Mom Aunt Clara & My Wandering Mind

Author's Note:

Please take note of this story's category and tags, in case the subject matter might not be to your liking. Also, note this is a follow-on chapter in a multi-part series. If you haven't already, please start your reading with

Chapter 1

, otherwise the story won't flow well and might be a bit confusing.

This is a work of fiction. The plot is fictional. The characters are fictional. In other words, it's

not real life

. Any resemblance to person(s) living or dead is purely coincidental. All fictional characters in this fictional story involved in fictional sexual activities are 18+ in their completely fictional lives. If you think you recognize a real-life someone in this story, you lead a more colorful life than the author. :-)

Lastly, and most importantly, I hope you enjoy the story!

-BizMe

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Mom, Aunt Clara & My Wandering Mind: Part 2

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Had I known the 'tests' were nothing to be afraid of, I might not have flipped out as I had. And maybe then I wouldn't have had to endure the tanning of my hide. I'd like to think so, anyway, though it probably isn't true.

Listening to my aunt discuss the tests now as I was forced to remain quiet in the corner with my freshly-spanked bottom on display, they didn't sound all that bad. No blood would be drawn. No actual procedures performed. There would be surveys and questionnaires and behavioral exercises I'd be asked to perform while being observed by some researchers.

Aunt Clara expounded on a series of scales used to measure the severity of a person's absentmindedness--the 'Mindful Attention Awareness Scale' and the 'Attention-Related Cognitive Errors Scale'.

As my stepmom listened to Aunt Clara's explanation of the "Boredom Proneness Scale", I listened intently, too, from the corner.

"Oh Clara, I don't know. This all sounds so... theoretical. I mean, studies? Assessments? We have to

do

something," Mom's voice sounded broken. "Andy's not a bad kid, but he's wearing me out with worry. I'm so afraid for his future if he can't get over his constantly wandering mind. That's why he's lashing out, too--I'm

sure

of it."

"I've already told you, Mary; he's lashing out because he's a sexually frustrated virgin about to head off to college. At least, that's the larger portion of it. But listen, one way or another, I'm sure we'll get him sorted," Aunt Clara reassured her. "There are several therapies we can employ. In my experience, some are more effective than others, but everything is safe. So, we have options, okay?"

"Yeah, but Clara," Mom's voice sounded fidgety, "what we don't have is time. You said some things work better? Shouldn't we just start with those?"

"We

could

," Aunt Clara paused, "but you

won't

."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mom objected. "I'd do anything for my son. You know that."

"I'm sure you think so, Mary," Aunt Clara's tone was condescending. "But... given your track record... Well, I'd be surprised if you did.

Pleasantly

surprised. But still... Anyway, we just won't know until we try, what will work for each subject."

I wish she'd stop referring to me as a 'subject.' I'm her freaking nephew for crying out loud. Not just another folder in her office filing cabinet.

"For instance, we can change up his schedules," Aunt Clara continued, "so he does things in shorter blocks of time and with more breaks. That often helps cases of short attention span. We can introduce an intentional distraction when he starts to zone out, to poke his brain so it stays engaged and alert. Like when you snap your fingers when a dog starts to misbehave. That technique does wonders for those prone to wayward minds."

I

sure

didn't like being compared to a dog needing to be trained, and my mind started to wander to a tv show with that one guy who did that.

What was his name... Orlando? Ramon? He'd snap his fingers and make a 'tsk' sound to keep his animal in check

.

I remembered one episode where the dog couldn't be walked because it was so disobedient. Its owners were afraid it would run out into the street. But by the end of the show, the dog could be walked without a leash and he never left the owner's side. Not even once!

What was the name of that show?

I asked myself before eventually giving up when I couldn't place the name.

"Oh my god, are you serious?!" Mom blurted loudly, then quieted her voice

to a hush. "But that just sounds...

naughty

. Is it really a

treatment

? And you're that confident it would work?" Mom asked incredulously.

Dammit! They're talking about that 'alternative treatment' again. And again, I've missed it!

"I knew you wouldn't do it, so why are we even talking about it?" Aunt Clara dismissed Mom's last question. "It doesn't matter if it's effective if it's not on the table, now does it?"

