Chapter Text
Mom is out tonight, off at some social gathering with friends. She told you not to wait up for Her. That it would be very late by the time She got home.
You're laughing. You're showing Amber up the stairs to your room, and she’s being a dork, making a whole production of you “sneaking her in” and looking around for Mom, even though you assured her that Mom is out. Besides, She knows Amber is here. When push came to shove, you just couldn't bring yourself to hide taking Amber home from Her.
And Mom is being cool about it. When you texted Her if Amber could come by, She not only said yes, but that She'd stay out with Her friends even later than She’d planned, to give you both some privacy. You told Her that wasn’t necessary. She sent back a winky face.
Anyway, Amber is “sneaking” in, walking with this ridiculous over the top tiptoe motion. And you’re laughing, because you can hardly believe you ever thought this lovable dork was too cool for you. You lead her into your room, and realize too late.
“So,” Amber drawls, “this is your room, huh?”
“Yeah,” you blush. Maybe she won’t notice.
Glancing around, Amber finds what you feared. She grins. Hey Mel? Is that a… castle?”
This might be the most humiliating moment of your life. Someone could build a Dyson Swarm around your cheeks, and power a whole system. “Uh, yeah,” you admit.
The entire back wall of your bedroom is modeled to resemble a palace exterior. Carved from rosy stone and patterned with rainbow tile, all manner of garish and girlish flourishes adorn it: miniature stained-glass windows, scaled down balconies and balustrades, a painted night sky hanging above towers and domed rooftops. A set of ornate double doors built into the wall opens to your old playroom. Mom told you once she designed based on real historical palaces from old terra; now that you're older you can tell she mostly drew from human architecture styles, which is a tad strange, but it's very beautiful nonetheless.
“My Mom really spoiled me when I was little. She treated me like a princess, you know? We'd sit inside and she would play pretend with me like I was a real princess. I haven't been inside in ages but… I couldn't just ask Mom to get rid of it. She worked so hard on it and she'd be heartbroken and, well… it has sentimental value. And usually when I have a friend hang out here it's someone like Jade who y'know, literally also played in there with me when we were little. I never really thought about how having you over would mean you'd see it and uh, hah, I’m talking too much aren't I?”
Amber giggles affectionately, and you feel fifty pounds lighter. “Maybe a little. And maybe your little castle is dreadfully embarrassing. But it's cute, too. It's sweet how close you are with your mom.”
“Well you know she's um…” you huff, then, quietly: “She's really great. I'm really lucky to have Her.”
“I think she's lucky to have you, too. Because you're kind, and funny, and beautiful, and so full of love and passion,” Amber says, clasping your hand in hers. “And I dunno, like I said it's really sweet. And it's also really sweet that you kept the big silly pink princess play palace from when you were little.” Her eyes sparkle with affection, but there's something else. “Anyway… wanna fool around in there?”
You go rigid, cheeks reddening. That's so… so… you don't even know! You used to have tea parties with Mom and Jade and your plushies in there while Mom called you princess Melly and played silly games with you. You used to get lost in your own little worlds in there, completely disappear into your imagination.
Heck, your bed used to be in there when you were really little. You'd lay there while She read you bedtime stories, fall asleep there to the sound of Her voice and the stroke of Her vines and the safety and warmth of that bed.
Then, of course you'd usually wake up a couple hours later and sneak into Mom’s bed, and… maybe you still do that sometimes but She doesn't mind and besides, that's totally another matter and isn't relevant to anything and also you definitely have not been doing it more lately because of any fluttery feelings you get when She holds you close and tenderly murmurs your name in Her sleep. Or any of the ways Her vines may or may not roam instinctively across your body while She's unconscious.
Anyway, the bed. The bed that you used to sleep in when you were little, inside your old princess playroom, where Mom read you bedtime stories. The bed that is still in there, unused. You bite your lip. No no no you cannot actually be thinking—a little shiver whispers wicked temptations up and down your spine. Amber’s touching you there, tracing her fingers in slow, rhythmic motions; you hadn't even noticed.
