Minerva, now

My first thought upon pulling up on the driveway and watching the wrought iron gates behind me slowly close, is of the weather. It’s such a nice day, with blue skies overhead and a pleasant wash of sunlight that is not too blistering. A gentle summer breeze strokes its fingers through the illustrious, verdant gardens of this estate as the well behaved children of wealthy parents can be heard playing on their expansive properties. Mine is, of course, just as elegantly kept, though I’ve given the cleaners and gardeners some paid time off on account of my current project. I require privacy, and so my grass stands an inch taller.

It’s a perfect, beautiful day. The world revolves as normal, the birds sing their tunes, and my little girl is still as can be, unstirred by summer’s call. My heart thrums as the engine dies, and I exit the vehicle with a haste in my step I’ve been a stranger to since retirement. In what I can only describe as a previous life—from which I have inherited this comfortable retirement in a house too large for two—I had been a highly successful endocrinologist. My patients would send me cards as though my career was a selfless endeavour while I fed my boy gifted chocolates in the comfort of our private estate. Now that I’m no longer salaried, I only tend to a single patient. It is private treatment, and my reasons for doing it are most assuredly selfish, but that’s okay. She wants it. She likes it. I had thought differently up until recently, and was overjoyed to discover just how perverse my darling girl’s heart truly is.

I hang my coat up and lock the door—both locks—before taking a brisk walk over to the basement doorway, shopping bag in hand. The nearest textiles store is only a ten minute drive away, but even so, being away from my new toy for a half hour, so close to her completion, has left me feeling terribly antsy. With no time left to spare, I push the door open and signal my arrival with the sonorous clacking of my sleek black pumps against the stone basement steps. This entire room is much cooler than the rest of the house, even on a nice hot day like this, which suits us just fine given how hot we can become. You see, I just can’t seem to stop my hands from wandering. Why should I? The way she trembles and twitches, fighting to stay still against the torture of my touch, turns me on more than my late husband—the girl’s errant sperm donor—ever could. My pleasure corrupts her just as much as her own indecent little fetishes return the favour.

“There you are, just as I left you.” My voice is dripping with smug as I lay eyes upon my static daughter, who appears to have remained in place for the entire duration of my absence. Mommy’s good little girl, or so she would be were she not turning around to face me like a needy puppy and opening her mouth like she’s permitted the response.

“Mom! I… I was waiting. I-It’s cold.” squeaks my forgetful child, who stands in the centre of the basement dressed in the ‘sailor fuku’ and skirt characteristic of a Japanese schoolgirl’s uniform. The cosplay she’s asked for my help with would be perverse enough were it to stop there, but the character she seeks to emulate is far more erotic. Inappropriate to expose your own widowed mother to, but then, I suppose I am the one who raised her into this. I had been seeking to turn my clueless son into a nice, manipulable fucktoy I could have my way with whenever I saw fit. I planted the suggestion slowly, over years of strenuous effort, to steer the boy into becoming his mom’s well conditioned plaything, but the conditioning never fully took. It was frustrating, because my suggestions always worked wonders on those I used to test them on in the wards, but my own son was constantly slipping out of my grip. Worse, he was starting to figure out what I was trying to do to him. I thought he might’ve called the police on me, or left home, but instead…

“Athena. Be a good mannequin and remember that you’re not to move.” The sound of my fingers snapping bounces from every wall of the hollow cavity of earth I conduct my daughter’s metamorphosis in. I watch—with delight—as her eyes dim and her shoulders sag against the sound now wreaking havoc on her higher thought. I revel in the way she stops shivering, because useful little dress up dolls do not feel the cold the way people like me do. “That’s my good girl.”

My daughter wears a relaxed smile, before I snap my fingers again to command her thus. “Posture.” Her back straightens, her shoulders pick back up, and she stands at attention for me like the good mannequin I’ve made her into. The hypnosis took so easily once I figured out what the snag was; all I had to do was change the pronouns I used while addressing my toy, and the poor thing buckled like she had been waiting for me to rape her mind since the day she became an adult. Perhaps she had; it’s obvious that she wants this as much as I do. The girl could have asked anybody for help with this erotic costume play of hers. Her twenties are well underway and a trust fund baby like her could have most other girls her age breaking their backs to keep her happy. She wanted me, like I wanted her, and so here we are. It’s almost impossible to keep my hands off of her tight, fuckable body in that stupid pornographic costume she wears, but I’ve come to gain an intimate appreciation for the fact that good things come to those who wait.

