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Mummy’s Good Girl Pt. 02

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A couple of days ago, my whole life turned upside-down, all in one day, Wednesday the 16th of Tishrei 5780, the middle of Sukkot. Actually, it’s more like my whole life had been upside-down, and it suddenly came rightway-up. I suddenly found myself in a mummy-domme little-girl relationship with Joyce Urquhart, the smartest, sweetest, sexiest woman in the universe, my wonderful Mummy. Somehow she fell in love, nearly at first sight, with weirdo me — me?! — and I fell in love right back at her. All my myriad weirdo qualities and embarrassing inadequacies turn out to be things that she adores and wants me to be proud of. She took charge of my life, getting me out of my dead-end convenience store job and into a fine arts degree program. She rescued me from my rat-hole apartment, and now I’m living with her in her cozy duplex, with my own studio space in the basement. She even got my parents to apologize for treating me like the black sheep of the family all these years. And then there’s the mind-blowing, heart-melting sex, available pretty much on demand — her demand or mine it doesn’t much matter which — I feel like the proverbial kid turned loose in the candy store.

* * *

Well, the arts program part isn’t a done deal yet. When Mummy first presented the idea to me, I was a bit preoccupied with the immediate prospect of sex with this gorgeous, confident woman; I didn’t really have time to ponder what this new direction for my life would mean. If it works out, I’ll be able to give all my time to my drawing … and to pleasing Mummy. That still sounds too good to be true; Mummy herself seems to be good to be true, but she’s real all right: the well-used state of my pussy confirms it. Anyway, Mummy’s friend Dr Masha Olenkova is coming over this morning to look at my drawings. I’ve got a lot riding on what she thinks of them — though she has seen a few of them already. She might look at the rest of my stuff and say sorry, no talent here after all. But even if that happens, even if the art career idea goes up in smoke, I know Mummy will still love me and want to take care of me. She told me so last night, as she held me in her arms.

When Masha arrives at our house (I’m still excited to call it that), I’m a little intimidated at first by her get-up — a mint-green felt cape, big dangly earrings, mint-green horn-rim glasses — I guess this is what artsy people wear. Mummy bustles around the kitchen, making tea, serving slices of the strudel she baked for us.

‘So this is Chavah, our prodigy’, Masha smiles. She kisses me on both cheeks, European-style. Masha has a mild Russian accent; her voice is low and reassuring. Maybe Mummy warned her not to come on too strong, or maybe Masha herself has a kind of maternal energy that puts me at ease. It helps that Mummy is sitting right beside me, holding my hand. As my heart pounds, Masha begins to look through my collection of drawings. I had arranged them in chronological order, but she rearranges them by theme: butterflies, cats, flowers.

‘Your colours are exciting. There’s a lot of raw power here, yes, and a good eye. Your challenge will be in developing nuance. Your pictures scream, my dear; sometimes it’s only necessary to whisper. This one,’ she holds up one of my recent butterfly pictures, ‘is heading in the right direction. The juxtaposition of colours works perfectly with the design, it doesn’t go overboard.’

I nod. That is the butterfly picture that I am most proud of. It feels good to hear Masha confirm my own judgement. In the last couple of days, I’ve churned out six more pictures of Mummy, three of them nudes (at Mummy’s request). Masha now turns to these.

‘Now these … these are not screams, nor are they whispers. These, my dear, are poetry. Congratulations. This is exactly what I meant my nuance. You have great power, and you have sensitivity too. These nudes combine a kind of innocent naiveté with a powerful erotic awareness.’

Yup, I think, that’s me to a T: naive and erotically obsessed with Mummy.

‘I told you Masha! Isn’t she amazing?’ Mummy kvells, squeezing my hand excitedly.

‘Yes, all the ingredients are there. Congratulations. Chavah my dear, you have something to say, and you know how to say it. You just need to become literate in the thousands of years of art that has preceded you, so that your work becomes an intelligent contribution to that long conversation. It’s going to be a pleasure teaching you.’

Masha brought along paperwork, already filled-out, for me to sign. She asks me first if I’m sure I don’t want to consider applying to more prestigious art schools, Parsons, Pratt, or the Chicago Institute. But that would mean moving away from Mummy, which is out of the question. The term has already started: we debate whether I should join the classes mid-semester, but Mummy favours waiting till January, so I have some time to get my confidence up before tossing me in among the other students. In the meantime, I’m to practise some techniques casino oyna that Masha explains to me, and she promises to come over once a week to give me feedback and bring me books to read.