You titter, chewing your nails as your eyes flit about the room, searching for an escape you know isn't there. Because as much as you wish you could, you can't deny the truth. You want it.
“Yeah,” you say, the words bubble out your throat with a flutter of nervous giggles. Stars, why are you so into this? A question you refuse to answer.
“Wow,” she purrs. “I was mostly just trying to get a rise out of you I didn't expect you to…” she flashes a wicked grin. “You know back when we first met, and I first started crushing on you, you seemed like such a good girl. Real girl next door type. I kept thinking I'd be the bad girl but you…” she runs her tongue across her teeth, they gleam in the moonlight. “You're kind of a freak, aren't you Mel?”
“Maybe.” You can't stay still. “I mean, I guess. I don't know. I haven't really had much experience with this sort of thing.”
“Oh you and your hairbrush never went all the way?” She says.
“You're really pushing your luck tonight,” you grumble.
“Well then, I'd better use the luck I have left before it runs out” she says. Amber takes your hand, and steps toward the door, tugging you along with her. Any resistance you're putting up is entirely show. She pushes the door open, and gestures inside. “After you, princess.” She winks. You're lucky you weren't mid step, because you might just have fallen over. You may still have, if Amber weren't there to catch you.
She steadies you, and you take a moment. It'll be okay. It's not a big deal. It's only losing your virginity inside your old playroom, what's the big deal? Perhaps such questions are better left unasked.
With some effort you manage to get your nerves under control, not gone, of course, but manageable. You wiggle and smile to yourself as you duck into the doorway, almost smug. You're getting away with something. Something bad. It feels electric.
The walls inside are a pastel purple, decorated with fine gold trim and, on the left wall, a mural: idyllic rolling hills, a shimmering river, distant forests. Pearlescent dragons circle towering mountain peaks, sunlight glittering off their scales; over the horizon, the curve of The Asymptote's third ring stretches up into the skies beyond. The Princessipality of Melodania, Mom called it back then, which meant you did too. You used to gaze into that landscape for hours, imagining all manner of adventures in that wild and gentle place, daydreams so vivid they felt real. If you think hard, you can still remember how the grass felt between your toes.
In the corner of the room, surrounded by small chairs, is an ornate table. A tea set sits atop it. A shelf is mounted beside the bed, piled with countless plushies. Hundreds of beady eyes gaze down at you. Each and every one of those plushies has a name. A whole personality you gave them when you were little, and what are they even doing in here? You're certain you had them all moved out to the main bedroom when you stopped sleeping here every night. You would never just abandon them here. But there they are. Waiting. Like they knew you were coming.
You swallow nervously; it's weird how big the place still feels. You were worried the two of you might struggle to fit, but that won't be an issue. When you were little, your palace felt like magic, like the real thing, bigger than the rest of home combined. It doesn't quite hold up, but you're far from cramped.
On the far end, your old bed awaits. Sheer curtains line the four post frame; they part in the middle, casting an inviting tableau. The soft linens beckon you, almost expectant. “There you are Melly! Back again already?” they call. “Come nestle yourself in our silky embrace, then Mom can read to you in her bedtime story voice, the one that always puts you right to sleep.”
There's a little twinge in the pit of your stomach. Not quite guilt, but you can't shake the feeling that you need to explain yourself. To the bed, the sheets, your plushies, to everything, the very room itself. You should tell them: you aren't here for tea parties and bedtime stories. You can't believe what you're about to do.
A deep breath, you glance at Amber; she seems strangely taken by the place, looking about the room with quiet fondness, almost reverence written upon her face. The moment passes; her eyes meet yours, and her lips curl in a sharp grin.
Amber's eyes dart toward the bed, then back to you. You nod, and she is upon you, her mouth pressed against yours. It's an awkward, fumbling, hungry kiss. There is a nervous uncertainty to it. Neither one of you seems quite ready to take the next step; you're not quite certain what the next step even is.
