Loosely Based on the Short Story:
Mother and Daughter Lust for One Another
Rebecca had very little time to clean the house. And while daughter Angela was an absolute angel about cleaning, her own room could usually be found in shambles.
"Oh, for God's sakes," Rebecca muttered. "Angela! Get up here right now!"
"What!" Angela complained from downstairs.
"Your room! Get up here and clean it up, right now!"
"I'm busy!" Angela objected, as she always did.
"Do I have to take a switch to you, young lady?" Rebecca was always threatening the switch, though neither she nor her 14 year old knew exactly what a switch was. Mom had never spanked daughter with anything but her hand.
"Oh, all right," Angela, grumbled. "Coming."
Angela was a miniature version of Rebecca. Same lush auburn hair, same freckled complexion, and the same bottle-green eyes. Her breasts were a perfectly scaled-down version of Rebecca's 36C's. Her legs were Rebecca's at 14, so were her slender waist, winsome hips, and rather flat though very interesting bottom. Right now that bottom was clad in a pair of pink shorts proclaiming the word PINK. Small breasts taunted through her tank top. She trudged through the bedroom door, bubble gum cracking loudly.
"What's wrong with my room?" she asked, puzzled.
Her mother only rolled her eyes.
That evening, while Angela hung down the mall with her friends, Rebecca finished folding laundry and carried it upstairs from the basement. It was her sister's old townhouse, which she rented monthly for $795. Though not in the greatest condition, the townhouse would nonetheless go for eleven or twelve hundred on the open market, and Rebecca knew $795 was a steal. With utilities of around $230 a month, food about $280, cell phone and cable at $225, and gasoline at about $240, Rebecca still put away a little each month into savings. It would not put her daughter through college, sorry. And no one else would put her daughter through college either. Rebecca had never received a cent in child support in her life--last she heard, Angie's dad was somewhere in southern Mexico--and her parents? Forget it. They wouldn't even acknowledge Angie existed.
Washing Angie's clothes was one thing; Rebecca refused to put them away and so stacked Angie's jeans, shorts, tops and underwear neatly on the bed. Looking around the atypically ordered room, Becca blew aside a strand of loose hair and put a hand on her hip, cocking it unconsciously. She had no idea how sexy she looked standing there like that.
Becca was 34 years old. A lifetime of being active, if not technically athletic, kept her muscles toned and her weight at a comfortable 135 lbs. She stood 5'7" tall and had always been lithe. She hated her breasts, thought them way too small, though thousands of men would disagree strongly. Becca's breasts were, in their humble mass opinion, absolutely perfect. And though not the best dancer in the world, Becca excelled at stripping. She laughed, remembering one particular night at Sals' Tap Room in Dover, Delaware and then sobered abruptly. Those days were behind her now. Today she worked in a law office and brought home honest living wages.
What shamed her, were the films. For three years, as Angie attended preschool, kindergarten and then 1st grade, Becca used her body to put food on the table and pay the bills and buy Angie clothing. Before that she had posed for adult magazines and nudie websites. Before that she had danced. Before that, she was in high school.
Stripping was hard, but you learned quickly to tune out the embarrassment and self-doubt, use your breasts and hands and legs and hips and arms to weave a protective web of sexuality about you. Wherever she danced, the room filled up tight. The owners just loved her for it, though not the other dancers. Given her tender age, gullibility and naiveté, Becca never earned the money her talent demanded. She managed that only with the films, and then never enough.
The top drawer of Angie's dresser was open. Becca absentmindedly walked past on her way out and slid it shut. But it didn't quite shut. She backed up automatically, felt around the back of the drawer and discovered a tall plastic box protruding from the drawer below. A blanket of trepidation settled over her as she withdrew the box and examined its nondescript exterior.
Please don't let this be what I think it is. She opened the box and flinched. On gaudily printed DVD's was Becca's entire collection of porno films. Treeing the Fox. The Up-Side of Anal. Don't Tell Mom, Parts 1 and 2. What I did on my Summer Playcation, Parts 1, 2 and 3 ... and the others.
