A copy editor. Delilah was a copy editor. She always wanted to be an author, and she was a copy editor. Her parents, who remained in scarce contact, taught her all her life of the value of a well paying, or stable job. Her parents, who had started to reach out to her again after two years on estrogen. By then, she was already a copy editor. At twenty eight, she was hopelessly in love, or so she had told her mother, and her husband. They were freshly married. Delilah was always told that little girls grew up dreaming of their weddings, yet she never crossed that invisible threshold, never grew up getting crushes, and for the longest time she imagined something inside her was broken, or that she was not the right kind of woman. There were countless romance novels she read to try and gather the feeling inside herself, attempting to store it like a steam engine stores coal, but she found herself skipping first kisses, ever-boring love triangles, and nearly entire books. She would always close her eyes during the sex scenes in movies, and even simple kissing caused her to avert her gaze. That habit lasted until eighteen, when she finally pushed herself to just look, at least until it was over. It was not as hard as she thought, nor was it as exciting as she figured it must’ve been. Eventually, Delilah would learn to act just like those female leads, exactly how to be kissed, touched, caressed, fucked, and she was a copy editor.
She barely had to speak to her husband to understand what he wanted when they first got together. The semiotic and syntactic components of romance were revealed to her, as if they composed themselves. She was an eclectic, eccentric, and mildly disturbed woman. She was the picture of what was temporarily desirable, only losing her spot to the trophy a poacher would take home with him, after killing the animal himself. She knew, as does the diamond, minutes before coming into contact with a jeweller, that soon enough someone would come along to fit her into a new shape. And so, her husband took away the keychain siren, her anchor, so much more along with it, and she was a copy editor.
In her bedroom, which was also her office, plain, slate grey sheets on a double mattress squeezing her inherited antique dark oak desk into the very far corner, Delilah sat, trimming down the piece of work that would eventually matter to hundreds, possibly thousands. It needed to read as a stream of consciousness, and so she edited it as such. She imagined that Virginia Woolf had a shady grove to peacefully die in, when it was her time, all those years ago. There’s an author who would’ve never needed an editor, she told herself.
She squeezed her pen, a phantom of her keychain siren. She began to miss how the city lights shone at night, distant flickering beacons. The living room clock seemed to tick louder, as if every second that passed was a metal pipe careening into the railing of her apartment building’s walkway.
Delilah didn’t hate being a copy editor. She didn’t hate reviewing novels, as she had worked her way up to doing. Novels were more interesting than essays, were more interesting than articles, and on and on. Fantasy was a genre with easily understandable conventions, that required nominally accessible writing, and so her job was easy, but not mindless. Mildly engaging and unchallenging was exactly what she was looking for anyway. Nothing on her mind but the words and punctuation in front of her, she sank into the calmness of the dull bedroom atmosphere.
Marissa bit her hand. The aching fog did not leave her mind. Nor did it leave when she hid under her blankets, or hugged her stuffed animals. After a while, she gave in, and stared at the wall. The only dull thought that could pierce through the thick cloud surrounding her repeated over and over.
Tears pushed trickled out of her eyes. She barely felt sad, and yet somehow, she knew she was. Much more sad than she could understand. Her emotions were distant, yet ever-present. She could feel them only as strongly as she could feel her bones, and yet she knew they were there. There was proof, after all.
The sun had begun to hide behind the city skyline by the time Delilah was finished with work for the moment. It was easy to lose the sun behind buildings when in the middle of all of it. She had heard her door rattle twice throughout the day, to which she promised herself she would check on Marissa soon enough. Now it was seven o’clock at night, and soon enough had finally come, what must’ve been hours later.
Her daughter was always about to put some kind of awful plan in motion. She could wait a few hours to perform whatever trick she was going to pull. Delilah could barely find the heart to care about the blackmail that hung over her head.
She felt woozy, almost delirious. Focusing on her work for so long had left her exhausted. Her mind had settled into the rhythm of being a copy editor, and now she had to wait for it to adapt to the change. She put her hand to the wall of the hallway as she stepped out into it. She didn’t know if she needed to lean on it for balance or not, but she didn’t want to find out too late. Her vision was narrow, and even a little blurry as her eyes were having trouble focusing. In her free hand, she squeezed her invisible keychain siren.
Delilah knocked twice on Marissa’s door. When she opened it, the first thing she noticed were two impressions of her teeth on her left hand. She would’ve been whipped into a frenzy if she wasn’t so tired. Her daughter shifted from foot to foot, staring expressionlessly past her. Guilt dripped down her shoulders like hot wax. Marissa held a stuffed bear in her arms, and wore an blank frown. Both of them lacked the ability to speak. The world seemed to focus its lens on the two of them. Delilah couldn’t hear anything but the absence of words spoken between them. She couldn’t help but wonder if her own daughter had given up on confiding in her. She hated the idea that she was anything like her mother in that way.
