Daughter and mother: intimately connected

I find myself in my bed after the most dreadful day of torture I have had up to now. I have never felt so dirty in my life. Yet I want the most dreadful torture that I am capable of sustaining, I want to be dirty. I want true excess. I want my body defiled and annihilated. Not in spite of my mother's presence here, but because of it I no longer know shame. I need to fight fire with fire, redeem me from my sins by sinning relentlessly.

 

I have been put to bed wearing a hood that inhibits my sight.

 

I am nearly asleep, curled up in an embryo position, when I hear the door close, some rustle in the pitch black room and then some staggering steps near the bed. Before I am even conscious, my bedclothes are lifted and the mattress deflects as another person is laid next to me. I smell her (*you) before I touch her. Could this be my mother?

 

To my surprise, even as her hands are groping their way towards me, she remains silent. For a moment I hold her in a tight embrace, warming her cold, weary body against mine. She is undressed still. Ah, when did I last sleep with her like this before. I was a child, before conscious memory, but I remember... I remember somehow.

 

Yet she does not utter a sound. She must be hooded as well. My hands travel to her face and the suspicion is confirmed. What else, what else...! Have they...? Dare I check? My hand goes down and, after moments hesitation, testingly touches my mother below. Her pubic hair has been removed and she feels sticky, soiled... Oh my dear mother! What have they done to you?

 

But then... She is a woman too. I have never thought of her as a sexual being, but she was and, I hope, fear, still is.

 

Her head! Frantically my hand feels the perimeter of the hood and with relief finds that some of her hair comes out from underneath her hood. We embrace, and, though there would many things to say, we simply cannot. Blissfully, perhaps. We communicate by hands, stroking, caressing. We soon fall asleep, holding each other's hand.

 

---

We are rudely awoken from the depth of our sleep after a mere few hours. The only light comes from a pair of candles. Two silent women break our embrace and remove our hoods. A collar is put on my mother's neck. Mum and I look at each other in bewilderment. I then am turned around head to feet and my head is placed between my mother's thighs, and hers between mine. Loops of Nylon wire are attached to the rings of our collars around the backs of the thighs of the other, thus locking us in our 69 position. What position is this? I now face the opening through which I came into the world, 4 decades before, now closed like an oyster, but visible as never before. I smell the semen that soiled her, mixed, dare I hope, with her own love juices. Likewise she will be facing my closed entry, as if she has to enter there in a weird reversal of roles and functions. Perhaps she will think of how no granddaughter has seen fit to exit from there, no matter by how many men and how many times it has been penetrated.

Oh, I feel gently fingers caress me, surreptitiously at first, in the most silken of ways. They concentrate on my back and neck. What expert touch! Devine! Go on, go on... It is as if they don't touch at all, as if it is the breath of angels that stroke my body. Oh... but my buttocks are touched as well and the crack between them, still oh, so softly. They venture to my sexual organs, stroking them while somehow spreading them open... The first touch of my clitoris... I have been made so ready and am virtually ready for orgasm... Go on, go on... But no... Something touches my nose and brings me to reality. I open my eyes and see a hand... A hand on my mother's vagina, stroking her in apparent unison with the hand that strokes me in the same place. I keep watching like a drunkard, drunk from the touch. There is a sober corner of my mind that realises that my mother will be seeing the same... We are watching each other's most private area at the closest possible range. I see - and am happy, strangely – that her thighs stretch within the very tight limits allowed. I see the moistness, the swelling. My mother's sexual functions are intact. And I am happy to see that, as it is the only simple reward in this world. Also, because it bonds me with her. Women we are! Is this what that man wants? Or had he counted on her disowning me? I have closed my eyes again and am brought nearer... The hands have stepped up the game and have engaged our nipples and clitoris, increasingly harder yet expert and stretching... The orgasm is within reach, almost... Slowly and stretching the occasion. My subconscious is aware of my mother's scent, that must be matching mine. Lord! The high that follows defies all rational description, as indeed I have merely a primeval recollection of it. I will have had a series of unprecedented length or intensity... Who knows, who knows... When the consciousness returns it is my mother's sex that stares at me, dripping. Our hands are on each other's waists. We are one. They let us be like we are for one hour, two...

 

---

The change from this odd heavenly state is sudden, when two Chinese women release our restraints. We are pulled out of bed and placed next to each other, shoulder to shoulder. My mother and I only manage to exchange a flash of our eyes. I cannot tell what she is thinking and hardly know what I think myself - bonding, certainly, but embarrassment too...? The women are naked like us but for the dazzling, ornate full-body tattoos that cover their entire bodies, save the head, hands and feet. Having once seen two such women naked before, I begin to summise that all personnel are so adorned, certainly the female ones; the high-collared and long-sleeved coats and suits just hide their extreme tattoos.

