Melting

by Eva

Beverly and I sat talking in the relative cool of the late afternoon. The day had been hot and I was grateful I had just a sundress on and a thong underneath. Since my breast reduction operation I could largely get away with not wearing a bra as much, and I was glad of that now.

It was a day when the less you could wear the better you felt, but even so I was glad the French Doors to the living room had been flung wide open to allow the air to circulate. I had worked for most of the day and it had been uncomfortably hot for a few hours. Unsurprisingly I had been desperate to step into the shower on a couple of occasions to cool off, but some things are not allowed. Anyway now I felt I could relax for a few minutes before Ginny got home from school.

And Beverly had allowed me to sit. Or rather, she hadn't objected when I flopped down on the sofa. But then I know she doesn't own me, even if she does feel compelled to maintain some discipline around the home when Ginny's not here.

Beverly had been a good friend over the years to me and when she had discovered how I felt about being of use she had welcomed me – cautiously at first but increasing confidence – into her house. Now I was much less (literally) of the person I once was, a changed woman in so many ways.

Funny really, how life can change. As someone used to running a key department in a multi-million pound business I could make decisions, and quckly. But I made big decision not to do that anymore. A decision not to lie to myself when I didn't have to. Oh sure, it would have surprised my former colleagues how much I had changed – and in to what. But then they never saw me now. All that deadline stuff and board meetings and frantic phone calls had all faded into the past. I am not the person I was then.

It may be behind me now but the reason I had easily slipped into my new task was my adaptability. I had always cultivated being flexible. That's the key to success in anything. I had learned it well, so I adapted.

The only person from my past who knew me then and knows me now is Beverly. And heaven knows it was hard for her at first.

"I can't pay you," said Beverly a year ago now, when I told her what I most needed. Who I needed to be. "But you will have free food and lodgings, Mel, depending on how well you do."

I understood. So I sold my house, furniture, my car, gave away just about all my clothes and ceremoniously burnt the things that had either been very personal or no one would buy. I saved a couple of items (including my old wedding dress from my short-lived marriage to Tim) but even then it came close to the flames before I thought maybe it would be useful one day.

However, few of us ever give up our past totally no matter what we say. And as well as being adaptable, I always tend to keep my options open. So keeping my wedding dress seemed to fulfill two functions, even if I was still unsure how having it in the wardrobe in my small room would keep any options open.

I was glad I could have a few minutes rest before Ginny got in. She would be hot coming home from school in her uniform, so there was a glass of lemonade with ice waiting for her. One thing about Dovergate School I never liked was that they insisted on the pupils wearing full school uniform even in summer, with the small concession of no woollen leggings and a short sleeve shirt rather than long sleeves. The blue blazer and the grey pleated skirt and the infernal tie were always there.

The 12 year old girl would definitely come in hot on a day like this – and Beverly knew her only daughter well. She knew I may be in for a hard time. "Will you be okay when Ginny gets in?"

"Sure I will," I said, more in hope than certainty. I knew the deal when I started doing this. Thought it through, talked it out. Argued with myself, agonised over the decision. Then I did it, just like that. Anyway there was no going back now, but even so I continued: "I just hope she isn't too long as the ice will melt in her lemonade."

"Looks as if it's melting already," remarked Beverly, nodding at the large glass on the table, the one waiting for Ginny. I too could see the ice was melting.

"Maybe I should get some fresh ice," I sat forward, but Beverly sighed.

"Mel, how many times? I know this is nothing to do with me, but... You do things once. Once only, and if Ginny isn't happy, then..." The woman shrugged the end of her sentence away. It wasn't her problem and she never interfered if she could avoid it. But she had told her daughter she would make sure I behaved. Other than occasionally checking I was okay, that I could cope, she made sure i followed my instructions. I understood that was as good a friend as I could hope for in the circumstances.

But we both knew her priority was not my welfare, but to remind me of my role. What Ginny wanted.

