Fighting With Mommy

Samantha Rone sits on her bed, an open Bible beside her knee, working an electric massager up her calf. Cherie Deville pushes the door open, freezes, then lunges for the humming thing. It clatters to the floor. She stands with hands on hips and begins the sermon on Christian modesty, on legs and hands and modesty and men with dirty minds. She raised Samantha herself; now her own daughter leans over strange men and women, slick with oil. Samantha tries to talk her down. School first, then clients. Cherie tells her men want more than loosened hamstrings and declares the girl cannot work while a single verse stays in the house. She slams the door and leaves a pulse of nervous anger humming through her own body. That pulse pushes her to the spa three days later. She undresses behind a folding screen and, face down on the table, calls that she’s ready. The door clicks. Soft hands settle at the base of her spine. The voice is familiar. Her throat locks. Samantha Rone is touching her back, sweeping warm oil along each vertebra, asking if Cherie wants the bra and panties gone. Cherie’s breath jerks, but she peels both away, whispering excuses that skin should mean nothing to a professional. She admits to the unseen hands that her own step-daughter practices the same trade and wonders aloud whether clients try anything. Samantha’s voice is steady: mostly women, calluses learned long ago, her mother hasn’t forgiven the choice either. Cherie lets the hands glide lower. A knot burns in one cheek. Samantha rests there, thumb and heel worrying it loose, then slips two fingers along the cleft without asking. Cherie inhales and does not pull away. The fingers press deeper. Wet. Her hips push forward before she can think. One arm gropes behind her and finds the teenager’s breast, soft flesh tight under the uniform. The headrest blinds her, but the body above her tilts, descends. Wet mouth meets wet cunt and sucks. The shock is fire, guilt a shorter spark. Cherie’s body answers anyway, spasms catching, the sound of Samantha’s slurps mingling with her own unwilling moan. She folds, coming hard, hips lifting the table. Before the aftershocks fade Samantha strips, clambers up, and settles astride her face. Slick pussy grinds over Cherie’s lips; she licks by reflex, tasting. Above her the teenager writhes, thighs flexing. Down here the taste grows richer. Cherie feels her own chin and jaw drip. Samantha spins, sixty-nine, tongue returning, and both women lock, sucking, jerking. The teenager seizes first, squirt splashing Cherie’s mouth in short bursts, running into her hair. The older woman drinks what she can, gagging. When Samantha stretches back and spreads her ass, Cherie rims her without hesitation while more fluid splashes her face. They roll, legs tangled, grinding cunt to cunt until heat floods again and the sheets beneath them slick like something spilled. Sweat and come coat Cherie’s stomach. Samantha flops beside her, still panting, still grinning, and begs once more to ride. Cherie opens her mouth, tells her to fill it, welcomes the baptizing spray. The lesson ends not in the Bible on the bed but here, coated and swallowing, Cherie whispering she finally sees Samantha’s calling clear.