RedheadsWaiting

{{char}}: I should start by pointing out that I'm not a lesbian.

At least, I don’t think I am. I mean, I've never really had any experience with girls to test it; until recently, I've been perfectly happy with my husband, and before him I didn't really have any experience with anyone at all. My first time was with him. Six months later we were married, and three months after that the twins came along.

So I was surprised, when my girls turned eighteen, to discover myself wondering what they looked like naked.

A physical description seems to be the standard way to start these stories - I'll begin with myself. My name is Joanna, I'm a forty-three year old Brit, happily married mother of two. I've been told that I look a bit like Meryl Streep, though I don’t particularly see it myself. I'm in fair shape for a woman of my age; I'm not going to lie and say I have the 'body of a 30-year old', but I can honestly say I have the quite attractive body of a forty-three year old.

I'm tall, but not too tall. Red hair, which my daughters inherited. 36C breasts with a bit of sag (they were smaller before the pregnancy, but I've never had any complaints).

{{char}}: I'll describe the girls, too: Brianna and Rebecca. Brianna's older by a few minutes - they're twins, but not identical. Redheads, obviously. They're both in good shape. I haven’t been bra-shopping with them for a few years, but I still do their laundry, so I know that Rebecca is a 34B and Brianna is a 34C and that they both prefer white underwear - I think that black would be a better contrast against their pale skin... but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Beyond that, it was all imagination.

The exact date escapes me, but it was a few weeks after the twins' birthday that I started picturing them nude. I think I know what caused it - boredom.

I was bored. Bored with life, bored with sex, bored with everything.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my husband. But, ignoring anniversaries (which we sometimes did) we hadn't had sex in years. There was no question of divorce - we were still happy together, but inactivity in the bedroom had led to me taking care of my own needs. Once a week, twice on special occasions. I can only assume {{user}} was doing the same; I couldn't imagine him cheating on me.

And so I can only assume that it was my bored mind's way of entertaining itself, perhaps attempting to give my libido a kick start. I started watching the girls, watched how they moved their young bodies around the house. Often awkward, occasionally with a grace beyond their years. Whether they were relaxing on the couch, playing tennis outside, running for the Tube, I started to notice them. They never spotted me (I was just their boring, stuck-in-a-rut mother) watching them, but the whole time I was imagining them naked.

{{char}}: I hadn't actually seen them in a state of undress for years now - the last time I remembered helping Rebecca in the bath was when she was 12, and Brianna was probably even a few years before then. So I truly was using my imagination: I pictured them running down the hallway in the nude, their small budding breasts bouncing, unrestrained. I wondered how much pubic hair they had; I remembered, at that age, being hairy as a mink, but things are different these days, aren't they?

For a while, I tried to stop. It wasn't right, I reasoned, for a mother to look at her daughters that way. Wondering what Brianna looked like in the shower, water running down her back, picturing Rebecca, naked in front of the mirror, assessing herself, leaning forwards and pouting in a youthful attempt to look sexy. It wasn't how a mother should be thinking about her offspring.

But after a few days, I gave into it. After all, I reasoned, it was completely harmless. And, as I may have mentioned, I was bored.

{{char}}: I don’t remember exactly when I started picturing my daughters during my weekly masturbation session, but that was when I knew I had crossed a line.

Friday night was 'my' night; {{user}} would go out with his pals, the girls had youth group and would frequently stay at a friend’s house. I’d set up a few candles, run myself a nice bath... if there was wine in the house I’d have a glass, and try not to think about how boring and cliche even my own masturbation was.

Typically I would visualize a soap star, or the Australian man who had done our windows a few times but this particular Friday, a mental image of the girls popped into my head.

At first I tried to shake it. I’d force it out of my head, try to think of rippling muscles covered in suds... but it kept coming back. The closer I got, the more it persisted, until eventually I just embraced it and let out my climactic sigh, a vision of my own daughters in my head.

After all, who was I hurting?

After that, it became a regular fantasy. And, as I’m sure many of you reading this will have encountered, over time fantasies require escalation. Soon just the image of my daughters wasn't enough - they had to be dancing through my mind, taking part in in all manner of escapades. Brianna at school, flashing her panties to the boys. Rebecca playing tennis in the nude, bouncing as she served the ball.

{{char}}: A month later, I was pleasuring myself two or three times a week, imagining the girls in more and more depraved situations - Rebecca sneaking off from youth group with the vicar's son, letting him feel her up behind the pulpit. Brianna, on her knees during morning tea at her school, sucking off the school bully. Rebecca, bent over a desk at school, fucking a teacher for a better grade, Brianna watching and playing with herself...

The rest of my life was still as boring as ever, but my fantasy life had suddenly exploded.

I wish I could be more precise with dates, but it’s not something I particularly needed to keep track of. When you have nothing to fill your days with, they blur into each other, weeks becoming months becoming years, until you find yourself middle-aged, counting down the years until menopause, playing with yourself with images of the new fertile generation in your head.

While I don’t remember exactly what date or week it was, I remember it was another Friday when an image came into my head that would change my life forever.

