Humiliated By Mommy Part 3 free porn video

Humiliated by Mommy by Naughtieboys [email protected] © Julian Smith and Em-bare-assed Press 1999-2001. Revised 2013. 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. 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 credit to the author are maintained. Humiliated by Mommy by Naughtieboys CHAPTER 3 Shrinking Feeling I returned to college at the end of the summer. My mother was very different when I was away from her. As if the magic spell she had over me only worked in person. On the phone, she was chatty, but not seductive. I confided in her that I stopped seeing my therapist. The plan had been to return to my weekly sessions when I returned from visiting my mother, but I couldn't face my therapist. I couldn't tell my therapist about the morning I got stuck under mommy's bed or sleeping in mommy's bed, or the bath, or any of it. It was all too humiliating; I just wanted to pretend it never happened. I didn't tell my mother why I stopped seeing my psychologist, just that I stopped, and I was contemplating seeing someone else. My mother shocked me by offering to pay for me to see a psychotherapist, and even recommend someone--Doctor Karen Masterson. I spoke with Dr. Masterson on the phone and set up an appointment for later that week. I was very nervous as the appointment time neared. I am in the waiting room reading a magazine as the door flies open and I get my first glimpse of Dr. Masterson. Since my eyes were looking down at the magazine, they initially focus on her 3" heels and make their way up her long legs, northward to her firm breasts, and finally ascending to meet her intense eyes. She smiles a smirk that seems to see right through me, and makes me extremely uncomfortable. I have the urge to bolt, but she speaks in a no nonsense tone of voice that directs me to follow her back to her office, which I do. She insists I call her Karen, although that takes some getting used to. She has such a commanding presence, I always think of her as Dr. Masterson, and that is the first thing out of my mouth. The only unprofessional thing about her is the length of her skirt. I rationalize that professional woman, like Ally McBeal, wear very short skirts now a days. It is top shelf, designer clothing, but it is a micro-mini skirt. Karen is tall, so the skirt reveals an amazing expanse of leg and thigh. To a leg-fetish such as me, it is a constant distraction. She'll be in the middle of a series of questions, and I'll be sneaking peeks at her tanned thighs, as they lay one crossed over the other. I guess I'm not as inconspicuous as I hoped, because she comments on it. "Justin, I notice that as soon as we seem to be onto something important, you disassociate. It's like you drift off. Where do you go?" Karen asks. "I don't know. I just space out." "Well," she continues, "your gaze seems to be directed towards my legs. Is that where your attention wanders to?" "I guess so," I reply ashamedly. "Justin, there's nothing to feel guilty about. This seems important, and I'd like to understand it better. Why don't you just let yourself go there? Focus on my legs and see what happens. Let me know any feelings, thoughts, or memories you have as you stare at my pretty legs." I'm shocked she refers to her legs as pretty. They *are* drop dead gorgeous, but I'm just taken aback that as a therapist she would teasingly allude to them as "her pretty legs". But how could I refuse such an unexpected and desired invitation to unabashedly study every inch of those gams. So I agree and carefully begin my examination. I become hopelessly fixated on a darling beauty mark on the underside of her leg, above her knee. The fact that such a remote part of her anatomy is exposed to my view is proof of her flirtatiousness. I can see the cute spot only because she is arching her leg so high as it rocks over her other leg. I fantasize about kissing the beauty mark, when she interrupts my imaginings. "Justin, what were you just thinking?" "Ahhh, nothing.... Nothing much really. I ... ummm ..." "Justin," she said sternly, "If I am to be any help to you, you must be honest with me. Your mother is spending good money to pay for this therapy, and if you are just going to waste her money and my time, you can just march right out of here. Now tell me, what were you thinking right then." She sensuously pumps her right thigh up and down as it rests on her left leg. I am transfixed by the demonstration. My heart is palpitating as she exhibits her lovely limbs to me and speaks so harshly. I feel she has her legs wrapped around my psyche. I am unable to resist, and the thought of having to march out of there was unbearable. So I tell her. "I was thinking ... that is ... before when you asked ... I was looking at .. at .. your umm ... I had the thought ... it's not like I really wanted to, but I had the thought .. it just popped into my mind... I imagined kissing your leg... ummm, right on the beauty mark." Karen professionally responds, "How did you imagine I'd respond to you telling me that? That you desire to kiss my pretty thigh right on my beauty mark." There's that adjective again--her *pretty* thigh. I answered, "I thought you'd be mad at me." "Mad at you? For wanting to kiss my lovely thigh? And how do you imagine I'd get mad at you?" "You might punish