Pippa’s Provence Holiday (Epilogue)

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When I said they were going to be a handful I was understating the case. The arrival of my lush-breasted little niece heralded a hell of a change in my life. And then the arrival of her mother, my sister, Donna, trumped that in spades!

For a start, Donna decided to move in with me while she sued her useless arsehole of a barrister husband for divorce. The fact that I was by now enjoying making love to her about twice a day was wonderful. She may have been 40 – or 41 now, as I write – but her 40-inch breasts, beautifully generous minge and sexual appetite was superb. It was all thanks to the fucking useless husband, of course. He’d ignored her for so long, she was making up for lost time.

Pippa, who was 19 and had started the whole thing by seducing me, was also still on the scene. She’s now 20, and has given up her London School of Economics course, or her art course, or whatever the hell course it was and is now waiting on locals and tourists at a lovely little restaurant down in the village.

The proprietor says his weekly income has more than doubled, as word of her sensational figure bouncing around tables has gone around the district. It’s improved her French no end, as well. It hasn’t improved her love-making, though, because it’s a trifle difficult to improve on perfection.

Initially, the first big change in my life – apart from the fact that I was making love to my sister and my niece on an almost daily basis – was to my affair with the lovely Yvette. The glorious little blonde announced she could not compete with such big-boobed women and when she did visit at week-ends, I was usually too shagged out to provide her with more than a few orgasms via cunnilingus.

It was not, she told me in no uncertain terms, the way she had intended our affair to go. We parted on the very best of terms, but part we nevertheless did. She moved to Paris and the last I heard was engaged to some heart-throb of a newsreader on French television.

But the biggest change in my life was due to the mother-and-daughter duo and what happened after the big package arrived from an English company – let me explain.

I had been into the village – it was Pippa’s day off from the restaurant and I decided to slip out of the house for a rest, more than anything. I sat in the delightful little cafe by the village square, puffing on a cigar and doing the Daily Telegraph cryptic crossword. I must have looked like a fucking tourist, instead of a local of several years standing.

I strolled back home in a leisurely fashion and had worked up a decent thirst for my first Kronenbourg of the day when I reached the house. Taking a nicely chilled bottle from the fridge, I peeled off my T-shirt, stepped out of my jeans and wearing only a little black satin thong, walked out to the pool and lay on a recliner in the warm Provence sunshine.

I’d taken a couple of sips of my beer, when I heard a clip-clop of high-heeled shoes or, rather, in this case of wedge-heeled boots. And walking towards me with a silly smile on her face was my sister. Only it was my sister looking like I’d never seen her before!

On her lovely full figure shone a gleaming black latex playsuit – you know the sort of thing, cut outs at the breasts, hip high so the pussy is totally uncovered. I nearly choked on my Kronenbourg, but managed to confine it to some spluttering as I drank in her stunning appearance.

“Well, Jack,” said Donna, parading around before me, “what do you think? Could I make it as a model in one of those specialist mags you photograph for?”

I looked at her superb 40-inch breasts, ataşehir escort flowing from the quarter-cup uplifts of the black creation, the nipples rouged and erect, her long brunette hair falling to her shoulders and shining with a luscious lustre.

The playsuit ended on her full, bronzed hips. Her labia lips peeped from her pussy, thick and glistening with juice. Her garb was completed by black leather boots, tight-fitting and front-laced, which came to just below her knees. In her left hand she was holding a riding crop which she slapped occasionally onto her left boot at the calf.

Regaining my senses, I confessed she looked “absolutely adorable”.

Donna plonked herself down at the foot of my recliner, grinned mischievously and said: “And how about the other partner in the parade?”

And from the French windows and onto the poolside patio came Pippa. If Donna had been “absolutely adorable”, then Pippa earned a Triple A rating – “absolutely amazingly adorable”.

She was wearing a gleaming black leather Muir cap, set jauntily on her short-cropped brown hair. At her throat was a leather choker collar with a silver whip pinned to it. Her breasts were thrust up into haughty 38-inch uplift by a red PVC bra. The globes were rounded and glistened and deep bronzed brown in the strong sun.

