My Daughter's Addictions (Chapter 5 online now)

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My Daughter's Addictions (Chapter 5 online now)

Postby JaneyE » Mon Jul 31, 2017 10:25 pm

Hi All,

out of the blue, I was kissed by the Muse last week, and I ended up writing the first three chapters of a new short story.

For your convenience, I am going to post a copy here, but if you have a Tumblr account, I would appreciate very much if you like or reblog my story on Tumblr:

http://janeyegerton.tumblr.com/post/163 ... addictions

And now enjoy the first chapter. The next two will follow soon. (I'm fine-tuning them now.)

Don't forget to comment. If you enjoy the read, I will write more chapters. Right now I have ideas for about 6 chapters.
I love gloves! Ich liebe Handschuhe! Ik hou van handschoenen! Io amo i guanti! Eu amo luvas! Amo los guantes! Я люблю перчатки! Kocham rękawiczki! मैं दस्ताने प्यार
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My Daughter's Addictions — Chapter 1

Postby JaneyE » Mon Jul 31, 2017 10:27 pm

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My Daughter's Addictions — Chapter 1 (on Tumblr)

Addictions — my daughter’s got them all: smoking, wearing latex, internet pornography, excessive masturbation, partying and luring different women into her bed every night. At least she finally gave up biting her nails (her oldest addiction), but only because now she’s addicted to wearing gloves instead.

It all started when my husband died in a car crash. The hardest part about becoming a widow at such a young age was becoming the single mother of a fourteen-year-old girl. Willa had always been a good kid and actually remarkably easy to educate. But her dad’s death changed everything. Willa was devastated and she needed months of all my attention and love until she finally could make it through a full day without crying.

On her fifteenth birthday, about six months after my husband’s funeral, Willa was leading a normal life again, but she had become a taciturn and solitary teenager who spent all her free time in her bedroom, reading teenage-angst novels, browsing the internet or simply lying in bed while listening to music.

A few months later, however, her mood improved significantly when Mhairi Wallace moved to our city. She and Willa sat next to each other at school, and they became friends rather easily. Mhairi was a polite and friendly girl, and I was happy about the girls’ obvious fondness for each other; thus, I allowed Mhairi to visit us often after school, and sometimes she even stayed overnight.

Although I enjoyed seeing my daughter laugh and be a normal and unburdened teenager again, there was one thing about her friendship with Mhairi that worried me. I noticed that they increasingly locked up the door of Willa’s bedroom when they were in there. And whenever I knocked on the door, they took a long time to open it; also, their music became very loud between my knocking and the opening of the door.

They were obviously hiding something, but Willa swore they were not.

“Then why do you always need two minutes to open the door?” I asked.

“Because we’re concentrated on homework.”

Ha!

I asked many more times, but Willa was resilient to my questions. When I realised she was not going to reveal her secret, I went through her drawers while she was at school, but I didn’t find anything she would want to hide from me.

Well then, trust her, I thought. She’s always been a good kid after all.

But one day, I was putting clean underwear into Willa’s closet when I accidentally pushed the contents of the lowest drawer too far towards the back, and two pairs of socks fell behind the drawer.

I removed the drawer to retrieve the socks and was surprised that the stoppers that normally prevent you from pulling the drawer too far out were missing. The drawer could easily be removed to reveal a space about six inches deep below it. In that space, lying directly on the floor, I found a heap of paper bags that contained a multitude of items made of rubber.

I found a very short skirt, a skimpy and far-too-tightly-cut dress, a pair of leggings, a pair of long stockings, two pairs of elbow-length gloves, and two pairs of gloves so ridiculously long that they probably covered my kid’s whole arm all the way up to the shoulders.

Later I learned that I was supposed to say “latex” instead of “rubber”, but that was the first time I saw such a material being used for non-protective clothing. In principle, it was the same stuff my dish-washing gloves were made of, but Willa’s clothes were incredibly soft and smooth, and the rubber was very thin so I figured those gloves must fit her hands very tightly.

I was horrified by two questions: where was my daughter getting money to buy those clothes, or rather what was she doing to get that money; and what did she do with all the rubber stuff. A cold shiver ran down my spine as I remembered a website I had caught my late husband browsing once. He was looking at pictures of two women who were wearing nothing except for thigh-high boots and long gloves like Willa’s. They were lashing a naked man in a dog mask who was chained to a large wooden cross in a dungeon, and just remembering that scene made me retch.

