Humiliated by Mommy by Naughtieboys  Back.

(c) Em-bare-assed Press 1999

It is a sweltering June evening in Boston. I'm home after my first year of college at UCLA. Only I am returning to a home I've never known. My mother moved out of suburbia, into a high-rise over-looking Boston Harbor.

My mother, Felicia, has just returned from work, a modeling job, and gone into the bedroom to slip into "something more comfortable".

"Oh, god," I thought. "It's not going to start all over again, is it? I'm 19 now, she's not going to treat me like she did when I was 16 ... or 13 ... or 11."

I don't have to wait long to find out. Out she prances, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a mother to wear the skimpiest garments imaginable in front of her teenage son.

"Well, what should we have for din-din?" she asks.

Why does she have to use words like din-din or veggies or undies? Everything has to be so cutesy.

"Ahhh, I d-d-don't c-care," I stutter an answer. She's already doing it to me. Turning me into a blithering idiot. A six year old enchanted by her spell. I'm trying not to gawk at her, but that's no easy task. You see, my mother is too beautiful to be a mother. There ought to be a law against it or something. She's 40, but tells everyone she's 29. She even had a driver's license and British birth certificate "adjusted" to reflect her imagination. She's a model. The closest famous person she resembles is Raquel Welch. My mother's has long dark hair, a large bust, and sexy suntanned legs that go on forever. In contrast, I am skinny, have a fair complexion and blonde hair.

I must confess, I'm a leg-man. Show me a pair of shapely, tanned thighs, and I get an instant erection. And right now, my mother's luscious limbs are on display. She came out wearing a white, see-through nightie, skimpy bra, and a tiny pair of panties. The tan complexion of her skin sharply contrasts with the white of her lingerie. Yes, I have a hard-on in my tight jeans. I'm just hoping it doesn't show.

She doesn't call attention to the fact that she just came out dressed to kill. No pirouette, no "How do I look?" That would be too direct. It's as if she's communicating: "Here I am driving you crazy with lust, but we're going to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary is going on. We're going to talk about mundane things like dinner and TV while I tease you mercilessly with my body."

"Justin, ooooooh Juuustinnnnnn....," she calls out in that sing-songy inflection that I despise. "Honey, do you want mommy to fix you some nice veggies?"

"Mom, I'm too old to be calling you mommy."

"You didn't. I was just saying *mummy*-it's a British expression. You don't want to deprive mommy of having her little boy back, do you? It's just for the summer, then you'll be back to college."

That set my mind reeling. What did she mean by "having her little boy back?" Oh no, she isn't going to start playing *the game*, is she?

"Mom, we've got to talk."

"Of course dear. Let's sit down and have a nice chat," She replies.

She sits opposite me and slowly and sensuously crosses her legs, allowing my eyes to feast on exquisite thighs as she hypnotically rocks her leg back and forth. I am lost in the swaying limb, then quickly look up, only to see her smile *that* smile. That teasing grin that accuses: I caught you looking at mommy's legs.

My heart is pounding. Not just from the sexual tension, but from what I want to talk to her about. I'm scared to death to confront her. Afraid of how she'll react-fearing she'll be angry. Maybe afraid she'll cut me off-end the little tease games that I've grown to love and hate. I've practiced this conversation with my therapist a hundred times. Gone over all the things I think she might say-covered all the bases.

"Mom, I'm really upset when you come out dressed like that...."

She cuts me off, acting truly surprised, "Ohhhhhhh, OK. I'll go change."

And with that, she gets up and wiggles her panty-clad fanny into the bedroom. End of conversation. *That* I wasn't prepared for.

She comes out wearing a long flannel robe that completely covers her. I didn't even know she owned anything that modest. The rest of the evening is unremarkable. Dinner, a little light chat and TV, then it's time for bed.

Mother yawning, "I've had it Justin. Time for me to turn in. Where do you want to sleep?"

"What are my choices?" I ask very concerned.

"Weeellllll," she drags out the drama. "There is the bathtub or...," she pauses, then quickly blurts out the alternative, "there's plenty of room in mommy's bed." She commands, "Now tell mommy where you want to sleep."

My heart's pounding again. I feel confused. This offer is not about sex. We've never had sex, and never will. That's too blatant. For my mother, it's all about the seduction, the tease, the games.

I want so badly to be in the same bed with her. But no. I've worked so hard in therapy to untangle myself from her. Besides, I need to jack-off, and with her in the same bed, that's not going to happen. "I'll sleep on the couch," I respond, although my tone communicates little conviction.

"Oh no you won't," she scolds. "I just had that couch reupholstered, and I want to keep it nice and clean."

"All right then, I'll sleep in the tub."

"Fine," she admonishes. "I'll get you a pillow and blankie and you have a good nights sleep."

