Chapter 9

I woke to the sting of silk at my wrists and ankles, my limbs splayed taut against the bedposts. Morning light bled through the curtains, painting the room in honeyed gold. I tugged instinctively, the scarves biting into my skin, and whimpered. The fragrance from mom’s favorite candle, whiskey and tobacco, lingered in the air. I must have still been sleeping hard when she retied me like this.

“M-Mom?” My voice cracked, dry and small.

Footsteps padded down the hall, unhurried. The door creaked open.

“Good morning, baby girl.” Mom stood nude in the doorway, a chipped ceramic bowl in hand, steam curling from the oatmeal inside. She took a leisurely bite, the spoon clinking as she sucked it clean. “Sleep okay? You were adorable all tied up like a present this morning.”

My face burned. Mom’s body was a landscape of soft curves and sharp intent—hips swaying as she approached, breasts heavy and unapologetic, the thatch of dark hair between her legs seemed to glisten with fresh arousal. She held the bowl in the palm of her hand and climbed onto the bed, knees straddling my hips.

“The voice wants us to maximize our time today,” Mom said, trailing a sticky-sweet fingertip down my sternum. “No work for me, no school for you. Just ... training.” She shifted forward, her thighs framing my ribs, until she sat perched just below my breasts, facing me. The heat of her hovered inches below my collarbone. “But first—” She grabbed the oatmeal, taking another loud, deliberate bite. “—breakfast.”

Mom tipped her spoon over the edge of the bowl and maple syrup dripped onto my chest. She liked to pour a layer of it on top of her oatmeal. Mom smirked, then bent down low to lick it off slowly, her breasts brushing my stomach. “Now, where were we? Oh, I have my breakfast here in the bowl. Your breakfast is going take a little work on your part,” she ended with a smirk.

Her free hand fisted in my hair, tilting my head back. “Open,” Mom purred, her voice velvet and venom. I obeyed, trembling, as she rose onto her knees and scooted forward, her hips hovering over my face. The scent of her was overwhelming—musky, ripe, a tang that made my stomach clench.

“Tongue out,” she ordered, grinding down until her swollen lips grazed mine. “Flat and wide. Now.”

I gasped as her weight settled, her thighs pressing against my ears, muffling the world. Her taste flooded my mouth—salt, sweat, the bitter edge of her arousal.

“Tsk. Too timid.” Mom’s laugh vibrated through me. A spoon clinked—another bite of oatmeal. “Flick your tongue. Like this.” She rocked forward, demonstrating, her clit dragging over my lips. “Fast. Insistent.”

I obeyed, my jaw beginning to ache, as Mom’s hips began a slow, relentless rhythm.

“Yesss ... there.” Her thighs trembled, her moan long and low. “Now suck. Like you’re starving.”

The command sent a jolt through my gut, shame and heat twisting together. I sucked, hard, and Mom’s hips snapped forward, a gush of wetness coating my chin.

“Good girl,” Mom hissed, her voice fraying. “That’s what they’ll pay for. That ... hunger.”

The oatmeal bowl tipped, a dollop landing on my forehead. Mom scooped it up with her fingers, smearing it back into her mouth. “Sweet and salty, hm? Just like your Mommy?”

She rode my face with lazy precision, orgasms rolling through her like storms. Each time I faltered, Mom reached back to pinch my nipple or dug her nails into my scalp, the pain sharpening the haze of suffocating pleasure.

“Don’t... fuck ... don’t forget to breathe through your nose,” Mom panted, her thighs clamping like a vise. “Women love... oh God ... love when you gasp for air while they’re riding your face.”

By her third climax, my world was liquid—spit, sweat, the ceaseless drip of Mom’s cream from her pussy. My throat burned, my nostrils flared against her clit, but the ache between my own legs was worse. A traitorous throb, slick and desperate.

“Pathetic,” Mom cooed, finally lifting off, her cunt glistening inches above my ruined face. “You’re dripping, baby. All this from Mommy’s pussy?”

I turned my head, tears streaking the sheets.