me for being bad." "Punish you? How?" "Uh, maybe you'd .. you might ... spank me?" "So in this fantasy of yours, I spank you for wanting to kiss my lovely thigh? This is important. We need to understand this more thoroughly. How, Justin, tell me how would I spank you. Describe it to me in detail." She's acting very professionally, like we could be talking about Freud's theory of transference or rescheduling a session, but we are talking about her legs and spankings. I have a massive hard-on in my pants, but I try to act calm. "You'd take down my pants and pull me over your thighs and spank my naughty bottom." (I wished I hadn't said naughty, it sounded so juvenile). "So, that's fascinating, Justin. As punishment for desiring to kiss my pretty, pretty thigh; you are forced to lie across those same gorgeous legs. Those very same legs you seem unable to take your eyes off of. We're out of time, Justin, but I think we're on to something. Next week I want to try some therapeutic role-playing with you. We are past time, so I'll see you then." I am back at Dr. Masterson's a week later. The appointment is at noon, and I arrived thirty minutes early. It is now 12:09, and I am beginning to wonder if I got the day or time wrong. Or maybe Dr. Masterson's just forgotten about me. Or maybe I blew it last time. I was too forward, staring at her thighs and revealing my deepest, darkest fantasies. She probably doesn't want to be my therapist because I'm so perverted. So naughty. I'm a bad boy and she doesn't want to be my mommy .... What? What did I just think? Just then, the door swings violently open, and Dr. Masterson confidently marches into the waiting room, peers through me, turns around and returns to her office. I'm shaken from the Freudian slip I had of her being my mother, so it is on wobbly knees that I follow her back to her office. She's wearing a long, flowing skirt today, and I'm disappointed I can't see those lovely legs that I've been jerking off to all week. I slump down on the couch and meekly look up at her. She authoritatively speaks, "Justin, I am skilled in psychodrama and hypnotherapy, and I've decided the best course of treatment for someone like yourself is a combination of both. Therefore, we'll begin this session with some mild hypnosis. Ready?" "I guess so," I reply. For the next ten minutes, she puts me under. Now this isn't the kind of stage hypnosis where I'm about to run around clucking like a chicken or some other zany stunt. I am very relaxed, aware of my environment, but more suggestible than normal. "Now that you're relaxed Justin, I want you to go back in time. Recall a time when you first were fascinated with mommy's clothes. "I'm in her room. I'm looking at her high heels. They're pink, with a strap that holds them on around the ankle. They have big heels, but not huge like some of her spiky ones. I take off my Keds and try them on. I stand up and wobble around in them. They are big on me, but I pulled the strap on tight, so they stay on as I teeter around. ..." There is a long pause as my voice trails off. "What?" Dr. Masterson questions, picking up on the significance of my silence. "She's there... mommy is watching me from the hall. I look up feeling ashamed. She has this weird expression on her face. Like the cat that ate the canary." I stare at her and quietly say, "Mommy." "My, my, my... what have we here?" Mommy asks. "I was just playing mommy." "You certainly are, dear. And what game are you playing sweetheart?" mommy's last comment is laced with acid. "I was playing dress-up, mommy." "Oh, and you are so good at it. Look how you..." At this point Dr. Masterson interrupts my reverie, which is alright with me because what happened next is even more embarrassing. I'm also pleased because I was getting a bit too stimulated by my memory of the scene. The hypnosis allows me to re-enter the long-ago event, so that I was reliving the sexually charged environment that my mother conjured up. Dr. Masterson says, "So you we're playing with her clothes. I had the impression she forced all this stuff on you or tricked you into it. But YOU were the one that snuck into HER room, and of your own volition you were playing 'dress-up' as you called it. "Well, I guess so," I meekly reply. "That wasn't the real reason I stopped you there," she informed me. "It will help you to include psychodrama into our work. Justin, listen carefully... you are still under hypnosis. You will do as I say, even if it is a little embarrassing. Remember, I'm here to help you. Now take off your shoes and socks. You are back in your mother's bedroom. " As I plop down on the floor to remove my shoes, Dr. Masterson's words mesmerize me into an altered state. I obey her suggestions. She slips her high heels off - they are remarkably similar to the ones I tried on all those years ago. Dr. Masterson and her office seem to melt away, as I am back in mommy's room intoxicated by her high heels. I caress them, then take off my socks and put on the heels. My heart is thumping and I'm sweating. I am so happy. I look up and there is mommy. Oh no, I've been caught! It's really Dr. Masterson towering over me, as I am sitting on the floor gazing up at her. To me, at that moment, Dr. Masterson is mommy. I really believe it's mommy, even though she looks like Dr. Masterson. The only way I can explain it is it's like in a dream when a person looks different than how they look in waking life, but you just accept that it is that person. "Don't you look pretty in mommy's heels?" she teases. Then she changes her tone back to being a professional, "Justin, it's me, Dr. Masterson. I want you to stay with this scene, but tell me exactly what happened next." "Mommy asked me if I knew why ladies wore high heels. I guessed to cover their feet. Mommy laughed at me. 