She quickly gets me a pillow and blanket and adjourns to her bedroom. I'm left holding them, feeling like I've just done the most awful thing imaginable. I open the door to the bathroom and see she has a dozen or so panties hanging from everywhere-the towel rack, the shower head, the knob on the cabinet draw. Panties. Yellow, pink, purple panties. All silky and small bikini panties. Did she do this knowing I'd end up sleeping in the bathroom? Is she trying to drive me mad? I slam the door in anger. I unsnap my jeans and as I'm lowering them, the door flies open. I look up in shock with my jeans around my ankles. My penis is stretching my white briefs to the limit. Mother enters, now in just white panties and bra, with her hands on her hips, looking very cross.

"All right young man," mother chastises. "You can choose where you want to sleep, but there will be no slamming doors in my house. Is that understood?"

"Yes, mommy." I meekly reply.

Oh, shit. She did it. She regressed me to a naughty boy. She switches from flirt to bitch so quickly that my head spins. She grabs my wrist and leads me out of there. Oh my god, what's she going to do? She's not going to spank me, she can't spank me. I'm way too old for a spanking. I have to shuffle to keep up with her because my jeans are hobbled around my ankles.

"Mommy, I'm too old for a spanking." I whine.

"Oh, mommy had forgotten all about spankies," she says as she lightly taps my tightie-whitie clad bottom with two of her fingers. " Mommy> just needs to go tinkle, and you didn't want to hang around and watch, now did you?"

Why did I have to mention spankings?

She finishes up and returns to her bedroom, and I slump down in the bathtub for a restless night. I keep looking at all the panties as I finally doze off. I haven't gotten more than an hours sleep when I awake. There's no clock so I can only guess that the sun is up. I have a morning hard-on poking out of my Fruit-of-the-Looms. Once again, I am mesmerized by the sight of panties. A pair of leopard-skin panties lays at my feet. They must have fallen off the shower head into the tub. But I don't remember seeing those last night. I vaguely remember that pair of panties from years ago. They are especially tiny. I can't help myself as I pick up the panties to examine them more closely. I start to whisk them lightly over my body. My cock pops out of the confines of my briefs, and I begin stimulating it against the slick wisp of material.

Just then the door opens. I use the leopard panties to cover up my dick. My mother walks in.

Cheerfully she remarks, "Good morning sweetums. Sleep well?"

She quickly turns her back to me (thank god) and starts brushing her teeth. She's talking away about what a great nights rest she got in her luxurious bed, when I notice she's making eye-contact with me through the mirror.

"Those always were your favorites," she nonchalantly comments. Then she exits the bathroom-her words, echoing in my brain.

She caught me playing with her panties. Did she know what I was doing with them. How could she not know? I have them wrapped around my dick. This is going to be a long summer.

At breakfast, she compromises in terms of her attire. It isn't diaphanous, but it is short. She's covering herself in a terry-cloth robe, that barely covers her panties-and she is wearing the leopard-skin panties. She must have gotten them from the bathroom after I'd gotten up.

"Mom, we really didn't get to finish our conversation last night."

"I put this robe on just for you. I hope it's not too revealing. Have you seen more than you want to see?"

"No, but it's soooo short..."

"Oh, did you sneak a peek at my panties? Do you know which one's I'm wearing? Tell me, what color are they? Tell mommy what color panties she's wearing." She teases.

"Mom, I don't care which panties you're wearing...."

She interrupts, "You seemed to care about them this morning dear."

" style="BACKGROUND-COLOR: #a0ffff; COLOR: black">MOMMY!" I yell, reacting to the shameful truth behind her remark.

"Don't take that tone with me Justin Sylvester Johnson. You are still a teenager, and you know what happens to naughty, disrespectful teenagers in this house." She admonishes.

I sulk away with my tail (or is it my cock) between my legs. Another failed attempt at confronting her.

Life went on like this for about a week. She is a constant tease, and when I try to talk seriously with her, she reduces me to a bad boy. I am "sleeping" in the bathtub night after night. I've probably gotten all of ten hours sleep in a week. I am delirious from lack of sleep. On top of that, I haven't come the whole time. I am in a state of constant arousal and frustration.

One night, just after I doze off, she barges into the bathroom. "Out you go, mommy needs her privacy."

She takes me by the hand and leads me into her bedroom. She gives me a light shove and sends me face down across her bed. I sink into the soft bed. My flesh tingles against the silky pale pink satin sheets.

"I'll be back in two minutes. Don't you dare fall asleep in mommy's bed, you naughty boy," She giggles.

"OOOhhh, can't fall asleep. Can't let her win," I think to myself. But I'm so tired. I've hardly slept all week. Her bed feels so nice. So soft compared to that cold, hard bathtub.

I hear her talking above the sound of her peeing. "I'd better not find you asleep in mommy's comfy beddie-bye."

