Note: This story was written with assistance by an AI. I provided prompts and edited the results to make sense, creating something resembling a full story.

The late afternoon sun slanted through the Parr family’s modernist living room, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, lazy fairies. Helen Parr stood at the sink, her hands submerged in soapy water, but her gaze was fixed out the window, watching the neighborhood kids cycle down the street. A profound, gnawing restlessness had taken root in her bones, a feeling that had become as familiar as the stretch of her own elastic skin. She was a mother, a wife, a hero—a series of roles that felt increasingly like costumes she never took off.

The click of the front door broke her reverie.

“Kari? Is that you?” Helen called out, drying her hands on a dish towel.

“Yeah, Mrs. Parr. Sorry I’m a few minutes late, my mom needed the car.” Kari McKeen stood in the entryway, a silhouette of sharp angles and nervous energy. She was all elbows and knees, drowning in a baggy band t-shirt, her skateboard tucked under one arm. Her eyes, a startlingly clear blue, darted around the room, avoiding direct contact.

“It’s no trouble at all, sweetie. Bob’s working late, and Dash has track practice. Violet’s… well, she’s in her room, which probably means she’s not actually in her room.” Helen offered a warm smile, the practiced, effortless one she used for PTA meetings and press conferences. “It’s just you and me and Jack-Jack for a couple of hours.”

As she spoke, Helen’s eyes traced the line of Kari’s throat, the delicate hollow at its base. There was a raw, unformed quality to the girl that was strangely compelling. Helen felt a sudden, illicit thrill, a spark in the tinder-dry monotony of her day.

“He’s down for his nap,” Helen continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Which means I finally have a moment to breathe. Would you… like a glass of iced tea? I made it fresh.”

Kari nodded, a quick, jerky motion. “Sure. Thanks, Mrs. Parr.”

They moved to the kitchen island, the granite cool and smooth under Helen’s palms. She poured two tall glasses, the ice cubes cracking and settling. The silence between them was thick, charged. Helen could feel the girl’s nervous energy radiating across the space.

“You know, you can call me Helen,” she said softly, leaning forward just enough for the V-neck of her blouse to gap slightly. “When it’s just us.”

Kari’s eyes flickered down, then snapped back up, a faint blush creeping up her neck. “O-okay. Helen.”

The name on Kari’s lips sent another, stronger jolt through Helen. This was dangerous. This was stupid. This was the most alive she’d felt in months.

“It must be so boring for you,” Helen mused, circling the island to stand closer, the scent of Kari’s shampoo—something cheap and fruity—filling her senses. “Sitting in this quiet house with a baby and a… tired housewife.”

“You’re not tired,” Kari blurted out, then immediately looked horrified at her own forwardness. “I mean, you don’t look tired… you’re… you’re… incredible.”

Helen laughed, a low, throaty sound. She reached out, her fingers—infinitely careful, infinitely controlled—brushing a strand of hair from Kari’s forehead. The girl flinched as if electrocuted, a tiny, sharp intake of breath hissing between her teeth.

“Don’t be fooled by appearances, Kari.” Helen’s voice was barely a whisper now. Her hand didn’t retreat. Instead, it trailed down, tracing the line of Kari’s jaw. The skin was soft, impossibly young. “This is the real me. The one who feels… overlooked.”

Kari was frozen, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of the counter. Her crush on Helen Parr wasn’t a secret she kept; it was a fundamental part of her cellular structure, a humiliating, all-consuming truth she carried everywhere. And now the object of that worship was touching her, her gaze heavy with an intention Kari had only ever fantasized about.

“You’re not overlooked,” Kari whispered, her voice gaining a sliver of steel. “I see you.”

It was the permission Helen didn’t know she was waiting for.

She closed the final inch between them, her body pressing Kari back against the cool granite. Helen was all soft, generous curves against Kari’s wiry frame. She cupped Kari’s face in both hands and brought her mouth down.

The kiss was not tentative. It was a claiming. Helen’s tongue swept into Kari’s mouth, tasting of mint tea and a desperate hunger. Kari’s initial stiffness melted in a heartbeat, her hands coming up to clutch at Helen’s hips, her fingers digging into the lush flesh there. A low, guttural moan—”Mmmphh, fuck”—vibrated from Kari’s throat into Helen’s mouth.

That sound, so raw and needy, shattered the last of Helen’s restraint. Her hands slid from Kari’s face, down her back, over the cheap cotton of her shirt, and settled firmly on her ass. She squeezed, pulling their lower bodies tighter together, making Kari gasp against her lips.

“You have no idea,” Helen breathed, her own composure fraying, “how long I’ve wanted to do that. To feel someone… want me like this.”

“I do,” Kari panted, her earlier awkwardness evaporating under the heat of Helen’s attention. A new light ignited in her blue eyes, something possessive and dark. “I’ve dreamt about it. About you.” Her own hands slid down, palming the full, round swell of Helen’s backside through her tailored slacks. “About this ass. God, Mrs. P—Helen. It’s so fucking perfect.”

Hearing the filth in this young girl’s mouth, directed at her, at her body, sent a lightning bolt of pure lust straight to Helen’s core. She was wet, aching.

“The baby monitor,” Helen managed, her breath hitching as Kari’s fingers kneaded her flesh with a surprising, confident strength.

“He’s out for another hour at least,” Kari said, her voice dropping an octave, losing its reedy quality and becoming a command. She used her grip on Helen’s ass to maneuver her, walking her backward out of the kitchen. “Your room. Now.”

In the sanctuary of the master bedroom, with the door clicked shut, the dynamic shifted irrevocably. The nervous babysitter was gone. In her place was a young woman aflame with desire, emboldened by the reality of Helen’s admission. Kari pushed Helen onto the edge of the large bed, her movements sure and deliberate.

“Let me look at you,” Kari murmured, her gaze a physical weight as she stood over Helen. She tugged at the hem of her own shirt, pulling it over her head to reveal a slender, pale torso, a simple black bra. Then her hands went to Helen’s blouse, fumbling with the buttons for only a second before her patience frayed. With a sharp, tearing sound, she ripped it open, sending buttons skittering across the hardwood floor.

Helen gasped, not in protest, but in exhilaration. The violence of the act, the sheer audacity, was the most thrilling thing she’d experienced in a decade.

Kari’s eyes devoured the sight of Helen’s full breasts spilling from her lace bra. “You’re so much more… woman than I imagined,” she breathed, falling to her knees on the floor between Helen’s spread legs. Her hands ran up Helen’s thighs, pushing the slacks and panties down in one rough, urgent motion.

Then Kari’s mouth was on her, and Helen cried out, her back arching off the bed. Kari’s tongue was not hesitant or exploratory; it was ravenous, a relentless, skilled assault on her clit. She licked and sucked with a focused intensity that belied her age, her nose buried in Helen’s trimmed curls. The sounds were obscene, wet and sloppy—schlllp, lick-lick-lick, mmmh—and each one drove Helen closer to the edge.

“Oh, god, Kari… yes… right there!” Helen’s hands fisted in the duvet, one arm reaching to brace herself against the headboard.

Kari pulled back for a moment, her chin glistening. Her blue eyes were dark pools of lust. “Tell me what you want, Helen.” It wasn’t a question. It was a demand.

“I want you to make me cum,” Helen begged, the words foreign and delicious on her tongue. “Please, Kari. Make me forget my own name.”

A wicked smile touched Kari’s lips. “Helen Parr, begging for me. I dreamt of this.” She dove back in, redoubling her efforts, adding two fingers that slid deep inside Helen’s soaking cunt with ease. Squelsh, squelsh. She curled them, hitting a spot that made Helen see stars.

Helen’s orgasm ripped through her with the force of a sonic boom, a silent scream tearing from her throat as her body convulsed. Wave after wave of pleasure wracked her frame, her elasticity straining at its limits. She collapsed back onto the bed, boneless and panting.

Kari rose from her knees, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a look of supreme, primal satisfaction on her face. She looked down at the sprawled, debauched form of her crush.

“That was just the beginning, Helen,” Kari said, her voice steady and low. She crawled onto the bed, straddling Helen’s hips, her thin body hovering over Helen’s soft, spent one. “My turn. I’ve been dreaming about what I’d do to this big, juicy MILF ass for years. And now… it’s all mine.”

Her hands slid under Helen, gripping the generous cheeks of her ass, fingers digging into the flesh as she leaned down to capture Helen’s lips in another deep, possessive kiss. The affair was no longer something Helen had initiated. It was a storm she had unleashed, and Kari McKeen was just getting started.

Kari’s mouth was a brand, searing its ownership onto Helen’s lips. The taste of herself on the girl’s tongue was a potent, filthy cocktail that sent a fresh, shuddering thrill through Helen’s spent body. The authority in Kari’s voice, the possessive grip on her ass—it was a complete inversion of their world. The babysitter was in charge now.

“Roll over,” Kari commanded, her voice a low thrum against Helen’s ear. It wasn’t a suggestion.

