He owns me! He forced me to say it to him, and to finally admit it to myself. "Yes, I belong to you. My body is yours. I am your slave and sex-toy."
It's degrading, humiliating and depraved. I lay here on the carpet; my dark hair disheveled, and falling sweaty and loose on my bare shoulders. What's left of my mascara and lipstick is a faded streaky mess smeared across my tear-stained face. My watery lashes distort the image of the man sitting above me like a king on his throne.
His commands to me come in deliberate, staccato bursts. I understand now that there will be no release and no going back. I still have on one slinky four-inch black pump. The mate to this beautiful heel is across the room, thrown-off in my last, desperate refusal to surrender. My sheer stockings are a ripped and saggy reminder of how sexy I appeared only a few short moments ago. And now this "look" is sexy only to him. The rest of my outfit; short skirt, tight blouse and satiny undies have been discarded. He used scissors to shred my bra and panties.
I'm spread open wide, on the floor below him, having been ordered to strum the fingers of my right hand through the curly, wiry hair of my vagina. Obediently, my slender fingers rub through the dark v-shaped patch of my trimmed mound and the heel of my hand abrades the swollen hood covering my clit. The pink polish on my nails glisten with the moisture oozing from my folds and the coarse, black hairs shine as the wetness spreads.
He has directed me to use my left hand to squeeze and tug at my large breasts. He has a special fascination with my c-cups. I have been told repeatedly that my boobs should be "available" to him at all times, and now after I was caught wearing a bra, I face today's discipline.
I was compelled to lick my long fingers and then pinch and twist my nipples, stretching and torturing them until tears came to my eyes. I then had to lift my breasts, one at a time, and suckle the aroused tips into my mouth, slobbering saliva on my creamy white globes. After kissing them and massaging the moisture all around my chest, I had to present them to him for inspection and declare my total subservience to his dominion over me. He instructs me to use crass, vulgar terms to describe sensual acts and calls me the most vile names imaginable. I have never liked hearing these lewd terms, and now I use them as casual conversation to detail my anatomy to him. My body reacts to this degradation with an extreme sexual response. I desire more of it.
"My big tits belong to you, Master. I want you to squeeze them and suck them. I've been bad today and I know you must punish me until I learn to behave." It has happened again. I laid on my back, naked. Totally exposed and entirely at his mercy, and I was the one apologizing and begging for his cruel punishments.
He was right. It must be true. He said they were my inner-most fantasies. I must have wanted this all along. It was a release to finally accept it. I needed someone aggressive to wholly dominate me. To permit me to become the sexual slave and servant that my body desires. My fantasies and late night masturbations were always strongest when I conjured a man forcing me to obey his crude, filthy demands.
"He commands me. He owns me. He fucks me whenever he desires, and...He's my son!"
How did all this start, you ask? I really don't know. It wasn't like one night he just chained me to a bed and said, "I'm going to make you my fuck-slave."
Now that I look back, I can see that it built-up slowly. Late-night talks, a back-rub, alcohol, dirty movies...I can't say if it was all a sinister plot. I don't know if he intended to seduce me or condition me for this. I have to admit that the feelings were all there inside of me but I swear, I never dreamed that they could bubble to the surface. Sex with my son. To be a slave, submissive to all his prurient demands.
Every woman has a rape fantasy, right? To be on your knees humiliated and defiled? Your hair pulled and clothes ripped from your body? And a big, strong, good-looking man to demand your obedience and force himself upon you. Being called a slut and a tramp.
And then your baby boy grows-up to be 6'3" with dark hair and smoky eyes. Two hundred and thirty pounds of muscle and charm. Then after his divorce he moves back home with his widowed mother. They get along like roommates and re-form a tight bond. He exercises shirtless, lounges late at night mixing cocktails and massaging my tired joints. We watch movies together, (sometimes dirty,) and discuss things that adults, naturally talk about. It was very intimate and disarming. I notice the smile, the wavy brown hair, that massive chest and large biceps. Any woman would be attracted. And sometimes I wonder...
His image began appearing to me in the night. Fantasies and dreams flow wherever they want. I never actually fantasized about him, but in the course of pleasuring my lust, his face would pop-up. I found myself wanting to be physically closer to him, hoping that he would notice me and more and more engaging him in sexual banter. I caught him stealing the occasional glimpse of my cleavage or my backside in tight outfits. It was a strange but addictive feeling.
I should probably never have leafed through the porn magazines that he left in the bathroom or on the coffee table. And maybe not watched the x-rated movies while drinking side-by-side. But I was lonely and alittle horny, too. A mother doesn't just cease to exist when she's 38 years old, widowed and alone. And I swear, I never saw it coming. Only odd hints along the way that a mom doesn't easily recognize of her son.