I nearly went crazy wondering what my daughter could be doing in the afternoons I was not at home. After my husband’s death, I had been given permanent permission to work from home two days per week so I could look after Willa, but that means I didn’t see Willa until dinner time on three other days every week. She could be doing anything in that time. Was she going to a secret dungeon and playing dominatrix?

I confronted Willa as soon as she came home.

“Good to know I have no right to privacy in this house,” she said. She took the items from my hands, looking me directly in the eyes, without the smallest hint of remorse or sense of culpability.

That angered me the most.

“Don’t mess with me, Willa Holloway!” I said, not half as calm as I should have been to match her sangfroid. “Where did you buy that stuff? With what money? What do you need it for?”

“Internet. Mhairi paid for it. None of your business,” she said while folding her gloves neatly and putting them back into the paper bags. Every couple of seconds she looked up and shot me a reproachful look, as if saying: “How dare you touch my latex?”

First of all, I was relieved that she said internet, because I was already picturing her in the shady sex shop I had seen behind the supermarket; the one with heavy curtains at the entrance, and posters advertising individual video booths equipped with moisturising-cream dispensers.

As for Mhairi, I called her parents and it turned out that they had given Mhairi a credit card with a thousand-pound monthly limit, and they didn’t care what Mhairi used the card for as long as she didn’t surpass the limit. Still, the next time Mhairi visited us, I asked her not to buy Willa any more latex because I wasn’t comfortable with her giving Willa such expensive gifts.

As for why, Willa simply put her latex clothes into a drawer, not bothering to hide them any more, and said, matter-of-factly: “If you were to travel hundred years to the past, not many people would agree with how you dress. But it’s seen as normal now. Maybe in hundred years, latex clothes will be normal, too. I like latex, and there’s nothing wrong about that.”

“Why did you hide it then?”

“I don’t have to tell you everything I do. I’m not a kid any more.”

“Oh, yes, you are a kid!” I exclaimed. “And I’m the adult who is responsible for you. So explain away, or your latex goes into the rubbish bin.”

Willa sighed and rolled her eyes. Without saying a word, she turned on her laptop and opened the websites of various well-known fashion magazines. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, but Willa showed me pictures of actual high-fashion shows where the models were wearing shiny latex gloves and stockings along with normal clothes, and looking shockingly good. And I’m not talking about obscure designers nobody knows, but well-known brands with a good reputation.

Willa also showed me videos and pictures of mainstream singers wearing latex on their video clips or at concerts. Ariana Grande! I still remembered tiny Ariana Grande with her squeaky-mouse voice on Victorious. (Willa and I used to watch Victorious together when Willa was younger.) Ariana Grande had hardly grown up, and yet there she was on the screen, dancing around in a slutty dress and elbow-length gloves made of shiny latex. And the press wrote positively about her. Nobody seemed to think that wearing clothes made of the same material as bicycle tyre tubes was strange.

I decided to accept my defeat. I preferred to allow Willa to wear latex at home rather than force her to look for spaces outside of it where she could escape my control.

“All right,” I sighed. “I’m giving you permission to wear latex, but only at home. If you want to wear latex in public, you have to be Ariana Grande, Lady Gaga or a professional fashion model. And you’re neither of those.”

Willa smiled and thanked me for the permission.

“But only at home,” I insisted. “Repeat after me: only at home.”

“Only at home.” Willa rolled her eyes again. I honestly don’t understand how human eyes can withstand seven teenage years without permanent damage caused by excessive rolling.

“Remember: wearing latex is a privilege, not a right. If I ever catch you wearing latex outside, I will —”

“I understood, Mother! Only at home,” interrupted Willa. “Now go. There’s something I need to do before dinner.”

“Put something on,” I said, suddenly feeling curious. “I want to see what I just gave you permission to do. What’s easy to put on?”

Willa didn’t look especially motivated, but she stood up nonetheless and took a pair of black elbow-length gloves. As I had expected, putting those gloves on was no easy feat. She first rubbed her hands with talcum powder, then slid her hands into the long latex tubes with relative ease, but spent a good five minutes pulling and tugging here and there until there was no pocket of air anywhere between her skin and the gloves. Then she extended her hands towards me, showing off her gloves. Each finger and her forearms were wrapped in black latex so snugly that the gloves looked more like body painting than like actual garments.

“That’s it?” I asked. “Why aren’t they as shiny as on the pictures?”

“Because I have to polish them with a special liquid for that. But I’m not wasting the little I’ve got just to show you.” She stuck her finger into the cuff of her left glove and started pulling it down her forearm.

