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Subject: {ASSM} story Humiliated by Mommy pt 1 (F/M)
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Humiliated by Mommy part 1 by Naughtieboys naughtieboys@yahoo.com
(c) Em-bare-assed Press 1999
THIS STORY IS PURE FICTION (or unpure friction) FOR ADULTS ONLY. NO REAL
CHILDREN WERE HARMED IN THE PRODUCTION OF THIS STORY. BY READING FURTHER,
YOU ARE DECLARING THAT YOU ARE A CONSENTING ADULT.
Latest chapter at www.geocities.com/dommymommy
This work is copyright by the author. Commercial use is prohibited without
permission. Personal/private copies are permitted only if complete and
include the copyright notice. Archiving and reposting of this story
UNMODIFIED is permitted provided that no fee is charged, either directly or
indirectly (including so-called "adult checks") AND provided that this
disclaimer and attribution to the original author are maintained.
It is a sweltering June evening in Boston. I'm home after my first year of
college at UCLA. Only I am returning to a home I've never known. My mother
moved out of suburbia, into a high-rise over-looking Boston Harbor.
My mother, Felicia, has just returned from work, a modeling job, and gone
into the bedroom to slip into "something more comfortable".
"Oh, god," I thought. "It's not going to start all over again, is it? I'm
19 now, she's not going to treat me like she did when I was 16 ... or 13 ...
or 11."
I don't have to wait long to find out. Out she prances, as if it was the
most natural thing in the world for a mother to wear the skimpiest garments
imaginable in front of her teenage son.
"Well, what should we have for din-din?" she asks.
Why does she have to use words like din-din or veggies or undies?
Everything has to be so cutesy.
"Ahhh, I d-d-don't c-care," I stutter an answer. She's already doing it to
me. Turning me into a blithering idiot. A six year old enchanted by her
spell. I'm trying not to gawk at her, but that's no easy task. You see, my
mother is too beautiful to be a mother. There ought to be a law against it
or something. She's 40, but tells everyone she's 29. She even had a
driver's license and British birth certificate "adjusted" to reflect her
imagination. She's a model. The closest famous person she resembles is
Raquel Welch. My mother's has long dark hair, a large bust, and sexy
suntanned legs that go on forever. In contrast, I am skinny, have a fair
complexion and blonde hair.
I must confess, I'm a leg-man. Show me a pair of shapely, tanned thighs,
and I get an instant erection. And right now, my mother's luscious limbs
are on display. She came out wearing a white, see-through nightie, skimpy
bra, and a tiny pair of panties. The tan complexion of her skin sharply
contrasts with the white of her lingerie. Yes, I have a hard-on in my tight
jeans. I'm just hoping it doesn't show.
She doesn't call attention to the fact that she just came out dressed to
kill. No pirouette, no "How do I look?" That would be too direct. It's as
if she's communicating: "Here I am driving you crazy with lust, but we're
going to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary is going on. We're going
to talk about mundane things like dinner and TV while I tease you
mercilessly with my body."
"Justin, ooooooh Juuustinnnnnn....," she calls out in that sing-songy
inflection that I despise. "Honey, do you want mommy to fix you some nice
veggies?"
"Mom, I'm too old to be calling you mommy."
"You didn't. I was just saying *mummy*-it's a British expression. You
don't want to deprive mommy of having her little boy back, do you? It's
just for the summer, then you'll be back to college."
That set my mind reeling. What did she mean by "having her little boy
back?" Oh no, she isn't going to start playing *the game*, is she?
"Mom, we've got to talk."
"Of course dear. Let's sit down and have a nice chat," She replies.
She sits opposite me and slowly and sensuously crosses her legs, allowing my
eyes to feast on exquisite thighs as she hypnotically rocks her leg back and
forth. I am lost in the swaying limb, then quickly look up, only to see her
smile *that* smile. That teasing grin that accuses: I caught you looking at
mommy's legs.
My heart is pounding. Not just from the sexual tension, but from what I
want to talk to her about. I'm scared to death to confront her. Afraid of
how she'll react-fearing she'll be angry. Maybe afraid she'll cut me
off-end the little tease games that I've grown to love and hate. I've
practiced this conversation with my therapist a hundred times. Gone over
all the things I think she might say-covered all the bases.
"Mom, I'm really upset when you come out dressed like that...."
She cuts me off, acting truly surprised, "Ohhhhhhh, OK. I'll go change."
And with that, she gets up and wiggles her panty-clad fanny into the
bedroom. End of conversation.
*That* I wasn't prepared for.
She comes out wearing a long flannel robe that completely covers her. I
didn't even know she owned anything that modest. The rest of the evening is
unremarkable. Dinner, a little light chat and TV, then it's time for bed.
Mother yawning, "I've had it Justin. Time for me to turn in. Where do you
want to sleep?"
"What are my choices?" I ask very concerned.
"Weeellllll," she drags out the drama. "There is the bathtub or.," she
pauses, then quickly blurts out the alternative, "there's plenty of room in
mommy's bed." She commands, "Now tell mommy where you want to sleep."
My heart's pounding again. I feel confused. This offer is not about sex.
We've never had sex, and never will. That's too blatant. For my mother,
it's all about the seduction, the tease, the games.
I want so badly to be in the same bed with her. But no. I've worked so hard
in therapy to untangle myself from her. Besides, I need to jack-off, and
with her in the same bed, that's not going to happen. "I'll sleep on the
couch," I respond, although my tone communicates little conviction.
"Oh no you won't," she scolds. "I just had that couch reupholstered, and I
want to keep it nice and clean."
"All right then, I'll sleep in the tub."
"Fine," she admonishes. "I'll get you a pillow and blankie and you have a
good nights sleep."
She quickly gets me a pillow and blanket and adjourns to her bedroom. I'm
left holding them, feeling like I've just done the most awful thing
imaginable. I open the door to the bathroom and see she has a dozen or so
panties hanging from everywhere-the towel rack, the shower head, the knob on
the cabinet draw. Panties. Yellow, pink, purple panties. All silky and
small bikini panties. Did she do this knowing I'd end up sleeping in the
bathroom? Is she trying to drive me mad? I slam the door in anger. I
unsnap my jeans and as I'm lowering them, the door flies open. I look up in
shock with my jeans around my ankles. My penis is stretching my white
briefs to the limit. Mother enters, now in just white panties and bra, with
her hands on her hips, looking very cross.
"All right young man," mother chastises. "You can choose where you want to
sleep, but there will be no slamming doors in my house. Is that
understood?"
"Yes, mommy." I meekly reply.
Oh, shit. She did it. She regressed me to a naughty boy. She switches
from flirt to bitch so quickly that my head spins. She grabs my wrist and
leads me out of there. Oh my god, what's she going to do? She's not going
to spank me, she can't spank me. I'm way too old for a spanking. I have to
shuffle to keep up with her because my jeans are hobbled around my ankles.
"Mommy, I'm too old for a spanking." I whine.
"Oh, mommy had forgotten all about spankies," she says as she lightly taps
my tightie-whitie clad bottom with two of her fingers. "Mommy just needs to
go tinkle, and you didn't want to hang around and watch, now did you?"
Why did I have to mention spankings?
--
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