Debutante MILF Lesbian Submissive

I stammered, all my humiliation flooding back to me, "I-I-I, it was long."

"Are you okay, Mom?" Miranda asked, sensing my anxiety riddled state.

"Yes, yes," I said. "Just tired and realized we have a lot to do before the big day."

"Tell me about it," Miranda sighed, her earlier eagerness to change already seemingly beyond her comprehension.

Immediately an anger grew inside me at myself for what I almost allowed to happen and at for Serena for being such a bitch.

"Oh honey," I smiled, now even more determined to crush that bitch and slap that smug smile off her face. "We will make you the most beautiful, alluring young woman at the ball."

"You are just saying that," Miranda said, not believing my words, her self-confidence not strong when it came to her looks.

"Honey, you are a beautiful young woman. Like I said before, you just have done a great job of hiding your beauty with conservative clothing and a lack of make-up," I said, before asking, "Do you think I am a beautiful woman?"

"Of course, I wish I looked more like you," she said again.

"And I wish I was as smart as you," I said, embarrassed that my eighteen year old daughter was way smarter than me. I then added, "You understand that you look a lot like me."

"Now I know you are lying," Miranda said, knowing that we were polar opposites in looks.

"Oh sure our hair, eyes and face are different, you got those from your father, but your body is exactly what I looked like when I was your age," I explained.

"Really?" Miranda asked.

"Come upstairs," I suggested an idea suddenly popping into my head.

"Okay," Miranda agreed, following me up to the Master bedroom.

In the room, I searched the back of my walk-in closet until I found the box I was looking for. Opening it, I pulled out my old high school cheerleader's outfit. I tossed it to her. "Put it on."

"You're kidding?" Miranda asked, catching the outfit and holding it like it was toxic.

"I want to prove a point," I said.

"I don't know," she said tentatively.

"Trust me," I soothed.

"Okay," she agreed, moving to the bathroom.

"You can undress in front of me," I said, "we are both women."

She again stopped, "Really?"

"Of course," I said, "plus you will be trying on dresses all day with me in a couple days. It's just me seeing you in your underwear."

"Really?" She asked again, her massive vocabulary not overly impressive at the moment, her insecurities pouring out of her.

"Yes, dear, we may as well have a trial run with just you and me," I suggested, suddenly thinking it was a good idea.

"I guess," she cautiously agreed, putting the outfit on my king-sized bed. She nervously got out of her sweater, never making eye contact with me, as she quickly put on the white, tighter than she usually wore, cheerleader's sweater. She then pulled down her long skirt and put on the much shorter and sexier cheerleader's skirt.

Once on, she looked at me as if expecting me to mock her. Instead, I felt my pussy tingle as I flashed back to being on my knees just an hour ago in front of Serena in her cheerleader's outfit. I had never considered my daughter in a sexual manner, yet at this moment I couldn't help it. I complimented her, even as my face flushed, "You look amazing, Miranda."

"I do?" She questioned, not able to fathom herself as anything other than plain.

"Look in the mirror," I pointed, as I wasn't lying, the outfit really accentuated her figure like it did me many years ago.

She stared at herself in the mirror as if seeing herself for the first time.

I added, "Of course, we can make the outfit literally shine."

"How?" She asked, still staring at her reflection.

"Well, tights don't really go with that outfit," I pointed out.

"I suppose," she laughed at herself.

"Do you have pantyhose?" I asked. I didn't do her laundry, Cecilia, our maid did.

"Maybe one black pair," she shrugged, before adding, "somewhere."

I went to my dresser, pulled out a pair of tan Wolford pantyhose still in the package and brought them to her. I said, "These pantyhose will make you instantly feel sexier."

Miranda looked at me perplexed, but pulled off her tights and put on the pantyhose.

Again my mind wandered to earlier today and the image of Serena's pantyhose clad legs. Frustration bubbled in me at the reality that I couldn't stop thinking about Serena and yet I held it in, even as my pussy begged for attention.

"You see the pantyhose completely brings to life your lovely legs, my dear," I complimented, which was true.

She returned her gaze to the mirror and said, still surprised by her transformation just by changing her clothes, "I guess they do."

"Can I make one more suggestion?" I asked.

"Sure," Miranda said, clearly enjoying this rare mom-daughter time.

I went to her and took out her pigtails. "Pigtails are cute, my dear, but they are not sexy."

I allowed her hair to fall and cascade down. As anticipated, it changed the whole look of her face.

