Message-ID: <21996asstr$946278601@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: "naughtieboys" Subject: {ASSM} story Humiliated by Mommy pt 1 (F/M) Lines: 167 X-Original-Message-ID: <846qve$rf5$1@bgtnsc01.worldnet.att.net> NNTP-Posting-Date: 27 Dec 1999 04:46:38 GMT X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2014.211 Date: Mon, 27 Dec 1999 02:10:01 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, apuleius 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? -- If you enjoyed this work, take a moment to email the author. Your comments are their only payment. 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