WHACK! I must have dozed off, but I awake with a freight. SMACK! My body jolts, but I hold my position. My position? I'm on my mother's bed. She's spanking me! I'm a 19 year old college student and my mother is spanking my underpants-clad bottom. SPANK!

"Naughty, naughty boy. You fell asleep in mommy's bed. Wake up. Wakee-wakee."

She gives a tug on the underside of my underpants and exposes most of my right butt cheek. SLAP! SMACK! It's all too much-the exhaustion, the embarrassment, the spanking. I'm reduced to a crying six year old.

She asks, "Where do you want to sleep?"

I reply, "In mommy's bed."

"Oh, so now you want to sleep in mommy's bed? It wasn't good enough for the big college boy a week ago, but now you want to sleep in your mommy's bed."

"Pleeeeze mommy, let me sleep in your bed. I'll be a good boy. I promise." I can scarcely believe those words are came out of my lips. But they did. Loud and clear, I am begging her like a little boy.

"Well I really shouldn't let you. Don't you think you're a little old to be sleeping with your mommy?"

She twists the knife both ways. First she breaks me down to beg her to sleep in her bed, then she rubs it in that I'm grown-up and too old to do so.

"I'll be good."

"Well, OK, but under one condition."

"What?"

"I don't want a dirty boy in my nice clean bed, so wash up and you can sleep in my bed."

"But mommy, I'm so tired," I plead.

SMACK I get a swat to my behind for an answer. I get up and march myself back to the bathroom. She follows and turns on the water to fill the tub. We wait silently as the tub slowly fills. I feel confused. Is she going to stay and see me take my bath? I don't want her to see me naked (or do I?).

The bath is full, so she turns off the water. She grabs me by the wrist and pulls me over to the front of the bathtub. She teasingly grasps the elastic at the leg openings of my briefs.

She baby-talks to me, "Are you embawwassed to have mummy pull widdle undies down?"

The combination of her baby-talk and the feel of her finger gently tugging and releasing the elastic of my underpants causes me to erect. I know this is what she wants, just to shame me even more.

"Auuhhh, happy to see mommy? Now is Justie-Wustie going to act all shy around mommy? Now that your such a big boy, you don't want mommy to see widdle pee-nee?"

The more she teases me the bigger it grows. My dick is straining against the tight confines of my jockey shorts. She lets her fingers travel around the inside of the leg holes of my underpants until they rest against my butt cheeks. Then she pinches the elastic and pulls out and up, exposing my bottom. She lets go and the elastic snaps against my bottom. The sound echoes in the steam-filled bathroom.

My hard-on hurts it is so engorged. She is driving me crazy-playing with my head the way she used to when I was living at home. I've worked so hard with my psychologist to understand what use to go on. I thought it was all in the past. How many times in therapy had I wondered: "How could I let her embarrass me like that?" And now, here I am feeling absolutely helpless-under her magic spell. I will let her do anything to me. I *want* her to do more. I am addicted to the teasing torture of it all.

She firmly grabs the elastic at the waistband of my underpants.

"Tomorrow mommy is going to take you shopping for some pretty undies. Would you like that, Justin? Hmmm ... do you want to go with mommy so she can get you nice undies?"

As she describes our shopping trip, she ever so slowly lowers my underpants inch by inch. She gets them down to where most of my bottom is unveiled, but my hard-on hooks the front of the underpants, so it remains covered. Suddenly she yanks my underpants back up and pushes me into the tub.

My heart is racing from the sexual stimulation, and then I receive the added shock of very hot water. I almost feel burned, but she sends me a sharp look that tells me I better stay put. She then grabs me and stands me up. She has a shower-head attached to a long, flexible hose. She turns the water on so it is coming out of the shower-head attachment.

She takes hold of my now wet underpants, and pulls them away from my bottom. Then she stuffs the hose in the back of my underpants. The water is freezing cold. I look pleadingly at her, but she just smiles back at me. Funny, it is the warmest smile that accompanies the ice-cold water blasting against my bottom.

Her right hand is holding the nozzle close to my anus, as her left hand lovingly caresses my thigh and makes its way over to the front of my underpants. She picks up a bar of soap in her left hand and lathers up the front of my briefs. Of course this stimulates my rock hard cock.

I'm close to coming. The intensity of the cold water hitting my butt and her massaging my penis is too much. Then she just drops the soap and the shower head, and walks out of the room.

"Finish up and then join mommy in bed. You have one minute."

One minute? How the hell can I "finish up" in one minute? I need to feel release so badly. But I jump out of the bath. Wipe the towel across my body once or twice. Grab a fresh pair of underwear... Wait a minute. The only underwear in the bathroom is her panties. It's either my wet, cold briefs or her scanty, feminine panties. I try not to think about what a set-up this is, as I pull down my soaking briefs and snatch the first pair of panties I can find. Oh, God ... they had to be the leopard ones. The tiny, satiny, leopard-print panties. I can hear her now....

