Chapter 13: A Mother's Example
Melanie’s kiss was a claim staked in the dark, all hungry tongue and possessive pressure. Blake’s back pressed against the sharp edge of the dresser, a dull pain drowned by the flood of sensation as Melanie’s hands slid down, over the curve of her hips, and gripped the firm swell of her ass through the thin fabric of her dress.
A moan, unbidden and raw, vibrated in Blake’s throat. Her own hands, which had hung stiffly at her sides, surged upward, fingers tangling in the silken fall of Melanie’s black hair, pulling her closer, deeper. The analytical part of her mind, the constant commentator, shut off. There was only heat, and taste, and the shocking, welcome weight of another body against hers.
Melanie’s exploring fingers kneaded, then stilled. Her thumbs hooked into the hem of Blake’s dress, riding it up over her thighs. Her touch dipped lower, past the band of her underwear, and found not just skin, but the cool, unyielding silicone base of the plug nestled firmly between Blake’s cheeks.
Melanie broke the kiss with a soft, wet sound. She pulled back just enough to look into Blake’s gold-flecked eyes, her own wide with delighted discovery. A sharp, wicked grin split her face.
“Well, well,” she purred, her voice a low thrum that seemed to sync with the green pulse of the clock. Her thumb rubbed a slow, deliberate circle over the intruding object. “You’re a naughty girl, Blake Belladonna.”
Blake’s breath hitched. A flush, hot and prickling, swept from her chest to her hairline. She didn’t look away, though. The guarded cynicism was gone, burned away by a more immediate, scrambling shame that was itself a kind of fuel.
“It’s not… it’s not like that,” Blake managed, her voice husky.
“No?” Melanie’s grin didn’t waver. She applied the faintest pressure, watching Blake’s pupils dilate. “Then what’s it like? Enlighten me.”
Blake swallowed. The words felt clinical, absurd in the charged air. “Training. Stretching. For… for later.”
“For later,” Melanie echoed, her tone drenched in mocking understanding. She leaned in again, her lips brushing the shell of Blake’s ear. “You’ve been sitting at dinner, listening to us all talk, with this secret inside you. Just like your mother, keeping secrets in plain sight.” She nipped the earlobe. “You’re dripping wet because of it, aren’t you?”
Blake couldn’t deny it. The evidence was a slick, telling heat between her legs, utterly separate from the fullness at her back. Her silence was confession enough.
Melanie’s laugh was a soft exhalation of triumph. “Let’s see how the training’s going.”
In one fluid, powerful motion, she spun Blake around and pushed her forward. Blake caught herself on the cluttered bed, palms sinking into the rumpled comforter, knocking a sketchpad to the floor. The pages fanned out, showing a half-finished, anguished face. Melanie’s hands were on her again, hiking the dress up over her waist, dragging her underwear down to her knees. The cool air of the room kissed her exposed skin, raising goosebumps.
She felt exposed, utterly. More than naked. The green light from the clock painted her skin in sickly hues. She heard the soft rustle of clothing behind her. Then the weight of Melanie on the bed, knees bracketing her thighs, the heat of her body a new presence.
Fingers, slick with Blake’s own arousal, traced her lower lips, a teasing, circling touch that made her hips jerk. “So responsive,” Melanie murmured, almost to herself. Then those fingers abandoned her, and she felt the broad, smooth head of Melanie’s cock press against her entrance instead. It was hotter than skin, a demanding, alive heat.
“Wait—” Blake gasped, her voice strangled.
“Why?” Melanie’s question was genuine curiosity. She pushed forward, just an inch, a devastating, stretching intrusion that stole Blake’s breath. “Your ‘training’ wasn’t for this?”
“It… it was for… for a man,” Blake choked out, the admission feeling foolish even as she said it.
Melanie went still. Then she laughed, a real, full-throated sound that bounced off the canvases in the dark. “Oh, sweetheart. That’s even better.” She leaned over, her long hair curtaining them, her lips against Blake’s spine. “You were practicing for some theoretical boy, all while wanting this.” She emphasized ‘this’ with another slow, sinking push, thicker and more profound than anything Blake had prepared for. A punched-out groan was torn from Blake’s lungs. Her fingers twisted in the bedsheets.
“Isn’t this what you really wanted?” Melanie whispered, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush as she began to move, establishing a deep, rolling rhythm. “When you watched us from the window? When you judged us at the door? All that quiet, serious observation… it was just envy. You wanted to be ruined.”
