Don’t Be Gentle

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I have to laugh when I read all that Mother’s Day crap about how you should honor your dear old mom because, after all, sonny boy, where would you be without her, blah blah and blah blah blah blah. Well, without my mom I might not be here, but now that I am she damn well knows it, and she has for the last two years.

It was tough for her when I was a kid, I admit that, because my father headed for the hills when I was just a baby. But she was the kind of overprotective parent that saw every sniffle as pneumonia and every drop of rain as leading straight to the flu. My playmates were “ruffians” that I was to avoid if they (gasp!) wore T-shirts and jeans instead of proper clothing. I was to come straight home after school every day, so that I shouldn’t be tempted to start running with gangs or doing drugs. (Nothing was further from my mind.) And so on. Did I resent this? Does a bear shit in the woods?

The results of all this were that I left home as quickly as I could after high school, and I didn’t see or talk to my mother for years. But eventually she found out where I was living, got a hold of my phone number, and started calling me.

At first I just put her off with stupid chitchat. Then I got fed up with her obsessive phone calls: she was like an old girlfriend that still wants to talk over your relationship with her even after it’s dead. So I started telling her exactly how I felt, first just straight out, and finally in the most brutal language I could use, just to get her to stop. But no. She still called me. Even after I changed my number to something unlisted, she tracked me down again (the wonders of the Internet, I guess).

Finally it dawned on me that she actually wanted me to berate her, to call her bad names, to tell her in immense detail exactly how she’d fucked up my life. She was getting off on it. My poor dear mother was nothing less than a masochist.

Well, you should have seen what went down the day I decided to test that theory. I made a few little preparations, then drove back the two hours or so to my home town. Since she knew where I lived, then if she really wanted to see me as much as she claimed, she could have driven over any time. But no. Why? I suspected I knew exactly why.

When I got to the house, of course she let me in. We sat down on the living-room sofa and started talking, and pretty soon the talking turned to yelling. Finally the right moment came, and I snarled at her, “I’ve figured you out, you stupid neurotic bitch. You’re getting off on all this drama. We talk and talk, and I tell you how badly you fucked up with me, and I just bet it’s making you wet.”

If I’d been wrong … but I wasn’t wrong. It only took one look into her eyes and the blush spreading over her face to know that I was exactly right. She was so shocked that I knew her true feelings gaziemir escort bayan that for once she couldn’t get out a single word. So I took the initiative again.

“Mom, if you actually want me to hurt you, then we’ve been going about this all wrong. I’m sick of fucking around.” She looked like nothing more than a doe in my headlights. “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to take off your clothes, right now, every stitch. And I’m going to give you the punishment you damn well deserve. And then, well, we’ll see what happens.”

She didn’t protest or say anything, but she didn’t move to obey me, either.

“Don’t make me wait,” I growled ominously.

Slowly, very slowly, she got up from the sofa, unzipped her dress, and pulled it to her feet. It wasn’t a striptease at all, more like getting undressed in the doctor’s office. Then she undid her bra, letting her large saggy breasts emerge, and then used both hands to remove her panties. She stood holding her hands strategically over her tits and mound, but I had already seen that her nipples were standing straight up. More confirmation of my theory.

“I didn’t know you had it in you to be like this,” she said.

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Mom.” She hung her head.

I got up and examined her body from all angles. For a 41-year-old, she really wasn’t bad, because she’d had to do a lot of work on her feet while she was raising me, and it had kept her in shape. I was between girlfriends right now, and playing this little game with my mom would kill two birds with one stone. I would be able to put her in her place at last, and get my rocks off at the same time.

“Very good,” I said, as I circled her body like a shark circling its prey. I reached into my pocket and curled my fingers around one of the things I’d bought for this little trip. “Look straight ahead,” I said. Trembling, she complied. I brought the handcuffs out and quickly grabbed her hands behind her back and cuffed her before she could react. She whirled in surprise, but it was too late — her hands were securely bound.

“Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I know it’s a bit late, but I happened to go shopping, and as soon as I saw these I knew they were so you.”

She shook her arms and struggled with the cuffs a little, as if she couldn’t believe they were really there. “I can’t — I can’t get out of them,” she said softly, half statement, half question.

“That’s right, Mom. This is really happening. Now here are my next set of orders. You’re to go downstairs to the basement, and bring me one of the old paddles from my old ping-pong set.” I paused. “Remember: if you don’t make me happy, I don’t have to let you go. The keys for the cuffs are still safely in my car.”

“I — but my hands –“

“You’re escort gaziemir a smart woman, Mom. You always thought of something when you were raising me. You’ll think of something now.”

