Emma

Dorothy and Emma were wrapped around each other and Dorothy's teeth were greedily guzzling on Emma's vagina. They'd been having a fairly busy session of love-making, enlivened by Emma beating her buttocks quite ferociously with a table-tennis bat: a game they'd only recently started playing. Indeed many of the games they'd play had an air of brutality: involving the insertion of quite painful objects up her vagina and anus, and frequent beatings across the buttocks. Indeed, lovemaking with Emma had become more brutal than making love to a man had ever been. And it was always she who was getting the roughest of it. In bed, it was always Emma who was the dominant partner. Dorothy didn't mind, though. At least it kept the two of them together. She allowed her eyes to wander away from Emma's clitoris towards her face and noticed that Emma's eyes had a far away and distant look in them.

She tried to work out what it was that Emma may have been thinking about. It certainly wasn't sex. Perhaps she was thinking about her daughter. Certainly, Emma's love for Maisie was very touching. Emma and her daughter would return together from the studio, hand in hand, in delightful joy at just being together. Maisie's eyes lit up so brightly when she was with Emma. And Emma's eyes also sparkled in a special way when she was with Maisie.

There was none of that sparkle in Emma's eyes at the moment. Nor did there ever seem to be any sparkle in her eyes when they were together compared to that when Emma was with Maisie. In fact, - and Dorothy pulled her mouth off Emma's crotch at the thought, - the most common expression in her eyes was boredom.

"What's wrong, Dorothy?" asked Emma from above on feeling Dorothy suddenly disengage herself.

"You don't love me at all, do you?" Dorothy accused her suddenly.

"Sorry. What do you mean?"

"It's Maisie you love," Dorothy continued pushing herself back and instinctively covering her breasts from Emma's gaze. "Not me at all. You only come here to see Maisie!"

"That's nonsense," said Emma, but blushed like someone who had just been found out.

"It isn't, you know," Dorothy continued, standing up and putting on her underwear. "You've never loved me, have you? You only started a relationship with me to be able to see Maisie. I hate you!" She suddenly burst into tears and sobbed uncontrollably.

Emma jumped up from the bed, with the table-tennis bat still in one hand, and put a comforting arm around Dorothy's shoulders. At first Dorothy was comforted, but then she abruptly flung Emma's arm off. "I don't care. I'm not living a lie with you. When you come round here from now on, you come round to see and sleep with Maisie. You don't sleep with me any more! Do you understand! No more sex between us!"

Emma was clearly taken aback. She sat disconsolately at the end of the bed looking down at her hands and idly examined the rubber surface of the table-tennis bat. "What shall I do?" she asked weakly.

"Go into Maisie's bedroom and make love with her, as that's what you want to do. But don't come here and don't try to make love with me again."

Emma initially resisted leaving, but when a fully-clothed Dorothy started pushing her out of the bedroom it was clear that her erstwhile lover was in earnest. She obediently walked into Maisie's bedroom where the child was delighted by the surprise visit.

A new pattern had formed in Emma's relationship with Maisie and her mother. From now on Emma's visits to Maisie's home felt much less welcoming than before, but her love for Maisie drove her to continue.

Dorothy felt both sorry for Emma's discomfort when she was visiting and bitter now that they were no longer lovers. When Emma and Maisie came home, she would greet Maisie as warmly as before, but was much more frosty towards Emma who she greeted as briefly and politely as she could. Then Emma and Maisie would retreat to Maisie's bedroom where they no doubt indulged in their sex games together. Games from which Dorothy was now excluded.

She sometimes speculated as to what Emma and her daughter did together. She knew the games that she had played with Emma herself, and she remembered how rough they could be. She still had red marks on the cheeks of her buttocks from when Dorothy felt in need of a beating and Emma had obliged. She remembered the occasions when she had nearly broken her nose in repeated batterings against Emma's buttocks. And she could still feel the carrots, cucumbers and other such vegetables that Emma would force up her vagina and sometimes her anus. She remembered the tiny blood stains that sometimes dripped out from between her legs the following day after a particular passionate night, irrespective of how close it was to her menstrual period.

Dorothy's concern for Maisie was also coloured by a wave of jealousy: one which wasn't at all improved by the fact that her daughter was quite obviously enjoying the extra attention that her lover was giving her. Dorothy would often see Maisie squeeze Emma's hand tightly in affection. She would see Maisie grip Emma tightly around the waist, and nuzzle her nose in the bushy mound of Emma's pubic hair. Emma's affection for Maisie was also undeniable. In her more charitable moments, Dorothy reflected stoically that at least the two people she cared about most were happy together, even if they didn't seem so happy with only her.

However, this uneasy relationship couldn't last for long. Its strain was particularly agonising when Dorothy saw Maisie licking at Emma's vagina while her hair was being appreciatively stroked. Or when she heard her daughter's cries of ecstasy or, less frequently but louder, those of Emma, coming from Maisie's bedroom during the evening or night. But the final moment was when an ecstatic Maisie came rushing in to confide to her mother what she'd been doing.

Dorothy was reading a book at the time. She'd just finished marking some essays, and had squeezed ear-plugs in her ears to drive out the sounds from Maisie's room of Emma's cries and the dreadful thumping of the bed against the wall. Then she noticed her daughter coming in, naked as always and saying "I've done it! I've done it!"

"Done what, dear?" wondered Dorothy looking up from her book and noticing for the first time that Maisie wasn't actually naked. She was wearing quite a sizable, anatomically correct, dildo around her waist which looked monstrous on such a small slender frame.

"Why, Mummy! I've fucked Emma! I've always wanted to and now she's let me!"

"You've done what?" demanded Dorothy angrily. Is this the sort of language she'd taught her daughter to use?

"I've fucked Emma!" Maisie said, with a mixture of residual ecstasy and satisfaction tinged by uncertainty derived from her mother's tone.

"Don't use that language with me, young lady!" Dorothy suddenly shouted, slapping her daughter on the face. "Don't use words like that ever again!" She slapped her daughter again.

Maisie fell back on the bed crying, with the still-moist dildo sticking out incongruously. "What have I done wrong, Mum!" she cried. At that moment, Emma arrived, with trickles of sweat still running down her thighs and chest. "What's going on?"

From then on, the evening was a long tirade of screaming, shouting and accusations - mostly made by Dorothy. Maisie cried to herself - and only said anything when asked. And then whatever she said seemed only to make things worse. Emma said very little, but was clearly unhappy. Finally, Dorothy announced: "If you want to see my daughter again : Fine! But don't come around here again. Have your perverted sex somewhere else, and don't let me know about it!"

"Can I stay at Emma's then?" wondered Maisie through her reddened, tear-stained face.

"If you must! It's none of my concern what you do together! But Emma's not to cross the threshold of this house again!"