I nodded at what Beverly Myles said. I knew the rules all too well, so I tried to sit back and relax. But the disappearing ice was making me anxious, increasingly so. My state of brief relaxation melting away with it.

Beverly glanced at the clock. "Ginny is late," she said quietly, clearly not wanting to upset me. I tried to smile in response, made the effort to manage a meagre nod of agreement.

On the other side of the pleasant lounge, the 37 year old woman sipped the drink I brought her, at the same time as her daughter Ginny's drink. Same time, same melting point. She was swirling the drink in her glass now, no clinking sound of ice at all. Ominous, in its own silent way.

I tried hard not to look at the clock, or the drink I had made for Ginny. Despite myself trying to be relaxed on the sofa I was tightening my hands where I seemingly casually gripped the sides of my dress. We all make mistakes, we all misjudge moments. This was beginning to look a bad one.

I also tried hard to remember if Ginny had said there was a change of plan, or if she had said she would be home later than usual. She was in an after-school drama group, but that wasn't tonight. And the rehearsals weren't until next week, I was sure.

A cold panic gripped me. I may not have been listening if she told me something over breakfast. I felt a bead of sweat on my brow and wanted to lift my hand to wipe it away, but my wrist to neck chains – lightweight and almost symbolic that they were – would rattle and I didn't want Ginny's mother to notice I was growing more anxious by the moment. As I say, Beverly does not interfere in my role as her daughter's slave, and occasionally seems to find it a little incomprehensible. Thirty eight year old executives rarely give everything up to become submissive to a pre-teen girl.

There was a time when such an idea would have either horrified me or made me dissolve into laughter and how ludicrous the concept was. No one did that, did they? Yet I can clearly vouch for the fact they do.

One thing was certain: if I had made a mistake I could not appeal to Beverly about Ginny's reaction. A year ago, when I chose my new life, Beverly sat me down and made it clear this was between me and her child. If I found Ginny hard going, I had to accept it. She even said while she may have to intercede in extreme cases, she would be reluctant and above all she had no cause to upset Virginia – or as everyone knew her, Ginny.

On balance, she said, twenty two years of close friendship didn't outweigh twelve years of motherhood. I said I understood, and that would be fine.

Oh, I know full well that Beverly benefitted from my position as Ginny's slave. She may not have been entirely comfortable with her child fucking me – Ginny's rather brutal phrase – but she saw that I was keeping not only her daughter's bedroom tidy but also the house as a whole.

A free maid, apart from food – which I mostly prepared. And a happier daughter, which was beyond price.

I stared at the garden through the open doors, both listening for the sound of the front door and lost in my own thoughts. I had made a mistake, and I would pay: that was how it was. But I tried not to make mistakes, I really did.

Beverly broke the silence. "I have to ask, Mel... Do you regret any of this?"

"The ice in the drink? Of course I should have–"

"No, the choice you made a year ago? Coming here, being like that."

Like that. Ah yes, the smaller tits, the narrower waist, the tattoo on my belly above my shaved cunt, the way my hair as cropped to near baldness. My pierced nipples, silver rings in my cunt lips. The chains I wore, along with no underwear: thin skirts and dresses for modesty only with some allowances in winter for the cold.

High heels permanently locked on my ankles. God, that took some getting used to, hour after hour standing in them. Trying not to cry from the agony.

Even the ring through the septum of my nose made my status even more obvious, though that at least was removable if I needed to go out. Not that going outside happened much. All in all Ginny had done so much to me, so it was understandable that Beverly would think I might regret it. Well, perhaps it had turned out more extreme than I thought.

But I had agreed, no questions asked. I was adaptable and flexible and ready to be used, so I could hardly complain even if i was surprised by the ferocity of the child's demands.

Ginny was eleven, just, when she started on me. No, that's not fair: we started on each other. I admit I had thought we would be lovers, the girl and me. She seemed so eager, falling into bed with me.

