Foster Daughter

"You heard me," she said. "Get down on your knees and lick my pussy."

I stared at her. At five foot eight she had several inches on me, but her body still had the rounded slenderness of youth, and I was certain that if she tried to assault me, my years of Pilates and Tae Bo would quickly overpower her. But she didn't step toward me at all, just held my gaze blankly, a little contemptuously.

"How dare you," I finally choked. "I give you a roof over your head, and this is how you act? I know the devil is in you, girl, and I rebuke you in the name of----"

"Shut up!" she snapped, and I did, stiffening suddenly. Just like I had when Craig snapped the same thing earlier that morning, as I was nagging over him while he was trying to get ready to fly out to the men's leadership conference. I glared at her, ashamed of my automatic silence, but unable to formulate a quick retort.

She sat back on the bed, and spread her long brown legs open lasciviously. The darker, creased skin between them glistened.

"Lick me," she said again.

"I am a decent Christian woman," I began, and she slapped her hand with sudden violence against her own thigh. The smack of flesh against flesh rang out so sharply that I flinched.

"You've been drooling over me whenever you thought I wasn't looking for thirty months," she said coolly. "Now I'm eighteen, and we're alone."

I stared at her again, trembling with a combination of rage at her disrespect, shame at being spoken to like this, and the overwhelming heat that was rushing all over my body at the sight of her glistening dark folds. She reached down with her fingers, and the soft squelches as she spread her labia, the faint aroma of her pronounced arousal, and the brilliant pink of her inner depths assaulted my senses. I took a step just to catch myself from falling over, and had trouble breathing.

"I taste good," she said, smiling as her eyes glittered maliciously. "Wanna see?"

And right in front of me, the shameless hussy thrust two fingers into her own pelvic hole, worked them for a moment, and then removed them, spreading them apart slightly so that moisture trailed between them in little pearly strings, and brought them to her mouth.

"Mmmm, delicious," she said, having never broken eye contact with me. "Hot young black pussy, all you can eat." She giggled, and swirled her tongue around her lips. "Or drink."

I took another staggering step toward her. I had no intention of doing anything like what she had told me to do. In fact, what I intended to do was to slap her across the face in punishment for her outrageous behavior and slanderous suggestions. But my hand would not raise for the blow.

"You--you----" I gasped, still shaking, unable to find words bad enough to describe the depths of depravity I was witnessing.

"I'm waiting," she said coolly. "When I tell you to lick my pussy, it's so extremely rude of you to dilly-dally like this. That's a demerit."

I flinched at this, at her throwing back in my face the language we had used in disciplining her when she first arrived from the foster system. Craig believed that the military academy he had graduated from (though he went into his father's business instead of the military) was the ideal adolescent disciplinary system, and although the demerits for rudeness, forgetfulness, or impatience and rewards for peacefulness, helpfulness and diction had somewhat tapered off once she had begun excelling at school, the whiteboard that tracked every demerit she had earned since entering our home at the age of fifteen was still up in the family room.

I felt hot tears coming to my eyes, but I could not weep in front of her. That would be such a shameful display of weakness. Fighting desperately, I chose to vent those emotions by screaming instead.

"You ungrateful brat! We did everything for you! We gave you every opportunity! And now you're acting like some cheap whore, doing these disgusting things, saying those perverted things about me.... I want you out of this house!"

I was standing over her now, shrieking hysterically, my arms waving. All at once her hands gripped my shoulders and pulled me down.

"Oh I'll leave today if you want me to," she said, her face suddenly close to mine, her hot sweet breath in my nostrils, the brown slick of her sweat-pearled upper lip all I could see. "But first, you're going to lick. My. Pussy."

I shook my head, but her grip on my shoulders strengthened, and I felt myself borne inexorably to my knees, my head lowering to her thighs.

"No," I sobbed, "no, you can't make me."

"I'm not making you," she said, in a soft singsong. "I'm helping you."

A hand gripped the back of my head, and pulled, and my open mouth was filled by salty-sweet flesh, slick with many and varied kinds of wet.