"I mean,

maybe

as a last resort, maybe I'd..." Mom's voice started drifting. "It does sound... appealing... in its own way... But it also sounds scary. Like couldn't we get in trouble?"

Immediately, I imagined a mad scientist attaching jumper cables to my head while my aunt waited in the corner for the signal to throw down a lever to complete the circuit and send Frankensteinian levels of electricity into my brain.

"It's completely up to you, Mary. I just want you to know the options. But yes, I'm quite confident, even if my reasoning is purely anecdotal since no sanctioned research has ever been done... for obvious reasons."

Her words did nothing to alleviate my fears.

"But it worked wonders for my Patrick and our relationship," she continued. "He could never have moved out and been as successful as he's been if we hadn't. I'm convinced of that. I only wish I'd started a little sooner and, as you just pointed out, what we don't have much of is

time

. Andrew will start college in three months and that's not much time to discover which therapies will work best and the traditional courses of action typically some time to produce results."

I could only listen as my stepmom and aunt worked out my fate, pondering the entire time what this 'alternate therapy' entailed.

As I stood there, shifting my gaze back and forth between the wall, my feet, and my dick (which was taking its sweet freaking time to wilt back to normal, though at least it wasn't leaking anymore), I couldn't help wondering how much longer I'd have to stand there.

My legs were getting tired and I had to shift my weight back and forth to keep them from falling asleep. I also started feeling like I needed to go pee and the heaviness in my gut soon deepened.

As my bladder betrayed me, so did my dick, slowly lengthening and turning hard again completely against my will. Was it the realization I was still naked in front of two women, related though they were? Was I simply piss-proud, a result of my full bladder? Was it the feeling of a breeze from the open kitchen window wafting lightly across my balls?

Whatever the cause, I started to do a potty dance in the corner, my hardening dick flopping around. If the circumstances were different, it would have been comical. Occasionally, my dick would gain sufficient momentum to slap against my stomach, sending an unwanted jolt to my already charged cockhead.

Within just a few more minutes, I felt like I was about to burst, in more ways than one. I was afraid to utter a word, but I had to say something. Peeing on the floor might be the worst possible outcome.

"Um... Mom?" I uttered meekly.

"Be quiet, Andy," Mom complained quietly, still in deep thought. "Clara and I are still talking." Her tone sounded only half-present.

"But... but Mom, I..."

"Stand there and be quiet!" Aunt Clara shouted. "Don't make me come over there and blister your behind myself!"

"No, Clara!" Mom barked to her sister, suddenly drawn out of her preoccupation. "No... I... I don't think I can bear to do that again."

"Of course, you can, Mary. You should have been spanking him all along. He's already better behaved after only one session. You have to see that," Aunt Clara pressed, trying to convince Mom she shouldn't abandon spanking me as a 'therapy'.

"No, Clara. I can't. I just don't have it in me to do that, myself. Not so soon again. There's got to be another way. Something that isn't so... mean." Mom paused, " I think... No, I

know

... I want to do that other thing... but only if you'll help?"

"Oh, I'd be delighted to," Aunt Clara chimed, obviously approving of Mom's decision. "And we'll be discussing the spanking thing again later. It isn't

mean

, Mary. It's just called discipline and it shows that you love him. You'll spank him again, I'm sure of it. You'll see."

As I continued my contortionist dance in the corner their conversation barely registered. I'd heard, only vaguely, that Mom didn't want to spank me anymore. I should have felt relieved, except she only said she couldn't do it

herself

which left the door wide open to someone else doing it for her. Namely, Aunt Clara. Besides, Aunt Clara seemed hellbent on making sure Mom would spank me again and if I'd learning nothing else over the years it was that Aunt Clara usually got her way.

Plus, Mom had just volunteered me for some 'alternative' therapy that was neither officially researched nor legal, from the sounds of it, and which Aunt Clara seemed to be looking forward to way too much for my comfort. None of that sounded all that promising to me, but then, I suppose that's my fault since I'd zoned out during those important parts of their conversation.

Meanwhile, my potty dance, meant to stave off having to pee, seemed instead to be doing the opposite. The more I moved around and jiggled in place, the more it became apparent that I

really

needed to go.

