I was folding laundry in the master bedroom when I realized just how mudane my life had become.

I stood there with a pair of my own cotton briefs in my hand. They were sensible. They were beige. They covered everything that needed covering and offered absolutely no excitement to anyone who might see them. Which was nobody. My husband had moved to the guest room three years ago citing his back problems. We hadn’t had sex in eighteen months.

I dropped my panties into the basket and picked up the next item from the dryer. It belonged to my daughter.

It was a piece of pink lace. A thong. The fabric was practically nonexistent. I held it up. The crotch was a tiny triangle of fabric that looked like it had been chewed on. It was barely enough material to cover a postage stamp let alone a pussy.

Becca was fifteen. Once summer was over, she was heading into junior year of high school. She was supposed to be looking for a part time job. Instead she seemed to spend her days locked in her bedroom and her nights staring at her phone.

I folded the thong. It was difficult because there was nothing to fold. I felt a weird spike of irritation. It wasn’t just that she was my daughter and wearing slutty underwear. It was that she had a reason to wear them.

I walked over to the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door.

I was forty-two years old. I stood at 5’4” and 130 pounds. To maintain that weight, I went to Pilates and watched my carbs. I had my dirty blonde hair swept back into a sensible ponytail. I kept it shoulder length these days. I did a little turn and thought, I look good for my age. My breasts were a sensible 34B and they defied gravity well enough. My waist was trim. My hips were narrow.

Functional. That was the word. My body was purely functional.

I looked at the pile of Becca’s laundry.

Becca was different. She was 5’2” and 115 pounds, most of which she carried in her chest. She was built for sin. There was no other way to describe it. Heavy natural breasts that seemed to enter a room five seconds before she did. A 34DD that she crammed into bras that were two sizes too small. Her hips flared out in a way mine never did.

I’d watch grown men ogle her in public. They weren’t even discreet about it. And I could tell she loved every minute of it. She was always wearing a top her cleavage spilled out of. I wanted to slap the men and yell “She’s only fifteen, pervert!” But secretly, I just wished they looked at me the same way. Like they wanted to fuck me too.

I grabbed the basket of her folded clothes. I needed to put them away. Becca was out with friends or so she said. She was probably just at the mall spending money she didn’t have. Or presenting her tits to middle aged men.

I walked down the hall to her bedroom. The door was shut. It was always shut. I hesitated but since she wasn’t home, I opened the door and walked in.

The room smelled like stale air and body wash. It was a sweet cloying scent that tried to cover up something muskier. The air felt heavy. The blinds were drawn tight to block out the midday sun.

Clothes were everywhere. Jeans on the floor. Tops hanging off the chair. Bras and panties flung hither and yon. It was a disaster. I sighed and set the basket on the only clear spot on her desk.

I started picking up. I grabbed a pair of yoga pants from the floor. They were inside out. I went to turn them right side out and stopped.

The crotch was stiff.

I touched it. It was crusty. Dried fluid. A lot of it.

I dropped the pants like they were radioactive.

My god. I knew teenagers explored their bodies. I wasn’t naive. I did at her age. But this wasn’t just a little spot. It looked like she had spilled a drink in her lap.

I looked at the bed. The grey sheets was rumpled and twisted. It looked like a wrestling match had taken place there.

I decided to be a good mother and make the bed. I pulled the covers up and smoothed them out. I grabbed the pillows to fluff them.

Something heavy clattered against the wall when I moved the main pillow.

I froze.

I slowly lifted the pillow.

Lying on the bottom sheet was a device.

It wasn’t a vibrator. I had seen those. I even owned a small bullet that sat in my nightstand, which I was ashamed to say gave me more satisfaction than my husband did these days.

But this looked like medical equipment.

It was a clear plastic cylinder about six inches long and maybe two inches wide. A clear tube connected the cylinder to a black rubber hand bulb with a release valve.

I stared at it. It looked industrial. It looked aggressive.

I reached out and picked it up. The plastic cylinder was slightly warm. It felt greasy to the touch. I looked closer. The inside of the tube was coated in a thin layer of lubrication.

I brought it closer to my face. The smell hit me. It smelled like raw sex. It smelled like musk and female sweat.

What the hell was my daughter doing with this?

I sat down on the edge of the bed and held the device in my hands. I understood the mechanics of it instantly. You put it over your sensitive parts and pumped the bulb to create suction.