The moment I tasted her on my tongue was the same moment that I remembered telling her, years ago, in exactly the same words, that I wasn't

making

her go to school, I was helping her. I wasn't

making

her take off those hoochie shorts and wear a modest skirt, I was helping her. I wasn't

making

her clean the bathroom, I was helping her.

And just after that I heard my own words again, crooned in her singsong voice. "That's a good girl. Doesn't it feel nice to do what you've been asked?"

I struggled to unclamp my lips from her pudenda, and choked out, "I wasn't asked!"

"You never asked me either," she said, and pulled me back into herself. I felt her hips twitch beneath my mouth, and knew I was being used as a masturbation tool. The humiliation flooded my body, making my extremities glow with a rush of blood. My ears, my hands, my feet, my nipples all burned painfully.

How dare she do this to me? How dare she suggest that I had been "drooling" over her? If that was what she thought my sincere and devoted attempts to urge her towards modesty in dress and speech had been.... Of course, being ever vigilant against the permissiveness of her upbringing meant having to watch her closely, meant having to remind her every time I could see too much of her skin showing, meant hovering by the cracked bathroom door whenever she took a shower to be sure she wasn't exhibiting vanity in the mirror or indulging in any covert masturbation.

The obscene moisture of her loins was flooding my mouth now, and if I was not going to drown I had to swallow some of it. Her entire body shuddered at my gulp, and she gasped aloud,

"Oh that's a good girl, drink me down. I have so much more cum to feed you with, you'll -- never -- go -- thirsty -- again." Each of the last words was accompanied by a rough thrust of her hips against my face, and I could only gurgle helplessly as my tongue was caught in her wriggling folds.

"Oh, fuck, you're so good," she muttered through clenched teeth. "Oh I knew you would be. You've wanted to taste me from the moment you saw me, I could smell it on you."

I tried to protest, but my words only hummed foolishly into her quivering, lubrication-soaked flesh, which spasmed beneath my lips.

"That's right," she whispered, every muscle in her body tensing, especially the hands that were keeping my head pressed to her groin. "That's right, mommy, taste your daughter's cum. Oh fuck, oh fuck, it's coming."

She shook in complete silence then, and hot liquid spurted into my mouth in an inexhaustible flood. I swallowed as quickly as I could, but it came faster than my throat could catch, and I felt it stinging in my sinuses and dribbling down my chin.

She kept me pressed to her for what seemed like an eternity, until the last quaver had passed through her lithe young body, and then finally released me.

She lay panting on the bed for a while, while I reeled on the floor, still in a complete daze, unable to find enough coherent shards of identity with which to pull myself together.

Finally she propped herself up on her elbows, in order to look me in the eyes. Her smile was open now, without malice or contempt

"Tell me how much you enjoyed that," she said.

I stared at her. I knew I had to look a frightful mess. My hair disheveled, my makeup smeared, my clothes wrinkled and out of place, my face haunted by the horror of what I had just done, the legal consequences if the social worker found out, the even worse consequences if Craig or the church did.

"You -- you demon," I finally managed to sputter. Her face hardened.

"All right," she said. "One dose was not enough. Time for round two."

She stood up and approached me. I could only watch as she loomed over me. A push of her foot sent me to the ground, blinking hazily at the ceiling of her bedroom. She stood over me, one foot to either side of my head, and then lowered her puffy, dripping loins to my mouth once more.

"Discipline will continue until morale improves," she murmured, quoting one of Craig's favorite lines, cradling my head in her hands as she began to rub herself against a mouth which I simply could not keep shut no matter how hard I tried. "The only way out is through."

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

Rachacael Lashawna Midori Kennedy had been the name on the paperwork from the social worker, but we never called her anything but Rachel. Craig and I were in our late thirties when we welcomed the awkward, gangly, glaring fifteen-year-old into our home, prominent members of our church, where Craig was a deacon and I sang in the choir. I had always had more energy than Craig, who spent most of his time at the office and refused to believe that his home shouldn't be run exactly as efficiently, as quietly, and with as little of the day-to-day operation actually falling to him as the office was. Of course I believed that the man was the head of the household, since that was plain Bible teaching, but I had never really respected Craig ever since it became clear that his seed was not going to produce offspring in my womb. I feared him occasionally, of course -- I was used to men's anger being a strong motivator in my life -- but not respected. He must have suspected something of that, which might have motivated so much of his time spent at the office; in any case, by the time Rachel came into our home we had not had intimate relations for almost ten years.