"You see, Miranda, you are a beautiful young woman and at the debutantes ball we will reveal that to high society," I said, proud of my daughter and myself.

"I can't wait to see the look on Serena's face," Miranda said, still staring at herself in the mirror.

"Me, either," I said, although the face that popped into my head was Serena smugly looking down at me as I was mesmerized by the sight of her bared pussy.

FLIGHT TO SUBMISSION

A day later we were in Paris and shopping at many of the fanciest shops in the world. It was the perfect place to begin Miranda's makeover as well as shop for the debutantes ball. Besides a designer dress, I wanted to get her new undergarments and heels that would match. We only had two days, before Miranda was going home, a day before me as she had a test on Wednesday and she refused to miss that. It was hard enough to convince her that she would miss two days of school, never mind three and a test.

Away from home, old Miranda surfaced. She was giddy, she was smiling and her youthful exuberance returned as she was in awe of the beautiful city.

We reached Perse's shop and I gasped, as the first person I saw when we entered the shop was Serena. Guilt and anger instantly hit me when I realized why she was here. I told Serena in my brief moment of weakness and she used that information against me and Miranda.

Serena smiled, her greeting so fake I wanted to slap her across the face, standing in a gorgeous cocktail dress, "Hi, Mrs. Zimmerman, Miranda."

Miranda's face dropped and instantly she went from the excited and jubilant to her old shy self.

I said, faking happiness in seeing her, "Hi, Serena."

"Thanks for the tip about Perse," she added, throwing fuel on the fire.

Miranda looked at me with a look of devastation in her eyes.

I said, ignoring her last words, "Where is your mother?"

"Back home," Serena answered, "she couldn't make it on such short notice."

I sighed, realizing this was all my fault. I turned to Miranda who was speechless and clearly upset, and said, "Let's go see Perse."

"Thanks again, Mrs. Zimmerman," Serena called out, adding salt to an already open wound.

Once alone, Miranda accused, a look of devastation and betrayal in her eyes, "You told her?"

I admitted, although not adding the details of my almost sexual submission, "Yes, but I was trying to rub her smug face in it."

"Well, as usual she gets the last laugh," Miranda sighed.

"No," I said firmly. "I will still make sure your dress is better than hers."

"But now I will look like I copied her, especially since I go last," she said.

"Well, they are thinking of changing the order," I pointed out.

"What? That is tradition," Miranda replied.

"But maybe we should go before her if we are both wearing a gown from the same dress designer," I said, somehow fighting for Serena's order change even though I had promised myself to not allow it to happen.

"Whatever," Miranda said flippantly. "It doesn't matter anymore."

"Oh honey, this is still your day and your time," I said.

"I just want to get my dress and get out of here," she said, clearly her exuberance crushed by the surprise of seeing Serena.

"Okay, honey," I agreed, just as Serena called my name.

"Mrs. Zimmerman, may I speak to you for a minute," Serena called out.

I sighed, not having any idea what she may have to say, but happy to be able to talk to her without Miranda listening. "I'll be right back, honey."

Angry, I went to the other room as some young woman measuring the dress was just leaving.

"Just so you know, I told Perse I was your daughter," Serena revealed.

"Why?" I asked.

"Perse would not make two dresses for the same ball, you know he is a bit of a diva," she explained acting rather diva-like herself.

"Are you saying that my daughter won't be getting a Perse dress?" I asked, realizing the full consequences of my actions.

"Not your real daughter anyway," Serena shrugged.

"I will be telling Perse immediately that you are not my daughter, but an impostor," I threatened, already turning to deal with the issue.

"I would look at this first if I were you," Serena replied, her tone dripping with smug confidence.

I stopped and turned to see her holding her phone. I grabbed it and watched in dismay as I saw a photo of myself on my knees, looking up a girl's legs. The camera never showed the identity of the girl in front of me. I felt sick to my stomach...this was my fault. Yet, deciding to call her bluff, I said, "So what, that doesn't prove anything?"

She laughed, "If you say so. I will just tweet the picture out and later the video and see if everyone agrees with you."

Realizing that I would be publicly scorned, and Miranda would be ousted from the Bellmont Society, I had to shift my defiance into pleading.

"Please, we can work something out, this has been Miranda's dream forever," I pleaded.

"And now it is mine. I mean I already had a great dress, but this was too good an offer to refuse," she replied.

"What am I going to tell Miranda?" I asked.