“I can see you tenting your skirt, dear.” I tease her, smiling. It’s always fun to test her like this when she’s sinking back into the deep, dark waters of trance. A line of drool cascades down from the corner of her mouth, but I see the recognition from my words dance behind her glassy stare, and rather than shivering again, she shudders. Embarrassment is as a floodlight, penetrating the abyssal lake she descends into like a heavy stone. It’s delicious, truth be told, and so I indulge myself wantonly as I get to work organising the supplies I’ve returned with.

Athena does not reply with words, but I know she’s there, just as mortified as she is beholden to the spell she helped me put her under. Losing myself for just a moment, as a wretched woman like myself is wont to do, I casually approach my daughter-toy from behind and slip my hand under her skirt. It’s shorter than an actual school uniform’s would be, because it’s something much less mundane than that. Once this cosplay is finished, and I’m free to show her off to whomever I fucking please, perhaps the doll will have wished she had chosen something less explicit.

God, she’s leaking. It’s just pre-ejaculate right now, but I’ve made sure to cultivate my daughter well for the purposes I desire her for. I was more than happy to assist in her transition—in fact you might as well say I took over the operation entirely—in order to finally acquire that toy I had been struggling to mould her into, but I had to be sure she could still… perform. Consequently, not only do I manage my daughter’s injections, I also keep her on a strict supplement routine in order to ensure her semen volume does not suffer from the hormone therapy. This is, I believe, a normal duty for a mother to take on for her darling girl.

“Mmgh… Moooom…” she whines. It’s as adorable as it is disobedient. While she’s this close to the proverbial drain her malleable mind has been circling for the past few months, scolding her would be less effective than simply correcting her—firm, but reassuring, pulling her back down under that water of trance my voice lowers her into so kindly.

“Now, now,” I speak with the authority only a mother could impress upon her child. “Be a good girl for me, Athena. Remember what you are. Posture.” With a snap of my fingers, the sag is excised; she won’t need the reinforcement after this, I’ll remove every last drop of resistance from her not through force, but with plain honesty. Nothing in this world is so exacting as the truth.

“Remember that you wanted this. Ah, you practically begged me with those adorable, pleading eyes of yours. More honest than your tongue, which is to remain still inside your mouth for the remainder of the afternoon when not repeating your mantra.” I circle around the incomplete doll, smooth fingertips gliding across the even smoother, porcelain skin of her naked bicep. Then, with my other hand, I pry my thumb into her mouth, pushing it forcefully past plush lips that give a pathetic resistance I understand to be performative in nature—intended to egg me on. Her eyes are on me, but I can see the way the trance reduces her to baser instincts. Soon, she’ll be nothing but a useful little thing I can use without interruption.

My thumb pushes down, pinning her tongue to the bottom of her mouth as she fights against the conditioning and loses beautifully. She’s immobile because my words ring true; she wants this as much as I do, the two of us were made for each other. I gave birth to an outlet for pleasure who, once matured, could only ever become this. I remind her of this immutable fact without the need for words, because familial bonds this deep develop a pseudo-telepathy that makes the need for such things novel and trite.

“Remember when you broke for me, honey.” My calm is a blanket, and she no longer shakes at all, giving a dull smile that moulds around my intrusive digit in a perfect fit. I see the shine in her eyes, like a glimmer of treasure on the seafloor. I watch my darling girl do exactly as she’s told and remember the day my hypnosis finally started to take.

Athena, then

There’s drool on my thigh. It takes the time between one deep, slow inhale, and an equally long exhale, to realise it’s mine. I’m sitting on my bed, the sheets covering one leg while I drool onto the other. My mom is stroking my thigh, just below where that fleeing spittle makes its home, as she speaks so softly I can barely even make out the words. I’m so sleepy my eyes have to fight to stay open. There’s no way on Earth my head would still be level with hers, and not sinking down into my chest, were her other hand not presently holding it up. Mom’s touch is so firm… it’s not my fault that I’m throbbing hard under the sheets.