'No, Justie, it's to accentuate their legs. To make their lovely legs look long and sleek and sexy.' I got really red when mommy told me that. Then she said she couldn't see my legs and what's the good of wearing high heels if a girl isn't showing a little leg. Then she took down my jeans. As I say that, I feel Dr. Masterson unbuttoning the front of my Levi's and slowly tugging my pants down to reveal my snow white briefs. I feel mortified, but my shame only fuels my boner. She makes me take off the heels, so I can remove my pants. Stripped of my pants (and dignity) she hands me back the heels, which I put on. Then she strictly supervises my walking back and forth, all the time correcting my posture. "Oh yes, those heels do make your legs soooooo long and sexy. But we're out of time; as a matter of fact we're past time. So out you go. See you next week." Dr. Masterson prods me out the door back into the waiting room. Fortunately there is nobody there. I am stunned that she ends the session so abruptly. As time passes, I realize how deeply in trance I am. As I come out of it, I realize my pants and shoes are in the doctor's office. I feel scared to knock on her door. There's nobody in the waiting room, so I know there isn't another patient in there, yet it still feels very wrong to intrude past my appointment time. But I have no choice. I'm out in public in white briefs while perched on high heels. I gingerly knock on her door and wait. No response. I knock a little louder, then frantically pound again and again. I start to sweat, imagining myself running down the street on my high heels in my underpants. As I'm pounding the door flies open, and a very angry Dr. Masterson glares at me. "What is your problem young man? I was just on the phone, and I don't appreciate you disrupting my business." "Bu...but...I...I...." "I'm sure whatever it is can wait until our next session. I am a very busy person, and I don't have time for every little crisis every patient has between sessions, so you'll just have to cope like a big boy. I'll see you next week. And if you disturb me again there will be consequences to pay." As the door slams in my face, I whimper, "But I'm in my undies." I sit down on the leather couch in the waiting room. I am hyperaware of the cool leather against the back of my legs. After about an hour I hear the click of heels coming towards the waiting room from down the hall. The waiting room door opens and in walks a very attractive teenage girl. I just sit there and only peep to look up when I think she's engrossed in a magazine, but every time I look, she also looks up. She has this look of disdain and disgust as she peers at me over the top of a Vogue magazine. When Dr. Masterson finally comes out to get her next patient, she allows the teen girl to go in front of her into the office, while she lingers behind in the waiting room. Dr. Masterson tosses me a half full brown paper bag. I catch it and anxiously open it to find my pants, but not my shoes and socks. I leave her office in my pants, but wearing high heels. The next session with Dr. Masterson, I arrive early. I am seething as the time passes in the waiting room. I'm going over in my head what I'm going to tell her about last time. How dare she leave me in the waiting room in my underpants and high heels? She is supposed to be helping me, not further shaming me. Maybe I'll threaten to report her to the American Psychological Association. As I build up a head of steam, the door flies open and there she is. Her skirt is shockingly short. I am instantly in awe of her. As I follow her into her office, I try and hold to my resolve to confront her. As I sit down and start to open my mouth to bring it up, she begins. Dr. Masterson: "Justin, I've thought a lot about last session and we have a lot to discuss." Oh thank God, she is going to talk this whole thing out. Explain; maybe even apologize for her unprofessional conduct. Dr. Masterson continues, "You're trying to blame your mother for your own naughtiness, aren't you?" I am caught off guard. Instead of apologizing for leaving me half-naked, she is going right after a very touchy subject. I can't just brush off what she is saying. I know, even though I hate to admit it, that I played a role in my crossdressing and shame. I want to believe it's something that my mother did to me, while I was an innocent victim. If it's something that my mother forced me into, then I feel the sexual excitement without having to feel the guilt of having these strong taboo sexual desires and fantasies. But the truth is I want to be humiliated. I get off on it. As I confront the fact that I deeply desire these torments, and that I initiated some of the activities, I feel a tidal wave of shame. "Tell me, Justin," she continues. "Confess to me another time you took the initiative in some naughty deed." The