On her hips was a deep-styled red PVC suspender belt, which held up shiny black, seamed stockings. On her feet were wedge-style red shoes, which added at least three inches to her height of five feet two. On her hands were gleaming red leather gloves and in one hand she held a little leather quirt.

“Sheeeet,” I said, exhaling my breath as I watched Pippa parade around, flaunting her body to my gaze. “That is one of the most sexy outfits I’ve ever seen,” I said. “It’s pure, classical S&M. And, my darling Donna, so for that matter is yours.”

Donna leaned over, placed a hand on the crotch of my satin thong, checked that their little fashion parade had had the desired effect on my cock – it had! – and kissed me on the mouth.

“Now,” she said, “to business. Reckon you could sell pictures of us wearing these outfits? Oh, by the way, we ordered them from an English lingerie outlet, and there’s more where these came from. But what do you reckon? Could we make it as the mother-and-daughter domme team?”

“You mean you want to become dominatrixes?” I nearly spluttered.

“Course, not, silly,” said Pippa. “Explain it to him, mummy.”

Donna stood up, presenting me with a mouth-watering view of breasts and quim and laughed: “This is thirsty work, Pip, fetch three Kronenbourgs from the chiller and we’ll tell him what we’ve been planning.”

When Pippa returned and we had all taken a cooling chug on our beers, Donna told me what she and Pippa had been thinking about.

“Well, Jack,” said my sister, “it all started when I read a story in some paper – Le Monde, was it? – which quoted the famous madam of a brothel. Or the madam of a famous brothel, whatever.

“She said that the vast majority of male clients – I think it was 75, maybe even 80 per cent – requested some sort of S&M service. Apparently, hardly anyone bonks any more.”

“And that gave us this idea,” said Pippa.

“What, to hire yourselves out as a whip-wielding mum and daughter?” I asked, incredulously.

“Don’t be fucking stupid, Jack,” said Donna, “I can’t think of anything more mind-numbingly dull. Whipping some tired, fat old fucker of 60 plus isn’t my idea of having fun – and it’s only rich old farts who can afford the sort of services we’d provide.

“No, kadıköy escort bayan what we thought we’d do is to get you to take a series of pictures of us. Enough to go into some glossy magazine format. We could get ourselves published as ‘mother-and-daughter dommes, your pain is their pleasure’.

“We’d publish the magazine and we’d create a website. ‘Come inside and join the dominating duo as they create a world of pain, passion and pleasure for their slaves’. It would make money, wouldn’t it?”

I sucked on my Kronenbourg again and thought. And the more I thought, the more I thought it could work.

“I’d take the pictures, you and Pippa would deal to some extremely good-looking slaves,” I said.

“Exactly,” said Donna. “Men – in their mid-20s – who are improbably hung, women, aged about the same, who look like demure, but sexy little submissives. What do you reckon?”

My mind was now racing. “It’s a good idea. First, we need some shots. Come on you two, into the studio, there’s no time like the present, as the bishop said to the actress.”

I took about 36 shots. In each of them, the two women posed provocatively, presenting their pussies to the camera lens like troupers, raising their whips, scowling, sneering. The results on the camera looked good, but once I had had them scanned into the computer they looked sensational! Those breasts bulging from the quarter-cup bras! The pussy lips, thick, moist, inviting – dominating!

“What do you think?” asked Donna, as she and her daughter eagerly watched as I scanned through the file.

“Good, not to say great,” I said. “Now let me sell ’em to someone I deal with.”

“Where?” asked Donna, “London? Paris? New York?”

“Certainly not London,” I said. “No need to alert that ratbag of a husband of yours, though I’m sure he’ll find out soon enough.

“No, I’ve got a mate in Arizona, of all places, who I’ll run them past. And then I want to show them to another friend in Paris. He’ll provide us with some models who we can get you to pose with for the website. But first, let’s get the magazine up and running.”

That afternoon, I flicked about 15 of the shots I’d taken of my sister and niece off to Arizona, where Damon would, I knew, wet his pants. My covering note read: “Call me, I want to tell you about these two, and the idea they have – and you’re not to do anything with the pictures till we’ve spoken or I’ll tell the world about you and that little lingerie model.”