I slip into the tight panties and rush into her bedroom. I hope I can make a quick entrance and dive under the covers before she sees what I'm wearing, but no such luck.

She's sitting in front of her vanity mirror adjusting her make-up.

"Oh, so glad you could join me. My my, look at you. Mister fancy-panties. Those always were you favorites, weren't they dear? Or did you have a pair of mommy's panties that you liked even more? Hmmmm? And you look so cute in those jungle panties. Just like a sexy big cat in search of game. Are you blushing? Is it embarrassing to be wearing mommy's panties? Come on, model the pretty panties for me, just like you used to. Turn around and show mommy how cute your buns look in the leopard panties." I do it. I model the panties for her. Just end this night. My head is spinning, my cock is throbbing ... I feel so ashamed and so turned on.

We both get in bed. I try to get close to her, but notice I can't feel her naked flesh I so long for. She has an extra sheet on the bed, so she is separated from me by that sheet. I guess my fantasies of tangling legs with her is postponed for another time.

I awake the next morning feeling something tickling my thighs.

"I'm just doing a little morning dusting dear. I know you're still asleep, so just keep your eyes closed and sleep soundly while mommy cleans up."

She briskly rubs that feather-duster over my panties, and I'm suppose to pretend I'm asleep?

I had been dreaming, or am I still dreaming? No, I'm awake now and I remember a time when I was a teenager. I am 13 years old. Mom is out shopping. I am in the living room, lying on my stomach watching TV. It is a winter afternoon, but I am just in my tight, white Fruit of the Loom briefs. I have the heat cranked up, so I am not cold. I am watching a lame comedy with Bob Hope and Phyllis Diller. But I'm not watching because of them. I am so engrossed because Elke Sommer is in it-a frequently scantily-clad Elke Sommer I hasten to add.

Elke is in a baby doll nightie, displaying way too much of her thighs and panties for 1960s TV. I am humping the carpet-heart pounding, hyper-ventilating, and about to come in my undies.

I'm startled by a noise behind me. Oh no-this can't be. It's mom. I was so lost in my sexual fantasy I didn't hear her. She's smiling down at me. That condescending "I caught you" grin. I sheepishly gaze up at her. She's wearing a mini-skirt and a fur coat. The furry hem of the coat just covers the tops of her thighs, so I know her mini must be pretty short (even by her standards). From my vantage point, I'm peering right up those long legs, which appear to go on forever. This isn't helping my hard-on go down, and I'm stuck lying face down like this until my cock calms down.

"What you watching?" she innocently asks, as if she doesn't know what I'm up to.

"Just a movie," I timidly reply.

She watches and starts laughing. She decides to make herself comfortable, so she takes a seat right behind me. She's roaring with laughter at this movie I find totally stupid, now that it's been stripped of its jerk-off value. As lay there, feeling totally exposed, my ass-cheeks barley conceal by my underpants, I feel like my mother's laughing at my predicament.

Am I just being paranoid? Is my own mother so amused by catching me jerking off? Does she know I'm a reluctant, captive exhibitionist, pinned to the floor in front of her, unable to leave, less she really get an eye- full?

"Its awfully warm in here. What do you have the heat up to 90?" She asks annoyed.

I swivel my neck around to watch her stand up and reach under her fur coat to unfasten her skirt. Now I'm the captive audience to her exhibitionism, as she wriggles out of her skirt. As if taking off her little mini-skirt is going to cool her off. She's still wearing her damn fur coat for God's sake.

Does she know I've tried on her fur coat? Just last week when she was out, I snuck into her closet while I was stripped down to a pair of her pale pink panties, and wrapped myself in that white fur. The fur hem just about drove me insane with lust as it tickled my thighs. Now she is feeling that same sensation, as she stands over me in panties and fur coat.

She sits back down and sensuously crosses her legs. I realize I've been staring and abruptly snap my head back. My erection's growing if anything. Come on damn it-go down, go down!

"Justin, mommy has something she needs to talk to you about. Why don't you hop up here and sit next to mommy so we can have a little chat?" she says patting the couch.

Oh great, I think, now she wants to totally humiliate me-gets me all excited by doing a little striptease, and then wants me to expose the bulge in my underpants.

"I'm listening mom," I answer, trying to avoid getting up (and stalling to give time for my thingie to go down).

She seamlessly transitions from a saccharin sweet to a scolding tone, "Justin, you get up here right this minute. I have a serious matter to discuss with you and I want to talk eye-to-eye. I am not going to talk to you while leering at your underpants-clad bottom. Although if what I've suspect is true, I may be doing another kind of communicating with that naughty bottom of yours."

I was half-hoping she'd berate me some more. Maybe the shame and fear would scare my cock down, but somehow, her words have just the opposite effect. Maybe it was the way she pointed out that she's looking at my butt, that I'm just in my jockeys, and she's threatening to spank me. I'm a teenager. She hasn't spanked me since... well, not since I've been a teenager anyway.

