“Can I tell you something?” Lyra whispers, emboldened by the dark of night and the warm glow of alcohol in her gut.

“Yeah,” replies Opal, equally drunk and wearing a wide-eyed, starry expression that has a way of egging the older girl on.

“It’s kind of fucked up,” Lyra qualifies.

“Please.” God, the way this girl says ‘please’.

“Okay, okay.” Blushing, Lyra drops her voice to speak sotto voce. “It’s really hot how big our age gap is.”

Pleasingly, the other trans girl’s cheeks turn a deep pink at the remark. Both of them giggle together. Twenty-eight and nineteen. By her usual standards, Opal is too young for her. Half plus seven—isn’t that what people say? Besides, Lyra decided several years ago that she was through dating teenagers, even adult ones. Opal looks even younger than her years; Lyra asked to see her ID before deciding to go home with her, just in case. Whatever HRT she’s on has done much for her face but little for her chest, leaving her with a waifish, doe-like prettiness that seems to invite bad decisions. Lyra feels another one coming over her.

“Can I tell you something else?”

“Please!” There it is again. Lyra shivers.

“I even like,” she says, quieter still, even though there’s nobody around to hear them as they walk through the neighborhood of dense, ritzy townhouses, “that we look kind of similar. Kind of like…” She breaks off, giggling.

Opal giggles too. “Kind of like we’re actually related?” Her blush deepens, and she shivers with excitement. It’s clear the thought is getting to her.

Lyra nods, grinning from her own daring even as guilt pricks at her. It really is a fucked-up thing to say. Incest is gross. Lyra can’t stand it even in fanfiction. But with Opal, it’s impossible not to notice. They have the same dark hair, deep eyes, and olive skin. There’s a similarity in their faces, too. Roman noses and more besides, even if Lyra is decidedly better fed than the delicate thing clinging to her side. Their differences only seem to accentuate the apparent kinship. Lyra is thick where Opal is slender, and while Opal is wearing a tight-fitting slip of a dress and little else, Lyra is in her usual cruising outfit: leather jacket, white vest, tight jeans, and big, stompy boots. A stranger might take them for sisters of years apart and very different styles.

Not that sisters is what Lyra has in mind.

“Hey,” she suddenly urges, safe in the knowledge that Opal is not the kind of creature to refuse her. “Call me it again.”

Opal looks up at her, and her obedient eyes are as dark and inviting as the sea on a summer night. “Like this, mommy?”

It hits like a drug. Lyra bites her lip. Nothing makes her feel more powerful, and she’s never had such a perfect partner for it. Between the booze and the girl, she already feels the pull of the hedonistic night ahead of them.

“Good girl.” The faint moan that escapes Opal’s lips is another hit. “Are we almost there?”

“Almost,” Opal promises. “It’s just around this corner.”

“Right here? Wow.” It’s one hell of a neighborhood. As they round the corner, Opal’s clinging arm begins to guide Lyra over to one of the looming red bricks nearby. Lyra immediately feels a little outclassed—and she notices a light on. “Roommates home?”

“Hm?” Opal is already heading up the steps and fishing for her key. “Oh, no. My mom.”

“Oh.” That kills Lyra’s high at once. A parent is the last thing she wants to deal with. “Hey, uh, why don’t we go to my place after all? I know it’s further, but-”

Too late. The key turns in the lock and light spills out onto the porch. Lyra considers one last bid to avoid the awkwardness, but a whispered, perfectly-pitched “Don’t keep me waiting, mommy,” from Opal seals her fate.

How’s an aspiring mommy domme supposed to say ‘no’ to that?

Opal’s house is as fancy and tasteful inside as it is out. Lyra feels as though she should take off her boots, but she doesn’t make it that far before a tall, severe figure emerges from the kitchen beyond to greet them both and fill Lyra’s chest with the kind of awkwardness she’s only known from unwatchable sitcoms. She can all but hear the canned laughter now.

“Hello,” says Opal’s mom. “What time do you call this, young lady?”

“It’s a Friday, Mom!” Opal’s protest sounds rehearsed. “I’m allowed to stay out.”

Her mom’s pursed lips convey the full measure of her disapproval. When she turns to Lyra, the older girl wants nothing more than to turn into dust and blow away back into the night. “And who’s this?”

“This is Lyra!” Opal supplies, with strange cheerfulness. “We met at the bar.”

The lips get even more pursed. Nonetheless, Opal’s mom offers Lyra a perfectly polite, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Uh, thank you.” Lyra can hear ten thousand nails on a hundred thousand chalkboards. “Nice to meet you too.”

They shake hands. As the moment wears on and Opal fails to pull her away, Lyra’s hope that the two of them will be ships passing in the night dwindles. It seems that she is—God forbid—actually going to have to chat to the mother of the girl she’s trying to hook up with. Nightmare scenario. She tries to reassure herself with the fact that, according to Opal, her mom is a lesbian herself, and intensely supportive of her transition. The displeasure on her face must be down to simple protectiveness.

“Hm.” Opal’s mom’s stormy face resolves into a thin smile. “Would you like some tea?”

“Please!” Opal replies eagerly, just as Lyra is trying to figure out how to politely decline. She throws the younger girl a questioning look; when they left the bar, it had seemed pretty clear that they were only interested in each other. No response. Opal has eyes only for her mother.

“This way. I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Sure. Uh. That’d be great, thanks.” Excuses cross Lyra’s mind, but she resigns herself to a few minutes of discomfort and follows Opal’s mom through to the kitchen. Dismay overcomes her when she realizes that Opal isn’t with them.

“Just need to take care of something!” Opal calls from halfway up the staircase. “Back in a minute!”

Eyes bulging, Lyra stares in the direction of her voice, trying to telepathically beam her frantic plea into the younger girl’s mind. Please don’t leave me alone with your mom! It goes unheeded, and Lyra is left with little choice but to sit down awkwardly at the kitchen table and watch as Opal’s mom fixes a pot of tea. She’s easy on the eyes, at least. Young, all things considered, although Lyra expected that; Opal had actually told her quite a bit about her as they’d been getting to know each other at the bar. She’d apparently had Opal young, and raised her on her own whilst also pursuing a career as a psychiatrist. An impressive story for sure, even if at some point Lyra was going to have to break it to the girl that it wasn’t particularly suitable hook-up conversation.

At least she’d been able to entertain herself through it with thoughts of dropping the all-time line: your daughter calls me ‘mommy’ now.

Admittedly, faced with the imposing woman now pouring from the kettle into the teapot, the prospect is less tempting. Opal’s mom appears to still be in her work clothes: a black, velvet blazer with matching slacks, over a white, tailored shirt tucked into a thick, leather belt. She’s even still wearing a pair of gorgeous, heeled Chelsea boots that clack against the tiled floor with every step she takes. All in all, she’s pulling off a classy, professional, subtly dykey look that Lyra has to respect. Hell, she’s hot—is that a fucked-up thing to think about her hookup's mother? Maybe, but there’s no denying it. Besides, it’s a compliment, in a way. Despite the mother’s much fuller figure, the family resemblance is truly striking. In the face, most of all. In the smile Opal’s mom offers her as she stirs the teapot and prepares the cups.

