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I’m an erotic computer graphics artist. My “gargirls” are fantasy creatures who love to torture and torment their victims, but always with a touch of mischief Just thought you might like seeing my unique stuff. This isn’t an “ad”, I’m sincerely tryin to reach out to various groups on the Net who might like and appreciate my stuff. Anyway, feel free to browse the gallery. I have a few pics not posted at the site that are more BDSM. Thanks

I’d like to share a fantasy about my mother. It doesn’t involve any sex, so anyone queasy about incestuous themes can rest easy. However, it does involve a prolonged period of hand spanking and face slapping. I suspect it’s pretty tame. I don’t really consider myself much of a BDSM type (I suppose those who are really into this stuff would call me a “vanilla”). But it’s what turns me on (although I’m rather fond of any older woman/younger man stuff, even if it doesn’t involve discipline elements).

This is the first erotic story I have ever written. I’ve had many fantasies over the years, some involving my mother, some involving my stricter female teachers, and some involving completely imaginary personages that I invent in my mind, but never before have I actually put one down on paper. I’ve done a bit of other writing, but not erotic writing.

I don’t wish to reveal too much about myself. I’ll I’m prepared to say is that I’m a single male, in my mid-30s, who still lives with his parents.

A little background information to the story itself (which I think I’ll call Some Long Overdue Maternal Discipline: when I was a boy, my mother occasionally gave me spankings interspersed with scoldings punctuated by face slaps. She would pull my pants down and spank me on the bare bottom. (I would always be made to bend over for this; I don’t think she ever spanked me OTK once.) Although I did not consciously enjoy the experiences at the time (which were forced on me against my will, as tends to be in the nature of childhood chastisements), I used to feel very aroused afterwards when thinking about them. To this day, I feel no anger or resentment about what happened; only arousal. And yet, my mother never did anything overtly sexual. Still, I think that she may have been a little excited by it. I remember one time, she threatened to wallop my backside over something, but then I managed to prove my innocence, and she had to let me off. But she sounded quite genuinely disappointed about it, almost as if she had been looking forward to carrying out the threatened spanking. And to this day, she sometimes gives me a playful smack on the bottom or even a light face slap (which is more of a caress, really) and jokingly tells me I “need a good hiding”. She does this to my dad too. So I can’t help wondering if maybe she doesn’t get just a little turned on by spanking and slapping, although she would never in a million years admit to such a thing.

As I got older, I tended to resist my mother’s efforts to physically punish me, and eventually, as I grew physically bigger and stronger than her, she gave it up. She could still be emotionally controlling at times, but I won a few battles with her on that front too. Now, even though I do live in the same house as my parents, I lead a pretty separate life to them, although we still have nice times of sharing as a family.

All right then, on with the actual story now (which is wholly a work of fiction):

A plume of smoke arose from behind the toaster that had been placed a bit too close to the kitchen curtains. The next thing I knew, a tongue of fire was following it. How many times had my mother warned me not to put the toaster too close to the kitchen curtains when I was using it? I hadn’t meant to, but somehow I had unconsciously pushed it a little too close to the curtains, and now, to my utter horror, they were catching fire!

“Bloody hell!” I exploded. I knew I had to act fast before the fire caught hold. My glass of milk was still half full, so I grabbed that and tipped it over the inflamed curtain, which had not yet caught alight properly. I then quickly filled the glass up with water from the kitchen tap and poured it over the fire again. Luckily, the fire was still only in its infancy and my rather feeble efforts to douse it were successful. But some smoke had spread out from the immediate scene of the mini-blaze and was now wafting through the kitchen. It soon reached the smoke detector, which began to emit a series of piercing shrieks, as smoke detectors are wont to do when they detect smoke.

The racket roused my mother, who was still in bed asleep. (My father had got up well before either of us and was probably already at work.) She came bustling down to the kitchen to see what the to-do was. In her mid-60s, she had short hair and was wearing a full-length nightie. She wasn’t really what I would describe as sexy, being of average height and build, and a little on the plump side, but she looked younger than her years, with quite smooth skin and hardly any wrinkles. Her hair was going increasingly grey though, although there were still a few dark patches. There wasn’t really any white as yet.

Even though she hadn’t yet put her glasses on (both my mother and I are short-sighted), it wasn’t long before she realised just exactly what had happened. She turned to me with an expression of horror that was rapidly replaced by one of anger.

“My Godfather!” she gasped. “The house could have burnt down! We might have been burned alive! How could you do such a stupid thing!”

“I’m so sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t realise it was that close to the curtains. I didn’t …”

“I have told you time and time again to be careful with that toaster,” my mother shouted - in fact, almost screamed. “Why do you have to be so stupid and careless? Why do you have to be so absent-minded? Why can’t you grow up a bit and stop being such a silly little boy?” She surveyed the damage (which wasn’t too bad, apart from a nasty black mark on the curtain and some lingering smoke that made us both cough), then continued: “If you still were a little boy, I would take your pants down and wallop your backside!”

She spoke these last three words with extra vehemence, and her eyes flashed. Suddenly, a mad impulse possessed me, and before I could stop myself, I blurted out:

“Well actually, maybe you should.”

My mother, who had just opened her mouth to yell something else at me, closed it again and stared at me in amazement.

“I beg your pardon?” she finally managed to say, in the sort of tone she might have used if I had been insolent to her.

“Ah, well,” I continued, barely able to believe what I was saying, “what I’ve just done now was really, really stupid, and if I hadn’t managed to put it out when I did, the whole house could have burnt down. Well, uh, I think I should be made properly accountable for it. Just saying sorry really isn’t enough in this instance. I need to be properly punished for this.”

My mother looked confused. “I don’t understand,” she said, her voice now quite soft - almost too soft. “You actually want me to smack your bottom like I used to do when you were little?”