I don't move. I can't bear to let her see how stiff my dick is. I don't think I could get up even if I wanted. I feel frozen to this spot. Damn, there's Elke on screen again-still in her nightie and panties.

Suddenly my mother gets up and grabs the back of my underpants. I can feel her fingers and long red nails grasp the elastic waistband and tug on it. I feel the air on my now exposed bottom as she pulls the back of my underpants a few inches away from my butt. I can feel her eyes peeking into that same space. I feel so embarrassed. Here I am 13 years old and my mother is treating me like a naughty kindergartner. Gazing at my nude ass-the ass she's threatening to spank.

Her aggressiveness has roused me. I get up and plop down on the couch next to her. She sits too close to me. Our legs are ever so slightly grazing up against each other, and her hand remains tucked into the back of my briefs. She releases the grip as she straightens her fingers, but leaves them inside my underpants. The pointy fingernail of her middle finger rests gently on the crack of my fanny. My hard-on is stretching the confines of the front of my briefs. I wish this was over.

"I have something I want to show you, Justin."

She takes the hand that is inside my underpants, and moves it around to my side. Her fingers brush against my left butt-cheek, traveling slowly around to my waist. She stretches the elastic a good three inches from my body and lets it snap back against my skin as she smiles at me. The THAWACK sound hangs in the air, as she leans over me to reach for her Lord and Taylor's shopping bag. Her legs are pressing down on my lap as she rummages around in the bag looking for something.

Why can't she just take the bag and sit up and look through it? No, she has to remain sprawled over my thighs, wriggling her flesh against mine as she searches for whatever it is she has to show me.

Finally she locates the item and sits back up. She just lets the garment dangle from the nail of her index finger as she silently displays a pair of ultra-feminine panties under my nose.

"Well?" she finally breaks the silence.

"Well?" I inquire back in feigned ignorance.

"Do they look familiar? They should. They're exactly the same as the ones you've been wearing. The silky, leopard-print panties that you've been sneaking out of mommy's draw and stretching out of shape."

As she emphasizes that last phrase, "stretching out of shape," she deliberately looks at the underpants I'm wearing, which I am stretching to their maximum capacity.

She continues, "... So, I had to buy a replacement pair, since you're not the only one who finds sexy animal-print panties irresistible." Having said that, she nonchalantly leans back, causing the hem of her fur coat to rise up, unveiling a glimpse of black and white, tiger-stripe panties she's wearing.

I gulp, louder than I wished.

"Now, can you promise mommy you will not ruin this new pair of pretty panties if I give you that old pair?"

"Yes mommy," I hypnotically agree.

"Good boy. Then go fetch those leopard panties that you can't resist and bring them here."

I dash off to her bedroom, as I hear her call out, "I'm sure you know exactly where to find them." The shame of that remark slows me down, but I can't deny the truth of it, as I open her top draw and find them at the back right-hand side, where they always are. I bring the panties back to the living room and place them in my mother's out-stretched hand.

"Now turn around and face away from mommy."

I do as I'm told. I feel her thumbs hook the elastic of my Fruit of the Looms and swiftly plunge them to my ankles. "Step out of your little boy undies, honey."

Again, I obey. I feel a SWAT against my naked bottom. "You're a very naughty boy. Sneaking into mommy's private things and trying on her clothes." She lowers the panties to just behind my feet. Without being asked, I step into them. She slowly pulls the feminine garment up my legs, while her fingernail tips gently scratch my ankles, calves, knees, and stop at my thighs. She pulls away and leaves the panties tautly hugging the tops of my thighs. Then she gives me another slap on my butt. "When mommy goes out, you don't seem able to act your age. So now that mommy's here, you are going to be treated like a child. A naughty, disobedient child. A naughty boy. Wearing those panties, more like a naughty little girl. A very SMACK naughty SPANK little SPANK girlie SMACK SMACK who needs SPANK her mommy SPANK to give her SLAP a spankie SPANK SPANK SPANK!

She then tugs the panties up, grabs my wrist, and spins me around towards her. I end up across her lap in a very vulnerable position. She softly caresses my silk-covered bottom, making loving circles with her hand. My throbbing member is scrunched against her thigh, with only the thin material of the panties to protect it.

"I know you don't mean to be a bad boy, but you get seduced by mommy's sexy undies. Don't you? You naughty thing. Just like mommy, you can't resist the lure of the silky textures against your bare skin, or the erotic attraction of animal patterns. We get an exhibitionist exhilaration out of having only a tiny garment to protect us from total nudity-the naughtiness of it all and the femininity. It's a maddening mixture of the *vulnerability* of feeling so exposed, combined with the *power* over any poor soul who sees us and gets ensnared in our erotic web."