A shiver of pure anticipation wracked Helen’s frame. Without a word, she obeyed, pushing herself onto her hands and knees on the rumpled duvet. The position was profoundly vulnerable, her body offered up, her head bowed. The cool air of the room kissed the dampness between her thighs and the exposed skin of her back.

Kari let out a slow, appreciative hiss. “Fuck. Yeah. Just like that.” Her hands, which had seemed so awkward and fumbling minutes before, were now instruments of absolute certainty. They smoothed over the generous curve of Helen’s spine, down to the lush, full mounds of her ass. She kneaded the flesh, not with lustful passion, but with a connoisseur’s appraisal. “All those PTA meetings… all those times I watched you walk away from the car… I’d imagine this. My hands on you. My mouth on you.”

Her thumbs hooked into the crease where thigh met cheek and slowly, deliberately, spread Helen open. The exposure was so intimate, so lewd, that Helen moaned into the mattress, her face burning with a mixture of shame and dizzying arousal.

“So pink. So pretty,” Kari murmured, her voice thick with wonder and hunger. Then her tongue was on her again, but not where Helen expected. It wasn’t her cunt she sought. The wet, hot stripe laved from her perineum up, over the tight, hidden pucker of her asshole.

Helen jolted, a sharp, shocked gasp tearing from her throat. “K-Kari…!”

The girl’s hands tightened on her hips, holding her firmly in place. “Shhh. You said you wanted to forget your name.” Her tongue circled the tight ring of muscle, a relentless, wet pressure. Lllrrrp. Fffft. It was a violation Helen had never contemplated, a depravity that should have repulsed her. Instead, it sent a jolt of white-hot lightning straight to her clit, which throbbed anew, desperate and neglected.

Kari’s tongue worked her open, a slow, obscene penetration that had Helen trembling, her knuckles white where she gripped the sheets. The sensation was alien, overwhelming, a filthy counterpoint to the girl’s worshipful words. “I used to dream about tasting you here,” Kari breathed against her skin, her breath hot. “Knowing I was the only one who got to see you like this. Helen Parr, on her knees for me, letting me lick her perfect ass.”

She pushed a spit-slicked thumb against the entrance, applying a steady, inexorable pressure. Helen cried out as it breached her, the initial sting melting into a deep, shocking fullness. Kari worked it in and out, a slow, shallow fuck, her tongue still flicking over Helen’s clit from behind, creating a devastating, multi-pronged assault on her senses.

“You’re taking it so good,” Kari cooed, her voice dripping with dark praise. “Such a good girl for me. Your husband… he never does this, does he? He doesn’t know what you really need.”

The mention of Bob was like a dash of cold water, but it only served to heighten the transgression, to make the pleasure feel more stolen, more illicit. Helen could only shake her head, a strangled sob catching in her throat as Kari added a second thumb, stretching her wider. The stretch burned, a delicious, punishing fire.

“I knew it,” Kari growled, her dominance solidifying with every whimper she wrung from Helen. “He doesn’t deserve this. This ass is mine.”

She withdrew her thumbs, leaving Helen feeling gaping and empty. Before Helen could process the loss, she felt the blunt, insistent pressure of something else. She craned her neck to see Kari, now kneeling behind her, guiding the thick, veined length of a strap-on she’d produced from her discarded backpack. The silicone glistened, slick with lube. The sight was so shockingly prepared, so premeditated, that it stole the air from Helen’s lungs.

“You… you brought that?” Helen panted, her mind reeling.

A slow, wicked smile spread across Kari’s face. “A girl can hope, can’t she?” That answer was all Helen needed to hear to realize how much more she’d bitten off than she’d anticipated with that kiss. Kari positioned the tip at Helen’s stretched, wet pussy. “Now, be a good MILF and take your medicine.”

She didn’t thrust. She pressed. A slow, relentless invasion that filled Helen beyond anything she had ever known. It wasn’t just physical; it was psychological. This skinny, awkward girl was claiming her, dominating her, fucking her with a cold, artificial cock in the bed she shared with her husband. The thought was so degrading, so horrifyingly hot, that Helen’s consciousness seemed to narrow to the single, overwhelming sensation of being filled.

Kari set a brutal, punishing rhythm from the start. Each thrust was a deep, solid thwump that drove Helen forward, making the bedframe creak in protest. Her hands gripped Helen’s hips hard enough to bruise, using her for leverage, for her own pleasure.

“Yeah, take it,” Kari grunted, her composure fracturing into raw, guttural sounds. “Take all of it, you fucking goddess. Uhn! This cunt was made for this. Made for me.”

Her words were a filthy litany that poured gasoline on the fire consuming Helen. She was mindless, reduced to a vessel for this girl’s desire. Her own hands scrambled for purchase, her arms stretching out to brace against the headboard, her fingers splaying against the cool wood as Kari pounded into her.

“I’m gonna… I’m gonna fill this perfect ass next time,” Kari promised, her voice ragged with exertion. “Gonna watch my cum drip out of you while you make dinner for your family. You’ll remember me every time you sit down.”

The image, so vile and explicit, was the final trigger. Helen’s second orgasm detonated without warning, a cataclysm that ripped a raw, screaming sob from her throat. “Kari! Fuck!” Her body seized, clenching violently around the invading length, her mind going haywire as waves of unbearable pleasure-pain wracked her frame.

Feeling Helen convulse around her sent Kari over the edge. She let out a sharp, choked cry—”Gah! Hnnngh!”—and drove home one last, deep thrust, her body shuddering against Helen’s back as she rode out her own climax.

For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged, panting breaths and the faint, tinny sound of a cartoon from Jack-Jack’s monitor. Kari slumped forward, her sweaty forehead resting between Helen’s shoulder blades, her thin arms wrapping around Helen’s waist.

“See?” Kari whispered into her skin, her voice soft again, but laced with a permanent, unshakable confidence. “I told you I’d take care of you.”

Helen could only tremble, utterly spent and profoundly claimed. The restlessness was gone, replaced by a deep, satiated exhaustion and the terrifying, thrilling knowledge that the girl clinging to her back held a power over her that no super-villain ever could. The affair was not just a secret she would have to keep. It was a cage, beautifully gilded, and she had just handed Kari McKeen the key.

The scent of their coupling hung thick in the master bedroom, a musky, intimate perfume that clung to the sheets and filled Helen’s lungs with every shuddering breath. Kari’s weight was a comforting, possessive anchor on her back, the girl’s slender arms locked around her waist. The frantic energy had subsided, replaced by a heavy, post-coital languor that felt more dangerous in its intimacy.

Kari shifted first, her movements languid and proprietary. She didn’t retreat; she rearranged them. With a soft grunt, she pulled out, the sound a wet, final punctuation to the act. She guided Helen onto her side, then onto her back, handling the older woman’s pliant, boneless body with an unsettling familiarity. Helen’s eyes fluttered open to find Kari propped on an elbow, just staring down at her. That blue gaze was no longer nervous or worshipful; it was analytical, hungry, cataloging every curve and hollow of the woman beneath her.

“You’re even more beautiful when you’re ruined,” Kari murmured, her fingers tracing the line of Helen’s collarbone. Her touch drifted lower, over the swell of a breast, circling a nipple that peaked instantly under her attention. But her eyes kept drifting downward, past Helen’s navel, past the damp thatch of curls, to her feet.

A fresh, peculiar flutter of nerves stirred in Helen’s gut. This was new territory.

Kari slid down the bed with the silent grace of a predator, her focus narrowing. She took one of Helen’s feet in her hands, her touch surprisingly reverent. Helen’s feet were, like the rest of her, well-cared for and elegant, with high arches and slender toes, usually tucked away in sensible heels or house slippers.

“I’ve watched these for years,” Kari said, her voice a husky whisper. She ran a thumb over the sensitive arch, and Helen gasped, a jolt of unexpected sensation shooting straight up her leg. “In the summer, when you wore sandals… driving the car, tapping to the radio.” She bent her head and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the instep.

The intimacy of it was staggering, more vulnerable in its own way than the fucking had been. This wasn’t about taking; it was about cherishing a part of her no one else ever had. Kari’s tongue darted out, tracing the line of a vein, before she took Helen’s big toe into her mouth.

Oh, god. Helen’s head fell back against the pillows, a soft, broken moan escaping her. The sensation was bizarre, taboo, and incredibly arousing. The wet heat of Kari’s mouth, the gentle suction, the faint scrape of teeth—it was a direct line to her core, which began to pulse with a renewed, aching need. Kari worshiped one foot, then the other, licking, sucking, nibbling, her fingers massaging the sole until Helen was squirming, her earlier exhaustion burned away by this strange, focused adoration.

“Please…” Helen heard herself beg, though she wasn’t sure what she was asking for.

Kari understood. She released Helen’s foot with a final, wet pop and crawled back up her body, her eyes dark with renewed purpose. “You asked for it,” she whispered, her breath ghosting across Helen’s lips. “You wanted me to remind you.”

