Good to her grandkids-- I’ve given her two of them. A good mother herself, and a heartbroken one, for the daughter she lost, lost when my husband was ten. She’s good to me: kind, thoughtful; yes, like a second mother. In the eyes of God, probably, better than the one I had. Better than my stepmother, surely.
And a loving and faithful wife, that too she was. Much better than the one I‘ve become.
I don’t know why I think of her, when I’m here, alone. It’s not the first time I’ve thought about her, when I’m waiting. I don’t know much at all anymore.
An hour ago, I was waiting, on my elbows and knees, here on the carpet in this motel room, the door unlocked. I was thinking how, it’s not such a bad motel, really; but then, I left the door unlocked, andstill, it's justa motel. And though I couldn’t smell anything so awful, I started to think how, yes, this carpet’s probably been peed on before. It’s probably soaked up piss sometime.
So yes, it is a bad motel, a bad place, bad things happen here, and here am I, waiting--
An hour ago, the door opened. That was her alright, she comes to get me ready. She closed the door behind her gently. She strode over to me, me on my knees and elbows, between the bed and the windows. She cups her hand against my bald pubes, as she always does. The familiar greeting, it comforts me a little. Softly possessive. Appraising and assuring.
She gets me ready. She opens the blinds. She dresses me in a black thong, white stockings and black garters. She pinches my feet into tottering heels, black and shiny, five inch skyscrapers. My breasts are tackled into a black demibra with white, French maid-like trimming. I am uncomplaining, breathing deeply, compliant, a dumb doll for her.
Obedient because, that’s the way it is now.
She positions me in a chair, spread legged and facing the back, like a surly teenager sits. Like she would sit. I never sat like that when I was a teen. I’m twenty-nine now, and my deportment is good as ever, under normal circumstances. But under her care, I’m seated like a heedless wanton, knees poking awkwardly, my feet too high off the ground, my ass bare against the rough cheap upholstery. I feel too alert, tired and anxious both. Hot hours before I can get home, wash the chlorine from the children’s hair.
She does my makeup, fixing my face to please her fancy of what I should look like, who I should be. My eyebrows are darkened into storm clouds, thick with the smudge of broken promises. My lashes become black and gloopy, heavy to lift beneath a sooty burden of sin. My lips are colored pink and glassy, a vision of delicately debauched innocence; my cheeks are daubed pink too, too bright for smarts. She’s always hated my smarts. Even my proffered breasts get brushed, tinglingly, with a dusting of glittery powder. The embarrassing ring of steel, jewel-capped, glints in my bellybutton tooinvitingly.
That piercing was a painfulhumiliation, one that took some explaining, too. How I could ever manage to explain any more, I don’t know. But I worry--
She left me, almost a half hour ago, my hair fretted into a messy chignon, and now I wait on the bed, the sheets a tangle beneath me. I’ve been tossing, anxious. It doesn’t matter if I make things a mess. No one minds. The blinds are still open, the sun’s heat lighting my skin, easing me into my role. I am indelicately delicate, porcelain broken, chipped, stained, ready for daily use.
I’ve been told to remember, many times now, I’m just a common slut. If I believe it, she says, it’ll come true. If I am that way, then I’ll believe. I don’t understand, but I’m not supposed to, any longer. Things aren’t for me to decide, anymore.
The couple arrive, footsteps clattering outside. The man and the woman, they let themselves in. The woman waits at the door for too many casual seconds, with it open behind her. She wears dark sunglasses and a leather biker jacket. They both are sun kissed. He’s in dark denim, his stubble dark too, like the bruised asphalt of a battered desert highway. Like road movie outlaws, the two of them; fuckable, like models. And just as arrogant and needy.
They speak lightly to each other, little chortles of fun. I make out nothing. Nothing is said to me directly, and of course I have nothing to say. The girl gets out her camera. She turns to the opposite wall and takes a picture, as if she were artfully composing a snap of some sophisticated urban interior. The man just comes over to me. He unzips his jeans and rummages his cock out. It’s beginning to swell, angular and purposive, not fully erect.
“Lick,” he says. I cross over towards it, resting my weight on my elbow, opening my mouth, hovering open around the dome, wetting my bottom lip with my tongue, but it’s almost too dry. I swallow, anxiety like a heave of dusty wind inside me, blowing down from my mouth into the pit of my stomach, a dead well. I swoop my tongue around the head, sweeping the dome. Quickly I swallow again, and everything turns to liquid peace. I open my mouth and accept him, suckling the whole head sweetly.
“Smile,” she says brightly, her chin dark and freckly, her camera at the ready. My eyes twist to hers, behind the shades. I can’t really smile with my lips but I try to with my eyes.
He backs away, his cock smacking sadly from my suckling lips. She gets onto the bottom of the bed. She handles my legs, drawing my knees up, my high heels clicking against each other like matched rapiers, my legs bending open, the gusset of my thong exposed. Her camera clicks. I’m holding my torso half-up, abs crunching, my head to the side as though averting my gaze. I know she likes the coyness of this. Then I rest my back, my chin up, the length of me exposed to her camera’s gaze, my bethonged crotch, my pierced bellybutton, my tits scooped skyward, the thrust of my chin all one mysterious line of desire, promising everything like a glamorous anonymous whore. Click click, click click.