Kissing is good though, right? Her tongue intrudes your mouth before you're ready for it, and it curls and strokes at until you meet hers with your own.
Her hand reaches around your back, searching for your bra strap, before hesitating, then sliding down and coming to rest just above your tailbone You yelp into her open mouth as she draws you in tight, while her other hand grips your plump rear.
Amber takes a step, and you stumble, but she steadies you, then takes another, and another, guiding you toward the bed. Fingers fumble clumsily at the buttons on your blouse.
Stars, you're really doing this aren't you? You can hardly believe it. You've been fantasizing about this very moment for months now: your first time, with Amber. Admittedly, the imagined setting was a bit different, and there wasn't quite so much awkward fumbling in those daydreams either. But Mom did tell you once that your first time never quite goes as smoothly as you might hope, and to cherish it exactly for what it is all the same.
A firm shove breaks the kiss, sending you tumbling backward onto your bed. Like a cat, Amber coils, then pounces. She lands atop you and tears away your blouse.
Your hands rush reflexively to cover your exposed bra. “Amber!” You squeal. There is perhaps as well, a sprinkling of anxious laughter. Her mouth finds your neck, kissing and nibbling.
“What's the matter, Mel?” She teases between breaths. Her hands find your hips, and creep upward. “We're going to bed, aren't we? Do you wear your dayclothes to bed?”
You blush: glancing away, and into the mural on your wall. A whole cast of imaginary characters once populated that place, friends and companions on countless adventures. They're watching. What would Mom think if She knew you were doing this? What if She walked in on you?
Amber's canines find just the right spot between your shoulder and neck. You gasp, back arching as she pulls your hands from your chest.
Pausing, Amber takes a moment to catch her breath, and appreciate the sight: you, laying on your back, blushing, tender, vulnerable, so, so eager for more. You peel your eyes from the wall. It doesn't matter how bashful you're feeling. You want to see her face. She softens, and she reaches out to caress your cheek. “You're so beautiful like this, “ Amber whispers. Your lips come together, as her hand begins to creep lower.
The moment is so surreal; again you have to remind yourself that this is really happening, that Amber is on top of you, that her tongue is exploring the depths of your mouth while her hands explore up and down your torso, each time going a little lower. She's reached your panties now, her hand still drawing slow up and down strokes, catching just a little on the waistband, flirting with the idea of hooking a thumb underneath but not quite taking the plunge.
She must be nervous, uncertain whether it’s time or not. Her other hand creeps up your back, finding your bra clasp and struggling to undo it with just one hand. You lean forward a little, trying to position yourself better to help her, only to wind up bonking heads. “Sorry!" You both blurt simultaneously, before bursting into giggles.
Amber reaches around for the clasp to your bra once again, still struggling. “Sorry I uh… I've never had to undo one of these from the front before.”
“It's fine, I've got it,” you reply. The words come out before you really think about what they mean: that now you're going to have to remove your bra. In front of Amber. She's going to see you. And you her. Red in the cheeks, your hands slip behind your back, and undo the clasp, wriggling a bit to help Amber take it off.
The cups fall away, exposing your breasts to the room, to your plushies, to her. It's exhilarating. Overcome with sheer excitement and passion, you seize Amber by the shirt collar, and break the kiss. “You're still far too dressed for this ” you tease, then yank downward, tearing the top few buttons clean off. Your eyes widen. “Sorry!” You yelp. “I didn't—I meant to—I—”
Amber presses a finger to your lips. “Mel, it's okay,” she chuckles. “Honestly it was pretty hot.”
Her top hangs from her shoulders at a lopsided angle, exposing her lacy bra to the dim light. You grin sheepishly, trying not to stare. “I uh, guess I don't know my own strength,” you admit.
Amber licks her lips, tongue flicking across her glimmering teeth, then finishes what you started, discarding her tattered shirt on the floor. “Come here,,” she purrs, diving in for another kiss.