Lyra can’t help but notice, though, all the tension in the older woman’s jaw. Like she’s furious about something. Maybe it’s the age gap.

“Thanks for making tea, uh…” Lyra’s mind tries and fails to supply a smooth, charming form of address. “Mrs. Thompson.”

“Mrs?” Opal’s mom laughs. Even her voice is deep like Opal’s. Smokier, though. “Please, just call me Jo.”

“Jo.” Lyra nods gratefully. “Yeah. OK. I’m Lyra, like Opal said. We’re, um… well, actually we just met.”

“I see.” Something flashes in Jo’s eyes.

An awkward moment passes. Lyra shifts in her seat. “I wonder what Opal’s getting up to,” she says, mostly simply to fill the air.

“Who knows?” Jo sighs. “That girl can be so willful.”

Lyra nods as if she agrees. A touchy subject, perhaps. She roots around for a better one. “So… Opal told me you work at a psychiatric hospital? That’s cool.”

“That’s right. I was appointed as director a few months ago, in fact. Prior to that, I worked on staff as a psychiatrist.”

“Wow, congratulations! That’s basically like a therapist, right?”

“Something like that.” Jo’s lips tighten. “I evaluated patients. Prescribed treatments. Administered therapies. Oversaw courses of medication.”

“Wow,” Lyra repeats. Jo isn’t offering her much, and the long pauses between each exchange are murder. “You know, Opal’s been upstairs for a minute. Maybe she fell asleep? I could go check, or maybe just-”

“No,” Jo tells her firmly. “Sit.”

Her tone of voice—firm, in that uniquely motherly way—somehow robs Lyra of the initiative she’d been about to take. Lyra doesn’t have much of a relationship with her own mother. Not since transitioning. That should have made it easy to defy this one; instead, Lyra has always had trouble with the anxious sting that accompanies disappointing an authority figure.

“Oh,” is all Lyra can think of to say. “OK.”

Another long, awkward pause.

This time, Jo is the one to break it. “You know,” she begins abruptly. “My years in the psychiatric profession have taught me a very specific way of looking at people.” Her clipped, clear words command attention with ease. “You see, people are woven together like fabric. They’re made of threads. When you analyze people, you learn to notice those threads. The specific little pieces that make them who they are. An anxiety here, a fear there, perhaps a desire—all woven together, warp and weft, combining and intermingling.”

“Right.”

Lyra’s more than a little drunk, and that makes focusing on Jo’s words a challenge. It’s not like she much cares, anyway. She’s just waiting for Opal to return. She opts to tune out and let it all wash over her.

“But always distinct,” Jo continues. “That’s the art of it. Finding the particular thread that needs to be replaced or repaired. The one that lies at the root of somebody’s problems. Everyone is the sum total of their threads, woven together. Do you understand?”

“Yeah.” Lyra isn’t really listening, but the snippets she picks up on make a certain amount of sense. She slumps back in her chair. Jo has started pacing around the kitchen, and Lyra hasn’t the energy to turn her head to follow her.

“In that way, it’s not so different from motherhood.” Jo sighs. “You watch your little girl grow up before your eyes, you watch her weave together the person she’s going to be, and it’s so… so frustrating! All those mistakes. All that pain, too. Everything she’s been through—transition, especially. All I want is for my little girl to grow up happy and safe.”

“Right,” Lyra agrees. She doesn’t bother to ask why Jo is telling her all this. “Course.”

“She has certain… issues, of course,” Jo reflects, as she walks in a slow loop around the kitchen table. Lyra catches sight of something in the older woman’s hands as she passes behind her. A teaspoon, probably. “But I’m sure I can help her to work through them. A mother’s touch—isn’t that right? She’ll grow out of it. That’s what I keep telling myself. Only, she keeps bringing home disgusting, leering, predatory freaks like you. Women who are bent on undoing all her progress, with your groping hands and awful tongues, arrogantly believing you have what it takes to step into a mother’s shoes.” She clicks her tongue. “Disgusting!”

It takes a moment for the vindictive reproach in Jo’s voice to penetrate Lyra’s drunken haze. Once it does, she hauls herself upright, ready to defend herself. She tenses when she feels a hand on her shoulder. “H-hey, what are you-”

There is a needle sticking out of her neck.

Narrow, wickedly sharp, wielded by an expert, its tip pierces her skin with no more feeling than the pang of a cold breeze. Lyra can only just see it from the corner of her eye. It takes a long moment for it to sink in that this is happening, this is real, and by then, Jo has depressed the plunger all the way to the hilt, discharging its clear payload into Lyra’s bloodstream. She immediately starts struggling—and is immediately alarmed by how much of her strength is already gone.

“Quiet down now,” Jo chides, still in that stern but motherly tone, effortlessly keeping Lyra in place with one hand as the other retracts the needle. “It’s already too late, I’m afraid. You wouldn’t want to snap this thing off, would you?”

It doesn’t matter what Lyra wants or doesn’t want. Her body is already going limp. Her muscles refuse to obey her panicked commands. Her mind is busy dancing with a hundred different nightmare scenarios. “W-w-what…” she manages slowly, “is th-this?”

“A new medicine,” Jo tells her. “Still in early clinical trials—but given my position, I’m able to take certain liberties. It’s very effective, as you’re no doubt experiencing.”

“F-fuck… you,” Lyra manages, but she can’t muster the tone to sell it. The alcohol and this strange new drug are blending in her system. She sees the world through a strange mosaic. She peers back over her shoulder and sees only Jo’s stern, severe face, refracted a thousand times. Why is she doing this to her? Because she came home with Opal?

“We’ll soon take care of that mouth,” Jo warns. “You see, this medicine makes those threads I was talking about awfully malleable. Awfully delicate. It makes them so very easy to weave—and unweave—with just a few words. A little too potent for most patients, perhaps. But for you…”

Lyra can feel it happening to her. She can feel something happening to her, anyway. She has a distinct sense of her self softening. There is a lightness at the heart of her being. Something that could blow and change upon the breeze in mere instants. She’s had that feeling before. Mostly on acid. At those times, there’s always been the easy reassurance that comes from knowing that it’ll soon be over, and it’ll all wear off. Right now, with Jo looming over her, Lyra doesn’t feel so confident of that. If what Jo says is true, whatever happens to her now might be forever. She could be lying or bluffing, of course—but Lyra doesn’t think so. Lyra believes.

Maybe that’s because it’s already working.

Still, Lyra hasn’t made it this far without a little fighting spirit. She isn’t going to go down easy, not least because she can’t stand the thought of whatever this monster is about to do to her own daughter in some fit of warped, parental rage. Fighting against drug-induced paralysis, she forces a shit-eating grin onto her face.

“Fuck,” Lyra enunciates as clearly as she can. “You.”

Jo’s face tightens again. Clearly, she does not appreciate defiance. She briefly masters her anger, and then bends to speak at Lyra’s level. “No,” she tells her firmly, like a teacher at the limit of her patience. “You don’t use bad language like that in my house.”

Lyra goes very, very still as she feels a new thread weave itself upon her soul.

