Make them your Sex Slaves

You beckon the mother over with a crook of your finger.

The woman approaches immediately, her designer swimsuit catching the fading light as her full hips sway with each step. She stops directly beside her daughter, her hands clasped in front of her waist, her chin slightly lowered. The similarities between them are striking—mother and daughter, one mature and one young, but both devastatingly voluptuous. Two gorgeous bodies that are yours to do with as you please.

"Both of you are my property. You know that now," you say, your voice steadier than you expected. The Sharpie is still warm in your pocket. "And what I want from my property is… service. Sexual service. You're my sex slaves from this point forward."

Emma's pale blue eyes widen. Her arms unfold from beneath her chest, dropping limply to her sides. Her mouth opens, then closes. She looks at her mother, then back at you.

"Wait—sex slaves?" Emma repeats. Her voice isn't outraged. It carries the bewildered, slightly indignant tone of a spoiled princess who's just been told her flight has been rerouted. "I mean… okay. You own me. That's your right. But like—really?"

"Yes," you say simply.

The mother's reaction is quieter but far more visceral. A deep crimson flush crawls up her elegant neck and spreads across her cheeks. Her fingers tighten against each other until her knuckles go white. But she nods once, a small, controlled dip of her chin.

"Of course, Mr. Ferro," the woman says softly. "Whatever you require."

"First thing I require," you continue, emboldened by how easily this is going, "is for you two to kiss each other. Right here. Make out. Really get into it."

Emma's head snaps toward you. "Here? But—" She gestures vaguely at the open front yard, the low fence along the road, the quiet street where a silver sedan is currently rolling past at twenty miles an hour. "People can see us from the road."

"I know," you say.

A beat of silence. Emma looks at her mother. The older woman looks at Emma. Neither of them moves.

Then the mother takes a breath, squares her shoulders, and turns to face her daughter. Her expression is composed—almost clinical—as though she is completing a difficult but necessary task. She reaches up and places both hands gently on Emma's bare shoulders.

"Mom," Emma hisses, her cheeks blazing. "This is so weird."

"He owns us, Emma," her mother says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "He has every right to ask this. It's no different than asking us to set the table or mow the lawn."

"It's extremely different from mowing the lawn—"

But the older woman is already leaning in. Her lips press against her daughter's mouth—tentatively at first, a closed-lip contact that lasts barely a second. Emma stands rigid, her arms straight at her sides, her massive breasts pressed flat against her mother's equally impressive chest where their bodies meet.

The mother pulls back an inch. "Relax," she murmurs against Emma's lips. "Just—let it happen."

Emma exhales through her nose. Then, with visible effort, she tilts her head and parts her lips. Her mother mirrors the motion, and suddenly the kiss deepens. You watch, transfixed, as their mouths open against each other—the older woman's tongue sliding forward first, Emma's following after a moment's hesitation. A soft, wet sound reaches your ears as their lips work together.

Emma's hands finally move, rising uncertainly to grip her mother's waist. The mother's fingers slide from Emma's shoulders up into her daughter's long, dark hair, cupping the back of her skull and drawing her closer. Their breasts compress together—an obscene amount of flesh pressing and shifting between their bodies, spilling outward where their torsos meet.

The silver sedan has slowed to a crawl. You glance sideways and catch the driver—a middle-aged man—staring open-mouthed through his passenger window before he seems to remember he's operating a vehicle and accelerates away.

Emma moans softly into her mother's mouth. It's involuntary—her eyes fly open in surprise at the sound she just made, but the older woman holds her firmly in place, deepening the kiss further, her tongue visibly working between her daughter's parted lips. Their bodies press tighter. Emma's hands slide down to her mother's wide hips, gripping the curve of them through her swimsuit.

You stand three feet away, watching two of the most beautiful women you've ever seen devour each other's mouths in the fading golden light, in full view of the quiet suburban street. Your erection strains painfully against your jeans.

After what feels like an eternity, they finally break apart. A thin strand of saliva connects their lips for a brief, glistening moment before snapping. Both women are breathing hard. Emma's cheeks are scarlet. Her mother's chest heaves, her heavy breasts rising and falling rapidly.

