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My Mother's Body
by Barbara DeGenevieve


    I ask if I can tie you up. You say yes, but you might resist. I say, good.

    I tell you to take your clothes off, slowly, for me. At first you are uncharacteristically shy about it, but by the time you've slipped off your shoes and jeans, the script begins to interest you. You stand in front of me in a long sleeve orange velour shirt which fits tightly over your breasts, your black thong underwear just barely visible beneath. Watching my eyes watch your body, you unfasten the 14 small buttons and slide the clinging fabric from each of your arms, letting it drop to the floor. As you reach to unhook your bra, I tell you to stop, that I'll do it later. For now I just want you to stand there. I want to take in what I have only been able to imagine. I can be the aggressive voyeur, the scopophilic pervert now. You don't mind. You like it. Your desire to be desired feeds my compulsive fixation on your body. You tempt everyone around you to fantasy. You want everyone to want you. Well I do.

    Your breasts are beautiful, like my mother's. It's odd when I think about the ease with which she dressed and undressed in front of me. I was fascinated by her breasts. They were large and very dense with nipples in perpetual erection. I watched in awe as she put her bra straps over her shoulders, bent over and shook all of that pink flesh into the white cotton cones of her 36C Maidenform. Bend over and shake for me.

    I tell you to close your eyes and I lead you into another part of the studio where two heavy braided leather ropes hang from a ceiling beam. I quickly fasten you into the wrist restraints at the end of each rope, place a thick wooden dowel behind your back, and clamp your wrists close to you waist. In this position, your back is straight and your breasts display themselves to me. Your eyes are open now watching me prepare. I go to the toy box and pull out the blindfold.

    Please don't make me wear that, you say. I want to watch you. It's more delicious when you don't know what to expect, I say. You stop protesting because you are as much into your own pleasure as I am into mine. I put the blindfold over your eyes and tie it behind your head. Touching you for the first time, I draw my finger through your long hair, down your back, and down the crack of your ass.

    I kick your feet until you've spread them almost a yard apart. I walk around to the front of your body. I want to gorge myself on what I see. Instead I move my face within a fraction of an inch of your smooth, browned skin. You can feel my breath as I exhale your scent back onto your flesh. I smell your whole body - up and down each arm, under your hair, around you face, down your back and left leg, across and up your right, circling around your waist to your belly and breasts and finally down to the place where I know you want me to be. I pull your panties away and nuzzle the dark, damp hair, breathing in deeply and blowing out into your separated lips. Your smell is strong and I linger only to tease you with the weight of my breath.

    I move away silently as your body chills from the absence of my warm face. Where are you, you ask. I don't answer, but I press my body into your back as I begin to peel off my own clothes. I unbutton my loose, pants and let them fall down the back of your legs; I pull my shirt over my head and dangle it between your breasts before letting it drop down the front of your body. You can feel the soft leather corset I'm wearing and my breasts pressed against your shoulder blades.

    I take another tour of your body, my gaze focusing again on the beautiful breasts quivering inside a black lace bra. My lust embarrasses me and I'm comforted by your blindness to my lechery. I want to work your body into the same frenzy I feel in mine. My cunt is throbbing. I stick two fingers into my wet and swollen hole and bring them up under your nose. You smile and your tongue darts out so quickly that my attempt to tease you is foiled. I wipe my fingers on your chest as I slide my hand down to your right breast and pull the bra away. I lick your nipple and you moan, the first indication of your own increasing heat. I suck hard for a few seconds and move away, leaving you with one breast hanging over the bra, the other still in place. You look quite helpless, an unusual situation for you. Shake your breasts for me.

    I continue the story about my mother. I don't know why I was so focused on her body. I never thought of it as sexual until I started telling you about it. When I was a kid, I compulsively drew breasts and high heeled shoes, usually without attachment to a body. When I got mad at one of my girl friends, I would draw a picture of her naked and pretend a group of kids gathered around to watch and laugh. My mother found some of my pictures and was so upset, she slapped my face and made me kneel in the in the corner with my hands behind my back for two hours. The next day, she took me to confession and stood outside, listening to make sure I told the priest what I had done.

    I pull the other side of your bra down and run my hands across those exquisite tits. I take a nipple between thumb and forefinger of each hand and begin to squeeze. Their immediate erection provokes a tighter pinch. Your head rolls and your shoulders sway back and forth as if trying to tease an audience in an erotic dance. I squeeze harder and your mouth falls open. I stick my tongue in, probing the open cavity, then slide it over your lips and chin, licking your cheeks and ears while you squirm to move away. I pull you back by your nipples and with one last rough tweek, I release you.

    I make another trip to the toy box. The scissors are old, the ones my mother kept in her sewing box. They're beautiful - long shiny blades with a delicate incised pattern decorating the finger holes. I press them against your throat and you flinch from the icy coldness. Dragging them down your chest, I open them just as they pass your bra. I catch the fabric between the blades and slice. You draw your breath in through your teeth, making a hissing sound. I've heard it before. I know what it means. I move the scissors across your flesh to one strap - clip, and then the other - clip. The black lace falls to the floor. Shake your breasts for me. You lean forward this time.

