The Mother worried, as mothers do, about the single man who moved in next door.

It was a quiet neighborhood and the house had been available for rent for several weeks. The Mother didn't quite like the idea of an empty property next to hers. She sure didn't like the idea of a single man, not with her Daughter being thirteen.

A good looking thirteen year old too. Emerging breasts, well-shaped legs and that slightly sassy, flirty way girls had when they knew what they had.

The Mother had hoped for a nice family, maybe someone to play with her Daughter, someone around the same age. Get her to go out and do something healthy, swimming or cycling maybe. Not just sitting at home reading so much.

Yes, even that worried the woman.

The man who moved in looked smart, was polite and young. No more than 25, the Mother figured when she got talking to him, trying to check him out.

At least ten years younger than me, the Mother thought and blushed to herself. She stopped herself right there. I'm 37, she told herself and I'm not looking for a man.

This man was Canadian, from Vancouver, and they got talking about that. A good topic as Mother had been to Vancouver, before her daughter was born.

'Not my part of Vancouver,' the man said with a pleasant smile. 'Nothing tourist about where I lived.'

'Why are you here?' asked the woman.

'My wife's from New York,' he replied, and the Mother's heart just fell a tiny bit. When he said: 'Since the divorce came through I should say, my ex-wife,' the woman's heart lifted a little higher.

She chided herself over her feelings. She may have been on her own but had vowed she wouldn't look for romance. Leastways, not over the fence.

But the man was good looking. Smart and polite. She couldn't help her feelings, could she?

'What's he doing here?' asked the Daughter when she got home from school and the Mother told her about meeting the new neighbor.

'He's a Writer,' the Mother said.

'Cool. Another Stephen King.'

'Um, not quite,' said the girl's mom. 'He says he writes sort of quirky stuff.'

'Stephen King,' repeated the teenager.

'Um, he says he doesn't really like Stephen King's work. Says it's kinda a slog for him.'

'But you said quirky. So what's his work like?'

'He didn't tell me. You'll have to ask him yourself. Uh, he's coming over for dinner.' The Mother blushed a little. 'I invited him. Seemed the neighborly thing to do.'

'He's coming here?' A beat. 'With someone?'

'On his own. Just us three.' The Mother flushed a shade deeper.

The Daughter grinned at her Mother. 'You gonna wear that low cut dress?'

'No,' protested the woman. She had been thinking about the one with the slit in the side.

---

'So, what do you write?' The Daughter leaned forward at the dinner table, staring at the man. She caught her Mother's admonishing glare and sat back a little. 'You don't like Stephen King, right?'

'To answer your first question is difficult,' said the man. 'I don't think it falls into any obvious category. As for the second... Well, I'm not a big fan of King's work. He's a good writer. Won awards, praise. Rightly as he's one of the best in his field. I admire good writing, but I don't like his style at a personal level.'

'Why not? All my friends like his books. And movies.'

'Good for your friends,' smiled the man. 'But authors are pretty odd about what they read. I read for research, for style. Rarely for storylines.'

'I read a lot,' enthused the young teen. 'So who do you like? Just... um, Canadian writers?' She wasn't sure she knew any.

'Not at all. Among writers I admire are lots of Americans, but you may not have read them - though you should. William Faulkner, James Baldwin, Vladamir Nabokov. Plenty of them.'

'Nabokov?' The Mother stiffened a little. 'Isn't that about...' She hesitated, her Daughter listening.

'If you mean his most famous book, that's about love and the modern image of innocence,' said the Writer. 'She happens to be a young girl.'

'Who is?' demanded the girl.

'Lolita,' said the Writer. 'Young girl a man falls for. She's twelve. Lolita's also the name of the book.'

'Twelve? That's...' The Daughter might have been forgiven for a negative reaction, a standard "Yeuch" or wrinkle-nosed objection, but instead scratched for a word. 'That's, um, unusual.'

'That's very mature of you,' said the man.

'What is?' asked the teenager, pleased to be praised.

'You didn't dismiss it out of hand.' The man was aware the mother had got up to get the coffee, trying not to be obvious at the way the woman's slit in her skirt caught his attention when she moved. He was thinking it would be an interesting aspect of an older woman in his new story. He continued: 'So many people dismiss stories they don't understand. They don't read and then evaluate. They decide before they see anything. Book, play, movie, web site: it's always the same reaction of condemning before finding out.'

'Your writing,' said the Mother as she poured the coffee, anxious they shouldn't dwell too much on Lolita or what constituted maturity, especially between a man and her teenage child. 'Tell us what you write.'

