Like Mother, Like Daughter Ch. 01

The first picture, a few nights later, took me by surprise. I opened the message, took one look, and closed it again. A picture of his manhood was not what I expected to receive, and I guess my rather harshly worded reply told of my annoyance. Without mincing my words, I had told him not to send me such pictures and that we would stop talking if he continued in this way. It worked, as he seemed to backtrack a little with no mention at all of the picture.

Why then? Why could I not resist taking another peek at that photo? It was there, on my phone, simply tugging at my subconscious. A quick glance, then another, until finally I was infatuated with the image of a young cock, a young cock which wasn't even fully erect. Until that day, I had only seen my husband's cock, and, in a rather too innocent way, I thought that all cocks were like his. This one though, even in its semi-erect state, was quite a bit larger than my husband's. I simply stared at the image . . . wondering . . . wondering . . . wondering if it was for real or a trick of the camera. I so wanted to ask, but how could I after the rebuke I had given him?

The chance came a few calls later with a most apologetic Peter.

"I'm sorry Amina, I just . . . well, I just sort of thought . . . I shouldn't have sent you the picture. Will you forgive me?"

"Was it you, Peter?" I asked.

"Yes, it was me, but I know it was wrong to send you a photo."

"No. I meant, was it you? Was it a picture of you?"

"Yes, it was a picture of me. I wanted to show you how you make me feel when I talk to you. I hoped you would feel the same. I can see that it didn't make you feel . . ."

I cut him off mid-sentence.

"I just wasn't expecting it, Peter. At first, I was shocked, not by the picture but by the way it appeared without warning. Then, well, then I kept looking at it . . . at your manhood, and the more I saw it the more I had to take another glance."

"Did you like it, Amina? I can send you more if you want."

"It is . . ."

I hesitated before continuing.

"It is big, Peter. Very big."

"But" he responded, laughing slightly. "It gets bigger than that."

"How much bigger?"

"Well Amina . . . how about you send me a picture, and I'll see if it gets any bigger for you. What do you say?"

"My picture? You already know what I look like."

"You know what I mean . . . I showed you mine, so will you . . . will you show me yours?"

There was a nervousness in his request, and I knew he was testing the water to see how cold it was. Needless to say, I declined his polite request. My heart might have been pounding with desire, but the risk was just too great.

After that call, and my refusal to respond with my own photos, all went quiet. A few days became a week but there was no contact from Peter. Indirectly I had achieved what I set out to do and put an end to this unintentional deception.

He didn't contact me, and intentionally I didn't make any move. Over and over, I told myself that the outcome was the correct one and I should move on. Life was back to just me and darling Zeeshan. It was what I wanted in the first place. Why then did I find myself compelled to glance at his photo? Why then did those butterflies return with every viewing and why . . . why . . . why was I missing him?

Peter had added something to my mundane boring life. He had added that touch of excitement, that feeling of desire and the chance to take that risk. I should have turned my back and done the right thing. Instead, though, a few days later, I had the phone in my hand and dialed. He didn't ask again, and I made no promises, but it sure was good to hear his voice once more. This time around it was Amina who was apologising for not being in touch and professing her love for the young lad.

That night a single kiss arrived on my phone. I took the handset and kissed the screen, imagining it was my lips on his in the sweetest caress. I smiled myself to sleep, the handset still clenched in my hand as I lay at the side of my husband.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The following weeks had pretty much returned to normal. I would talk to Peter but that was all. It was an arm's length love affair and no more. I needed the company and I needed to feel that I was loved, but I wasn't going to go any further. That was always my intention. I was a married woman and had to behave like one. What would Zeeshan say or do if he found out?

Zeeshan? Well, he can only blame himself for what happened next. It was his choice to take the business trip and it was his decision to stress how the loyal loving wife should be keeping the house tidy and ready for his return. No sooner had he walked out of the door, and with those parting words still ringing in my ears, than I had made my decision. I was going to do it and give young Peter a little surprise. With hubby away, I had the best part of a week to pluck up the courage, not that it took that long.