I looked at the rim of the cylinder. It was wide. Too wide to be just a nipple sucker.

I placed the opening against the palm of my left hand. I squeezed the rubber bulb.

Hiss.

The suction was immediate and violent. The skin of my palm was sucked up into the tube. It turned red instantly. The pull was incredibly strong. I tried to pull it off but it wouldn’t budge. I had to press the little release valve to break the seal.

Whoosh.

My palm had a dark red circle on it. It throbbed.

I imagined that suction between my legs. On my clit.

My stomach did a flip. I felt a heat flare in my lower belly. The idea of that much force on such a sensitive spot made me wince. It also made my nipples harden.

I chastised myself. This was disgusting. My fifteen-year-old daughter was vacuuming her genitals in my house.

I looked around the bed. Why did she need this? Did she actually enjoy it?

My eyes landed on the iPad.

It was face down on the mattress next to where the pump had been. Becca usually took it everywhere. She must have left in a hurry.

I knew I shouldn’t look. Privacy was important. We had raised her to respect boundaries.

But I was holding a sexual vacuum pump I found under her pillow. Boundaries were already gone.

I flipped the iPad over.

I pressed the home button. No passcode. She relied on FaceID but she forgotten to lock it. The screen lit up.

It was open to a photo gallery. But it wasn’t the standard Apple photos app. It was a website. A hosting site.

My mouth dropped open.

The image on the screen was a close-up. A very high definition close-up.

It was a pussy.

It was shaved completely smooth except for a dark landing strip of hair. The lips were parted wide. Pink and glistening.

But the focal point was the clit.

It was monstrous.

It was swollen to the size of a large grape. It protruded from the hood significantly. It looked red and angry and incredibly sensitive.

I recognized the mole on the inner thigh.

It was Becca.

I felt like I was going to throw up. Or faint. I stared at the image. My daughter’s most private parts were right there in 4K resolution.

I scrolled.

There were hundreds of photos.

Becca in her panties pulling them aside. Becca naked from the waist down with her shirt pulled up. Becca spreading her ass cheeks.

But mostly it was the pump.

There was a video. I shouldn’t have tapped it. I couldn’t help myself.

My finger hit play.

The video started. The camera was angled between her legs. You could see the bottom of her chin and her mouth. She was smiling. The silver metal of her braces flashed in the light.

She looked so young with those braces.

Then she brought the cylinder into the frame. She placed it over her clit. She started pumping the bulb.

Squelch. Squelch. Squelch.

The sound was so loud.

I watched in horror as her clit was sucked into the tube. It expanded instantly. It grew and swelled.

On the video Becca moaned. “Fuck yeah. Look at it grow.”

She pumped harder. The flesh was pulled tight. It looked painful.

“It’s so hungry,” she narrated. Her voice was breathy. “It needs the pressure. Look how big it gets.”

She kept pumping until the cylinder was almost full of her swollen flesh.

Then she pulled the tube off.

Pop.

Her clit was massive. It throbbed on the screen.

Then she started rubbing it. Fast. Hard.

“Oh god,” she moaned. “It’s so sensitive.”

I watched my daughter masturbate. I sat on her bed holding her pump and I watched her pleasure herself on the screen.

In the video her hips started bucking. She was making wet noises.

“I’m gonna cum,” she groaned. “I’m gonna squirt.”

Suddenly a jet of clear fluid shot out of her. It hit the camera lens. The image went blurry with liquid.

She laughed. It was a dirty bratty laugh.

“Clean up on aisle three,” she said.

The video ended.

I sat there frozen.

I looked at the stats below the video.

Likes: 14,230.

Comments: 452.

Fourteen thousand people had watched my daughter do that.

I read the caption.

“Mom thinks I’m asleep. Vacuuming the kitty so I can soak the sheets. Who wants a taste of my squirt?”

The comments were lurid. Perverted. Lots of variations on “Good girl” and “Daddy wants to taste”.

I dropped the iPad on the bed.

My hands were shaking. I felt dizzy.

This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t healthy curiosity. This was some sick fetish that dirty old men got off watching. Did they know she was only fifteen? Did they care?

I looked at the pump in my hand again. I thought about the swollen red flesh on the screen. It looked raw. It looked abused.