All she could think to do was open her arms. Marissa walked into them, letting Delilah wrap around her. They stayed like that for a while. Amnesia overtook them, and they could forget anything that had come before, for just until they ended the hug. So they refused to let it end. Marissa let herself be carried off to her bed, and Delilah lay down beside her, still holding her. She stroked her hair.
“I have you.” She cooed, petting her daughter, and letting her bury her face in her chest. “I have you.”
“Mmhn.” Was all Marissa could manage.
“I’m sorry.” Despite her guilt, she was surprised to hear herself say it. Surprise turned to grief as she saw her daughter was shocked as well.
Delilah felt as if she was leaving something unsaid. Echos from similar moments with her mother coalesced into one sentence, burned into her memory.
I don’t know where I went wrong with you.
She couldn’t say it. Not now. She hoped that she wouldn’t ever have to, and yet she couldn’t help feeling that, with how everything was going, the answer was closer to ‘not yet’ than it was to ‘not ever’.
“Mmmhh.” Marissa moaned. She looked resigned. “Love you, mom.”
“I love you too,” then, more to herself, she added, “I promise.”
The sun was beginning to set in truth, now. The sky was much darker, and the shadows of buildings were falling to night, winking out with the sunlight.
Delilah began to feel ambitious. The haze surrounding her thoughts wouldn’t leave, and she thought that might’ve been the only reason she felt as hopeful about her relationship with her daughter as she did. She would take advantage of it anyway.
“Are you hungry, baby?” She smiled, cupping her daughter’s cheeks in her hands. “Did you want to…”
She realized the awkwardness of her words implied much more than was her intention. That almost excited her. It felt as if she had forgotten the original goal behind her question. She began to feel sneaky, like a teenager getting away with something under her mother’s nose. Her intent was motherly, and was entirely divorced from romance, and yet that only made the devious feeling grow stronger, for some reason. She couldn’t find any other words to replace the final line of her sentence, and so she continued unabated.
“…Go out to dinner with me?”
Marissa pressed her stuffed animal between her and her mother, and wrapped her arms around Delilah’s waist, squeezing hard.
“Yeah. Thanks, mom.” She whispered through sniffles.
They stayed like that for a while, until they agreed to get ready.
Marissa wore her favourite black skirt, which came down to just above her knees, a grey graphic tee tucked beneath the waistband, and pink skate shoes. Reluctantly, she wrapped a coat around herself, at her mother’s request.
Delilah was clad in black jeans, and a baggy white wool sweater. She wore her hair down, and it curled into a wave from being worn in a ponytail for so long. Miraculously, it added to her look, somehow, and so she didn’t brush it out.
She had a choice between two restaurants, one which she had almost no information on, and one which her husband had always taken her to. She picked the one she knew nothing about.
It had been a long time since Delilah had eaten out. She hopped in the drivers seat of her car, and Marissa snuggled into the seat opposite to her. It was eight o’clock, and where they were going closed at nine. The engine roared to life, and their black compact stuttered out of the parking lot, and down the street.
We are going to make it through this, if it kills me. She thought.
The night was a gateway of streetlights on the highway. Marissa set her phone down, and a light that Delilah didn’t know was bothering her blinked away. She reached her hand across the cup holders, and put her finger on her inner thigh. She flicked it back and forth over the black denim, and then traced a heart.
My god, what an infantile gesture. She groaned inside her mind. My god, what an indescribable high…
She swerved out of the way of a navy blue SUV she had almost rear ended by suddenly pressing her foot against the gas. Marissa jumped in her seat, and clutched her chest. Adrenaline beat a quick rhythm in her mind.
“Fuck!” Delilah exclaimed, almost cheering. “Sorry, sweetheart.”
“Itsokay.” she mumbled in return, hand now over her mouth. She looked away from her daughter’s pout to focus on the road.
The restaurant wasn’t quite a chain, and yet it had two locations in her city. It was tantamount to a diner, yet the time in which that kind of restaurant was favoured had long since ended. What was left was only around for the novelty of seeing a movie location in real life.
Delilah had deliberately picked it to avoid the need to dress especially well, and yet she still worried she was underdressed. Nobody looked to be attempting a specifically fancy look, and yet, she and her daughter were in significantly different dress to the rest of the crowd. She felt as if it were impossible to escape the out of place feeling. The only person she had ever truly felt in tune with was her daughter. That became a much more common feeling after her transition, but she always noticed it.