'Words, sentences, paragraphs, chapters,' laughed the man pleasantly. Then he fell serious. 'I write about people having feelings, things they want to deal with. Things they don't expect to find.'

'You mean, serendipity?' asked the girl.

'Ah,' chuckled the man. 'The ability to make fortunate chance discoveries. In a way yes, I guess. But there's more to it.'

'Like?' The thirteen year old was still as curious as ever.

'Like adventure stories. But stories of discovering the inner part of you, what you are, what you really want.' The man looked at the Mother. 'Not holding back on the deepest feelings and then getting there.'

'Psychological mysteries,' said the woman, suddenly blushing at both his gaze and what she'd said.

The man smiled at her. 'You're aware of the genre, if I can call it that. So few writers go there.' He paused. 'Perhaps that's why it rarely makes the New York Times bestseller list.'

The conversation moved on, to reading teenage stuff, to school work and homework.

'You need to do yours, before bedtime young lady,' intoned the Mother to her child. She was aware the Writer had noticed the slit in her skirt, the way her tanned legs showed. She was pleased but worried he might think her cheap, that she was trying too hard.

But he was natural and relaxed about everything. Almost at home, really.

---

'I couldn't help thinking about what you'd said, what I said.' Mother hovered on the Writer's doorstep, her hair done up, makeup applied. 'About this psychological mystery.'

'Yeah,' said the Writer, politely avoiding looking at the obvious cleavage she showed with her half open blouse. 'The whydunit, I call it. Please, come in.'

The woman took her first step into the Writer's world, though she thought she was just stepping into the house next door. She realized that although she'd known the people who had this house before the man moved in, she'd never been inside. She'd stood on the porch but never been invited in before.

The house was lighter, more open, somehow more appealing than the woman had imagined. Perhaps, she later thought, it was because the people who'd lived here in the past had been closed off, dark. The man, this author, was lighter, more open. Inviting.

They sat on the porch at the back, the world seeming far away, sipping coffee.

Mother laughed as they discussed a few misconceptions people had about strangers, about new neighbors. The woman felt close to this stranger. She even wished he was nearer her age. But, and this was the thought that haunted her, he was halfway between the woman and her child.

Yet she had dolled herself up, hoping to catch his attention. She got it.

'Are you here to ask about my work or try to get to know me better?' The man asked.

The woman felt embarrassed. 'Well, both I guess.'

'And in getting to know me, are you trying to protect your Daughter from me?'

'Excuse me?'

'Your blouse is open, and your skirt is short. You have more make up on that yesterday.' He looked at her steadily, as if looking into her.

'No,' the woman was flustered. She got up too hastily, catching the table with her knee - clearly visible below the short skirt - and knocking over the coffee cups. The man smoothly straightened them as the woman blushed anxiously.

'I have to go now,' she said. 'Chores, you know...' She fled before the man could say anything.

---

'I'm sorry about my mom,' said the girl, standing at the Writer's door.

'Sorry about what?' The man stood at the door, less inviting than with the teenager's Mother. It was late afternoon, the sun casting long shadows.

'Uh, she told me she knocked over a table earlier. She was...'

'Flustered.' The man completed the sentence. But then, that was what he did for a living.

'Flustered,' agreed the girl. 'She gets like that. When she thinks she should be doing something.'

The Writer didn't step aside and invite the teenager in, knowing it wouldn't be appropriate. 'Doing what?'

'Protecting me,' sighed the thirteen year old. 'She thought if she looked good, hot I guess, you'd look at her and not me.'

'She dressed like that to make me keep away from you? She thinks I'm a pervert?' The girl couldn't tell, in the shadows, whether the man was smiling or not.

'Oh no, it was the Lolita thing. I saw the movie a few weeks ago. Today I went on the net to check it out. You know, Humbert Humbert.'

'I know. Because I like Nabokov doesn't mean I am Humbert.'

The girl shifted in embarrassment. 'I don't think you're like that. I'm not like her.'

'Lolita or your mom?'

'Both,' laughed the man. 'But I want to write when I get older so I was wondering, apart from you asking to forgive my mom, if you would let me see your work. Or some of it.'

'Ask your mom to come round,' said the man, 'and I'll give her a manuscript. But she has to read it first.'

'Why?'

'So she can be sure I'm not Humbert even if there's a Lolita around.'

A curious feeling edged into the girl's consciousness. She shivered, not unpleasantly.

---

'My peace offering,' said the Writer, offering the sheaf of papers to the Mother.

