Summary: A mother submits to her daughter's seductive nemesis
Note 1: Thanks to goamz86 and LeAnn for editing this story
Note 2: This story is dedicated to Chris who requested the plot.
Debutante MILF Lesbian Submissive
SHOCKED INTO SUBMISSION
Miranda walked into the kitchen, slammed her school bag on the table and cursed, "I hate her so fucking much."
"Mind your language, young lady," I scolded, surprised by my shy daughter's language, as I confirmed the times for our flights to Paris. "Hate who?" I asked, looking up and seeing my daughter ready to burst into tears...something I had seen a lot of since her dad's untimely death in a car accident last year.
"That bitch, Serena," Miranda said through gritted teeth.
"She just loves getting under your skin sweetheart," I said, this being a usual rant of my daughter.
"She told the whole school I was a dyke," Miranda said with venom in her voice.
"She didn't," I gasped. Miranda and Serena had always been natural born enemies, both coming from two of the most powerful families in the city.
"This is the final straw," Miranda seethed.
"Honey, you need to be the bigger woman here. We are a month from the debutantes ball," I reminded her as we had been trying to prepare her for her formal introduction into high society.
"Fuck that," Miranda snapped.
I sighed, never seeing Miranda so angry or hearing her swear so much. "Honey, it's just silly high school name calling."
"I can't take it anymore. It is bad enough she mocks me over my fashion, my intelligence and not having a father," Miranda said, the tears now falling freely.
I pulled my daughter in for a hug, my heart breaking at seeing my daughter so miserable. "High school ends in four months," I comforted.
"That is four months too long," Miranda replied.
"Then you will be with people like you," I said.
"Like me?" Miranda looked up.
I realized my temperamental daughter was easily hurt, especially since her father's untimely death. I explained, "When you go to college without the silly social hierarchy of high school, kids who have similar interests as you and it will be a fresh start where you can just be you."
"I'm always me," Miranda sighed, before adding with a soft laugh, "I guess that is the problem. I'm a nerd living in a plastic world."
Although the shot wasn't aimed at me, it hurt. In high school I was way more like Serena, a popular cheerleader, than I was my daughter, a socially shy nerd who I too would have picked on back in the day. Instead I agreed, "Exactly, soon you will be in a whole school of nerds."
Miranda laughed as her sarcastic humour returned, "You really know how to cheer me up."
"I love you honey," I smiled, as I let her out of our embrace.
"I love you too, Mom," she replied, before adding, "I would still like to publicly humiliate her though.
Just like Miranda and Serena were enemies, Serena's mother Gwen and I were socialites that tolerated each other because we had to. I hated Gwen as much as Miranda hated Serena, but I had long learned how to play the game. "Honey, that is not the solution."
"Maybe not, but I am not sure I can handle the daily abuse for four more months," she said.
"Well, they say revenge is a dish best served cold," I countered.
"This is not a James Bond movie, Mother," she quipped.
"I know, honey but the sweetest revenge will be beating her at her own game," I suggested.
"How?" Miranda asked, curious where I was going.
"By outshining her at the debutante's ball," I said. "Now just remember that tomorrow we are heading to Paris to meet with the top dress designer in the world so you can look more beautiful and elegant than her."
"I still want to punch her in the face," Miranda said, although her tone was less angry and more playful.
"I want to punch Gwen in the face every time I see her too," I admitted.
"Maybe we should go to one of those ultimate surrender wrestling matches as a team," Miranda said smiling, an inside joke when we found dozens of files of girls' sexual wrestling and then the losers were forced to sexually submit to the winner on my husband's computer after he passed away.
"Those are lesbian matches," I pointed out.
"Touché," Miranda laughed, before adding, "although it would be fun to have Serena capitulate to me completely."
"I bet it would," I laughed not completely understanding today's new bisexual fad.
After a moment of awkward silence, I added, "At least you will have the best dress."
"I can't wait to see her face when she sees me in an original Perse dress," Miranda said, her face lighting up.
"There you go," I smiled, loving seeing my daughter smiling, something I hadn't seen much of since the death of her father.
Miranda said, "I just wish I looked more like you."
"Oh honey," I said softly, looking at my daughter who received my husband's red hair and freckles, "you are a beautiful young woman, but you try to hide it."
She looked at her Baggie sweater, long skirt and clumpy shoes and said, "I just dress for comfort."
