Julia's mother had once been a Playboy Bunny - Miss June of 19-whatever and a runner up for Playboy Bunny of the Year. She kept copies of all the magazines and photographs published during those golden days and a swag of unpublished studies, not all by reputable photographers, and some videos made on the way up to the pinnacle of Bunnyhood and beyond. After Julia was conceived she went back to school and qualified as an accountant.
Julia's mother was proud of her looks then, and now - eighteen years or so later - she still turned heads and stirred loins as she went about her work of picking holes in the taxation legislation to help wealthy clients minimize their tax. She worked out, stayed trim and only occasionally missed the life she had once enjoyed.
Her collection of work and portfolio of studio portraits was often taken out and admired by Julia, who didn't get to see all the photographs or videotapes until she was a student at Uni. By then Julia was sophisticated enough (or so she thought) to appreciate the artistry in the studies of her mother - looking like a slightly rounder version of herself - wearing nothing but a smile or various skimpy outfits of leather, vinyl, and occasionally latex. In some of the studies she was the bound, gagged and helpless victim of one or more lecherous looking men and women. In others she took the dominant role and was shown wielding a variety of implements in a fantastic display of mock sadism. Julia liked those best of all. So, she discovered one warm summer night, did her mother.
While Julia was studying, her mother was a frequent visitor to her flat. She would tidy up, cook a number of meals which could be stored in the freezer, and sort out any money problems - such as those of Julia's philosophy tutor, Timothy Jones. He was attempting to appeal to the Taxation Department against their latest assessment of his "debt".
Julia's mother was very popular with her daughter's contemporaries. She liked it when Julia's boyfriends said (as they always did) words to the effect of, "Mother and daughter? No! You two must be sisters."
This conversational gambit had a way of developing into a spot of comparative anatomy, usually to Julia's disadvantage."I think Julia has slightly smaller breasts," the ex-bunny would say, pushing her chest out ever so little,
"and a bit more bottom."
An invitation to "Feel! Which of us is the firmer!" would result in Julia's mother and Julia herself being groped by some randy fellow student, to their mutual pleasure and his eternal amazement. Despite the likelihood of this sort of behaviour leading to many a menage a trois, Julia's mother's antics never resulted in anything more untoward than heavy breathing. That is, until the night that Timothy called in with yet another batch of receipts, pay-slips and notices of tax paid and other certificates he had found under his thesis notes.
Tim was a nervous, conservative, young academic and the only visitor to Julia's flat who had met her mother and had not uttered the ritual "You two must be sisters" speech. This upset Julia's mother more than she cared to admit. When they first met to talk about his tax problem Timothy had just looked at the former oh-so-nearly Bunny of the Year, blushed, looked away and mumbled a polite greeting.
Julia's mother thought he might be gay, and said so when the diminutive philosopher had departed. Her daughter disagreed. Timothy, she said, was known to be shy, and despite his small stature and stammer, he was regarded as
"quite a dish" by the faculty females. Julia hoped one day to coax him out of his shell. Her mother was skeptical.
"I've spent hours on his tax problem and he hasn't once made a token pass at me!" she exclaimed, "It's not natural. Just wait until Friday, when I see him next. I'll show you how to 'coax' him!"
Julia should have heeded the warning.
"Be a Darling," Julia's mother said, looking up from the pile of dockets, letters and receipts she and Timothy had spread over the kitchen table, "and pop down to that little Thai cafe in Badham Street. A green curry would be nice... and some honey prawns and whatever you fancy. I know they take an age but the food is really wonderful."
Julia should have guessed what was in her mother's mind but she needed to go to the library which was only five minutes walk from the Phuket (How the two of them had giggled when the sign first went up!) so she set off with a will. The scene that met her startled gaze when she returned over an hour later, clutching a plastic bag of Thai takeaway, took Julia by surprise.
Her tutor, Timothy, stripped to his underpants, was kneeling astride her mother. In one hand he held a brassiere with a broken clasp while the other was kneading an exposed tit of classical proportions. The ex-bunny was wearing nothing more than her slip and stockings - her other clothes were spread around the room, mixed up with photographic studies from her much-loved portfolio. The video was playing "Madame Whiplash II" starring you-know-who while she had one hand in Timothy's pants, grasping his penis by its roots.
"J... J... J..." attempted Timothy, looking embarrassed.
"Rape!" said Julia's mother.
"N... !" said Timothy, looking terrified.
"I said, 'Rape!'" asserted the fleshly echo of the video screen Julia snorted. "You can't rape a philosophy tutor," she said. "Besides he's on top!"
Her mother looked pained. "He," she said, "tried to rape me!"
"N... N... N..." stammered Timothy.
"He took advantage of me. I was showing him how little I had changed since those studies were taken when he jumped me."
"N... Nyarch," squeaked Timothy as Julia's mother tightened her grip on his erection.
"Just as well you returned when you did, Julia, or who knows what this... this... lewd little scholar might done to your mother! And such a big prick for such a little man!"
"OOH... Nyah..." wailed Timothy as Julia's mother twisted the member in question
"How did he manage to get undressed without you noticing?" asked Julia. "I'll bet he spilled something on his shirt and trousers."
"Coffee. How did you know?"
"'Madam Whiplash III', Mother, before you tied you co-star to the bed-head. Remember?"
Julia's mother had the grace to look a little bit shamefaced before continuing with her blatantly false story.
"I say he tried to rape me. I'm sticking to my story, so what are we going to do about it?"
She grinned wickedly. "Well I can't keep him in this grip until the police get here. There's some of my old equipment on top of your wardrobe. Get it down. We'll use it to secure him until the law arrives."
Timothy managed to gargle, "N... N... Don't call the c... c... police! M... misunderstanding... not rape... thought... willing... I'm s... s... s..."
"Sore?" guessed Julia eyeing the purpling tip of Tim's erection now poking over the elastic band of his underpants.
"S... S... S..." he hissed desperately.
"Sex mad?" said Julia sweetly.
"S... Sorry!" gasped Tim, "Sorry."
"And so you bloody-well should be. Trying to fuck my mother the moment my back is turned. How do you think that makes me feel. You've been coming here for weeks and not once have you... Oh! I don't give a damn whether it was rape or not. You deserve whatever happens to you! I'll get the gear. Hold onto him," said Julia.
She put the take-away on the pile of papers and left her mother and the pocket sized philosopher still entwined on the floor.
When Julia returned carrying a mixed bag of straps, cuffs, chains and other paraphernalia, Timothy was standing up with his pants around his ankles and his hands behind his back. Julia's mother now had him in a one-handed grip by his scrotum. With her other hand she lightly stroking the underside of his throbbing prick.
"I think he really is sorry," she said to her daughter, "but I can't condone his behaviour."
"Nor me," said Julia, fastening Tim's hands behind his back with an illegal pair of police issue handcuffs. "He should be punished..."
"If we report him he'll probably lose his job... perhaps I did give him the wrong idea," said Julia's mother. "Maybe we should punish him ourselves?"
Tim nodded, swallowed and was about to speak when Julia used a cane, found in the grab-bag, to flick to the tip of his blood engorged penis. He howled and would have hopped about the room but for the claw like grip around his testicles which held him firmly in one spot.