* * *

That evening, Mummy comes to Shul with me. After the service, as we’re eating apples and honey left over from Rosh Hashanah, she engages Rabbi Ruth with a barrage of history-of-Judaism questions. Well, Mummy is a historian. The Rabbi seems delighted to meet such an astute questioner. She tells Mummy about her Wednesday-night Judaism classes for interfaith couples, and before I know it, Mummy has signed us up, and written a membership cheque as well. For purposes of Temple Sha’arei Shalom, Mummy and I are now officially a couple!

Mummy comes away all excited about expanding her research on seventeenth century religious wars beyond the Catholic-Protestant conflicts, addressing the Chmielnicki massacre of Polish Jews and its aftermath, considering its connection to the general religious upheaval in Europe at the time, and the pattern that it set for subsequent European anti-Semitism. Ninety percent of what she’s talking about goes over my head, but she’s clearly firing on all eight academic cylinders, and I’m pleased.

* * *

For our Sunday-night dinner with my parents, Mummy makes baked trout with little potatoes and carrots, and a home-made cheesecake for dessert, having checked with me on rules of kashrut. (That’s for my benefit; my dad and mum don’t keep kosher.) My parents, having gotten over the age-gap relationship issue pretty quickly, relate easily to Mummy as a peer. The Lagavulin whisky Mummy serves after dinner seems to help. I don’t partake myself. (Alcoholic drinks taste yucky to me. I never have more than a sip of wine for kiddush.) My dad in particular turns on the charm, which I’ve only seen glimpses of before. They’re clearly impressed with her academic credentials, asking about the scholarly books she has published. By the end of the evening, she and my mum are gabbing away like a pair of yentas, reminiscing about music from the nineties.

The weirdest thing is … my parents seem to be impressed with me now, asking to see my drawings (we’ve hidden the nudes), and comparing them favourably to the Maud Lewis paintings that Mummy shows them. I know my parents know bubkes about art, but they know that other people who do are taking my stuff seriously, and they don’t want to seem like Philistines.

I don’t expect my dad and mum to suddenly turn into different people. They’ve always been workaholics, without much time or energy to spare for my sister or me. But it’s nice that I’m finally garnering some positive attention from them, and that they approve of my new life with Mummy. They offer to pay my rent, which Mummy politely declines. They then offer to cover my tuition and fees — it actually doesn’t come to much, with the scholarship Masha got me. Mummy, sensing their need to make amends to me, agrees. They intuit that Mummy is the one making decisions for me; they don’t comment on this; they just seem to accept it.

* * *

I heard somewhere that professors are supposed to be absent-minded. Whoever came up with that one never met Professor Joyce Urquhart. Mummy believes that thorough list-making is the solution to most of life’s problems. As we celebrate our one-week anniversary, the list-making starts. She asks me to make a list of foods that I like, foods I don’t like. She asks for lists of my favourite movies and music. In the days that follow, she takes inventory of my clothes and makes a list of items I need, including a warmer winter coat and boots. Then she takes me out and buys them all for me. Taking care of me like this makes Mummy happier than a pig in shit, she tells me, pardon her French.

She also asks for a list of my favourite sexual practices. That’s easy: any sexual practice that Mummy likes I like too. I’ve particularly come to enjoy “rimming” with Mummy (tushy kissing and licking), both as receiver and giver. I’m not just a “little”. I’m also, it turns out, intensely submissive: I revel in submitting to Mummy, sexually and in every other way. Nothing gets me hotter than the prospect of pleasing her.

Mummy makes lists for me of her household rules and chores. I’m a little worried about having to remember all of them — I myself am completely absent-minded. But Mummy is mainly interested in my willingness to correct my behaviour once she reminds me, and she’s OK with reminding me repeatedly if need be. Of course I’m willing to do anything Mummy asks of me — my primary goal in life now, aside from my art, is to be her good girl. None of the chores are beyond my capacity — when I remember. And I will try hard to remember, I resolve, if doing them pleases her.

It helps that Mummy’s rules are never arbitrary. If she’s got a rule, there’s a good reason for it, usually having to do with my own safety and well-being. It’s not about her proving her dominance over me. Some mummies, canlı casino I learn, deliberately provoke their littles to disobedience with capricious commands so that they can enjoy punishing them. That doesn’t sound loving to me, even if the little craves the punishment. I’m so glad Mummy is not that way.