It was a private joke between us, and I knew Damon would get a laugh from it. But I also knew that he was a rarity in the world of “adult” publishing, as they call it. He was trustworthy.

The upshot was that Damon agreed to publish pictures of Donna and Pippa in a 36-page glossy magazine. It would be printed on good paper, none of your usual porno mag tat.

The magazine’s title, though, made no pretence of literary excellence. “The cover is sensational enough as it is, but we really need to grab the punter by the balls and get him to sit up and have no illusions about what he’s going to find when he rips the cellophane wrapping off,” said Damon.

So the title was simply “Mom and daughter dommes: your pain is their pleasure”. Inside, we introduced Bella Donna (that was Donna, of course) and her 20-year-old daughter Sadie Maisie.

Inside the magazine a page of words, accompanied by pictures of Donna and Pippa posing beside torture chamber accoutrements, introduced “the BDSM team – Bella Donna and Sadie Maisie, the Busty Domme and the Stern Mistress. Either way you read it, it adds up escort maltepe to the same thing: BDSM! And yes! They mother and daughter!”

With slight literary licence, Bella Donna was said to be 38, and Sadie Maisie 21. Why the ages, don’t ask me. But it’s not important – what is, is that the magazine took off like the proverbial hot cakes. They got up and marched out of adult shops throughout the entire United States. And, then, Damon got ’em on sale in the United Kingdom and it was the same result. Punters drooled over ’em.

But the punch line, of course, came at the end of the magazine. There, in the form of an “open letter” which was addressed “Calling All Slaves” came their pitch.

It was an invitation for people to join the darling duo’s website. It was called “Momdomme” and it had taken me a month to set up. Inside were pictures of the pair working over superbly-muscled, gleaming-bodied male slaves, who despite the fact that they were supposed to be having the shit whipped out of them were, strangely, still sporting massive erections.

We also sold videos over the net, of Donna and Pippa masturbating the men, riding on them, treating them as human ponies, being flogged and receiving what is termed, I understand, “golden showers”. All absolutely disgusting and totally socially unredeeming, of course, and also extremely lucrative!

They also catered to the large lesbian market by attracting lovely young blondes who would willingly pose in extremely submissive roles, and eagerly play along in the videos as Donna and Pippa humiliated them mercilessly. But at the end of each video, we showed the two “dommes” chatting away with the model, the little “subby” saying she’d never had such intense orgasms – you know the kind of crap.

As a result, Donna and Pippa became celebrities. They appeared in adult magazines, which sent people out to Provence to interview them. They also appeared in magazines catering for devotees of large breasts. They were filmed for “straight” and sexually-oriented TV programmes. They were huge!

The “straight” press, of course, also got onto the fact that “BDSM” were , in fact, a mother and daughter team and it wasn’t just a porn industry marketing ploy.

The Sun came out with a lurid story about how a mother-and-daughter team from Surrey’s stockbroker belt had gone into the porn business and – scandal deepens – the pictures of them in their “Can I whip you now, sir?” outfits were shot by the mother’s brother, and, therefore, the girl’s niece.

It also, of course, got to Donna’s fucking husband. It was raised at length in the divorce court, where the judge appeared to be an extremely wise – or an extremely kinky – old judge.

The Daily Telegraph, in a lip-smacking report, quoted the judge as saying – and I quote from its report – that “this court is not a court of morals”.

“One may or may not approve of the direction in which the plaintiff’s wife has decided to move in her modelling career,” said Mr Justice Notsostupid, “but that has nothing to do with this court. This court is not a court of morals, no matter how much the plaintiff may wish it was.

“The lady concerned had moved out of the marital bed and has testified that the marriage was irredeemably finished well before she became the somewhat lyrically-named ‘Bella Donna’.” Donna told me you could almost see the drool running from the old man’s lips as he said that!

The upshot was that Donna did very well out of the case, not that it really mattered a tuppenny fuck. She and Pippa were doing very nicely, thank-you, out of the Momdomme website.

As I was, as well, of course. Baby brother was getting a nice little percentage as the official photographer and webmaster, or whatever they call ’em. The sex wasn’t too bad, either.

So you see, in the end it does pay to keep it in the family!

– The End –

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