“Just this one time,” I answered. “It’s different now, in that I am agreeing to it. I am giving my consent for you to wallop my backside, as you put it before, because I see this as a way that I can show just how sorry I am for my carelessness. Of course, if you just said in the heat of the moment, and you don’t really want to do it, that’s fine. We’ll just forget this conversation ever happened. But if you really do want to go through with this, I’m willing to let it happen. I do ask one thing though: that you only use your hand. That’s how you always did it when I was little, and it just wouldn’t feel right any other way.”

My heart was racing. I had just asked my mother to spank me! Never before had she spanked me with my consent, and certainly not at my request. And it had been a good 20 years since she had last raised her hand to me in anger. I now nervously watched as my mother stood thoughtfully, obviously mulling over what I had just said, and perhaps debating with herself whether she really did want to spank her son again. Spanking me as a child was one thing, but spanking me as a fully-grown man, even one with very young looks due to late puberty, was quite another.

Eventually, she said, almost to herself: “I used to slap your face sometimes too. I always thought that naughty boys deserved red faces as well as red bottoms. So do you want me to slap your face again as well?”

I answered almost without hesitation: “Do whatever you feel is best. If you think I should be slapped in the face as well as smacked on the bottom, then I give you permission to do that too. But although I am allowing this, and agreeing to it, I think you should take charge of the actual punishment process, and decide where, when and how long it will occur. That is, if you really want to. The ball’s in your court now. It’s your decision to make.”

My mother said nothing for a while. She just stood there for what seemed like an eternity. My heart continued to race along. I took a deep breath or two, but that didn’t seem to help. My face was flushed as if my mother had given it a good slapping already. I felt a mixture of fear and excitement as I contemplated what might lie before me.

Finally my mother spoke. Her voice was still soft, but there was an authority there that signalled her intentions. She said two simple words - quite innocuous, really, but the way she said them sent a little chill through me:

“Wait there.”

She then went out of the kitchen, but returned only a couple of minutes later. She was still in her nightie, but had now put on her glasses and brushed her hair. Her face wore an expression of grim determination. I had seen this same expression at times in the past when my mother was in a punishing sort of mood.

“Come with me,” she said in the same quiet, commanding voice as before. I followed her along the kitchen and along the corridor to the spare bedroom, which was furnished with a simple but made-up bed and a couple of chairs - one at the foot, and one near the head. Also near the head, but on the other side, was a small wooden bedside table.

My mother now spoke again, in the same quiet, commanding voice as before.

“Take off your glasses, and put them on that bedside table. Then I want you to take your pants and underpants down, and bend over the bed.”

So there it was. For the first time since I was a child, I was about to be subjected to some maternal discipline. I was to be spanked on the bare, just like when I was a boy. And I was to have my face slapped, which is why my mother wanted me to remove my glasses. They wouldn’t get in the way now.

“Come on, hurry up!” my mother barked as I hesitated for a few moments. I felt like retorting, “All right, already!”, but kept silent. Now was not a time to rebel. Now was a time to submit to my mother’s authority. For the next little while, I was just her naughty boy who needed his bottom and face reddened. She was now in control of proceedings.

As quickly as I could, I removed my glasses and laid them on the bedside table. Then I turned my back on my mother, dropped my trousers and underpants as ordered, and bent over the bed, resting my hands on the coverlet. My backside was now exposed and ready for its first spanks in some 20 years.

My mother wasted little time in getting on with it. That initial spanking must have involved 25-30 good hard hand spanks. As she spanked, my mother scolded me for my carelessness and stupidity, and ordered me to never do what I had done with the toaster again.

Somewhat to my surprise, I didn’t cry, even though my mother was really letting me have it. I didn’t really feel any emotion particuarly. But I did feel aroused, and amidst the punishment I was getting, hoped my erection wouldn’t be too noticeable in the position I was in.

Eventually, my mother let up on now quite red bottom. “Stand up, pull your pants up, turn around and face me,” she ordered.

I was grateful that I could pull my pants up and thus cover my quite hard penis. Although I was finding this experience arousing, I didn’t want it to turn into an openly sexual encounter. This was my mother after all, not my mistress. I had done something really dumb, and was simply suffering a just punishment for it. That was the bottom line, so to speak.

Without my glasses on, I couldn’t see my mother that well. But she was close enough to me that I got a pretty good look at her right hand as she raised it, paused for a couple of seconds, and then let rip with a slap that echoed throughout the room.

Unlike when she had been spanking me, she didn’t say anything now, just raised her hand again and delivered another slap. This continued another four or five times. The slaps stung a bit, but what I mostly felt was a pleasant warm sensation in my left cheek. Indeed, far from feeling fear as my mother got ready to slap me again, I actually felt a slightly pleasant sensation, especially at the moment when she paused for those two seconds immediately before once more applying her open palm forcefully to my face.

I actually felt a little sorry when the slapping stopped after only six or seven times and my mother ordered me to sit in the chair at the end of the bed. She then sat on the bed, facing me.

Without my glasses, I couldn’t see her face very well, so I couldn’t get an idea of what kind of emotions were coursing through her at this moment. Did she feel at all excited by this? Was she still angry at me for what had transpired earlier, or had she now expended her fury? Was the punishment over, or was she just taking a breather?

“I think I’ve punished you enough for the toaster,” she said at length. Oh. So that was it then. “But” - oops, hang on - “I think there are a few other things you’ve done down through the years that I should wallop your backside and slap your face for.”

I couldn’t tell if she was making a statement or asking a question. After all, I had given her permission to spank and slap me for the toaster incident, but not for anything else. Clearly, she was keen for this to continue, but I think maybe she wanted to be sure it was what I wanted too. Although her voice held an air of command and authority, there did seem to be just a hint of doubt in it.