The woman took them and sheepishly said: 'It's not you who has to make peace. I guess I was being a little too obvious.'

'No more than what I like to see in an attractive woman.'

The woman blushed, her makeup-free cheeks glowing pink. For some reason she said: 'I'm older than you.'

'So? Good looks don't disappear because I'm a few years younger than you.'

'Your wife... was she your age or younger?'

'Older,' said the man. 'And she's ex.'

'How much older?' The woman's heart was beating harder.

'About 10 years,' said the man. 'But she wanted someone her age.'

The Mother's mouth gaped open. She recovered her poise as the man looked at her, amused. 'Uh, I don't think she knew what she was missing,' she said.

'Maybe.' He shrugged: it was in the past. He nodded at what she held. 'Read the story,' said the man, 'and then decide. Just don't let your daughter see it if you don't think it's suitable. Okay?'

'Okay,' responded the woman.

---

The Mother read the story in bed. It was near midnight, and she pulled the covers over her as she read. It was smooth, romantic, standard love story without any bad scenes.

It was nice because it was a single mom, her child and the man - new to the neighborhood - who had fallen in love with the woman. In some ways, it was her as Mother and the Writer and even - amazingly - the Daughter.

She liked that and loved the story. At least until about a third of the way in. That was when the child bondage kicked in.

The Mother read the first child bondage passage it in a state of shock and confusion. People did this, people wrote this?

She read it again, to make sure. It was good stuff, but dangerous. She should have stopped reading, put it down. Perhaps thrown it in the trash. But she felt compelled to read on.

The Mother read it, unaware that it was well into the small hours. She felt something stir in her, something fierce.

She also gasped when she realized that as she read the passage again, her free hand had strayed between her legs and was resting on her surprisingly wet sex.

The woman pulled her hand away as if it was touching fire. It was hot, but excitingly so.

Troubled, the Mother got out of bed and paced the floor. She thought about a shower, to cool herself, take her mind off the story.

In the shower the woman stood, trying to forget what she'd read. She soaped herself, and found herself cleaning her breasts with a passion. She found herself repeatedly rubbing soap between her legs. She felt hotter than she'd know. All over. She came, one lather-coated hand on her cunt and one wet hand on her hard nipple, her breathing ragged and her face flushed.

The Mother was both horrified at herself and happier than she'd known for ages.

She dried herself, shaking. She told herself she didn't like this manuscript, couldn't read it again. It wasn't real!

But it drew her back inside ten minutes. Curled in bed, feeling her sex twitch, she took the papers again. She skipped the introduction and got to the child bondage section. The part where the girl was kneeling with her hands tied behind her while the man calmly, methodically whipped the ten year old's back.

I can't allow myself, she moaned, keeping her hands above the sheets, trying not to squeeze her slim, tanned legs together.

No, I mustn't, she mewled as her hand strayed down and between her legs to her sex. It felt good and slick. Better than before.

I shouldn't, she told herself as she read the part about the man tying the girl to a chair, arms wrenched over the back. But what did it matter what she read? Who'd know? She was alone, adult, aroused and could do what she wanted. Swiftly, her hand slid into herself. She toyed with her clit as she read the story yet again.

She came with a rush, just on the part where the ten year old girl was being bound over a table, face up and legs held apart by a spreader bar so her bald, smooth little slit was on show. Ready to be teased and probed and fucked.

---

'Did your daughter read it?' asked the Writer when Mother brought the manuscript back. He stopped himself smiling: the pages were well thumbed, curled with use.

'Uh, no.' The woman didn't know what to say, where to look. 'It wouldn't be... you know, suitable.'

The Writer was smiling. 'It isn't true. It's only a story about what people want.' He paused as he took the papers. 'Question is, how did you feel about it all? Did you enjoy reading it?'

'It was... um, okay. I guess.' The woman was blushing, more at her reaction, her self-pleasure from it. She didn't say that she had read parts of it twice in the night, twice that morning. Cumming each time. Over breakfast the Daughter had asked her mom why she looked so flushed, so tired, but the Mother hadn't said anything about the story.

The Mother said it was a romance. But said nothing about the part where the small girl is tied to a bed face down and flogged by the Mother's lover. Not a mention of the part where the child is gagged and made to walk in chains through the driving rain to meet her Mother for more punishment.

She certainly didn't drop the slightest hint about how the man in the story had tied up the child and then fucked the Mother hard. After fingering the bound girl.

'Only okay? That's not the best review I've ever had,' said the Writer, putting the story on the table. As if out of reach.

'You... you find publishers for that?' The woman was flushed, looking at the pages. Just out of reach.

