If Anyone Doesn't Know Her Name, They Can...
She doesn’t know who I’m talking to but it’s just as well. The look on her face is priceless and the way she twists at the cuffs and struggles against the rope around her neck is strangely erotic.By the time the doorbell rings twenty minutes later I’ve already cut holes in Lillian’s $69 Chantelle bra. Her breasts puff though the bra’s makeshift openings and her nipples swell against the sweater. Despite her protests, I’ve filled her mouth with pages of the Cosmo magazine I found in her purse and covered her lips with electrical tape. It muffles her cries and the burlap sack I pull over her head keeps her pleading in the dark.Lillian has no idea how ridiculous she looks with her tits pushing through the holes in her bra. The way her nipples rub the sweater is laughable and dangerously enticing. She has no idea who’s in the room, either, though I’m certain she can hear the boots click-clack upon the concrete floor and the cat calls that follow. She wants to hide but she has nowhere to. Because of them, I could never separate my pleasure from my guilt. From this day forward, every sexual experience I might have would be doomed to suffer a mix of ecstasy and guilt. Because of them, sexual pleasure became shameful. And shame would become a substitute for pleasure. All I could do was submit. I turned my eyes to the floor, avoiding my mothers lustful gaze, and began to strip off my clothes. Good girl, I heard my mom whisper. As my panties fell around my ankles, my stark nakedness dominating my own field of vision, mom got up and walked around me, inspecting my body, caressing my hips and shoulders. I could feel her breath on my neck as she positioned herself behind me, one hand adjusting my hair, the other hand massaging my stomach. I shivered as mom caressed my neck with her lips, then nibbled on my ear. Her hand inched down my stomach. An involuntary wetness began forming between my thighs. God, I just wanted to die right there in the kitchen. Youre such a beautiful.
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