Officially, Craig and I never differed on how Rachel should be treated. We agreed that it was our duty to do our best to counteract the bad influence of her background and upbringing. She had stayed with a number of female relatives before the foster system had taken charge of her, and our first rule was that she could no longer have any contact with them again. Craig disliked the "ghetto" beaded hair braids she wore when she first came, so I cut them off and tried to train her hair to follow my own regimen of bleaching, crisping and setting. Eventually, I had to admit that our hair was simply not structured the same, and accompanied her to a black hair salon, where after quizzing the ladies, I settled on a regimen of letting her grow out her natural hair, but keeping it short enough that it could never get too unruly: no picking, no twists, no braids, and certainly no dreadlocks.

Rachel was anything but docile that first year, and more than once I was grateful for Craig's military academy training; his habit of abrupt, stentorian commands were almost as effective at curbing Rachel's tongue as it was at keeping me in wifely submission. He seemed to come alive in the role of disciplinarian, and occasionally, on nights that he had been forced to mete out corporal punishment, he was even physically affectionate with me for the first time in ages.

Of course I watched this very closely. I was all too aware of the danger of introducing a nubile young woman into the household, especially one who had not had the benefit of learning modesty from her mother's example. And I will say this of Craig; he never looked at her unless it was to correct some defect of speech or manners. As far as he was concerned, she may as well not have had a physical body; which meant that I, of course, had to be the one to enforce modesty in dress.

The past two years had mostly been untroubled, however. Rachel had stopped struggling against our discipline, which after all was only for her own good, and applied herself at school. Her essays were praised by teachers, and she was scoring highly enough on tests that the guidance counselors were making noises about academic scholarships to college. Craig and I weren't so sure about that, but we only discussed it in private.

"Once she turns eighteen," said Craig, "our duty to her ends."

"According to the government, yes," I reminded him. "There's still Christian charity to consider."

Craig frowned. "I hope you aren't insinuating that I don't know my responsibilities as a Christian, Karen."

"Of course not!" I hastened to soothe him. "I was just thinking that it would be a shame to force her to leave her home before the end of the school year."

Craig was inclined to dispute the idea that it was "her" home, since he was the one paying the mortgage, but he did agree that we would keep her fed and housed until graduation, even despite the loss of the stipend from the state after she turned eighteen.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

"Taste me, mommy," Rachel urged as she rubbed herself up and down my lower face. "Get to know every crevice of my gorgeous teen pussy, just like you've always wanted to."

"I never wanted this!" I screamed, my words muffled by her vagina, and she laughed gently.

"I saw your nipples get hard the first time I walked through the door. The way you bit your lip every time my t-shirt rode up on my waist. The only time you've had an orgasm in the past decade is when you knew someone had their hands on my naked ass. You've wanted me so bad for so long it made you stupid." She laughed again.

I could not believe how much moisture was seeping from her now. I sputtered through it, but had to swallow a mouthful just to be able to breathe.

"But it's okay, mommy," she said in a mock croon. "It's all okay. Your baby girl will feed you her cum whenever you want now. All you have to do is let yourself admit that you want it."

She raised herself up on her knees for a moment.

"Tell me you want my pussy back on your tongue, mommy."

I stared at her face looming between her ripe young breasts, while her warm wet loins dribbled onto my face.

"You're sick," I spluttered. "The police----"

"Wrong answer, mommy," she sighed, and lowered herself onto me again. "It's okay. You'll get there. I believe in you. Just get lost in the taste of your baby's cum."

She began to hump me harder.

I struggled in vain.

It wasn't that she was particularly heavy, it was just that I had no leverage. Lying down with my head on the floor, my arms pinned by her cleverly applied legs, I could flail my lower body as much as I wanted without being able to reach or dislodge her.