From the nightstand drawer—her nightstand, where Bob kept his reading glasses—Kari retrieved a small, unlabeled bottle of lubricant. The casual violation of that space, the premeditation it implied, sent another thrill through Helen. Kari was not a guest in this room; she was making it hers.

She coaxed Helen onto her stomach again, but this time, she piled pillows under her hips, elevating her ass into a blatant, offered presentation. Kari knelt between her spread thighs, and Helen heard the slick, squelching sound of lube being generously applied, first to two fingers, then to the thick, silicone phallus still strapped to Kari’s hips.

The anticipation was a live wire under Helen’s skin. She felt the cool, slippery touch of Kari’s fingers first, circling the tight furl of her asshole, massaging, preparing. It was a clinical, thorough process, and Helen trembled with a mixture of fear and desperate want. The memory of the girl’s tongue there was a brand, a prelude to this.

“Relax for me, Helen,” Kari cooed, her voice a low, hypnotic murmur. She pressed one finger inward, a slow, burning stretch that made Helen gasp and bury her face in the pillow. The sensation was sharp, alien, a fullness in a place never meant to be filled. Kari worked her open with a cruel, exquisite patience, adding a second finger, scissoring them gently, stretching the resistant muscle.

“You’re so tight,” Kari breathed, her voice thick with awe. “Tighter than your pussy. It’s like no one’s ever been here before.”

They hadn’t. This was a final frontier, a surrender more complete than any other.

When the blunt, lubed head of the strap-on pressed against her, Helen whimpered, her fingers clawing at the sheets. This was different. This was bigger, harder, more final.

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” Kari whispered, but there was no softness in the motion that followed. She pushed forward with a steady, relentless pressure.

The burn was excruciating for a breathtaking second, a white-hot tear of violation that made Helen cry out, her body instinctively trying to clench and reject the invasion. But Kari held her hips firm, not yielding an inch, pressing forward until the impossible became reality, and the entire thick length was buried inside her.

Helen sobbed, the sound muffled by the pillow. It was a pain so intense it bordered on pleasure, a feeling of being split open, claimed in the most primal way possible. She was full, so impossibly full, stretched to her absolute limit.

Kari stayed still for a long moment, letting Helen adjust, letting her feel the utter completeness of the penetration. Then she began to move.

The rhythm was slow, deep, and punishing. Each withdrawal was a tantalizing relief, each thrust a fresh, shocking invasion. Thump. Thump. Thump. The sound of their bodies meeting was a dull, wet slap in the quiet room. The pain began to transmute, melting into a deep, radiating pleasure that seemed to ignite every nerve ending she possessed. It was a filthy, degrading, magnificent feeling. With every thrust, Kari was erasing the last vestiges of Helen Parr, the respected hero and mother, and replacing her with this wanton creature who got off on being taken in the ass by a teenage girl.

“This is it,” Kari grunted, her voice strained with the effort of her thrusts. “This is what you needed. To be used. To have every perfect, hidden part of you owned.” She leaned forward, her chest pressing against Helen’s sweaty back, her mouth close to Helen’s ear. “My cock in your ass. Your husband’s pillow under your face. You love it, don’t you? Tell me you love it.”

And God help her, she did. The confession was torn from her, a raw, ragged scream. “I love it! Kari, I love it! Don’t stop!”

Her approval unleashed something feral in Kari. The pace became frantic, brutal, a piston-like drive that stole Helen’s breath and shattered her thoughts. The pleasure built, a terrifying pressure in her core, fed by the shame, the dominance, the sheer physical intensity of the act. When her orgasm came, it was unlike any other—a seismic, whole-body convulsion that ripped through her with the force of a building collapsing. She screamed, her body clamping down on the invading length, her vision whiting out at the edges.

Kari followed her over, her own cry a sharp, guttural release as she slammed home one final time and held herself deep, shuddering through her own climax.

They collapsed together, a tangled, sweaty, breathless heap. Kari’s weight was a welcome burden. The silicone inside her was a constant, throbbing reminder of her submission. Helen felt hollowed out, reborn, and utterly, irrevocably corrupted. As Kari’s soft, post-coital kisses began to trail across her shoulders, Helen knew with a terrifying clarity that there was no going back. She was Kari’s masterpiece, her personal project, and the depravity had only just begun to scratch the surface of what they both desired.

The air in the room was a physical presence, thick with the smells of sex, sweat, and the faint, clean scent of the lube that now felt as much a part of her as her own skin. Helen lay boneless, her body humming with a deep, resonant ache, her mind a blissful blank. Every nerve ending felt sanded raw and hypersensitive. She could feel the slow, cooling trickle of lube leaking from her ass, a filthy, constant reminder of the violation that had just rewired her soul.

Kari, however, was not spent. The languid stillness was a lie. Helen could feel the restless energy thrumming through the girl’s slender frame where it was pressed against her back. It was the energy of a kid on Christmas morning who’d just opened the biggest present but knew there were more boxes under the tree.

“You’re thinking,” Helen murmured into the pillow, her voice raspy from screaming.

Kari’s fingers, which had been idly tracing circles on Helen’s hip, stilled. “I’ve had a lot of time to think. Years.” She shifted, rolling Helen onto her back with an easy strength that belied her skinny frame. Her eyes, dark and glittering in the low light, roamed over Helen’s prone form like a cartographer mapping conquered territory. “I had a list.”

A shiver, equal parts dread and anticipation, skated down Helen’s spine. “A list?”

“Mmmhmm. A ‘Things To Do To Helen Parr’ list.” A slow, wicked smile spread across Kari’s face. “We’ve checked off a few big ones. But the night is young, and you…” Her hand slid between Helen’s thighs, her fingers slipping easily into the slick, swollen flesh. “…are still so very ready for me, aren’t you, you desperate slut?”

The word, so crude and degrading, made Helen’s cunt clench around Kari’s fingers. She nodded, her cheeks burning. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I’m a desperate slut,” Helen whispered, the confession tasting like freedom.

“Good girl.” Kari withdrew her fingers, shiny with Helen’s arousal, and brought them to her own mouth, sucking them clean with a loud, deliberate pop. “Now, on your knees. Face the headboard.”

The command was sharp, leaving no room for question. Helen’s body moved before her mind could fully process the order, the well-trained submissive already overriding the world-saving superhero. She got on her knees, facing the large, upholstered headboard, her back to Kari. The position was even more exposed, more demeaning.

She heard the rustle of Kari moving behind her, then the distinct, sharp snap of a cap opening. A moment later, something cold and viscous dripped onto the small of her back. Lube. But it was followed by a warmer, heavier trickle. Kari was pouring it, letting it run in rivulets down the cleft of her ass, over her trembling thighs.

“I used to imagine you like this,” Kari said, her voice conversational, as if discussing the weather. “Covered in oil. All that perfect, soft skin just glistening for me.” Her hands followed the trails of lube, spreading it over Helen’s back, her ass, her thighs, in long, slick strokes. The sensation was bizarrely intimate, a full-body anointing. Kari was worshipping and defiling her all at once. “I’d see you in your little workout clothes, all that jiggling and bouncing, and I’d dream of getting you just like this. Slippery. Helpless.”

Her hands slid around to Helen’s front, cupping her breasts, slicking them with oil, pinching and rolling her nipples until they were hard, aching pebbles. She leaned forward, her small, pert breasts pressing against Helen’s slick back, her mouth finding Helen’s ear.

“I’m going to fuck your tits now,” she whispered, the words a hot, damp promise.

Before Helen could even process that, Kari was moving, slipping beneath her. She guided Helen’s arms, positioning them to press her breasts together, creating a slick, oily channel. Then Helen felt the rigid, silicone length slide between them. Kari’s hands gripped her shoulders, and she began to thrust.

It was a different kind of humiliation. The thwump-thwump-thwump of the fake cock sliding between her oiled breasts, the head nudging against her chin with every forward push. Kari’s grunts were right in her ear, animalistic and possessive.

“Yeah, that’s it, milk my cock with your big mommy milkers,” Kari grunted, her hips pistoning. “God, look at you. Helen Parr, doting housewife, on her knees, used as a fleshlight. You’re just a set of holes and tits for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” Helen moaned, the lewd visual, the crude words, the sheer absurdity of it all driving her higher. She could only imagine what Kari would think if she knew that she was also the city’s hero, Elastigirl. “I’m just your… your set of holes!”

Kari’s rhythm faltered, and she let out a sharp, choked laugh. “Fuck, you’re perfect.” She pulled back, leaving Helen’s chest slick and heaving. “But you know what the best hole is?”

Helen knew. Her body clenched in anticipation.

Kari didn’t make her wait. She pushed Helen forward, her chest against the headboard, and guided her hips up once more. The re-entry into her ass was easier this time, the muscle memory of the previous violation making way for the thick intrusion with a wet, yielding shlllck. But Kari wasn’t done.

Helen felt a second, smaller, cooler pressure, slick with lube, nudge against her other entrance. A toy. Kari had brought more than one.

“Two at once,” Kari breathed, her voice thick with triumphant lust. “I’ve dreamed about this more than anything. Filling up every part of you.”