Suddenly all the tensing of muscles in my nether region failed me and I felt a drop of pee leak out of the tip of my penis. Panic filled my gut as I felt like a dam was about to burst.

"I have to pee!" I blurted and quickly sprinted away without permission. By the time I reached the bathroom, I could no longer hold it in and I had barely made it to the toilet when the stream started gushing.

The release felt fantastic and almost immediately what was left of my erection started to wither. I hadn't closed the door, but even with the knowledge that they'd heard me quite loudly emptying my bladder into the toilet, I enjoyed a level of privacy that I hadn't been afforded for at least an hour.

I shook out the last few drops from my now only semi-rigid penis and flushed the toilet. I put the seat down and lowered myself to sit on it. The coldness of the lid did little to relieve the sting on my buttocks and yet simply resting my legs felt like heaven. I sat there for several minutes, running my hands through my hair and shaking my head, trying to understand all that had transpired, not to mention my present state and what was yet to come.

Unable to reconcile the jumbled mishmash of thoughts confusing my mind, I caught myself off-guard when I started to cry. And I started to wonder about all those times Mom had just laughed off my drifty-ness. All the times I had frustrated her. The times I must have embarrassed her. The times I made her wonder if her son would ever be able to function as an adult, on his own.

Was she only acting for my benefit that it wasn't a big deal, while inside she was scared? Was the reality of it all that I was broken in a way that most young men aren't? Had I really been that much of a burden, a hardship, for my stepmom--the only person who ever really knew and loved me? She deserved to be happy and it was my fault she wasn't.

It must have been difficult, I realized, to raise such an empty-headed son who often seemed to be ignoring her, other times seemingly deaf to the world around him, and so generally flighty that other mothers had to have noticed and probably talked. I knew I was that way when I was younger but was I still? At eighteen?

I sniffled some more, while the murmurs of Mom and Aunt Clara still talking in the living room hummed in the background.

Knowing I'd be expected back soon, I wiped my eyes with my t-shirt and blew my nose with some toilet paper. I stood up to leave and stretched my t-shirt down as far as I could without ripping it. It was still not enough to reach my crotch, though. So, I covered my privates with my hands and slowly headed back down the hall, to the living room.

I quietly paused where the hall opened up to the living room and silently watched my stepmom with fresh tears already streaming my face.

She had given up so much for me. She had been a successful small business owner at one point. Now she just put in an uninspiring forty-hours each week at a credit card company, saying 'Off to the salt mines' every morning as she walked out the door.

She had given up on dating after Dad left us high and dry, afraid she'd only end up with a different loser. So, she'd been alone all that time, except for me. But I was 'wearing her out with worry,' as she'd said. I was no comfort. No companion. I was a burden.

"Oh, Andy," I heard Mom say softly.

My eyes had been open but not seeing. I can't tell you how long I'd been standing there looking at her, not even aware she was looking back at me. It seemed she had been crying, too.

"Come here and sit with us." She patted the cushion between her and Aunt Clara, though there wasn't enough room for me to fit.

I slunk over and sat, sandwiched tightly between them. Mom reached her arm around me and pulled me close. I nestled my face in her shoulder.

"I want you to know, Andrew, that we took very little pleasure in your discipline," Aunt Clara's voice pierced through the peaceful comfort of resting in my mother's bosom.

First of all, I didn't believe her--not for a second. I was fully convinced that at least

she

took quite a bit of pleasure from seeing me spanked over Mom's knee. Second, it sounded like she was trying to still sound professional, distanced, cold and, yet, there was something in her tone that betrayed that intention. It sounded more like she was trying to convince

herself

of those things than trying to convince

me

.

"After discipline, it's appropriate to reassure the wrongdoer they are still loved, despite their need for occasional correction."

She was trying to sound confident and authoritative, as if what she was saying was simple fact, but her tone had an air of nervousness to it. Honestly, it sounded like bullshit. Like she was making it up as she spoke.

"Just because you were spanked, doesn't mean you're not loved. In fact, corporal punishment shows that you

are

loved. That someone cares enough to discipline you... so that you'll do better next time... and be a better version of yourself."

It all sounded like mumbo jumbo to me and I tried to ignore her. Especially since my head was now nestled warmly against my mother's warm bosom, the safest place in the world for any child, regardless of their age.