“Wait,” I said, placing my hand on hers to prevent her from pulling off the glove. It was strange to feel my kid’s hand covered in latex. “Why don’t you keep them on the whole evening, then? Are they not comfortable?”

“They are very comfortable. I could wear these gloves all day,” said Willa. “But I don’t want to wear them just because you tell me to.”

“Well then, do what you want,” I said, turning around. “Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes.”

I left her room without looking back. Half-an-hour later, she came to the kitchen. She was still wearing her latex gloves, and they were shiny now.

I took her hand to have a close look at the glossy latex. It was shiny like wet polished marble, and the liquid she had used gave it a sharp (but not unpleasant) smell.

“Are you done?” she asked. She couldn’t look me in the eyes.

I let go of her without comment because I could tell that she was self-conscious about wearing those gloves in front of me.

It was not easy for me either. I had hoped if I saw her wearing elbow-length latex gloves once, then I would realise that it was not so strange. But it was strange, and I had a hard time accepting it.

However, the initial discomfort lasted only a few days and we both ended up getting used to it — Willa to wearing latex at home, and me to witnessing it. I don’t recall seeing her in the skirt or the skimpy dress, but she started wearing her gloves for a couple of hours on a daily basis, and it seemed to me that she kept her gloves on for a little bit longer every day.

After two or three months, the first thing Willa did when she came home from school was going to her bedroom and putting her gloves on, even before coming to the kitchen or the living room to greet me; and she didn’t take her gloves off until she went to bed. Sometimes she also slept with gloves on, which means that on some weekends she could go up to sixty uninterrupted hours wearing elbow or shoulder-length latex gloves.

Willa also liked to wear latex stockings under her jeans every now and then, and a combination that she often wore on Sundays consisted of latex leggings, a regular cotton t-shirt, and shoulder-length latex gloves. That particular combination looked very comfortable and, for some reason, I liked seeing Willa wear it.

Mhairi also started to wear latex openly when she was visiting us. Her collection was larger than Willa’s. She had gloves of at least six different colours, and also some tops and shirts that were very feminine and wouldn’t have been fetishy if they had not been made of latex.

Gradually, I got used to seeing the girls wear latex gloves all the time. Though perhaps “got used” is too strong a word. What actually happened is that I learnt to accept it, and that I admitted that the girls looked very cute wearing those beautiful latex clothes. But I couldn’t understand why they liked it.

I’ve always wondered how women in the nineteenth century used to feel. I once read that high-society ladies used to have different kinds of gloves for each thing they did — gloves for sitting in the garden, gloves for lunch, gloves for horse riding in the afternoon, gloves for tea time, gloves for sitting in the garden, different from the ones they had on when they sat in the garden in the morning, gloves for dinner, and even light cotton gloves for sleeping so their fair skin would be protected. In the end, they were gloved at virtually all times, and that used to be normal. I always had pity with them and was glad that I was born in a century in which women can go to work in skimpy flower dresses and sandals on hot summer days.

My daughter was born in the twenty-first century, and yet she voluntarily chose to live like a nineteenth-century woman, wearing gloves all the time.

Sometimes I was painfully aware of how those skin-tight gloves became a natural element of Willa’s life.

I observed how she started to eat everything with fork and knife so that her gloves wouldn’t get dirty. I remember how she loved to eat fried chicken with her hands when she was a child; how she delightfully broke the bones apart and how she ate every last bit of meat that stuck to each individual bone until nothing edible was left. But then she started to wear gloves during lunch, and she ate chicken with fork and knife, and at the beginning she didn’t manage to get all of the meat, but as time progressed she learnt to bare the bones with the same accuracy as before.

I was amused by how, if I asked Willa to do the washing up, she used to don regular rubber gloves on top of the ones she was already wearing. And when she had finished the chore, she pulled the rubber gloves off, threw a quick look at her latex-covered hands to make sure they were clean, and carried on with her day as if what I had just witnessed was nothing out of the ordinary.

I was intrigued by what she did in the bathroom because it didn’t sound like she took her gloves off before her business and put them back on afterwards, but when she came out, she was still wearing her shoulder-length gloves, and when I inspected her gloved hands once, they looked and smelled clean.

“Come on, Mum!” she said. “I’m not a wild animal. I do wash my hands when I go to the bathroom. Don’t you?”

I was also fascinated by how she did her homework wearing those gloves. The gloves didn’t reduce her dexterity in any way. She continued to write and draw as fast and easily as before, and the results didn’t lack legibility.

All in all, I came to realise that those long latex gloves were like a second skin to my daughter, and she was happy. And strangely, I secretly took delight in the fact that I had allowed her to be who she wanted to be.

