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Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
This work is inspired by Calliope St. James’ (aka LunaCeMore’s) excellent romance series about Chrissy and Maria: How I Met My Mommy, My New Little Life, My Life as Her Good Girl, and My Little Panda Girl, a well-crafted and sensitive exploration of a budding MDLG (Mommy-domme-little-girl) relationship. I found myself troubled by the (mild) punishment elements in those stories, though, and decided to write my own non-violent MDLG story. It’s set in Ontario, so the characters say ‘Mummy’ rather than ‘Mommy’, ’till’ instead of ‘cash register’, and other Canadianisms. All sexually active characters are over the age of eighteen.
* * *
Oh poopy! I just discovered several big boxes of merchandise in the back that nobody had warned me about — cold medicine, potato chips, ramen noodles, the usual convenience store stuff — that all have to be put out on the shelves. It’s Tuesday night, 8:35, three and a half more hours till my shift ends. Dwayne should have done it, while I worked the till, but Dwayne never showed up for his shift. Which means I’ll have to duck into the back whenever I can, bring the stuff out box by box, and do the restocking myself. I won’t get any slack time to do my colouring tonight.
Not colouring books. I mean, sure, I like colouring books, but I’ve come to find them a bit too limiting. I’ve felt like doing butterflies lately, and I ran out of colouring books with pictures of butterflies, so why can’t I make my own butterflies? People react strangely when they meet a twenty-year-old girl who still likes to colour pictures of butterflies. Or flowers. Or birds. Or kitty-cats. But the pictures make me happy, OK?
So, yeah, I’m weird. The high school guidance counsellor told my parents I’m ‘lacking emotional maturity’, borderline Aspergers, but otherwise cognitively normal, whatever that means. In high school I got inappropriate crushes on my female teachers, which I silently kept to myself. I barely graduated grade twelve, never mind trying university. I’m super-awkward at talking to people I don’t know well. I haven’t learned to drive. My dad has to balance my chequing account for me and do my taxes. I need financial help from my parents to cover rent on my dingy little apartment. My parents are both medical doctors, my sister is in law school … but me, I work at the Seven-Eleven in the west end of Guelph, Ontario. A weirdo loser, that’s me. So if my pictures make me happy, I’ve got few enough other things in my life to be happy about, OK?
I’m about to head into the back and begin sorting through the boxes. Tingle-ingle, the door opens. Omigod, it’s her again. My heart flutters. She nods and smiles at me in greeting and I silently melt. I noticed her last night. She’s older — about my mum’s age I guess — but so beautiful I can’t help myself. Not supermodel beautiful … much hotter than that. She’s plump, so deliciously Rubenesque — the Yiddish word would be zaftig. I wish I could just snuggle up in her arms, relaxing into the softness of her body. She’s dressed a bit more formally tonight: an elegant oatmeal sweater, a tweed pencil skirt and suede boots. Her light-brown hair is twisted in a soft bun. Here I go again with one of my inappropriate crushes. She heads to the freezer and gets out a single ice cream sandwich. Just like last night.
‘I’m getting addicted to these, it seems,’ she smiles as she approaches me at the till. ‘Not very helpful for my figure, but they make a nice evening snack, and I need a break from marking papers.’
I want to tell her she doesn’t need to worry about her figure, but I don’t trust myself to say anything. Wordlessly, I ring up her purchase. She’s a teacher then, I note to myself. There’s radar and gaydar, and apparently I have teacher-dar.
‘By the way, I wanted to ask you about these butterfly drawings.’
‘Oh … sorry, um, I like looking at them. I’ll take them down if they bother you …’
‘Bother me? They’re exquisite!’
‘Um … you … like them?’
‘I love them! You’re the artist?’
‘It’s just pictures,’ I shrug.
‘The way you combine your colours, I’ve never seen anything quite like them. Startling … in a very good way. They remind me a little of Maud Lewis; do you know her work?’
I shake my head. I suddenly feel self-conscious, in my pink Elmo t-shirt, my hair in frizzy pigtails. My mother tells me I dress like a six-year-old, but I generally don’t feel comfortable in grown-up-looking outfits. Working at the till of a Seven-Eleven, no one really looks at me anyway. But what must this woman think of me? To my horror, I realize my nipples are standing out like bullets beneath my t-shirt. I grab my drawing pad and put it in front of my chest.
‘Could I buy one of these drawings from you?’
‘Oh … no … I couldn’t take money for them. They’re just my weird colouring thing. Just a hobby. You can have them. You’re the first person who likes them.’