The stretch was astronomical, unbelievable. Helen cried out, a strangled scream as Kari pushed the smaller toy into her cunt while the larger one remained buried in her ass. She was packed, stuffed, impaled from both sides, a living sheath for Kari’s fantasies. She felt like she was being turned inside out.

Kari began to move them in opposite rhythms, a disorienting, overwhelming symphony of penetration. As she thrust the strap-on deep into her ass, she’d pull the toy almost all the way out of her cunt, and vice versa. The sensations crashed over Helen in conflicting waves—a deep, full ache from behind, a sharp, dragging friction from the front.

“You feel that?” Kari panted, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she worked. “You feel how full you are? There’s nothing of you left that isn’t mine. Your ass is mine. Your cunt is mine. Your perfect, juicy MILF ass is taking every inch I give it. You’re my personal fuckdoll, Helen. My own little maternal plaything.”

The filth pouring from Kari’s mouth was the kindling, and the dual penetration was the fire. Helen’s world narrowed to the brutal, exquisite rhythm and the degrading litany. She was sobbing openly now, tears and drool smearing the headboard, her body convulsing with a pleasure so intense it was indistinguishable from pain.

“I’m gonna… Kari, I’m gonna break!” she wailed, her powers flickering uncontrollably, her arms stretching out to brace against the wall, her legs trembling violently.

“Then break!” Kari snarled, driving into her with a final, brutal thrust. “Break for me, you perfect whore! Cum for me!”

The command was the final detonation. Helen’s third orgasm was a blackout, a nuclear blast that erased all thought, all identity. Her body seized, her back arching violently as a raw, silent scream was torn from her lungs. She collapsed forward, a puppet with its strings cut, only held up by Kari’s grip on her hips and the toys still buried inside her.

Kari slumped beneath her, her own body shuddering through a powerful climax, her cries muffled by Helen’s oiled tits.

For a long time, there was only the sound of their ragged, sobbing breaths. Finally, Kari carefully, gently, withdrew both toys, the loss of fullness making Helen whimper. Kari collapsed beneath her, pulling Helen into her arms, stroking her hair, kissing her tear-streaked face.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Kari whispered, her voice soft now, laced with awe. “I’ve got you. I’ll always take care of you.”

And as Helen lay there, shattered and remade in the arms of a teenage girl, she knew it was the most terrifying and true promise she had ever heard. The list was long, and Kari McKeen was just getting started.

The tremors in Helen’s body were slow to subside, a series of aftershocks following a psychic earthquake. Kari’s arms around her were not a cage but a claiming, a physical manifestation of the new order. The girl’s breathing had evened out, but her eyes, when Helen dared to meet them, were wide and bright with a manic, creative energy. The initial frenzy was gone, replaced by the focused intensity of an artist stepping back to survey a half-finished canvas, already envisioning the final, glorious, debauched strokes.

“You’re still so wet,” Kari murmured, her fingers idly stroking through the slick mess between Helen’s thighs, mingling her own arousal with the cooling lube. “It’s like your body knows it belongs to me now.” She shifted, her movements deliberate, and reached for the small bottle again. This time, she didn’t pour it on Helen’s skin. Instead, she coated her own fingers, holding Helen’s gaze. “Open your mouth.”

The command was simple, absolute. Helen’s jaw went slack, her lips parting. Kari slid two slick fingers past them, pressing down on her tongue. The taste was sterile and synthetic, a shocking contrast to the organic salt and musk of their bodies. It was a new layer of degradation, being forced to taste the very substance used to violate her.

“Suck,” Kari ordered, her voice low.

Helen obeyed, her cheeks hollowing as she cleaned the lube from Kari’s digits with a soft, sucking sound. Sllurp. The act was profoundly submissive, more so than any of the fucking. This was about control over her most basic functions.

Kari withdrew her fingers and, in one fluid motion, replaced them with her own mouth, kissing Helen deeply, sharing the taste, making it theirs. When she broke the kiss, a string of saliva connected them for a brief moment. “Good. Now you’re ready for the real thing.”

Helen’s eyes widened. “The… real…?”

A slow, predatory smile touched Kari’s lips. She moved, not for another toy, but to position herself over Helen’s face, one knee on either side of her head. The strap-on loosened, discarded beside them for the moment. The view was dizzying, a landscape of pale skin, sharp hip bones, and the dark, damp triangle of her pubic hair. “I want to feel your tongue in my pussy, Helen. I’ve dreamed about you going down on me. I want to watch the top of your head bob while I fuck your mouth.”

She lowered herself, and Helen’s world narrowed to scent and taste. The musky, intimate aroma of Kari’s arousal filled her senses, a potent, youthful scent that was nothing like Bob’s. It was sharp and sweet and utterly intoxicating. Kari’s hands gripped the headboard for leverage as she settled her weight, bringing her cunt down onto Helen’s waiting mouth.

There was no hesitation. Helen’s tongue delved into the slick, hot folds, lapping at the swollen flesh, seeking out the hard little nub of her clit.

“That’s it,” Kari moaned, her voice trembling as Helen began to worship her with a fervor that bordered on religious. She licked and sucked, her hands coming up to grip Kari’s thin hips, holding her in place as she feasted. The sounds were wet, messy, and shameless. Lick. Schlllp. Mmmph. Helen was lost in the act, her own pleasure secondary to the task of giving it. She was a servant at the altar of this teen girl’s desire.

Kari began to move, a slow, grinding rhythm that was all her own. “Fuck, your tongue… yes… just like that, you filthy muffdiver.”

The insult, delivered on a cresting wave of pleasure, made Helen moan in response, the vibration against Kari’s clit drawing a sharp cry from the girl above her.

“Don’t stop,” Kari begged, her dominance fraying at the edges as her own climax approached. “Make me cum all over your pretty face!”

Kari’s voice cracked on the last word as she ground herself down, her thighs trembling on either side of Helen’s head. The scent of her, the taste of her, the overwhelming reality of being used as her personal toy sent a fresh, dizzying rush of heat through Helen’s own body. She doubled her efforts, her tongue a relentless, swirling instrument of pleasure, her nose buried in the soft, damp curls.

Kari’s control shattered. A guttural, raw cry was torn from her throat as her orgasm hit, a flood of warmth and wetness that coated Helen’s chin, her lips, her cheeks. Kari’s body convulsed, her back arching as she rode out the waves, her fingers white-knuckled on the headboard. “FUCK! Hnnngh! YES!”

Helen drank her in, swallowing every last drop of the girl’s climax, the act a final, profound seal on her submission.

When Kari finally collapsed beside her, panting, they were both slick with sweat, lube, and the evidence of their shared debauchery. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 9:37 PM. Jack-Jack would be stirring soon.

The thought was a bucket of ice water, but Kari, as if sensing the shift, cupped Helen’s face, her thumb wiping gently at a stray trickle. “Look at you,” she breathed, her voice full of wonder. “My masterpiece.”

She didn’t let Helen rest for long. The manic energy was still there, simmering. She retrieved a small, black silicone vibrator from her bag of tricks—a simple bullet shape. She coated it in lube and, without a word, pressed it against Helen’s throbbing, oversensitive clit.

“One more,” Kari whispered, her lips against Helen’s ear as she flicked the toy on. A low, insistent bzzzzzz filled the air.

“This one is just for you,” Kari said, holding Helen’s gaze as she positioned the buzzing bullet against her clit, then guided Helen’s hand to hold it there. “Keep it right there. I want to watch you cum one last time, with nothing inside you but this little buzz and the memory of my cock in your ass.”

The vibration was an immediate, almost painful shock to her system. But Kari’s other hand was already moving, her fingers tracing the puffy, swollen lips of her cunt. “You’re so ruined, so open.” She slid two fingers back into Helen’s cunt, a now-familiar fullness that was almost a comfort. She began a slow, deep rhythm with her hand while the vibrator did its work.

“You’re not a mother in here,” Kari hissed, her voice a seductive poison. “In this room, you’re just my good little anal slut, aren’t you? My personal MILF. Say it.”

The dual sensations—the deep, internal pressure and the sharp, electric buzz on her clit—were an unbearable overload. Helen’s body was no longer her own; it was an instrument Kari had learned to play with virtuoso skill. “I’m your… your good little anal slut,” Helen sobbed, the words a ragged confession as her hips began to buck uncontrollably.

“Cum for me, Helen,” Kari commanded, her voice dropping to a husky, hypnotic register. “Let go. Be my perfect, used-up fucktoy.”

The permission was all she needed. Her final climax wasn’t a detonation but a dissolution. It washed over her in a slow, inexorable tide, pulling her under. There were no more screams, just a deep, shuddering exhalation as her body went rigid, then completely limp, all the fight, all the resistance, finally and utterly gone. She was hollowed out, a vessel that had been filled, used, and emptied, leaving only the ghost of sensation and the indelible mark of Kari’s ownership. The vibrator buzzed on, a persistent reminder against her sensitive flesh, a promise that this was not the end of the list, but merely the end of the first page.