'Yes. But not many. People are too inhibited, too concerned with denying themselves. Too scared to -'

'To be turned on,' said the Mother, without thinking. She blushed the deepest yet. 'Oh, I didn't mean to say that,' she said, shrinking back towards the door.

'But it's true,' said the Writer gently. 'We all get turned on. My readers, my publisher, me, you. Your Daughter.'

'No,' gasped the Mother. 'She mustn't...'

'Sure,' said the Writer. The woman was at the door, hand on it to go.

'I have to go,' said the Mother, not going.

'Maybe you'd like to take another story of mine to read. To make sure you haven't imagined anything.'

'I don't imagine things,' said the woman, half turning away to hide her hard nipples, hoping there wasn't any dampness visible at the crotch of her jeans. After all, she had one last fingering session just before she brought the story back, hands down her pants. She knew she could still see the waistband mark on her wrist where she hadn't bothered to loosen her jeans - she'd been that eager to get her hand sliding down there.

'Maybe, maybe not,' said the Writer. 'But I imagine things. That's my job.'

The Mother stared at him, at his good looks. Unable to get out of her head he would fuck good. 'Uh, you have to, um, imagine it all?'

'Sure. Unless I have reference, unless I do research. Proper research.'

The woman took a sharp intake of breath and fled, her cunt pulsing hot spasms.

---

'You must think me very rude,' said the Mother to the Writer later that day as she stood, hands thrust into her pockets, on the Writer's doorstep. 'I just kinda went off.'

The man laughed easily, clearly not offended. 'I suppose it was a shock to you. Perhaps I shouldn't have given you the story, or offered you another. You want to come in or are you safer out there?'

'It wasn't the story,' began the Mother as she stepped inside. 'It was just that... um... It was the girl, being ten.'

'So older is okay?'

'Yeah... I mean, no, not that. It's just that you don't think of kids being bound and gagged.'

'I do. My readers do. I understand lots of people do.'

'I don't tie my daughter up,' said the Mother hotly. 'I wouldn't.'

'Okay. But, if you did, would it be so bad?'

The Mother felt hot everywhere, in surprising places. 'No... I m-mean yes. Children should be free.'

'Even when they either deserve it, or want it? When it's what their mom thinks is best for her?'

The Mother felt hot. 'How can it be the best?'

The Writer gave an invitational shrug. 'Think about it. She's going to be safe, cared for, loved. Wouldn't that have how it would've been if your mother had tied you up?'

'My mom didn't tie me up!' Snapped the woman, a tad hastily. She colored a little at the speed of her reaction.

The Writer nodded as if he understood. 'Have you come to read another story?'

The woman hesitated. Part of her wanted to say yes please, another part howled no. This man was dangerous and sexy and she didn't know what to do. 'I should be going,' she said. Neutral in the hope she didn't have to face herself, didn't have to see her deepest forbidden delights.

'Going with or without the second part to that story?'

The Mother looked at the man astonished. 'But in the story, the girl was, uh, rescued... You mean there's more?'

'Sure. Some stories don't finish where you think they should. Maybe if you read it you'll see what happened next.'

The woman swallowed and took the pages. She tried not to show it, but her hand was shaking a little.

---

'Will there be a third part?' the Mother asked as casually as she could, handing the sheaf of papers over. Well thumbed, again.

'That's up to you,' said the man as he took them. The woman had kept them for three days and he guessed she'd read it twice. He couldn't know but she'd read it three times. Parts of it she'd read over and over, fingering her sopping wet slit as she did so.

'What do you mean, up to me? Surely it's your story.'

'Not quite. This is more of a draft. It needs editing, revising. But before that I need a model, a girl who can describe what it's like to be tied up. You weren't as a kid. You said so.'

The woman blushed red. 'Well, it wasn't my mom, exactly.'

The Writer smiled. 'So you did get tied up. Who?'

The Mother looked embarassed. 'It was my friend. We played games, when I was nine, maybe ten. Games like cowboys and pirates and doctors.'

'Doctors?' The man was amused: he'd heard of tying up games around Westerns and on the High Seas but not hospitals.

'Yeah. Naughty nurses,' she said hesitantly. 'I, um, I was the nurse.'

'How naughty?'

The woman shrugged, her voice falling to a whisper. 'My friend was older. She said some nurses didn't do what they were told, so the doctor had to tie them up. Gag them. Then she...'

'Examined you?'

Startled the woman blushed. 'How did you know?'

'I would if I were her.' His eyes were sparkling.

