My hands--now alabaster--are gently folded on the small bulge of my tummy. I hold a single rose between stiff and cold fingers. You close your eyes an... remember a time when those fingers--alive and warm--caressed you, and ran themselves through your hair.The pleats of my grey pants are sharp, as are the creases of the pant legs that hide my thin and shapely calves. Not so hidden are my feet--unencumbered by shoes, but clad in the sheer, nude stockings I so loved in life. My shoes, sensible. You have a magic tongue, Sally—give me more, bite my clit, make me cum, oh god, make me cum, please, please bring me off mistress."Phil and I looked at each other in amazement—Ellen calling my mother "mistress" as perhaps the last thing that either of us had imagined, but to me, the possibilities seemed almost endless.My mother did as Ellen asked and worked her tongue, lips and teeth against her inflamed clit until she came in a long, ululating wail, shaking and thrashing and calling out in her. More

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