I had taken to calling Peter from my daughter's bedroom. It seemed right given that I was pretending to be Amina. It wasn't the bedroom per se which interested me, it was the memories which came from within. Being of a younger generation, Amina had quickly encompassed western styles which was quite evident in the wardrobe she had left behind.

"Don't worry, I'll come back for them," she had promised before heading off to her homeland.

Zeeshan, being the conservative man that he was, had despised many of the outfits and on occasion had forbidden our daughter from wearing them. I could only imagine that what he didn't know about couldn't have hurt him as I knew Amina had some strong views on what was acceptable. For sure she would have found a way to put everything to good use.

I'd taken to going through her wardrobe soon after she had left. It was a way of remembering my only daughter. It helped that we were of similar build and that most of her clothes would fit me too. For sure there were a few which were a little on the tight side, but not too many. I just couldn't help myself but try them on, admiring the look of these youthful styles on my older body. More recently though I was imagining how I would look from Peter's perspective as I wore my daughter's clothes. Would my virtual lover approve of my less conservative appearance? It was another secret, added to the growing list of things I needed to keep away from Zeeshan. I couldn't imagine what would happen if he found out.

It was on one of these nights that the first idea came to me. A quick rummage in one of the drawers and I found just what I was looking for. With hubby away and the boys already asleep, I didn't need to worry about being seen, yet still I felt the need to hurry. I stripped off, down to my sensible underwear, and stared at the two flimsy scraps of material in front of me. I felt my stomach churn. Could I do this? It wasn't too late to go back to the conservative housewife that I knew I was.

"No!" I shook my head, telling myself it wasn't wrong. If I didn't do it now, then I never would. One by one I swapped my off-white undergarments -- large panties and a full plain bra was my normal attire -- with something just a little racier. I glanced in the mirror. There, looking back at me wasn't a forty-something year old mother of four. Instead, I stared at a vision of beauty, bedecked in nothing more than this red lingerie. Don't get me wrong this was sexy not slutty, but it was exactly the image I wanted. Quickly I snapped a few shots with my phone, making sure each time that my face was not included, before reverting back to my normal motherly attire. It was only a few minutes, but I did feel good. I smiled as I hit send, a photo of my scarlet clad bust winging its way to Peter.

"There," I thought to myself, "he wouldn't have been expecting that."

Expecting or not, an almost immediate response and a single kiss told me of his enjoyment. It was just the start. A couple of days later and I was at it again, another photo sent to my young lover. This time I had discarded the bra but kept an arm across my ample bust, hiding my nipples from view. His reply this time was even quicker and much more endearing. Peter definitely knew the right words and I could feel the blush in my face as I read his reply. It was so satisfying to know that my motherly frame still had enough about it to excite the young lad.

Then I did it. A third photo was sent, this time leaving nothing to the imagination. I waited, wondering just what would come back. That evening, with me already tucked up in bed, the phone signaled his reply. Grabbing the handset, I opened the message and started to read. It was nothing less than an outpouring of sexual fantasy.

"Oh Amina, my darling Amina. I had dreamt as to how you would look with your young body unclothed in all its beauty. My mind did not do you the justice that this photo does."

I felt that warmth once more. Despite my middle-aged body I was still receiving the nicest complements from the young lad. I settled back and continued to read.

"Can you feel my fingers as I run them over your darkly toned torso. Feel how they draw lines over your smooth skin, tracing up your stomach before circling those plump breasts."

Without thinking, I found myself acting out the fantasy he had written, my own fingers tracing those narrow lines.

"Look how your nipples harden as I run my nails across each soft mound, a walnut nub sitting on top of each breast asking for my warm mouth."

I pulled up my top and, yes, my nipples had hardened. I couldn't help myself as I ran the nubs through my fingers feeling the tingle of desire inside.

"Oh, how you gasp as I run my tongue across each sensitive nub, before taking you deep inside. Can you feel me suckling, like a young child trying to feed from its mother's plump breasts? I can hear you moan now, gentle soft moans between your fast breaths. Feel how my fingers run down over your stomach. Can you feel it Amina as I stroke across your mound? Oh, how you moan as I trace a line over your snatch. Are you aching for relief?"