memory instantly pops into my mind. "I joined the panty-of-the-month club," I admitted. "The what?" my therapist laughs. "The panty-of-the-month club," I repeat. "I saw it in one of mommy's Cosmo magazines. Often, when mommy was out of the house, I'd sneak into her bedroom and look in Cosmo at the pretty outfits on the models. At the back of the issue was an ad for a mail order company. For an annual fee, they send you a sexy, new panty every month. I tore the coupon out of the magazine and just dreamed about it for months. I was too scared to actually send it in, but it was all I could think about. They showed some examples in the ad. I can still recall the ad: The latest fashions from London and Paris. The sexiest materials, original designs, and the naughtiest styles. Don't you deserve to slip into exquisite luxury?" I couldn't stand it anymore. One day I went to the bank and got a money order. It was two months of my allowance, but I saved up. I never used a check before and the teller insisted on inscribing on the money order the name of the payee. The teller was a young woman and she asked who she should make the check out to. I wanted her to leave it blank, but she insisted that all the information had to be entered. I cleverly said; just make it out to "B". I thought that way, I could just fill in the rest of the name, but she was on to me and nastily told me the check wouldn't be any good if that wasn't the full name. I thought of running out of there, but I *had* to have those panties. I mumbled, "Beverly Hills Panties, Inc." She asked me to repeat it and I did, although even softer than the first time. I knew I must of have been bright red. She was now smiling. As if she was enjoying my discomfort she said, "I'm sorry little boy, you are going to have to speak up. I thought I heard you say something about *panties*." I shamefacedly repeated the name. She told me to wait right there. I was afraid she was going to get the manager and have me thrown out, but she came back with a Cosmo magazine. She leafed through it and found the ad at the back. She handed it to me and said, "I'm a member myself. The panties they send are so scrumptious. But why are *you* joining?" I lied, "I'm buying it as a present ... for my mother." "Oh, aren't you just the sweetest little boy. Buying panties for your mommy." Her comment deeply embarrassed me, but also sent a rush of blood to my cock. "For a minute there, I thought you were a sissy boy who likes to wear panties. But I see you are such a kind-hearted son. I can't wait to tell your mommy next time she comes in." "Oh no, you mustn't. I mean, it's a surprise and I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise." "OK sweetie. Your secret is safe with Cheryl." I got my check and couldn't wait to get out of there. As I was ready to leave Cheryl added, "Just think Justie, every week you and I will be getting the exact same sexy panty in the mail." I shivered and hurried out of there. I realized I should have corrected her and said she and my mother would be getting the same panty. Did she suspect all along the panties really were for me? Over the course of the next two weeks, I rushed home from school every day to check the mail. Not just because I was so excited about receiving my first pair of panties, but to make sure I got to the mail before my mother. I doubt she'd open a package sent to me without my permission, but I'm sure it would generate a bunch of questions. After all, I didn't receive too many packages. Wouldn't you know it, the one day I was late from school.... I got home and the mail had been taken in, but mom didn't say anything. I didn't want to ask if anything came for me. That would be a sure bet to arouse suspicions and questions. Besides, if I did get a package, I'm sure she'd let me know. After dinner, I went up to my bedroom. My mother knocked on my door. She entered. "Were you expecting something in the mail, Justin?" "Ummm, not that I can think of mom." "Well honey, something came for you today, and you'll never guess who it's from." "Who?" "Oh surely you know. You must have sent for it. I'll give you a hint dear. ... Oh, you don't need a hint. I'm sure any boy who sent for this wouldn't forget. As a matter of fact, I'm sure any little boy who ordered this probably can't think of anything else. Can you, hummm?" I was silent. "I'll go get it for you." I was sweating as she turned and walked down the hall. How did she know? Maybe that bank teller told her. Or maybe she doesn't know. Maybe she's just playing with me. She returns and hands me the package. I blush as I see the big lettering across the package: WELCOME TO THE PANTY-OF-THE- MONTH CLUB. My mother has the biggest smile as she studies my reaction. "Well, aren't you going to open it?" "Maybe later mom." "Oh come on. I'm sure you've been waiting for those special panties for a long time. It's been months since you tore the ad out of my Cosmo. Oh yes, I noticed. I didn't want to say anything dear. I didn't want to embarrass you. I thought maybe you just tore it out to keep the picture of the pretty model in her skimpy panties. I didn't think you'd actually join the panty-of-the-month club. You lucky boy, you'll be getting new panties every month for the next year. Should I be jealous? Now open them up so mommy can see what nice