    The hallway that connected the three bedrooms in our house was carpeted with an ugly green and brown fake oriental pattern. I knew how to negotiate the design to avoid the creaking of the old floorboards beneath. My mother never closed the door all the way when she undressed for bed at 9:30 every night. Shake your breasts for me.

    Your legs are still spread from my earlier positioning. Another two clips and the small piece of black cloth that covered little more than your pubic hair and cunt lay on the floor near your bra. I pick it up and bring it to my face. It is as wet and aromatic as I expected. I put the scissors down but within reach and begin to roam your body. It's not cursory this time, I'm not teasing this time. I take off the corset and cover the front of your body with mine. We move to a center point as if gravity begins where our bodies collide. My hands grab your ass, spreading your cheeks and exposing the puckered hole to night air. Our tongues enter each others' mouths and taste the wetness, feel the teeth, lick and suck lips, cheeks, chin, neck, shoulders, while our bodies remain glued together. I finally break away to focus again on your breasts.

    Take the blindfold off. I want to watch you want me, you say. Your arrogance and voyeuristic desire arouse my own exhibitionism. I slide the mask off your head and say shake them for me. You grin and lean forward, enticing me to play. I kneel down to face them, to return to a place of familiarity. I lift them in my hands, study them, and sink my face into their fullness. I learn them with my hands and every part of my face. My nose follows the contour of each, my tongue tastes and makes them wet, my mouth sucks your nipples, my head thrashes back and forth between them. You lean farther into me so I can have as much as I want. You love it - both what I do to your body and the frenzy you see in mine.

    I pull away knowing I can never be satiated but wanting to bring you to this same place of desire. I move the scissors over, place them next to your foot, and sit back on my heels between your legs. You look down and know what I'm going to do. Oh, no, please don't, you say. Why not? I ask. I feel so naked and exposed, you say. That's just how I want you to feel, I answer.

     But before I start, I lean into the hair and explore the flesh beneath. I spread your lips with my fingers and my tongue makes a slow deliberate pass over your clit. Your whole body convulses. You've been waiting for it all night. My fingers find the tunnel and burrow in while my tongue continues its slow but firm navigation of the center of the universe. The name of this game is desire. I want you to want me as much as you want to be the object of everyone's lust. My fingers move faster and harder in and out of your slippery cunt. Your whole body is trembling now and you are moaning loudly. The walls of these studios are paper thin, and I like the thought that the three adjacent units are all hearing you.

    I stop, leaving you very close to an explosion. You plead, don't stop. Please. Finish me. I want you back inside me, I want your tongue. At least hold me. This is cruel, you cry. Instead I pick up the scissors and touch them to your lips. The coldness startles you but you are subdued for the moment by any stimulation. I grab some hair between my index and middle finger and shear it away. You wince. I do it again and again, pulling it away from your body but leaving only short stubble. I move a light close to your body so I can see your cunt mouth. The danger of the situation instigates new whimpers and moans. You like it. You like all attention paid to you body.

    When I finish cutting, I brush and blow away the loose hair. I'm not going to shave you. This is much more abject, much less tidy. Its such a contrast with the rest of your body. I'm reminded of the photographs of women whose hair was cropped to stubble because they were accused of being Nazi whores during World War II. I was fascinated by those pictures; it's only now that I can understand the sexual implications of being held down against your will and having your hair, part of your identity, chopped away. I want to feel the stubble on my face, let it prick my tongue and lips. And it does. I want to gag on the hair that gets stuck in my throat. Shake for me.

    My thoughts exhaust me. Your moans fill my head and I plunge back into your nearly bald pussy. This time I don't stop. I don't want to. I'm as close as you are. I crawl under your legs and push you as far forward as your body will reach. From behind I can see what you want me to do. I'm in your head and I understand the three spots that need attention. My fingers, tongue and face move from clit to cunt to anus. I think my heart is going to pound through my chest.

    Your voice rises. The couple next door turn on their stereo to drown out the screams. With one hand occupying your clit, I reach up and unclasp the restraint on your right wrist. I hold you to keep your balance while you undo the other wrist, and we both tumble to the floor. You get on your hands and knees and I follow like a male dog after a female in heat. I get on my back, head under your cunt and I bring you down on by face. From here I see your breasts moving above me and I lick and suck and penetrate this hot wet mass of sex between your legs. I want to slow down again, to catch my breath, to take a drink of water, but you won't let me.

    All my energy now focuses on your clit. Your hands squeeze your breasts and you move yourself rhythmically over my mouth, maintaining just the right speed, just the right pressure. Within minutes your legs start to quiver uncontrollably and you stop rocking. You stop breathing. You become totally unconscious to anything but the sensation that is erupting in your body. I watch it happening. You suck in your breath three or four times as the guttural tone in your throat lowers an octave. From that place your screams are feverish. I continue to work that engorged bud until your body jerks away from my mouth and you collapse in convulsive spasms on top of me.


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