“That’s not…” she retorts, still fighting through the fog. “Don’t be…”

All she needs to do is swear in her face again. Only, Lyra doesn’t want to put it to the test. She can feel that new thread slipping its way through all the other pieces that make her her, until it’s knotted inextricably. Her attitudes and feelings are pulled into its alignment. Vocal habits and tics, bound into submission. It’s all wildly incoherent, but it all adds up to one unavoidable conclusion.

“F…” Lyra attempts. Ice water washes over her as the fricative stalls on her lips. “Fff…”

I don’t use bad language like that in her house.

“See?” Jo smiles at her, a mockery of motherly affection. “Isn’t that better?”

Lyra shakes her head as best she can—but in a way, it is. There is a deeper suggestion embedded in the words Jo spoke. It isn’t just that Lyra doesn’t swear. It’s that language like that is bad. Lyra recoils from it the same way she would anything that’s rude, distasteful, or generally off-limits. Suddenly, delicacy of speech is something she values, and a filthy mouth something she deplores. Not always. Not in every context. But that paradigm means something to her, in a way it didn’t before. And the context is part of what makes it so devastating—she doesn’t use bad language in Jo’s house. This home—and implicitly, this woman—commands a special respect from both her tongue and the mind that wields it. Yes, she’s having her mind raped and rewritten by an experimental drug, but it simply wouldn’t be acceptable for her to defile her captor’s house with profanity.

Some leatherdyke she is now.

“Why?” she croaks, deathly afraid. “Please…”

Jo smiles poisonously. “Just stay right there where you belong. Quietly.”

Where I belong.

With that, Lyra is left helpless to do anything but sit and watch as Jo turns her back on her and busies herself tidying and tucking away the needle and vial she used to drug Lyra. It’s then that Lyra hears the stairs above them creak. Opal is coming. She tries desperately to raise her voice in warning, but the most she can manage is a strangled whimper. She’s helpless to tell Opal that her mother has snapped, that she’s lost her mind, that she’s dangerous. She can do nothing as the cute girl she’d been getting along with so well runs headfirst into the clutches of this awful, hateful b-

Even in her mind, she cannot form the bad language.

Jo sits down at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and a strange aura of weariness. As soon as she catches sight of her daughter, though, her eyes bulge.

“Opal!” she splutters. “What on Earth are you wearing, young lady?”

“Hey, Mom,” Opal sings out in a deplorably high-pitched, girlish, seductive voice as she saunters into the room, before turning to look at Lyra and smiling mirthlessly. “Oops. Looks like you did it again, Mommy.”

The look of utter mania on her face is the first thing that lets Lyra know she’s completely doomed.

The second is what she’s wearing. Opal has changed out of her dress and into something that, if it had just been the two of them, Lyra might have taken for a poor-taste attempt at playful seduction. Instead, her schoolgirl uniform—the real deal, judging from the weight of the material and the tasteful length of the skirt—reads as something far more sinister. Most of all, because of the effect it’s having on Jo.

“Answer me,” Jo snaps, but it’s obvious that her anger is at war with an entirely different emotion. She cannot stop staring at her daughter, and her eyes keep darting to inappropriate places.

“It’s my old school uniform, Mom,” Opal replies teasingly. “You always liked it, didn’t you?”

“Not…” Jo trails off into an unmistakable stupor. A vein is bulging in her forehead. She is a portrait of agonized restraint.

“Yes, you did,” Opal protests teasingly, swishing her skirt from side to side as she approaches her mother. “I saw you staring at me every day, once school let me wear one.

“I didn’t,” Jo denies feebly, still staring, now panting.

“It’s OK,” Opal coos. “I always liked you staring.

Watching quietly from the sidelines, Lyra is quiet but horrified. It’s clear that whatever she’s walked into is even more twisted than she at first imagined. A bizarre folie à deux between mother and daughter, both locked together by obsession yet kept separate by whatever remnant of decency or willpower survives in Jo. Lyra can scarcely believe she’s sympathizing with the woman who drugged her but, if anything, Opal’s coquettish, incestuous advances are even creepier than Jo’s sadistic brainwashing. The sweet, young, faintly naive girl Lyra met at the bar is gone. Her facade of normality has peeled away like faded wallpaper, leaving behind nothing but a maddened, ravenous succubus.

“Why must you be like this?” Jo asks plaintively, the voice of sanity—though still, she is staring.

“What do you mean, Mom?” Opal giggles. “This is what you like, isn’t it? C’mon. I know the kind of women you think about. The kind of women you look at.” She glances across at Lyra. “Mommy’s a chaser, you see.”

“Jesus…” Lyra breathes.

“Don’t use that… word with me, Opal!” Jo tells her. Her authority is crumbling. Compared to her stern, professional demeanor from earlier, it’s like watching a glacier crack and collapse.

“Once I started looking like this.” Opal gestures to herself. “She couldn’t take her eyes off me. We’ve always been close. Maybe a little closer than parent and child should be. Not like she had anybody else, after all. All those long hours at work. She’d have been so lonely if not for me. And so once I fell within her strike zone, well…” She giggles. “Just look at her.”

Jo shakes her head, but the ravishing blush in her cheeks makes a lie of her denial.

“So, come on, Mom,” Opal teases. “What are you waiting for?” She arches her back, pushing her small but pert chest into her mother’s face. “Don’t you know I grew these just for you?”

“Jesus Christ!” Jo erupts to her feet, though Lyra can’t tell if she’s overcome by disgust, or merely trying to distract from her own temptation. She retreats to the far side of the kitchen island and begins pacing. “I cannot believe I raised such a… Opal, we talked about this! After the last one, I thought you were getting better! We… we were using those workbooks, right? And you said the DBT sessions were helpful, and…”

“Sorry, Mom,” Opal replies. “I wanted to make you proud of me. But I want something else from you even more.”

The way Jo’s face twists and contorts is like nothing Lyra has ever seen before.

Still sitting, still listening, Lyra is torn. This mockery of a family is a living nightmare—but not necessarily her nightmare. She’s just a chess piece, it seems. Perhaps she can make it out of here without too much lasting damage to her psyche. It’s difficult even to want that, much less to speak it—she’s supposed to stay right here quietly, where she belongs—but she manages to convince herself that pleading with Opal does not contravene that. Provided she doesn’t raise her voice, anyway.

“Opal,” Lyra pipes up carefully. “Look, I didn’t, um… but it’s not really me you’re interested in, is it? So maybe I could just, you know, b-be excused, and leave you two to-”

“Oh, no!” Opal interrupts. “Not at all. You’re very, very important, Lyra.” She waltzes over and perches in Lyra’s lap. Across the room, Jo stops pacing. “You see, I have an itch to scratch. And if Mom won’t touch me, I guess I’m just going to need a mommy instead.”

“Opal!” Jo growls warningly. Opal ignores her.

“You can do that, right?” All of the younger girl’s attention is on Lyra. It’s like the glare of a lighthouse. “You’re not her, obviously. But you’ll do. You know how to treat a girl like me, right?”

“I… I…”

Lyra had already been drunk and horny when she’d arrived. Jo’s behaviour put a definite damper on that, but Opal is bringing it all roaring back. Lyra’s compromised judgment makes it perilously difficult for her to remind herself of the danger she’s in. Moreover, though, she can already feel her mind weaving itself into new patterns based on the barest suggestions contained within Opal’s words.