He was right. I was breathing quickly as I played with each nipple in turn. There was a tingle up top and a nagging itch down below. I couldn't help myself and lowered a hand. Gently I stroked my sex through my panties. It was good, so good, but not enough to satisfy the ache inside. Over and over, I read his message, feeling hotter with every time. I dipped my hand inside my panties, stretching down until my fingers found my pussy lips. Slowly at first but with increasing speed and pressure, I massaged away.

The phone had gone, and my eyes were fixed shut, yet still I ran through every word in my mind. It was Peter's hand down below and not mine. It was Peter forcing the moans out of my mouth as the fires built down below. It was Peter who . . .

"Aghhhhh, yessssss," I screamed as I came hard.

I lay there, the bedroom filled with just my panting breath as I recovered. What had happened? I was never one for masturbating, yet just a few well-chosen words had pushed me to the point where I could resist no more. Why had I felt this way? Why had I done it? And more so, why was it so enjoyable?

From now on it was like a drug, addictive and leaving you desperate for more. My reserve had gone, and I was trusting the young lad with my most intimate images. Every inch of my naked body, barring my actual face, had found its way into a photo and over to his phone. Even when Zeeshan returned from his trip, I still found a way to sneak off and fulfill my need. With each picture came a most explicit reply, suggestively written and just a little hotter than the last one.

Most nights, I would massage myself to sleep with Peter's words fueling my imagination. Zeeshan, well he would simply sleep at the side of me, his snoring becoming a bass line to my panting breath, totally unaware of what I was up to. It is just as well, as for sure this would have gone on the list of things he wouldn't have approved of.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A sense of déjà vu occurred just a few weeks later. To start with came a picture, Peter's first for some time. It was his cock once more, but this time it was rock hard. As I stared at this huge cock -- okay, so it probably wasn't huge but compared to hubby's little wiener then it seemed enormous -- a message arrived.

"See what you've done, Amina? You've got me all hard and desperate. I can't help myself. I need to feel your sexy body in my arms. Let's do it. Let's find a way to be together, if only for a night."

My heart skipped a beat. This time it wasn't through shock and disgust but was the excitement of spending a night with the lad. Was it the idea of being with the lad, or was it more the thought of that huge cock? I wanted it, yet I knew I couldn't, or maybe shouldn't. My daughter might be back in her homeland, but I still had a houseful of men; my darling husband and two sons. The risk was too great.

"But . . ." I found myself thinking, "they do sleep hard. Maybe, just maybe . . ."

I shook my head violently from side to side as if trying to rid myself of such ideas. It was silly. Daytime may be safe, but what if the neighbours saw us? Nighttime? Well, that was the risk of being caught. I replied with a polite, but not too firm, negative. I guess he must have read between the lines as almost immediately another text arrived.

"You can do it," Peter continued, "If you want it, you will find a way. Just let me know, I'll be waiting for you."

It was unfair. I was not being forced, yet my inner most desires drove me to find an answer. It had to be at night. I needed to keep Peter away from prying eyes, yet the house would be full. Would it be possible without waking them up? Over the next few nights, I tried it out, gradually making more and more noise to see where the tipping point was. Surprisingly, none of them woke, even when I moaned out loud as I fingered my sex at the side of sleeping hubby.

Maybe, just maybe, I had the opportunity. The question now was the how and the where. Well, the where was obvious. Peter still thought I was Amina, so it needed to be her room. I nodded. Yes, Amina's bedroom ticked all the boxes. It was at the back of the house, with a drainpipe and trellising leading up from the ground floor to a small balcony. That would be an ideal way in for a young lad like Peter. He wasn't too heavy, so there shouldn't be a risk of the trellising breaking. Being at the back of the house also reduced the chance of being heard, and finally . . . it would help with the deception. He thought I was Amina, so where better to entertain him than in Amina's bedroom.

With shaking fingers, I typed a message and hit send.

"Friday night . . . midnight . . . upstairs window at the back of the house . . . I'll leave the side gate open for you and be waiting inside. Not a sound."

It was done.