Her juices filled my mouth again and again, and I had to swallow them to stay conscious. My lips were being rubbed raw by her friction against me, and her liquids were dripping down my face, seeping into my nostrils, my ears, matting my hair, stinging my eyes. She gasped,

"Here comes your second dose, mommy. Open wide for my cum, it's going to be a big one!"

I obeyed without thinking, since the alternative was to effectively be waterboarded, and the gushes that met my tongue were sweeter than I had expected. I found myself not just swallowing, but drinking, swirling the fluids around my tongue, licking my lips and then sucking at her petals for more.

"That's right, mommy," she murmured, caressing my forehead with her thumb as she quivered against my mouth. "Drink me up. I'm an endless well for you, mommy. Tell me you love it."

She pulled away, and looked down at me again.

"It's good..." I panted dazedly. "It's sweet. Why is it sweet?"

She smiled widely.

"The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice," she said. "Oh, mommy, I'm so glad you let yourself like it."

She stood up, and reached out a hand to help me stand. Shakily, I did so. She turned me so that we faced the mirror on her closet door.

The spectacle that I saw in the mirror shocked me back to my sense of self. Rachel stood tall and glowing, her round, slim limbs and plump little breasts and the curly floof of hair on her head just as beautiful as ever: while I was a horror. My face haggard and dripping with slimy, bubbly liquid, my hair a matted birds-nest of dull blond highlights and dark exposed roots, my blouse wrinkled and twisted halfway round my torso, I looked like some depraved hag in the depths of some cruel addiction, and I reeled back in horror at the sight.

"What have you done to me?" I shrieked, pushing Rachel away even as I clawed at her with my fingernails. "You demon witch, you miserable spawn of Satan, you n---- whore!"

She slapped me straight across the face, and then stepped close to me, gathering my hair close to my scalp in her fist and pulling it down so that I had to look up at her.

"You do not get to call me that," she said very quietly, her eyes inches from mine. "Say it again and you'll never taste my pussy again."

I stared at her, my mouth working silently.

This was it! A way out! My tongue clung to the roof of my mouth. All I had to do was start to say the N. But nothing came. I moaned softly in frustration.

"That's right," she said softly. "You need it too badly, don't you, mommy?"

I shook my head as much as I could in her grip.

"No. I don't want it."

"I didn't ask if you wanted it. You need it. Your body knows better than you do."

I felt my nipple between her thumb and forefinger a moment before the most exquisitely excruciating pain shot through me as she tweaked it. My knees buckled.

"Oh you're close," she chuckled. "But you don't get to cum until you say how much you need my cum first."

"Never," I squeaked. It had sounded less pathetic in my head.

She puffed out her cheeks and breathed a heavy breath.

"Okay," she said, resignedly. "Third dose coming up." She crossed to the door, closed it, and stood against it, her legs spread.

"If you want to leave this room, mommy, you'll have to lick your way through me."

I stood staring at her for a long time. I was out of threats, of names to call her, of ways to insist that I was the authority figure. My mind and body were exhausted. And there was a burning sweetness in the back of my throat, a residual smell that lingered on my face, a craving stronger than I had ever had for chocolate or ice cream. My mouth began to water, looking at her. But I did not move.

She shrugged. "Take your time. We have a four-day weekend all to ourselves. Of course if you end up soiling yourself, I'll have to make you clean it up."

That was what made me move. My entire abdomen had been churning so hard for so long that I knew I had to have access to a bathroom soon. I dropped to my knees in front of her and put my mouth to the now familiar strips of flesh. The sweet dew sprang to my lips, and I licked at it eagerly.

"That's right, mommy," she said, running her hands through my hair. "Let your body take over. She knows so much better than you do."

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

We had taken Rachel out to dinner for her eighteenth birthday the night before, and then Craig had gone to bed early, since he would be flying out in the morning.

As Rachel showered before bed, I stood in the hallway as usual, keeping an eye on her vague brown form through the shower's steam as reflected in the mirror and giving a little cough if it seemed like she might be lingering too long washing her chest or between her legs. As I had done every night for the past three years.

But tonight, instead of reaching around for a towel after turning off the water, Rachel opened the shower and stepped out fully nude, finding my eyes in the mirror and smiling frankly at them while she thrust her breasts forward.