I’ll do. I know how to treat her.

She does, of course. Opal needs a mommy. Lyra isn’t her—a painful inadequacy—but she knows damn well what to do with a young dyke with mommy issues. She’ll do.

“You’ll touch me,” Opal wheedles. Lyra nods with increasing eagerness. I’ll touch her. “You’ll give me what I want.” Lyra nods faster, smiling now. I’ll give her what she wants. “You’ll put me in my place the way I deserve.” Lyra’s hands ball into fists. I’ll put her in her place the way she deserves. “Won’t you?”

“Yeah.” Lyra’s smile is starting to warp into a sleazy grin as the connotations of dominance and power woven through Opal’s words weave, too, through her. She has to stay here where she belongs, at the kitchen table, but Opal is in her lap, so that’s just fine. Sluggishly, she rests a hand on Opal’s hip. “I can’t wait to f… fu… have fun with you.”

Her inability to use bad language is another damper on her dominant mood, but only a mild one. Her threadbare thoughts work overtime to patch the gap, and Lyra rapidly reinvents herself as a stricter, more proper kind of mommy domme, one who neither uses nor tolerates profanity.

“That’s right,” Opal encourages, while her mother, standing behind her, glows with fury. “You’ll be my mommy.”

I’ll be her mommy.

Literalism and metaphor fight a brief war of meaning in Lyra’s addled mind. At once, she succumbs to the notion that she will be the dominant, parental figure Opal craves—but what if she’ll be something more? Her head throbs dangerously, and her memories begin to fray at their edges in preparation for a far more drastic rewriting.

“Y-yeah.” Lyra slips her arms further around Opal’s body, her grip at once parental and predatory. “I’ll take care of you, Opal.”

Even she is not quite sure what she means, but Opal’s pleased grin widens all the same. “Thank you, Mommy,” Opal simpers. “You’re the best mommy your daughter could ever have.”

A sunburst of pride. I’m the best mommy your daughter could ever have. Its heat singes Lyra’s past, and her future. She is Opal’s mommy. Her memories must conform to that singular truth. As for the future—how is she going to raise a girl like this? The question is all-important. I’ll give her what she wants. I’ll put her in her place the way she deserves.

“That’s right,” Lyra agrees. Her head is pounding, but she won’t let it show. She’ll be strong for her little girl. She’ll give her what she wants. “Come here, sweetheart.”

She knows she’s been drugged. She knows that—but it pales in importance compared to what’s going on now. Her daughter is in her lap. All is right with the world. Lyra’s conception of motherhood is mere minutes old, and hopelessly tainted by the lascivious desires Opal has imprinted it with. But still, it is who she is. She’ll be Opal’s mommy, and that means taking her deeper into her lap, holding her close, keeping her safe, even as her hands wander and fingertips reach, driven by lusts that Lyra cannot avoid acknowledging as incestuous. That should disgust her. It doesn’t. She’ll be the best mommy her daughter could have, and that means precisely this. As Opal snuggles into her bosom, she peers over her shoulder, taunting Jo against her better judgment with a proud, cocky smirk.

Jo might be Opal’s biological mother. But Lyra is better.

“Thank you, Mommy,” Opal coos, pressing close. She giggles as she feels that Lyra is hard. “Can you fuck me now, Mommy?”

“Of course.” A pang of reluctance, easily overcome. It’ll have to be here, where Lyra belongs. That’s a little strange—but she’ll manage it. She has to give Opal what she wants. Her hand finds itself at the hem of Opal’s skirt. “But don’t use bad language like that in this house.”

Opal giggles. “Sorry, Mommy.” She reaches for Lyra’s zipper, intent clear on her face. “I love you, Mommy.”

“I l-”

“Enough!”

The thunderous eruption from Jo halts both younger women in their tracks. For her part, Lyra is realizing that she’s right. This is enough. For Opal’s, the girl looks overjoyed. It’s as if this, after all, is what she truly wanted.

Jo storms back over to the kitchen table, her face wretchedly angry and utterly dark. Her nostrils flare, her every breath seething with jealousy. This is her madness, now broken the banks of her self-control and drowning her. “That’s quite enough out of you, young lady!” she growls, hand clamping like a vice around Opal’s arm and unceremoniously yanking her out of Lyra’s lap. Opal knocks her head viciously against the corner of the kitchen table; blood trickles from her temple, but she giggles all the same, delighted.

“Hey,” Lyra protests—quietly, of course. She dare not swear or move from the spot she belongs, but having her daughter ripped out of her lap in such a violent fashion is heartrending. Besides, Lyra’s already so worked up. She needs to f- to have sex with her. “You can’t just-“

“Oh, shut up, you stupid, delusional little girl!” Jo snaps, before turning her attention back to her daughter. “I’m going to make you regret this, Opal. If you won’t learn your lesson the easy way, you’ll learn it the hard way.”

“Yes, Mom.” The threat of punishment does nothing to daunt Opal’s enthusiasm. She is the very picture of willing submission. There is no doubt about it: this is precisely the outcome she was trying to engineer. All along, she was simply goading her mother into a frenzy. Lyra has been nothing more than a convenient instrument.

Stupid, delusional little girl.

Lyra slumps, eyes wide, as her psyche suffers a monstrous hammer blow. A suggestion, spat with such force and vitriol as to overwhelm whatever semblance of ego remains in her. Jo’s words stand opposed to everything Lyra has been absorbing from Opal. For a moment, the two precarious halves of her psyche go to war, the part of her that is Opal’s eager mommy domme fighting indignantly for survival. With her eyes, she challenges Jo. She’s the best mommy their daughter could ask for. She’s going to give Opal what she wants. She’s going to put Opal in her place the way she deserves.

But it doesn’t last. Her newborn, twisted sense of motherhood cannot hold its own. It is unwoven as quickly as it was created. Jo’s words, though driven by impulsive anger, contained the perfect seed of its destruction.

Delusional.

Her mind drinks in that word, in particular, the way dry, cracked soil drinks rain after a drought. It is the answer to the absurd contradiction Lyra is faced with. How can she be both a commanding mommy domme and a stupid little girl? It’s simple: she is not both. She is delusional. Jo has lifted the scales from her eyes.

Stupid, delusional little girl.

Lyra slumps in her seat. She shrinks into herself. Right. That’s what she is. The fact that she ever believed differently is a mere artifact of her stupidity. It’s obvious—or at least, it seems obvious now, and Jo’s drug has left her brain eager to supply the reasons.

She’s much younger than Jo. That’s obvious.

She can’t use bad language in Jo’s home. Who thinks like that? A child, obviously. Besides, Jo can swear.

She has to sit quietly where she belongs, at the kitchen table—exactly like a naughty child. It’s so obvious. Even the undeniable fact of her age does not save her. It only adds to her humiliation. Twenty-eight years old, but at heart, still a little girl. Nothing could have drained more of her confidence. What kind of twenty-eight year old is so hopelessly immature? That, again, is obvious. Jo told it to her face.

Stupid, delusional little girl.

