I should start by pointing out that I’m not a lesbian.
At least, I don’t think I am. I mean, I’ve never really had any experience with girls to test it; until recently, I’ve been perfectly happy with my husband, and before him I didn’t really have any experience with anyone at all.
I should start by pointing out that I’m not a lesbian.
At least, I don’t think I am. I mean, I’ve never really had any experience with girls to test it; until recently, I’ve been perfectly happy with my husband, and before him I didn’t really have any experience with anyone at all. My first time was with him. Six months later we were married, and three months after that the twins came along.
So I was surprised, when my girls turned eighteen, to discover myself wondering what they looked like naked.
A physical description seems to be the standard way to start these stories – I’ll begin with myself. My name is Joanna, I’m a forty-three year old Brit, happily married mother of two. I’ve been told that I look a bit like Meryl Streep, though I don’t particularly see it myself. I’m in fair shape for a woman of my age; I’m not going to lie and say I have the “body of a 30-year old”, but I can honestly say I have the quite attractive body of a forty-three year old.
I’m tall, but not too tall. Red hair, which my daughters inherited. 36C breasts with a bit of sag (they were smaller before the pregnancy, but I’ve never had any complaints) and while there’s a bit of weight around my middle, Joshua has never seemed to be too put off.
I’ll describe the girls, too: Brianna and Rebecca. Brianna’s older by a few minutes – they’re twins, but not identical. Redheads, obviously. They’re both in shape – not sporty, active enough for their age; they’re certainly not obese. I haven’t been bra-shopping with them for a few years, but I still do their laundry, so I know that Rebecca is a 34B and Brianna is a 34C and that they both prefer white underwear – I think that black would be a better contrast against their pale skin…but I’m getting ahead of myself.
Beyond that, it was all imagination.
The exact date escapes me, but it was a few weeks after the twins’ birthday (birthday parties are the second-worst part of having twins, right after the pregnancy) that I started picturing them nude. I think I know what caused it – boredom.
I was bored. Bored with life, bored with sex, bored with everything. Joshua and I had grown sexually bored of each other a few years prior; god knows that we’d put the effort in. Costumes, underwear, toys. We cracked out the Kama Sutra once or twice, but none of it did any good.
We had reached the point where we were even talking about getting a third party in, but we couldn’t agree on a gender – as I mentioned, I’m not a lesbian, and Joshua wouldn’t even entertain the idea of sharing me with another man. Eventually, we dropped the idea, and our sex life petered off shortly afterwards.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my husband. But, ignoring anniversaries (which we sometimes did) we hadn’t had sex in years. There was no question of divorce – we were still happy together, but inactivity in the bedroom had led to me taking care of my own needs. Once a week, twice on special occasions. I can only assume Joshua was doing the same; I couldn’t imagine him cheating on me.
And so I can only assume that it was my bored mind’s way of entertaining itself, perhaps attempting to give my libido a kick start. I started watching the girls, watched how they moved their young bodies around the house. Often awkward, occasionally with a grace beyond their years. Whether they were relaxing on the couch, playing tennis outside, running for the Tube, I started to notice them. They never spotted me (I was just their boring, stuck-in-a-rut mother) watching them, but the whole time I was imagining them naked.
I hadn’t actually seen them in a state of undress for years now – the last time I remembered helping Rebecca in the bath was when she was 12, and Brianna was probably even a few years before then. So I truly was using my imagination: I pictured them running down the hallway in the nude, their small budding breasts bouncing, unrestrained. I wondered how much pubic hair they had; I remembered, at that age, being hairy as a mink, but things are different these days, aren’t they?
For a while, I tried to stop. It wasn’t right, I reasoned, for a mother to look at her daughters that way. Wondering what Brianna looked like in the shower, water running down her back, picturing Rebecca, naked in front of the mirror, assessing herself, leaning forwards and pouting in a youthful attempt to look sexy. It wasn’t how a mother should be thinking about her offspring.
But after a few days, I gave into it. After all, I reasoned, it was completely harmless. And, as I may have mentioned, I was bored.
I don’t remember exactly when I started picturing my daughters during my weekly masturbation session, but that was when I knew I had crossed a line.