"So, you see," Aunt Clara continued speaking, but sensing my inattention placed a hand on my bare leg and squeezed. The tactic was effective. She

definitely

had my attention. "Your spanking was done in love. Your mother loves you very much and... so do I."

If Aunt Clara's hand-grab had grabbed my attention, my attention was

locked in

once her hand started slowly moving back and forth around the spot where she'd set it, just a few inches away from manhood which had never fully receded to its normal state.

A tingle started, where her fingers touched my skin. And the tingle migrated quickly the few inches distance to where my mutinous penis defied my decree to remain calm.

I tried to will it down by listening more closely to her words, doing my best to digest them, to understand their message.

"So, now you understand--spankings are done in love," she seemed to have finished her homily on the virtues of spanking. At least she hadn't pulled the whole 'hurts me more than you' line.

"Now, I want you to get up a second," she continued speaking while my stepmother quietly collected herself, wiping her nose and taking a deep breath. Aunt Clara nudged me to stand while reaching for her purse. Again I covered my privates as I rose. After retrieving something from her purse, she scooted closer to my stepmom and then patted her lap.

"I... I don't understand?" I uttered, nearly crumbling at the thought I might have to endure another round of spankings...

because they loved me?

My hands still guarded my crotch against her sight, but I considered moving them to my buttocks instead. "What are you... Are you? No...

Please

don't spank me again," I started to beg.

"We're not going to spank you this time," she assured me with a smile, except that assurance vanished when her smile turned mischievous, almost conspiratorial. "You do need to assume the position, however." She patted her lap again. "But take off that t-shirt first. You look utterly ridiculous."

I glanced at my stepmother whose expression I couldn't read. Slowly, I turned away from Aunt Clara again, so I could hide my manhood while removing my shirt.

"Stop being silly," she swatted at my hands and turned me back to face her straight on. Whatever nervousness she'd seemed to have vanished and she was back to being her usual in-control self. "I've already seen your twig and berries and you have

nothing

to be ashamed of. Now off with the shirt and no more delays."

I shamefully moved my hands away, exposing all of my naughty bits to her view--my dark curly pubic hair, my testicles, my semi-hard penis. I watched helplessly as her gaze swept unabashedly downward, taking in the sight with a look of lechery in her eyes.

"Nothing to be ashamed of at all," she crooned in a low husky tone.

Her eyes looked hungry as she brazenly took in my nakedness, unconcerned with the impropriety of an aunt leering so greedily at her nephew's package. I quickly removed my shirt as my dick betrayed me with more tingly sensations rising from its base.

Perhaps it was the ravenous look in her eyes. Or the way she pursed her lips and then wetted them with her tongue. Or maybe it was the grumbling hum that I heard, emanating from her throat like the threatening growl of a lioness about to pounce on her prey.

Whatever it was, I knew it was indecent in its lechery and inescapable in its allure. I knew it was wrong. I knew it was affecting me in ways I didn't want it to and, yet, I couldn't deny the stirring in my loins. I was conflicted.

I quickly lowered myself across not only my mother's, but my aunt's lap, too, before my burgeoning dick could embarrass me even more than it already had.

My balls grazed Aunt Clara's leg, sending a reminder to my brain that she was wearing a

very

short skirt, her Saint Laurent mini...

Shit!

I nearly exclaimed out loud at the realization that my testicles were now touching my aunt's bare-skinned leg. If that wasn't enough, my expanding dick was sandwiched between hers and my stepmom's leg.

Oh double-shit!

Since Mom was wearing boy shorts, my hardening dick was most decidedly touching her bare skin, too, and slowly more and more of it, as it continued to grow.

I heard the pop of a lid and the squirt of some lotion and the startling sensation of it being applied to my buttocks. At first, it was cold, and my hips thrust downward in an attempt to escape the frigidness. This only forced my hardening cock to grind into Mom's leg and my balls against my aunt's.

Slowly, the lotion was massaged lightly into my skin by a single kind hand. The lotion warmed. The touch remained gentle, a soft caress, a loving touch. And, though I was still sexually charged, I felt myself starting to calm down a little emotionally, the fear of being spanked again no longer at the fore of my mind.