It is then that the man enters. He is also stark-naked, save a pair of red slippers. I have never seen him so, not even when I was used. Naked but for his member, which is encased in a sheath of the type common among some primitive tribes. This sheath has been gilded, however, with a few red Chinese characters. The top of the sheath is fixed with a red leather cord around his waist. I am struck by the perfect reversal of his appearance. His left pectoral bears a large single Chinese symbol, painted on it seems. He does not explain his appearance or the significance the symbols, but says instead,

'Ladies, you have gotten to know each other better. I am not going to ask you to explain. You shall not talk at all, in fact, but think all the more. Your connection to each other is naturally on your mind. But it is on my mind as well, and on that of your viewers. Today will be a busy day for you. You both, I will add.

‘Johanna, your mother lives here now. This is at your request, for better of for worse. Today will be exceptional in the sense that you will be together for a full day. Inseparable, in fact. You have already had a good few hours like that. The rest of the day will be out of bed. To facilitate your proximity you will be connected.'

He makes a gesture and the two women approach with a Nylon rope. Swiftly they connect it to the link on my mother's collar and then to the one on mine.

'Now then, as you see the wire is currently slack as you stand so closely together. It is only of 1 m length, however, so that you essentially have to assume identical postures.

'To start with, Johanna, you shall clean the room as usual.'

He turns on his heals and leaves the room, followed by the two women.

 

---

She has to go down on all fours with me, the poor dear, as my chaperones have no mercy. Her old knees will barely be able to stand it. She valiantly helps me, however, and is in fact more efficient than I. We finish in less than half the time as a result. We do not speak. The order was clear. There would be too much to say, so much is certain.

What will she be thinking?

Will she be in shock? Could she have been satisfied if in shock?

She will be disappointed in me, yet stands by me.

And now that strange episode in bed, where she watched that other essence of me and knew I watched hers...

I see her naked form working hard next to me, her swinging breasts, her wrinkled, slack skin, her grey hair... Yet she is not without grace and certainly still a woman.

 

The girl who checks our work looks down upon us sneeringly for a long, long time, but then to my great relief shows mercy and declares the room fit. Our host enters the room immediately after and tells us that the audience that watched us was rapturous.

'You may not be aware that the position of a moving woman on all fours is very popular. Two of such side by side, an older and a younger woman, mother and daughter no less, is rarely seen in Shanghai or anywhere, really. Mind, there are more than fifty people watching here in the house and hundreds via our CCTV system broadcasting to a host of locations. I have had the room declared fit not only because it is so, but also because I want to offer your audience variation rather than the same thing lasting out its welcome. I have to say that they protested, but still, it is better to break at a high.'

With these words he turns around and leaves us again. Immediately, his two assistants approach, grab my arm and move me to the centre of the room - consequently: us. They fits cuffs around my wrists and ankles and attach the former to a spreader bar and the latter to two links set in the floor about 3/4 m apart. They hoist the spreader bar up and I am stretched to capacity. My poor mother is left untouched, but by necessity stands very close to me. She looks rather forlorn, because she is free to move, but not really, and because she apparently will not share my fate at this moment. I do know what is coming and she must as well, as she will have watched me.

---

They show me the feared whippy canes. I thought they would make that choice, given that my mother is so close by and they appear set not to chastise her deliberately or accidentally. Also, because it the worst punishment for me and they know it. I resolve to absorb the stokes to the best of my abilities and react as little as possible. I brace myself, teeth clenched. The first hit is fierce - precisely where a thigh meets the buttock. A hissing sound escapes me. I know their method - they are slow, but immensely accurate. The other woman hits me at precisely the same spot on the other side, with precisely the same strength. My eyes are wet already, but I have not screamed.

Hit!

Slightly below the first place. Hit! The other side. I surpress the sounds I would make, but cannot suppress the tears. Two tears roll down my cheeks.

Hit! Hit! Slightly lower again.

I am crying now, restrained still, whining crying.

Down to my knees in two steps.

Hit! Hit!

Hit! Hit!

I am crying out loud, crying and crying. A flash of thought... What will my mother think? ... and it is gone. I have no space to look at her, consider her, even if it will be worse for her as she is tortured by my screaming at close range and does not have the pain to divert her thinking. I do not notice her fretting and turning.

Now they start at the top again and go down, hitting precisely the same spots. Within 4, 5  strokes I cry like an animal without any form of control, tearing my throat apart.

Then my mother cries, 'Stop, I cannot stand it any longer. Stop or let me share her fate today!'

The women stop indeed and for a minute or two all is quiet, the only sounds my whining and my mum's sobbing. She has placed her arm around my waist and leans against me. Leans against me, the hurt one.