In four days' time, I would take this deception to a whole new level. I was on edge for the whole duration. Yes, my heart would pound with desire as I ticked the days off on my calendar, yet as each passed the reality of what I was doing become stronger. He was a twenty-something young lad, and I was a mother of four. He was a friend of my daughter, and I was a total fraud, pretending to be her for my own gratification. He was about to walk into my house and hopefully bring me the satisfaction I had not experienced for too many years.

Then there was Zeeshan, my darling husband, the guy I married all those years ago, the same guy who hadn't paid me a complement for all too long, and the same guy who had seemingly banished my daughter from her life in the west. Too right I was scared. Scared to get caught, scared to be found out as a fraud, and scared . . . yes scared was the right word . . . scared I might never be able to go back to my mundane life.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Friday arrived. I'd chosen it on purpose. It was the end of the week and usually the best chance that the men in the household would be more tired than normal. All day I had occupied myself. On the one hand it was a case, maybe an overexaggerated case, of trying to make this day appear just like any other. One the other . . . well, I guess that the more I got on with things, the less I worried about my night-time engagement.

The house had been cleaned from top to bottom. Shopping had been done and dinner prepared. Was it a touch of guilt that I had gone for Zeeshan's favourite dish? I'd even had time to find an outfit for the night. To be honest I must have tried on half of her wardrobe before deciding on which it would be. I guess it was one of the benefits of being able to wear almost any of Amina's outfits. In the end I had plumped for a little blue dress, short sleeved over the shoulders with a silver zip running down the length of the front. Usually, it would have been worn with leggings or trousers to maintain a modicum of decency, but for this night it would just be the dress and a sexy pair of almost matching blue panties. In my mind, a black hijab would finish the outfit. Yes, I know, a hijab is not the sexiest of garments, but it served its purpose in keeping the deception going. As for a bra? Well, I guess that was to be my little surprise for the young lad.

I glanced at myself in the mirror. Yes, this one was perfect. Hanging free, my breasts formed soft mounds under the fabric of the dress. Any little movement had them swaying evocatively. "Later," I thought to myself. For now, I had another deception to keep going. I changed back into my normal clothes, leaving my evening attire on the bed, and left the room. A glance at the clock told me there were still eight hours to go. It would be the longest eight hours of my life.

Dinner, washing up, television -- all of these were the epitome of the mundane life I usually led -- had been and gone. As the evening continued, I got increasingly nervous, my hands practically trembling with anticipation. I kept glancing at Zeeshan. My head was awash with mixed emotions, my feelings totally confused. Guilt was the first to surface. He was my husband of many years after all, so it was only natural to feel guilty at going behind his back. If guilt was the first emotion, it was soon tempered by desire. I glanced once more, giving him the eye, hoping he would do something, anything. All he had to do was show me some attention, show me a glimmer of love, and I would have called Peter there and then. The lack of any reaction said it all. For sure I was guilty, but I so needed my date with the young lad.

By ten we were tucked up in the marital bed. He lay one side and I lay the other. My heart was already pounding with the thought of sexual satisfaction, yet in return all I got was the sound of snoring. As usual, and totally predictable, Zeeshan was asleep. I waited an hour or so, then slowly got out of the bed. He never stirred, not even when I left the room and closed the door behind me. A quick check on the boys told me they were away with the fairies as well.

It was time.

Any second thoughts I might have had disappeared as I shut Amina's bedroom door behind me. The outfit was laying on the bed where I had left it. A quick change, hiding my dull bedclothes in the wardrobe, and I had gone from conventional middle-aged mother to young virile daughter. I looked once more in the mirror and, with my hijab on, it could have been Amina looking back at me. In my heart I could only feel my desire for Peter.

It was now or never. Dimming the lights, I pulled back the curtains and opened the window. I stared out into the darkness, the faint glow of distant streetlights and the silvery glint of a moon between clouds doing little to illuminate the garden. I so hoped Peter wouldn't let me down. Then I saw him, in the shadows at the back of the garden. How long had he been waiting? As he crept forward, he was like a Romeo to my Juliet on the balcony above. Had he seen me there? His first footstep on the trellis below was all I needed to hear. I went back inside and turned off the lights, leaving only that shimmer of moonlight to illuminate the bedroom.