It is the power upon which I feed. As a statuesque American, I am accustomed to heads turning in my direction wherever I am. My milky skin is complemented by the inky, black curls that tumble just below my waist. People are always doing a double take when they see my eyes. They're slate gray, giving my heart-shaped face an other-worldly appearance.
My mother, Rachel, is the Queen of the Dykes. However, being raised by one of the strictest FWB families in Eastern North Carolina, there was no way she was going to be allowed to live the life of a lesbian...openly. Enter my poppa. Jeremiah is the son of a tobacco baron and was disciplined early and often – which may explain why, though a gentle and tender man, my poppa, as starting center for UA three years running, assisted his team to the Sugar Bowl each of those years. Jeremiah was voted MVP numerous times. However, instead of playing professional ball, Jeremiah went into a much more deadly sport. Politics.
One would think Mother would cut Poppa a tiny bit of slack. After all, they were THE Senatorial couple. Generations of breeding and money assured them a place at the table. Instead of entering an open partnership with her husband, she treated their union as a war, refusing the surrender of divorce. It never ceases to amaze me how we can be our own worst enemies.
Thanks in small part to my undergraduate degrees in Chemical Science and in International Trade, and in large part to nepotism; I had been working for Jeremiah, as I refer to him around the office, in the capacity of Chief of Staff. It was heady. I lived in Georgetown with my parents, together again after my four year break for college. After a particularly brutal cocktail party, with my mother ending the evening my throwing the contents of her glass in my father's face, I realized I was going to have to do something about the Queen of the Dykes. Poppa was not only one of the most respected and sought after personages on the Hill. He was also the very firm and stabilizing hand that continued to bring jobs, bring tourism, and keep the military presence in North Carolina.
As most statuesque women with substantial cleavage, I rarely went without a foundation. This evening, however, I allowed the thin, pale material of the silk shirt caress my bare breasts, the blood red of my nipples making colorful points through my shirt. "Poppa," I said, nodding my head toward my father while I poured a martini from the pitcher. Walking to my place on the settee, I stopped briefly at my mother's wingback, allowing one breast to slide down her check and the other to slide up when I bent to kiss her cheek.
Both Poppa and Mother were very still. I was behaving out of character. Hiding a little smile I continued to let the games unfold. "Poppa, I need you to go to Ronald Reagan this evening and pick up my guest, Sabra Watson."
"Ridiculous, Eve," my mother spat. "Harlan can go. It's his job."
Ignoring her, I gave Poppa one of my big smiles and said, "Take the Bentley, Poppa. We do want to make an impression."
"As for Harlan, Mother," I explained, doing my Sharon Stone imitation with utter perfection. With a cross of my legs, the smooth folds of my pussy now had my mother's attention. "He, the Joyner's, and Carstens have all been sent New Bern for the next two weeks. Poppa hugged me from behind, his hands, as always, skimming my breasts. He left the room whistling, something I had never heard him do.
Power. Poppa knew there was a new sheriff in town.
With the echo of the door closing, I turned to look at Mother. She was a writhing mass of desire, shame, and rage. Picking up the remote, I exchanged the seventeenth century for the twenty-first. I had compiled a blend of throbbing back beats to get Mother in the mood. Tonight, I was claiming my man. But first, I had to get his woman out of the way.
Bringing mother another cocktail, I then proceeded to dance for her. With small bumps, grinds, and twirls, I spent fifteen minutes captivating her attention, refilling her glass twice, while my calf length skirt was pulled higher and higher and higher up the length of my legs. I smiled when disappointed flashed on her face as I lowered my skirt back to my original position.
Backing up to my mother, I said, quietly and simply, "Unzip my skirt, Mother."
The music continued to throb but I stood perfectly still. "No..." my mother whispered, her voice strangled.
"Unzip my skirt, Mother." I demanded my voice calming and gentle.
I looked over my shoulder and smiled. Mother was shuddering, the drink in her hand dropped harmlessly to the floor. With a shaking hand, she reached out and unzipped my skirt.
"Now pull it down, Mother," I said gently, my hips slowly picking up the beat again as she slid the skirt over my hips. I kicked it away and turned to face my slack-jawed mother. I slowly swayed my silk covered breasts in her face. Deciding the timing was right, I teased my mother. "Rachel, darling," I sang playfully, "the twins want you to release them from their bondage." Reverting to the gentle, persuasive tones of the top nannies, I said, "Rachel, remove my blouse."
I was completely gratified when Mother reached out and shakily undid the four buttons of my blouse. I held out each arm to her and waited while she undid each cuff. I allowed the blouse to slide off my shoulders and tossed it over to my skirt. The timing was perfect. The music kicked up a notch and I began to dance in earnest. I, in all my denuded glory, was framed by naught but a bridal garter, stockings, and a pair of pumps. After five minutes, the music slowed and I made my way make to my mother. She was slumped in her wingback, her hands gripping the armrests. I raised her hands in the air, while my knees gained their balance on the armrests. My mother gazed up at me, a baby bird waiting for the worm to be fed to her.
Taking her hands, I placed them on my thighs and ran them up my legs. Up and down I guided her hands until she began rubbing my thighs of her own volition. Her hands stayed on my thighs while I swayed to the music. I parted the lips of my pussy, and no further invitation was needed. Sounding completely like a hog in a wallow, my mother began snuffling my pussy. I don't believe I had ever been eaten with such need before.
I allowed her to continue for a few minutes, before pulling away from her mouth with a messy, wet, sucking sound. I slapped her across the face, backhanded her, and then slapped her across the face again. My mother sat in stunned silence, gaping at me.
"Rachel, darling," I said, in my best ladies-who-lunch voice, "Take off all of your clothes before fixing another pitcher of martinis." I picked up my blouse and skirt to redress and saw Mother hadn't moved. Tossing my clothes on the settee, I walked over to Mother and took the pins out of hair, allowing her straight, Nordic blonde hair to hang loosely, something it never did. Wrapping her hair around my hand, I pulled her face close to mine and pulled tightly. "I want you undressed, and fixing another pitcher of martinis. Are we clear?"
Mother simply nodded, I unwound her hair and returned to the settee. Mother's forty-five year old body was taut and beautiful, her legs flawless, and her unused pussy just as smooth as my own. Mother definitely took pride in her appearance. While she fixed the drinks, I took Mother's clothing to the laundry room. I picked up the package I had assembled earlier and brought it into the library. I set it down by the fireplace and returned to the settee.
Mother handed me a drink, her mouth opening to say something. I cocked and eyebrow at her and she bowed her head without saying a word. Power was flowing through me. I loved my mother. All her screaming, bitching and demanding had, for the most part, gone right over my head. From an early age, no doubt with my father's influence, I decided she was a loon to be tolerated but ignored. And, like all bullies, Mother buckled at the first sign of force.
"Go light a fire, Rachel," I ordered, not looking at Mother while I rifled the magazines in search of 'The National Review'. Idly, I read an article about sex in the workplace until I heard the strike of the long match.
"Bring that package over to me when you have the fire lit sufficiently," I called out, reading an editorial about a piece that had run in another magazine. My mother stood in front of me, nude, with the package held out before her. I continued my reading and was both amazed and disappointed I didn't have to reprimand her for putting the package down without permission. Tossing my magazine to the side, I gave Mother my full attention, taking the package from her. "You are quite beautiful, Rachel. I'm sure you will make me proud."