"I know," I nodded, while I dressed every day in skirts or dresses, Wolford pantyhose, and heels even on days I never left the house. Today I was dressed in an elegant lace and leather-like marguerite dress, beige pantyhose and four inch heels. My blonde hair was perfect, my make-up perfect and I was ready to continue my reputation in high society, for a later meeting I was going to with all the debutante moms. I added, "Your breasts are as big as mine, honey, but you hide them in those bulky sweaters. You have my same long legs but hide them in your long sixties skirts, and you have radiant red flowing hair and hypnotic green eyes, that you hide in pigtails and glasses."
Miranda said with a heavy sigh, "Fitting in is too much work."
I laughed, "Agreed, sweetheart."
"Mom," she said.
"Yes, dear," I asked.
"Will you help make me over?"
Those were words I has been praying for forever. "Oh honey, I would love too."
"I really want to beat her," Miranda said, which was completely out of character for her.
"And we will, my dear," I promised. The thought of getting the diva daughter I had always hoped for was finally a possibility. I mean I loved Miranda with all my heart, but we had little in common. She is a reader of classic literature, I read fashion magazines and Cosmo; she watches black and white or subtitled movies, I love Adam Sandler comedies; she never cared what people think, I spent my life keeping up the image of perfect wife, mother and socialite; she dresses in comfort, I dress for high society. Although I admired her greatly for who she was, the thought of being able to help her in something I was an expert in, was thrilling.
.....
After dinner, I went to Bellmont Hall, where all our galas take place, for a parent's meeting about the upcoming Debutantes Ball. There were seventeen girls who were going to have their official welcome to high society early next month.
The meeting itself was the usual generic reminders. As a debutante myself back in the day, I had been a part of my own ball, and as a member of the Bellmont society I had been involved in running a dozen of these balls already. Yet, it was different when your daughter was one of the participants. I was giddy with excitement for the opportunity for Miranda to join the inner circle. 'Once a debutante, always a debutante' is a guiding principle for the debutante as she takes her rightful place in their parents' society network...even if Miranda was a bit out of the social network with her peers.
Once the meeting was over, I headed back home with the full agenda of the special day now clearly laid out. I was just pulling in the driveway when I realized I had forgot to ask Portia (yes she was named after a Merchant of Venice heroine, just like Miranda was named after the heroine in Shakespeare's The Tempest) a couple of questions about next week's fundraiser for breast cancer. I called her on her cell but received no answer and realizing I was heading to Paris in the morning I decided to return to Bellmont Hall where she was sure to still be...she literally lived there it seemed.
It was almost an hour by the time I left and returned with traffic and was thankful to see Portia's Porsche (I know ironic) in the parking lot. Surprisingly the door was locked, but I had a key and let myself in. The building was dark except, not surprisingly, a light at the end of the hallway where Portia's office was.
I headed down the hallway and froze in my tracks as I heard Portia protest, "Not here."
"I don't believe I was asking your opinion," a young girl's voice countered.
"But what if someone comes in," Portia protested, as I eavesdropped on the curious conversation.
"I locked the door," the very familiar voice replied.
I moved closer so I could hear better and pinpoint the young girl's voice.
"I don't know..." Portia said, her tone implying she was very hesitant.
"In position," the voice demanded firmly.
"Oh God," Portia said.
"Oh, don't you worry, my pet, you will be worshipping very soon," the voice promised.
I gasped, was I hearing what I thought I was hearing?
"Good girl," the young voice said a moment later, Portia assumedly getting into a proper position for whatever.
I moved closer to the door that was slightly ajar.
"So I need you do to something in return for the privilege to eating my cunt," the young voice said, which had my mouth drop open stunned by the implied fact that Portia was a lesbian, I had known her for almost ten years and besides being married with two kids she was the most dignified lady I had ever met. On top of that, I suddenly recognized the young girl's voice.
It was Serena. I almost laughed at the thought that she called my daughter a dyke earlier today, and here she was seemingly participating in a lesbian act with a much older woman. Portia was in her mid-fifties although she still looked amazing and ten years younger than her age.
There was no way that Portia would stand for such disrespect. Yet, I was wrong as the next words I heard were Portia's strong British accent answering, "I'll do anything, Mistress."
Mistress? Anything? Was I in a Twilight Zone episode? I moved to the door, although not close enough to peek inside.
"I want to be the last debutante introduced at the ball," Serena revealed.
That bitch. Based on tradition, Miranda would be last since our last name is Zimmerman.
"But how would I defend that? Tradition is alphabetical order," Portia pointed out, her tone seemingly pleading.
"Is that my problem, cunt licker?" Serena shot back.