The Mother didn't know what to say. She was scared but excited. If he'd examined her - back then when she was tied up in her friend's bedroom, legs wide apart and no pants on - would his fingers have been nice and gentle? Or do naughty nurses have to be fingered hard, told they are whores who must be punished?

Have clothespins put on their little nipples, or clipped on their small hairless pussies?

Would he have gagged the naughty nurse with bandages or band-aid? Would he have lain next to her and teased her nipples through the thin nurses play-uniform she wore. Would he have made her...?

'You okay?' The Writer asked. 'You seem so far away.'

'Uh, I was,' The woman avoided his clear eyes.

Then he said it. The thing she didn't dare believe he would say, but the thing she'd nurtured all those years in secret: 'If you were the doctor and your daughter was the nurse, what'd you do?'

Time stood still. The woman stared at the man, aware he was waiting for her to speak.

'She isn't naughty.' The woman's voice was faint.

'If she was, what then?'

'I-I'd tie her tight to the bed. Like I was.' She gulped, suddenly aware she was revealing herself to the man. 'If she was... I mean...'

'Real naughty? Or you'd just want to examine her?'

The Mother looked lost.

The man rescued her in the way she never thought possible. 'You want to tell me in bed?'

---

The Writer had done everything to the Mother, fucking her on her back, plowed into her doggy style, later licking her clit and sucking on her nipples while he rested before the next surge. He'd even found the energy and the time to fuck her ass, holding her face down so she could bite the pillow. He was considerate like that.

The Mother had never been drilled that well for years. Maybe not ever. If she didn't love this man before she did now.

'You scared I'd fuck your daughter like this?' he asked as he slammed his erect cock into her ass, his heavy balls slapping against her butt.

'No,' the Mother moaned into the temporary gag of the pillow. 'Not like this.'

He smiled and rammed harder, reaching round her and cupping one of her heavy tits, working her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it - and her - towards another peak of pleasure. It helped that she fingered herself while he did what he was doing. She even carried on fingering herself when he let go of her breast and used his hand to slap her big ass.

The sound of his balls against her and the sound of the spanking resounded round the room. Only her screams were muffled by the pillow. Like a gag would. Before long he dragged her head up and grabbing her pants he packed them in her mouth. Then he continued his slapping and fucking.

He was more rough with the woman than she'd ever known. But it was heaven for her.

Afterwards, the afternoon sun streaming through the drapes and they were lying still side by side, his hand on her gently heaving breast, she made a moaning sound into her gag. He hadn't removed the panties and she didn't want to unless he said she could.

'You want to speak?'

The Mother nodded.

'Later,' he said. 'You just be quiet for now.'

She nodded and lay there for another ten minutes. Only then did he ease the wet panties from between her teeth. He laid the sodden fabric on her chest, a gesture that told her he wanted them in reach so he could gag her again. Her bruised and battered cunt twitched pleasantly at the idea.

'Thanks,' she said, flexing her jaw. She'd been silent for nearly an hour and wasn't used to being made to be quiet. 'You wanted me to tell you about tying up my Daughter.'

'Only if you want to - but if you do, you tell me everything.' He smiled. 'Or I could beat it out of you.'

Another tremor in the depths of the woman. Fear and anticipation. 'You'd hurt me,' she said. Not a question.

'Of course. Love is pleasure and pain. No one taught you that? Every erotic writer knows it.'

The woman nodded, understanding he would have no hesitation in doing what he wanted with her - which thrilled her. 'I've, uh, had this fantasy for years,' she said. 'Since my girl was four. I don't know why, but one day I just looked at her and thought I could.'

'You mean tie her up. Just you and her. You were on your own by then?'

The Mother nodded, looking sad. 'It wasn't her fault, but I wanted to punish her. But perhaps it wasn't punishing. Perhaps it was for my pleasure.'

'You wanted to play naughty nurses,' he laughed gently. 'But you were the doctor.'

The Mother didn't deny it. She thought for a moment, glanced at the bedside clock before she asked: 'If I didn't tell you everything about what I was thinking, what would you do to me?'

'I'd tie you up and then beat you twice: first for holding back and then for promising and not delivering.'

'But I didn't promise anything!' She started to sit up but his hand on her, gentle but strong, guided her back down.

'I think you have already promised me a lot.'

The woman shivered, understanding. 'Yes,' she said quietly. 'But I don't think I can tell you. Not now.'

The Writer pursed his lips. 'That's a pity. I guess I have to punish you for that.' He picked up the wet panty gag and held it over her face.

'No, wait. It's just that my daughter will be home from school soon. I should be there to meet her.'