Momentarily then, I took charge again. “Mom,” I said in a steady voice, “just for today, you can spank and slap me as much as you see fit. I’ve done a few things and caused you some heartaches that maybe I should have been spanked for, so now’s your chance to punish me properly for those things. This only applies for today, mind. But as of now, I’m at your mercy. You’re in charge from here on in. I’m not going to make a fuss. Even if I do cry a little, don’t worry about it. A little crying never did anyone any real harm. In fact, it can do quite a lot of good. So, uh, yeah, take it away!”

My mother remained quite still for some minutes. I wished again that I’d had my glasses on at that moment so I could see her facial expression and get some idea of what she was thinking. When she finally did speak however, it was clear that my already warm bottom and face were about to get heated up some more.

“Very well then,” she said, almost icily. “Stand up again, and bend over.”

Almost eagerly, I obeyed. Once again, my mother smacked my bottom all over with her hand, scolding me for various misdeeds that she could call to mind. This time, she probably gave me about 40 smacks. My butt was getting pretty sore by now, but I was loving every minute of it. As before, my mother ordered me to pull my pants up when she was done spanking me. She evidently didn’t want to see my bits, and I was happy with that, because I didn’t want her to see my erection (not that I could entirely conceal the bulge, but at least it wasn’t too “in yer face” when my pants were covering it). Whether she was finding this arousing, I don’t know, but as I said previously, I wanted to keep this as a punishment session and not cross the line into any kind of sexual act. I’d have plenty of time to pleasure myself to these new memories later.

Whatever else my mother may have been experiencing, I suspect that she was enjoying the power and control that this situation afforded her, even if I had willingly surrendered it to her rather than her forcing her maternal authority on me as she had done in these sorts of scenarios when I was a boy.

Now it was time for another face-slapping session, and this time my mother gave me an even dozen. As before, these were given in silence (by contrast to the scolding that accompanied the spanking). There was also a certain rhythm to them that was almost hypnotic. My mother would slowly but surely raise her hand, pause for a second or two, then grimace a little as she slapped me. When the slap was completed, she would move her right hand, her “smacking hand”, back to her side, stare at me for some moments, then start the whole process over again. I felt like I could stand there and be slapped like this for hours.

But after my mother had slapped me for the 12th time in that particular session, she ordered me to sit back down in the chair at the end of the bed. “Just wait there!” she barked and left the room. She was gone for a good fifteen minutes, and I wondered what she was cooking up now. Or maybe she was just tidying the kitchen a bit.

To my surprise, when she returned, she held two piping hot cups of tea in her hand. As per usual, they had milk but no sugar. She offered me one, and I accepted it quite gratefully, but with a little surprise. Was it all over now? But then, I was still in the “punishment room,” as the spare bedroom had temporarily become, so maybe this was just an interlude.

“There’s not been that much damage done, really,” said Mom in quite a normal voice. She spoke to me now, not as a mother asserting authority over a miscreant child, but as one adult to another. She took a sip of tea, and continued: “The curtain is just a bit black, and the kitchen has a nasty smoky smell now, so I’ve opened the windows and tidied up a bit. The toaster looks a rather black too where the fire started, but I think it will still work. No damage was done to the electrics, and as you can see, I was able to make a cup of tea all right. But we’re very, very fortunate that nothing worse happened.”

She spoke this last sentence with some severity and gave me one of those “looks” that only a mother can give to a child who has really misbehaved. However, her glare was soon replaced by a look of concern as she studied my face, which was very red on the left side where she had so recently slapped it.

“Are you all right?” she asked worriedly.

“I’m absolutely fine,” I assured her with perfect truth. My erection had subsided now, although my balls felt a little sore from the lack of relief. They’d soon get better though. “Remember that I asked for it - quite literally! And you know what? I feel kind of cleansed now. So it’s all good.”

My mother nodded thoughtfully and sipped some more tea. I likewise imbibed some of the refreshing hot liquid.

“So, do you want me to start doing this more regularly now?” inquired my mother as she rested her cup in her lap. “It certainly doesn’t seem to have done you any harm. In fact, I don’t know why you used to make such a fuss about it before.”

“Because, back then, you were doing it to me against my will,” I explained. “Of course I was upset by that. Today is different. I have let you do this as my way, as a mature adult, of taking responsibility for my foolish actions. Believe me, I feel quite sick when I think at how close we came to losing our home and maybe even our very lives! Compared with that kind of horror, a little bit of spanking is nothing!”

My mother sipped some more tea and nodded thoughtfully. “So, do you want me to resume punishing you when you misbehave or do foolish things, like I used to do? Because I’d be more than happy to.”

There perhaps was the clearest indication that my mother had indeed enjoyed the punishment that had just transpired, and maybe it was also a subconscious admission that she had enjoyed it on some level when I was a boy.

It was my turn to be thoughtful as I sipped more of my own tea. What I said next could alter our relationship forever. I felt an urge to tell her that she now had my full and unreserved permission to spank and/or slap me any time she liked. I would once again surrender to her maternal authority, and accept her punishments unquestioningly, as and when she felt inclined to give them to me. She could slap me for something so minor as rustling the paper too noisily, or spank me for the slightest bit of back-talk. But unlike when I was a boy, this time, I would be allowing it of my own free will. And it would be as much for my pleasure as hers (not that I would admit that last bit to her).

But I wasn’t prepared to go quite that far. Such wholehearted submission really would turn my mother into a kind of mistress. I didn’t want that. Certain boundaries needed to be adhered to in order to keep the mother-son relationship intact.