Each word was a carefully placed stitch, sewing a new truth into Blake’s unraveling mind. Each thrust was the hammer driving it home. The plug, her own secret preparation, now felt like a placeholder, a pathetic imitation of this devastating, complete possession. Melanie’s hands gripped her hips, fingers digging in, guiding her back onto each stroke. The sound was obscenely wet, rhythmic, layered with their ragged breathing.
Blake’s forehead pressed into the comforter. The ache was monumental, a glorious, burning fullness that rewired her nervous system. Her earlier moans had subsided into choked, rhythmic gasps. Her eyes were open, staring unseeing at the fallen sketchpad on the floor. The anguished face seemed to be looking back at her.
“See?” Melanie panted, her own control starting to fracture. Her pace increased, becoming more urgent, less measured. “You take it so well. All that training… you were made for this. Not for some boy. For this.”
The words fused with the sensation, breaking down the last of Blake’s resistance. A sharp, coiling tension began deep in her belly, so intense it was almost painful. She tried to muffle her cry in the bedding as it detonated, a silent, shuddering convulsion that locked her muscles and blurred her vision. She saw stars in the green dark.
Melanie felt the clenching tightness and let out a sharp, guttural sound of her own. She drove in once, twice more, deep and final, her body bowing over Blake’s as she stilled, pulsing heat into the trembling vessel beneath her.
For a long minute, the only sounds were their struggling breaths and the faint, persistent hum of the house. Melanie softened, slipped out, and collapsed onto the bed beside Blake, one arm thrown carelessly across her lower back.
Blake couldn’t move. She felt liquefied, hollowed out and remade. The scent of sex and turpentine and her own sweat was a new perfume. Melanie’s fingers traced idle patterns on her spine.
“You’re more interesting than I thought,” Melanie said finally, her voice regaining its lazy amusement.
Blake just breathed, waiting for the shame to return, for the cold analysis to reassemble itself. It didn’t. In its place was a numb, buzzing clarity.
The clarity was a cold, empty vault. She could inventory herself now: the soreness, the stickiness on her thighs, the smell of someone else on her skin.
Melanie’s finger continued its lazy tracing on her back. “What’s in the closet, Blake?”
The question was too specific.It sliced through the numbness. Blake’s muscles, which had been languid, tightened subtly.She didn’t answer.The green digits on the clock changed.
“You stiffened,” Melanie observed, her voice singsong with discovery. She propped herself up on an elbow, looking down at Blake’s profile. “People only do that when they’ve been caught. Or when they want to be.” Her gaze drifted to the closed closet door, then back to Blake’s averted eyes.“Is it more toys? Something bigger than your little plug?”
“No.” The word was too quick, too sharp.
“Liar.” Melanie said it with a smile. She swung her legs off the bed and padded, naked and unselfconscious, to the closet.Her hand closed over the knob.
“Don’t.” Blake sat up now, the comforter pooling around her waist.Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs.This was different. This was a line.But Melanie had opened the door. She rummaged past hanging clothes, past a box of old textbooks. Her hand emerged clutching a long, black box, its contents visible through the clear plastic window. It was a harness, and nestled against the black fabric was a sizable, flesh-toned silicone dildo.Melanie turned, holding it aloft like a trophy. Her smirk was colossal.“Well. This isn’t for training, is it?” She walked back, dropping the box on the bed between them.It landed with a soft, decisive thump. “This is for giving.Who’s the lucky recipient, Blake? Some cute girl from your poli-sci class?Someone you watch from your window?”
Blake’s mouth was dry. She looked from the box to Melanie’s predatory grin and felt a horrible, vertiginous pull. The secret, once aired, demanded its story. “My mother,” she whispered, the words barely sound.The room held its breath.The clock hummed. Melanie’s eyebrows lifted, not in shock, but in profound, gleaming appreciation.“Kali,” she breathed. She started to laugh, a low, delighted chuckle that shook her shoulders.“Of course.The unfinished sketches.The whiskey. The way she watches everything. You want to finish one of her stories for her.”
“I bought it… on an impulse. I don’t know why.” Blake’s confession tumbled out, fueled by a shame that was somehow liberating.“I’ve never even worn it. I wouldn’t know how.”