Friday night was “my” night; Joshua would go out with his pals, the girls had youth group and would frequently stay at a friend’s house. I’d set up a few candles, run myself a nice bath…if there was wine in the house I’d have a glass, and try not to think about how boring and cliche even my own masturbation was.
Typically I would visualise a soap star, or the Australian man who had done our windows a few times (something about that accent always gets me…) but this particular Friday, a mental image of the girls popped into my head.
At first I tried to shake it. I’d force it out of my head, try to think of rippling muscles covered in suds, or Jack Branning taking me in the wrestling ring…but it kept coming back. The closer I got, the more it persisted, until eventually I just embraced it and let out my climactic sigh, a vision of my own daughters in my head.
After all, who was I hurting?
After that, it became a regular fantasy. And, as I’m sure many of you reading this will have encountered, over time fantasies require escalation. Soon just the image of my daughters wasn’t enough – they had to be dancing through my mind, taking part in in all manner of escapades. Brianna at school, flashing her panties to the boys. Rebecca playing tennis in the nude, bouncing as she served the ball.
A month later, I was pleasuring myself two or three times a week, imagining the girls in more and more depraved situations – Rebecca sneaking off from youth group with the vicar’s son, letting him feel her up behind the pulpit. Brianna, on her knees during morning tea at her school, sucking off the school bully. Rebecca, bent over a desk at school, fucking a teacher for a better grade, Brianna watching and playing with herself…
The rest of my life was still as boring as ever, but my fantasy life had suddenly exploded.
I wish I could be more precise with dates, but it’s not something I particularly needed to keep track of. When you have nothing to fill your days with, they blur into each other, weeks becoming months becoming years, until you find yourself middle-aged, counting down the years until menopause, playing with yourself with images of the new fertile generation in your head.
While I don’t remember exactly what date or week it was, I remember it was another Friday when an image came into my head that would change my life forever.
I don’t know if this is true of all boarding schools, but it was rampant in mine – my girlfriends and I used to practice kissing. My friends were all gorgeous, and I suppose I wasn’t too bad myself – a lot of men would have paid a lot of good money to see what went on behind closed doors, but I’d forgotten about it myself until I was in my usual bath, my hands doing their usual job.
It occurred to me, you see, that if I’d had a twin sister, I know we would have used each other for practice. And while things have changed since my day, surely death and taxes aren’t the only constants – I feel that my girls would have after their old mother in at least one regard.
The second I had that image in my head, the mental picture of my twin girls kissing, sharing their saliva, pressing their bodies against each other, maybe using their hands to explore, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
And not just in my own private time, either – whenever the two girls and I were in the room, I was scanning their faces for signals, secret flirtations between one another. Whenever I left the two of them in a room together, I couldn’t help but imagine them passionately locking lips the second I left. Every time we were sat around the dinner table, I imagined their hands sneaking up each other’s legs, their fingers pumping in and out of each other as we made small talk over supper…
At this point, my fantasies stopped being completely harmless.
I was aware of the change, too, and I tried to put it out of my head. I tried to think about something, anything else, but it was like a pink elephant; trying not to think about it consumed my waking hours, there was no room for any other thoughts.
I don’t know if my daughters suspected anything; I tried not to let on, but when your eighteen-year old daughters come to you for help on a maths problem and you’re doing everything you can (and failing) to stop picturing them naked, locked in a sweaty incestuous embrace, you don’t have the spare mental energy to see if they’ve noticed a change in your behaviour.
I should tell you about my husband at this point – he’s a good man, and it’s not his fault that we’ve sexually drifted away from one other. He’s reliable, he earns enough to keep us in the lifestyle that we’re accustomed to, and god bless him and his hobbies.
Ever since I’ve known him, almost 18 years now, he’s discovered a new hobby every few months. When I first met him, it was inventing (which he’s come back to several times over the years, always managing to get distracted just before he can actually create something.) Right now it’s photography, a few months ago it was home-brewing beer, and before that he was seriously considering getting into bee-keeping.
But the hobby relevant to this tale, and probably the reason you’ve clicked through to hear my tale in the first place, is hypnosis. Not “watch dangled in front of your face” hypnosis (though he did try that for a few weeks before giving up) – he invested in a subliminal hypnosis kit, to try to stop himself from smoking (partially at my request – his previous hobby had, for reasons too ridiculous to explain here, required him to smoke cigars. It stunk.)