However, I certainly didn’t want to rule out the possibility of future episodes of maternal discipline, so eventually I said:

“Like I said earlier, you can discipline me as much as you like today. I mean, if you don’t want to do it any more after this, that’s fine, but if you do decide I need some more punishment, then you just go for it. As to the future however, I think it should be decided on a case-by-case basis. Personally, I think that this sort of punishment should only be reserved for really serious things, and even then, there needs to be discussion first. So nothing happens after today without my say-so. Suffice it to say though, I don’t think today will be the last time that you have cause to punish me like this.” And with that, I gave her a little wink.

She uttered a short laugh. “All right then,” she said. She didn’t sound entirely happy. I think she had been hoping for a freer licence than that. Still, there was always the rest of today …

My mother drained her cup, waited for me to finish mine, and then went and got another cup of tea. After we had finished this second helping, she took my cup from me and said:

“I’d like to get dressed now, so you go and do whatever you’d like to do. But don’t go out of the house, because I haven’t punished you nearly enough yet!”

Her eyes glinted as she said she last words, and as I stood up, she gave my rear end a couple of firm swats to leave me in no doubt of her intentions to make the most of her opportunity to spank me today at least. But it was actually a while before she summoned me to for further discipline. After getting dressed, she did some washing and hung it out, and then we had lunch. After lunch however, she put on her stern look and voice of authority, and said simply, “Come with me.”

And so she led me back to the spare room and ended up spending the next two hours alternately spanking my bare bottom or slapping my face, punishing me for every wrong I had ever done her in the past two decades. Rather miraculously, I managed to keep my arousal hidden from her. Or if she did notice it, she didn’t say anything and certainly didn’t act on it. But she couldn’t really see it when I had my back turned to her, as I naturally did in my bent-over position. And every time she stopped a spanking and prepared for a face-slapping, she would make me pull my pants up. I didn’t really cry much - I think my near-constant state of arousal might have masked the pain to some extent. But in any case, the pain tended to subside fairly quickly, to be replaced by that lovely warm feeling you get after a good spanking. However, the fact that I was willingly submitting to this, rather than having it forced on me, meant that the experience was much more enjoyable than it was traumatic or painful.

Once my father got home, there were no further punishment sessions. Those two morning and afternoon sessions had sufficed. But boy, did I have some wonderful new memories to jerk off to now! As yet, I haven’t been spanked again and my mother and I are pretty well back to how we were before. But things will never be quite the same again. And being as absent-minded as I am, I can’t help feeling that I will do some other really daft thing, and then Mom will have cause to get mad with me again. At that point, I have a feeling that only an extended session of discipline at my mother’s hand will put things right …

Special Needs by vertigo_blues06©

I awoke with a need between my legs that was driving me crazy. It was different…this wasn’t going to be fixed with toys or even with my four-legged friend. I needed a human touch.

After laying here a few minute and feeling my nipples grow hard and letting my fingers feel the wetness between my legs, I got up and showered. And then put on the shortest skirt I could find in my closet…I had already decided not to wear my panties today.

I put on my light blue silk blouse, and looking down at my bare breast I decided to go without a bra. I stood and admired how I looked in the mirror, my hard nipples poking out of the material of my silk blouse. I couldn’t help but touch them…

My four-legged friend sat at my feet, and I knew what he wanted, but it wasn’t gonna be today; today I needed more. I slipped on my sandals and grabbed my keys and I was out the door. I could feel the cool breeze pass over my wet, naked pussy as I got in the car and headed to the local mall.

As I entered the supermarket at the mall I got a few looks—some good some not—but it excited me, so I didn’t care. I grabbed a cart and went up one isle and down the other, like a huntress on the prowl. Each time I saw a potential “victim” I would reach for something on the top shelf knowing it made my skirt ride up even higher and my nipples pop out more…I knew I was being a slut but my need had to be met.

I couldn’t go home without it…I could feel my juices building in me…and my pussy was screaming for attention…

I heard a man’s voice as I was stretching up…he offered to help and then we got talking as we walked around the store. We went through the cashier together, and he offered to carry my packages, what few I had, to my car.

While looking for my keys he introduced himself, “My name is John,” he said.

With a smile I said, “Hi John, my name is Sally. Nice to meet you.” We both chuckled a bit and then I realized I had locked my keys in the car. John offered to drive me home to get my spare.

I sat in the seat and smiled to myself; the plan swung into action. As we drove we chatted—nothing serious or sexual, just small talk. I told John to turn in here and he looked at me and smiled.

John realized there was more to this situation when he got to the house. It was a five-minute walk from the mall. Hell, she could have walked there to get the keys, John thought…he knew there was a reason for her actions.

I invited John in while I looked for the keys, obviously they were going to be in all the low places. Bending down and making sure my back was to him…I could hear him breathing heavy…

John couldn’t take it anymore. I had made sure part of my ass was showing as I bent over. I knew he was looking at my long slender legs that seemed to never end. Suddenly John grabbed me turned me around and kissed me long…and hard.

His tongue shot into my mouth and our tongues fucked with such force we both moaned…I wrapped my arms around him and ground my pussy into his hard cock. I had to have this…I needed it, I thought to myself.

We could no longer conceal the moans that escaped our mouths simply from kissing.

I tried to talk but the only words that came out of my mouth were, “Please…fuck me…please, I beg you.”

I was shocked at the intensity of the words flowing from my mouth.

John smiled now; I had opened the door for him to do as he pleased.

John sat on the sofa and I stood before him…I took a deep breath as his hands rested gently on my thighs, gently rubbing up and down, inching their way up. I slowly lifted the silk blouse revealing more and more of my body as he kissed upwards.

When he got to my nipples they were ready to explode; he sucked on them with such force it took my breath away. The pain and pleasure tore through my body and I was sure I was going to cum.

I heard John yell, “Don’t you dare cum, slut!” He said it with such authority and force it took me back, and I shrunk into the submissive slut that I was. John continued to suck on my nipples as his hand reached up between my legs.