She slunk off to the kitchen and down the stairs, and a couple of minutes later I heard some bumping and crashing around. I realized she wouldn’t have been able to turn the lights on. Then there was a loud clatter as something hit the floor. She’d had to knock the paddle off the peg, I figured, and then pick it up. I enjoyed the thought of how she must have looked bending over to retrieve the paddle.

Sure enough, she came back a minute or two later with the rubber-covered wooden paddle clenched between her teeth. She dropped it on the sofa next to me. I picked her up and pulled her down and over my knee.

“I never punished you with anything like that,” she whined, but without too much conviction.”

“That’s simple,” I said. “I didn’t deserve it. But you do.”

To that she actually nodded. So I gave her ten or fifteen whacks on her bare bottom, enough to make her squirm back and forth trying to evade it, though she didn’t make a sound. Then I felt between her legs, and sure enough her cunt was dripping. My fingers came away drenched with her juices, and I wiped them casually on her thigh. “Don’t ever lie to me,” I said warningly.

“No,” she said, breathing a bit hard. “Never.”

I beat her for a long time. When her butt got too sore to take any more punishment, I switched to her thighs, making her spread her legs wide for me so I could get to the sensitive insides. By this time she couldn’t control the groans of pain that were spilling out of her open mouth. Then I made her get up — she was shaking almost too much to stay on her feet, but I waved the paddle in her direction and she managed it — and took pot shots at her wherever I felt like it. I paddled her tits gently, threatened enormous whacks on her butt that I wound up pulling back on (I didn’t want to leave bruises — after all, she was my mother), and generally teased her with the toy until her cream was running down her legs and her blush extended all the way to her nipples.

Finally the steel rod in my pants became too distracting for me to ignore it any longer. I tossed the paddle on the floor and pushed her up against the back of the sofa. “Any last words before I fuck you, Mom?” I expected some complaints about how she couldn’t do the nasty with me because that would be incest. But what she said, to my great delight, was “Don’t be gentle.”

I have to admit that I was in a bit of a rush. I didn’t even bother to take my clothes off that first time, just unzipped my pants and stuffed my dick right up my mother’s cunt from behind. No refinements, just a basic stand-up slave bondage fuck. It’s not like gaziemir escort she needed any more foreplay to get off after the whole-body beating I had administered. But when I was halfway to my climax, I realized that it was probably better that way anyhow. Leaving my clothes on while she was completely naked just emphasized that I was her master, and I wanted her to know she was being fucked by her master.

Her moaning and panting told me that she was learning her lesson well, and when she came around my cock without so much as a single fingertip on her clit, she broke down in sobs that combined equal parts of humiliation and relief. Right after that, I shot my full wad inside her. The orgasm blew my mind too, though I was very careful not to show it. I couldn’t afford to let my mother think she was boss even for a single instant.

Ever since that day, my mom has never given me one bit of trouble. I gave up my job and apartment and moved back home: it was no trouble finding a new and better-paid job in my own home town. I have laid down certain rules: she is never to wear underwear when she goes out, she is always to be completely naked when she’s in the house, and of course whatever I want, I get whenever I want it. I had plenty more equipment — a whip, a cane, dildos and butt plugs, and all the rest of the products of the sex-toy industry — in the trunk of my car.

When I decided it’s time to add to the supply, I humiliate my mom by making her go to the “adult shop” and buy a new device herself. I could just order them on-line, but why deprive ourselves of the additional pleasure of the shame she feels when she’s forced to buy a twelve-inch realistic black dildo or a new pair of ben-wa balls? I always insist that she wear her sluttiest clothes on these runs, and I don’t even necessarily use the toy on her right away when she returns. That’s refined cruelty for you.

My mother always addresses me as “Master”, that is, when I allow her to talk at all rather than just barking like a dog or oinking like a pig. Sometimes, to go along with this theme, I make her fix an elaborate meal and serve me at the table, and then I put the cuffs on her, put the same meal on her plate on the floor, and watch as she has to eat it with her lips and teeth alone. These scenes are practically always followed by immediate fucking — doggy-style, of course.

Sometimes I let my mother speak to me more freely, and the things she says often give me clues about the further course of our relationship. We have a long way to go. I think that since she made my life hell for eighteen long years, I’m going to spend at least that amount of time on my elaborately crafted and artistic revenge. I figure that the beatings, the bondage, the humiliation, the fucks and anal fucks, and the blow jobs will give me some relief for long enough to let me think of some truly elaborate things to do to her. And of course, the look in her eyes shows me as plain as day that all this is exactly what she wants.

I’ve made some new friends at my job. I wonder if it’s time to let a few other carefully selected guys have a crack at my dear old mother?

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