"Oh, Angie, no," she moaned and backed to the bed and sat down. This was over, this part of her life. Only hadn't her father always said that chickens came home to roost? This one had. This rooster weighed a thousand pounds and tore off huge chunks of flesh with each jab of its vicious beak. And then Becca found a 4-gig flash-drive in the box that changed her life forever.
Monday, Angie walked home from the bus stop with her best friend Kim. Their conversation, though seriously intriguing, is not pertinent to the story and so we'll ignore it. Kim walked on with a promise to call Angie later on, and Angie let herself into the house.
"Mom?" Totally reflex action; her Mom worked and never got home before 6 o'clock. Intent on watching the 2nd half of Spanking Good Rear Ends, Angie shouldered her backpack and clambered the stairs to the 2nd floor and breezed down to her bedroom. Mom's door was closed, kind of unusual, but not worth worrying about; Mom was at work. She dropped the backpack and shrugged off her uniform blazer and undid her blue tie. Angie was a proud member of St. Mary's student body. It wasn't her body she was interested in today, however. Though as far from the Earth as the Moon in relation to her real interest, it was so cool, watching her mom get spanked. This DVD and the one titled Private School Girls, Part 1 had enthralled her for two weeks. She pined for Private School Girls Part 2, but that one Seth couldn't find anywhere. Apparently one of the school girls was underage and every commercial copy of the tape was pulled and destroyed. She was reportedly only 14 years old during the shoot, a bare year older than Angie. A bare year older, she thought, wryly. I am such a pervert.
Bee-lining for her dresser, Angie unzipped her skirt and pulled the tails out of the waist band. She began to unbutton her blouse and opened her top drawer with the other hand. Inside, laying atop her underwear was a note.
Sweetie. Please come to my bedroom.
She stumbled back a step, heart waking up and banging hard against her slender rib cage. Suddenly her mouth was dry and her underarms moist. The note was addressed in her mom's visually lilting, pretty script.
Angie turned and stared open-mouthed at her bedroom wall, through which her eyes, were they x-ray sensitive, would have fixed on her mother's bedroom door.
"Come in, sweetie."
"Come in," Mom repeated.
Swallowing loudly, Angie grasped the doorknob and twisted it to the right and opened the door ... a crack.
"What are you doing home, Mom?"
"Waiting for you, sweetie."
Angie gulped again. "Why?"
"Come in and find out," Mom invited.
Angie muttered, "Shit-shit-shit" and pushed the door open wider. "Am I in trouble?" she asked.
Her mom laughed. "You have no idea. Please come in and shut the door behind you."
Angie complied, halfway. She pushed open the door and stood in her mother's doorway, trembling. Mom sat by the window, legs crossed, smiling calmly, dressed for work. The same skirt and sweater outfit she'd worn taking Angie to school that morning. Angie gulped again.
"OK." Mom looked sideways at the gray box sitting on her nightstand. "I found that in your dresser drawer last night." Her smile faltered only the tiniest bit. "But this..." She held up the 4-gig flashdrive. "This I don't understand. Did you take these pictures, Angie?"
Angie hung her head. "Yes, ma'am," she muttered.
Angie said nothing, only blushed the brightest, most striking color of red.
Becca placed the flash drive on top of the box. "I could understand this, if you were a boy. Boys do these kind of things." She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. "Where was the camera, Ange?"
Angie flinched. On their own, her eyes flicked traitorously to the shelves opposite her mother's bed. The camera had aimed diagonally across the room, catching her mom in the bathroom and in the bedroom. There were hundreds of pictures on the flash-drive, taken over six months.
Becca asked the next question perfunctorily, knowing the answer: "Has anyone else seen these pictures, and these videos?"
Angela shook her head. And then she nodded miserably. "Seth's seen the video's, I guess. He's the one who got them for me."
"No, ma'am!" Angie said, shaking her head vehemently. "No one's seen those but me."
Becca closed her eyes and sighed in relief. Knowing something was one thing; knowing it for sure was another. She stood up, walked over to Angie and placed a hand lightly on her shoulder.
"Which movie did you like best?"
Shame rekindled Angie's face. She shook her head, unable to talk. Mom laughed softly.
"This is the weirdest conversation-situation--I've ever imagined." She cocked her head. "If I ask you a question, would you answer it truthfully?"
.... There is more of this story ...