The silence was a physical weight, thick and syrupy, broken only by the ragged symphony of their breathing. Kari’s weight shifted off the bed, the mattress groaning in relief. Helen kept her eyes closed, listening to the soft rustle of clothes, the sound of Kari pulling her band t-shirt back over her head, the soft rasp of her jeans being zipped. The mundane sounds were a bizarre anchor to a reality that had been permanently warped.

“I should go check on him,” Kari said, her voice soft but threaded with that new, unshakable steel. She leaned over, her lips brushing Helen’s forehead in a gesture that was both tender and proprietary. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

Helen heard the soft pad of bare feet on hardwood, the click of the bedroom door. She was alone. The scent of sex was a fog, the cooling stickiness on her skin a map of their transgressions. She felt… liquid. Poured out onto the sheets. The idea of moving, of forming a coherent thought, was laughable. She simply existed, a collection of raw nerves and echoing pleasure.

A long minute passed. Then, from the corner of the room, a shimmer in the air, like heat haze over asphalt. The air coalesced, solidified, and Violet Parr was standing there, her arms crossed over her chest costumed, her face an unreadable mask.

Helen’s eyes snapped open. A jolt of pure, undiluted horror electrocuted her system. She scrambled to pull the duvet over her nakedness, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

“Violet!”

Helen’s world, which had shrunk to the dimensions of the sweat-soaked bed and the ghost of Kari’s touch, violently expanded and shattered. A strangled gasp caught in her throat, choked off into a silent, horrified wheeze. She yanked the duvet up to her chin, her knuckles bone-white, her body flushing with a heat that had nothing to do with arousal. It was the scorching fire of absolute, soul-crushing mortification.

Violet stood perfectly still, her expression not one of childish shock or disgust, but of cool, analytical observation. She wore just the bare minimum of her hero costume, enough to cover her while allowing her to be completely invisible. Her dark eyes, so much like her father’s, scanned the room—the discarded clothes, the bottle of lube on the nightstand, the general state of disarray—before settling back on her mother’s terrified face.

“I heard… noises,” Violet said, her voice unnervingly calm, devoid of its usual teenage inflection. “A lot of them. I came to see if Jack-Jack was okay. He’s still asleep.” She took a small step forward, the floorboard creaking under her weight. “He didn’t hear what I heard.”

Helen’s mind was a screaming void. She tried to form words—an excuse, a denial, a plea—but her vocal cords were frozen. The carefully constructed fortress of her life, of her identity as a mother, a wife, a hero, lay in smoldering ruins around her, and her daughter was standing in the rubble.

“I saw… everything, Mom,” Violet continued, her gaze unwavering. “From the kitchen. And from right here.” She gestured vaguely to the space at the foot of the bed. “I was curious.”

The word ‘curious’ landed with the force of a physical blow. It wasn’t an accusation; it was a statement of fact, and it was infinitely worse.

“Violet, I… I can explain…” Helen finally managed, her voice a cracked whisper.

“You don’t need to,” Violet interrupted, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips. It wasn’t a happy smile. It was the smile of someone who had just solved a complex equation. “It’s… interesting. I didn’t know you could… do that. Be that.” Her eyes flickered over her mother’s shrouded form. “I didn’t know you wanted to.”

The horror curdled, mixing with a new, terrifying understanding. Violet wasn’t disgusted. She was… fascinated.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Violet said, her tone shifting to one of quiet conspiracy. “But I’m not going to pretend I didn’t see it. I want to see more.”

Before Helen could process that, could even begin to formulate a response, Violet’s form began to waver, the edges of her body softening, blurring, and then dissolving into nothingness. The air where she had stood shimmered once more, then settled.

The bedroom door clicked open.

“He’s fine. Out like a light,” Kari announced, padding back into the room, her expression one of sated, lazy power. She dropped her clothes by the door and crawled back onto the bed, snuggling against Helen’s rigid body, completely unaware of the invisible third presence in the room. “Mmm, you’re still so warm.”

Helen didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. Kari’s touch, which moments ago had been the center of her universe, now felt like the touch of a stranger. Her skin crawled with a phantom sensation, the feeling of unseen eyes watching her, studying her. Violet was there. Somewhere. Watching. Interesting, she had said.

Kari nuzzled into her neck. “What’s wrong? You’re all tense.”

Helen forced her muscles to unlock, a Herculean effort. She managed to bring a trembling hand up to stroke Kari’s hair, the gesture feeling hollow, performative. “Nothing,” she whispered, her voice thick with a lie that tasted like ash. “Just… tired.”

She closed her eyes, but all she could see was Violet’s calm, knowing face. The night wasn’t over. Kari’s list was still being checked off. And now, every moan, every gasp, every depraved and beautiful thing that happened in this bed would have an audience. The shame was no longer just a private thrill shared with a teenage lover; it was a performance for her daughter. And as Kari’s lips found her shoulder, and a fresh, traitorous heat began to stir in her belly, Helen Parr knew with a sick, thrilling certainty that the most terrifying part of her corruption had only just begun.

Kari’s lips were a brand on Helen’s shoulder, a familiar claim in a world that had just been rendered alien. The warmth of the girl’s body, the possessive weight of her arm—it was all the same, yet everything was different. The air itself felt charged, thick with the presence of a silent, invisible spectator.

Helen’s mind was a fractured pane of glass, each shard reflecting a different horror: the slick memory of Kari’s strap-on, the phantom pressure of the vibrator, and now, most chilling of all, the analytical gaze of her daughter. The horror was a cold stone in her gut, but beneath it, a treacherous, molten heat was already stirring, fed by the sheer, unthinkable depravity of the situation. She was not just a participant; she was the main attraction in a private theater of the obscene.

“You’re thinking too much,” Kari murmured against her skin, her hand sliding down Helen’s stomach, beneath the duvet. Her fingers, slick with a fresh application of lube, found their way back to her ass, probing the tender, stretched muscle with a knowing intimacy. “I can feel you clenching. Relax. It’s just me.”

It’s not just you, Helen’s mind screamed. It’s never going to be just you again.

Kari’s touch was different now. The frantic, exploratory energy was gone, replaced by a calm, deliberate creativity. She was working from her list.

“Roll over. On your back,” Kari instructed, her voice a low thrum of command.

Helen obeyed, the movement feeling both automatic and performative. She let her head loll to the side, her gaze drifting toward the empty space at the foot of the bed. She’s there. She’s watching.

Kari positioned herself between Helen’s legs, but not to enter her. Instead, she lifted Helen’s legs, draping them over her shoulders, exposing Helen completely. The position was one of ultimate vulnerability, and Helen felt a fresh wave of heat flood her cheeks. This was for Violet. This display, this splayed-open offering, was for her daughter’s unseen eyes.

“I want to watch your face,” Kari said, her eyes locked on Helen’s. She reached for the black silicone vibrator again, but this time, she didn’t turn it on. She used the smooth, cool tip to trace patterns on the inside of Helen’s thighs. “I used to imagine what sounds I could get you to make.” She pressed the unpowered toy against Helen’s clit, then dragged it down, through her slick folds, and pressed it firmly against the puffy, sensitive entrance of her asshole.

“I want to hear you beg for it in this little shithole,” Kari said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though she had no idea of the true conspiracy in the room.

Helen’s breath hitched. She could feel the pressure, the promise of another violation. And she knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and arousing, that she would. The part of her that was still Helen Parr, the mother, recoiled in absolute shame. But the part of her that was Kari’s masterpiece, the part that was now a performer, wanted to give Violet a good show.

“Please,” Helen whispered, the word a ragged exhalation. She let her eyes flutter shut, then open, her gaze unconsciously seeking the empty space where she knew her daughter stood.

“Please, what?” Kari prompted, her thumb circling the tight ring of muscle.

“Please… fuck my ass again.” The words were dirt in her mouth, and she savored every grain.

A slow, triumphant smile spread across Kari’s face. She lubed the toy and her fingers thoroughly. “Since you asked so nicely.”

She worked the vibrator into Helen’s ass with that same slow, inexorable pressure, the stretch a familiar, burning ache. Helen moaned, a low, throaty sound she pitched just a little louder, arching her back for the unseen audience. Are you watching, Violet? Are you seeing what your mother has become?

Kari didn’t stop there. With her other hand, she guided the thick strap-on, pressing the head against Helen’s cunt.

“Both,” Kari stated, her voice flat and absolute. “I want to feel you stretched around both. I want to see your face when you can’t take anymore.”

She began to push them in simultaneously.

The feeling was beyond anything Helen had experienced. It was a splitting, a filling, a claiming so complete it felt like her soul was being displaced. She was packed, a toy herself, filled to the brim. The dual fullness was overwhelming, a constant, throbbing pressure that left no room for thought, only sensation and performance. She let her head thrash side to side, her fingers clawing at the sheets, her cries becoming more theatrical, more desperate.

“You’re so full of me,” Kari grunted, beginning a slow, deep, synchronized rhythm, fucking both of Helen’s holes at once. The bed rocked with the force of it.

