I wanted to tell her to feel herself up: to pinch her nipples and knead her firm breasts over top of her bra. Instead I sat still, remained silent, and waited for her to make the next move. As if it were planned, she slowly began to do just that. I allowed her to entice me on her own terms, and she was very good at it. I got the feeling that she was also enjoying watching me begin to squirm in my chair, as I couldn't take my eyes off of her subtly heaving chest.She seemed to get more relaxed as she continued to manipulate her breasts, and I sensed that she was ready to move on and try something else. At that point, I also wanted to up the ante. I reached into my bag of toys and produced a sharply pointed massage wheel. "Whoa, what's that thing?" "It's a massage tool, used to stimulate the skin and relax tense muscles," I explained, "it's kind of like acupuncture in a way, but without the 'puncture'. "Put your hands behind your neck and I'll show you how it works."Does it hurt?" Not. I never could recall what happened to my parents or how I became a foster daughter to Mother. While I couldn’t remember the start, there are a few things I remember quite vividly from my experience with Mother, particularly from my rebellious phase when I was seventeen.“Did you hear me girl?” clearly booms in my auditory memory. I always wish I had registered her voice the first time.“No, ma’am,” I sheepishly replied, trying to cower from this newfound sadist in my life.“It’s 'Mother', and you’ll wish you had,” she emphasized grabbing me tightly by the arm and leading me into the kitchen. She then walked me over to one of the wooden stools at the counter.“Stay there, Abigail,” she commanded. She looked around in the doorways searching for something, and when I figured out what it was my stomach churned.“Emily, go get your brothers and sisters and have them come into the kitchen,” Mother asked with my foster sister complying to her wish.It took only a few minutes for the others to.
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