'Ah, I see. Well, I'll punish you anyway for now. You can tell me later. In front of your daughter would be best.'

The Mother's eyes opened wide, horror on her face. 'You wouldn't!'

'I would.'

'But what if I can't?' The woman pleaded. The panty gag came close and brushed her lips. The Mother gulped, knowing she would have to if he insisted on it. 'It wouldn't be easy,' she admitted. 'I'm scared she'll be scared. I'm worried that I'll somehow...' she trailed off.

'You won't put her off, if that's what you're thinking,' said the man. 'Children are very adaptable, which is one of their great qualities' said the Writer. The panties went into the woman's mouth and without another word he rolled her over, face down and readied himself to spank the Mother hard.

Before he fucked her ass again. This time, he planned, with the woman's arm twisted high up behind her back so she was crying out in pain.

---

Children really are very adaptable. The Daughter may have been taken aback when she came into the house and saw her mom tied to a chair. She may have been even more surprised that the woman was dressed only in her bra and pants. Wet pants, from where they'd been stuffed into her mouth earlier. But the Writer was there, looking reassuring. In some weird way all this was non-threatening.

The Daughter adapted. And as she liked the Writer a lot, she didn't mind too much. Particularly after her mother reassured her daughter she was fine and this was all okay.

'Please sit down, honey,' said the Mother, squirming a little from pent up excitement and the fact the wet pants she now wore conventionally were cold on her hips. 'I have something very important to tell you.'

'Um, you're going to be married?' The teenager, looking at her mom and then up at the man, seemed a little pleased at the idea. The Writer smiled, but didn't say anything.

'No, course not,' said the woman, a slight color to her cheeks. 'This is about me. And this.' She tried to gesture, as if to say "can you see how I'm tied up?"

It was a pointless gesture as the Daughter could see very well how her mother was tied. Arms behind the chair, knees tight together but lower legs splayed as her ankles were bound to the front chair legs. Strands of rope, provided by the Writer, crossed the woman's chest above and below her sizable bust. The Daughter had of course seen her mother in her underwear before but the tight white ropes now emphasized the curves and size all the more. More ropes ran round the woman's waist and across her lap, completing the bondage.

It was clear from all the ropes that the woman couldn't move much. But then, she wasn't struggling against it much. Just a little uncomfortable from her sore butt following the spanking. Still, the Daughter asked: 'Mom, you comfortable like that?'

'Sure,' said the woman. She hesitated for a moment before she breathed: 'I like ropes tight like this.'

The Daughter stared at her mother, and then at the man standing to one side. 'You did you do this to her?' It was, of course, a pointless question but we all ask them. Perhaps just to invite responses.

The Writer nodded, but it was the Mother who spoke. 'Of course he did, honey. I'd love to be this good at self-bondage.' She chuckled. 'But I need to tell you about me and being tied up. There's a reason I am bound like this.'

'Go on,' said the Daughter, settling down in a chair facing her mom. She was definitely intrigued.

'You know our new neighbor writes for a living,' began the woman from where she sat trussed to her chair. 'However, its something a little unusual and -'

'Yeah, I know,' interrupted the teenager. 'He writes bondage stories. Kids all bound and gagged.'

The man didn't react but the Mother did. 'H-how do you know that?'

'Oh mom! I went in to your room yesterday looking for clean underwear and I found a couple of sheets of paper by your bed. I read them and figured they were his, as I saw you taking some big bundle of papers round to his place another time. Oh yeah, and the walls are real thin in this house. I was sure I heard you frigging off about three in the morning so I guess I put it all together.'

The Mother's jaw hung open. The man laughed lightly as he spoke for the first time. 'I was wondering where those missing pages were.'

'Kinda interesting,' said the girl, warming to this and addressing the man. 'The part where the small girl was tied to the tree in the yard - I liked that bit, especially when she gets her ass paddled. But what happened when her mom arrived home? That page was missing.'

The Writer laughed. 'The child's mom is disgusted how badly the girl's been tied and sets about retying the girl. By her neck, to the tree.'

'Wow, breathed the girl, sitting forward. 'Can I see that page?'

The bound woman couldn't quite believe this. She'd been persuaded to be tied up (though the spanking did most of that, she knew) and was worried about how she could tell her daughter how she'd been tied up as a child, how she'd fantasized about tying the girl up for years. And now this: a casual conversation going on about her head. A conversation about the story, about children being tied up.

'But the gag the kid wore. I didn't think would quieten her much,' said the Daughter, shaking her head.