Lyra is marinating in it now. That’s what she is. That’s all she is. So, she does what stupid little girls are supposed to do. She sits quietly where she belongs, and she watches.

Jo and Opal have eyes only for each other now. Their shared madness is in full swing. Jo pulls a chair out from the kitchen table and drags it to the middle of the room. Opal follows her, a little lamb at her mother’s side. Her euphoria does not fade when Jo turns around and slaps her viciously across the face.

“Take your skirt off,” Jo seethes.

“Yes, Mom.” Her daughter rushes to obey, torn between the urge to make disrobing into a striptease and her sheer eagerness to feel her mother’s touch on her naked body. Lyra lets out a childish gasp when she sees what the skirt was concealing: a hefty, metal belt fastened around Opal’s hips with a padlock, featuring a bulbous cage that completely covers her cock. She is not left to wonder who holds the key.

“After last time, I thought this would restrain you,” Jo hisses. “I thought that if your misadventures were pointless…”

“Sorry, Mom,” Opal bleats. She is both more innocent now, and less—smaller, weaker, visibly vulnerable before her mother, but at the same time, her face is flushed and lurid with arousal. “I just can’t help myself. It’s the only way I can get you like this.”

A twitch at the corner of Jo’s mouth. “Why must you be like this?” she begs through gritted teeth. “Why couldn’t you have become a normal, happy girl?”

Mischief sets a spark in Opal’s eyes. “Why did I need to have a chaser for a mother?” she retorts. “Maybe being a fucked-up pervert freak runs in the fami-”

Another slap across the face silences her. Lyra nods approvingly. It makes sense even to a stupid little girl like her. Opal shouldn’t use bad language like that in Jo’s house.

“Shut up!” Jo spits. Frothing anger once again clouds her better judgment. “Maybe… maybe this time I can make the lesson sink in. Over my knee, young lady. Now.”

She sits down on the chair, and Opal immediately clambers across her lap. She seems uncertain but not at all hesitant, confident, perhaps, that she can find a way to enjoy whatever her mother inflicts on her. Even so, she yelps in pained shock when Jo raises an arm and, with all the force she can muster, brings her palm down onto Opal’s ass. The spanking that follows is vicious, fast-paced, and without mercy. At first, Opal seems to delight in her mother’s touch and fights to make her every shriek and yelp a provocation, but the relentless barrage of blows against her bare skin quickly begins to wear down her pain tolerance. After a couple of minutes, she begins to instinctively struggle and squirm, although Jo’s arm keeps her trapped with ease.

“M-Mom,” Opal sniffles. “That hurts!”

“Yes. It does.” Jo blossoms into dominance like a poisonous flower. This, transparently, is her true self. Her real pleasure, merely repressed behind a facade of professionalism or motherhood as the need arises. “This is what you get for being a disobedient whore.”

“Mom!” Opal whines. “Please! I-I’ll be good.”

“You had your chance to be good,” Jo snarls, delivering another smack that echoes deafeningly around the kitchen. “If you want to start now, show your new sister how to take a punishment.”

She’s barely speaking to Lyra, but all the same, her stray comments are further hammer blows to Lyra’s psyche. The captive woman feels the weave of her mind shifting accordingly, and whimpers with fear at what she’s going to become.

This is what you get for being a disobedient little girl.

Hasn’t Lyra been disobedient too? And she’s a stupid little girl; she knows that now. Doesn’t that mean she, too, needs to be punished? A pit forms in her stomach. Guilt, shame, and a curious sense of masochism; Lyra doesn’t want pain, exactly, but she knows pain would make everything right. She cannot help but crave the inevitable bending of the universe’s arc toward justice, delivered by Jo’s firm hand.

But that’s nothing compared to the impact of the second suggestion.

Show your new sister how to take a punishment.

New sister. That’s Lyra.

“Damn it,” Jo grunts, as Opal begins to sob into her thigh. “My hand smarts. Look what you made me do, Opal.”

Opal does not reply. She’s wracked with sobs, but still shivers rapturously when Jo rests her hand on Opal’s ass, now turned bright red with welts. Her mother’s touch calms her, although Lyra notes that the way Jo’s hand caresses Opal’s tender skin is far from chaste. She cups Opal’s shapely rear and moves her hand in rhythmic circles, eyes wide and lustful, plainly on the verge of outright groping. Lyra immediately understands that Opal isn’t the only one being held back by the chastity belt. Once more, the warped debauchery of their family dynamic makes her shudder.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Jo says, shifting Opal around in her lap. “You deserve more than just a palm, sweetheart.”

The sound of Jo’s belt unbuckling swamps Lyra with sympathetic dread for her new sister.

She has already lost the ability to doubt that that is what Opal is. Jo said so, and Lyra’s entire lifepath has obediently rewoven itself to affirm her words. Opal and Lyra are siblings, bound by blood. Lyra feels as much familial affection towards her as she ever did toward the siblings she grew up with. The abundant contradictions her memories provide threaten to split her head in two, so Lyra simply retreats from them. She is, after all, a stupid, delusional little girl. She cannot stomach the pain, and whatever Jo tells her is surely more correct than whatever misconceived ideas she’s been harboring up until now.

Which makes sense. Jo is her mother.

The elementary logic of family relations dictates it, and that sidelong implication is more than enough to stain the tapestry of Lyra’s life through and through. Jo is her mother, not that other woman she’s already struggling to conjure to mind. It makes, she supposes, a certain amount of sense. She is a stupid little girl of twenty-eight, and Jo is the woman who has been telling her what to do. Who has been putting her in her place. Why shouldn’t Jo be her mom? That rationale, however tenuous, is sufficient. Lyra reknits herself around it, sewing a new self from the shreds of the old, weaving in all of the suggestions of deference and subordination she has absorbed from her new mother. There is a strange comfort to the alteration. No longer does Lyra need to mourn her relationship with the now-estranged figure who rejected her when she came out.

She has a mother again. A hole in her heart is sewn up and mended. It’s enough to bring tears to her eyes.

It’s wrong, too. It’s so wrong. Lyra knows that. She remembers the drug. Understands what it’s doing to her. But knowing isn’t enough. What she feels and believes is more important, and so she finds herself both weeping with gratitude and nodding approvingly as her mom folds the belt in two and beats it against Opal’s already-red ass with a loud crack.

It’s what disobedient little girls deserve. Her sister needs to take her punishment.

She does, although not gracefully. The belt plainly hurts far more than Mom’s open palm, and Opal greets the new torment with loud, girlish, tear-stricken shrieks. The pain leaves her writhing and squirming, but she is not truly trying to escape. She wouldn’t dare. It’s clear, even to Lyra: she has been beaten into submission.

“Atta girl,” Mom taunts. “That’s my daughter. She takes whatever her mom gives her.”

Her daughter takes whatever her mom gives her. Her other daughter, Lyra, drinks deep of that truth.