Then he stopped sucking and said, “Strip, slut.”

I didn’t utter a word I just obeyed and did a slow strip with the rest of my things…I could feel the wetness on my thighs and my heart pound. I knew I was gonna be used.

I stood before him naked and my nipples hard and aching…my pussy was swollen and wet I could feel the juices on my thighs…

John stood and took something out of his pocket; I couldn’t think, all I wanted was him to use me. He grabbed my hair and pulled my head back and placed a collar around my neck. Attached to it was a leash.

Instinctively I knew I should kneel on all fours…so without him saying I knelt down, then went down on my hands, too.

John walked me to the dining room table where he lifted me onto it, And said, “Lay on your back, slut.” When I lay down, he grabbed me under the arms and slid me up so my head hung down off the table. He walked to the side, slowly running his hands down my body…first my face, then my neck…then over my breast and nipples where he stopped and pinched my nipple so hard I screamed.

When the pain stopped, I could feel my legs being spread apart and tied to the table legs, fully exposing my naked wet pussy. His hands traveled up my legs over my knees as he walked to the side of the table…very gently he cupped my pussy and just held me.

Then after a few minutes he continued to travel up to the top of the table where he stood over my head. He had a scarf in his hand and placed it over my eyes…then spread my arms out and tied them also to the table. Then he was back at the head of the table; I could feel the heat from his body on my face.

Then I heard a noise—the whoosh as he took his belt off his trousers—and without forewarning the belt he had removed from his trousers came crashing down across my tits…causing such pain I screamed as it happened again and again. I could feel the tears flowing from my eyes from the pain.

But the excitement continued to build in me…I just took the stinging belt, stroke after stroke, the pain in my tits burned and I could feel the welts appear.

Again without warning, the next strike landed squarely between my legs. Again I screamed, as hot pain shot through my body. If I had not been tied I’d have tumbled off the table in pain.

This man I had picked up seemed to know my deepest desire and needs…stroke after stroke of the belt, he covered my body until I no longer fought to be free or offered any resistance at all. I had no fight left in me; John had achieved his task.

He lowered his face next to mine and whispered in my ear, “You will meet my needs slut and fuck whatever it is you may have wanted or expected. The next time you pick someone up at the store…perhaps you will choose more carefully.”

The fear in me rose to a new level of excitement, a new height, and without warning my first orgasm screamed through my body. Without any chance to control it or stop it…I shook as it ripped through me. A long deep moan escaped my lips as it swept over me.

John grabbed my tits and milked then with such force I screamed again, in pain this time, begging John to stop. This only drove him further and his rough treatment of my tits grew worse.

He yelled, “Fuck your wants, slut. I already told you that.”

As he continued squeezing my tits hard, I screamed till he released them. The pain was intense and my tits burned from the rough treatment. I was straining, listening for some clue as to what was next, what this man I had picked up from the mall was going to do; the fear in me grew…I listened carefully at the sounds for some idea, holding my breath cause I was breathing so hard, I couldn’t hear. Then I felt him at the top of my head where he stood when he beat me with the belt.

I begged for no more, “Not the belt, please…”

All of a sudden I felt the head of his cock being pushed into my mouth…I was powerless…tied and unable to protest.

All I could do was to let him slide the shaft of his cock all the way into my mouth…it was starting to gag me. I felt his hand on my throat massaging my neck as he continued to push his huge cock deeper in my throat, deeper than anyone ever has.

I couldn’t breathe…thinking I was gonna pass out, panic took over my thoughts. I knew I couldn’t resist…or it would get rougher. After what seemed an eternity he withdrew and I gasped for a breath.

Hearing John talk I had a hard time understanding, I was gasping for air so hard. He repeated it again and said, “I love watching your tits heave as you gasp for air, slut”

He grabbed my nipple as he walked to the other end of the table…twisting and tugging it…I screamed in pain as he pulled stretching it. When he released my nipple, I moaned.

“You liked that, didn’t you, slut? Isn’t it just what you were looking for today when you went to the mall? Someone to meet your needs…right, slut?”

“AAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!” I screamed, as fingers shoved inside me without warning.

John said, “Time to get this cunt ready for her needs to be met, right slut?” He continued shoving his fingers in and out again, hard. A low groan came out of my mouth…and I knew it wouldn’t do any good to beg him to stop, so I just relaxed, let it happen and stepped out of my body.

John said, “Preparation for my needs consisted of 5 hard quick strikes with the belt to my clit…I shook my head no. Then I felt a smacking on my tit as he hit me…reminding me I wanted this.

“CRACK!” went the first strike with the belt…then another. “CRACK CRACK!” Then the last two, “CRACK CRACK!!”

While I shook and cried, he lowered his head between my legs and sucked softly on my clit…my sobs turned to moans then groans as he began sucking on my clit, and pulling it harder and harder…I could feel another uncontrollable orgasm coming.

I couldn’t fight it; I just screamed as it ripped through my body again, sending me into throes of spasms, my body jerking and bucking at his face, still buried in my pussy sucking my clit…and hearing him lap it up.

I was just barely getting over this when he climbed on the table and slammed his hard cock into me…no warning, no concern for pain. I was feeling his balls slapping my ass as raised me up into the air to give himself maximum penetration.

I was fast losing it as the next orgasms came and went. I had drifted off into a place where my body was no longer mine…just a fuck piece for him. I was reduced to long slow moans as he continued to fuck me and whip my tits at the same time.

Pain was no longer distinguishable from pleasure; I had released everything I was to him…I didn’t know how long this had lasted, no longer being aware of what had been done to me.

Realizing I was being turned over, face down on the table, I guessed what was next as he shoved his hard cock deep in my ass…the pounding into my ass was unrelenting. The strap came down on my back and was renewing the pain in my body again.

