"Come here," she said, "and show him how you worship me with your tongue."
I bent my head and crawled to my teenage mistress, the girl who a few short days ago had been my foster daughter Rachel, but who I now addressed as Mistress Rachacael. Her long slim brown legs were spread open as she lounged on the sturdy off-white faux-leather recliner that had always been, by unspoken decree, my husband Craig's chair, and in which, before this weekend, she or I always only temporarily sat until he claimed his rights.
Behind me, I heard Craig struggling against his bonds and making furious noises in his throat, but the gag in his mouth was too tight to allow him to articulate anything. I felt almost sorry for him, watching me, his wife by law and under God, crawl on my hands and knees naked to where the eighteen-year-old black girl we had taken in three years ago sat with a lazy, contemptuous smile on her full lips. Her glistening brown pussy was open to the air, although with every movement of my hands and knees across the family room carpet I drew closer to covering it up with my mouth.
I wanted to tell Craig that it was useless to struggle, that he might as well submit, that Mistress Rachacael got whatever she wanted in the end. But I was not permitted to speak unless spoken to, and I knew he would not listen to me anyway.
My tongue reached out and made contact with her divine lips, and everything else faded away from the edges of my consciousness. This was all that mattered, this glorious, juicy pussy, this endless font of sweetness and delight, this treasure with which my mistress had first ensnared me, the hope of which compelled me to obey, the terror of losing access to which spurred me to dare anything no matter how awful. I licked, and savored, her sweetness.
If I could have spared a thought for Craig in that moment, I could only have envied his view: my round ass in the air, my reddish-pink pussy exposed, its juices dribbling down the insides of my thighs at the ecstasy which lay beneath my tongue, while my head bobbed in eager laps between our gorgeous young foster daughter's legs.
"That's right, mommy-slut," cooed Rachacael. "Lick your black daughter's juicy pussy. Bury your face into it like it's the last meal you'll ever get. Whose dirty little fuckslut are you?"
"Yours, Mistress Rachacael," I said obediently, my mouth full of her.
"Whose command will you obey without thinking?"
"Yours, Mistress Rachacael."
"Whose sweet chocolate pussy is the delight of your life, your only reason for living, the cause of you leaving your husband and the church and everything you've ever known behind?"
"Yours, Mistress Rachacael," I said, and couldn't help moaning slightly as my knees weakened. The fact that Craig was watching, helpless to intervene, to punish, to express his displeasure, made me almost as giddy with delight as her taste did; but it wasn't because I had looked forward to it or ever had any idea that it would happen. It was purely because it was her idea, and she was loving this, and anything that made her happy made me doubly or triply so.
Craig was yelling something hoarsely against the gag now -- I thought I could make out the cadence of the word "abomination" -- but I continued to lick placidly, contentedly, paying as little attention to him as I would to to the weather in a distant country. Rachacael had said nothing about making her come, so I did not try: feasting on her sweet warm folds was its own pleasure for me, a necessity I craved more than food or water or air, and if I made her come she would make me stop. So I lapped slowly and lazily, burying my face in her so that I could eke out every drop of moisture from her depths while engaging as little of the friction that would bring her closer to climax as possible.
I heard her sigh contentedly, and my pussy convulsed at the sound, and leaked another dribble down my thighs.
"Now then," she said, in a completely normal and conversational tone. "It's time to open negotiations. Adriana-slut."
"Yes, Mistress Rachacael," said Adriana, from where she stood behind the seat that Craig was tied to, and I heard her attaché case open.
I wondered dimly what negotiations she was talking about, but since she had not seen fit to favor me with that knowledge, I continued to lick her gently, marveling as I did at how soft and velvety her young pussy was, the dark outer lips smooth and slick, and the warm pink inner folds full of all kinds of textures and pockets of sweet juices I could never get enough of swallowing. She must have just shaved, since I could not feel the usual microscopic bristles that rubbed against my nose when I pressed it against her pubic mound, and I felt both oddly disappointed, since that sensation had become so much a part of the ritual of eating her, and touched almost to the point of tears at the thought that she might have done it for my sake.
I felt rather than heard Adriana's approach on the carpet I was kneeling on, and then a rustle of paper as she handed something to my mistress.
"Item number one," said Rachacael, and she sounded like she was reading aloud. "Assets. Craig Kolicki will first waive all rights to the person and property of Karen Kolicki, née Anderson, and then settle 49% of their joint assets on her, preparatory to a filing for divorce."
Craig made a lot of noise at that, but any words he might have meant to communicate were still unintelligible through the gag that was pulling his lips apart.
"Item number two -- calm down, mommy-slut," she added, because my licks had grown more enthusiastic in spite of myself, as the shape of her plan began to come into focus for me -- "Item number two. Living arrangements. The property at----" she named our address---- "will either be transferred to Karen Kolicki, née Anderson, as a result of the 49% asset settlement, or remain the sole property of Craig Kolicki, as determined by negotiation. In either case, Craig Kolicki is no longer to reside with either Karen Kolicki, née Anderson, nor Rachacael Kennedy. An apartment has been selected on a provisional basis by counsel, where either Craig alone or Karen and Rachacael will live until Rachacael's graduation from----" she named her school---- "at which time the question of the property at----" she named our address---- "may be revisited, pursuant to Rachacael's choice in higher education."