Crisis averted, all was good again.

Or so I thought. I just didn’t know that that tiny latex crisis was only the beginning.
I love gloves! Ich liebe Handschuhe! Ik hou van handschoenen! Io amo i guanti! Eu amo luvas! Amo los guantes! Я люблю перчатки! Kocham rękawiczki! मैं दस्ताने प्यार
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Re: My Daughter's Addictions

Postby violet666 » Tue Aug 01, 2017 1:02 pm

Hi Jane, I was happy to read the first chapter, I really enjoyed it and I'm looking forward to what will be in the next sections. The six chapters are the minimum, the ten sounds better :)
Ps: Surely you are not Jane Austen's descendant?
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Re: My Daughter's Addictions

Postby glovex » Tue Aug 01, 2017 1:32 pm

mhhhhhh, can't wait for the next chapter :P
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Re: My Daughter's Addictions

Postby JaneyE » Tue Aug 01, 2017 4:15 pm

violet666 wrote:Hi Jane, I was happy to read the first chapter, I really enjoyed it and I'm looking forward to what will be in the next sections. The six chapters are the minimum, the ten sounds better :)
Ps: Surely you are not Jane Austen's descendant?


Ten? Now, now, don't get greedy. Let's see if you like the second chapter first. Coming soon. ;-)
I love gloves! Ich liebe Handschuhe! Ik hou van handschoenen! Io amo i guanti! Eu amo luvas! Amo los guantes! Я люблю перчатки! Kocham rękawiczki! मैं दस्ताने प्यार
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Re: My Daughter's Addictions

Postby GloveLover1 » Tue Aug 01, 2017 8:13 pm

Loved the first chapter can't wait to see what's next! :)
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Re: My Daughter's Addictions

Postby weasel2000 » Wed Aug 02, 2017 1:24 am

Oh wow...I love your writing, can't wait for the next chapter...
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Re: My Daughter's Addictions

Postby dopefish » Wed Aug 02, 2017 3:53 pm

Janey I love your writing. Have you ever done anything longer than the family business? Every so often I feel like writing something but I guess I'm lazy. I have a draft started but I'm not sure it would be interesting to read.
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Re: My Daughter's Addictions

Postby Kelliejayne » Wed Aug 02, 2017 9:48 pm

Hey Jane that was really good I really enjoyed the first chapter can't wait for the next! Thanks
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Re: My Daughter's Addictions

Postby JaneyE » Wed Aug 02, 2017 10:47 pm

dopefish wrote:Janey I love your writing. Have you ever done anything longer than the family business? Every so often I feel like writing something but I guess I'm lazy. I have a draft started but I'm not sure it would be interesting to read.


Hi, Family Business is actually quite long. If you format it as a "proper" book, it's nearly 300 pages. I worked on it for 1½ years. (It would have been 3 years if I would have tried to publish it traditionally, i.e. on paper.) So, no, I haven't written anything longer than that. It is my dream to publish a novel sometime in the future. It will be probably be about the same length as Family Business, but I don't think it will be about fetishes.

Anyway, I'm glad that you enjoy my style. You can't imagine how happy that makes me. Since I have a day job completely different from writing, I cannot promise speed, but there still is a lot to come. I'm currently drafting 4 projects related to gloves and other fetishes. I don't have much time, but I have lots of ideas.

Also, you are right — writing is not for lazy people. It is very easy to START writing when you are inspired. Then you quickly write a lot of dialogue, and many juicy bits here and there, and then finally you've got it "out of your system" (you've had your writing orgasm), but it turns out the piece is far from finished. You still have to write the bits in-between, and that's the hardest part because you have to tie up lots of loose ends, and make sure there are no timing inconsistencies, and, and, and... It's the equivalent of cuddling after sex, but cuddling that takes 10 times more time and effort than the sex itself. And if you're very ambitious, all that effort will deliver you only the first draft, and I'm too lazy to write down what you need to do to elevate that first draft to publication quality.

However, if you have written something that you would like to share on the forum, just do it. I think nobody expects perfect publication-quality pieces. We are all amateurs and happy enough with first drafts. And regarding that first draft, you will never finish it if you don't actually WANT to publish it. Deciding to publish is what pushes you to finish the first draft, so what are you waiting for? And the most important part: HAVE FUN writing! :wave:
I love gloves! Ich liebe Handschuhe! Ik hou van handschoenen! Io amo i guanti! Eu amo luvas! Amo los guantes! Я люблю перчатки! Kocham rękawiczki! मैं दस्ताने प्यार
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