Still perched atop you, Amber begins to tug at her bottoms, futilely wriggling her hips in an attempt to pull them down without dismounting, nearly toppling over in the process. After a few moments of struggle, she relents, and rises enough to tug them down, while below, you do the same.
This is real. This is happening. You can see Amber’s underwear. She can see yours. With little fanfare, Amber tears her off. And there she is, naked from the wait down, hovering over you in the dim light. You swallow hard at the sight of it. It's time.
With a bit of shimmying and finagling, you manage to peel away your panties. She can see everything now. All that you are. A flicker of doubt crosses your mind: what if Amber doesn't like what she sees? The thought evaporates the moment you see the look on her face: her eyes comb every inch of your form, her teeth sinking into her lip, her gaze sweeps upward to meet yours, and she smiles, then giggles a little.
“You're incredible, Mel.” She says. “The most beautiful girl I've ever seen.”
And you pout a bit, because you can't believe Amber is using that kind of hokey cornball line on you at a moment like this; you also can't believe it's working.
There's nowhere to hide your bashful expression. You're not entirely sure you want to. Amber is here and she has you. “You're not so bad yourself,“ you answer slyly. And now it's Amber's turn to grow flush.
She turns her attention to her bra in a transparent attempt to deflect her embarrassment. She's fumbling a little to get it off, and when the clasp is finally undone and her hands come to hold her cups in place, you see they're trembling. You lay your hand on hers, and give an encouraging nod. Amber returns the gesture. Her bra falls away. Stars, she's so pretty.
Her hand, still trembling, reaches down to caress the flower implanted in your temple. Mere inches before contact, she retracts, giving you an uncertain look. Her eyes are wide and full of the same disbelief you're feeling. “Is it—uhm—are you okay if I?”
You bite your lip. It's almost worse that she's asking permission. Now you have to tell her it's okay. Ask her to touch you here, now, in this bed. “It's okay,” you whisper.
She reaches forward, closing the distance, then pinches a petal between thumb and forefinger, rubbing in small, delicate circles. You arch your back and moan. It's pure pleasure from head to toe and you've never felt anything like it.
She withdraws quickly as though burned. Wide-eyed, voice quivering Amber asks, “sorry, was that too much?”
“No,” you say between heaving breaths. “No, it was incredible.” Mom did such a good job picking this out for you.
“I'm glad, “ Amber chuckles, some of that lost confidence has crept back into her tone. She grins sheepishly. “Sorry if I'm being kind of awkward, I've just,” she trails off, attempting to cover her vulnerability with a cough. “I’ve never done this before? I mean I guess I’ve messed around with a human before, but that’s obviously not the same and uh… I know my flowers aren't really in full bloom yet, so I don't have much to pollinate with but—”
“Hey,” you take her hand, meeting her eyes. “It’s nothing to feel embarrassed about. I mean, you and I are pretty much the same experience wise so don’t worry.” You give her a quick squeeze. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Yeah, it's pretty obvious,” she teases.
“Oh yeah? Well, shut up,“ you murmur into your pillow.
That playful look is back, Amber dips down, her lips meet yours in a brief dalliance before she begins kissing down lower and lower, charting a course through your most sensitive places. It turns out that when all is said and done, Amber is actually pretty good at this.
Any semblance of composure is gone at this point. Her tongue and lips find each and every inch of you she might milk even a single droplet of pleasure from. You're writhing beneath her. Thighs, clenching back arching, fingers gripping the bed sheets.
Your eyes roll back, fluttering with every jolt of sensation. That's when you see it: the painted sky on your ceiling, the one you used to lie awake at night, gazing up at in wonder. Brilliant stars that defy their painted nature, twinkling and shimmering, a colorful moon distant planets. A comet, an arm of the Milky Way, curving up, up, up.