They were seated close to the corner, by the window. It was slightly colder here, and Marissa elected to keep her jacket on. They had each ordered the same kind of burger. Marissa had ordered a milkshake, and for the first time in a long time, Delilah felt herself craving a beer. She knew if she were more aware she wouldn’t have ordered one, and yet she did. Her stomach felt traitorously warm after only a few sips. It had been a long time since she had any alcohol enter her system. She remembered why, as she lusted after a second bottle before her first was finished, and before the food had even arrived at their table. Marissa looked nervous, hugging her knees in the booth, and looking at her mother from the corner of her eye.
“I thought you weren’t drinking.” She muttered.
“Yeah, I dunno.” She smiled. “I just felt like it tonight. Don’t worry.”
In truth, she was continuing to ride the feeling of getting away with something.
“How are we gonna get home?” She keened, setting her feet on the floor and leaning into the table.
“Sweetheart, it’s only one drink. I could drive after one or two, okay?” Her voice was warm. Her chest buzzed.
The devious feeling pulsed gently. Marissa looked as if she were getting in on it, slowly. She bit her lip and let the sleeves of her jacket cover her hands. She hugged herself. Delilah resided an eyebrow at her, and they both smirked, then snickered.
The food came swiftly, and the exhausted waitress could only curtly nod to them both, before returning to her work. She, as well as both of them, knew they only had forty five minutes until closing time.
The hamburger was squished between two buns, likely bought from a grocery store, as they looked identical to several brands Delilah had seen lining shelves. She pushed the top bun up to check what was under it. Pickles, onion, mustard, and mayo. It almost looked cartoonishly perfect, as if it had come off of factory lines not but moments ago. Marissa’s cheeks were stuffed in seconds, and she looked out the window as she chewed. Delilah took a bite. It had a pleasant tang from the mustard and pickles, cut by the mildness of the mayonnaise, which mixed nicely with the onion to create a consistent continuity of flavour. No one ingredient overpowered the other. The bun soaked up grease from the burger, which gave the meal its texture.
She ate at a moderate pace, and was finished her beer halfway through. The waitress returned with a second bottle, and she decided to cap herself off, despite the intense craving that followed. Two was enough. She told herself that it should be easy to stop now, but she had to distract herself by continuing to eat her food, drowning her thoughts in it.
Marissa, of course, was already finished her meal. She stared out the window. Delilah almost regretted how little they spoke, and yet she felt a closeness between them. The silence was comfortable, so long as she let herself surrender to it.
“‘M gonna go to the washroom.” Marissa sighed, then stalked off.
Delilah had finished her second beer, and her daughter hadn’t come back. Her low tolerance for alcohol was getting to her. She felt herself soothed by the buzz, but she lusted for drunkenness. She didn’t let herself have it, but that meant she had to focus on other things, like how long Marissa had been gone.
It had been long enough for anxiety to creep into her brain when she got a text asking her to come to the washroom. Delilah stood up, feeling her heart begin to race. She wandered over to the women’s washroom and knocked, before coming inside at Marissa’s confirmation.
The light of the room was warm and dark. She couldn’t see the floor. Her daughter backed her up against the orange tile wall, and wrapped her arms around her shoulders before kissing her. Her lips were wet, and pillowy. Delilah didn’t let herself think. She put her hands to Marissa’s ass, flipping up her skirt, and squeezed. She laced her fingers under her panties. Her lips were kind but hungry, soft and demanding. She forced her tongue inside to a moaning response. She rode the high of the secretive feeling and began to feel like a drunk teenager groping a hookup. Her daughter’s skin was smooth, and she couldn’t help but run her hands along her. Though Marissa had initiated, she was completely consumed by Delilah. She clung to her, shaking and mewling. Her tongue weakly matched her mother’s.
Delilah pushed her away briefly, just to whip her around as she reached under her skirt to grope her cock. Marissa whimpered, moaning quietly as she tried to keep her voice down. She could fit all of her daughter in her palm. It was all so delicate, and her panties were warm with arousal. She squeezed her balls enough to just barely hurt her. Marissa sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth. She was grinding her ass into her crotch involuntarily. Delilah savoured every second of it, and lifted her skirt to feel her more directly. When that wasn’t enough, she undid the button on her jeans to pull them down. Feeling excitingly dirty, she hooked her fingers into her panties and pulled them down too. She pressed her daughter back into her, and felt heady pleasure fill her as she began to grind on her again. She pulled Marissa’s panties down after the intoxication of feeling her plump ass against her became too much. They were skin to skin now. The alcohol wiped away all guilt for the moment, at least, for Delilah. She continued groping at her daughter’s crotch to a chorus of heavy panting from both of them.