I'm the poor soul in trapped in her erotic web. I can't believe this is all happening. I am in an altered state. My heart is pounding, I feel dizzy, spaced out, scared, and exhilarated. It's like my whole body is one big pulsating erection. Libidinal energy is shooting through me. My toes are involuntarily twitching. My skin is hyper-sensitized. My cock is on fire.

I'm anticipating the spanking to start, but instead, she slides her warm hand under my gauzy panties and rests her palm over the globes of my buttocks. "What are we going to do with such a perverse little boy? Hmmmm? What *are* we going to do?"

She then raises and lower her hand inside the panties. Ever-so-gently, she sensuously love-taps my bottom. I feel crazed. I am on the brink of something. Coming? Insanity? Hysterically crying? Having a heart attack? I don't know what, but I can't take much more of this-the humiliation, the teasing, the punishment. This is my own mother, what the hell does she think she's doing?!

I snap back to the present. I'm not 6, I'm not 13, I'm a 19 year old man. I'm half-asleep in a pair of my mother's panties, in my mother's bed. She's gone. She was teasing me with that feather-duster. She has left the feather duster stuck between my thighs. The feathers tickling me the whole time I was caught in my reverie of that time when I was 13. How long ago did mommy leave?

I get up and find a note on the kitchen table:

Dear Justin,

You've been acting so naughty, that I've hidden your big boy's clothes. But don't worry dear, I've left you some things to wear that are more appropriate for the way you've been behaving. I'll be back before 9.

Love,

Mommy

It's just past 8:30. I can imagine what she left me to wear.... She hid my clothes. They must be around here somewhere. This place isn't that big. I have less than half an hour. I'm so hungry, and I'm dying to jerk-off. I'm *so* frustrated. I've been constantly teased and tormented.

I run into the bathroom to see what she's left me to wear. It's a sailor suit that some 5 year old would feel too old to wear. Complete with blue and white short-sleeved shirt with a built-in fake tie, navy blue velvet shorts, knee-high white socks, little white sailor's cap, and some kid's size Fruit of the Loom underpants. I'm still in the leopard panties, so I opt for the infantile boy's clothes, sans the cap. The kiddie outfit is very tight, especially the underpants, but I am able to squeeze my skinny body into the ridiculous costume.

I feel like a little sissy, ashamed but also incredibly aroused. I rationalize that I'm so turned on because I've been deprived of my favorite pastime (masturbating), not because I'm getting some thrill out of my sissified image reflected in the full length bathroom mirror. I start to hump against the bathroom sink, but then a wave of fear paralyzes me. I don't want her to catch me in this outfit, especially not with a raging hard-on poking at the front of these tiny shorts.

In a flash of insight, I charge into my mother's bedroom and look under her bed. There's so much junk stored under it, I can't tell if my clothes are under there somewhere. I'm in such a rush, I neglect to open the drapes or turn on a light. I just flop down on my stomach, and crawl half-way under her bed. I rummage around in the dark-flipping a lid off a box, opening up a plastic storage container, peeking behind crates.

As I journey deeper into this underworld, I realize it's too dark to see. I decide to turn on a light, but I'm unable to turn around in the cramped quarters. No problem, I'll just back out. After twisting partly around under there, I try and straighten out. This is worse than I thought, and as I begin to panic, I try and force my way out, squirming and pushing in energetic bursts. This only makes matters worse, as I knock over a couple of boxes, spilling hangers and videotapes and other junk around and on top of myself. I am able to straighten out and push myself part-way out, but I get stuck.

I start to feel panicky. I am prone to anxiety attacks in closed in spaces, and I want out now. I try jerking forward, twisting, turning, squirming, rocking and back and forth; and I only manage to more firmly lodge myself in.

I'm now hyperventilating, and consider calling for help. Then I hear a key unlocking the front door. Saved. It is only now, after feeling the relief of being rescued, that my embarrassing position fully dawns on me. My legs and bottom are sticking out from under the bed, while the rest of me is hidden from view. I'm in that silly sailor's suit, with my blue velvet shorts and knee-high white socks on display. I hear the click of her high heels coming towards me. Then silence.

"My, my, what have we here?"

"Please mommy, I'm stuck. Get me out," I plead, feeling fully regressed to a little boy needing his mommy's help.

"What have naughty boys been up to while mommy was out? Hmmm? Mommy> can't leave you alone for two minutes can she? Next time, I'll have to get a baby-sitter for you. Maybe that nice teenage girl down the hall would like to earn some spending money by keeping an eye on you when mommy has to go out."

"I'm scared under here, please get me out mommy," I beg.

"What were you doing playing under mommy's bed when she wasn't home? Were you trying to find some of mommy's sexy clothes? All you have to do is ask and mommy will let you borrow a babydoll nightie with some pretty matching panties."

"Mommy, I was trying to find my big boy's clothes," I reply like a child doing his darnedest to sound all grown up.