His hands on my hips pulled me back letting his cock enter fully in my ass. Hearing him groan as he came in my ass, I was no longer able to move. I was exhausted and grateful my needs had been met. I’d lost count of the number or orgasms…I know longer knew what had been done to me.

All I knew was my needs from this morning had come to pass…little did I know he wasn’t finished with me yet. As he untied my legs and arms from the table he had to help me sit up…and helped me from the table.

John grabbed the leash attached to my collar and I slid to the floor in obedience…crawling and following him to the bathroom and into the shower. Once in, he yanked my head back as he grabbed a fistful of hair…pulling my face hard into his cock.

I took him deep as he yelled, “SUCK IT, SLUT!”

Funny, but I thought as his cock rammed down my throat, “He is a man of few words…”

Obeying him I sucked his cock like the slut I was. Feeling his body tense, I knew he was about to cum so I prepared myself for him as he was about to explode in my throat. Swallowing every drop he fired into me, I heard him moan as he gave me his last shove into my mouth.

“Is it over,” I thought, gagging. He had yet not taken his cock from my mouth. “I wonder why he is staying like that?” but I dared not to protest. I thought, “I can not take any more punishment.”

So I just waited there with his cock in my mouth slowly losing its hardness…now that he had delivered his cum for me to drink.

Feeling a warm sensation building in my mouth the realization hit me…he was pissing. It startled me. But again I submitted to it…I could taste him on my tongue and hoped he didn’t expect me to swallow it.

Feeling him pull his cock out a bit and allowing the piss to run down the side of my face and onto my tits and body, feeling it run between my legs and stinging as it reached my sore, swollen pussy.

Finally he withdrew…and lifted my face with his hand and said, “Good slut. Next time you want to play fantasy…wait till I finish work before you call me.”

Looking up in his eyes and smiling, I said, “Yes, Master; thank you for your time.”

Nearly four years since I last posted here, I’m back with a sequel the story I wrote before. This has been floating around in my head for quite a while now, but I’ve finally found the inclination to write it down. So here goes …

It had been about a fortnight since I had allowed my mother to administer her own distinctive brand of corporal punishment on me for the first time since I was a child. I had replayed the events of that day over in my head many times since. While there had been no further punishments (indeed, I had been on my best behaviour and was also a lot more careful and thoughtful about things), an odd kind of tension had prevailed. I think we both knew that it was only a matter of time before she would have occasion to bare my bottom and smack it again. A change had also occurred in our relationship dynamic. Mom was somewhat more commanding in the way she spoke to me, and I was a little more respectful and quick to obey.

Still, things were getting back to normal when Fate struck a rather cruel blow. One morning, I woke up to discover, to my utter dismay and horror, that I had wet the bed!

Now, I was no stranger to enuresis, to give bedwetting its official medical name. I had gone through quite a bedwetting phase at the age of six or seven, and past the age of twenty, I had wet my bed about half a dozen times over the course of a decade and a half. That was less than one enuretic episode per year on average, but still far more than most normal healthy adult males in their twenties or thirties would experience.

My previous incidents of “adult bedwetting” had tended to be serendipitous in their timing, in that my sheets usually needed changing anyway, and I would also generally be due for fresh pyjamas. This time however, my timing could not have been worse, because my mother had changed the sheets only the day before, and my pyjamas were clean on too!

“Oh fuck,” I murmured as I surveyed the damage. The nice clean sheets were now soaked in my urine, and my pyjama pants were also wet through. Mom was going to be pissed about all that piss!

I slowly extracted myself from the bed. There was nothing for it but to take off my pyjama bottoms. My legs felt all sticky with semi-dried urine. I needed a wash.

Holding my pee-soaked pyjamas in front of me, I crept into the bathroom, where I threw the pyjama pants into the laundry hamper and ran some hot water. Then I used that and some soap to clean up. Following that, I returned to my bedroom to get dressed.

Just as I was coming out of my room, feeling somewhat cleaner and drier, my mother emerged from her room, dressed in her usual shapeless long nightie.

“Is everything all right?” she asked. “I heard you in the bathroom before.” Normally I didn’t perform my main bathroom morning routine until after breakfast.

“Not entirely,” I answered.

“What’s wrong? Aren’t you feeling well or something?” she inquired with concern.

“I’m fine,” I assured her. “But, uh, I had a bit of an accident before.”

Her concern was replaced by suspicion. “What sort of accident?” she asked.

“I kind of wet myself,” I confessed sheepishly. “The pyjamas are in the hamper now.”

“Oh my God, you haven’t wet the bed as well, have you?” she cried, sounding both horrified and a little angry. “I only changed all your sheets yesterday!”

“I’m afraid I have,” I said quietly. “I’m really sorry. But I couldn’t help it. It just happened!”

Mom pushed past me and stormed into my room. “My God, what a mess!” I heard her exclaim. When she re-emerged, storm clouds were gathering on her face.

“I worked really hard yesterday to sort your bed out, and now you go and do this!” she shouted. Then, lowering her voice somewhat and addressing me in a more commanding tone, she snapped, “Go into the spare bedroom and wait there for me!”

“But I haven’t even had breakfast yet!” I protested. It was the first time I’d attempted to argue with her since that red-letter (or should I say red-bottom!) day two weeks earlier.

“I don’t care!” she retorted. “Get in there NOW!”

I got in there and sat down on the chair at the end of the bed. This was, of course, where all the punishment had taken place a fortnight ago. Was my mother proposing to spank me for wetting the bed? Actually, it wouldn’t be the first time. She’d done it several times during my childhood bedwetting phase, although she had been much more understanding when I had done it as an adult. But then again, I’d never timed it so poorly before.

