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?"
"Would you like to see me nude? For real? Up close and personal?" Blushing hard as her daughter now, she caught Angie's inrush of air.
"I have to assume ... I mean, why else would you take these pictures?"
Angie finally looked up. Her eyes were wide and fearful and rimmed with tears. Her lips trembled badly. "Really? You'd do that?"
Becca nodded slowly. "I'll do better than that. I'll let you undress me yourself."
Angie stood motionless, un-breathing. "Are you serious?" Her breathing restarted and pushed the front of her shirt up and down, breasts rising and falling along with it. She appeared on the verge of hyperventilating.
Becca grinned. "I've been undressed by other females before," she joked self-consciously, "but never one half my age."
Mother and daughter stood trembling expectantly.
"Can I kiss you?"
It was a brief, experimental, and exquisite kiss. Who shook more is debatable. Becca leaned down and Angle rose up on her tiptoes, their lips touched, and then pressed fully together. It was like 14-year-old Becca had come into the future to kiss herself at 34.
Reacting subliminally, Becca let her eyes slide shut and her arms encircle her daughter's waist. It excited her being kissed, and her lips parted and she understood how a man felt kissing a smaller, shorter partner. She assumed the male role, drawing Angela tight against her chest and turning her into the kiss, letting her left hand drift up the back of Angie's shirt and letting the other drift over to her daughter's thin waist. The hand traveled down to her right hip and Angie moaned, rather wildly, responding as she, Becca would herself. Then Becca wondered if she dared touch Angie's small breast or tight rear end and the idea made her heart stutter and something exquisite to bloom within her like a blossoming time-lapse rose. She moaned deeply as Angie's lips parted and a tongue sought out hers. Before she melted right into the carpet, Becca put a stop to it.
"No, wait!" she gasped. She stepped away so quickly that Angie stumbled forward a step, into her arms. They grabbed each other, gripping forearms, breathing deeply and harshly. Becca could not remember ever being so aroused by a kiss.
"Wow!" said Angie breathlessly.
"Wow," Becca echoed. Her head felt vacuous, like someone had lifted off her skull and used an Electrolux on her brain. And this sensation of cold electricity flowing up her spine and into her extremities was pretty alarming too. Could you die from an adrenalin rush? Just look at her hands shake.
"Mom? You OK?" Angie looked alarmed as well. "You're not gonna have a heart attack, are you?"
Mom laughed brightly and pecked Angie on the lips. "Of course not, sweetie. I'm just ... a little on the surprised side, that's all."
"The surprised side?" Angie grinned crookedly. "I think I'm pretty much on the dumbfounded side, Mom. On the flabbergasted side. I just kissed my own mother. I French kissed her, for God's sakes."
Angie looked pretty vacuous herself, Becca thought, discombobulated in fact. She touched Angie's cheek with the backs of her curled fingers. She smiled, lovingly.
"I'm not sure I ever felt quite like this after a kiss, sweetie."
"I know I haven't," Angie muttered. Mom looked at her questioningly.
"What? I've kissed boys before."
Mom laughed at the indignation in her voice. "I'm sure you have. I just wonder what other things you've done."
Angie reddened and looked at the floor.
"Can I ask, if you're still a virgin?"
"Mom!" Horrified indignation on Angie's face.
"Does that mean no?"
"It means it's none of your business!" She released Becca's forearms and tried to free her arms. Becca refused to let go.
"What if I ask as your potential lover, and not your mom?"
Angie blushed even brighter. "That would be okay, I guess." She lightly clasped Mom's forearms again. "I'm not though."
This broke Rebecca's heart. She cupped Angie's left cheek. "It's okay. I wasn't a virgin at your age either."
Angle peeked up, hopeful. "No?"
Mom shook her head. "Andy Worley. The summer between 6th and 7th grades. In his basement recroom."
Angie nodded thoughtfully. "Kevin Weiss. Last July at Kristi Castner's birthday party/sleepover." She hesitated. "You won't get mad?" Mom shook her head. "There's more."
"How many more?" Mom asked, struggling against alarm.
Just two, Becca thought sadly. 14-1/2, and already a practicing sexual partner. She sighed. "I guess I'm still your mother after all. Please tell me you use protection, Ange."
Angie looked up, expression defiant. "Do you?"
"Always," Becca said without hesitation. "The one time I didn't..."
Actually, the one time she didn't, hadn't resulted in Angie at all, but the clap. She'd always been exceeding careful. It's why Angie was such a shock. Appallingly, there was even a question about her parentage, though never for a second in Becca's mind. And the cause? Both the pill and the condom had failed her in this instance. And that was the end of it. Angle's father could doubt it all he pleased. Angie was his daughter.