The vindictive belting continues past the point of all reason, until Opal is left a shivering, disconsolate wreck, ass turning from red to a deep purple. Lyra is torn; deeply-held convictions scream at her that this is pointless and cruel, if not actively dangerous, but those older voices are swiftly gagged and choked into silence by the force of the suggestions Mom has imprinted on her. This is what Opal gets for being a disobedient little girl. That one sentence was enough to undermine her sense of right and wrong to its very core. Moreover, as she triangulates herself in reference to the other two women and their behavior, Lyra experiences herself shrinking. Contracting. She knows what she is now. She knows the true core of her being, and all else is beholden to it.

Stupid, delusional little girl.

Stupid, delusional little girl.

Stupid, delusional little girl.

Accordingly, Lyra cannot imagine standing up against the beating. She shrivels instead, cowed and pathetic. This is where she belongs—this seat, this house, this family—and this family is one in which Mommy does this to her daughters. Lyra is equal parts terrified and affirmed. The weave of her ego is settling into its new shape. She understands now. She is grateful to understand. It all fits. She is a little girl with a pervert sister and chaser mother. All the rest is delusion. But her mother’s firm hand will set her right. She knows that. And she’ll take whatever her mom gives her.

Lyra begins to relax. Acceptance washes over her and leaves her clean. She may be a stupid, delusional little girl, but at least she’s exactly where she belongs.

Eventually, Mom is satisfied. Breathing hard from her exertion, she tosses her belt to the floor and hauls Opal up into her embrace. Her shuddering, sobbing daughter throws herself into her mother’s bosom, smearing the sticky blood from her head wound onto her mother’s clothes in her desperation for comfort. For a brief moment, the scene manages to be genuinely maternal. Then Opal draws back slightly, and Lyra sees a crafty smile on her red, wet face.

“I was so brave, Mom,” she simpers. “Can I have a reward now?”

Mom stiffens. She’s angry, yes—but there’s something else. Need, raw and untamed. She is already far beyond the limits of sanity. She is vulnerable to temptation.

“That’s…” she breathes, on the cusp.

“Please, Mommy?” Opal senses blood in the water. “Just once. Maybe if you really do it, just once, I’ll get better.”

“I… don’t…” Mom shakes her head, but there’s no conviction in her eyes.

“I need it, Mommy,” Opal wheedles. She puts her lips to her mother’s ear. “And you need it too, don’t you?”

She does. She really does. Even a stupid, delusional little girl can see that.

Something flashes through Mom’s eyes. She makes her choice. “Stand up,” she instructs. Opal, electrified, obeys. “Go and fetch Mom's cock. I bet you already know where I hid it, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mom!” Giddy, Opal sprints out of the room and up the stairs. In her absence, Mom turns to Lyra.

“Follow me.”

“Yes, M…” Lyra finds herself saying. “Mom.”

Freed from her chair, Lyra obediently follows her new mother upstairs and into the master bedroom. It feels strange to be out of the place she belongs, and stranger still to enter her mother’s private space. But it’s what she’s been told to do, and she knows what happens to disobedient girls. She walks at Mom’s heel with diminutive steps, hands clasped in front of her, behaving for all the world like an anxious child even though she’s several inches taller than the older woman. Once they’re in the bedroom, Opal quickly finds them again and presents their mother with a harness and a strap-on cock.

“Here, Mom.”

“Thank you. Help me with this.”

“Yes, Mom.” Opal is beside herself with glee as she helps her mother strap her harness into place and affix her cock into position, wiggling her hips and instinctively reaching down to paw at herself uselessly over her chastity belt.

“Good girl.” With her strap-on over her clothes, Mom looks magnificent. She radiates authority. Lyra shrinks still further before her. Just a little girl. “Now. Go and sit in the corner, Opal.”

At once, Opal’s face falls.

She shakes her head. “No. No, no, no, no, no. Not again, Mommy, please, no!”

“Shut up!” Mom yells, red in the face. “Do as I say.”

“But…” The two halves of Opal’s nature are at war with one another. She wants her mother physically, yes. But she wants her dominance just as much, and she fears another punishment. She hangs her head, defeated. She cannot bring herself to disobey. “Yes, Mom.”

Sullenly, she throws herself down into the small chair in the corner of the bedroom and flashes Lyra a look of seething envy. Lyra meets it with a smug grin. Sisters means sisterly rivalry, and though Lyra is still so addled she barely understands what is about to happen, she knows that she has won some sort of contest between them. Then, the full weight of Mom’s attention falls upon her.

“Strip,” Mom snarls. “And don’t keep me waiting.”

She does not need to tell her twice. As quickly as she can, Lyra removes her clothes. She dare not disappoint her mother any further. Besides, she’s beginning to feel that the leatherdyke look no longer suits her. That’s how women dress, not stupid little girls. Jo seems to agree.

“Look at this,” the older woman sneers, inspecting one of the boots Lyra tosses aside like they aren’t her most prized possessions. “Pleather? Really? You’re so immature, Lyra.”

I’m so immature.

Yet more permanent damage to an already damaged brain. Lyra feels yet another layer of inhibition, wisdom, and self-assurance bleached from her mind forever. She giggles nervously as she glances down at the Chelsea boots her mother is wearing. They’re the real deal. No doubt. Her mom would never wear fake leather. She’s mature. Not like Lyra.

“Maybe we can get you something a little more suitable,” Mom mocks, fully caught in the flow of her dominant, sadistic id. “I think Opal has some glittery old sneakers, from when she was in middle school. Those might fit. You’d like that, I’m sure.”

“Yes, Mom!” Lyra bleats shrilly. As soon as it’s spoken, it is the truth. She would love to dress like her sister. Hand-me-downs are perfect. Maybe she should look into getting a schoolgirl outfit.

“Good girl,” Mom pants as Lyra finishes undressing. She’s all but drooling as she surveys Lyra’s naked body. Lyra’s mother is a chaser through and through. Lyra’s cock, especially, leaves her all but hypnotized. “You know what’s going to happen now, don’t you?”

“N-no, Mom.” Lyra doesn’t dare to presume. She’s just a stupid little girl.

“We’re going to fuck, sweetheart. That’s what.”

Lyra flinches at the bad language—and then goes still.

She’s going to have sex with her mom. That fact becomes fixed in her mind, immutable. It is going to happen. Nonetheless…

“B-but, Mom,” Lyra ventures, even though she fears her mother’s wrath. She’s stupid. Maybe she just doesn’t understand. “Isn’t that w-wrong?”

Mom’s lips curl. “Why?”

“I-incest is wrong?” Lyra squeaks, lip quivering. “Right?”

Jo laughs unpleasantly, before reaching up to ruffle Lyra’s hair. “Goodness. Your medicine really has gone to work on you, hasn’t it?”

“I-I guess.” Lyra blushes, grateful for her mom’s affection.

“So, listen,” Mom tells her firmly, fixing her with a pointed gaze. “No. No, it’s not wrong. Between me and you, it’s not wrong at all. Understand?”

Lyra’s eyes widen. Enlightenment dawns. At once, it’s perfectly clear. “Yes, Mom!”

Between her and Mom, incest isn’t wrong. She doesn’t need a reason. Maybe she would if she were a mature grown-up, but she’s an immature little girl. It makes much more sense for her to simply listen to her mother. Besides, what she’s being told makes her feel strangely prideful. Out of the corner of her eye, Opal is staring daggers at her. She’s not allowed to have sex with Mom—but Lyra is.