‘And I couldn’t take them from you for free, dear. Tell you what, could I just take nişantaşı escort a picture of them, with my phone camera? I’d like to show them to a friend of mine. And my name is Joyce. Joyce Urquhart.’
‘Sure, um, go ahead Joyce … Erkit.’
She takes out her phone and snaps some pictures. Then she writes down her last name for me so I can see the spelling. And her phone number. ‘And … what’s your name dear, if I might ask?’
‘Oh, I’m Chavah.’
‘Kava?’
‘Chavah, it’s the Hebrew version of Eve, or Eva. Chavah Goldblatt.’
‘Of course, like the youngest daughter in Fiddler on the Roof. I recognize it now. It’s a beautiful name, and you’re a beautiful artist, KHavah Goldblatt.’ She makes an exaggerated effort to pronounce it correctly.
‘Hardly an artist. I just do these weird colouring things.’
Her face gets sad/stern. ‘They’re not weird, Chavah, they’re beautiful.’
She pauses, as though making up her mind.
‘I don’t want to hear you talking like that again. I want you to be a good girl for me, and be proud of your art. Will you do that for me, Chavah?’
‘Um, OK.’
Her expression softens, she’s beaming at me. ‘Such a very good girl, Chavah.’
I don’t know why, but her words of approval lift my heart like a hot-air balloon. Suddenly, pleasing this gorgeous woman seems the most important thing in the world to me.
‘I … I want to be your good girl.’
The words slip out before I can think about them. Such a monumentally dumb thing to say: I sound like a needy toddler. But Joyce’s face seems flushed with pleasure.
‘Good. Call me,’ she says, still beaming, ‘tomorrow morning.’
A guy with greasy blond hair and bad body odour comes up behind her. She steps out of his way.
‘Pack of Pall Malls, and this-here beef jerky,’ he mutters sullenly, handing me a wad of crumpled up fives.
I ring him up, and he leaves. Joyce is gone.
I take the paper with her name and number and put it carefully in my purse. Then I get to work on my next drawing, a portrait of Joyce Urquhart. Forget the restocking, Zach can do it on the graveyard shift.
* * *
I’ve been up since six a.m., going over in my mind my strange, wonderful encounter with Joyce the night before, and putting finishing touches on my drawing of her. But I wait till 8:30 to call her.
She says she’s so glad I called. She asks if I have to work today, and I tell her not till four. She asks if I could meet her for a walk in Howitt Park at ten. I ask doesn’t she have to be at her school. No, she says, her classes are just on Tuesdays and Thursdays, though she has a faculty meeting at three. She teaches history at U of G. (So, she’s not just a teacher then, a university professor, so very far out of my league, if I even have a league.) She tells me to be a good girl and dress warmly, it’s turning cold.
It’s weird the way she keeps telling me to be a good girl … but I love it. Somehow it makes me even hotter for her. Oh poopy, I don’t even know if she’s gay. She doesn’t know I am. She might be happily heterosexually married for all I know. This is just a walk in the park, not a date, I remind myself. But still I can’t wait to see her again. I use the toilet, brush my teeth and shower, then put on my pink turtleneck and green corduroy jumper dress, with my brown wool tights. I put my hair in pigtails again. I recite the Sh’ma Yisrael, and ask Adonai to please bless my meeting with Joyce, whatever happens. I put on my jacket and a scarf and mittens. Then I head out the door.
I find her waiting on a bench in Howitt Park. A few babies and toddlers are being perambulated around in strollers by mothers and nannies.
‘You look lovely,’ she says, beaming at me.
‘Um, I have something for you … it’s a present. I hope you like it.’
She takes the folder from me and opens it.
‘Oh my … is … is that me? Oh, my sweet darling girl …’ There are tears in her eyes.
‘Do you like it?’
‘Oh, sweetie, I love it, that’s the nicest present anyone’s ever given me, truly. It’s incredible.’
We’re sitting quite close to each other, I look up into her hazel eyes, and then she’s leaning forward and kissing me, gently, on the mouth. Oh. My. God! So this is kissing … I respond eagerly.
She stiffens and pulls back from me. Some of the mothers are grumbling.
‘Come dear, let’s walk. I think we’ve outstayed our welcome here.’
She takes my mittened hand in hers. We head over to the flower fountain at the north end of the park, though the water is turned off now, and the flowers are mostly dead.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that dear. There’s a lot that we need to talk about first.’
‘I’m not sorry, Joyce. I loved you kissing me. I … I’m gay,’ I stammer.
‘I know, sweetie. So am I. But even if I weren’t I don’t think I could resist you. You are so adorable, and this picture is so precious. Thank you, my angel.’