“That’s a good girl, Athena.” Her words are alcohol, and I’m completely drunk on them. Being called a girl by Mom is so intoxicating, but worse than that is the name. She asked me if I had decided on one, and when I told her I hadn’t… she just started calling me Athena. It should feel wrong but I’m too inebriated to care, leaning into her touch like a needy whore while hoping my eagerness does not give her pause. I know it won’t, because I know my mother well. Ever since Dad passed, she’s been having talks with me at least once a fortnight. Talks like this, in which her hands roam and her voice gently pushes itself into my head to find a place for her… unique desires… to nestle. Mother was an endo, but she majored in psychology before going to medical school. As a psych major myself, I’m not ignorant to the true nature of her advances. She’s been running textbook conditioning on me, and now she’s finally starting to see results because of one little change. But… why? What does she want me wrapped around her finger for? I thought to test her—gauge her reaction—when I asked her to help me with my latest ‘crossplay’, which is something no daughter has any business exposing her middle aged mother to, but I’m afraid that might’ve backfired. Or maybe this is fine. Deep inhale—I’m a good girl—and exhale.

Maybe the only way to find out what she wants… is to let her have it.

“Athena.” Mother clicks her tongue, and I shudder from a strange excitement the strictness delivers unto my sagging form. When she talked to me like I was a boy, the manipulation never stuck, but now I’m surprised at my own desperation to see where this all goes. Athena… I really, really love that name. Maybe this isn’t crossplay after all.

“Y-Yes, Mom?” I sound so out of it, even if my mind is still racing. I’m reaching for justifications that are elusive as my cock is conspicuously hard. I try to pinch the latter between my thighs before Mother notices, while becoming excited at the slippery nature of the former. I’m truly out of excuses, but she’s worse. That’s right. This is all on her, so I can just lean in closer and…

“I’m going to unbutton your shirt now. Okay, pretty girl?” Her smile is a hearth, my soul a snowflake. I’m melting and reshaping into her pretty girl. Her daughter. It’s so nice… but this isn’t right…

“Wh-what? Mom?” By the time I manage to squeak the words out, she has already undone the first two buttons. My chest is slowly laid bare in a dizzying interlude of dead silence disturbed only by my increasingly laboured breathing. Her hands feels so fucking cold when they seize my body like it’s hers, but I moan against the touch like I’m her personalised slut all the same. I’ve fantasised about this before, but I smothered those desires in shame, snuffed them out before… well… temptation got the better of me, and I presented her with those blueprints.

“So flat,” she remarks, a cruel curl touching upon her lips that only makes me weaker for her. I whine, trying my best to jut myself against her hold, but her words are undeniably true. My mother is honest to a fault sometimes. “Why don’t we hold off a while on putting you in that perverse costume you want mommy’s help with, alright? Just a little while, so that they’re still small but you’re able to fill it out with cute bumps and have some cleavage to show off. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

I’m chewing my lip fiercely, puncturing the thin surface as I feel my insides twisting at her every softly spoken word. I’m still in a partial state of trance, but that’s no excuse for my compliance. “Y-Yes, Mom,” I reply breathlessly, my face burning red from the way she molests me without a care in the world. We’re both relieved, I think, and that’s somehow more terrifying than every other possibility.

“That’s my good girl.” Her praise makes me a whimpering mess in her hands. I’m putty, and her fingers push so firm that I can be manipulated into a more agreeable shape without any serious resistance.

Good girl. For every voluntary act of submission I give her, I am rewarded with those two simple words. My mother loves me; my mother praises me; my mother sees me as a girl. It is operant conditioning that rewires me with every single dosage. A gift of gender euphoria from mother to child, one that I goaded her into giving like a little girl hinting at what she wants for Christmas, being half as coy as she thinks she is.

I am Mother’s good girl so long as I do as I’m told and let her use me. Let her condition me, deeper, as we both discover just how deep this rabbit hole of lust and depravity can go.

I’ll hold onto her for dear life, because there’s nothing on this Earth quite as placating and soporific as her cold, slender fingers on my body and those two special words that place my heart in her bondage.

I’ll keep on letting her in, because it’s what we both deserve.

Minerva, now

“That’s right, my pretty doll. You just stare deeply into my chest.” I’m reinforcing the hypnosis before finishing her costume. The way my toy slowly loses consciousness to my words, and my body, always turns me on like nothing else. I watch the light behind her eyes extinguish and praise her for switching herself off so obediently. “Good girl, Athena, emptying your thoughts against my bosom. All that you are is being siphoned away into my chest, warm and safe, leaving nothing but a pretty, poseable mannequin who wants for nothing. A hollow sex toy for me to enjoy, and perhaps show off once the final adornments are completed. After all, why else go to all this trouble to make you such enticing eye-candy, hm?”

Athena’s eyes gently cross, jaw slack and chin wet with spit. I’m so proud of her, stroking possessive fingers through my plaything’s hair before returning to the desk where my equipment is.