"You could tell her that you are my submissive pet," Serena shrugged.

"I am not," I firmly protested.

"Not yet," she laughed, before repeating ominously, "not yet."

I sighed as I tried to figure out how to overcome my current predicament. "I can't believe you did this."

Serena laughed, as I began walking back to my daughter, "Don't worry, I'll reward you later."

I got back to my daughter, grabbed her by the hand and said, "Let's go."

"Where?" Miranda asked surprised, as she followed me out, past Serena and out of the store.

Once outside, I explained, "We know what Serena's dress looks like. Now we have to find one that is even better."

"We are not going to work with Perse?" Miranda asked confused.

"Not if that bitch is," I replied.

"Mother, watch your language," Miranda said, suddenly smiling.

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," I cursed, smiling now too.

"So where to?" Miranda asked laughing.

"Devilles," I said, where I often went for much of my wardrobe.

"Cool," Miranda said, knowing my preference for Devilles' fashion.

As we caught a taxi, Miranda asked, "What did that bitch have to say?"

I lied, "She apologized."

"Apparently Hell can freeze over," Miranda quipped.

"So it seems," I replied.

We watched the plethora of people and cars as we travelled to our new destination, a place where we already planned to go to get the shoes and undergarments anyways. Now we could get it all in one place.

Arriving at Devilles, we walked in and I was instantly greeted by Marilyn, the owner, who said, after giving me the usual kiss on both cheeks greeting, "You are early, Mrs. Zimmerman."

"We were not happy with the options there," I said, which was technically true, as Marilyn greeted Miranda the same way.

Marilyn said, "Aren't you an adorably cute young lady."

"T-t-thank you," Miranda stammered not used to compliments or the touchy feely nature of a complete stranger.

"So you're looking for a dress as well?" Marilyn asked.

"Indeed we are," I confirmed.

"Great," Marilyn nodded, assessing my daughter.

Miranda was obviously uncomfortable with being stared at as Marilyn did a 360 around her before she finally spoke, "Well, she may have different eyes and hair, but her body is almost identical to yours, Petra."

"That's what I told her," I agreed.

Miranda's cheeks were so adorably red.

Marilyn continued, cupping Miranda's breasts nonchalantly, "Is she a 36C as well?"

"I'm not sure," I shrugged as I watched Miranda's eyes go big at being felt up by Marilyn.

Marilyn asked Miranda as casual as if she were talking about the weather, "Are you a 36C, my dear?"

"Y-y-yes, ma'am," Miranda stammered, obviously bewildered by what was currently happening to her.

"All right, come with me, my dear," Marilyn said, taking Miranda's hand and leading her to the private change rooms reserved for special guests like myself. I followed behind and once we were in the change room, Marilyn instructed the mid-twenties brunette, Allison, "get Mrs. Zimmerman some Chardonnay."

"Of course," Allison agreed, one of Marilyn's employees, immediately going to the corner bar to get my usual Chardonnay.

Over the next two hours, Miranda tried on over a dozen dresses, had her first ever glass of Chardonnay and her second, another dozen sets of shoes and clearly enjoyed herself. For a day, she was a princess and she was bathing in the glow of being treated like royalty having forgotten the disappointing early sight of Serena.

By the time Miranda was done playing princess Barbie, she had picked an ensemble that would definitely outshine whatever Serena ended up getting made by Perse. Her white gown was traditional and sexy, conservative and yet tempting. Diamonds defined her voluptuous bust and draped across the bodice. Strapless, with a sweetheart neckline, puffed out, a ball skirt that went to the floor and a lace-back, the white dress made Miranda look sexy, dignified and radiant. We finished the outfit with a variety of accessories to complete the transformation of my shy, reserved daughter:
-a strapless push-up bra that made her voluptuous, always hidden, breasts stand out even more, accentuating her awesome cleavage
-three inch opened toe heels so her green painted toenails (that matched her eyes and jewelry I already had in mind) could be showcased
-a white thong that Miranda had no idea what it was when Marilyn first gave it to her and blushed when she learned what it was
-white thigh high stockings as Marilyn explained the logic of the thong and the thigh highs: dress like a debutante on the outside, but like a sexual being underneath...thus exemplifying the commonly accepted oxymoron that is the debutant is the unlikely combination of the demure and the sexual.

Miranda said, slightly tipsy after two glasses of Chardonnay, "Thanks Mom."

