Mommy's Little Slave Girls.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” said mommy as she zipped her black leather jacket.

From the corner of my eye I could see my ersatz sister, as she popped her head up over the back of the couch to wave goodbye. She had been painting her nails, half her fingers had red tips and the other half were still unpainted. I looked down at my own nails, I hadn’t painted them in months, part of me thinks I do this to myself on purpose. I make myself less attractive so she’ll seem more attractive just by comparison. Not that she needs me to make her look more attractive. She’s gorgeous and twenty-two, and while she resembles me from when I was twenty-two, the years have started to show on my skin and sometimes when we stand beside one another I feel a pang of loss, as I look at the past, and I wonder if she feels a pang of fear as she looks at the future. I never thought I would grow up to be the kind of person who wondered if aging had devalued her, but I must admit, like so many before me, I didn’t quite believe aging would happen to me until it did. 

“I’ll miss you mommy,” she said, with a big toothy grin on her face, as the door closed. 

Ever since she moved into our house a year ago, I started to feel invisible. At first, I was excited to have a sister-slave. I thought it would be nice to have someone who was going through the same things that I once had, and still sometimes did. I envisioned that we would take care of one another, and while I was excited to revel in the intoxicating shame of being inadequate, I didn’t expect the depth of the cut. I didn’t anticipate that she wasn’t going to behave like the idea of her I had in my head but like a real person, who had layers and shades, good and bad, her own sexuality. It was naïve of me, to assume that she needed me to show her the ropes or even to assume we had the same ropes to learn, I suppose I have my own biases about age that devalue youth, as well as getting older, but in different ways. 

“Come help me do my nails?” She called out to me from the couch. 

I don’t dislike her, I actually like her very much, she just has a vicious side that I both fear and crave. She doesn’t reveal that side in front of mommy, it’s not that she keeps it under wraps either, just that around mommy, she channels a different side of herself; a side that is deeply submissive, careful and warm, because around her, she is not concerned with the energy she feels in response to me. I suppose, before she came to live with us, I had hoped that was the side of her I would have gotten. It wasn’t my sexuality that wanted to top her, not at all, even in my wildest and most remote fantasies, I am always at the bottom of every hierarchy. It was my ego. I wasn’t sure if I would be better than her, but I could always count on being more experienced and if I could take pride in her because I felt like I was the older mentor to her, I wouldn’t have to admit that she could make me feel envy, even just as a concept. None of that is what happened, because in real-life interactions, our responses throw our feelings up into the air like a pack of cards, and the jokers land where they land; from the infinitesimal possibilities of what could happen when you throw up two packs of cards, you cannot predict what will. 

I walked over to her and sat on the table where her feet were resting. She has beautiful feet and she never forgets to trim her nails and scrub her ankles, sometimes she tells me to make more of an effort with my feet, but I have grown so accustomed to my hard soles and the holes my toenails bore into my sneakers that it’s hard to imagine my feet ever looking different.

“You want me to paint your toes?” I asked her, as she finished painting the last two fingers on her right hand. 

She nodded her head. 

I reached over to take the bottle of red polish from her, as she put her feet onto my lap. I bent down to kiss her toes, I couldn’t resist them. Until I met her I had never kissed anyone’s feet except mommy, and while I hate to admit it, they never inspired in me the kind of desire that her feet do. She laughed a little and swatted my mouth with her foot, to alert me that I had tickled her. I shook the bottle and unscrewed the cap, the smell of the polish went right up my nose, making me feel more lightheaded than is warranted. 

“Are you scared of being alone with me?” She asked. 

“Should I be?” I asked her, looking down at her feet as I painted her big toe, “Do you want me to be?” 

I don’t know when this had happened, but anytime we were alone at home, it had become a dance of how long it would take me to demonstrate I wanted to put myself beneath her feet. For her, the dance, was to see how long it would take her to convince me that my pride is not worth denying myself what I really want. It hadn’t taken very long. A few months and I found myself bent over her bed as she fucked me in my ass. 