“Ah-ah.” Mom gripped my chin, forcing me to meet her gaze. “This is yours now. This need.” Her thumb swiped through the mess on my lips, pressing it back into my mouth. “When you do well ... when you make Mommy cum really hard, you will be rewarded baby girl. Remember that Mommy’s pussy is your responsibility now. You have to clean it, trim it, and make it cum any time I want.”

She slid off my face and stood on the floor, setting the now empty bowl of oatmeal on the side table. She untied the scarves holding my legs, her touch lingering. “But first—” Mom slid between my spread legs; her breath hot between my thighs as she moved upward. “—let’s fix that little problem of yours.”

She pushed and stretched my legs back until she could tie each ankle near the same spot the matching wrist was tied to the metal backboard of the bed. I wasn’t used to stretching like that so at first it was a bit uncomfortable. Then she put a pillow under my ass and lay down on the bed again with her head right next to my crotch.

Her breath hit first—hot, uneven gusts against my inner thighs. I tensed, my hips jerking reflexively, but the scarves held firm. “Mom—”

“Shhh.” Her lips brushed my knee, feather-light. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

Her tongue dragged up my thigh, slow as honey, stopping just shy of where I burned. I groaned, my back arching off the pillow.

“Desperate already?” She chuckled, her breath pooling in the crease of my hip. “Pathetic.”

Her mouth closed over me then, and the world split open.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t kind. Her tongue stabbed into me, thick and relentless, fucking me with short, brutal strokes. I screamed, my fists yanking at the scarves, the bedframe rattling. “Fuck—fuck—Mommy, please—”

She pulled back, wiping her chin. “Please what? Use your words, baby.”

“Let me cum—please—”

“No.” Her fingers pinched my clit, sharp and fleeting. “Not yet.”

She dove back in, lapping at me like I was her last meal. Her nose ground into my clit, her lips suctioning my slot, her tongue swirling in maddening patterns. Every muscle in my body coiled, my thighs shaking, my vision blurring. “Oh God—oh fuck—I’m gonna—”

She stopped.

“Ah-ah.” Her finger replaced her mouth, circling my clit with infuriating slowness. “You don’t cum until I say. Understand?”

I sobbed, sweat stinging my eyes. “Y-Yes—”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Mommy—”

“Good girl.”

Her mouth returned, softer now—sucking, nibbling, her tongue flicking my clit like a metronome. She’d speed up, push me to the edge, then retreat to lick broad, lazy stripes through my folds. Over and over.

“You taste like sin,” she moaned, her voice muffled against me. “Like greed. Like you’re mine.”

An hour dissolved into a hellscape of sweat and denial. My throat grew raw from screaming, my thighs were slick with spit and cum—hers, not mine. She’d pause to take sips of water, smirking as I thrashed, then resume with fresh cruelty.

“Please—” I begged, my voice shattered. “Let me cum—I’ll do anything—”

She lifted her head, her chin glistening. “Anything?”

“Yes—oh God, please Mommy.”

“Whose pussy is this?” she asked.

“It’s yours, Mommy—Oh God ... it’s yours!”

“So you’ll do anything I ask you to do? No hesitation?”

I tried to arch my back, desperately trying to force her finger into my burning pussy. I needed relief so fucking bad. “Yes! You own me, Mommy. You own me. I’m yours. Oh, please!”

Her fingers plunged into me, crooked hard. “Cum.”

It ripped through me like a wildfire—violent, convulsive, endless. I spasmed, screaming curses, my hips slamming into her face as she rode out the waves with her tongue buried inside me.

When it finally ended, I collapsed, sobbing.

Mom crawled up my body, licking my tears, then pulled on each scarf to release my ankles from their bondage. She layered her nude form tightly against me, with my right thigh clamped tight between her own. “There’s my girl,” she whispered. “Now you know your place.”

Her fingers tapped my clit, oversensitive and raw. “Every day ... we do this every day, baby girl. You are a slut and sluts need to cum.” I stared at her with wide eyes, but nodded my head quietly in agreement. That caused her to give me another brilliant smile.