First there were the stolen kisses, her full lips for a pre-teen seemed so sensuous – and she knew how to kiss. Long, deep; open mouthed, tongue probing. So many little ones are appalled at how adults kiss. But Ginny kissed like a whore would. Wait, whores don't kiss hard; they don't do sex for affection. The girl kissed like she needed affection and love. As she did so her hand worked my boobs – 38C back then – and I ooohed and aaahed as she tweaked my nipples and made me gasp in pleasure.

In truth, pleasure soon to be pain. The tweaks were savage twists before too long but I didn't object. I wanted her little hands on my tits. What she did didn't matter providing she said she loved me.

So Virginia, dear sweet little wide eyed Ginny, worked my tits hard, clawing them with passion, biting my long hard nipples, sucking on them like I was a wet nurse. Yes, I even lactated a tiny bit, which was astonishing as I had no kids.

Ginny liked that. But then she said she liked everything about me. We were secret lovers, clinging to each other on the chances we got to be together. I "child-minded" the girl as much as I could, with Beverly grateful she could go out. Not easy being a single mother, she told me. She needed a break, she confessed. Breaks, in fact, which at my encouragement became frequent and longer. More time for me and Ginny, more time for the pre-teen to get used to having me.

It was even better when Ginny came to stay at my place for the night, and she had me dancing on her fingers. God, how I danced. Ginny's small hand pumped in and out of me. Fuck, where did a child get to learn to fist like that? She found my G-spot, toyed with my clit. Stroked my cunt. Bit me, sucked me, licked me. I came like I had never come before. Certainly not when I was married to Tim, the bastard, whose idea of sex was just about wanking in me.

Oh yes, I worried about this, the way it was heading. I had seduced and had sex with my best friend's daughter. In her home and in mine. The only difference was we could do it all night at my place, and I must have looked haggard the next morning at the office.

Ginny had me every way. Yes, we sixty-nined. Who wouldn't with such a gorgeous little girl? We scissored as best we could. We lay and bed and talked and kissed and fondled, but it changed when I made her cum that first time.

I was licking between Ginny's legs as she sat over my head one evening at my place. True, I could barely breathe but that was the pleasure of having her slender hips and hairless cunny pressed down on my face. Breathless wasn't even in it: I swear I could have died then and there if she had insisted on not moving until she was ready to move. I tongued her so passionately because my body was screaming for oxygen and she relented at the last moment.

That was when our relationship changed from lover and lover to owner and enslaved. "I haven't finished yet, bitch," she said with remarkable coldness as she eased up a fraction and I gasped for air. Then she sat back and the nightmare began again. Except it wasn't a nightmare: as I struggled to breathe, as my tongue worked feverishly to make this girl climax, my hand was between my legs, rubbing furiously as I lapped at her small, tight, hot cunny. At the moment she came with a little shudder and mewing cry, so did I. hard and fierce, like an explosion in my deepest being.

The best cum I had ever had. And I knew things would never be the same again between Ginny and me. Make that Mistress Ginny and me.

It didn't take us long to establish our new roles. From then on if I kissed Ginny it was because she wanted it and not me. If I came it was because she consented to let me – how many times as I reached for my wet slit did she knock my hand away contemptuously? How many times did she squat on my face and casually watched television, or watched a movie? How many times did she demand the satisfaction I could never have?

Then Beverly found out. Inevitable, I suppose, that she would.

Ginny had been dominating me for almost six months when her mother discovered us in bed together. Maybe we were getting careless, thought we could run risks. well, Ginny did: it was hardly my decision what would happen. The girl ruled me.

It took a lot of pleading and begging on my part, but slowly Beverly came round to the fact that what her daughter wanted – and even more so what I needed – really wasn't a problem at all. It may have been a shock to the woman, a great surprise that her best friend was her own child's submissive, but as she confessed to me eventually: "It did turn me on, even though at first I didn't want anything to do with it."