“You want to be scared of me,” she declared, moving her left foot off my thigh and placing the right one before my hand, “You want me to be a big, bullying older sister so you can feel small and pathetic.” 

Perhaps this is what I had not expected about her, I am prone to keeping up appearances and harbouring delusions that make life more comfortable. She seems to relish ripping the box open and leaving all its contents bare for all to see, without a care about where she will later store all that she has uncovered. 

“How can I want that?” I asked her, “You are younger than I am.” 

I knew it was a weak argument but I didn’t really have another argument. I just painted the remainder of her toe nails as she watched me in silence. She moved both her feet off the table and leaned forward, very close to my face, as close as you can get without kissing someone. 

“That doesn’t matter, on the inside, you’re just a pathetic little girl,” she said, “You have so many feelings that are constantly getting hurt and you want attention from everyone and it makes you sad when you don’t get it.” 

That’s the vicious side. The side that uses the truth as a weapon of violence. She leaned back onto the couch and put her feet on either side of my thighs. Her skirt rode up and bunched around her waist, there was nothing underneath it. The moment I caught sight of her cock, I forgot how mean she was being and almost involuntarily, my mouth opened. It only lasted a moment, because as she spread her legs wider, I noticed the angry, red welts on the insides of her thighs. They looked like marks from a cane but mommy hadn’t beaten us all week. 

“How did you…” I started to ask immediately, but then worried about showing too eager a curiosity held myself back. 

“Mommy came to my room last night,” she said rubbing her hands over the welts, “She beat me and then she let me make her come.”

 
“Oh,” I said, trying to shift my gaze from her thighs to the cock that was hardening between her legs, “I didn’t hear anything, no screaming, nothing…” 

I whispered the last parts low enough that I was unsure as to whether she heard them, but unbeknownst to myself, I had been gravitating closer to her, and by the time I finished talking my face was nestled between her soft thighs and I was whispering into her skin. 

“That’s because I didn’t scream even once,” she said, holding my head and guiding it to the tip of cock, “I wanted to be a good girl.” 

I used to be a good girl, and then I started to whimper as the years went by, I started to scream and cry. The pain piled over the pain and every inch of my skin started to feel like my heart. Full of emotion. Always hurt. 

“You want to be a good girl, don’t you?” She asked, pushing my mouth down the entire length of her. 

I nodded my head with her inside my throat. 

“You can’t be the best girl anymore,” she said, tapping the back of my head, “But you’re not entirely useless.” 

I cried out on her, her words cut through my body and made my pussy leak all over my clothes. My hips started to swing in the air. 

“You want me to fuck your ass again, don’t you?” She asked me, freeing my mouth so I could answer.

All I could do was nod my head. She didn’t ask but I ripped off my clothes because all of a sudden, I just couldn’t be in them anymore. 

“Please,” I begged her, turning around and leaning over the table to show her my ass. 

She smacked it a few times, not so hard that it hurt, just enough that the blows reverberated through my flesh. She leaned over and whispered into my ear. 

“I’ll fuck your ass but you know what you have to say,” she said, as she pulled me onto my feet and sat back down on the couch, “Come on, ride me and say it.” 

I kept my back towards her and I positioned myself on top of her, spreading my ass to place her right beside my asshole. I started to lower myself onto her, she wrapped her arm around my throat and pulled me back. 

“Say it,” she said, gripping my throat and whispering into my ear as her cock made it all the way inside me. 

“Mommy likes you better than me,” I said, finally. 

She slapped my breasts and held me by the waist as I bounced up and down on her, trying to decide whether I felt pain or pleasure, and whether it mattered at all. 

“Louder,” she said, moaning into my throat, “Again and louder.” 

“Mommy likes you better than me,” I repeated. 

Over and over. 

Until I started to believe it.