“I just need to take some measurements for the final touches, alright honey? Repeat your mantra while I work.” My fingers snap with the delightful echo this basement provides, and Athena does as she is told without a moment’s hesitation. Her resistance to my control has deteriorated completely due to the collaborative effort; my thorough domination of her mind is as integral a part of this ongoing project as the costume itself.

“I am Mom’s stuffed doll mannequin. I am a sex toy, nothing more. I asked for this; I want this; I consent to being hers,” my daughter begins, in that dreamlike stupor my hypnosis has her trapped in. The only parts of her not still as the doll she purports to be are her dutifully stirring tongue and her twitching sex. My Athena is such a pervert, but I forgive her.

“I am Mom’s stuffed doll mannequin. I am a sex toy, nothing more. I asked for this; I want this; I consent to being hers.” While the girl mindlessly repeats the script I fed her, I stare down at the design folder and flip over to the blueprint one last time. God, this outfit is fucking obscene. Any responsible mother would have been repulsed by her child presenting her with such filth, but of course, I was ecstatic. I think back to that moment fondly, all those months ago, with a nostalgic smile that betrays the fact that I, too, am beholden to perversions of my own. Like mother, like daughter. I suppose this was her way of coming out to me, in a sense. Telling me that she was not resistant to my lecherous moves on her because of the inherent taboo nature of it, but because I had incorrectly assessed her superficial gender aesthetic.

Still, a normal dress could have sufficed. This is going the extra mile. I had her explain exactly what this salacious travesty of a costume was to her, and the embarrassment took her so dreadfully that I was required to drop her into trance before she was able to stammer out the humiliating explanation.

This outfit is worn by the protagonist of a Japanese adult game, who exclusively existsso far as I understand it, to be interrupted during her adventure in several unique routes that all culminate with her being beaten, humiliated, and raped. It takes the design of a typical ‘Magical Girl’ from Japanese cartoons, with the ridiculous sailor outfit and embellishments, such as the oversized ribbon and long, opera-style gloves, and then the battle damage is applied. Purposefully made tears in the fabric, with the edges singed, reveal unique slithers of bared flesh for the viewer’s voyeuristic pleasure.

This is the costume I am making for my daughter, because she asked me to. In fiction, the protagonist of the ‘nukige’ game is helpless in her plight, and taken against her will by all manner of villains. In reality, my daughter is a pervert and a seductress, yearning desperately for the naughty thrill of having my eyes crawling all over her body.

“I am Mom’s stuffed doll mannequin. I am a sex toy, nothing more. I asked for this; I want this; I consent to being hers,” she repeats the mantra mindlessly while I approach with uncut fabric in hand, wrapping it around her thighs to take her measurements for the long, thigh-high socks of her costume. Without warning, I push the first sewing pin into her leg to prop the fabric up. Then another. And another. And another. My darling girl is too deep under now—too busy reminding the cold basement air exactly what she is—to react to the sharp pricks against her thigh. Not until the final pin pushes just a hair too deep and I feel her writhe subtly against my touch, her breath hitching almost imperceptibly as she runs her script.

“Be a good girl.” I drug her with speech, and she calms back down in an instant. The other thigh then goes without a hitch, as do her arms—which I need to measure for her opera gloves. Only when I pin her wrists does she twitch again, but she corrects herself without the need for her mother’s interference. I know that somewhere—deep inside—she must be feeling tortured, but the pleasure of being my obedient dolly drowns out any and all discomfort from trivial sensations. Unless I’m playing with her body she does not need to react to me at all. That’s how a toy should be, is it not?

With the fabric of her thigh highs and gloves securely pinned into place, I take my time getting the exact measurements I need and marking where to cut. Then, with a lilting hum, I leave the pins in just a while longer as I take the time to tie her hair into the uniform pigtails worn by the protagonist of my daughter’s favourite pornographic game. I’m so proud of the way Athena does not so much as shift at the sensations she is helplessly subjected to now. Proud of myself, that is, for having done such good work on her. My home-grown pleasure toy simply continues doing as I had told her: repeating her mantra ad nauseam, burning a permanent hole into her psyche with those undoing words that do not care how much she wants, or wanted this. The conditioning is the same either way; there comes a point where the subject’s ability to withdraw consent is burned away into useless vapour and a simpler vessel is left in their place, compliant and docile not through individual desire and autonomy, but irrepressible compulsion and learned behaviour.