Lyra smiles. She feels like such a special little girl.

“In fact,” Mom continues, intoxicated. “You want this. Very, very much. You need it.”

“I…” Lyra quivers. I want this. I need it. The last strands of her reluctance are set ablaze and turned to ash. Her hierarchy of needs is woven anew, and mother sits at the apex. “Y-yes, Mom.”

“It’s what good little trans daughters like you are for.”

“I-It’s…” Another hammer blow. Lyra’s deep convictions about the autonomy and independence of trans people from their parents had, until now, held on by a thread. No longer. With that one sentence, her most treasured beliefs are unpicked and rewritten. Of course trans girls aren’t meant to live their own lives! They’re for their mothers to fuck. All along, it was just another delusion. “Yes, Mom!”

“Very good,” Jo laughs. “I’m glad you understand. Maybe you’re actually pretty mature for your age.”

Lyra swells with pride, even as she pants with desperate arousal. That comment does not help her. The damage she has suffered cannot be so easily repaired. Lyra has lost all concept of maturity. “Th-thank you, Mommy. C-can I, um, put it in you now?”

Jo arches an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I n-need it really bad,” Lyra whines, childish impatience getting the better of her. She reaches down and runs a hand along her hard, quivering shaft. “Please?”

“Hm. Maybe you don’t understand me after all,” Jo remarks. She gestures to her strap-on. “What do you think this is for?”

“Oh… but… um…” Lyra frowns, confused yet again. Always so stupid. “B-but I’m a top, Mom. I’ve always been a top. That’s why, with Opal…”

A faint wave of nausea hits her. She’d seriously intended to have sex with her little sister. Lyra can scarcely believe it. Incest is OK between her and Mom, but surely not between sisters. Some big sister she is. She’s so lucky Mom intervened. Unpleasant emotions flare on Mom’s face too as she considers what might otherwise have happened.

“I see. I see.” A truly vile, vindictive smirk passes over the older woman’s face. “No, Lyra. You aren’t. You couldn’t be, you see. You can’t even get it up properly.”

“W-w-wha?” Lyra sees white for a moment as her overtaxed mind struggles to accept the gargantuan contradiction between what she feels and what she hears. “But… but…”

A swift slap to the face puts her back in her place. “You can’t get hard, little girl,” Mom tells her.

Lyra whimpers, her face smarting, unwilling to push her luck any further. But still, she finds herself experiencing a rare moment of doubt in her mom—right up until she feels her words becoming the truth.

Mind over matter. Mom’s experimental drug has seeped all the way into Lyra’s nervous system. It goes to work there, unpicking and destroying the vital connections that ensure the functioning of her anatomy. Lyra whimpers pitifully as her cock begins to wilt soft despite her frantic arousal. Plenty of trans girls have problems in that department, but not Lyra. She was always so careful to avoid them. She always wanted to make sure she could still top—only, suddenly, that doesn’t make sense. Mom set her straight about that, too.

I am not a top.

Lyra’s giddy, eager smile returns. She has nothing to worry about. Within moments, she forgets about whatever had soured her mood. Obviously she can’t get hard, but that’s completely fine. She’s a bottom—she must be, since she isn’t a top. She looks down, and her eyes bulge at the sight of the hard, silicon cock between Mom’s legs. Perfect. It’s perfect. It’s exactly what she needs, and she needs it so bad.

“P-please, Mom,” she begs. “Can you put it inside me already?”

“Sure I can, sweetheart.” Mom’s grin is a jagged, ugly scar on her face. “On the bed. Now.”

Despite her eagerness, it takes Lyra several moments to position herself on her mother’s bed, lying on her back with her legs splayed apart alluringly and her now-permanently limp cock drooling onto her soft stomach. She’s not used to this. To being the one who’s naked, exposed, waiting to receive—which is strange, isn’t it? She is not a top. She just thought she was. Yet another delusion in her pantheon of false gods, along with maturity and independence.

All the girls Lyra’s taken care of in her time would have been much better off with Mom instead.

A sense of swelling awe fills her breast as Mom clambers onto the bed and looms over her, face utterly clouded over with deranged lust. As Mom spends a moment slicking her strap with lube, Lyra glances over at her sister, still lurking in the corner. Opal meets her gaze, a look of open, hateful, teary-eyed resentment on her bloodstained face. It’s obvious that she would give anything and everything to be where Lyra is now, at the tip of their mom’s strap-on. It’s obvious how furious she is that Lyra, the girl she brought home, is serving as her substitute.

Lyra sticks her tongue out at her when Mom isn’t looking, and watches as Opal balls her hands into fists. An immature indulgence. Then Mom thrusts her strap-on into Lyra, and the sensation immediately washes away the rest of her thoughts.

As a fake, pretend top, Lyra has never bothered to train or use her ass for pleasure, so the way Mom impales her without gentleness or restraint is a thunderbolt through the core of her being. It hurts, yes, but it feels good too—mostly because Lyra knows it should. This is what good little trans daughters like me are for. The affirmation is irresistible, and the drug in her system helps it along, rewriting her nerves and alchemizing whatever discomfort she might otherwise feel into simple bliss.

“Mom!” Lyra moans as her mother rails her. She is in heaven. This might not be the chair in the kitchen, but she is precisely where she belongs. Her world has shrunk. The pleasure of Mom’s strap is all she needs. “P-please! More!” Mom is happy to deliver. She, too, is where she belongs. Her facade of professionalism and decency has fallen away. She is a rutting, grunting animal, intoxicated with thoughts of breeding her trans daughter—her heart’s truest desire, so potent it rotted all the rest. Whatever part of her might have regretted this or been ashamed of this is long gone, buried beneath a landslide of Jocastan, fetishistic lust.

And then there is Opal, the third leg of their warped trinity—the mother, the substitute, and the real thing. She alone is in purgatory rather than heaven, an awful place where her deepest, most perverse wish plays out before her eyes, so close and yet so far out of reach. Before her lies the mother she wants, and the daughter she wishes to be. It’s agony of another kind too; the envy burning within Opal does not keep her from becoming horrifically aroused by the sight of her mother dominating someone this way. But that’s another need she cannot soothe, not with the hefty belt between her legs. All Opal can do is watch, and want, and seethe, and dream up still more twisted ways to push her mother beyond the brink once she’s freed from her chair in the corner.

Lyra giggles between moans. She loves her mom and her sister. It’s a perfect, happy little family.

“That’s right,” Mom grunts, plowing into her. “Take it. Take it, you little slut. You were born to take it.”

“Y-y-yes!” Lyra’s head throbs along with her body. I was born to take it. This day, this encounter, this moment—all take on an even greater significance in her mind. The absolute culmination of a life’s purpose is a powerful thing, and it threads its way through her now, bringing with it a fresh wave of euphoria that takes her pleasure to still greater heights.

“I raised you.” Mom’s every word is punctuated by a long stroke of her hips. “And to thank me, you turned yourself into this. Thought I’d missed out, with a son. Luckily, I ended up with the best of both worlds.”

She raised me.

