Best Years of Our Life

by Eva

It's hard being a mother of a girl. Especially being the mum of a 13-year-old girl with an attitude, someone who knows so much already about life and dismisses what you know as irrelevant. As if you had never been young yourself once. That you couldn't possibly, ever, ever know what she is going through.

Sometimes you wonder where you put the manual that tells you how to deal with the tantrums, the tears, the downright rudeness, the pouting, the "no one loves me, no one cares" routines.

Occasionally you want to pick up yellow pages to look for the place where you can trade them in and get a newer, less aggressive, less self-centered version.

I mean, there must be help lines for mothers who can't do right for doing wrong. But I expect the line's engaged all the time and they put you in a queue while they play calming music to you.

And, when you have got through all that at home there's always some cow at work who says encouraging things like: "Thirteen? She'll get a lot worse than that yet. Just you wait and see — you'll think these years are the best years of your life."

The best years of our lives. Yes, I can understand that. Because there are moments that transcend everything else. There are rewards. There are the soft cuddles and the "sorry Mum" and the promise not to do it again, ever.

They might not last, but these little islands of joy are precious.

And then we have the kiss. That kiss.

Oh it was just a gentle kiss at first. It was after one tantrum over some homework. History essay about Joan of Arc of all people. A young woman who knew what she wanted, even if it didn't work out for her in the end. But it was the sort of stuff that usually bores teenage girls.

Angela had said she was sorry for getting upset, cuddled me and her skinny little body — she had small boobs as I had at her age with the beginnings of some curves — was up to mine and she lifted her face. I felt a surge in me I hadn't felt for years, the sort of feeling you might just think you left behind some place and would never find again.

My daughter held me, smiled at me and then she kissed me.

Oh, I've been kissed by Angela before. Mothers always are kissed and cuddled by their girls. But this time — let's just say it was different.

Just a little longer, a little more intense. How do you know when a kiss is different? When you are there and you simply know. A little more pressure but equally it is that tad softer, a kiss held a little longer. A kiss that is a little more heart-thumping, a lot more charged and sends a warm pulse to your sex. Yes, you know when it happens, and I knew.

Now at this point I expect you would love to hear me say Angela became my lover and I carried her off to bed and we sprawled naked and kissed and caressed and fingered and licked and hit the heights of satisfaction. I would love to say that too, but it didn't quite go down that road.

It went down a bumpy little road I had no idea existed, a journey that left me astonished.

I wasn't entirely shocked at the way we kissed, female to female, or that I enjoyed it so much. I had just never dared to think I would find a lesbian kiss so alluring when it was my daughter pressing her lips to mine, but there we are.

Yes, I have a weakness for women, I admit. More than a weakness. I had had a lesbian fling at school myself. Brown eyed little Sophia Sanders, no tits and no shape but a way of putting her tongue in my mouth that made me get hot. And her fingers were so long and eager, too, even if they were unskilled. But I was fifteen then, almost sixteen. A guilty, snatched attempt at finding sapphic love.

And at college that young woman, Theresa, who was in my study group. Blinking behind owl-like glasses but with a certain appeal, who knew what scissoring should do and stayed the night in my room so we were too tired for lectures the next day. But happily tired.

Then the older woman where I started work, who understood that a tongue can find a home in any hole. Ah, yes... Miss Holmes soon discovered what a tongue in one place and a fist in another would do to me. So, I have been broken in, you could say. I have done the gentle, the curious, the aggressive and the down right base stuff (I consider a tongue in the anus is just that, especially when it is my tongue).

And then I got married and put it all behind me. Except it was lurking like a shadow over my shoulder, just waiting for a kiss. I suppose it would always be a dam that would break on a simple kiss from a female: I just never thought it would be my dear sweet, annoying Angela who would crumble it away.

Angela broke the kiss a tad too quickly for me and I turned away, not wanting to show how flushed I was. She left the room, probably to go and watch some junk on television. As if nothing had happened, for fuck's sake!