Melanie sat on the edge of the bed, her demeanor shifting from mocking to businesslike.She picked up the harness, running her thumb over the stiff buckles. “It’s easy.I’ll show you.” Her eyes locked onto Blake’s. “But you don’t get your first time on your mom.You’d panic. You’d fuck it up.”
“Then what—”
“You practice,” Melanie said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “On me.” A new kind of smile, one Blake hadn’t seen before, played on her lips.It was all calculated concession. “I’ll be your first.Your only. But here’s my condition.” She leaned forward, the harness dangling between them. “When you’re ready for her, Militia and I are in the room.We watch. You do it right, for an audience.”
The proposition hung in the green-lit air.It was monstrous.It was the logical, twisted extension of everything that had already happened. It was a covenant. Blake’s mind, usually so swift to deconstruct and judge, was silent.It saw only the path forward, clear and terrible.
She thought of her mother’s knowing eyes, of the sketches on the walls, of the ruined, beautiful look on Yang’s face. She thought of the plug, a secret for a fantasy of a man, and how pathetic that seemed now.“Okay,” Blake said.The word felt final.
She reached out, not for the harness, but for Melanie. Her hand cupped the back of Melanie’s neck, fingers sliding into the dark hair.She pulled her in and kissed her. It was not a kiss of passion, or of surrender.It was a seal. An agreement signed in the silent, shared language of complicity.When she pulled back, Melanie’s eyes were bright with victory. “Good girl,” she murmured, her thumb stroking Blake’s jawline. “Now let’s see what you bought.”
Melanie’s fingers worked the stiff buckles with practiced ease. The black straps were cool against Blake’s skin, the weight of the silicone unfamiliar and strangely anchoring as Melanie tightened them around her hips and thighs. “Tighter than you think,” Melanie instructed, her voice all business now, pulling the last strap snug. “You don’t want it slipping. That’s amateur hour.”
She stood back, her critical gaze sweeping over Blake, who stood naked except for the harness. The apparatus looked both absurd and intimidating on her slender frame. “Intimidating, right?” Melanie said, reading her expression. She turned and rummaged in the bedside drawer, tossing aside sketch pencils and kneaded erasers before her hand closed on a small, half-full bottle of clear lubricant. “Your mom’s, I assume. Convenient.”
She popped the cap, squeezed a generous, glistening amount into her palm, and smoothed it over the dildo with slow, thorough strokes. The sound was slick and obscene in the quiet room. “Always use more than you think you need,” she said, her eyes locked on Blake’s. “Especially for this.”
Without another word, Melanie turned and bent over the foot of the bed, her hands gripping the rumpled comforter. She arched her back, presenting herself, and used both hands to spread her cheeks apart. The intimacy of the pose, its sheer vulnerability and demand, made Blake’s breath catch. “Now,” Melanie said, her voice slightly muffled. “Line it up. And push in slow. I’ll tell you when.”
Blake’s hands were trembling. She stepped forward, the new weight between her legs altering her balance. She placed one shaking hand on Melanie’s lower back, the heat of her skin a shock. With the other, she guided the slick, broad tip to the tight, puckered entrance. She applied pressure. It resisted, then yielded with a soft, giving pop as the head pushed past the ring of muscle.
Melanie let out a sharp, controlled exhale. “Keep going. Slow.”
Blake pushed forward, an inch, then two, in a slow, steady invasion. The feeling was profoundly strange—a pressure without sensation, a act of penetration divorced from any physical feedback except the visual and the auditory: the tight clutch of muscle around the silicone, Melanie’s low, encouraging grunt. She pushed until her hips met the curve of Melanie’s ass, fully sheathed.
“Okay,” Melanie breathed, her knuckles white on the comforter. “Now move. Just pull back and push in. Find a rhythm.”
Blake obeyed, her initial movements stiff and mechanical, a piston with no engine. The motion felt alien, an awkward simulation. She was all mind, no instinct.
“You’re thinking too much,” Melanie groaned, turning her head to the side. Her cheek was pressed against the bedding. “Stop being a spectator. You’re not drawing this, you’re doing it. Use your hips. Feel it.”
Blake closed her eyes. She focused on the pivot of her own pelvis, on driving forward from her core, not just from her knees. She pushed harder, deeper, putting her weight into it. The sound changed, becoming a wet, solid slap of skin against skin.
