Consider Patrice

Consider the case of Patrice.

Born to a teenaged mom, living ragged as do those masses who are found clinging to the fringes of society. Assigned male at birth, her previous name... unimportant. She was raised with no father. Neither she nor her mother nor anyone else knew who he might be. Patrice lived some time with her mother, who finished neither school nor her job as a parent. Her later years as a youth were spent with her grandparents, who tragically died, leaving her to finish her minority in a foster home. It was here she was introduced to sex-- at first piecemeal and joyfully self-discovering with her foster sisters, and later as a cloying, demanding, pressured imposition by others.

Turned 18 and set loose into the world, Patrice had no credentials, no money, and very few contacts. She turned (who wouldn't?) to the vices; crime, drugs, prostitution. In short order she found herself one of a harem, rented to all takers. Here, the only 'male' amongst a cohort of those she would soon see as her fellows, she realized the truth about herself. She was given the chance to transition by her pimp, who saw her metamorphosis as a lucrative business opportunity ("Have sex with the same girl every month as she becomes more and more Woman! Feel her ass and boobs swell, watch her face and lips soften, hear her moans pitch higher and higher!").

Within three years, she had transitioned to her satisfaction. Her face was re-sculpted to remove the hard, masculine edges she had despised. Her lips and ass were artificially inflated, her hair was longer, her voice a trained, soothing, pleading alto. Her best features, though, were natural. Her 7.5" dick, much to the rest of the harem's delight, was still very much in service-- more so now, with hormones and gender euphoria setting her libido off more frequently. And those same hormones grew her breasts naturally to an E cup, placing her easily among the bustiest of her colleagues.

Hers was a body, a life, an existence fetishized, but this was all she had known for almost a decade. Incidentally, it had been almost a decade since Patrice had last seen her mother when, unexpectedly, they met again. Unrecognized at first, Patrice and her mother fell into each others' arms and wept. Her mother had gained some stability and truly discovered herself, swearing off men and living now as a high-end lesbian escort. She offered Patrice a place to stay, who naturally accepted.

Living together as mother and daughter for the first time, really getting to know each other in ways they'd never been able to before, there were dozens of emotions running high between them. Notably, both of them worked in the sex trade and were extremely open about it in ways that mothers and daughters normally ought not to be. With Patrice now a beautiful, sexy, busty woman (the kind her mother naturally went crazy for) who needed sexual release twice, thrice a day, is it any wonder then that the two started to feel a certain, shall we say, attraction towards each other, which was perhaps not-quite maternal or filial?

With conversations about work not off the table, with going nude around the house an unquestioned occurrence, with relieving oneself with sex toys and clients in any part of the house at any time of day never questioned, one can imagine how easily these two might have found themselves sitting together one night, consuming intoxicants in a state of semi-undress, baring their souls. Patrice, tears streaming, opens up about how much she missed her mommy, how much she needed her, and how wonderful it is to finally be back with her. Her mother, in a similar state, confesses how badly she felt about leaving her, how she regretted the pain she feared she'd dealt, and how proud she was to have found her daughter such a confident, strong, beautiful, sexy woman.

And there-- a spark.

Was it the intoxicants, reader? Was it the hormones? Was it two low-class women with similarly low morals? Or may we posit, perhaps, the machinations of two damaged minds and hearts, seeking desperately to heal, and not knowing exactly how? No matter which cause you find most compelling, consider the image of the mother and daughter embracing. The daughter's cock now engorges, the mother's crotch now moistens. The daughter asks if her mother meant what she said about being sexy, the mother knows she should stop this conversation in its tracks but is unable to resist and so confirms. A kiss of tender affection turns more intense. Hands become involved, mouths wander, remaining clothes are removed. Consider, then, the image of the mother on her back, arms and legs spread wide for her long-lost daughter, who nestles in her mother's breasts and pumps away at her vulva. Consider the daughter, in ecstasy, her inner child healing, her outer adult squealing, reunited with her mommy.

Now, they are living as more than mother and daughter, even as more than lesbian lovers: they are parents together. As only a teenaged amount of years separate them, Patrice's cock, still very much in service, found its home multiple times a day in her mother's pussy, itself still with plenty of years of use left, to an inevitable end. The reunions were too erotic, too loving, too special to think of any protection. It wasn't long before they knew. They did not and do not care.

Consider, finally, the image of the mother and daughter, madly in love. The daughter strokes the mother's belly, gravid with life which she put there. The mother rides her daughter's cock, which she made and where she has come to feel so at home, while grasping at her daughter's breasts.

Is it not, in fact, better this way? Patrice, whose youth and early adulthood were so significantly formed and, indeed, traumatized by the lack of a mother in her life, is now a mother herself. Meanwhile her own mother gets a second chance at mothering. Grace finds us all.

They are at home, at peace, in love, in bed.

Consider the case of Patrice. Perhaps things will be alright for her. Perhaps they are now alright for the first time in her life.