“Tell me who you belong to,” Kari demanded, her hips pistoning, her face a mask of intense concentration and lust. “Say it!”

“I’m yours!” Helen screamed, the confession ripped from a place deeper than her superpowers could reach. “Your slut! Your fucktoy!”

Kari’s eyes gleamed. “Louder.”

Helen obliged, her voice rising to a fever pitch. “I’M YOURS, KARI! YOUR ANAL SLUT! YOUR MILF WHORE!”

She was screaming for Violet now. For her daughter’s education. For her own gloriously public unraveling. Every degrading word, every lewd sound, was now a shared secret, a lesson in corruption. And as her body convulsed in a shattering, silent climax, her eyes wide open and fixed on the spot where she knew, with a certainty that was its own kind of power. The power to be the most depraved, most watched, most desired mother in the world. And in the echoing silence that followed, broken only by their gasps, the phantom sensation of being watched was more real, more intimate, than the girl currently draped over her.

The night was far from over. The list was long, and the audience was waiting for the next act.

Kari’s weight was a welcome anchor, a solid warmth against the chilling awareness of the third presence in the room. As Helen’s body shuddered through the aftershocks of her climax, a new, sharp clarity cut through the haze. The humiliation was no longer a private, shared secret with her young lover; it was a spectacle. And the knowledge ignited a dark, defiant flame within her.

Kari, sensing a shift, pulled back slightly, her eyes narrowed with curiosity. “What is it?” she breathed, her voice husky.

Before Helen could fabricate a lie, a whisper, so faint it could have been a trick of the air, brushed against her ear. The voice was unmistakably Violet’s, cool and precise. “She wants to know what’s different. Tell her you’ve never felt so exposed.”

The words, spoken directly into her ear, sent a jolt of pure electricity down Helen’s spine. Her eyes widened, locking with Kari’s. The command was a dare, a test.

“I’ve… I’ve never felt so exposed,” Helen stammered, the confession feeling both like a betrayal and a triumph. “So… seen.”

A slow, wicked grin spread across Kari’s face. “Seen?” She chuckled, a low, dark sound. “Oh, honey. You haven’t even begun to be seen.”

She moved with a renewed purpose, her earlier languor gone. She retrieved a silk scarf from her discarded jeans—a garish, paisley thing Helen had never seen before. “This was my mom’s,” Kari said conversationally, running the smooth fabric through her fingers. “I used to sneak it out of her drawer and imagine tying you up with it.”

She didn’t ask. She guided Helen’s wrists, binding them together with a series of quick, efficient knots and securing them to the stout post of the headboard. The silk was soft, but the restraint was absolute. Helen tugged experimentally, a thrill of genuine fear and excitement coursing through her. She was truly at Kari’s mercy now, and by extension, at Violet’s.

“Better,” Kari purred, admiring her work. She trailed a finger down the center of Helen’s body, from her throat, between her breasts, over her stomach. “Now you can’t hide anything from me.”

She began to explore with a methodical, almost scientific curiosity. She spent an inordinate amount of time on Helen’s breasts, pinching and pulling at her nipples until they were swollen and aching, then soothing them with her tongue, only to bite down just hard enough to make Helen yelp. She mapped the sensitive skin of her inner thighs with her mouth, leaving a trail of faint, possessive marks.

“Tell me what you are,” Kari demanded, her head rising from between Helen’s legs.

Helen’s mind went blank for a second, and then the whisper came again, a ghost in her ear. “Say ‘Your personal playground.’” The voice was laced with a chilling amusement.

“I’m your… your personal playground,” Helen gasped, the words feeling absurd and electrifying.

Kari’s eyes lit up. “Yes. You are.” She positioned herself over Helen’s face again, lowering herself until she was hovering just inches away. “And I want to play a game. You’re going to make me coum again. But you can’t use your hands. And if you stop, even for a second, I’m going to get the hairbrush from your bathroom and spank this perfect ass until it’s as red as your face is right now.”

The threat was so specific, so domestic, it was more terrifying than any super-villain’s scheme. Helen nodded, her heart hammering against her ribs.

As she began, her tongue tracing desperate, worshipful patterns, another whisper slithered into her ear. “She loves how desperate you look. Tell her you’re her desperate, thirsty cumslut.”

Helen moaned the words directly into Kari’s flesh, the vibration drawing a sharp gasp from the girl above her. “I’m your desperate, thirsty cumslut.”

Kari’s hips began to move, grinding against Helen’s face with increasing urgency. “Whose?” she panted.

“Yours! Kari’s!” Helen cried out, her voice muffled.

The whisper was immediate, a cold counterpoint to the heat of Kari’s body. “No. Ours.”

The correction was a splash of ice water. Helen froze for a fraction of a second, her tongue stilling.

Kari noticed. She pulled back, her face a mask of dark delight. “You stopped.” She didn’t sound angry; she sounded thrilled. She climbed off the bed and strode toward the connected bathroom.

Panic, real and sharp, lanced through Helen. “No, wait, Kari, please!”

Kari returned a moment later, holding Helen’s heavy, wooden-backed hairbrush. She climbed onto the bed, her expression serene. “You knew the rules. I bet you stopped on purpose, didn’t you? You filthy little slut. You want me to beat your ass.”

The first smack landed with a sharp crack that echoed in the quiet room. The pain was bright and shocking, blooming across her left cheek. Helen cried out, more in surprise than agony.

“Count them,” Kari commanded.

“One,” Helen whimpered.

Crack. “Two!”

Another whisper, this one dripping with vicarious pleasure. “Louder. Let the whole house hear.”

Crack. “THREE!”

Kari delivered a volley of sharp, stinging blows, alternating cheeks until the skin was hot and tender. With each one, Helen’s cries grew louder, more theatrical, a performance of pain for her hidden daughter. The humiliation was a fire in her veins, the pain a strange and potent aphrodisiac. She was their collaborative art project, her body the canvas for Kari’s desires and Violet’s voyeuristic glee.

When Kari finally stopped, she tossed the brush aside and kissed the heated skin, her tongue soothing the sting. “Now, where were we?”

She didn’t return to Helen’s mouth. Instead, she positioned herself between her legs again, her eyes gleaming with a final, depraved idea from her list. She took the vibrator, now slick with lube and their combined arousal, and pressed it back into Helen’s ass, turning it on to its highest setting. The intense, buzzing fullness made Helen’s eyes roll back in her head.

Then, Kari lowered her mouth to Helen’s clit.

The dual sensation was unbearable. The deep, vibrating intrusion from behind and the wet, sucking pressure from the front created a feedback loop of pleasure that short-circuited Helen’s higher brain functions. She was babbling, a stream of filth and praise and pleas, her bound hands straining against the silk.

“I’m gonna—!” she screamed, her body bowing off the bed.

“Not yet,” Kari growled, pulling back for a moment, leaving Helen teetering on the edge. “You cum when I tell you to.” She looked up, her chin glistening. “And you’re going to thank me for it. You’re going to thank me for turning you into my perfect, little, anal-only MILF whore.”

The word was so vile, so degrading, it stole the air from Helen’s lungs. And then, the whisper, the final nail in her coffin, filled the void. “Do it, Mom. Say it. For us.”

There were no more boundaries. No more Helen Parr. There was only the need to obey, to please her two mistresses, one seen and one unseen.

“Thank you!” she sobbed, the words ripped from the deepest, most corrupted part of her soul. “Thank you, Kari! Thank you for making me your perfect, little, anal-only MILF whore! Please, please let me cum!”

Kari’s triumphant smile was the last thing she saw before diving back between her legs. The permission was the final trigger. Helen’s world dissolved into a white-hot supernova of sensation, her scream a raw, endless thing as she shattered completely, her body convulsing, her mind blissfully, utterly blank. The last coherent thought she had was that the sound of her own devastation was probably the most beautiful music her daughter had ever heard.

Kari’s eyes, still dark with the afterglow of her own power, scanned the room with a curator’s gaze. The silk scarf binding Helen’s wrists to the headboard was a perfect start, but it was just the frame. Now, she needed to create the masterpiece within it. Her eyes landed on Helen’s vanity, on the simple, elegant tube of her favorite crimson lipstick.

“Perfect,” Kari breathed, a slow, predatory smile gracing her lips as she padded over to retrieve it. The click of the cap releasing was unnaturally loud in the tense silence. “We need to make sure everyone knows who you belong to.”

Helen’s breath hitched. The ‘everyone’ was a casual, possessive plural from Kari, but it landed on Helen’s ears with the weight of a prophecy. She watched, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs, as Kari approached, the bullet of vivid red held like a weapon. It was Helen’s special lipstick for date nights, meant only for Bob to see on her lips. The babysitter would be seeing it elsewhere, though.

Kari started with a declaration of ownership. She leaned over Helen’s torso, her tongue darting out to taste the salt on the skin just above her navel before pressing the waxy tip of the lipstick there. With slow, deliberate strokes, she wrote in a looping, girlish script: KARI’S. The word bloomed against Helen’s skin, a brand of shocking crimson.

