"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.