Emma turns to face you, her lips swollen and wet, her pale blue eyes glazed with something she clearly wasn't expecting to feel.

"Was that… good enough?" she asks, her voice slightly hoarse.

"That was perfect," you say, your voice thick. "Now keep going. Strip each other. Take off each other's swimsuits. Then I want you to have sex. Right here."

Emma's swollen lips part. She stares at you for a long beat, her chest still heaving from the kiss. The golden light of the setting sun catches the sheen of saliva still glistening on her lower lip.

"So we have to do it here?" She asks.

"Emma." Her mother's voice is quiet but firm. She places a hand on her daughter's bare shoulder. "He owns us. This is his lawn. If he wants us naked on it, that's his prerogative."

Emma lets out a sharp breath through her nose. "I know that, Mom. I'm not saying no. I'm just—" She looks down at herself, at the obscene swell of her breasts barely contained by the straining black triangles, then back up at you. Something shifts behind her pale blue eyes—a kind of resigned acceptance settling over her features like a veil. "Fine. Whatever. Let's just do it."

She turns to face her mother. Her hands rise, fingers finding the thin straps of the designer one-piece where they cross behind the older woman's neck. Emma's movements are jerky, impatient—the way she might yank a tag off a new shirt. She tugs the knot loose and the fabric sags forward, peeling away from those heavy breasts with agonizing slowness. The material catches on the stiffened nipples for a moment before dropping, and her mother's tits spills free—full, pale, heavy breasts with wide pink areolas and thick nipples that harden instantly in the cooling evening air.

The older woman exhales sharply but keeps her composure. Her hands move with more deliberation than her daughter's. She reaches behind Emma's neck and unties the halter string of the black bikini top. Then her fingers find the clasp at Emma's back. One deft motion and the fabric falls away.

You nearly groan aloud. Emma's breasts are staggering—massive, perfectly shaped teardrops of sun-kissed flesh that hang heavy on her chest, each one easily the size of a cantaloupe, capped with small, dusky-pink nipples that point slightly outward from their sheer volume. They bounce and sway with every breath she takes, responding to gravity with a heavy, hypnotic pendulum motion.

The mother pushes her own swimsuit down past her hips, stepping out of it. Her body is magnificent—wide hips, a soft but flat stomach, a trimmed strip of dark hair between her pale thighs. She kneels before Emma and hooks her fingers into the sides of her daughter's bikini bottoms, pulling them down Emma's long, tanned legs. Emma steps out of them, now completely nude in the fading sunset, her body on full display for the quiet residential street.

"Lie down," the mother murmurs to Emma. "On the grass."

Emma lowers herself, her massive breasts pooling outward as her back meets the manicured lawn. The cool blades of grass press against her golden skin. The mother kneels between her daughter's parted thighs, her own heavy breasts swaying as she leans forward.

"I've never done this before," the older woman says quietly—to Emma, not to you. A confession murmured between them. Then she lowers her mouth.

Emma gasps sharply the instant her mother's tongue makes contact with her slit. Her back arches, driving her massive breasts skyward, the heavy flesh quaking. Her fingers claw at the grass on either side of her hips.

"Oh—fuck," Emma breathes. Her thighs tense around her mother's head. "That's—oh my god."

The mother works with careful, methodical precision, her tongue tracing slow, deliberate strokes along her daughter's folds. Her pale hands grip Emma's inner thighs, holding them apart. The wet, obscene sounds of her mouth against Emma's sex reach your ears clearly in the still evening air.

You stand over them, watching your two slaves perform for you. Emma's head rolls to one side, her dark hair fanning across the grass, her eyes half-lidded and her mouth hanging open as soft, breathy moans escape her lips with increasing frequency.

A car passes on the street behind you. You don't turn to look. You don't care.

"Emma," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you intended. "Return the favor. Get on top of her."

