We were gasping for air when we finished. Mom’s hands slid from my shoulders and she stepped back.“Whew,” Mom sighed. “I guess we got a little...carried away.”“We had a good excuse,” I panted.“I suppose. I guess artists sometimes let their emotions get the better of themselves,” Mom responded, turning away, pulling the blouse off her wrist and tossing it onto a chair. “We’d better finish our breakfast, we’ve got painting and sculpting to do.”As we finished breakfast, I filled Mom in on the email. I told her to step out of slave persona so we could have our evening chat."Does it hurt?" I asked."Not as bad as I thought it would," she said. "I've hurt worse. My endometriosis hurt worse than this. That k**ney stone hurt a hell of a lot worse than this. I'll tough it out." Would you like to wear a bra tonight?" Probably be a wise idea."I found one of her more utilitarian models and helped her get it on, making sure the hoops were flat before the material closed over them."So talk to me about. More

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