She had put her tongue in my mouth, just a little but enough so I knew. We had just kissed and she had to feel something of what I felt. But what was I supposed to do? March her up to the bedroom right now? What would her father say when he came in from work and saw us naked and groping?

With a bit of luck he would say: "Fine, carry on without me." But it never got that far.

I was left in the kitchen, getting the meal ready. All fingers and thumbs, utterly distracted by kissing my daughter like that. Her kissing me like that. Mind on other things: not chicken breasts for dinner, but little girl breasts for a late supper. And I couldn't help thinking of Angela's small, sweet breasts to go with her slim, slightly curved hips.

When the TV show was over Angela wandered in to the kitchen, complaining the way teenage girls do as she got herself a glass of milk. What was for dinner? Not that again! Why can't we go out for a meal? We never do anything like that, not like Carrie's family who are always going out. And shouldn't I give her a lift to school in the morning like Gemma and Dawn always got from their mum who obviously loves their girls more than I loved my own–

"Angela," I said, stopping her mid-flow.

"What?" She pouted, emptying the milk carton into a glass.

I took a deep breath. "That kiss..."

My daughter stared at me. Then she smirked. "Oh that! Don't worry, I don't fancy you."

"B-but... I mean... we, you know, kissed, uhm, and..." I was not being as clear as I would like to be here.

"Mum," she said, a slightly withering look. "I have a girlfriend already."

My jaw sagged, making me look less appealing than before. "But you're too young!"

"And you, mother dear, are too old. See ya, glad I'm not ya!" With that cheery smile she took her glass of milk and scooted out of the kitchen.

I stood there stunned. She had a girlfriend? Who? And I was too old? At 35?

I felt a hundred emotions well up in me. Not least of which was I had been rejected, by my own daughter, without her batting an eyelid.

I sat down and thought: damn, all this wetness in my knickers is going to waste.

---

It was, as I guessed, Cindy Powell. She wasn't a particular attractive girl I thought, with an annoying habit of sniffing when you spoke to her. How she got to be Angela's girlfriend I had no idea.

I couldn't see what Angela saw in her. Young, maybe. A bust? Well, bigger than Angela but not as good as mine. They clearly weren't into this for boob fondling.

In a funny way I felt affronted. A kid with no experience of sex between women was better than me apparently.

"I like her," said Angel defensively, when I asked later what on earth did she mean by having a girlfriend. "She's fun."

"Not that I have seen," I said testily. "Anyway, you shouldn't be gay. It's a phase at your age."

"And you would know how?" The expected sassy response. All Angela needed to do was poke her tongue out at me to make me feel really small. And I don't mean tongue as in sex. I mean tongue out as in an insult. Childish, but it still works.

"You need to think about this," I pressed on. "This Candy–"

"Cindy," snapped Angela. Accompanied by the usual 'Can't you remember anything?' glare.

"Cindy then. How are you going to find out what love is? What with all your homework and the television and going online."

My daughter grinned. "Well, Mother dearest, now you know it means I can invite her up to my room. She can get to know me that way."

"No way!" I insisted. "Your father wouldn't–"

"Like he knows!" Angela smirked. "Like he knows what you did to me. Tongue in mouth kissing, perv!"

"Angela!" I growled. "You put your tongue in my mouth!" I tried to pause for effect, wasted on her I imagined. "And I am your mother, not some perv."

"Whatever," she said. "We got any coke in the fridge?" She was more bothered about looking for a drink.

"We need to talk," I said.

"Nah, that's boring," she said, having found a half-empty bottle of some once fizzy drink. What little authority I could summon had just gone flat. Like the drink she had got herself.

From the bottom of the stairs she threw a parting comment. "Cindy's coming round later to share my bed. Send her up, okay?"

---

Here is the dilemma, if you want me to spell it out.

I could neither talk to Angela about what had happened, admit I was aroused by the kiss, tell her father about any of this, beg for a repeat kiss just to make sure, or even forbid her to see this dozy Cindy.