Emma lifts her head from the grass, her dark hair sticking to the sheen of sweat forming on her neck. Her massive breasts shift heavily as she props herself up on her elbows, staring at you with those glazed, half-lidded pale blue eyes.

"On top?" she breathes. Your authority has her moving instantly, but her voice is unsteady from the arousal her mother's tongue is methodically coaxing toward the surface. "Like—now? She's kind of in the middle of—"

"And she'll keep going. I want the two of you to sixty-nine. Get on your back," you say to the older woman. "Let your daughter climb on top."

She nods once and rolls onto her back on the grass, her heavy pale breasts settling against her ribcage, her dark hair fanning out around her head. Her chest rises and falls with controlled, measured breaths. Between her spread thighs, you can see the glistening evidence of her own arousal—her body betraying what her composed expression refuses to acknowledge.

Emma rises to her knees, her enormous breasts swinging pendulously beneath her as she crawls over her mother's body. The sight is obscene—all that golden, tanned flesh moving over the older woman's paler skin, Emma's heavy breasts dragging across her mother's stomach as she positions herself. She swings one long leg over her mother's head, her hips hovering above the woman's face.

"I've never done this either," Emma mutters, staring down at the dark hair between her mother's thighs. Her breath ghosts across her mother's sex and you see the older woman's thighs twitch in response.

"You'll figure it out," you say.

Emma lowers her mouth. The first contact is hesitant—a tentative flick of her tongue across her mother's outer folds. The older woman inhales sharply beneath her, then responds by lifting her head and sealing her mouth over Emma's pussy, resuming her earlier ministrations with renewed intensity.

Emma moans directly into her mother's sex, the vibration making the woman's hips buck. Then something seems to click for Emma—some competitive, bratty instinct, perhaps, refusing to be outdone by her mother—and she presses her face forward with sudden aggression, her tongue driving deep.

"Oh—" The mother gasps against Emma's sex, her composure fracturing for the first time. Her pale hands shoot up and grip Emma's thick hips, her manicured nails pressing crescents into the tanned skin. "Oh, that's—Emma—"

You watch from above as their bodies writhe together on the darkening lawn. The last orange light of sunset catches the sheen of sweat and arousal on their skin. Emma's massive breasts are flattened against her mother's stomach, the heavy flesh spreading outward with their weight. Her hips grind downward against her mother's mouth in small, involuntary circles that grow more **** with each passing second.

The wet, obscene sounds of two mouths working fill the evening air—slick, hungry, rhythmic. Emma's moans are muffled against her mother's sex but growing louder, higher, more frantic. The mother is quieter—controlled even now—but her thighs are trembling, her hips lifting off the grass to press harder against her daughter's tongue.

"Fuck—fuck—Mom, I'm—" Emma's words dissolve into a keening whine. Her entire body tenses, her back arching, her massive breasts pressing harder into her mother's stomach as her hips grind down viciously. Her thighs clamp around her mother's head and she comes with a shuddering, full-body convulsion, her fingers clawing at the grass.

But you told them both to work the other to orgasm, so Emma keeps her mouth working even through her own orgasm—sloppy, unfocused, but persistent. Her mother's breathing goes ragged beneath her daughter's spasming body. The older woman's composure finally shatters completely—her elegant back arches off the lawn, her heavy breasts quaking, and a sound escapes her throat that is entirely unlike anything you'd expect from a woman of her poise: a raw, ****, broken moan that echoes across the quiet street as her orgasm crashes through her.

They collapse together in a tangle of limbs and heaving breasts and sweat-slicked skin. Emma rolls off sideways, her massive chest rising and falling rapidly, her eyes staring blankly at the darkening sky. Her mother lies motionless, her thighs still trembling, one hand resting limply on her own stomach.

Neither speaks for a long moment. The only sounds are their ragged breathing and the distant chirp of crickets in the gathering dusk.

Finally, Emma turns her head to look up at you. Her dark hair is tangled with grass. Her cheeks are flushed scarlet. Her lips are swollen and glistening.

"Happy?" she asks. The word carries a faint echo of her former bratty edge, but it's completely undermined by how wrecked she sounds.