Was she hurting herself? Could you permanently damage your nerve endings doing that?

And the fluid. My god the fluid.

I looked at the mattress again. I pressed my hand into the grey sheet where I had found the pump.

It was damp.

She had done this recently. Maybe right before she left. She hadn’t even bothered to change the sheets. God did she slept in her own filth?

I stood up. I felt frantic.

I needed help. I couldn’t tell my husband. He would have a heart attack. He still thought of her as his little princess who played soccer. If he saw that video he would die.

I needed someone medical. Someone who understood bodies. Someone who wouldn’t judge.

I thought of my big sister, Valerie.

Valerie was a nurse practitioner. She worked in the ER. She had seen everything.

Valerie was also ... different. She was in an “open marriage” whatever the hell that meant. She was taller than me and louder than me. She was sexually open in a way that made me uncomfortable. She talked about her dates and her hookups at Thanksgiving dinner.

But she would know if this was dangerous.

I grabbed my phone from my pocket. My thumb hovered over her name.

I looked back at the iPad. The gallery was still open. A grid of my daughter’s spread legs staring back at me.

I zoomed in on one photo. Becca’s mouth was open in a silent scream of orgasm. Her pussy was soaking wet. A puddle of liquid was pooling on the chair she was sitting on.

I felt a throb between my own legs.

I shifted my weight. The seam of my jeans rubbed against my clit. I was wet.

I judged myself immediately. What was wrong with me? I was looking at my daughter and I was turned on?

No. It wasn’t her. It was the act. It was the raw, unashamed pleasure. It was the wetness.

I had been pent up for too damn long.

I looked at the pump. I wondered what it felt like.

I shook my head. No. I needed to focus. This was a crisis.

I dialed Valerie.

“Grace?” she answered on the second ring. “Everything okay?”

“I need you to come over,” I said. My voice sounded thin and high.

“What’s wrong? Is it Mom?”

“No,” I whispered. “It’s Becca. I found something in her room. Medical equipment. I think she’s hurting herself, Val. Her ... parts. They look swollen. Damaged.”

“Medical equipment?” Val’s voice shifted. She sounded intrigued, not worried. “Like what?”

“A pump,” I said. “A vacuum pump. For her genitals.”

There was a pause on the line.

Then Val laughed. It wasn’t a shocked laugh. It was a low throaty chuckle.

“And she’s swollen?” Val asked.

“Yes. It looks huge, Val. And wet. She’s leaking fluid everywhere.”

“I’ll be right there,” Val said. Her tone was brisk but there was an undercurrent of excitement I didn’t understand. “Don’t touch anything, Grace. We need to assess the extent of the congestion. I’ll bring my bag.”

“Congestion?” I asked.

“Just wait for me,” Val said. “And Grace?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t panic. It runs in the family, remember?”

She hung up.

I stood in the middle of my daughter’s room. I looked at the pump. I looked at the wet spot on the bed.

I felt flushed. My skin felt tight.

Runs in the family?

I looked at the mirror on Becca’s closet door. I saw a boring middle-aged woman holding a sex toy.

But under the denim of my sensible jeans my pussy was throbbing, pulsated in time with my heartbeat.

I placed the iPad down on the bed but I held on to the pump.

I sat in the chair in the corner of the room, facing the bed.

I would wait for Val. And I would wait for Becca.

I turned the device over and over in my hands. I imagined my own flesh inside it. Expanding. Filling the void.

I threw it back on the bed and crossed my legs to try and stop the ache. It didn’t work.

I paced back and forth in the kitchen awaiting Valerie’s arrival, wearing a path across the linoleum. Every time I passed the hallway leading to Becca’s room I felt a pull. It was magnetic. The nasty secret sitting on her bed was calling to me. I had to force myself to stay near the front door.

I jumped when the doorbell rang. I didn’t wait for a second ring. I ripped the door open.

Valerie stood there. My big sister.

She looked imposing. She always did. Val is forty-five but puts most twenty-year-olds to shame. She is 5’9” and every inch of it is muscle and sinew. She works out like it is a religion.

She was wearing her work scrubs. They were a bright teal color. The top was V-necked and tight across her chest. Val has implants. She got them for her fortieth birthday. She was open about it. She said she wanted tits that sat up and paid attention. They looked hard and aggressive under the thin fabric.