I don’t just love her, I don’t just want sex with her — as I get to know her better, I come to admire and respect her deeply as well. I learn that most of the vegetables and fruit we’ve been eating come from her own little front-yard garden. On top of everything else she does, she’s the faculty sponsor for the campus Extinction Rebellion chapter, working to save the planet. Mummy is a good person, a Righteous Gentile; she makes the world a better place by being in it. Of course I want to obey her rules. I don’t crave punishment, I crave Mummy’s approval. I crave pleasing her in every way that I can.

* * *

She also has a list of rules for how we relate to each other. Gulp. It’s after dinner. Mummy’s in her office, working away on her laptop, with a half dozen books lying open in front of her on her desk. I don’t like to interrupt her work, but one of her rules is that we talk about stuff like this. She looks up at me as I come in, with a big happy grin that warms my heart. She sees I’ve got the list in my hand.

‘What is it, sweet girl?’

‘It’s about the “no lying” rule. Mummy, I really want to say yes to all your rules.’ I take a deep breath. ‘But … when I’m feeling overwhelmed — really “little” — if I’m, um, confronted about something I’m afraid to admit to, my first impulse is to deny it. It’s kind of a reflex for me. I’m scared I’ll do that some time, even though I don’t want to, and then you’ll think I don’t care about being honest with you, that you can’t trust me, even if I admit to the truth later. You might decide I’m not your good girl anymore.’

She takes me onto her lap and kisses me.

‘You remember what you said to me that first night, that I can’t screw this up? That goes for you too, eh. I’m your Mummy now, sweet girl, “no matter what”. The rules are just tools to help us be clear with each other about our wants and expectations; they’re not “red lines” to be crossed at your peril. Even if you did something that made me really upset, you would still be my good girl. I would explain to you why I was upset, and we would work out a solution. I’m never going to just decide to stop being your Mummy. Get straight on that.’

‘OK. Thank you. Although,’ I smirk, ‘you hardly make we want to get “straight”, Mummy.’

‘Ooh, very clever, miss clever-pants. I walked right into that one, didn’t I? But seriously, about the “no lying” rule, your telling me about that now shows me you do care about honesty, and that I can trust you. Thank you. You are such a good girl, Chavah, and I’m so delighted that you’re mine. We’ll just tweak the rule a little: you’ll tell me the truth about any lies as soon as you come out of your little space and we have an opportunity to talk about it. Meanwhile I’ll know to take with a grain of salt what you tell me when you’re in your little space. I can certainly live with that.’

‘OK Mummy.’

‘Do you have any rules you want to add to the list, sweetie?’

‘Lots of sex and cuddling?’

‘Sweet girl, that’s a wish, not a rule,’ she laughs, ‘a wish I very much share. You can always ask for sex and cuddling from me, and I’ll ask for it too. Do we need to make a rule around that?’

I shake my head.

‘So, remember, none of my lists or rules is set in stone. We can always add to them or change them if they don’t seem to be working. Got it?’

‘Mm-hmm. Can I ask for some sex and cuddling right now Mummy? I’ve been wanting all evening … to, um, have these.’ I brush my hand over her magnificent bosom. I can feel her nipples under her blouse and bra.

‘My baby girl needs some titty-time with Mummy?’ she asks huskily.

‘Yes Mummy, titty-time, please please please!’

‘Oh sweet girl! I just need a few minutes to finish up my lectures for tomorrow. No … you know what, I can finish them up in the morning. C’mon.’

She leads me out to the living room couch, her fingers swiftly unbuttoning her blouse, impatiently pulling it open. I lie down with my head in her lap. She unclasps her bra, letting her heavy breasts spill down into my face. Her nipples are already erect; her large, pale areolae are all rubbery-bumpy. I take one into my mouth and gratefully suck, while I cup the other one in my palm. Mummy smells so good, the nipple in my mouth tastes and feels so good beneath my tongue. She runs her fingers through my frizzy hair, cradling my head as I suck. ‘Oh sweet girl,’ she murmurs contentedly, ‘I love the way you do that.’ Happy moaning noises escape through my nose.

This continues for several minutes. ‘My other titty is getting jealous,’ she eventually says, so I switch from right to left, giving it equal time, equal devotion. Mummy kaçak casino hums ‘I See the Moon’ to me as I suck on her. (I told her my Bubbe used to sing that to me.) A feeling of deep connection to Mummy fills my heart.