I don’t really understand how the tapes work – you record your voice, or a voice that you trust, and put it into a special tape deck. The deck layers it over the music, and so when you’re listening you’d never know that it was anything but a song. All the while, your subconscious brain is processing the messages – you have to listen to the same message for at least a few nights before it kicks in, but when it does you see results quickly.
The kit included some relaxation music, instructions on what sort of subliminal messages worked best, and speakers that attached to the bed. I have no idea if it was the tapes, or my threats to divorce and/or castrate him if I found one more cigar burn on the couch, but less than a month after he started the program he was off the Cubans. By then, we’d both grown accustomed to falling asleep to the music, so we’d kept those and put everything else in the basement.
The girls refer to the basement as “Daddy’s Forgotten Toy-Chest” – there’s a remnant of every hobby Joshua’s ever had down there, from the ventriloquist dummy to the stamp collection to the “Start Your Own T-Shirt Company” starter’s kit (and thirty-five unsold “Born to be Wilde” shirts.)
Obviously I never intended for it to go as far as it did. I was just curious. I just needed to know – I thought I’d just get them to confide in old mum, find out what was happening under my own roof. Just a bit of information to fuel my fantasies.
I genuinely never intended for it to go any further than that.
It was a pretty simple system. Easy to find, too; right under the jam-making equipment, above the “golf from home” kit. The provided messages were for weight loss and nail-biting, but gave you an idea of the sort of tone you had to use. They were also in a harsh American accent, but I assumed I didn’t have to mimic that.
“Mum,” Brianna asked, “Why are you moving your stupid sleep-tapes into our room?”
The twins have always shared a room. Neither Joshua or I grew up with any siblings and we felt it was something that our childhoods lacked.
“They’re good for you,” I replied, “They’ll help you sleep better, you’ll be more rested for school.”
Brianna rolled her eyes. Rebecca didn’t even look up from her laptop as I attached one set of speakers to each bed.
The message I’d recorded was simple, and the same for both of them:
You trust your mother. You trust your mother. Mother knows best. You can share things with your mother.
You must always answer mother’s questions. Mum knows best. Help Mum out around the house more.
Whatever Mum says, goes. If Mum asks a question, you must answer. Never lie to your mother. Never lie to Mum.
I hoped that switching between mother, my role, and Mum, my “name” to the girls would help it work no matter how much they thought of me, whether as a person or just as their mother. (I know that at that age, my Mum was an obstacle first and a person a distant second.)
I didn’t notice any difference for the first few days, and even after that it was subtle. If I hadn’t been looking for it, intently examining their faces and their bodies every time they entered the room (the bodies were less relevant to what I was looking for, but it had become a habit,) I probably wouldn’t have said there was any difference, but by the end of the week, they were coming home and telling me about their days. It was nice.
After a week, I switched the tapes out.
You trust your mother. You trust Mum. You can tell her anything. You can ask her woman questions. You can talk to her about sex. Do your assignments more than a night before they’re due. Mum is cool. You can trust Mum with secrets. Tell your mother about sex. Never lie to your mother. Always tell Mum the truth. Your mother knows about sex. You can tell your mother anything.
This one was less successful. For the first week, absolutely nothing. I was waiting for a hint, anything that would open up a conversation, anything where I could get some details from my daughters, anything to help fuel a fantasy.
I was starting to get frustrated. As well as that, without our own sleep-tapes, Joshua and I were both having trouble sleeping. One night I think he woke up while I was pleasuring myself (I had been unable to sleep and unable to get images of my daughters out of my mind, so I had done what came naturally.) I lay still, and after a few minutes he started snoring.
The next day, two things happened. I bought a tape and speaker set for our room, just to get back into a normal sleeping pattern, and I decided to be more direct with my next tape.
Your mother is someone you can talk to about sex. Discuss sex with your mother. Ask her questions. Tell her secrets. Your Mum loves to talk about sex. You love to talk about sex with Mum. You will remember to wash up after breakfast. You will wear less clothes around the house. It’s okay to dress like a tramp at home. You will ask Mum about sex.