The man rushes in. 'No and no! Your torture is the lack of pain when you'd want it. Hers the pain she wants to avoid. Your intervention causes me to order the same for the front of her thighs as she has already got at the rear. You'll get something before the end of the day, but for now you'll stand by some more.'

And gone he is again.

We are both mad with pain or the lack of it and both crying with abandon when the women finally withdraw after a quick bow.

 

I am left tied up and my mother steps around, faces me and embraces me. Once again her naked motherly body is snug against mine. Our sobbing dies gradually away. We have been forbidden to speak, but my mother is not deterred from whispering, 'I love you, Johanna, I love you!' 'Oh, Mum, and I! And I!' That is all we say until I at least withdraw into a dreamlike state. Don't forget - withdrawing pain makes for a blissful feverish state.

 

---

The doors of the room open. A crowd of men and women files in and forms a wide circle around us. My mother disengages herself from her embrace and stands next to me, arm around my waist still. It is the most unusual crowd. They are attired like that man. All are naked, regardless of their age, adorned by the Chinese symbol on their chests; the men wear penis sheaths like that man and the women skimpy loin-cloths. There must be fifty, sixty of them. They all look at us in silence. We look back. There may people below forty, but only a handful. Many are strong and straight, but likewise there are many old and bent. The oldest couple look like they might be ninety, almost like scarecrows with parchment slack skin. Shocking is one old woman who is wrinkled all over but has large taut breasts.

The man emerges from the crowd and positions himself next to us, now turning this, now that way, in order to address those in front and those behind us. He does so in Chinese, but his gestures make clear that he describing my mother and me, the welts that have been created, my head, that we are mother and daughter and finally, that we are theirs to inspect and touch.

(translated from the Chinese): 'My dear friends. Now you see my new acquisition in person. I have not disappointed you. She is a gem. Mind: I am not only speaking about her body, even though it is, in my view, at its peak. She is 39. No, there is more. A hairless slave is rare. This state makes her super-naked and shows all her forms starkly. Common belief has it that being hairless equates to being defeminised. There is truth in this, as it takes a strong personality for the female aspect to prevail. But you will agree: this is a woman, no less and perhaps even more so than when she was a business woman in Amsterdam. Her curves are enticing, but it is her eyes that are the pearls in her crown. She is a rare piece. She is truly unique, however, by having her mother next to her. Her mother then was an attractive woman in her day. And, yes, she has aged, but aged well. Many of you who have passed her age will agree with me. If you cannot see it, I will tell you that she is still very much a sexual being. Like daughter, like mother. I now invite you to feast your eyes and hands upon this pair. The only condition, I don't have to remind you, is that you cannot hurt them. At your request, they will be repositioned.’

I  am released from my upright and stretched position. With no respite I am forced to kneel and my mother can only follow. My arms are now put through rings on the floor. The collars around my neck is connected to a further ring. My buttocks are consequently raised and finally my ankles are bound to the floor, separated by a bar.

‘Now, please... They are yours'

And he gestures our way.

 

Will I ever get used to being handled like a horse or, worse, a pig? Or even worse, as people purposely treat me - a human - harshly. What seems like countless hands pass me by, often five or six at the same that simultaneously open my mouth for inspection, squeeze my nose or my nipples, weigh, slap, sway my breasts, enter my vagina, circle my anus, stroke my skull... Of course they painfully trace my fresh welts over and over again. I manage to remain silent, however.

My mum is no less popular and a virgin to this type of inspection. It takes her a good deal of time to avoid squealing whenever they treat her hard. I feel guilty.

The most extreme act performed on us is when one woman fists both of us at the same time. Her actions are eagerly followed by the rest of the crowd. It may be she is appointed to do this on behalf of all. The saving grace is that she has small hands. The notion is dazzling that she is groping about in these inner sanctuaries of life, one being where I originated. She issues comments on her findings in Chinese with a high pitched shrill voice, which are following by mumbled discussion by the others or indeed by instructions.

 

---

A barrel is rolled into the room when the inspection is considered complete. It takes little imagination to see what is coming. My mother does; I notice that she is getting restless. When one of staff inserts the cold, bronze nozzle of a filling hose into my anus, she suddenly cries out, 'Stop! Stop! This I do not have to suffer!'

The man comes forward, smiling. 'Mother, why had I expected your reaction? I have noticed your strange fascination with the enemas your daughter has received. Is this the mother who wishes to take the place of her daughter when she is exposed to something terrible? Or is this you who wants to suffer this terrible event yourself? I don't think you know, so I will not ask. But you shall have it your way.'

He gestures for a woman to bring on another hose. My mother is beyond herself, eyes ablaze.