But the intermittent catches in her breathing, and the subtle shifting of her lap beneath my head, tell me that Mummy is getting aroused by what I’m doing, and that gets me aroused too. Her hand has been stroking my flank as I nurse on her. I shift my position slightly, spreading my knees, inviting her touch, and she reaches up beneath my skirt, caressing my inner thighs, brushing her fingers over the gusset of my panties.

‘You’re wet, sweet girl,’ she chuckles.

I wriggle out of my panties, baring my kitty to her fingers, and then I resume sucking, moving back to the right titty.

‘My sweet girl’, she hisses, as she lubricates her fingers in my folds, then slides one finger deep into my honeypot. My vaginal walls clench around it greedily, wanting more; but she’s not going to bring me off just yet. She just keeps her finger inside me, sharing that connection with me, as I continue to nurse, switching back and forth between left and right. Mummy’s breasts are so fantastic! After some time, she adds a second finger, and begins slowly moving them inside me with a corkscrew motion. I whimper.

‘Does my sweet baby girl need to come?’

I nod eagerly into the breast that fills my mouth. She curves her fingers, massaging upward in my honeypot … giving me a delicious sensation unlike anything I’ve felt before.

‘That’s your G spot, baby. Does that feel good?’

I nod again, whimpering more desperately, my pelvis bucking against her fingers, wondering, with part of my brain, when Mummy’s going to show me my A, B, C, D, E and F spots. But mostly my brain is just screaming that I need to come!

‘You are so beautiful, Chavah,’ she whispers. ‘Come for me now, come for Mummy, sweet girl. Give me your beautiful cummy. Oh, fuck, baby girl … I’m coming too. Suck harder baby!’

Her well-lubricated thumb rubs the hood of my stiff clitty while her other fingers rub my G spot, and I come, loving the perfect Mummy titty that fills my mouth, loving the perfect Mummy fingers moving inside me, sucking hard and biting down gently on her nipple.

‘My sweet girl,’ she grunts, ‘my Chavah, uunnnnggGGHHHH!’

We pause a for minute to recover. Then she suddenly scoops me up in her arms, rising up from the couch, and she carries me into the bedroom. Despite her zaftig figure, Mummy is a strong woman from all that gardening: there are muscles under the plush upholstery.

She tears off her skirt, yanks down her panties. She lies back in bed.

‘Baby girl … your mouth on my kitty … right now.’

Mummy’s kitty is not really a kitty … it’s more like a great big powerful lioness, tawny fur and all. My mouth is her prey, and I rush to surrender to my hungry predator, leaping into bed, burying my face between her thighs, offering the furry lioness my lips, my tongue, my fingers … my heart.

She comes for me four times back to back (yay, a new record for us!). We cuddle for a while and catch our breath. Then she gets out the feeldoe and gives me a deliciously thorough fucking, a real pelvic workout. I come twice in a row, which is rare for me. I’m usually too sensitive after I come for an immediate repeat.

Afterwards, we get up and brush our teeth, then settle back in bed. She reads me The Bamboo Princess, by Toshi Maeda. We went to the public library a few days ago, to the children’s section, and she checked out some story books for me. My parents never had time for bedtime stories when I was little, so this wonderful literature is all new to me. I love the soothing sound of her voice as she reads to me now, I love how she shows me the pictures (they give me ideas for my own drawings), I love the story itself, I love the comfort of her warm naked body against mine as sleep overtakes me.

* * *

Mummy has already left for school by the time I wake up. It’s one of her busy teaching days. I wish she would wake me up too, so I could spend just a little time with her in the morning. Maybe I could ask for a rule about that. I feel bereft, waking up without her.

I shower, dress and go out to the kitchen. On days when Mummy’s home, she cooks me nice breakfasts, but on her teaching days I just pour myself some cold cereal and milk. And tea. I do know how to make myself a cup of tea, with a teabag. I see Mummy has left me a tuna sandwich with carrot sticks and a cut-up apple in the fridge for lunch. I text her ‘Thank you Mummy’ with twenty smiley face emojis. A minute later she replies, ‘Off to teach in a minute. Have a wonderful day, sweet girl. See you tonight.’ Also with twenty smiley faces.

I put on my art-smock and go down in the basement. Masha wants me to play around with watercolours. I try recreating, from memory, one of the pictures in The Bamboo Princess. I remember clouds reflected on the rippling surface of a lake, but I don’t know quite how the illustrator got that effect: I need to see the picture again. I go upstairs to our bedroom to get the book. The phone rings.

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