'Ah, but she does get a new one.' The man was enjoying discussing this. 'Or is promised one if she doesn't scream when she is whipped on the back of her legs.'

'Makes sense,' said the Daughter, looking flushed. 'I was thinking a rope gag might help her to -'

'Rope gag?' The Mother was incensed. 'Where'd you get that idea?'

'Just occurred to me, reading it all,' blushed the girl.

'You shouldn't have read it,' exploded the bound woman. 'It isn't meant for children!'

'It is about children and I'm almost an adult,' said the Daughter calmly. 'You read it, so why shouldn't I?'

'Because,' started the woman, knowing she didn't have a reason.

'So, tell me what all this is about? Is it my turn to get tied up next?' The girl sounded even more eager than before.

Once more the Mother's mouth visibly dropped open. She was feeling a little stupid - both that she clearly underestimated her child and that she couldn't keep her jaw under control.

'That's what I was hoping you'd want,' said the man.

'No, it isn't right,' spluttered the woman, suddenly overcome with misgivings and trying to fight the ropes. 'I was supposed to tell her about me and now she's... she's spoilt it all. I won't allow it. Untie me at once!'

'Oh, grief,' sighed the girl. She jumped up and went straight to a drawer and pulled out what looked like an old dishcloth. With one sharp tug she tore it in two and then swiftly knotted a length of it in her astonished mother's mouth, all but silencing the complaining female. Then she tied the second strip over the top like a mouth cover, further subduing the woman's grunts.

The Writer watched with interest. 'I used her pants earlier to keep her quiet,' he said as the Daughter finished the gag.

'Yeah, I should have taken mine off,' smiled the girl. 'In fact I think I will.' In a second she had reached up her short school skirt and hauled the pants down. Without any hesitation she pulled them like a white cotton hood over her mother's head, the slightly stained crotch at the woman's nose, her astonished eyes staring out from the two leg holes.

'Good,' grinned the man.

'Yeah. I got the idea from one of your stories.' The girl smirked. 'You know that one of your stories is online? I saw it on the web today. The one about the thirteen year old girl sold to a traveling circus.'

'Yeah,' sighed the man. 'That'd be my publisher drumming up business.'

'Cool,' said the Daughter. She regarded her mother, still trying to make muffled noises through her gag, though it may have been objections at the smell from her daughter's pants - a smell she couldn't escape.

'So me tied up now, or haven't you got any rope left?' The girl was clearly enjoying this.

'Of course I have. A good bondage author always has rope at the ready. For research.'

'How do you want me?'

The Writer couldn't help smiling. 'Where do you think a girl should be tied for the first time?'

'Easy. A chair. But legs apart.' The Daughter smirked. 'Oh-oh, I don't seem to have any pants on right now and these school skirts are way too short.'

'I noticed,' said the man as the teenager sat back in the chair she had occupied before and put her hands in the back. Wrists crossed.

'I prefer hands palm to palm on one so young,' said the Writer as he gathered up some rope and moved behind the teenager. The girl obliged and the man began tying her wrists.

The Daughter said: 'Aah!' A sigh of pleasure as the rope was cinched tight. Her first bondage, her first sensation of being tied tight. Helpless.

She made the same noises as the Writer tied her elbows, wound a rope across her small but clearly developing bust, creasing up her school shirt. 'Oh, my tits,' the child gasped as the rope was tugged tight.

'Hurting?' asked the man as he knotted that rope off.

'Sure. But it's... weird.'

'How weird?'

'Not weird... just great,' moaned the child. She had spread her legs but tried to ease them wider as she said it.

The Mother had fallen silent, protesting no more as she watched her daughter being tied up. She had that urgent buzz in her sex, especially when she saw the rope going across the child's young tits, squeezing them into two smaller, sharper shapes. She imagined her own boobs bound like that. She even tried to glance down at them, imagining how they'd look trussed like her own child's.

The woman even felt, bizarrely, a pang of jealousy. She wriggled more in her ropes and made an urgent noise into her gag. Neither the Writer or the Daughter took any notice.

The Mother, from where she sat, could see her daughter opening her legs wider. Under the shadow of the skirt she could make out the girl's cunny and the wisps of hair around the sex.

Almost as if to make sure the child's sex would be on view all the time, the Writer was tying the girl's knees - individually, not together - to the front of the chair seat, hooking the rope around the top of the front chair legs. The rope wouldn't slip and she wouldn't escape, the Mother knew.

Just like me, the woman thought with a smile.