As I sat there, I heard my mother moving around out in the hall. A strange mixture of emotions coursed through me. One part of me felt angry that she was maybe going to spank me for something I had no control over. Sure, it must be frustrating for her to have to deal with all that mess so soon after putting clean sheets on my bed, but shit (or in this case, piss) happens. I never liked injustice.

But another part of me felt thrilled and excited at the prospect of a fresh punishment session with my mother, even if it wasn’t as fair as last time. Anyway, part of our deal two weeks ago was that we would discuss any prospective spanking first. So it wasn’t as though I was really a victim of injustice if I allowed it to happen.

Some little while passed. My stomach growled. I felt hungry and thirsty. What was taking her so long?

At last, she entered the room. But she was no longer in her nightie. She was now in day clothes, and she had also brushed her hair. So she had taken the time to get dressed and cleaned up a bit first. Well, that was probably fair enough.

She sat at the end of the bed, facing me in the chair. Her face had a very serious expression, but she appeared composed.

“I’ve taken all the sheets off your bed and put them out to be washed,” she began. Ah, so she had also been sorting my soiled sheets out as well as getting dressed. No wonder it had been such a long wait. “Now I want to have a talk with you.”

Only a talk? Well, that was a bit boring, unless it was to discuss my punishment for wetting the bed.

“I suppose you think that I want to smack your bottom for wetting the bed,” she remarked, almost as if reading my mind.

“That had kind of occurred to me,” I affirmed.

“Well, as a matter of fact, I do, but first there’s something else I want to discuss.”

“OK.”

“I have been doing a lot of thinking over the past two weeks,” my mother said. “And although we agreed that I wouldn’t smack you again unless you consented to it first, I’m afraid that just doesn’t work for me. If I’m going to smack your bottom or slap your face again, it has to be when I decide it.”

I didn’t know quite what to say to this, so I just grunted “Hmm,” in reply.

Mom continued, “I think you need some proper discipline in your life again. Spare the rod and spoil the child, and I’ve spoilt you for far too long. That has to stop. So I propose that from now on, I will once again smack your bottom or face whenever I think you need it. Starting from today.”

I could scarcely believe what I was hearing. “But,” I began to object.

Mom held up a hand for silence. “However, just for today, I am going to give you a choice in the matter. You can walk out of here, and I won’t smack you today or ever again. But if you do, things are still going to change. You’re well into your thirties, and yet you still live with your father and me, you don’t pay any board, and we take care of your meals, laundry and bed. While you don’t smoke or drink, and you do have your freelance work that you earn money for, you still behave quite irresponsibly sometimes. And this is what I mean about having spoilt you for too long. Well, that all stops today if you refuse my discipline. You will start paying board and learning some practical life skills. In short, you will start to finally grow up.”

Ouch. That hurt almost more than if she’d actually hit me. It hurt because it was true. While I was a mature adult in some respects, I was pretty bloody immature in others, especially the way I continued to depend on my parents for many things when I should be standing on my own two feet. It really was pretty disgraceful.

But I had to learn more about the alternative. “So what happens if I [i]do[/i] agree to your discipline?” I asked.

“Then you can continue to live under this roof rent-free, and with your laundry, cooking and so on still being taken care of,” replied Mom. “But if you want to continue living like a dependent child, then you will also have to accept being punished like one.”

“So what will that entail exactly?” I wanted to know. “I need to make an informed decision here.”

“Well, you will need to start amartening your act up in certain areas. For example, when I ask you to do something, I will expect you to do it and not dilly-dally. If you take longer than five minutes to do a thing I ask you, that means an instant smacked bottom. Sometimes, the punishment will be more serious if something is repeated. For example, if you answer me back one time, I might give you a smack on the hand. Do it another time, and I will slap your face. Do it a third time, and we will be coming in here for a hiding with your pants down. Every time that you disobey me, or don’t obey me quickly enough, or disrepect me, I will smack you for it. The same applies if you do something stupid or careless.”

As she said these fateful words, all with an air of quiet but firm authority, I realised I was getting hard, so I crossed my legs and folded my hands carefully on my lap to ensure it wasn’t conspicuous. Not that it would have been all that obvious anyway, but better to safe than sorry.

“So I would have to live with this and accept whatever you choose to dish out,” I mused.

“That’s right,” replied Mom with a nod. “You will obey and respect me, or suffer the consequences. I will decide those consequences. Whatever I decide, you will accept. Even if perhaps I punish you unfairly, although I will try to be fair and consistent. But perhaps sometimes, if I’m having a bad day, I might smack you for something I would let you get away with on another day. Maybe I might even give you an occasional “maintenance spanking” to remind you who’s in charge. You will have to live with that. But it’s your choice to make. Choose to grow up and start taking responsibility for your own life, or choose to keep depending on us, and on me in particular, and accept a much stricter regime from now on. Believe me, I intend to be [i]very[/i] strict with you.”

I nearly came at this last sentence, but managed to control myself. The choice was clear. I knew what I should do. Grow the hell up. Start paying my own way and taking responsibility. Get a place of my own. Perhaps get a full-time job too. My lifestyle of carefree irresponsibility had gone on far too long.

But deep down, that wasn’t what I wanted. It wasn’t so much that I was scared of responsibility, although in truth, I was somewhat. It was that, more than anything, I wanted to submit. I wanted to put myself back under my mother’s authority and allow her to smack my bottom like a naughty child whenever she deemed it necessary. I wanted to surrender control to her and feel the thrill that every submissive knows when they relinquish control to another person.

Of course, I had contemplated this very thought two weeks earlier, but than I had been worried that it would cross a line. In a way, what Mom was proposing [i]was[/i] crossing a line. She wanted to treat me in a manner that no grown man should have to accept from his mother. Still, she was giving me an opportunity to opt out. And she did have a point. It was time for me to pay my way in my parents’ home - either financially or through old-fashioned discipline. This was, like the original punishment of two weeks ago, long overdue.