The enormity of that statement is, perhaps mercifully, lost on Lyra’s blissed-out brain. She is too consumed by the sensation of her mother’s strap-on thrusting in and out of her to notice as her childhood memories unravel catastrophically. Distraction saves her from considering the implications. It’s the most monstrous contradiction yet, but Lyra’s mind has already been ground into unresisting paste. All she experiences is her attachment and dependence toward her new mother widening, her reverence deepening as whatever solid ground was still under her ego’s feet collapses into the void.

“Yes, M-Mom!” Lyra drools. Her pleasure peaks. Her limp, broken cock discharges its seed over her belly. “All for you. I t-took those pills for you!”

“I knew it!” Mom grunts. She doesn’t care that Lyra just finished. She isn’t done yet. Her delirium is still growing. “Fuck, the way you feel… how did my little girl learn to take Mommy’s cock this well when she’s not even twenty years old?”

A question, not a statement. Maybe that’s why it snags on whatever sanity remains to Lyra. Maybe it’s simply a brief moment of post-orgasmic clarity. Either way, Lyra manages to fight through the pleasure-fog afflicting her softened mind, prop herself up on her elbows, and look at her mother quizzically.

“But…” Lyra ventures, despite cringing at her own infantile stupidity. “Mom, I’m t-twenty-eight?”

For a brief moment, Mom pauses. Hesitates. She looks at Lyra through fresh eyes. It is as if, for the first time that night, she’s truly conscious of what she’s truly doing and who she’s truly doing it to. The distance between her reality and her madness has grown to become a wide chasm, and she threatens to plunge into the existential dread between its walls.

But only for a moment. Mom is way too far gone for any genuine regret or reflection to find purchase on her. She cannot stop. She relaxes back into the fantasy. She thrusts into Lyra again, looks her dead in the eyes, and shatters her forever.

“No, you’re not. You’re nineteen years old.”

I’m…

People are woven together like fabric. That’s what Lyra’s mom taught her—and Mom knows best. Everything that has been done to Lyra tonight, all the unweaving and reknitting, has left the fabric of her being woefully thin and threadbare. She exists in a dreamlike, juvenile haze, a state in which everything she knows about herself is fundamentally new. Fundamentally malleable. Only the most basic of biographical facts retain any substance. Name. Gender. Age.

What Mom just told her felt like taking a knife to that, and ripping it to shreds.

“I’m-” Lyra gasps, as Mom starts fucking her in earnest again, each thrust a fresh stab of pleasure into her degenerating brain. Under that combined pressure, her mind snaps.

Ribbons made of formative moments and treasured memories eject themselves from Lyra’s thoughts and into the abyss beneath her subconscious, never to return. As they disappear, they leave great, bleeding gashes behind them: skills, experiences, pieces of knowledge—all of them lost, in the great unraveling of Lyra’s past nine years.

Her college years, gone.

Multiple jobs, gone.

Entire relationships, gone.

And all that they entail. Nine years is enough for a person to grow halfway to adulthood. Lyra loses all of that. Her entire adult life, almost. Years of learning, growing, changing—gone. Without a fight.

I’m nineteen.

The damage is cataclysmic. No mind, however creative and however drugged, can perform that much revision in so short a period of time. It is more an unwriting than a rewriting, and Lyra is too overcome with pleasure and filial awe to do anything but simply let it happen. She slumps back onto the sheets. Her tongue lolls out of her mouth. The chicken returns to the egg. She will never awaken from the childlike fog that claims her.

Lyra is nineteen years old.

And her mother isn’t done. She senses that Lyra’s mind has been pounded into submission, and it serves only to egg her on. Mom has the chance to make her twisted dream as near-real as it gets, and she’s not about to hold back now.

“You’re my nineteen-year-old daughter Opal,” Mom grunts, still fucking her. “And you’re mine. All mine. You’re not going to go to the club and find some two-bit young slut you can call ‘mommy.’ You belong to me. Nobody else.”

Opal is nineteen years old.

The little girl on the bed, taking her mother’s strap, already knew that was true. She just didn’t know it was about her. Now she learns. The name ‘Lyra’ is cast out into the abyss—and what’s one more loss, after so many others? Opal—the new Opal—accepts it happily. It feels, to her—to what’s left of her—like the final piece of the puzzle. With that, her entire existence is defined, from beginning to end, by the woman currently climaxing as she fucks this facsimile of her real daughter.

She is Opal. She is nineteen years old. She’s a stupid, delusional little girl who doesn’t use bad language in Mom’s house. She is not a top and she cannot get hard. She transitioned specifically so that she could service her mother’s sexual needs, because that’s what good trans daughters are for. And so this—taking her strap, at long last—is the culminating moment of her nineteen years of life.

The last remnants of her broken mind shrink still further, to better fit the shape. Opal is complete. Opal is this and nothing more—and what a blessing! To know that her one and only purpose on Earth has been fulfilled. How many are so lucky? If she died now, she’d die happy and fulfilled. She has already served her purpose.

So, she simply gives up.

For what remains, she is limp. She passively accepts what happens as Mom continues from one climax straight through into the next before finally retracting her strap-on from her unresisting body. She does not notice the way Mom slumps beside her on the bed, despondent. She does not think about the way Mom puts her head in her hands, gripped by sudden clarity and regret. It means nothing to her. Opal doesn’t understand such adult things. She is trapped in a fugue. A prison of childlike bliss from which she will never escape. The drug she was injected with has seen to that. It pushed her mind beyond the limit of its capacity to adapt. All Opal knows is what her mother has told her. Mom’s words are the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Those words, taken together, imply an identity of perpetual daughterhood and a life of hopeless, endless, pathetic, infantile dependence. Nothing else remains.

Opal will always be a mommy’s girl.

But she isn’t the only Opal in the room.

Opal—the old Opal, the real Opal—rises from the chair in the corner. She walks over to the bed, sits beside her mother, and wraps her arms around her lovingly.

“I think you broke her, Mommy.”

Mom sighs. She doesn’t look up. “I know.”

“What are we going to do with her?”

Another sigh. “I’ll put her on the ward with the others. I can bury the paperwork. Nobody will ask any questions.”

“Wow.” Opal giggles. “A whole ward full of sisters.”

Mom groans softly, but she lacks the strength to properly reprimand her daughter. “Opal. Listen to me. This has to stop. We can’t keep doing this.”

“I know, Mom,” Opal replies. Her hands move across her mother’s body. One to her hips, one to her chest, both suggestive. Mom freezes up. “You can make it stop whenever you want.”

Another groan, louder than before—and shakier. Despite herself, Mom is turned on again. But she can’t, and they both know it. Her sense of morality is warped beyond sane recognition, but there remains one righteous pillar.

She can’t possibly touch her own daughter like that.

One little flicker of hope burns in Mom’s breast. She hopes that if she can simply hold out for long enough, Opal will be cured of her incestuous madness. And that hope is what dooms them to keep repeating this cycle, over and over again. The new Opal, lying on the bed, smiles faintly. She perceives this, even if her mother and twin sister don’t. Their happy little family is forever.

The old Opal pulls away and sighs as her mother fails to yield to her seductions. For a moment, she looks forlorn, but she quickly plucks up her spirits.

“Oh well!” She giggles happily. “I can’t wait to go out again next week.”