I hear the thud of a belt on the carpet, shoes kicked loose. His jeans hang around his knees, his muscled thighs, dark and wiry, bearing up his proud erection toward my face again. I look at the camera, the girl attentive and inviting, her dark hair, her dark glasses, the whitened glare of her teeth beckoning behind her amused lips. I know what’s expected, but I act befuddled, as though awaiting permission, as I edge myself reluctantly to face his member.
I move my hand to his cock, softly encircling it by the base, its weight solid and strong beneath my curling fingers. Gently I pulse it, soft rhythmic squeezes while my pink harlot’s mouth widens in a mime of incredulity. I nudge the ball sack with my other hand, appraising the dangling fruit of his manhood, then possessively clasp his hip while I open my lips to receive his cock.
This time I only give the purple dome a few introductory suckles before I release him from my hand and take him as deeply as I can, straining his cock at an angle, feeling it nudge the back of my throat. My consciousness soars off into the darkness, into a black velvet bed of stars, constellations viewed from an alien sea bed, while the clothed girl snuggles her way behind my legs, her breath hot against the tops of my thighs.
I arch myself up, knees wobbling on the tired mattress, heels poking out into space, my rear an exposed dock waiting for whatever she decides to rest there. Her fingers dig into my waist, purposive, as if testing for something. Pecks on my neck, cooing. My demibra is unhooked by her soft fingers, and his, hard and calloused, tug at the straps at my shoulders.
Soft little pecks fall on my shoulder blades, turning to a wet rain as she works her way down, down the riverbed of my spine, licking at my tailbone. His hand is at the nape of my neck, keeping me on task, his cock leisurely fucking its way in and out of my mouth.
I hear somewhere her glasses landing on a bedside stand, then her mouth is kissing my bare ass cheeks, her teeth nibbling gently into the flesh. I arch my back, his dick sliding out for a moment against my chin, a tiny tear of precum just kissing my slick lips, and then I plunge my mouth back down upon him as her own hand cups my mons through the thong, as though to renew my faith in what I’m doing. Then she releases me and I hear the camera again, inches from my neck, my wicked head probably filling most of the frame. She moves to my side, my eyeballs rolling in her direction, fervent to show the camera what a good cocksucker I am, how glad I am to be here, to be doing this, to be recorded by the camera.
I feel so wet, so good and wet, and she returns her hand to me, snugging inside against my bare pussy lips, her thumb knowing and nudging, entering me while her firm little hand grinds itself against my button, massaging my bare pubes that used to bear a forest.
Like my pierced navel, a renovation that required some explaining. But I have my orders.
I let her own me like this, down below, my tension building, wet and inexorable, while I clasp his ass in my hands, as if owning the animal in him, conquering it, his pelvis bucking with contained excitement, powerful and tense under my direction. His dick, hot, wet, shiny, thick, disappears and appears, in and out of my mouth. It would make a beautiful picture, but she’s too consumed now too.
My thong still clings to my hips, sticky and messy, when she nudges the floss aside and snakes her knowing little tongue into the crack of my ass. I want to cry out-- in some muffled way, I do, his cock pulsing with excitement inside my warm mouth. Her thumb is a snake inside my pussy, curling itself against my G-spot. I think briefly of my backyard, the pool, the smell of hot dogs on an open grill wafting over a fence or two, and her damn tongue, that’s never had fifty words for me, is lapping at my asshole, wet, electric, the filthiest, friendliest caress I’ve ever felt. Her thumb is pushing, demanding, and my dam breaks free. With tears welling at the sides of my eyes I come, moaning against his dick, my chin against his balls, involuntarily halted, my ears burning, my whole body quaking with grievous release.
He pulls himself out of my mouth and she worms her way around me. She unhooks my garters, careful, taking her time, only her face is tense with excitement and need. Beneath her biker jacket her breasts strain inside a tube top, her nipples peaking with arousal. She hikes my pelvis up and quickly works off my thong, my heels kicking the air like uselessly lethal weapons as she drags my ass toward the edge of the bed. Her eyes, green and beaming, devour me as she pushes my knees apart, making me so wide and open. She kisses my belly, her tongue that’s been on my asshole laving at my skin, working its way up to my breasts, exposed, the demibra now just a scrap of under girding, uncomfortable and foolish on me like the flapping garters dangling against my skin.
She’s removed her skirt in all this excitement, and now she hustles up over my body, her spread knees scooting athwart me, and she hovers her bare pussy above my head. He, meanwhile, now naked, climbs on the bed, his cock, big and needy, honing in on my defenseless cunt. I feel its head make contact with my slick pussy lips and I exhale, a piteous sound like a cry, and at this signal she lowers herself, salty and slick, onto my face.