I’m barely even drunk, she thought, I basically have no excuse. But she doesn’t know that. She probably thinks I’m wasted.
Delilah became even more honest with her hands. Marissa was squirming at how rough she was being.
“Fuck, you’re so cute.” She whispered, her voice husky in her daughter’s ear. She enunciated every word. “I’m so fucking lucky. I’m so lucky I…”
Had you. They both finished the sentence in their minds.
“Never even met a girl like me before you…” Her hand wrapped around Marissa’s dick. “It’s fucking exhilarating. I dunno. You’re just so…”
She spit into her hand, and then returned it to stroke the girl’s soft cock.
“M-mom,” she whimpered, defenceless.
She kissed her daughter’s neck.
“Fuck, guess I really am an alcoholic, but,” she giggled into her jugular, nibbling on it, “who cares, you’re just so fucking cute. I feel like a teenager again right now.”
She looped her other hand around her, along her pelvic bone at her hip, and pulled her flush against her. Her pussy throbbed, soaking her thighs. Delilah sucked on her neck while gently biting it, leaving a trail of hickeys. Marissa’s precum was enough to lubricate her hand that picked up in speed the further she went. She wondered if her daughter was embarrassed at how it couldn’t get hard right now. A measure of maternal desire returned, and she realized she was fucking her daughter in the washroom of a diner. She hadn’t even been blackmailed this time. She pushed herself back downwards into the secretive obsessive feeling, but in the back of her mind, she now felt a twinge of guilt. Her little girl was being pleasured by her. It was so wrong.
“S-sorry,” she stammered, as if it would erase this moment. Nothing could bring them back from this. “Shit, this is so wrong.”
She began to hesitate. Her rhythm slowed, and she felt her grip go limp.
“N-no, please, please!” Her daughter begged, desperate and honest.
Delilah let herself pretend her neediness was why she was continuing, and fully fell back into her lust, aided by returning to the intoxication she had pushed away to gain clarity. It was like slipping a ring on and off. She thought of her wedding ring, which she had thrown into the harbour after her divorce. She promised her and Marissa complete freedom, then. This was how they had chosen to spend it. She rubbed her index finger over the underside of her tip like it was her clit, and pulled her shirt out from the skirts waistband to grope her chest. She pinched her nipple in between her fingers, and gently pulled. Her daughter squirmed, her back pressed against Delilah’s torso. She was so worked up, she felt as if she could go on for hours.
Suddenly, Marissa broke out of her grip, pulled her panties up, and spun around. She put her hand against Delilah’s pussy, and, with no resistance, put her finger inside. She clenched immediately, sucking her finger in further. Soon enough, she inserted a second. Delilah could feel every last detail. She was in a state of hyper awareness.
Delilah didn’t realize how pent up she had become. Every touch felt electric, wired to a supremely sensitive frequency. She could feel her daughter’s fingerprints inside of her. Marissa crouched down, making sure to keep her fingers in her mother, and went down on one knee. It was an awkward position, and both were reminded of how much of an amateur she was. She pressed her tongue against her clit, and licked it at a ferocious pace. Her muscles twitched. Her hands had a white knuckled grip on her sleeves.
Delilah couldn’t help but force Marissa’s face further into her. Her tongue snaked across her clit, back and forth, over and over. It had been so long since she had even considered pleasuring herself, and much, much longer since she had actually experienced being pleasured. She rode her daughter’s face, her legs trembling. She felt as if reaching an absurd crescendo, the buzzing pleasantness of her daughter’s tongue, and the full feeling of her fingers inside her sent fiery waves up her body.
“You’re my daughter,” she thought out loud, a dirty feeling pooling in her core, as if she were just realizing it, “Oh, shit, Marissa!”
She covered her mouth with her hand, and screamed into it as she came, squirting on Marissa’s face. A thousand shockwaves of satisfaction enveloped her. The feeling was only amplified by the rippling drunkenness that seared through her.
Marissa hugged her briefly, reminding her how small she was in comparison. They kissed, and Delilah could smell her own sweetness on her. Then, Marissa rushed over to the sink to wash her face. Delilah did her pants back up, and sucked in quick, sharp breaths. Her daughter took her hand, lead her out of the washroom, and to their table. She finished her milkshake in one long pull. The waitress came over and delivered the check. Delilah realized she must’ve understood what was going on, as it was a full thirty minutes later. Guilt finally broke through the intoxication. She felt herself sobering up. Both mother and daughter looked at each other with haggard smiles as if nothing happened, but their expressions bore the proof of what had.
Delilah scolded herself, feeling an intense shame. Marissa stared out the window, eyes glassy. The bill came down to fifty eight dollars and seventy three cents, plus five extra for a tip. The diner closed as soon as they left.
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