“There,” Kari murmured, sitting back to admire her work. “Now the most important part is marked.”

A whisper, cold and clear, tickled Helen’s ear. “Too vague. Tell her to be more specific. Tell her to write ‘Cocksleeve’ right below it.”

Helen flinched, the words a violation deeper than any physical act. But the command was absolute. Her voice was a ragged thread. “Be… more specific. Write… ‘Cocksleeve’ below it.”

Kari’s eyebrows shot up, a flicker of surprise followed by sheer, unadulterated delight. “Oh, Helen,” she cooed, her voice dripping with approval. “You’re learning so fast.” She bent back to her task, adding the crude, explicit label just beneath the first, the letters bold and unmistakable. KARI’S COCKSLEEVE.

She moved downward, her artistic fervor growing. On the inside of Helen’s right thigh, she sketched a crude arrow pointing upwards, accompanied by the word ANAL. She then took Helen’s foot in her hand, kissing the arch with a strange reverence before writing LICK HERE in bold capitals along the sole, her touch ticklish and intimate. Helen squirmed, a helpless sound escaping her lips.

“Hold still,” Kari chided gently, her voice a silken threat. “I’m not finished with my canvas.”

The next whisper was a dagger. “Your tits. She should label them. ‘MILF Milkers’.”

A fresh wave of heat flooded Helen’s face. “My… my breasts,” she stammered, her eyes pleading with the empty air. “Label them… ‘MILF Milkers’.”

Kari let out a short, sharp laugh of pure shock and glee. “God, you’re filthy.” She eagerly complied, scrawling the humiliating phrase over each of Helen’s breasts, circling the areolas with the lipstick, turning them into lurid, crimson targets. She leaned in and sucked a dark mark onto the skin just below the writing, a bruise to accompany the brand.

She was a living testament to her own degradation, a map of Kari’s desires made flesh. The crimson words stood out starkly against her pale, sweat-sheened skin: a property deed, an instruction manual, a billboard advertising her newfound purpose. And with every new mark, Helen felt Violet’s invisible, approving gaze, a phantom pressure more tangible than the silk on her wrists. She was their collaborative masterpiece, her body the page upon which they were both writing a story of her absolute ruin. And the most terrifying part was the part of her that was beginning to love the prose.

The final inscription was the most damning. Kari, her artistic vision reaching its crescendo, leaned over the trembling expanse of Helen’s stomach. With the nearly-depleted lipstick, she wrote in large, sprawling letters: THIS ASS & CUNT BELONG TO KARI MCKEEN.

Helen’s body was a palimpsest of shame, every inch of skin claimed by the waxy crimson script. Kari sat back on her heels, her gaze a burning mixture of lust and possession as she surveyed her work. She leaned forward and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the word ‘CUNT’, leaving a faint, lip-shaped smudge in the middle of the word.

“There,” Kari breathed, her voice thick with satisfaction. “Now it’s official.”

A whisper, colder now, more insistent: “Your mouth. She needs to claim your mouth.”

Helen’s voice was a broken whisper. “My… my mouth. Write something on my face.”

Kari’s eyes widened, a flicker of something like awe in their blue depths. She didn’t just comply; she elaborated. She uncapped the lipstick again and traced the outline of her own lips on Helen’s, a grotesque, possessive kiss in pigment. She then drew a final, downward-pointing arrow from Helen’s chin, directly between her legs.

Before Helen could even process the full, mortifying tableau she presented, Kari’s attention was caught by the faint sound of a cartoon jingle from the baby monitor, signaling the end of a show.

“Jack-Jack’s awake,” Kari said, her tone shifting from artist to practical mistress. “I need to get his bottle from the kitchen. Don’t move a muscle.”

She gave Helen’s branded thigh a proprietary pat and slipped off the bed, leaving the bedroom door slightly ajar behind her.

The silence she left in her wake was deafening, broken only by the frantic pounding of Helen’s heart. She lay there, a captive canvas, the silence stretching until it became a presence itself.

Then, the air directly beside Helen’s ear seemed to congeal, and Violet’s voice was no longer a ghostly suggestion but a clear, close whisper, her breath a ghost against Helen’s skin.

“She’s an artist,” Violet murmured, her voice devoid of its earlier clinical tone, now laced with a dark, intimate amusement. “You look like a piece of graffiti.”

Helen squeezed her eyes shut, a fresh tear tracing a path through the crimson on her cheek. “Why are you doing this?” she begged the empty air, her voice cracking.

The response was immediate, the whisper so close it felt like Violet’s lips were touching her ear. “Because I’ve never seen you. The real you. The one who wants to be tied up and written on. The one who begs for it.” A pause, then, “She thinks this is just for her. But it’s for me, too. I want to see how far it goes. I want to see what happens when she runs out of lipstick.”

Helen let out a choked sob. “She’s going to… do more.”

“Of course she is,” Violet’s whisper was almost a purr. “And you’re going to ask for every single thing. You’re going to look her in the eye and ask her to degrade you further. For me.”

The sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing drifted down the hall. Kari would be back any second, armed with a new item from her bottomless list. “What is she getting?”

“I don’t know,” Violet whispered, and Helen could feel her sister’s invisible smirk. “Does it matter? It’s something else off the list. Something else she’s been dreaming about doing to you.” A beat. “Are you excited?”

The question was a razor blade. To answer was to confess to a complicity that went beyond Kari, a conspiracy between mother and daughter that existed in the negative space of the room. “You’re my mom. And right now, you’re the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen.”

Footsteps started back down the hall.

The whisper came one last time, fast and final. “The show’s about to start again. Get ready to perform.”

The soft pad of Kari’s footsteps returning was a death knell. Helen’s entire body tensed, a canvas of drying crimson words straining against its silken bindings. She heard the soft clatter of a plastic tray being set down on the nightstand, the sound of ice cubes shifting inside a bowl.

“I found a little something to keep you guessing,” Kari’s voice was a low, thrilling purr. Helen felt the mattress dip as Kari knelt beside her. A soft, black satin blindfold—another item from that bottomless bag of hers—was tied securely over Helen’s eyes, plunging her world into absolute, velvety darkness.

The loss of sight was a sensory earthquake. Every other sense screamed to life. The scent of their sex and the waxy perfume of the lipstick became overpowering. The faint hum of the house’s central air was a roar in her ears. And the anticipation of touch became a physical agony.

“Let’s see how brave you are,” Kari whispered.

The first touch was a shock of pure, biting cold. A single ice cube, held against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, right next to the word ANAL. Helen gasped, her back arching off the bed, a sharp cry torn from her lips. The cold was a brand, a searing pain that quickly numbed the skin. Kari dragged the cube in a slow, torturous path upward, tracing the arrow, the melting water mingling with the sweat and lube already there.

Then, a second sensation bloomed on her other side. A hand—slim, with long, delicate fingers—cupped her breast, the thumb brushing over the lipstick-inscribed MILF. But the touch was different. It wasn’t Kari’s possessive kneading; it was… exploratory. Curious. The fingers traced the letters, then pinched her nipple with a precise, almost clinical pressure.

Which one? Helen’s mind screamed. Is that Kari? Or is that… her?

She couldn’t tell. In the absolute blackness, every touch was anonymous, every caress a potential violation from either of her tormentors.

“You’re so sensitive,” Kari murmured from her right, her breath warm against Helen’s ear as she replaced the melted ice cube with a fresh one, this time circling it around her navel, making her flinch and whimper.

Simultaneously, the other hand—the one she couldn’t identify—slid down her stomach, its touch feather-light, tracing the phrase KARI’S COCKSLEEVE. The contrast was maddening: searing cold from one side, a ghostly, teasing caress from the other.

“Do you like the cold, Helen?” Kari asked, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “Does it make you feel clean? Or does it just remind you how hot and dirty the rest of you is?”

As if on cue, the other hand dipped between her legs, two fingers slipping easily into her slick heat. Helen cried out, her hips bucking involuntarily. The intrusion was bold, claiming. It felt like Kari. But a moment later, the hand was gone, and she felt the shocking press of a whole ice cube against her clit. The juxtaposition of the recent, warm penetration and the sudden, shocking cold was unbearable. She sobbed, a raw, broken sound.

“Look at you,” Kari taunted, her voice coming from directly above her now. “My little ice queen. All marked up and shivering. You have no idea what I’m going to do next, do you?”

A whisper, so close it felt like it originated inside her own skull, answered. “Tell her you love it. Tell her you’re her frozen little slut.”

“I love it!” Helen babbled, the confession torn from her by the dual assault on her senses. “I’m your frozen little slut, Kari! Please!”

She felt a mouth—warm and wet—close over one of her nipples, sucking hard, the heat a shocking contrast to the ice melting across her stomach. A tongue laved the lipstick from her skin. At the same time, the other, phantom hand returned, gripping her hip, its fingers digging in with a strength that felt too deliberate, too knowing.