She leaned in to kiss me again, and her lips crashed into mine before I could catch my breath, her tongue shoving past my teeth. The taste of me flooded my mouth—bitter, musky, layered under the maple-sweet remnants of her oatmeal. I moaned, my hips twitching helplessly as her fingers slid through my soaked folds, gathering fresh cream.

“Open wider,” she murmured against my lips, smearing her glistening fingertips over my tongue. “Let’s share what you are.”

I sucked her fingers clean, the salt and ache of my own arousal mingling with hers. Her kiss deepened, greedy and possessive, her free hand pinching my nipple until I gasped into her mouth. “That’s it,” she breathed, her thumb circling my clit in lazy, taunting strokes. “My perfect little addict.”

Her fingers plunged back into me, curling just enough to make my spine arch. “Look at you,” she sneered, breaking the kiss to watch my face crumple. “Begging for your own filth.” She dragged her soaked fingers down my throat and onto my breast, painting me with my slick. “You’d lick this off the floor if I asked, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes—”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Mommy—”

Her laugh was dark, victorious. “You will only call me Mommy from now on. No more mom, got it?” I nodded in understanding and said, “Yes, Mommy,” in a quiet voice.

She kissed me again, slower this time, her tongue mapping every corner of my mouth like she was memorizing it. “Mine,” she whispered, her teeth grazing my lower lip. “Every scream, every drip, every shameful little twitch—mine.”

When she finally pulled back, I whimpered, chasing her mouth. She smirked, wiping her chin with the back of her hand. “Rest, baby girl. You’ll need your strength.” She stood next to the bed and leaned down to press a last kiss to my throbbing clit, her tongue flicking it once—cruel—before standing.

I sagged against the scarves, my wrists raw, my body humming like a live wire. The room smelled of sex and sweat and her—vanilla and musk and power. Mom paused at the door, glancing over her shoulder. “Sweet dreams,” she purred. “They better all be about me now.”

Sleep took me fast, her taste and mine still on my tongue, her naughty promises coiled in my groin like a second heartbeat.

I’m not sure how long I napped, but it was probably only about twenty minutes. I woke to the clatter of a tray and the buttery scent of scrambled eggs. Mom perched on my lap, her thighs squeezing my hips, still bare beneath her half-buttoned silk robe. She held a forkful of eggs to my lips, her other hand already toying with the edge of my nipple. “Open wide, baby girl.”

I obeyed, the eggs warm and fluffy on my tongue—until her fingers pinched my nipple, sharp and sudden. I choked, coughing, as she laughed. “Messy and greedy. Typical slut.”

She speared a strip of bacon next, dragging it slowly across my lower lip before slipping it into my mouth. “Chew,” she ordered, her thumb circling my areola. “Show Mommy how those pretty teeth work.”

I chewed, the salt sharp on my tongue, as her mouth closed over my other nipple. Her tongue flicked the tip, then bit down—hard. I jerked against the scarves, a muffled scream trapped behind the bacon.

“Swallow,” she commanded, pulling back. Her lips glistened with the slobber from her nursing on my nipple. “Good girls don’t play with their food.”

The orange juice came next, the glass tipped roughly to my lips. Half of it spilled down my chin, soaking my chest. Mom tsked, leaning down to lick the sticky trail between my breasts. “Wasteful,” she murmured, her teeth scraping a pebbled nipple. “But we’ll put that mouth to better use later.”

She fed me toast then, tearing off tiny pieces and pressing them to my tongue. Each bite was punctuated by her fingers sliding through my slit, gathering slickness to smear over my lips. “Sweeter than jam,” she crooned, forcing me to suck her fingers clean. “My personal little honey pot.”

By the time the tray was empty, I was trembling—overstimulated, raw, my clit throbbing with every shift of her hips. Mom leaned close; her breath hot in my ear. “You’d let me feed you anything, wouldn’t you?” Her hand slid between her legs, emerging with fingers glazed in her own arousal. “Open.”

I did, and she shoved them deep, her thumb pressing down on my tongue. “Suck. Like it’s the last thing you’ll ever taste.”