panties you got." The last remark is more of an order than a suggestion. Besides I feel defeated. I slowly open the package and pull them out. I unwrap them from the layers of tissue paper and unveil the sexiest pair of silky smooth white panties. They are adorned with delicate lace trim and have the name: "Cosmo" imprinted in pink dozens of times all over them. "Aren't they just the sweetest things? Such stylish sexy panties. My, my, feel the material. So satiny and silky." My mother is caressing the panties while she goes on about the material. Then she grasps them in her fingers and holds them inches from my mouth. "You know what I always do when I get a new special pair of panties? I give them a kiss." I feel so humiliated as my mother slowly pushes the panties up to my mouth. I just want this ordeal end, so I kiss the panties. My mother says, "I wasn't even sure if you'd gotten them as a present for me. But, since you've kissed them, they are officially the start of your own collection of fine designer panties." Damn, why hadn't I told her the same lie I told the bank teller, that they were for her. I could have had my cake and eaten it, too. I could have borrowed the panties to try on when mommy wasn't around and I wouldn't be in this embarrassing situation with my mother making me kiss the panties. I'm praying she'll leave now that I've been shamed to the core, but no such luck. She holds the panties up to my midsection. "Those *are* adorable. Pop into the bathroom and try them on. You'll be getting panties for a full year and we want to make sure they're a proper fit. Besides, I can't wait to see how my little panty-boy looks in his first pair of panties." "Mom, I..." "Justin, I don't want any arguments. You're not too big to go over my lap, and I'm sure you don't want mommy to spank you over your brand new panties, now do you?" "No mommy." "Good, then they'll be no more discussion. The next thing I want to see is my Cosmo panty boy proudly strutting out to show his mommy his new panties." I drag myself into the bathroom and put on the panties. They are extremely tight. They snuggly cling to my butt like they were painted on. As I model them in front of the mirror I start to forget that it is me in them. They look so sexy, I fantasize it's some cute girl who is showing me her panties. The bathroom door flings open and my mother barges in. "What is taking you so long? Oh, you're captivated by your reflection, you narcissistic, naughty boy." SPANK Mommy whacks my "COSMO panty"-covered tushie with her bare hand. "You..." SMACK "... naughty little..." SPANK "... girlie-boy..." WHACK "What is mommy going to do with you?" SPANK "You report to mommy's room in five minutes. And don't change out of your teensy panties." I wait the assigned time and with my tail between my legs I walk into mommy's room. I am shocked to see mommy in her bra and panties as I enter. I am even more stunned when I see mommy is wearing the exact same "Cosmo panties". I hypnotically walk over to where she is sitting on her bed, as she grabs me by the wrist and pulls me across her luscious legs. I feel her firm thighs support me and I can't help but be aware of our Cosmo panties touching. Mommy starts off by humming as she softly rubs my satin-covered bottom. Her long fingernails slip inside my panties and teasingly play scratchy against my nude heinie. I soon have a hard-on that strains the fabric of my panties. "Oh you are a bad bay. You are stretching your brand spanking new panties. You don't want to mess them up, do you Justin?" "No mommy," I nervously reply, not taking into account the implications of what I just agreed to. Mommy slides her fingers under the leg-band of the panties and gently tugs them down to the tops of my thighs. My erection now rests firmly on top of mommy's thighs. Mommy leans over to the dresser and takes hold of a small bottle of baby oil. She squirts a generous helping on my bottom and rubs it into my fleshy behind. As I jump in reaction to each spank, I jolt harder into her lap. Some of the baby oil is making its way off my bottom cheeks and into her lap. I feel like I'm atop an oil slick. She continues to slap my exposed bottom with her palm. The effect is mind-shattering. The baby oil glaze on my butt-cheeks causes each spank to intensify in pain and sound. Meanwhile, each spank causes my penis to jerk against the tight but slick vice of mommy's thighs. I am in Heaven and Hell with each resounding slap. I start to cry, it's all too much--the pain, the pleasure, the excruciating shame and embarrassment. As I'm approaching the point of no return, she wallops my behind one last time and orders me to "scoot". At this point my crying has turned to sobbing. I hop off her lap, and with my penis bobbing up and down and my panties at half-mast, I run shamefully to my room. I've relived that scene countless times in my masturbatory fantasies. I must confess, even retelling it to Dr. Masterson, has me aroused. Dr. Masterson, "We're out of time, Justin." As I turn to leave, she slaps my bottom and teasingly shouts out, "Scoot." The memory fresh in my mind of mommy telling me those same words, causes my cock to twitch in my pants. The next session with Dr. Masterson, I expect to do more hypnotic psychodrama, but she begins by asking me what I want to talk about. I