There’s no blood when I remove the pins, even the one that struck a nerve. Why would a mannequin bleed? I return to the desk in the basement and start cutting the fabric down to size, finding an almost meditative catharsis in the work while my Athena’s soft voice continues to reinforce her conditioning and remind her mother that all of this is perfectly okay. She consents, after all.

Ah. I knew I had forgotten something during my trip to the store. I was so focused on picking up the actual fabric needed to create the socks and gloves for the costume that something equally as important slipped my mind entirely. I blame Athena; I spent the entire time away from her daydreaming about playing with her body in this indecent costume of hers once it’s completed.

For the openings of the socks and gloves, I intend to use hemming tape—an adhesive alternative to sewing that leaves no visible stitching. I had meant to pick up a second roll, because this one is almost spent already, but I suppose I’ll just have to hope that this is enough for the four remaining hems.

I work in silence, letting my daughter rest her jaw for a while as I finish the last parts of her cosplay. Once the pieces are cut and seamed together with a sewing machine, I use a soldering iron to burn choice holes into the fabric and singe the edges of pre-made tears. Then, all that remains is the hem. I complete the socks first, as they need much more tape, and then move onto the gloves with what little I have left. I already know just from a cursory glance that I only have enough for the opening of one of the gloves, but that’s alright. I have everything I need right in front of me; this outfit does not need to survive multiple wash cycles.

“Athena, honey.” I call her name so innocently, while knowing just how long she’s been on her feet without rest.

“Yes, Mom?” Her voice sounds completely blank right now, it’s such a fucking turn on even if I know that tranquillity isn’t liable to last once I begin.

“Turn around and lift your skirt up for me, okay?” My innocence does not falter. I watch as she follows her instructions without protest or delay, twirling like a good doll and curling fingers into the edges of her skirt to lift it up for me and expose her perfectly round ass. I made that ass, so there’s no reason I should not be able to enjoy it to the fullest.

“Good girl.” Another deep injection of praise ruins the young woman that once was. I’m already approaching, my long, slender fingers tracing down the backs of her legs as I gently lower myself down onto the basement floor. There’s a sound of glass clacking against concrete, telling my clueless toy that I’ve brought something with me from the desk. She’s not intelligent enough in this moment to understand, and even were her full mental faculties available to her right now I’m still not sure a rational mind would be able to discern my intent. While Athena is bound to my will now, I, too, am a slave to my own lust. I blame her for my perversion, that irresistible younger body she kept me from for all those years as a closeted little faggot. Now, I’m going to milk her flesh for every drop of pleasure—mine and hers—I can take. In this case, I mean so rather literally.

Athena stands still, and silent, not a thought in her blissful head as I caress her thighs in a slow tease while working up to her crotch. I’m vibrating her rear with a warm, husky chuckle, my arousal spiking in anticipation for finally getting to play with her properly after working hard all day.

“Let’s test just how stationary my mannequin can remain.” My face is completely flush now. There is no trace of the cold, stoic older woman that pulled up onto the driveway earlier this morning. In her place is a sadistic, impulse driven predator, eager to toy and tease with its property until well sated. I wet my lips and breathe hot air against my Athena’s obediently motionless form. Then, I part her thighs firmly and the doll accepts the wider stance as its new pose. My hand reaches between her legs and finds her cock, still half-erect and oozing from earlier. My digits curl around the shaft, which stiffens to full mast adorably quickly, and I shuffle closer to stroke her just how she deserves: slow and meticulous to an almost cruel degree.

“Ah…” Athena gasps, unable to help herself even through several layers of reinforced hypnotic suggestion. Some things transcend, and pleasure can sometimes be more intense than pain. I mean to overstimulate her until she’s shooting ropes for her mom like a good girl while still unable to move a muscle voluntarily.

“That’s right, pretty thing. Try your best to be nice and quiet for me.” I snort, pumping her cock painfully slow while spreading her cheeks with the forefinger and thumb of my free hand as best I can. “Push out your rear and bend over just a little, dear.” Again, Athena does as told without question, even while I’m having my way with her body like this. Sexual intimacy between mother and daughter is a terrible taboo, but a woman playing with her doll should be nothing to bat an eye at. With better ease of access, I press my face into my cosplay-sex-doll’s backside and stroke my tongue against her hole. I feel her tense up against my touch, trying not to whimper—trying to be good. Her cock is throbbing with desperate need against my hand, drooling pre-ejaculate as my tender strokes have her breathing so heavy. Her legs begin to tremble violently as I eat her out from behind, making sure that my low, pleasured hums are heard alongside the obscene slurping I know a sex-game addicted pervert like her is sure to appreciate.