I gagged, tears spilling as she laughed. “Pathetic,” she sighed, withdrawing her hand. “But don’t worry, baby girl. We’ll practice until you’re perfect.”

She climbed off me, adjusting her robe. “Rest,” she said, trailing a nail down my sternum. “The voice wants you fresh for tonight. I hear it’s going to be a hungry assignment.”

She picked up the tray and left the room, with the door clicking shut. I sagged against the pillows, my skin tacky with juice and sweat and shame. The scarves chafed, my nipples burned, and between my legs—God—between my legs, I ached.

But I didn’t cry. Didn’t struggle. I closed my eyes, with all the tastes and smells lingering, and waited.

When she returned, Mom’s hands were gentle as she untied the scarves, her fingertips brushing over the raw marks on my wrists. “Come on, baby girl,” she murmured, helping me stand on shaky legs. “Let’s get you cleaned up proper.”

The bathroom steamed with the scent of lavender bubbles, the garden tub frothing with iridescent foam. Soft piano music drifted from a hidden speaker—Debussy, my favorite. For a moment, I almost forgot the cameras nestled in the corners, their red lights dimmed but watchful.

“In you go,” Mom said, guiding me into the water. The heat seared my oversensitive skin, then soothed it, the bubbles clinging to my thighs like clouds. She handed me a champagne flute, the mimosa fizzing gold and bright. “Sip slow. You’ve earned it.”

I drank, the citrus sharp on my tongue, as she settled on the tiled edge. Her fingers carded through my hair, scratching my scalp in that way that always made me melt. “Look at you,” she sighed, her voice honeyed. “My beautiful, perfect little slut.”

I shivered, the words curling hot in my belly. Her thumb traced the rim of my ear. “You’re natural at this, you know. Born to be adored. To be used.” She leaned close, her breath warming my cheek. “And Mommy’s so, so proud.”

She refilled the tub halfway through my drink, water sloshing as she topped it off with more hot water. “Scoot up,” she said, shrugging off her robe. I shifted forward, and she slid in behind me, her legs bracketing mine, her breasts pressed to my back. Her hands drifted over my stomach, my ribs, my breasts—not groping, just ... claiming.

“So soft,” she whispered, her lips grazing the hinge of my jaw. “So fucking perfect.”

I let my head fall back against her shoulder, the mimosa fogging the edges of my shame. Her touch was tender, her words filthy. “Think of it, Gloria—men paying just to watch you breathe. To hear you beg. And you will beg, baby girl. You’ll love it.”

I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The water lapped, the bubbles popped, and her hands never stopped moving—over my collarbones, down my arms, thumbing my nipples just enough to make me gasp.

“Shhh,” she soothed, biting my earlobe. “Just rest. Let Mommy take care of you.”

And I did.

Her lips trailed my neck, her voice a velvet hum. “Tomorrow, we’ll paint your nails. Crimson, like the sheets you’ll stain. And then...” Her palm flattened over my heartbeat. “Then you’ll make me so much money, baby. So much noise.”

The mimosa glass slipped from my fingers, bobbing in the water. Mom laughed, low and rich, and reached to set it aside. “My sleepy slut,” she teased, wrapping her arms around me. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

Mom’s fingers traced the shell of my ear, her voice syrup-slow. “You feel it, don’t you?” Her palm slid down to cup my breast, her thumb flicking the nipple—casually, like she owned it. “That hunger? It’s not just in your cunt, baby girl. It’s in here—” Her other hand pressed over my heart. “—begging me to own every piece of you.”

I shivered, the water sloshing as she tightened her arms around me.

“I know you’re scared,” she crooned, her lips grazing my neck, like she was feeling my pulse. “But that’s good. Fear means you care. Means you’ll fight to keep me happy.” Her teeth nipped my shoulder. “And you do want to keep me happy, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mommy,” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could cage it.

Her laugh was a purr. “There’s my girl.” She lifted my hand from the water, inspecting my nails. “We’ll paint these crimson, to match the blush on your cheeks when you suck your next round of cocks.”

My stomach lurched. “Mommy—”