Suddenly my mother stood and took a step towards me. “It’s time for you to make your decision,” she said quietly. Slowly she extended her left hand outwards, while her right hand went upwards until it was poised in a “ready to smack” position.

“Your first punishment for wetting your bed will be a slap in the face, followed by my taking your pants down and walloping your backside,” she said ominously. “But before slapping you, I will need you to give me your glasses. However, you can, if you wish, get up and leave this room right now. In that case, I won’t hit you at all, but it means that you will have chosen to start growing up properly. Now, either take off your glasses and give them to me, or stand up and walk out of here.”

So there it was. The moment of truth was upon me. It was either grow up, or, well, bottoms up. My “big head” (i.e. my brain) urged me to get out of there, but my “little head” (my penis) was telling me equally forcefully that submitting to my mother’s discipline was the way to go.

Well, you know how it is with us guys. When our brains are telling us one thing and our dicks are telling us another, the dick wins the argument just about every time. So it was with me. I removed my glasses.

Just for a moment, I hesitated before pressing them into my mother’s waiting left hand. Was I absolutely sure about this? Yes I was. It was going to change my life in a pretty big way, but the same would have been true if I’d opted out of this. So I placed the glasses in Mom’s hand and let go my grip on them - simultaneously handing her control. Now she could do what she liked with me. It was terrifying and incredibly thrilling at the same time.

“You can take these glasses back and still leave, even now,” said Mom rather surprisingly. Wow. She was still prepared to give me one last chance. “As soon as I have slapped you though, that’s it. Accept this slap, and you also accept all other smacks and slaps that come after it.”

“Go ahead and slap me,” I said, my voice shaking a little. “And then smack my bottom as much as you want for wetting my bed. I hereby agree to let you discipline me and to take whatever punishment I may earn for any acts of disobedience, disrespect, neglect and so forth. So shall it be until the day I finally do move out.”

“Very well then”, said Mom softly. And with that, her right hand came down and struck me across my left cheek with a resounding SLAP. I was now officially past the point of no return, as my reddening cheek bore somewhat painful witness to.

Following the slap, Mom handed me back my glasses. “You can put these back on,” she said. “I’m not going to slap you any more for wetting your bed, but I [i]am[/i] now going to give you a good smacked bottom! So get your pants down and bend over the bed!”

I duly got up out of the chair, walked over to one side of the bed, lowered my pants and underpants, and bent over. Mom then gave me about 30 good hand spanks. After that, she finally let me go and get my breakfast. For the rest of that day, I actually wasn’t punished too much more, but late at night, I took about ten minutes to come up to bed after she had called me. As I reached the top of the stairs and entered the kitchen, Mom was waiting for me. She reminded me that I should have obeyed within five minutes, and ordered me to drop my pants right there in the kitchen and bend over. On that occasion, she only gave me about ten smacks on my bottom, but it showed me clearly just what I could expect if I failed to obey her now.

Neither of us really talked to my dad about this new regime. If he was aware of anything different, he didn’t let on. Mom never punished me in front of him. So it as basically our little secret. However, even if she sometimes had to delay a smacking because of him being there, I always got my “just desserts” in the end. And if I actually committed a smacking offence in front of him (like answering her back), all it took was a stern look and perhaps a small gesture (like her gently smacking her leg) to let me know I was in for it later.

While the overwhelming majority of her punishments were fair and deserved, a small number were not. The most memorable “unfair” hiding occurred one day when she went for a doctor’s appointment and had a rather stressful time of it (she had to wait a long time and then the doctor was rather snappy with her, plus afterwards she narrowly avoided a nasty car accident). On arriving back home, she promptly dragged me into the spare bedroom, made me drop my trousers and gave me quite a fearful spanking. But then, to my surprise, she burst into tears and admitted that I hadn’t deserved it, but she’d had such a rotten afternoon and just needed to get all the frustration and stress of it out of her system. I told her I had no hard feelings about it, and reminded her that I agreed to let her smack me even if she did it unfairly now and then. I also added that even though it was best if she punished me mainly for disobedience and other rule violations, it was OK if she sometimes wanted to smack me “just because”, although I’d prefer she didn’t do too much of that. She gave me a hug then, and just for a moment, we were on equal terms, with her showing a rare instance of vulnerability. But she soon returned to her more authoritarian self.

Every now and then, she would give me a spanking for no other reason than to remind me of her authority over me. This usually happened when I’d been fairly good and hadn’t required too much smacking recently. She’d take me into the spare bedroom, make me take my pants down and bend over, and give me 20-30 swats. These generally weren’t as hard as when she was punishing me properly, and actually made me feel pretty damn good afterwards. On my next birthday after the new regime had started, she gave me a birthday spanking, something that had never occurred when I was a child. This too was rather more pleasant than punitive.

In many ways, this new lifestyle (or rather, return to an old lifestyle) was actually good for me. Somewhat ironically, I became more responsible and grown-up as a result. But the thrill of submission never died, and I got plenty of good fantasy mileage out of it all. However, at no stage did my relationship with my mother ever become sexual. Yes, her dominant discipline turned me on immensely, but it was my private thing. If she was ever aroused by it, she never let on. She never wore any “special clothing” to spank or slap me. I never saw the slightest hint that she was in any way enjoying it, but I’m sure that at some level, she was. It simply wasn’t in my mother’s nature to be open about her sexuality. Consequently, she never knew anything about what really made me tick, because I just felt I couldn’t share anything like that with her. Still, I knew in my heart of hearts that my submission to her would continue until either she died or I got my act together, moved out and found another dominant Lady to satisfy my submissive desires (and hopefully add in some sexual pleasure as well!) And I was just fine with that.

THE END