 

I have become well accustomed to foreign objects being inserted in that place, so there is no pain - merely the shock of meeting its coldness - 'oh!' My mother, however, cries out so loudly that it reverberates through the room, but then quickly pulls herself together. There we are, mother and daughter, about to be washed out and humiliated in front of an club of Chinese strangers. I am beyond care but think of my mother, to whom this ordeal is a first - the internal washing and the humiliation. The faucet is opened and soon we strain as our bellies absorb the warm liquid and extend profusely. I looked sideways at my mother. She is motionless and her gaze is vacant. When the filling is complete and our bellies are extended obscenely, as if we are pregnant - oh, I have never been, but my mother has, just once, of me! -, the nozzle is removed and immediately replaced by a plug. Would pregnancy be so painful? It cannot be. This one has been brought about so suddenly. My hands and neck are released and we have to assume an upright kneeling position, which we achieve only with difficulty. The crowd that has been watching are now given the opportunity to inspect us. I have been made to swell like this once before, but still now, next to my mother, I feel ridiculous. There is the great discomfort of the swelling itself, but there is the notion that I look pregnant - preposterous! And all these hands that touch and grope my belly! How will my mother feel - a septuagenarian, pregnant for the second time? Ah, she takes my hand and squeezes it.

 

When all hands and eyes have been satisfied, we are released and brought to an old shallow bathtub, the crowd following us. We walk like ducks, ugly and awkward. I hear some stifled giggles. The shame! When we have been helped into the tub, our captors removed our anal plugs. The feeling of release is intense. It seems like a strange, extended orgasm when the liquid streams out of me. Oh, I hear my mother starting to softly wail! I open my eyes and see her with eyes closed, facing up and arms raised, like giving thanks, all the while wailing and breathing rapidly, panting - true ecstasy! Having been brought to the here and now, I look at the stream of murky fluid that leaves our body. We kneel in that stream. I see faecal bits. Those of our audience at the edge of the tub follow my gaze and what I am looking at. I see no sympathy in their eyes. Lord! No, mother, where have you brought me!

Finally, we are hosed down like horses with cold water. We shriek and protest as we in vain try to avoid the hose's jet, and writhe, twist and turn to do so, bumping against each other, slipping and sliding in the tub. Almost like two girls having fun on a summer's day. Not quite.

Then they dry us.

 

---

The man, 'Mother and daughter, this has been a great day for us. I am sure you will remember it. Daughter, your mother being next to you will have increased your torture, yet at the same time will have been a consolation. Mother, in a way this has been routine for your daughter. This is what she is. No more, no less. For you, it will have been unique. Your role is that of observer and, as a mother conscience. But the concluding part of the day you will be sharing her fate. There is about fifty of us that can still be satisfied. You are theirs.'

 

We are placed on a great mattress in the centre of the room, still connected by the necks, and our ordeal starts. From this moment on we are a dual machine, worked like one. For the next hour or two the crowd passes by. Penisses are freed from their sheaths and loincloths are taken off. My mind is sidelined and gradually switches off. I am fucked in all three orifices without pattern and so is my mother. Two women maintain our body-machines. After each previous user has been satisfied, they rinse the orifice in question and, perhaps, relubricate. If I can be relied upon, the majority of the users take to the oral orifice, followed by the anal with the vaginal passage being least preferred. The line of users include women and, curiously enough, we are not used to service them. They all impale us like men with strap-on dildoes. A minority uses a face-mounted one. Why I am not to pleasure them orally, not in even a single case, and make them come? This is not made clear to me. I can only think that they must prefer to subjugate us like men.

What I feel during this procession? I am a mindless sensory instrument. I feel, therefore am. Like a marionette I bend and turn and open and close and suck and what else I am made to do. I receive the member and satisfy the owner. Where I get the energy to sustain the pace for the hours and hours on end? I suppose I get the right juice to drink by the Chinese girls. The sensations? I was an anal virgin not so long ago and find myself in pain during the first few after which I relax once again. I am sure the lubrification will have been expert. When at the end I get very sore, I simply swallow the pain. My mother? I am sure she was an anal virgin and I hear her wails in the beginning. I see her next to me when she provides oral service. Towards the end I perceive her zest with which she greets a new user.

The oral servicing is the hardest. Every so often we almost choke on the load that is shot inside, but the worst is prevented with the assistance of the women of the house. During the entire evening I experience an orgasm twice. I would have not thought this possible. I have mercifully grown into my role as a sexual tool. My mother? I cannot ask, but have heard the signs of two or three. I am very thankful that she has been satisfied, that she is even capable of this.

 

No later have we serviced the last of the crowd or we are separated. I am then prepared for the night. I am alone.