ask her, "Aren't we doing that hypnosis stuff?" She angrily replies, "This isn't all fun and games, Justin. We're here to do serious work. Now tell me about a time you felt a lot of shame." I tell her about a long ago, totally mortifying experience. One day when I was about fourteen, I was hanging out in my room. It is a hot summer day, so I am wearing a pair of cut-off jean shorts and sandals. My mother calls from the kitchen that she needs my help. I really don't have anything better to do, but being a teenager, I act like it is a major imposition on my busy schedule. She tells me there is something she needs on the top shelf. The 'top shelf' isn't really a shelf. It's just the space between the top of the cupboard and the ceiling. It's impossible to reach from the ground, and in fact, you can't even see what's stored up there. When I was younger, mom used to get out a rickety old stepladder and climb up there, but since I've grown, she has me get stuff down from time to time. I don't bother with the ladder. I just hop up onto the Formica counter. It's a little precarious, because there is a bunch of stuff on the counter, which doesn't leave me much room. My leather sandals have slick soles. With limited foot-space and the slippery soles, I start to teeter as I perch up there. Mom grabs hold of my thighs to steady me. I feel strange up there in my little cut-offs with my mother grasping my legs. "Justin, get the antique glass bowls. They're just behind that pile of clothes." "What are clothes doing up here?" I asked. "Never you mind. Just hand me down the clothes, so you can reach the bowls." I reach up as my mother clutches onto my thighs. I feel a very silky texture and pull it down. I see it is a very feminine pair of lemon yellow panties. They appear quite small, like girls panties. I blush as I hold them so my mother can take them from me. She squeals, "Oh, aren't they just adorable! Don't you think those are just the cutest panties you've ever laid eyes on, Justin?" I don't answer. She removes her right hand from my leg to free that hand to take the panties. As she does so, she drags her left hand higher up my leg. Rubbing my thigh until her hand stops where it meets the cut- offs. Her fingers play with the fringe that dangles off the ends of the well-worn denim. The tickling sensation excites me, and I notice how close my mother's face is to my crotch. I carefully hand her the panties. After taking them from me, she allows them to almost imperceptibly brush against my right leg. The teasing causes me to get a hard-on. She sets the panties down and replaces her right hand on my thigh. I can feel the touch of each long, red fingernail as it rests on my leg. I try and distract myself by performing the assigned task. I reach up and pull down another garment. This is a plaid, schoolgirl's dress. I notice it has dozens of pleats. Then I hand her down two brown and white saddle shoes and a pair of very long white socks. Finally, I can get at the glass serving bowls. This is getting embarrassing. I just want to get down from here. Actually, I want to go back to my room and jerk off. All this stimulation has aroused me and I need to discharge some energy. I take hold of one bowl and hand it down to her. She takes it from me. I then believe I'm about to complete my task, as I grab hold of the second bowl and lower it down to her. She fails to take it from me. "Justin, hold that bowl in one hand. No, don't squeeze the side of it between your fingers. What do you think it is, your .... Never mind. Rest it on top of your palm ... that's it." "But mom, I don't want to drop it." "Oh, you wouldn't dare drop that antique. That was your great grandmother's bowl. If you drop that young man, I'll take you out on the front lawn, pull down those little shorty-shorts, remove your undies, and spank your naughty bottom in front of the whole neighborhood." Just the way she described it caused my penis to twitch and further engorge. I mean, I didn't want her to do it, but the tone of voice she used to say 'little shorty-shorts', 'undies', and 'spank that naughty bottom' stung me to my core. "Now take hold of the other bowl with your other hand," she orders. I can't believe that she handed back up to me the bowl I had just handed down to her. So now I'm standing on the kitchen counter with both my hands occupied by these twin bowls. My palms are up, balancing a bowl on top of each of them. "Justin, you've been acting up far too much lately. Your attitude needs an adjustment, and I am going to give you one you won't soon forget." Having said that, she reaches for the button clasp of my cut-offs and pops the top button free. She just looks up at me to see my reaction. I am horrified. She's pulled some pretty crazy stunts, but this is off the charts. She undoes the next button. Then the third. As I gaze down, I can see the white of my underpants starting to peek out of my jean shorts. "Mummm-meeeee," I whine. She knows by my infantile outburst, that she has me. I'm regressed to her naughty little boy, and she is my omnipotent mommy. She holds all the cards. She looks up and smiles in triumph as she takes hold of the last button. But, instead of undoing it, she just stops. "Justin, I've thought about this a lot, and real change comes when it's voluntary--when bad boys realize they