“Yeah,” Melanie hissed, a note of genuine approval cutting through her usual mockery. “Like that. More hip. Less… deliberation.”
The rhythm found her then, a clumsy, growing certainty. The power of it was a dark, blooming shock—the ability to make the predatory, unflappable Melanie gasp and clutch the sheets, to set the pace of her breathing. Blake’s own earlier vulnerability began to transmute, melting and reforming into something else entirely with each thrust. She wasn’t being ruined anymore. She was learning to ruin. And the lesson was intoxicating.
And the lesson was intoxicating.
A new equilibrium settled into Blake’s muscles, a confident, driving rhythm that was all her own. She watched the pale skin of Melanie’s back grow flushed, listened to each gasped exhale syncopated with the slap of their bodies. This was control, distilled and weaponized.
Melanie’s supportive grunts shifted into something softer, less instructive.Her grip on the comforter loosened. Then, surprisingly, she pushed herself upright, leaning back until her spine was flush against Blake’s front. She guided Blake’s hands to her hips, never breaking the deep, rolling connection.
“Keep going,” Melanie murmured, her head lolling back onto Blake’s shoulder. The position was more intimate, more vulnerable, letting Blake take her weight. Blake’s thrusts adjusted, becoming shorter, deeper, grinding the harness’s base against her own clit with every movement.
Melanie chuckled, a breathy, surprised sound right in Blake’s ear. “It’s been a while since anyone’s fucked me. It feels… refreshing.”
The admission, casual and unguarded, sent a jolt through Blake. Her analytical mind, now fully engaged in this new calculus of power, processed it instantly: the predator welcomed the bite. Blake’s left hand, splayed on Melanie’s stomach, slid upward.She found a peaked nipple and pinched it, firm and deliberate.
Melanie hissed, arching against her. “Yeah.”
Blake’s other hand drifted down from Melanie’s hip, through the coarse hair, and wrapped around Melanie’s cock. It was hot and stiff in her palm. She began to stroke it slowly, in counterpoint to her own thrusts, a twisting, pulling rhythm that made Melanie curse softly.“Fuck, Blake.” The name was a ragged acknowledgment. Melanie’s hands came up, tangling in Blake’s hair behind her, holding her close.The dynamic had completed its silent, seismic shift.Blake was no longer a student practicing. She was conducting the orchestra of sensation, playing Melanie’s body with both hands.
She increased the pace of her strokes, feeling the tense, throbbing response in her grip. Her own hips fell into a sharper, more punishing cadence, spurred by the choked sounds Melanie was now making. The room was a symphony of their making: skin, breath, the creak of the bed, the wet, rhythmic proof of their joining.Blake understood her mother’s sketches then. It wasn’t about capturing a face, but a feeling—this precise, fleeting moment where a person unravels into pure, animal response.She was witnessing it, causing it, from the inside.
“I’m close,” Melanie gasped, her body rigid and trembling against Blake’s.
“I know,” Blake whispered back, her voice low and strangely calm. She tightened her grip and drove into her harder, a final, claiming series of thrusts.
Melanie cried out, a short, sharp sound as her release pulsed over Blake’s fist. Her body went taut then slack, sinking heavily against Blake, who held her upright, slowing her movements to a gentle, prolonging rock until the tremors subsided.
For a moment, they stayed like that, connected in the green gloom, breathing each other’s air. Then Melanie turned her head, her lips finding Blake’s in a slow, deep, oddly grateful kiss.When she pulled away, her smirk had returned, but it was softer now. “You’re a quick study.”
Blake didn’t smile back. A cold, clear focus had settled over her.She slowly withdrew from Melanie, her hands busy with the harness buckles. The silicone slipped free with a soft, wet sound. She let the harness drop to the floor with a dismissive finality.
She looked down at Melanie, who was watching her with intrigued, heavy-lidded eyes.“You said you’d show me,” Blake stated, her tone flat. “You said you’d be my first.”
“And I was.” Melanie stretched languidly on the bed.“That was practice,” Blake said. She placed a hand on Melanie’s chest and pushed, firmly, until Melanie was lying flat on her back. “You said my first time on my mom, you’d watch.” Blake climbed onto the bed, kneeling over her. “But you didn’t say that was the only time you’d watch.”
Understanding flickered in Melanie’s eyes, followed by bright amusement.She laughed, spreading her arms.“So commanding. What’s your plan, princess?”