Your gaze follows it higher and higher, craning your neck and arching your back, moaning in delight as once again for the first time in years you get lost in those stars. The stars Mom painted for you. Even now, you could stare at them for hours, you think, and let your mind drift into that and this expanse. Amber's tongue finds your petals, those petals and you yelp in delight as her teeth follow close behind.
You tear your gaze from the ceiling, best not to focus on that right now, and tilt your head to the side, giving Amber better access to your new flower. Your eyes fall on the empty armchair beside your bed. It's the one Mom used to sit and read to you in. In the dark, your eyes play tricks on you; you can almost see Her silhouette, hidden in shadow. Amber's tongue traces slow circles further and further inward. It grazes one of your stamen, and a needle of electrified pleasure leaves you twitching, gasping, fighting back full on screams.
Your whole world is destabilizing. Tossed on stormy seas, you desperately search for something, anything to cling to. The bedpost, you find the bedpost and grip with all the strength you can muster. The bedpost which holds up those sheer, lacy curtains. On the bed that Mom picked out for you. That you used to lay in, and drift off to the sound of Her storytime voice. Amber's tongue dips inside.
There is no room left for restraint. You are a conduit of pure ecstasy. A sound forces its way up from the depths of your lungs; the words ring out across the plains of your mural, up into the stars painted above. “Oh, Mom!"
Amber freezes. Her tongue slowly withdraws from your flower. It makes little difference; at this point you are still in the throes of reverberating pleasure. But as the feeling begins to subside and you are left laying on your back gasping and panting, you look up into Amber's eyes, and realization strikes you like lightning.
Your lips part, every muscle in your body freezes up. You're left trembling, reeling. How could you have just said that? No, you couldn't have said that. Mustn't have. Didn't. You didn't.
Oh stars, Amber's looking at you now. She's staring at you, wearing a puzzled expression. “Hey, Mel?” she asks. “Sorry, I—I was kind of in the throes of it there, but, what did you just say?”
Your mind scrambles for something, anything that you could say to make this make sense, to make this go away, to not have to think about it, or talk about it, or explain it. You wish this bed could just swallow you whole. You wish you could run and hide. You wish Mom was—you yank that thought root and stem before it finishes. “I, um, I said… I said…” you have nothing.
“Hey, uh Amber?" you say.
“Yeah?” She replies.
“Can I tell you something really embarrassing?” so embarrassing, too embarrassing, impossibly embarrassing. How could you have let this happen? How could you have ruined this moment? How could you have—Oh, Stars, she's going to think you're so weird. What if she—something in your brain skips and the thought is cut short. This is so embarrassing. You just said that to your girlfriend here, now, while doing this with her, and feeling that.
“Hey," a gentle squeeze grounds you. Amber is looking at you with gentle concern. “It's alright. You can tell me.”
“Gosh, this is probably the most humiliating thing that's ever happened to anyone ever, but, uhm, I maybe kind of, sort of, a little bit have a… Mommy kink?” You're going to explode. The radioactive fallout will render everything in a thousand kilometer radius completely uninhabitable.
Amber breaks out into a grin. “A Mommy kink, you say?” she giggles a little, tracing a slow pattern around your breast. “I mean, I already knew you were a total Mama's girl, but…”
“Shut up!” you protest. “This isn't—this has nothing to do with—”
“Relax, Mel,” she says, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “I’m only teasing.”
She believes you. And it doesn’t seem like she thinks it’s too weird. She’s not looking at you like you’re gross or anything. She’s just looking at you like you’re you, and she’s her. You release a breath you hadn’t noticed you were holding.
The two of you are quiet for a few moments: you're letting yourself pressure cook in sheer embarrassment; she's looking at you with a thoughtful smirk. “So, Melly,” she draws, there's a certain far too casual, suggestiveness to her tone. If I'm understanding this right…” she leans in closer, bringing her lips to your ear, speaking in a dulcet whisper that sends shivers down your spine. “Do you want me to be your Mommy, Melly?”