Her voice trembled ever so slightly as she read the last words, and I slowed my licking down to a crawl. She and Adriana had been so busy! I was feeling both proud of her and a little awed; surely she had not been able to fit a consultation with a lawyer into the packed weekend schedule that I remembered.
Craig was continuing to grumble, but less enthusiastically, as if he were getting tired; even behind the gag, his voice was sounding hoarse.
"Item number three," Rachacael said, her voice steadier. "An invitation. All previous items can be rendered null and void if----" Craig was suddenly silent with attention---- "if Craig Kolicki will agree to submit to Rachacael Lashawna Midori Kennedy on exactly the same terms that Karen Kolicki, née Anderson, has."
There was a long, stupefied silence, broken only by the soft wet noise of my tongue running up and down her slit. And then Craig burst out in a fresh round of unintelligible but quite unambiguously furious invective, and I could hear the seat he was tied to thump dangerously against the carpet.
Mistress Rachacael sighed, but when she spoke again, her voice had a smile in it. The same malicious smile I remembered from the morning she had converted me.
"Very well," she said. "Mommy-slut, make me come now while he watches."
⁂ ⁂ ⁂
It had only been last Friday afternoon that Rachacael had added Adriana to her harem of sluts, moments after she had made me come only by speaking to me while Adriana fucked my ass with a thick black strap-on, After I ate Adriana out and Adriana ate Mistress Rachacael out, she had sent us to go shower, and although Adriana and I washed each other in my shower in the master bathroom, we refrained from touching each other sexually, more because our mistress had not given us permission to than because we didn't want to.
As Adriana ran her soapy hands up and down my torso, pausing to hold and weigh my breasts in her hands, she looked me in the face, her eyebrows raised in appraisal.
"She's your first, isn't she? Mistress Rachacael." She said the "Mistress" with just the slightest hint of irony in her voice, as though assuring me she could rescind it at any time.
I couldn't help blushing, and nodded.
"How are you feeling about all this?"
I was surprised by the question. Adriana's assured impatience, both on the phone and in person, had seemed to indicate that she didn't care what I was feeling. But I supposed it was different now that we both called Rachacael mistress.
"Happy," I said, surprising myself now with the choice of word. "Grateful. Anxious. Surprised. Scared. And my... bottom hurts."
She grinned wide at that, and I was surprised again to realize that her smile was beautiful. I still had trouble thinking of Adriana herself as beautiful -- almost forty years of desperately striving with diet and exercise to prevent my body from resembling her plump roundness in any way had taken a typical toll on my understanding of beauty -- but the way her smile transformed her face, freeing it from what I had always understood as a lambent scowl, made me realize that maybe there was more to her than I had ever understood. Of course, there had to be: I trusted Rachacael's judgment implicitly, and if Adriana now belonged to her, then Adriana must be almost as good as Rachacael.
"You mean your asshole hurts. Sorry about that," she said, not sounding at all sorry. "You were a bitch to me for three years, though."
I nodded, although really I had only a dim idea of what she meant. I knew, of course, that she had been quietly resistant to Craig and my attempts to turn Rachel (as we had called her) into a model of suburban Christianity, and I had surely implied, or even outright said, that neither the liberal government nor its fat Hispanic representative could stop me from doing what I was sure God wanted. No particular bitchy phrases floated to mind, but that mind had been so thoroughly rearranged by the shock of what Rachacael had done to me that it wasn't surprising that so little of my old self still lingered.
"I am so sorry," I said, as sincerely as I knew how. "I didn't know what I was doing. I'm a changed woman."
Her smile spread again, but I saw a glint of mockery in her eyes, and shivered at the sight. I hoped Rachacael would protect me from anything too awful that Adriana might ever take into her head to do to me.
"She has that effect on people," was all she said. We concluded our shared shower in relative silence, dried off one another's bodies thoroughly with towels and blow-dried one another's hair before going back out to the living room, naked, to wait for our mistress.
Rachacael eventually emerged wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt which was just small enough that her prominent nipples protruded through the fabric. Adriana and I exchanged glances but said nothing as we slid to our knees in her presence.
She nodded. "Good girls."
I heard Adriana's breath catch at that, and knew she was feeling the same exquisite pulse in her nethers that I did at the phrase. I couldn't help smiling a tiny smile at how deeply Rachacael controlled us both.
"Adriana-slut," said Rachacael, regarding us with even calm, "Go back up to mommy-slut's room and retrieve her phone."
Adriana got to her feet, and padded away up the stairs. Rachacael remained looking at me.
"Did you touch each other in the shower?" she asked.
"No, Mistress Rachacael. Only to get clean," I amended quickly.