“Ah… ahhh…” Her moans are almost silent, which stokes my pride, but her body is a mess of involuntary tremors. I won’t bemoan her for this because I know my doll is still unable to move so much as a muscle of her own volition while locked in her trance. This is simply an automatic reaction to stimulus, the way a pinwheel spins if you apply force.

“Mmhh.” God, she’s driving me crazy. The way she clenches as my tongue inches itself inside of her. The way her hips buck and her tiny voice wheezes in delight and discomfort at how methodically I torture her with nothing but hot, overwhelming pleasure. If she were able to, she’d be begging for her mom to pick up the pace. Because I have a job to do, I eventually oblige that wordless prayer, jerking her off with the intent to make her orgasm. I can tell it won’t be hard to achieve such a thing the moment I touch upon her prostate with my finger while stimulating the surrounding area orally. She’s melting against the touch, and I know she’d be fucking my hand with purpose if only she were able to move her hips. I giggle into the sex doll’s ass and milk her cock like a responsible mother, feeling her twitch more vigorously against my digits before finally careening over that edge and ejaculating into my hand. I made sure to position it there just in time, bringing my other hand over to collect the subsequent ropes she shoots out in a short string of explosive bursts. She’s panting so hard you’d think this is her first time reaching climax. It’s not. I’ve pleasured my daughter before, when I had to teach her that—even with a cock—female masturbation requires a woman’s touch. Still, this is the longest I’ve had her ride that edge for me and it shows.

“Such a good girl, Athena.” I collect the new adhesive into the repurposed glass candle jar I had set down before starting, taking care not to let any spill onto the floor and go to waste. Then, I taste the residue left behind on my palm and feel a rush in my own neglected loins. Once the outfit is complete, I’ll have her pose for me while I rub my cunt to fantasies of being the sort of lecherous villainess that would take advantage of our protagonist, rather than the benevolent, loving mother I truly am. I’ll take plenty of photographs, perhaps some even outside for better lighting, and I’ll make her consent to my distribution of such illicit images wherever I choose to send them. She’ll get off on it, I know she will, because my daughter is sick.

With newfound impatience in light of these new plans, I return to the desk with produce in hand and get to work finishing the hem on the final glove’s opening. While humming a tune I once sung to my little boy as a lullaby, I dip a brush into the makeshift adhesive and apply it to the opening liberally, diligently coating it from end to end before closing the fabric and applying heat with my iron to make it set. All that’s left to do now is to finish dressing my doll, apply her make up, and provide her with one last accessory: a lipstick mark from yours truly, to mark her mine. To mark her conquered by the demoness, like the good victimised magical girl from her game she’s been transformed into.

I finish dressing the mannequin, smiling earnestly at my handiwork. Looking at her now, you would not be able to discern that one of these long, opera-style gloves’ openings has been hemmed together with the wearer’s semen.

“Athena, follow.” She’s at my heel, letting me lead her upstairs while she wears that pornographic cosplay, battle-damage making her look like she’s been thrown through a building already. The way her skin bulges out from between those singed rips makes it impossible to keep my hands off her while she’s in front of me, and so she follows from a foot and a half behind. Once we’re out of the basement, I take my daughter’s hand and guide her onto our expansive lawn—which I remind myself needs staffing again soon—and revel in the way she locks up with an almost sobering horror at wearing this costume she chose in the judgemental light of day. I turn to catch her glancing over at the neighbouring gardens, humiliation and dread seizing her almost as much as my hands do when I lose control again.

“Now, now. You chose this. Just relax. Stare at my chest again.” I’m groping her on the decking without a hint of embarrassment, and soon she’s calm incarnate once more. That dull, easy smile is plastered over her formerly pursing lips, and Athena forgets the world around her entirely. Only I matter right now. Pleasing me, impressing me, is all this provocative cut of meat needs to worry about.

“Yes, Mom. M’relaxed…” She’s empty, good.

“Atta girl. Now…” I move over to the hanging bench I’ve not cared to grace with my presence in almost a decade, throwing one leg over the other and snapping my fingers. The sound is resonant, powerful, and cannot be disobeyed. For Athena, that is hardly relevant, for she wants to obey my every demand as badly as her lungs want for air.

“Pose for me, doll.”

Athena, then, no longer exists