There's nothing left of you but a smoldering crater. She did not just say that. She didn't. She couldn't. There’s no way you can do this. You would never live it down. She would tease you about it everyday for the rest of forever and it would be really hot. A nervous giggle escapes your lips. Okay, it would be insanely hot. Screw it. You can't meet her gaze, but you don't need to. She can read you like a book, and considering the circumstances, you must be an absolutely filthy book. “Maybe a little bit.” You say.
She makes a thoughtful noise, then laughs. “I could be your Mommy," she says.
“I—you would?” There's no hiding the hope in your voice.
Amber lights up a bit just hearing it. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, totally… I mean, hmm,” she pauses, chewing her lip in thought. “What I mean to say is,” her voice sweetens into a warm, buttery coo, “of course, precious girl.”
You just about scream into your pillow. “Shut—shut—you! You shut—you can't—you… that… that was really hot,” you mumble.
Amber laughs like she’d just seen a puppy tripping over itself. “Does someone like it when her Mommy teases her? When her Mommy embarrasses her?”
You squirm in place a little and can't help but burst into giggles at how surreal this all feels. How did this even happen? How did you get here? It doesn't matter. You're so in love with this girl. “Maybe a little bit, yeah,“ you say around the big stupid grin you’re wearing.
Amber props herself up, then she's prowling up and over you. She takes a seat in your belly, and leans down to whisper in your ear. “So what you're saying is, you want your very first time to be here, on the bed you used to sleep in when you were a little girl, inside the princess palace you used to play in, and you want it to be with your Mommy? Do I have that right?”
It’s not funny anymore, just obscenely hot. You draw a ragged breath. “Yeah," you reply.
Amber plants a hickie on your neck, then whispers. “Wow, I had no idea you were such a pervert, Melly,” she nips your ear playfully. “Now," she breathes. “I need to hear you say it, sweetheart.”
Say what? Oh. Right. Your throat starts closing up at the mere thought of saying it. “Uhm… Mommy?” you choke. You feel the weight of the world atop you. Never have you so completely put yourself in someone else's hands. Amber could shatter you with a word. But she won't. You know she won't. You trust her. It feels so safe to know you can trust her.
Bright, shining eyes gaze down on you. That’s love you’re seeing, and not adolescent kind, burning bright but volatile and mercurial. That smile, that soft expression, it says ‘there’s nothing in the universe I’d rather be doing than this, here, with you.’ It's a love that endures. And it’s sentimental, and touching, and somehow makes every facet of this so much hotter. “What is it, Melly?“ Amber asks.
You have to dig deep in your throat to find your voice. “Will you keep touching me, Mommy?“
Her kiss is slow and tender, absent of that giddy nervousness, the aggression, the hunger. She savors it; Her mouth is warm and inviting, her lips soft; her forehead comes to rest against yours. She takes the lead, but does so coaxingly: drawing you out, helping you show her exactly what you want, every little caress of her tongue, or brush of her lips whispering ‘it’s okay; I’ve got you.’ A hand comes around to support the small of your back, the other cradling the back of your head; her thumb strokes your cheek. It feels like floating.
Amber pulls away slowly, drawing you up with her until you’re left kissing air. She laughs, the sound embracing you. Her eyes dart to your temple, the quivering flowerpetals, then back. “Are you ready?”
A deep breath. A gulp. A nod. You’re ready. “I love you, Mommy.”
Her lips press into your forehead, holding there; you feel her warmth, her softness, her love. She pulls away, looks you in the eye, and whispers. “I love you too, Melody.” Amber leans in, draws her tongue across your outer petals in a slow, tender stroke.
“Mommy,” the word squeezes its way from your tensed throat, a drawn out, keening whine.
“It’s okay,” Amber whispers. “You can do this. I know you can sweetheart.” Her voice is so encouraging. She believes in you. You want to make her proud.