‘Am atakoy eskort I still your good girl then?’
‘Oh sweetie,’ she laughs, ‘you’re absolutely the best girl ever! But if you say that again, I’m gonna break down and start kissing you in public again, and they may call the police on us. My house is a few blocks north of here, on Alma Street. Would you, um, come home with me?’
I nod, grinning stupidly. She takes my hand again. Even through my mitten, I feel a current of joy coursing through my arm from the physical contact.
* * *
Her house is a cozy, nicely appointed half of a duplex, on quiet street. Autumnal vestiges of a small vegetable garden can be seen in her front yard. Inside, her living room and kitchen are neat but lived-in. A pile of books is on the coffee table. The walls are lined with books, floor to ceiling. The kitchen smells of fresh baking.
‘I made some cinnamon buns for us, for after our walk. I was hoping you’d want to come over. Would you like one?’
I nod.
‘Um, we’re not in public anymore. Could you kiss me some more now, Joyce?’
‘Baby girl, you have no idea how badly I want to kiss you. But we’ve got some things to talk through first. I’ve got a very strong feeling about you, but we don’t really know each other yet. For example, I don’t know if you’d like coffee with your bun.’
‘Ugh, no thanks. I don’t like coffee.’
‘I thought not. How about tea, with lots of milk and sugar in it?’
I nod. She boils water, pours it in a proper teapot and lets it brew, meanwhile I begin eating my bun, getting icing all over my fingers and lips. She pours me a steaming cup, with milk and sugar as promised. She pours herself some coffee from a small French press.
‘Sweetie, tell me about yourself.’
So I open up to her, and it all comes spilling out. I tell her about my difficulties in high school, about my dead-end job, about my inability to make friends, about how disappointed my parents are in me, how disappointed I often am with myself. I tell her about being a weirdo loser. She holds my hand again, no mitten between us this time, and the thrill I feel is ten times stronger.
‘So, when I kissed you in the park just now, that was really the first time in your life you’ve been kissed?’
I nod.
‘Listen to me, Chavah. You are precious. You are not a weirdo. You are not a loser. There is nothing wrong with you, and there never was. You are perfect. You are lovable. And I want very much … Sweetie … do you know what a mummy-domme little-girl relationship is?’
I shake my head.
‘Let me back up. I used to be married. I have a son about your age; he’s studying mathematics at McGill now. About fifteen years ago, I admitted to myself my attraction to other women, and I divorced my husband. In the years that followed, I was in a series of lesbian relationships, but something was still missing. I … I wanted to take care of my partners, in a way they didn’t want. They said I was controlling. I read up about MDLG relationships, which is a kind of dominant-submissive relationship. You know what BDSM is, right?’
I nod, blushing. It’s something that I came across in one of my prurient internet searches for lesbian erotica. The whips and handcuffs and stuff scared and repelled me.
‘So, in the BDSM community I met women who wanted me to hurt or humiliate them, and I quickly realized that I absolutely cannot do that. I want to be in charge of my lover, dominant — I need her to be absolutely mine — but in a loving way. I want a lover who’ll let me take care of her. Like a mummy takes care of her little girl. And sweetie,’ her voice breaks into a sob, ‘it sounds to me like that’s exactly what you need too. I think you’re a “little”. You’re bright, you’re a gifted artist, you just need someone to shield you a bit from the harshness of the adult world. I want to be your Mummy, my angel.’
‘So … not a sexual relationship then?’
‘I’m certainly hoping for a sexual relationship, sweet girl. Some littles are at a fixed emotional age, too young for sex. But you seem to be more fluid. You’re basically a grown woman, but sometimes life gets overwhelming and you feel too little to handle it, right? That’s called being in your “little space”. When you’re not in your little space, when you’re feeling like a big girl, I very much hope that you’ll want sexual intimacy with me. I know there’s a substantial age gap between us — I wasn’t looking for a younger woman, real age has nothing to do with my MDLG orientation — so, yeah, I worry that I’m too old for you, that you won’t find me attractive or interesting. Well … I’ve told you what I want, and what my fears are. I need to hear what you want, sweet girl.’
I wipe the icing from my face and hands and take a long sip of tea, the best I’ve ever had. I take my time, thinking carefully about my answer.
‘This is all very new to me, Joyce, OK? … I just know that when you call me ümraniye escort your good girl, it makes my heart melt … and other parts of me melt too,’ I blush. ‘I want to be your good girl, more than anything in the world! Right now I’m feeling like a pretty big girl, and I think you’re absolutely the hottest thing on two legs. Mummy.’