The Daughter was breathing hard, excited. She was more excited when the man took her slim ankles and tied them, drawing them up and back towards the rear of the seat. The child made a groaning, gasping noise as her ankles came up. Was it pain? Pleasure? It hardly mattered.

The Mother moaned too, but more in frustration. She doubled it when she saw the Writer lift the girl's skirt back and even tie it back with a rope round her waist. But the Mother was string at the sight of her child's cunt on full view. Not hidden in any shadow now, her small pink lips just a little open.

'Finger me,' gasped the child to the man. She was trying to look down at open sex but it wasn't easy.

The man laughed. 'Not yet,' he said as he tied a rope round the girl's neck, making her put her head back and up. She couldn't look down now. Just at her mom, watching her and wriggling in her own bonds.

'Finger me, please. Now.' demanded the thirteen year old.

The Mother had never heard her daughter say anything like that before. She blushed but felt aroused. It was so natural, so thrilling to hear the girl say those words. It would be even better to see it happen. 'Finger her, please!' the woman cried into her gag.

The Writer, perhaps understanding, gave a grin towards the Mother. Then he returned his attention to the girl. 'I haven't finished with you yet,' he said. 'Or do you want me to untie you?'

'No!' cried the girl. 'Not until I've cum!'

'But your mother is watching. Should I blindfold her, so she can't see what I do to you?'

'No!' Both the Mother and Daughter screamed, though the woman's cry was just a muffled yelp.

'Please do me,' added the girl. 'I'm desperate.'

'But you aren't gagged and you haven't been whipped,' said the Writer.

'Then gag me, please,' gasped the girl, struggling not to escape but to show the urgency of her need.

'Beg me.'

'Oh! Please, please gag me. I need to be gagged. I beg you. Gag me... I don't want to say anything!' The thirteen year old was genuinely desperate. 'I'll do anything!'

'And if you're gagged, then what?' The man was enjoying teasing the child.

'Then you can whip me. Hurt me. Just make me cum!'

The man laughed gently. He put a hand on her small, rope squeezed tits. The girl gave a startled cry, not out of fear but that it wasn't enough.

'If I do what you want, you know that you will be bound and gagged and played with and punished often, right?'

'Oh yes,' breathed the girl, eyes closed.

'And your mother?'

'Yes, her too!'

'I was thinking,' said the writer, 'that she'd have to tie you up as well. Maybe spank you. Certainly she'd have to finger you.'

'Oh yes, yes!' squealed the girl, eyes flying open and looking appealing. 'Just tie me up and use me.'

'You'd be in my stories,' said the Writer. 'Other people would read about you. They'd know your name, how you like to be bound, what turns you on.' He paused, still fondling the girl's small bust. 'How you react to being punished. How you climax.'

'I want to be in your books,' cried the girl. 'Like the others.'

The Mother was shouting, 'Don't talk! Just hurt the little cunt!'

No one looked at the woman, no one took any notice of her muffled, unintelligible sounds. Her turn, both the man and the girl knew, would be later.

The man had a gag ready for this moment. He leaned round the girl and kissed the Daughter for a full minute and then pushed the ball into her open, wet mouth. He sealed it off with tape he had handy, enjoying the whimpering noises the Daughter was making already.

Then he picked up a small paddle and stroked it on the inside of the girl's thighs, close to her exposed cunt. With his free hand her sought the child's small but hard clit and then, as he teased it, driving her towards a climax, he began rhythmically swatting her tender, unprotected legs.

The thwacks echoed in the room. The muffled urgings from the mother adding a pleasant counterpoint.

The Daughter screamed into her gag, a mixture of pleasure and pain. But they were, the Writer and the Mother knew, blurring into one white hot sensation. She'd cum when she was hurting and that would be beyond compare.

The teenager had already climaxed, straining against the ropes for maximum effect. But this was only the first of many. There would be lots of other days where that would happen again. Worse and better.

The Mother had stopped struggling. She was slumped in her ropes, watching dully but trembling just a little. Watching this happen she herself had somehow cum. Her cold wet pants felt warm between her bound legs, her body flooded with a joy she never knew existed.

And she'd be in the books too, she knew. Sub or Dom didn't matter to the woman. The man was approaching her, thick hard cock out. The Mother knew the Writer would take her gag out and pump his semen down her throat. Hopefully, the gag would go back in afterwards.

Perhaps he'd even do the same to the Daughter later - it would be important she tasted what the man's cum was like, how she had to swallow it. It would sure make a good scene in his next book, the one with them all in.

She even had a title for that book, the one that would make every best seller list. It would be called simply: The Writer, the Mother and her Daughter.