|
Momma's Boy, by Yvonne, a friend of Mistress Leesa
Hank and I had been married for nearly three years and the only thorn in our rosebush was his damn domineering mother, Martha.
Martha hadn't wanted Hank to marry me.
No woman would ever be good enough for her handsome, Harvard-educated son.
In person Martha treated me with thinly-disguised contempt, the acid in her tone insinuating that in some undefined way I was a failure as a wife.
"You don't know Hank like I do," she'd say mysteriously, without ever revealing that secret side of my husband.
Of course, sunshine or snowfall, we had to visit the widowed old bag every Sunday.
And every weekday when Hank came home from work the first thing he did was give me a perfunctory peck on the cheek, then rush to the telephone to check in with his mom.
Okay.
So there was good news and bad news.
The bad news was I'd married a momma's boy.
The good news was that, aside from his juvenile maternal attachment, Hank was the perfect husband--thoughtful, loving and loyal.
At least that's what I thought until Hank started working late at the office.
Soon, at least once a month, he began jetting off on obscure weekend business trips.
Our lovemaking quickly slid from frequent to nonexistent.
Hank always had the proverbial headache.
All right.
I don't have a Harvard degree but I don't have "stupid" written on my forehead either.
Hank was having an affair.
And what the hell was I going to do about it?
I tried confronting Hank a couple of times, but he'd just blow up and storm out of the house.
I consulted my best friend, Sarah, who suggested I greet Hank at the door wearing only my sexiest lingerie from Victoria's Secret.
So I tried that housewife-hooker routine.
One evening I slipped on my see-through bra, embroidered silk panties, thigh-high black fishnet stockings and six-inch heels.
The bell rang, I flung open the door--and stared into the puzzled face of my next door neighbor, Jim. His wife had sent him over for a cup of sugar.
Fine.
I wasn't suited for the role of seductress anyway.
When Hank finally arrived home that night--he'd had to work late at the office again--I completely lost it.
We had a terrific fight and he walked out, leaving me sobbing uncontrollably.
He'd been so angry, he'd left without even calling his mother.
Sure enough, about 15 minutes after Hank departed, the phone started feverishly ringing.
It was the iron matron, Mother Courage herself.
I swallowed my sobs, picked up the phone and did my best happy-housewife imitation.
Hank's mother didn't buy it.
"You've been crying," Martha said accusingly. "Where is my son?"
I managed to stammer that he was out, that he was always out, either working late at the office or disappearing on weekend business trips.
"I'll fix this when you and Hank visit me on Sunday," Martha snapped, adding for at least the thousandth time: "Your problem is you don't know Hank."
During the rest of the week, Hank telephoned his mother as soon as he got home.
I could tell from his side of the conversation that Martha didn't mention a word of what I'd told her.
Hank's mother lived with a full-time maid in a ritzy high-rise.
Hank's father, a stockbroker, was thoughtful enough to leave behind several million dollars in assets when his heart suddenly caved in.
That Sunday the bitch greeted us dressed in her hand-tailored regal finery.
Her lips were pursed in a smile so icy it could single-handedly reverse the trend toward global warming.
Martha ushered us into the plush elegance of her parlor and called for tea.
The prospect of this encounter left me trembling.
I hadn't dreaded anything so much in my life since that first blood smear showed up on my panties at puberty.
Hank was spinning his usual ass-kissing patter with his mom. He paused only when the maid appeared carrying a covered silver tray.
"Take the rest of the day off," Martha told the maid. Soon we heard the sound of the front door.
Martha removed the tray cover, revealing a polished silver tea set--and, incongruously, a woman's hairbrush.
The brush was flat and wide, rounded like a paddle.
The paint on its wooden surface had partially peeled, suggesting it was a family heirloom.
Hank looked at the brush and gagged.
"So, Henry, you remember this hairbrush, do you?" Martha said coolly.
I had never heard Martha call my Hank "Henry" before.
"I should think you would remember it," Martha added, picking up the brush and strumming her fingers across its stiff black bristles.
Hank cringed, seeming to shrink in his chair.
"Henry, you've been a naughty boy at the office," Martha said sternly, "staying out late at night and putting your pee pee into places where it doesn't belong."
Hank gagged again.
I was stunned into silence. I'd never seen Hank react like this before, not even close.
Martha pushed her chair away from the table and placed the hairbrush on her lap.
"Over here, with your pants down around your ankles," she ordered, pointing at her knees.
Hank was rigid in his chair.
"Henry!" Martha barked.
Hank looked at me pleadingly.
I turned my face away.
The philandering bastard deserved to be humiliated.
Besides, this wasn't really happening, was it?
Slowly my husband stood up, unbuckled his belt and dropped his trousers and his underpants. He shuffled over to his mother and lay across her knees.
"Henry is very familiar with this hairbrush," Martha told me, patting Hank's butt maternally. "It was this hairbrush that kept him out of trouble, all the way to Harvard."
Then she raised her hand above her head and, with the wooden side of the hairbrush, delivered a brutal blow to Hank's quivering ass.
Hank squealed like a little girl.
"Hand me that napkin, my dear," Martha said.
I picked up a linen napkin from the table and gave it to her.
She stuffed the napkin into Hank's mouth.
"Henry has always been a noisy little boy when he's being punished," Martha said.
Then she whacked my husband's bare ass with the paddle side of the brush, again and again.
"From now on, you are going to behave," she said."Do you understand me, Henry?"
Hank gurgled something through his napkin gag.
"Good," Martha said. "But just to make sure you understand. . . ."
She flipped over the hairbrush so that the side with the bristles was showing. Then she brought the bristles down hard on Hank's ass. The stiff bristles bit into Hank's soft flesh like feral teeth, leaving little leopard-spots of blood.
Martha removed the gag from Hank's mouth.
"Stand up, you bad little boy," Martha ordered.
"Yes, mommy," Hank said softly, rising from his mother's knees and bending down to pull up his underpants and trousers.
"Not yet, Henry!" Martha said. "I haven't finished with you!"
Hank's mother reached out and grabbed her son's penis and balls.
"You see my son's little pee-pee?" Martha said to me. "It's always been a rebellious little pee-pee, getting Henry into trouble."
She crunched Hank's cock and balls so tightly that he shrieked.
"You'll have to keep Henry's naughty little pee-pee well punished," Martha told me, as she spanked his cock first with her hand, then with the flat side of the hairbrush.
I was shocked: Hank's cock was swelling into an erection!
"Henry is the kind of little boy who needs a mother's loving discipline," Martha added, paddling his cock with the hairbrush.
Hank was howling in pain now, tears streaking his cheeks.
I didn't know whether to laugh or start crying, too.
Finally, Martha had finished disciplining her errant child.
"Go stand in the corner, Henry, while your wife and I have a chat," she said.
His pants and underpants dragging on the floor, my husband dutifully shuffled over to a corner, standing there with his head bowed.
"Henry doesn't want a wife," Martha said. "He wants a mother--a mother with a hairbrush."
Then Martha handed me the hairbrush in a symbolic transfer of power.
Nowadays my husband doesn't stay late at the office. He doesn't disappear on weekends either.
In private, at home, I call him Henry. He calls me Mommy.
When he's been a good boy, I pull out my breast and let him suckle my tit for a while, pretending he's drinking mother's milk.
When he's bad, I liberally apply the hairbrush to his bare ass and cock.
I wanted a husband, instead I got a dutiful, obedient child.
I wanted a man, instead I got a kind of mouse.
But hamsters--and Henrys--make nice pets.
|
