Chapter 2: Clover wants to be a pet for step mommy
The smell of honey-glazed pork ribs had never really left the kitchen. It lingered in the air, woven now with another, thicker scent—the intimate, musky perfume of Bambi’s sweat and release. For Clover, it was the smell of heaven.
She couldn’t stay away.
The next morning, as Bambi watered her ferns on the sun porch, Clover appeared. She didn’t speak. She just got on her knees behind the wicker chair, pushed the loose linen shorts aside, and pressed her face in, breathing deeply before her tongue began its frantic work.
“Clover-bear! It’s nine a.m.!” Bambi laughed, a nervous trill, but the watering can trembled in her hand. Her hips settled back into the familiar warmth of the girl’s face.
Later, when Bambi was bent over the dryer, sorting socks, Clover was there again, nuzzling and licking through the thin cotton of her leggings until the fabric was soaked through. Bambi’s giggles turned into shallow pants, her forehead pressed against the warm machine.
By the third day, it was a silent understanding. A new, bizarre routine. Bambi would be doing something mundane—unloading groceries, plugging in her phone, reaching for a high shelf—and she’d feel that presence. That hot, desperate breath. And then the wet pressure.
Clover was everywhere. A rabid, dedicated shadow. Her glasses were perpetually fogged. She smelled of Bambi, all the time.
“You’re kinda like a little puppy,” Bambi mused one afternoon, swaying slightly as Clover’s tongue delved deep behind her on the living room rug. “A really… focused puppy.”
Clover pulled back, gasping, saliva webbing her chin to the shining, pink star of Bambi’s hole. “I wanna be your puppy,” she panted, her voice reedy with need. “Your ass pet. Just yours. Please, Bambi. Let me be it. I need it. I need your treats.”
“My… treats?” Bambi glanced over her shoulder, her doll-face confused.
“Your gas,” Clover blurted, face blazing, but she didn’t look away. “The… the other stuff, too. Everything. I wanna be the thing you use. Your pet.”
Bambi’s cheeks flushed a pretty pink. She didn’t answer, just turned her head forward and let out a soft, contemplative sigh that rippled into a long, bubbly brap directly onto Clover’s eager face. Clover whimpered, inhaling it like it was oxygen.
It escalated because Clover couldn’t help herself. The hunger was a living thing, gnawing at her insides. On the fourth day, in the hallway bathroom, with Bambi leaning over the sink to check a lipstick smudge, Clover’s fingers joined the fray.
She was kissing and licking the enormous, pliant hole, feeling it flutter against her mouth, when her own need overcame her. She pulled back, spit-string dangling, and pressed one trembling finger against the center.
It slid in, effortlessly, to the knuckle. The heat was incredible. Bambi froze, her eyes going wide in the mirror.
“Clover…”
“More,” Clover begged, her own breathing ragged. She added a second finger, scissoring them slowly. The hole stretched, accepting, a dark, wet maw. “It’s so good, you’re so good, please.”
Bambi’s protest died in her throat, replaced by a low moan. Her elbows buckled, and she caught herself on the porcelain sink. Clover worked her fingers in and out, the slick, tight heat milking them. Driven by a frenzy, she added a third, then, with a grunt of effort, a fourth. The stretch was monumental, the sight obscene—her small hand nearly buried, fingers pumping vigorously into that gaping, glistening opening.
Bambi came, hard and silent, her whole massive body shuddering, a fresh torrent of thick, sour gas expelling around Clover’s wrist. She slumped forward, her forehead against the cool mirror.
For a long minute, the only sounds were the drip of the faucet and their combined, ragged breathing. Clover slowly withdrew her soaked fingers, bringing them to her mouth and cleaning them with utter devotion, her eyes rolling back in her head at the taste.
Bambi finally pushed herself upright. She looked dazed, her lipstick smeared. She turned and looked down at Clover, who knelt in a puddle of her pastel skirt, a mess of sweat, spit, and bliss.
“You know,” Bambi said, her voice soft and wondering. “My husband… he gets all icky about my tummy troubles. Thinks it’s gross. He just wants to, you know, do it normal.” She bit her plump lip. “He never… makes me feel like that. Like I just exploded into a million sparkles.”
Clover stared up, hope a frantic bird in her chest.
Bambi smoothed her dress down, a futile gesture. A slow, giggly smile spread across her face, crinkling the corners of her eyes. “You’re a very good pet, you know that? My little secret ass pet.”
The words unspooled something deep in Clover’s gut. She vibrated with pure, unadulterated joy.
“So,” Bambi continued, leaning down to boop Clover’s nose with a sticky finger, her tone shifting to conspiratorial whisper. “We should probably do this all the time, right? Just us girls. My treat-dispenser and me.” She winked, a gesture so cluelessly lewd it made Clover’s heart stutter. “Now help me up, sweetie. I think my knees are all wobbly.”