"Oh we are not done yet," I smiled. "I have some jewelry accessories that will compliment your ensemble as well."

"Oh Mom, I love you," Miranda said, hugging me.

"I love you too, my dear," I said back.

That night, we went to Le Meurice for a fancy dinner and hit an opera as well. The next day we went jewelry shopping where we purchased her emerald and diamond crown, matching earrings and bracelet. I decided the Tiffany necklace she loved that she saw in New York I would purchase for her as a surprise on the big day. The rest of the day was Miranda's to do as she wished and ended up spending hours at the Louvre Museum a place I had never been all the times I was in Paris. After I explained fashion to her the past couple of days, she explained art and history to me. It was an amazing day, an amazing couple of days, and it would be some of the last normality that existed in my life.

The next morning, Miranda flew back home while I did some shopping for myself and visited a couple of old friends, fellow eighties debutantes themselves.

.....

I was in line to get my first class ticket the next evening on the red eye flight, when I heard the undeniable voice of Serena. "Petra, it is so nice to see you again."

Feigning politeness, I replied, "You too, Serena."

"It is Ms. Madison," she corrected, as if she was the adult and I the teenager.

I ignored her power play and asked, praying the answer was no, "Are you on this flight too?"

"I am, but sadly there were no first class seats left," she sighed dramatically.

"That is a shame," I said, unable to hold back my sarcastic tone.

"It is," she agreed, before adding, "for you."

"Excuse me?" I questioned.

"You are going to give me your first class ticket and I will give you my regular seat," she said.

"I don't think so," I said, I had only once sat in the regular seats and I vowed I would never do it again.

"I am not asking you, Petra, I am telling you," she said, her tone shifting from her fake pleasantries to firm bitchiness.

"Look you got the dress, but I am not going to be blackmailed by you," I said.

She laughed. "You are so adorable."

I glared as I asked tersely, "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You think you are still in control," Serena explained as she moved right into my face. "You are my pet, my plaything, my MILF toy, my trophy bitch, my cunt muncher," she listed, each one more crude than the next and yet each making my pussy twitch against my will.

"Enough!" I said, louder than I meant to, making a few heads turn.

Her tone suddenly ice cold, her eyes even colder, she leaned in and asked, "Are we really going to have this out here?"

Somehow her tone and look weakened me, as did her hot breathe on my ear, and I said, "No."

"Good, because any more attitude from you and I will discipline you right here in this airport," she threatened.

Somehow I knew she wasn't bluffing and I also knew I wasn't sure I could stand up to her, my wet pussy already causing me distractions. I didn't say anything as I was lost in limbo between being the proper upper class woman I was and the hungry pussy pleasing woman I was so long ago.

"Good, now go to the fucking desk and get me my first class ticket and before you think about taking a different flight, I expect you to take my ticket and be on the same flight. Is that clear?" She said.

"Yes," I nodded.

"Yes, what?" She asked.

"Yes, Ms. Madison," I reluctantly replied.

"Good, now go," she ordered. "I'll be right behind you."

I did as I was told, although I was embarrassed, especially when I got the perplexed look the lady at the ticket booth gave me at my odd request. I handed Serena my ticket and started walking away.

She asked, loud enough for a few passersby to hear her, "Did I give you permission to leave?"

I froze, turned around with burning fire in my eyes and through clenched teeth said, "No, you didn't."

"I didn't think so," she said. "That is one."

"One what?" I asked annoyed.

"One disobedience, at three you will be punished," she explained.

I rolled my eyes.

"Two," she said with no inflection in her voice.

Suddenly scared of what Serena may try and make me do if she hit three, I didn't say anything, just waited to be told what to do by an eighteens year old bitch.

"Go get me an Avian water, a Cosmopolitan and Godiva truffles," she instructed, as she walked away towards our gate.

I watched her walk away still trying to figure out how I got myself into this situation and how I was going to get out of it. I reluctantly did as commanded, purchasing the items as requested, furious at myself for not standing up to her, at getting myself in such a ludicrous predicament and for being undeniably horny at the same time.

Reaching gate 70, I saw Serena sitting in a chair, on her phone, her long legs in shimmering black pantyhose and five inch heels impossible not to notice; every guy nearby was checking her out either slyly or staring at her. Again, against my better judgement, against my moral fibre, my long neglected pussy dampened at the thought of submitting to Serena, just like I had long ago submitted to Angela who also was a blonde, debutante bitch with long legs.