need mommy to punish them. Naughty boys act like good little boys when mommy's spanking them, but as soon as their naughty bottoms cool off, they go right back to their naughtiness. To learn a valuable lesson, naughty boys must change their attitude, and that comes from within. So you are going to request each stage of your punishment. Now, ask me to remove your cut-offs." "You crazy bitch. There's no way I'm going to ask you to take off my shorts." "Very well, I thought you might be a teensy bit reluctant at first...." She's in total control. She didn't react to my outburst. She didn't engage me in a yelling match. She's too clever to battle me on an equal playing field. She just ups the ante. She comes out on top, not by winning a fierce battle, but by manipulating the rules to her advantage. Felicia walks to the refrigerator and opens up the freezer. She takes out an ice pack and walks towards me. Then mommy grabs the back of my shorts and jams the ice pack way down into the back of my cut-offs. She buttons up the front of my jean shorts and walks into the living room. As she leaves she adds that I should feel free to remove my cut-offs if I start to feel uncomfortable. I'm left standing there in shock. I think about jumping down, but there's no way I can accomplish that trick and not break those damn bowls. I start to settle down as I realize it's not that big of a deal. Sure it's a little chilly, but I can stand it. Time passes. Not much, but it feels like hours. She shoved the ice pack in there real tight, and it's not just my butt cheeks, but my anus, and even my balls that are feeling the cold. I start to impulsively lift one foot then the other. My whole body is freaking out. It's too painful. I can't tolerate it. I cry out, "Mommy... mommy please come in here and take down my cut-offs." Silence. "Mommy, I can't stand it. It's too cold. I'll be good. Please mommy, take off my shorts." "Mommy's busy, dear. You'll just have to wait. Good boys are very patient." "Mommy, I promise to be an extra-special good boy for mommy. I promise. Please mommy. It hurts mommy. Please, take them off," I cry hysterically. Mommy slowly comes into the kitchen and unbuttons my cut-offs and works them down my legs. They fall to my sandaled feet and remain there in a clump. The ice pack drops out and falls to the kitchen floor. "Honestly Justin, I don't know what all the fuss is about." My mother places her blood red fingernails underneath the waistband of my underpants. "Now, do you want mommy to lower these undies?" "No mommy, I'm fourteen. I'd be so embarrassed to have you take down my underpants." "You naughty boys never learn, do you?" The ice caused my cock to deflate, but now my mother is playing with my tight briefs, tugging here, pulling there, and slipping her pointy fingernail underneath the leg opening of the back of my jockeys. She teases my bottom, and then quickly pulls her finger out. Mommy hikes up the white undies by pulling up on the waistband, releases them, and then gently tugs down on them from the bottom of the leg band. It is all too much; I am almost popping out of the front of my Fruit of the Looms. I feel so exposed and vulnerable, standing up on the counter, still juggling the bowls, and having my mother playing this teasing underpants game. Then she returns to the freezer. She takes out a tray of ice cubes. She brings them over to the sink and cracks out the cubes. I hear the ice clink against the metal sink. Then she gathers up the cubes in a bowl. Felicia brings the bowl over to me. She takes hold of the back of my briefs and one by one starts dropping ice cubes inside my underpants. I am once again in a state of shock and terror. Then she pulls open the front of my underpants. I look down at her looking into my jockey- shorts. We both see I am hard. "Please mommy, please take off my underpants," I say as quickly as I can, trying to save myself from the inevitable. She smiles up at me and pops four ice cubes in the front of my undies, then pushes the elastic waistband against my body. She pushes her hand against the white cotton cloth, forcing the frozen chunks against my rapidly deflating cock. "You know mommy hates to punish naughty boys," she says. "but if mommy doesn't put a stop to your naughtiness, you'll never learn to be a good boy. It hurts mommy to have to do these things to you. You don't want to hurt mommy, do you?" "No mommy," I obediently answer, in no position to argue. "Mommy is so glad that you take your medicine without any fuss." As she continues on, she takes the last remaining ice cube from the bowl and starts to rub it up and down my thigh, against my stomach, and then puts it between my thighs. "Honey, just hold that ice cube between your legs and when it melts, then you can politely ask mommy to take down your undies." I squeeze my thighs together as hard as I can. I want to melt that damn ice cube out of sheer will power. I'm shaking. I try to balance the bowls, while the stinging cold against my cock and ass is unbearable. Mommy leaves the room again. I am left to tolerate the torture. As the ice between my legs slowly melts, I lose my grip and it slides down my legs and onto the kitchen floor. Mommy returns. I am totally broken by this time. Submissive as a little girl, and begging mommy to "Pweese dwess me up mummy." Mommy