"Awwhh, but liddle Justie looks so cute in his sailor suit," she baby-talks to me. Then she changes her tone to a very stern mother, she continues, "You have been very naughty, and must be taught a lesson. I won't have you sneaking around *my* house, going through *my* things, and pulling dangerous stunts that could get you hurt."

I can feel her grasp the legs of my shorts and tug. They are so tight on me, they won't come down, so she fishes under my midsection and unbuttons the shorts. I feel totally helpless, trapped like a snared animal, gazing straight ahead into darkness, and feeling my mother unclasping my shorts. I also feel relieved, knowing I am rescued. My panic feeling is gone. My mommy is here for me and all is safe. I also feel aroused. I am mortified at being exposed and helplessly snared like this. I am also stimulated by the sensations of her fingers unbuttoning my pants, as the full weight of my body presses down on her hands, and forces the front of my shorts against her fingers.

Once my pants are unbuttoned, my mother grabs hold of the sides of the sailor shorts. It is still no easy chore, but she forcefully pulls the tight-fitting velvet sissy shorts past my hips, down my thighs and calves, and leaves them around my ankles. Actually her not removing them, leaves me feeling even more bound and secured.

Now my bare legs and underpants-covered bottom are fully exposed. The deep feelings of vulnerability cause my already engorged member to fully enlarge and stretch the already tight confines of my cotton briefs beyond their limit. Why does humiliation have to have such a sexual effect on me? That I respond sexually to the shame only adds an additional layer of embarrassment on top of already feeling embarrassed. What a curse. Or is the turn-on of the shame actually the only pleasurable part of the whole ordeal?

WHACK! SMACK! "What am ... " SMACK "... I going..." SPANK ".. to do with..." SLAP ".. such a naugh..." SPANK "...ty, little..." SMACK "... boy?" SMACK SMACK SMACK "Do you promise me you'll behave yourself from now on?"

silent pause

SMACK "Do you?"

I meekly reply, "Yes, mommy."

"And you'll obey mommy from now on?"

"Yes, mommy."

"And you'll do *whatever* mommy says?"

Uh oh. I don't want to agree to that.

SPANK SMACK "*Whatever* mommy tells you, isn't that right, Justin?" SPANK

Her hand is spanking a *lot* harder, and I would agree to just about anything. "Yes mommy, I promise."

"Good sissy. Now wriggle your naughty little bottom for mommy to prove you're going to be an obedient little son from now on."

I wriggle and rotate and shake my fanny as much as I am able, given the confining circumstances. As I do, mommy pulls up on the waistband of my undies, causing my dancing butt-cheeks to pop out of the backsides of the white underpants. She then places both her hands gently against my ass cheeks. As my fleshy bottom wobbles around, it grazes against her fingers and palm. My shaking also causes my throbbing underpants-contained cock to rub against the plush carpet.

As if the bottom-to-hand sensual contact and the penis-underpants-rug friction wasn't enough, my mother engages me in a frenzied, rapid-fire dialogue.

Mommy: "Who's naughty?" Justin: "I am." Mommy>: "Repeat after me ... I'm mommy's sissy son." Justin: "I'm mommy's sissy son." Mommy>: "I'll always obey mommy." Justin: "I'll always obey mommy."

Mommy: " Mommy> knows what's best for me." Justin: "Mommy knows what's best for me."

Mommy: "I was so silly to try and get away from mommy." Justin: "I was so silly to try and get away from mommy."

Mommy: "Thank you for teasing my bottom, mommy." Justin: "Thank you for teasing my bottom, mommy." Mommy>: "Thank you for teasing my bottom, mommy." Justin: "Thank you for teasing my bottom, mommy." Mommy>: "Again!" Justin: "Thank you for teasing my bottom, mommy!"

By this time I am crying hysterically. I have lost all control and I'm heaving and sobbing. I have been broken. I am panting trying to catch my breath.

She rests her right hand on my exposed bottom, then begins very rapidly rubbing her fingertips back and forth across both cheeks. After a minute or so of that, she takes her long fingernails and ever-so-lightly scratches up and down the backs of my thighs. I am on the verge of coming, as I continue to grind into the carpet.

Then she reaches under the bed and removes some of the items blocking my escape route. She grasps my ankles and drags me out from under the bed. I am so humiliated, I just take off for the living room without even bothering to adjust my underpants or pull up my shorts. I must be quite a sight as I shuffle past her, my shorts inhibiting my movement, and my bouncing bottom almost completely displayed.

She calls out, "You're welcome." I'm not sure if her 'your welcome' is in response to helping me out from the bed, or the reply to my last words, thanking her for teasing my bottom.

I am completely resigned to my fate. I am mommy's sissy son. It's not that I am pussy whipped, it's more panty-whipped. The next night, I crawl into mommy's bed under the pale pink sheets in a nightie that I wore when I was thirteen. I didn't grow much during the last six years, but enough that the already emasculating sleepwear is all the more shameful. It consists of a pair of pale peach silk shorty-shorts that are very high cut. The matching sleeveless top is cropped off to expose my belly button.