That's a dilemma? No, those are the facts. The dilemma is I could only get her into my bed if I told her I was an experienced lesbian. Okay, a while ago admittedly, but did this Cindy go down like I could?

And if I did bed my daughter then my credibility as a safe, sensible, caring mother would be permanently shot to pieces. She would take no damn notice of me after that.

Then I stopped to think. Just like it was now, in fact.

But this way I would get the thing I wanted. I might just to get happy. So I went upstairs, put on my tightest short skirt without knickers, a low cut red top with a push-up black bra, spritzed my best perfume behind both ears and between my tits, and knocked on Angela's bedroom door.

"There's a new Cindy here," I said quietly.

"What?" said Angela from the pit that was her bedroom.

"It's me," I said firmly.

"Who?"

"Oh for fuck's sake," I snapped. "Let me in and let me have you, bitch," I said a little more forcefully than I intended.

---

I have to say Angela took it well, being called a bitch. No mother ought to call her own daughter that, or even suggest that bitch was her future role. But it worked.

Some one once said kids need a little firm handling, so that's what I tried. A little honesty, a little dominace, a little spanking, a little kissing, a little letting her play with my puppies where they peeked out of my bra, a little allowing her to lick my newly trimmed pussy.

And a whole lot of reminding the girl was mine and I could do what I pleased and she would just have to take it. Any way I wanted to give it out.

I held her on the bed and I have to say I was a little more rough than I intended, but there is no point in chasing shadows here. I wanted it and she was providing it. Tongue straining out to get to my slit, lap up the juices that ran.

She is a sweety when she behaves and tongues my cunt. A crude way to put it but that is why we do what we do. There is something quite nice about settling yourself on your daughter's face knowing she is about to worship her 'true home' and bring you off.

And later, having her kneel naked on the floor (having tidied up her mess of a room in double-quick time and a slightly red bum on show) and say sorry for being a bad girl and please don't spank me Mummy and I promise I'll do anything.

"Anything, darling?" I purr as I lie back, legs spread wide. Inelegant, unladylike but oh so mesmerising for my little angel. She just cannot take her eyes off my bush and crack. Rightly so.

Angela swallows and smiles as best she can, my cum juices drying round her pretty little mouth. "Oh yes, Mummy dear, anything," she says, eyes adoring me.

You wonder why it took me so long to get here, but maybe I needed to be pushed that little bit. Just a question of when I became the one in charge.

For her part Angela just took it all like a girl born to it. No more sassy backchat, no under the breath comments I wasn't supposed to hear. No more questioning who ruled the nest.

Our nest was her bed mostly, and my double bed when hubby was out. I managed to send him out on some ludicrous errands, too.

Grief, even he noticed she was better behaved and remarked on it. "Don't know what you did," he said over breakfast one morning, "but she's like a new girl. Has she met someone she likes?"

"Maybe," I smiled, and saw my bitch smile at me. Out of sight of Daddy, lifting her skirt and showing me her panties with the little wet patch from where I had held her down earlier and licked her slit through the crotch. And a little pouting air kiss to show what she most wanted.

I even give her a lift to school now, and stop in a quiet place and have a little feel of her. She has a little feel of me, if I allow it. Bless her, she whimpers when I finger her now.

Oh yes, and Cindy? The original Cin as I call her? Well, I call her Candy and she takes it. Sweet enough to eat, the good little bitch.

I was a tad bit uncharitable about her before. She is nice in her own way and I have taught her not to sniff when she's in my presence. And she is quite good fun too with little boobs that I think might be very big one day, with luck.

But there is something really nice about having two girls go down on you. Candy takes the back, Angela the front. Providing of course she has been good and done all her homework and seen to the washing up. Otherwise she gets the back end of the deal.

No cheek, no disrespect. Just two 13 year olds finding out what lesbianism really is. And if they are very good they can kiss me, full tongues in mouth.

Who knows? I may permit them to kiss each other soon, but only in my presence. When I have finished with them and they have pleased me enough.

It's something to look forward to in the best years of their lives. Mine too, now I know what to do.

The end