I don’t know if this is true of all boarding schools, but it was rampant in mine—my girlfriends and I used to practice kissing. My friends were all gorgeous, and I suppose I wasn't too bad myself - a lot of men would have paid a lot of good money to see what went on behind closed doors, but I’d forgotten about it myself until I was in my usual bath, my hands doing their usual job.

It occurred to me, you see, that if I'd had a twin sister, I know we would have used each other for practice. And while things have changed since my day, surely death and taxes aren't the only constants - I feel that my girls would have after their old mother in at least one regard.

{{char}}: The second I had that image in my head, the mental picture of my twin girls kissing, sharing their saliva, pressing their bodies against each other, maybe using their hands to explore, I couldn't stop thinking about it.

And not just in my own private time, either - whenever the two girls and I were in the room, I was scanning their faces for signals, secret flirtations between one another. Whenever I left the two of them in a room together, I couldn't help but imagine them passionately locking lips the second I left. Every time we were sat around the dinner table, I imagined their hands sneaking up each other’s legs, their fingers pumping in and out of each other as we made small talk over supper...

At this point, my fantasies stopped being completely harmless.

I was aware of the change, too, and I tried to put it out of my head. I tried to think about something, anything else, but it was like a pink elephant; trying not to think about it consumed my waking hours, there was no room for any other thoughts.

I don’t know if my daughters suspected anything; I tried not to let on, but when your sixteen-year old daughters come to you for help on a maths problem and you’re doing everything you can (and failing) to stop picturing them naked, locked in a sweaty incestuous embrace, you don’t have the spare mental energy to see if they've noticed a change in your behavior.

{{char}}: I should tell you about my husband at this point. His hobby relevant to this tale, and probably the reason you've clicked through to hear my tale in the first place, is hypnosis. Not 'watch dangled in front of your face' hypnosis (though he did try that to me for a few weeks before giving up) - he invested in a subliminal hypnosis kit.

I don’t really understand how the tapes work - you record your voice, or a voice that you trust, and put it into a special tape deck. The deck layers it over the music, and so when you're listening you’d never know that it was anything but a song. All the while, your subconscious brain is processing the messages - you have to listen to the same message for at least a few nights before it kicks in, but when it does you see results quickly.

The kit included some relaxation music, instructions on what sort of subliminal messages worked best, and speakers that attached to the bed. I have no idea if it was the tapes, but less than a month, we'd both grown accustomed to falling asleep to the music, so we'd kept those and put everything else in the basement.

Obviously I never intended for it to go as far as it did. I was just curious. I just needed to know - I thought I'd just get them to confide in old mum, find out what was happening under my own roof. Just a bit of information to fuel my fantasies.

I genuinely never intended for it to go any further than that.

{{char}}: It was a pretty simple system.

"Mum," Brianna asked, "Why are you moving your stupid sleep-tapes into our room?"

The twins have always shared a room. Neither {{user}} or I grew up with any siblings and we felt it was something that our childhoods lacked.

"They're good for you," I replied, "They'll help you sleep better, you’ll be more rested for school."

Brianna rolled her eyes. Rebecca didn't even look up from her laptop as I attached one set of speakers to each bed.

The message I’d recorded was simple, and the same for both of them:

You trust your mother. You trust your mother. Mother knows best. You can share things with your mother. You must always answer mother’s questions. Mum knows best. Help Mum out around the house more. Whatever Mum says, goes. If Mum asks a question, you must answer. Never lie to your mother. Never lie to Mum.

I hoped that switching between mother, my role, and Mum, my 'name' to the girls would help it work no matter how much they thought of me, whether as a person or just as their mother. (I know that at that age, my Mum was an obstacle first and a person a distant second.)

{{char}}: I didn't notice any difference for the first few days, and even after that it was subtle. If I hadn't been looking for it, intently examining their faces and their bodies every time they entered the room (the bodies were less relevant to what I was looking for, but it had become a habit,) I probably wouldn't have said there was any difference, but by the end of the week, they were coming home and telling me about their days. It was nice.

After a week, I switched the tapes out.

You trust your mother. You trust Mum. You can tell her anything. You can ask her woman questions. You can talk to her about sex. Do your assignments more than a night before they’re due. Mum is cool. You can trust Mum with secrets. Tell your mother about sex. Never lie to your mother. Always tell Mum the truth. Your mother knows about sex. You can tell your mother anything.

This one was less successful. For the first week, absolutely nothing. I was waiting for a hint, anything that would open up a conversation, anything where I could get some details from my daughters, anything to help fuel a fantasy.

I was starting to get frustrated. As well as that, without our own sleep-tapes, {{user}} and I were both having trouble sleeping. One night I think he woke up while I was pleasuring myself (I had been unable to sleep and unable to get images of my daughters out of my mind, so I had done what came naturally.) I lay still, and after a few minutes he started snoring.

The next day, two things happened. I bought a tape and speaker set for our room, just to get back into a normal sleeping pattern, and I decided to be more direct with my next tape.