She was the focal point of a storm of sensation, a plaything between two sets of hands and one mouth, completely disoriented, her reality defined only by searing cold, possessive heat, and the terrifying ambiguity of whose touch was whose. The humiliation was no longer just about the words on her skin or the things being done to her; it was about this total loss of control, this utter helplessness in the dark, not knowing which of the two girls currently mapping her body with such intimate cruelty was her lover and which was her daughter. And the most horrifying part was the part of her that never wanted the guessing to end.

The ice cube was a dying sliver on her stomach, a final, cold tear tracing a path through the declaration of ownership written there. The anonymous hands had retreated, leaving her skin humming with phantom sensations. The blindfold was a shroud, making every sound, every shift of the mattress, a potential threat or a promise.

Kari’s weight settled between her legs, a familiar pressure that nonetheless sent a fresh jolt through Helen’s system. She felt the cool, slick touch of lube, the preparation that was now a brutal, comforting ritual.

“You’re still so open for me,” Kari murmured, her voice a low thrum of satisfaction. The blunt, solid pressure of the strap-on pressed against her, not at her cunt, but lower, seeking the tight, already-violated entrance to her ass. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of this.”

She pushed in, a slow, inexorable invasion that drew a choked gasp from Helen. The fullness was immediate, a stretching, burning ache that was becoming a twisted sort of home. Kari began to move, setting a deep, possessive rhythm.

“You like this, don’t you?” Kari grunted, her hips meeting Helen’s with soft, wet thuds.

Helen could only nod, her head thrashing against the pillows.

“Use your words, you dumb bitch,” Kari snapped, the endearment laced with venom.

“Yes!” Helen cried out. “Yes, I like it!”

A whisper, cold and clear in her ear, a counterpoint to Kari’s heat. “Tell her it’s better than Dad.”

The words were a bucket of acid on her soul. She tried to clamp her mouth shut, but Kari’s thrusts became sharper, more demanding.

“Does that fat, boring husband of yours ever fuck you like this?” Kari panted, her voice dripping with contempt. “Does he even know what to do with this perfect ass? Or does he just pump away at your boring old pussy for three minutes and fall asleep?”

The comparison was a blade Kari had been waiting to wield. Helen’s silence was her answer.

“Tell me,” Kari demanded, driving deeper, hitting a spot that made Helen’s toes curl. “Tell me I’m better than him.”

The phantom whisper was a command, not a suggestion. “Say it. You know it’s true.”

Tears of shame and ecstasy welled under the blindfold. “You’re… you’re better,” Helen sobbed, the betrayal tasting like ash.

“Better how?” Kari insisted, her rhythm never faltering. “Say the words.”

“You… you fuck me better!” The admission was torn from her, a ragged scream. “Your cock is better! You know what I need!”

“What do you need?” Kari’s voice was a triumphant snarl.

A hand—slim, cold from the ice—gripped her hip, fingers digging in. It wasn’t Kari’s; Kari’s hands were on her waist, driving into her. This was the other one. Violet’s.

The whisper was a direct injection of filth into her brain. “Tell her you’re a family man’s whore and you need a real girl to wreck you.”

“I’m a family man’s whore!” Helen wailed, the words feeling like they were ripping her throat open. “And I need a real girl to wreck me! I need you to wreck me, Kari!”

Kari let out a sharp, guttural cry of victory, pounding into her with renewed frenzy. “That’s right! You’re my little ass-whore! My used-up, married fuckdoll! Say it!”

“I’m your little ass-whore! Your used-up, married fuckdoll, Kari!”

The phantom hand slid up her ribcage, a cold, deliberate violation that made Helen’s breath hitch. In the absolute blackness of the blindfold, the sensory overload was complete. The deep, rhythmic pounding of the silicone cock in her ass was a constant, grounding torment, while the other, unseen touch continued its exploration—now tracing the words MILF MILKERS before giving her nipple a sharp, punishing twist.

“You hear that, Mom?” Violet’s whisper was no longer just in her ear; it seemed to emanate from the air itself, a disembodied voice of judgment and desire.

Kari’s thrusts were losing their disciplined rhythm, becoming ragged and desperate. Her words slurred with the force of her own climax. “You’re my… my personal… hnngh… anal-only…”

“…MILF whore,” Helen finished in a gasping sob, the final, filthy syllable hanging in the air.

Kari’s body went rigid against Helen’s hips, a final, guttural cry—“Gah! FUCK!”—as she slammed home, her own release a shuddering echo of Helen’s. She collapsed forward, her sweat-slicked skin pressing against Helen’s branded torso. “Yeah,” she panted, her breath hot against Helen’s neck. “Mine.”

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their harsh, ragged breathing. The ice had all melted, leaving only damp, chilly patches on her skin. Kari’s breathing began to even out, her weight a heavy, possessive blanket.

Then, a shift. Kari pulled out, the sudden emptiness a shocking void. Helen felt her shift on the bed, the rustle of fabric, the soft click of the strap-on harness being unbuckled and dropped to the floor. The loss was profound, leaving her feeling gaping and hollow. The only thing filling her now was the crushing weight of what she’d become. A canvas. A toy. A spectacle.

Kari’s fingers gently untied the blindfold. The light from the bedside lamp was a painful glare after the total darkness. Helen blinked, her vision swimming.

Kari leaned over, her face coming into view. Her blue eyes were dark, sated, and utterly victorious. She brushed a damp strand of hair from Helen’s forehead.

“I’m just going to clean this up and get some water,” Kari said, her voice soft but infused with that unshakeable new authority. “Don’t move.”

She padded out of the room, leaving the door ajar.

Helen lay there, bound and exposed, the drying lipstick a stiff, crinkling reminder on her skin. The silence stretched, but it was no longer empty. It was filled with the knowledge of the watcher. The performance was over, but the audience remained, invisible and all-knowing.

The air beside the bed shimmered, and Violet materialized, fully visible this time. She stood by the nightstand, looking down at her mother with an expression that was no longer just curiosity. It was a deep, unsettling sense of recognition.

Violet didn’t say a word. She simply looked. Her eyes traveled over the crimson graffiti—the ownership, the crude labels, the final, damning sentence. She didn’t look disgusted. She looked… satisfied.

She reached out and her fingers, now warm, traced the line of Helen’s jaw, then drifted down to her throat. Her touch was not violent, but it was absolute.

“Open your mouth,” Violet said, her voice quiet but clear, holding Helen’s gaze. Helen obeyed, and her daughter hocked a lob of spit directly down her throat. “Swallow.”

And she did. Of course she did. Violet smiled before leaning in, her lips almost touching Helen’s ear.

“You were perfect,” she whispered. And then she was gone again, dissolving into the air just as Kari’s footsteps sounded in the hall.

Helen closed her eyes, the ghost of her daughter’s touch still lingering on her skin, a brand that went deeper than any lipstick ever could.

Kari returned with a glass of water in one hand and a small, gleaming object in the other. It was a sleek, black silicone butt plug, its flared base a promise of secure, long-term possession. The sight of it, held so casually in her palm, sent a final, shivering thrill through Helen’s exhausted frame.

“One last thing,” Kari said, her voice soft but firm as she set the water on the nightstand. She didn’t ask. She simply coated the plug with a generous amount of lube, the slick sound obscene in the quiet room. She pressed it against Helen’s stretched, tender entrance. “A little reminder for you to keep with you. So you don’t forget who this belongs to when I’m not here.”

With a gentle, inexorable pressure, she worked it into place. The initial fullness was a shock, a constant, low-level hum of possession that settled deep inside her. The flare of the base rested snugly against her, a seal on their contract.

Only then did Kari lean forward and begin to untie the silk scarf from Helen’s wrists. The blood rushed back into her hands with a painful, prickling heat. Helen brought her arms down slowly, her muscles protesting, her body feeling both impossibly heavy and terrifyingly light without the restraint.

Kari gathered her into an embrace, pulling the duvet over them both. She held Helen close, her chin resting on the top of her head, her hands stroking slow, soothing circles on her back, avoiding the places where the lipstick was still drying.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Kari murmured, her voice a soft lullaby after the storm. “I’ve got you. You were so good for me. So perfect.”

The aftercare was a bizarre, tender counterpoint to the hours of calculated degradation. Helen leaned into it, her body instinctively seeking the comfort, even as the plug inside her served as a stark reminder of its price. The warmth of Kari’s body, the steady beat of her heart, began to lull her toward an exhausted, traumatized sleep. Her eyelids grew heavy, the world softening at the edges.

Just as she was about to slip under, a whisper brushed against her ear, so faint it was barely more than a thought. It was Violet’s voice, stripped of all amusement, cold and clear as a shard of glass.

“Sleep well, Mom,” the whisper breathed. “She’s just the warm-up. After she goes home… you belong to me.”

The words pierced the drowsy haze, a spike of pure ice in her veins. Her eyes flew open, but the room was empty save for the sleeping Kari. The silence was absolute, and in that silence, the plug in her ass felt less like a gift and more like a placeholder. A temporary claim, soon to be superseded. She lay perfectly still, the phantom whisper echoing in the dark, knowing with a dread that was also a promise that the true unraveling had only just begun.