I part my lips and undulate my tongue against her folds, while his dick enters me with one smooth long thrust. My belly rolls inside as I clasp him with my inner walls, him smoothly angling out and back in again, a reliable rhythm, so I can give as much attention as I can to the task of eating her pert little pussy. It’s like a gentle conversation against the roar of the ocean, her cunt like a seashell discovered, looked into and listened, while his cock moves like a roaring tide, in and out, pulling me down into the darkness. She tastes sweet; yes, sweet. My whole being is almost empty now, just licking and getting fucked. Fucked, fed, owned.
I’m near to a second orgasm when she momentarily lifts herself, freezing me with despair, and then twists herself around so she faces him, burying her cunt back down against my face. Her hands are on my tits now, groping my mounds at first, then becoming more gentle and cruel as she works my taut nipples with her fingers. As my climax closes again in on me I seek out her clit, a pebble bucking in the stream of sex that sweeps me. I reach a hand down against myself, where he plows me, bucking and squelching, and I rub myself against the moisture there, my pussy lips distended around him, his rod pistoning into me, and I lift it back, rubbing the slickness between finger and thumb, and I seek out her rosebud, pressing my lubed thumb against the hole, moistening the channel, and then I tap my finger gently against her asshole, seeking entry. Her rocking pelvis stills itself in readiness, and I slide my finger inside the tight ring, like a desert rose, I think to myself, now receiving my rain. I strum her clit softly with my tongue, my face burning, stinging, knowing now I am taking her, taking her to her rush. Little pealing sighs erupt from her, a star shower of breaths, while he fucks fucks fucks me and, god, he starts to shoot, hollering blasphemies I can’t understand while her pelvis pulses, my finger inside, my tongue spinning circles in the groove against her delicate bead. My mind spins too as, half-smothered in her, my climax thrills through me, my unfaithful cunt full of him, his jetting seed, me servicing her, licking and fingering, dirty, used, adulterous, false, grateful, ecstatic, ruined.
* * * * * * *
I turn on the cold water before I sit on the toilet, totally naked now, sniffling, peeing, smelling too many scents on me that don’t belong there, thinking of the road back, the marinara, the garlic, the possible parmesan of the evening meal in the fading fun light of summer; my kids, my husband, my life I chose and swore to, the one I maintain, walled off by strictest secrecy from this, this--
But she lets herself into the bathroom. She’s dressed now; I think I heard him go out before. She has a black leather purse with her,big and rumpled.
“I have something for you, before we go.” She rummages. “Here,” she says, “you’re going to wear this.”
She holds out something balled up. I can’t make it out at first. These people always leave me alone when we’re done. I stand up off the commode, my face burning.
“What, what am I--?”
But as it straightens out in her hand I recognize what it must be. It’s a panty with a dildo fitted inside, a black gleaming thing, maybe four inches long, an inch thick at least.
“I’m putting this in you,” she says. “You’ll wait here a half-hour with it inside. Rest with it on the bed. Leave the blinds open. Then you’ll drive home with it in.” She smiles. “Don’t drive reckless, you’ll be okay. Leave it in till your bedtime. You’re to wear it around the house tonight, while you’re doing whatever you’re supposed to normally do.This isan instruction, you understand?”
I’m aghast, but I know I’m not allowed to question this. My belly thrums with butterflies. I want to cry almost, standing there, barefoot on the dull linoleum of that bathroom, but, head bowed, I let her help me into it, this black stringy panty with its little monster inside, rising up between my legs like a torpedo as I pull it up, while she taps out some Astroglide from a bottle in her purse and, stroking the plastic penis with the glistening stuff, she slowly enters it inside me. I frown, my lips twisting as my sensitive cunt receives this new intrusion, more modest in size but alien to me, a dark secret companion I must now carry inside me back, back into that sweet gentle world that I want to protect from this, this--
And of course, she has to take another picture. This time I sob, openly, turned on, turned out before the camera, the dildo imprisoning me in my secret cell of thrilling shame. She just smiles, puts on her sunglasses, leans into me, and kisses me on the cheek.
“You’ve come so far, Cassandra,” she says sweetly. “Remember, till bedtime.” She smiles, her eyes, I know, glinting at me, my penetrated pussy, my tears, from behindher shades.
She nods her head, amused,not unkindly, butsuperior. “I know, sorry!” She laughs. “But that’s your stepsister’s orders.”
Then she closes the door, and I am alone.
Alone with my world of secret submission.
I pretend it’s because I have no choice; and, strictly speaking, that would be true even if, if-- if I didn’t really want . . . .
But I know it’s too late to pretend. There’ll be a new email before I go to bed, before I can take out this synthetic cock, my demanding secret companion, and try and ease myself back into that innocent life that becomes more and more a dimming, dying dream. I fear the message, but it lures me into the hours ahead, hungry and thrilled, just as my pussy is now with its new intruder.
I could say I don’t choose all this but I know now, I know, it’s not just because of the pictures.
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