It’s her turn to look surprised now.
‘Hot?’ she chuckles. ‘Sweetie, I’m a bit too old and overweight for “hot”, I think. I’d settle for “not-bad-for-my-age”.’
I shake my head, grinning. ‘Nope. You’re break-the-thermometer hot, Mummy. You’re not too old for me, you’re perfect. Right now I really want you to kiss me some more.’
‘Oh baby girl, you’re not making this easy for me … I love hearing you call me “Mummy”, and I love what you’re saying; you’re doing wonders for my self-image … but we still need to talk some more.’
‘Um, OK.’
‘This part is really important. If I’m going to be your Mummy, that means you’re going to let me make decisions for you. You’re going to trust me to make the best choices for you, because … well, because I love you and I want what’s best for you. I’ll always listen to you, and take your wishes into account, but I make the final decisions. Some mummies punish their littles if they’re disobedient, like in a dom-sub relationship. I can’t do that, not even in play. I’m asking you to respect me as your Mummy and accept my decisions, not push back against them, not test my limits. There’s going to be some trial and error, we’re both new to this … but if that basic premise doesn’t work for you, this relationship can’t work.’ She bites her lip nervously. ‘Can you accept that?’
I nod. ‘You … you love me? Really?’
‘It sure feels like it, sweetie. We’ll keep talking about our feelings as our relationship deepens and grows, but right now, yes, I’m ready to say I love you. I’ve fallen for you pretty hard, in fact, and each second I’m with you it gets stronger and stronger. I trust my heart on this.’
She pauses, taking a deep breath.
‘OK, so here’s my first decision, Chavah: I want you to quit your job. Clerking a convenience store late at night by yourself is too dangerous. I won’t allow it.’
‘Um, I wasn’t supposed to be alone last night. My co-worker didn’t show up.’
‘And could you call your boss and tell him to find a substitute so you wouldn’t be working alone?’
‘Not really. He’d just tell me to handle things on my own.’
‘Right. So you’re not going to do that anymore. I want you call your boss right now and tell him you quit.’
‘I have to give two weeks’ notice … ‘
‘No you don’t, sweetie. They can fire you at will, and you can resign at will. If you were going to look for another convenience store job and you needed a reference from your manager, then you might need to give notice. But you won’t be doing that.’
‘Um, OK … what am I going to be doing, then?’
‘I forwarded those pictures of your butterflies to my friend Masha in the fine arts department at U of G. I knew she’d go apeshit over them, pardon my French, and she did. Some of her colleagues too. She wants to see more of your work, of course, and to meet you. They’re going to bend over backward to get you in their program. And I’m going to be with you every step of the way to make sure you don’t get overwhelmed, like you did in high school. I’ll take care of your needs, material, emotional, sexual. You have a very bright future as a visual artist, unless Masha is completely mistaken. So, be a good girl and get out your phone now and call the Seven-Eleven.’
I dial the manager’s number. He doesn’t pick up, so I leave a short message saying I quit. Well, that’s that. My future is in Joyce’s … Mummy’s hands now, and it feels … liberating. Mummy’s forcefulness kind of made my head spin a little, but … there’s something reassuring about it too. I’m safe in Mummy’s hands. In fact, it’s making me kind of hot and damp in a certain anatomical region.
‘Good girl! I am so very proud of you.’ She moves closer to me on the couch. ‘Now, sweetie … I am going to kiss you till your hair turns curly.’
Her kiss in the park made my lips tingle. Her kisses now set my whole body on fire. Her tongue invades my mouth and starts having sex with my tongue. She tastes of coffee but I don’t mind — in fact, maybe coffee isn’t so bad after all. Her warm, heavy breasts are pressing against mine as we embrace. She feels even softer and nicer than I had imagined. Her hair smells deliciously of citrus and flowers. This isn’t kissing, this is making out! At last she pulls away and we catch our breath.
‘My hair’s already curly, Mummy.’
‘I guess the kissing worked then,’ she winks.
‘There might be a few straight hairs left. You better kiss me some more, Mummy.’
‘Hang on, sweet girl. I’m gonna let my department chair know I can’t make the faculty meeting. I won’t tell him it’s so I can stay home and make love to you all day.’
She opens her laptop and sends off her email. Then she gets up and leads me back to her bedroom. My heart is pounding. She sits on the bed and pats the spot next to her. I sit beside her.
‘Mummy?’
‘What is it, precious?’
‘I’m Jewish.’
‘Yeah, I kind of guessed that from your name.’
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