Mommy comes out of her bathroom. She is wearing a chemise nightie. She walks over to her dresser and reaches for a jar of moisturizing cream. Her scoops out a generous portion and messages her hands together to work the cream in. Her slippery hands make squishy noises that make me ache for her to touch my cock. It's the same Pavlovian response as hearing running water, then needing to pee. She goes back to the dresser for a second helping and in the quiet dark room, the slushy sounds are deafening.

I obsess on the sensation of those slippery hands fondling my penis. I slowly wriggle under the covers as I imagine her greasy fingers petting my shaft.

Mommy climbs under the same sheet, so we aren't separated as we were the previous night. I am facing away from her, but she snuggles up close and we lay in the spoon position, her arms wrapped around my waist. She entangles her legs around mine. As I relax into it, it feels like an octopus has enveloped its eight legs securely around my legs and squeezed.

Mommy rubs her creamy fingers up my legs, beginning just above my knees and ending at my shorty-shorts. She doesn't caress up and down, but rather continuously makes the trek up from knee to the tops of my thighs, removes her fingers, and starts again at the knees. This technique results in a feeling of energy ascending up towards my cock, but never reaching the desired destination. It leaves me mad with sexual tension, and mommy knows it.

I begin to squirm around with the hope that mommy will accidentally bump into my penis. She's on to me, and slaps my thigh hard.

"You stop that naughtiness right now, young man. We can't have an innocent evening of mother and son affection without you perverting it into some lewd orgy. What is wrong with you, Justin? I am your mother, not one of your college bimbos." mommy berates me.

Mommy remains spooned against me, but her magic fingers cease playing with my legs. I am left horny. As I notice mommy's breathing change, I slowly bring my digits to my shorty-shorts. I slip my hand under the elastic waistband and gently (so as not to disturb mommy) titillate my dick. I can't help pumping quickly, and that awakens mommy.

"You little wanker! Are you getting all excited sleeping next to your mommy? You're 19 years old! Honestly, I don't know what I am going to do with you. You're nothing but a sissy who can't keep his hands off his little dickie. Maybe it's my fault. Maybe I'm being too lenient with you. I hoped you'd outgrown your childish pranks, but I was wrong. Mommy thought that at 19 you could come back home and not act like a naughty little panty-boy, but mommy gave you too much credit."

As she continued to belittle me, she pulled me out of bed, "Come on sissy. You want to be close to mommy's clothes. You can be close to mommy's clothes."

She opened the door to her closet and flung me in. Then she quickly grabbed a pair of discarded pantyhose and tied my wrists and my ankles. She grabbed my hog-tied ankles and lift them up and secured them onto a hook in the closet. This left me with my legs up in the air, but the hook was low enough so that I wasn't completely upside down. I was lying on my back, it was just my legs that were up in the air.

I feel completely helpless as I hang there. Mommy> gives a few rapid tugs on my shorties to restimulate my cock. Then shuts the closet door and leaves me and my blue balls in darkness.

Actually, the rest of the summer is surprising uneventful. There is a continuation of the seductive teasing, a couple of over the knee spankings, and a few other embarrassing moments. But nothing like the "stuck-under-the-bed" episode. I think she knew she broke my spirit that morning, and she didn't need to keep proving what she so clearly established.

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 the bed, or sleeping in my mother's bed, or the bath, or any of it. It was all too humiliating, I just wanted to forget about it all.

I didn't tell my mother why I stopped seeing my therapist, just that I stopped and I was contemplating seeing someone else. My mother shocked me by offering to pay for me to see a therapist, and she even had someone to recommend to me-a 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 opens 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 right out of there, 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 this takes some getting use 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 skirts. I rationalize that professional woman, like Ally McBeal, wear very short skirts now-a-days. Her wardrobe is very executive-looking, but they are positively micro-mini skirts. Karen is tall, so they reveal an amazing expanse of leg and thigh.

To a leg-fetish such as myself, it is a constant distraction. She'll be in the middle of some 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, just 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 like, at that moment, 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, "And how did you imagine I'd respond to your 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 lay 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 am twenty 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 like I did. She probably doesn't want to be my therapist because I'm 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 daydreaming about all week. I slump down on the couch and meekishly 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 of them. 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 all 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 I is alright with me about because what happened gets 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. M, "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 was 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 remarkable 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 sometimes 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 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 unbottoning 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. Then she forces me to walk back and forth, while she inspects me.

"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 in 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 am standing around 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 deal 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 shut in my face, I whimper out, "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 from 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 brown paper bag with some stuff in it.

I catch it and nervously open it to find my pants, but not my shoes and socks. I leave her office in my pants, but wearing high heels.

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