She begins working her tongue inward as she did before. Your skull is buzzing with pleasure, and with each stroke of her tongue, the signal gets stronger, suffusing your very being with bliss. Her hands begin to roam your body, traveling lower as her tongue works your flower.
You try to return the favor. To try to touch her. You want to touch her. Your brain is vibrating too hard; flailing arms uselessly paw at her. The feelings let up just in time for an adoring giggle. “You alright down there, Melly?” Amber asks. Her tone is playful again, the sort you'd have when teasing a friend for hitting a joint bit too hard.
“‘M'okay,” you mumble. Hands grasp helplessly at her body, trying to do anything at all to return the favor for all the pleasure she's bringing you.
“You look absolutely fried,” she says. “But don't worry. I think Mommy knows just the thing for you.”
You open your mouth to reply, only for her lips to silence you. Her kisses are slow and careful, guiding you up, up, you lean forward a little bit, propping yourself with an elbow as she draws you upward. Then, just as you're about to bring up the other elbow and start to sit up, she dives on your flower once more, and into your still pursed lips, she shoves a nipple.
Her breasts are a bit smaller than yours, but they're the perfect size for her. You feel the squishy flesh rest against your face as Amber again gets busy up above with her fingers this time, and slower, less intense than before. She wants you to sit with this new predicament, you suspect.
And it's working. Your face is burning up. You want to spit her nipple out, but you can't seem to bring yourself to empty your lips. From above, you hear her call. “What's the matter, sweetheart?” She sings. “Don't you want to suckle from Mommy?”
You scrunch your eyes shut, simmering in the heat on your flushed cheeks. “What a lovely shade of pink,” Amber says. “I'll have to sample it. I'd love to paint with it.”
She tickles your chin, and you huff around her nipple. “Oh come on Melly, don't pout. Is someone embarrassed? Is Mommy being too mean to her girl? I'm not going to let up til you start suckling, Mel.”
As if. You can outlast her. Amber shifts her position a little, keeping her nipple in your mouth, but giving you a face full of her flower buds. A sticky, perfumed scent wafts from one. You feel dizzy. There's a growing itch between your lips. Your vision blurs as you get another waft of Mommy's—Amber's—flowers. They smell all sticky. Hang on. Oh no. No come on. That isn't fair. She's not supposed to be producing pollen yet.
You're not gonna give her the satisfaction. This isn't even about desire at this point. Because of course you want it. This is almost as hot as it is embarrassing. But you can't just let her win like that. You feel a little brush against your flower petals. When your thoughts manage to piece themselves back together Mommy—Amber—is cooing over you as you suckle away.
You're about to protest, but her knee draws its way up between your legs, coming to rest against your crotch, which, wow, that actually feels really good? You didn't know you were so sensitive there. As you're reeling from the sensation, feeling your hips rock into her on instinct, her free hand comes around to cradle the back of your head, and pull you tight into her breast. “Go on Melly, suckle from me while I make my sweet little Mama's Girl feel good,” Amber croons. You don’t remember much after that.
You’re on the couch, warm and safe in Mom’s embrace. Spare vines drape lazily over your torso. With each slow rise and fall of her chest, a flower petal tickles your cheek. She's gazing down on you with a look of radiant pride, warmth, contentment, listening in intently as you gush.
“She's just so wonderful, Mom. She gets me, and every time we see each other I feel like there’s some new and beautiful side to her I’ve never seen before. I dunno, I guess… She makes me feel at home.” You know how you sound, like a silly schoolgirl who’s fallen so head over heels she can’t tell which way is up anymore. You don’t care. You are very, very careful to avoid thinking about one particular recent development around Mom, but other than that, you think you might just be able to talk about her forever.
Looking up into Mom’s eyes, you’re not sure the last time you saw Her this happy. She squeezes you tight against her chest, breathing a contented sigh and resting her chin atop your head. “My sweet girl. You’re growing up so beautifully. I’m so proud of you. I’m so glad you’re happy,” she says.
And you are.