She also said there was something appealing about me assisting with her child. I was not sure what she meant by "assisting" but given that I did the girl's homework often, suffered various indignities and humiliations and spent the night often in Ginny's bed, I suppose it was a catch-all way of describing my new role.

Beverly had in one fell swoop got a compliant maid, of sorts, had her daughter acting happy and the mother even some sort of adult companionship round the house. My money also pays a few bills, it seems. However I had got rid of the endless daily stresses of trying to make a living in a world of mostly male bastards and instead got to have sex with a girl – when Ginny allowed it.

It wasn't however all that easy at first. As soon as I moved in to the Myles' home things changed more than I thought possible. For a start my underwear was shredded. As far as Ginny was concerned that wasn't needed at all – and anyway the bras especially soon wouldn't fit any more.

Beverly was surprised when she saw her daughter cutting up my undies and almost said something about that. But she didn't. When she chose to shut her mouth instead of saying it wasn't a good idea, or proper in any way, she effectively gave up any thought of defending me from Ginny.

Ginny set the rules with an enthusiasm that startled both her mother and me. The girl said I could have a few dresses and skirts and tops for modesty but they were bought from charity shops. They weren't new and they weren't my choice of clothes. The only exception was my footwear: polished leather high heeled shoes with lockable ankle straps that cost a fortune from a fetish supplier on the internet.

I had five pairs in different colours – today I was wearing the midnight blue pair.

Then came the breast reduction operation (from 38c to a more modest 36a) simply because Ginny thought I was "an old bag with big udders." I was put on a diet and a strict exercise regime with a running machine – three miles rapid walking every day in high heels – to slim my waist and hips and keep me toned up.

I also have to be careful of what I eat, though often my diet is governed by Ginny's mood. It can be hard cooking a meal I know I am not allowed to eat and I am already hungry, but then every job has its down sides.

Of course my money was used for anything I had done (Beverly made it clear it could not come out of her income), and having sold up everything I also paid for my nipple rings, my cunt rings, my tongue piercing and the post put in – which makes me talk a little strangely – as well as my tattoo ("Ginny's Slut" in a fetching pink banner over a red heart just above my shaved pubic area) and anything else I might need to reinforce my new position.

Not that I need a lot. Ginny cuts my hair with a pair of old scissors, when she can be bothered, and it is rather ragged-looking, though as Beverly reminds me I may have to have my head shaved a some point. Not her idea, but what her daughter has talked about. Ginny is also talking about me having some tattoo on my head as well. It remains to be seen how foul the slogan will be, though "cuntwhore" is favourite at the moment.

So why do i put up with this? Why do I let a nasty-minded, vicious, foul-mouthed, bad- tempered and utterly lovely, sexy child have me this way? You tell me, once you understand the "lovely, sexy child" part.

You see, we do make love sometimes. Ginny is clever enough – or perhaps her mother told her that would be the only way I would stay and guarantee my acceptance – to have sex with me. Nice sex, too, when I am allowed to cum on Ginny's patient, soft tongue.

The girl can, when she wants, be very loving and soft and gentle. She removes my chains and lets me bathe with her, kisses me as if we were still lovers, strokes my ragged short hair as if it feels nice, caresses my sore nipples as if they needed care and attention, lets me share her bed as an equal. She seems to care about me, even telling me she hopes I am okay and sorry she hasn't been nice to me and would this lingering kiss on my pussy make me feel better?

But even though for three hours or so once every six weeks we get to be like we started out – better in many ways as she has learned so much – the moment ends. Usually with a punch on my tit or a slap across my face or even a kick on my backside. Her way of saying, time to stop being lovers and time to get back to what we really are.

Back to being child mistress and mature slave.

How does Beverly feel about her daughter and me making love, however infrequently? Probably not too happy, as she never quite approved in the first place. But when I think about it, the way I am here means Beverly can keep an eye on me and her daughter. In an unlikely way she gets to be a chaperone.