Becca changed the subject. "How long have you been interested in me?"
Angie looked up questioningly. "How long have you been interested in me?"
Becca smiled and blushed. "You have such a problem with questions, young lady. You are so much like me."
Angie grinned. "I won't admit that in a million years."
Becca joined her laughter. "I'd never admit it either, hon."
They kissed again, this time practicing restraint. After a while, Angie cocked her head and asked: "Have you ever noticed we have the same eyes? Not just the same color, but the same ... particulars. See this little fleck of gold in my right iris?" She pointed it out with a pink-tipped fingernail. "You have the same fleck in your right eye, Mom. Isn't that strange?"
Becca laughed again. "Eyes are hereditary, that's all."
"Flecks are hereditary?"
Becca continued to laugh. "I don't know! Let's just agree that we are mother-like-daughter, and leave it at that." Suddenly, she stepped back and clasped the hem of her sweater in both hands, crisscrossed. "Since you were seven."
Angie blinked in confusion, and then finally got it. Her face turned red again. Becca nodded for her to mimic Mom's hands, and Angie slowly raised hers to her partially unbuttoned blouse.
"We're undressing together?" she guessed.
"I think that would be better, don't you?"
Angie slowly nodded. Mom still wore her black heels, something Mom didn't normally do. The shoes came off the instant she entered the front door. It was a good indicator, she thought, of how uptight Mom was when she got home. She said: "I've always had sexual thoughts about you. From the time I first understood what sex was anyway. It seemed to overwhelm me when I started my period. Actually before that, I guess, when I started to develop. I guess I was about 11."
Becca nodded and prompted Angie to unbutton her blouse while she slowly raised the hem of her gray sweater. A powerful shiver hit just as the hem reached the bottom of her brassiere, leaving her remarkably flat tummy exposed. The sight of Angie's chaste white bra through the opening in her blouse made Becca shudder again with much greater force. Her black lace bra came into view as Angie eased the white blouse over her shoulders and let it fall loosely to the floor. She peeled the sweater off, removed it from her arms, and held it out, cocking her head and smiling crookedly.
"I'm stripping for my daughter, for God's sakes."
"And I'm stripping for my mother," Angie countered.
Accepting the sweater, Angie bunched it against her face and inhaled. "Ummm," she sighed. "You smell so good." Self-consciously, she stooped and retrieved her blouse from the floor and held it out. Becca repeated her daughter's action against her own face, her eyes sliding closed, inhaling her daughter's rich aroma.
"You smell like me at 14," she said.
Angie laughed. "You smell like me at 35," grinning as Becca frowned. "Yeah, 34, whatever."
They next removed their skirts, Angie revealing sensible white panties on her slender hips. Becca's panties were of matching black lace, hip-huggers from Victoria's Secret. Angie's underwear was purchased at Her Room, all the rage with kids nowadays, a peculiarity Becca didn't quite get.
Becca let her skirt fall, puddling at her feet. Angie did likewise, and though neither wore pantyhose or stockings, neither set of flawless legs needed them. Becca moved her hands behind her back and slid them up, her nervous and excited mirror image doing likewise.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," Becca whispered, looking a little bit panicked. Angie did also. A wild shudder vibrated Becca head to foot, and one mirror-imaged in her daughter. I'm terrified, she thought. She looks terrified too. Maybe we should stop this.
Mother and daughter hesitated. Both bit their lower lips and both gave an unconscious little shuddery squirm, like suddenly needing to go pee. Becca did have to pee actually, and quite badly. She ignored it. Determinedly, she grasped either side of the catch with her fingertips and freed herself. Angie mirrored the action and with deliberate, studied slowness, both mother and daughter revealed their bare breasts.
"Oh, my God," Angie moaned. A shudder the strength of an earthquake shook her small frame. She squirmed again and ogled Mom, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Becca felt pretty open-mouthed herself. Occasionally, eyes came up and met in disbelieving wonder before sinking again to bare breasts. Angie tentatively reached out a hand, and then withdrew it, looking rattled. She looked at her mom beseechingly.
"Don't be afraid. I don't bite."
Angie nodded. Her chest rose and fell, the small protrusions pointing authoritatively. It occurred to Becca that Angie was way ahead of her in the bare breast-examining department. It made her nipples engorge, standing out like fingertips. Angie's did also. And with some amusement, she noted her daughter had the same wild hair sprouting from the upper rim of her left areola. Looking self-consciously down at her own wild hair, which she normally plucked with tweezers or trimmed with her razor--today it poked out 3/8" long-she began to wonder.