I don’t really understand the brain psychology of it, but if I had to guess I’d say the tapes work best on things you already want to do. If you want to quit smoking enough to buy a tape, they’ll help you achieve that. No amount of tapes will help you do something you’re opposed to – or if they will, you have to introduce it slowly and gradually.
This one had one immediate effect – the girls were wearing less and less clothes. As a mother, I felt I should say something, but I can’t deny that I was enjoying it. Joshua didn’t even seem to notice – had our husband’s member become so dead that it didn’t even notice two gorgeous and scantily-clad young ladies running around the house?
I have no idea where Brianna got a miniskirt, but she certainly had the legs for it, and it wasn’t until I saw Rebecca in a v-neck that I realised how much she’d filled out.
One little nudge from a tape, and they were happy to let their inner tramp out. I suspect most attractive women are looking for the first excuse they can find to show off the goods – I know that when my body was in its prime, just the mention of the beach would get me into a bikini – I loved the feel of everyone’s eyes on my body – and even a hint of interest from a guy would get that bikini off.
But though there was more teenage flesh around the house since Joshua’s attempt to turn our basement into a weekend wrestling school, I continued to find myself washing breakfast dishes every day that week, and still neither of them were asking me about sex.
It was possible, I realised, that they just weren’t having any. Not with each other, not with anyone else. Perhaps it was for the best; if I could just confirm that no, my girls weren’t the sex-charged maniacs that I was at that age, I could get this sick obsession out of my head, and go back to fantasising about Bruce the window-cleaner.
But I needed to know for sure.
One last tape, I told myself. One last tape, then I’d give up and return to my humdrum, sexless, adventureless life.
You trust your mother. You trust Mum. You will answer all of her questions. You will not lie to mother. You will not lie to Mum. You will not be embarrassed. It’s okay to talk to Mum about sex. You must be honest to mother. You must be honest to Mum. There is no need to make the house smell like a perfume shop every time you have a shower. You will dress like a tramp. You will dress like a slut.
One last tape.
“Brianna, honey, can I talk to you?”
“Yeah, what’s up Mum?”
“I want to talk about sex.”
“It’s okay to talk to Mum about sex.”
“Well, sure. I guess so. Is this about how we’ve been dressing? Because I can explain…”
“No darling, that’s fine. Wear whatever you want.”
“Oh, good, because it’s just that…-“
“Bri, it’s absolutely fine. I love that, by the way. When did tube tops come back into style?”
“Mum, can I…”
“Sit down, Bri!”
“I just wanted to know…”
“Mum, this is…-“
“You will not be embarrassed.”
“Fine. ‘I will not be embarrassed.’ What do you want to know?”
“And you know dear, you must be honest to Mum.”
“I just had some questions. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No, Mum, I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Do you have a…girlfriend?”
“Don’t be like that. I had a girlfriend when I was your age.”
“Not for long. Evetta, her name was. Oh my, I’d completely forgotten about her. We were together for two weeks, and then she was gone.”
“Oh, come now. She was my first kiss. I can’t believe how long it’s been since I thought about her…”
“Is that all? Can I go now?”
“Oh, yes. Brianna, I just want to know. How far have you…well, how far have you been with someone?”
“Speak up Brianna, I can’t hear you. You must be honest to Mum. You do trust me, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. I trust my mother.”
“So tell me how…well, tell me what you’ve done. In as much detail as you can. Er, like. As much detail as you like.”
“Mum, I’ve never even kissed anyone.”
“There’s no need to sound so disappointed, Mum.”
“Sorry dear, I just…sweet eighteen and never been kissed?”
“Not even Rebecca?”
“Well, all girls do it, you know. All girls practice.”
“Have I what?”
“Have you ever…practiced with Rebecca?”
“I just…I’m just surprised, I suppose. It almost…it almost seems like a waste.”
“Mum, are you okay?”
“Oh, I’m just thinking. Some of my fondest memories are of those boarding school days. Practicing kissing, with the girls. God, we’d go on for hours…”
“It just…it just seems like a pity, that you’re going to miss out.”
“Miss out on what?”
“What are you talking about, Mum?”
“Oh, nothing dear. I’m just…thinking. Mother knows best, you know.”
“Can I go now?”
“Yes. Yes, certainly. Just…close the door behind you, would you dear?”