Oddly, Beverly still sometimes talks about her daughter one day "meeting the right man" and settling down asa happy wife, perhaps have kids to go with the nice home. She says it in a relaxed way, the way friends would, and there is not the slightest hint there is any place for me in this future. Perhaps she believes that I will have long gone by then, that her daughter will grow tired of me, or even – and this sends an electric jolt to my cunt – that I will be some commodity up for sale.

I can picture an advertisement in some fetish or D/S publication: "For sale, one slightly used, tattooed but well-broken old bitch. Can serve well if beaten often. Fond of children. Reason for sale: Owner has moved on to better things."

Better things.... Like a younger thing.

That's my fear: I am replaced by someone younger, some one prettier. Someone Ginny wants to go to bed with more, be nicer to than me. A better and more attractive submissive.

There are times, when Beverly casually mentions her daughter's future (such as University as well as being married perhaps one day) when I want to ask if I might stay here with her, but would this woman want a slave round the house? Moreover: a slave in her forties? You see, Beverly has never used me in any way. She is not a lesbian, or even a dominant. At times I think she is blind to me: she doesn't always see the way I am chained and gagged and beaten and made to obey. Never notices how how I am dressed, or undressed. I am at times just an object around the house, or a willing servant she does not need to talk to or consider. I am her child's, the way that Ginny's iPod or Playstation is hers. Just an object that needs looking after in a certain way.

Once I thought Beverly was going to kiss me and I leaned in, lips ready, but I had misjudged the situation and misread the signals. Beverly stared at me horrified, blushed and moved out of my reach. Later I had to spend the night with my neck tied to the rail in the wardrobe in my room, unable to sleep. Nothing was said to me but I can only assume that Beverly must have told Ginny. My owner was probably annoyed that her I had "tried it on with her mum" and decided I needed a sharp lesson. Well, I learned – and Beverly is very much off limits now.

I looked back at the drink I had made Ginny. yes, the ice had gone now; the drink itself would be warm and not at all what a hot and no doubt irritable child would want when she got home. I might have hoped not to make a mistake, but I had done so and all i had to do was face the consequences.

I shivered: the afternoon may have grown a little cooler or perhaps I was nervous. Not sure why I should be: I had been punished for errors often. I wondered, as it had been quite some time since Ginny had made love to me, that perhaps if I did well she might let me into her bed tonight. No doubt my mistake with the ice would mean I had sacrificed that chance for tenderness and love. I would soon find out I was sure.

Beverly got up and placed her now empty glass by the full glass of lemonade, barely gave me a glance and left the room. She was going out tonight, to the theatre, and wouldn't be back until late. Ginny would have me all alone.

I sat and wondered, in the silence of the room, what would happen to me. I so wanted to be good at this and I still made errors. I still needed Ginny to own me and love me and care for me.

The front door opened and banged shut, the way the girl always entered when she was less than happy coming home. I stood up as straight as I could, heart thumping and pussy tingling (God, how I wished I didn't get aroused by her mere presence, even her ill- tempered presence) as I heard my owner drop her schoolbag in the hall, and waited for my lovely Ginny to march into the room.

I had my excuses ready, but I also had the feeling Ginny wouldn't want to listen to them. This, I decided, would hurt me.

I even had thought what Ginny might do to make me realise my mistake, and came to the conclusion earlier if she wanted to know what was a fitting "reward" for my mistake (the girl sometimes asked me what I would do with such a useless, inept bitch like me) I should be ready with my advice.

I would tell her, if she asked, that as I had melted the ice, so ice should be melted on me. There was plenty in the fridge and it could be put in all sorts of places on me and in me and allowed to melt in its own good time.

And when the last of the ice had turned to freezing water and dripped off me and out of me, just maybe Ginny would be very nice to me and kiss me and tell me she loved me.

The way that always melts my heart.

(ends)

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