is happy I am so subjugated. She takes the bowls from me and lifts me up in her arms. She carries me into her bedroom. She starts off by carrying me like I'm an infant, with her left arm under my neck and head, and her right arm underneath my legs. Then she heaves me over her shoulder in a fireman's carry. I feel very exposed and vulnerable in this upside down position. Mommy gives my exposed buttocks playful slaps as she enters her bedroom and tosses me onto her large bed. She returns to the kitchen to retrieve the schoolgirl outfit. As she comes back into her bedroom she tosses me the yellow panties. She doesn't have to tell me. She leaves me to my final humiliation. I change into the yellow panties and come out to the living room. Mommy is reading a fashion magazine, and is ignoring me. I feel like I want nothing more than for mommy to notice how pretty I am in the yellow panties--to fuss over me and tell me how cute and adorable I am. I hate myself for wanting to be seen like a little girl. I must be nothing but a sissy boy. I skip over to her and look up at her with puppy dog eyes. I feel so anxious as mommy ignores me. This is the worst punishment of the whole day, as she continues to flip through the glossy pages of Vogue. I see the rest of the outfit on a chair and I put on the over the knee white socks, saddle shoes, white blouse, and pleated, plaid Catholic schoolgirl dress. The dress is scandalously short--a micro-mini, guaranteed to get any schoolgirl sent home with a note, if she dared wear such a tarty uniform to class. I run into mommy's room, so I can look at myself in her long mirror. I am taken aback at how much I look like a silly schoolgirl. Below the short hemline of the dress and above the knee-high white socks, is an expanse of bare thigh. I ogle my reflection, wishing I could attend a school where all the girls had to dress like this, and there were strict nuns that disciplined naughty girls throughout the school day. I scurry back, and skip around the living room. I allowed my hands to flap back and forth as I skip, swishing the hem of the dress up exposing my lemon panties. Why won't mommy pay attention? In a final effort to be the center of attention, I plop over mommy's lap, and allow my dress to ride way up in the back, giving mommy an eye-full of my yellow-covered tush. Undisturbed by my gambit, Mommy places the magazine on top of my panty- clad rear, and engrosses herself in an article entitled: Please him, tease him. I started kicking my legs frantically up and down. Mommy locks her leg around my leg, making me her captive. The doorbell rings, and I panic. Oh my God, who can that be? Linda, the neighbor girl? The paper boy? Dickie, my best friend? My mother yells, "Come in, it's not locked." From my upside down view, I am unable to see who walks in. I hear an unfamiliar feminine voice, "Mrs. Johnson? I'm Sherry. I'm here about the babysitting job you advertised." My mother answers, "Oh yes Sherry, I'm so glad you're prompt. One thing I look for in a sitter is promptness. *This* is my little Cicely, but we just call her Cissy." Sherry asks, "Oh my, was Cissy naughty?" Mother says, "No, if Cissy was naughty, she'd be getting her buns warmed right now. No, Cissy just gets a little hyper and she needs a cooling down period. It's like a time out. She just lies over mommy's lap and winds down." Sherry inquires, "Isn't Cissy a little old for a babysitter? I was expecting someone a little younger?" Mother answers, "Cissy's very immature. She needs constant supervision and a firm hand to discipline her when she gets out of line. Do you think you can handle that, Sherry?" Sherry responds, "I'm sure. I have two younger brothers and mother used to put me in charge of their punishments, so I'm very experienced at encouraging bad boys to behave themselves." Felicia says, "Well that sounds like a good resume, but I've had other sitters stay with Cissy after claiming they knew how to spank, and when I'd come home, Cissy would have them wrapped around her little finger. She can be so manipulative; it really takes a strong will and a strong hand. ... I know, before I'd feel safe leaving you with the holy terror, I'd like to see you demonstrate your technique. Come here dear and lay a few swats on." I groan. I had kept quiet up until that point, not wanting to give away the secret of my gender. I could hear Sherry approach. As I look up, still restrained by my mother's vice-grip around my leg, I see her shoes and legs. She must have been wearing a short skirt because I can see leg as far as my field of vision permits. SLAP! The spank rings out as Sherry proves herself a very capable, no nonsense disciplinarian. I squirm on my mother's lap as Sherry gives me a severe fanny-whacking. When she finishes, my mother unceremoniously dumps me off her lap and onto the floor. I look up from the floor and see Sherry is wearing a skimpy pair of Daisy Duke blue denim shorts. Sherry looks into my eyes, sees I am really a boy, and without uttering a good-bye, turns and leaves the house. My mother peers down at me with a look of satisfaction. "Well Cissy, what do you think? Would you like to lie across Sherry's lap while she's wearing those scanty shorty-shorts?" I blushed uncontrollably at the image. Dr. Masterson interrupts my story and ends the session.