Over Mothers Knee 1

Over Mother's Knee

A young man experiences the joy of motherly discipline.

Little did I know this would be an Easter weekend I would never forget.

"Mum", I called out as I entered the front door,

"In here Paul," came a muffled reply from the kitchen. I walked through the hall to see my mother facing away from me on all fours, peering into the washing machine. Her skirt had ridden up, so that her thighs were visible, almost to the top, and her feet had slightly slipped out of a pair of white, low-heeled court shoes, exposing the curve of her nylon clad heels. I felt a slight twinge between my legs at the sight. Mother was a little eccentric in that she always wore skirts, never trousers, and more than once over the years I'd found myself looking at her legs in a way no son should.

"Bloody thing's on the blink," she said, turning to look up at me. "And it's Easter Saturday. We'll never get someone out to fix it now, and I've all this washing." She pointed to a vast wicker basket filled to the brim with clothes.

"You could take it to the launderette down the road on Monday Mum, they'll be open then and do a service wash"

"Good idea," she said, holding out her hand for me to help her up. "And sorry for not welcoming you," she added, giving me a peck on the cheek. "It is really lovely to have my boy back from college for Easter." She looked down at her leg, where a broad ladder ran up her tan-coloured tights. "Oh no," she cried out, raising her skirt to reveal the ladder going all the way up her thigh. "I thought I might have caught my tights on the corner of the machine, and I obviously did. This is my last pair and I've the dress rehearsal later. No time to shop for more, and all the others are dirty, in the washing."

Mother had been an actress in her youth, before she met my father, a naval officer who died in an accident at sea when I was only two, leaving her with a comfortable widow's pension and time on her hands. She was now a keen amateur actress, and with luck, plus a healthy lifestyle, had retained her looks. Tall (five foot ten, I think), with an elegantly slim figure, pretty face, and mane of black wavy hair with only the slightest flecks of grey, she excelled at playing fiftyish strong charactered women.

"For that amateur dramatics lot, what are they called?"

"The Tunbridge Players, and yes, we're doing a political thriller."

"And you?"

"I'm, er..." She blushed. "Playing a tart who blackmails an MP."

"Ooh..., Mum."

She looked at her laddered leg again.

"I, er... do have some underwear I keep for special occasions that would do until I can buy some more tights after the weekend. It's in a box on top of my wardrobe. You wouldn't be a darling and get it down for me would you? Leave it on my bed?"

"Sure Mum."

I picked my own case up and climbed the stairs. After dumping the case in my room, I entered Mother's bedroom, immediately sensing its familiar smell of perfume. Chanel Number Five, as she had worn all my life. Even if I passed a women in the street giving off the merest hint of that fragrance, I would always be transported back to my childhood and Mother's scent. Looking up, I saw a brown leather box on top of the wardrobe, and reaching on tiptoes, managed to grab it. Then I slipped and the box dropped to the floor. I gasped as the lid came open and a cascade of lingerie fell out. Suspender belts of all colours, lace push up bras, corsets, frilly panties, fully fashioned seamed stockings, some in packets, some still attached to the suspender belts, some stockings tan, some black, and even elbow length black silk evening gloves. I hurriedly packed the lingerie back in the leather box, and in doing, so felt something long, thin, and hard by the lining. To my surprise, this long, thin, hard object turned out to be a short leather riding crop. The last piece of lingerie to go back in was a pair of waist high pink filly knickers. I looked at them, rubbed the soft, satiny nylon against my cheek, then for no reason I could explain, stuffed them in my pocket.

"Chest's on the bed Mum," I called down the stairs, then quickly went to my own bedroom and hid the pink knickers under my pillow. Coming back out, I passed Mother on the landing.

"I'm just going to change, then you can take me to the dress rehearsal. But before we do, I'd like you to read for me, go over my lines. That OK?"

"Course Mum, I'll wait downstairs in the lounge."

A few minutes later, Mother entered the room, clutching a sheaf of papers. I noticed she had replaced the laddered tights with what were presumably full-fashioned tan nylons from the chest, judging by the seams and the slight wrinkling behind the knee.

"Now then Paul, we're going to need to enact the scene as well as read the lines, and it's a little, er... shall we say, risqué. Is that OK?"

"Sure," I laughed. "But what's risqué about it?"

"Well, as I said, I play a tart who blackmail's an MP. And this MP has slightly eclectic tastes in the, um... bedroom."

"Eclectic?"

"Yes. I have to ride him like a horse and then spank him over my knee. There's even a scene where I use a riding crop on his bare bottom."

"Riding crop!" I exclaimed, whilst inwardly explaining to myself the reason for the crop I'd found in Mother's leather lingerie chest.

"Well, we won't enact that scene, I can improvise with a shoe, but do you think you could do the other two. It'd really be doing me favour."

"Er.. OK Mum. How do we start?"

"Well, here's your lines." She passed me a sheet with some lines for a character called Tarquin highlighted. The script also noted a hidden film camera at the side of the room, which Mother was to glance at every now and again. "Now just follow the instructions and we'll try it together, alright?"

"Alright," I said, looking at the script. "So, I start off by kneeling in front of you?"

"Don't ask me anything Paul," she admonished, almost sternly, as if slipping into character. "Just follow the stage directions and speak your lines."

I knelt and looked up at her.

"We're going to play Ride a Cock Horse tonight, aren't we Tarquin Teddy?" Mother's was now fully in character, her tones clipped and strict, sending a shiver down my spine.

"Yes, Madam."

"Then over you go, on all fours." I did as I was told, she raised her skirt a little, then sat astride my back. I could feel the softness of her upper thighs through my tee-shirt, the hardness of suspender belt clips, and hear the slight rustling of nylon as she settled into her riding position. The space between her legs was also warm and comforting against the exposed bare skin between my shirt bottom and trousers, and it seemed to me, her crotch even a little moist. She then took off one court shoe and tapped me lightly with the heel on my buttock.

"Gee-up little horsey Tarquin Teddy, gee-up."

This was my cue to start crawling round the room, while Mother rode me, tapping my buttocks with her shoe every now and then, before singing the nursery rhyme Banbury Cross in a shrill voice.

"Ride a cock horse, to Banbury Cross, to see a fine lady upon a white horse..."

it went.

I remembered Mother singing that same rhyme to me as a child, but this time the song was different, with Mother rolling her r's deliciously, and the phrase 'Cock Horse' taking on an entirely new meaning in my mind. We circled round the room twice and then came to a stop by the settee. Mother dismounted, then stood over me. The script demanded I stayed on all fours and look up at her sheepishly. I did my best.

"How humiliating Tarquin," she mocked. "You an MP and everyone thinking you're a big man, when you're just my naughty little Tarquin Teddy."

"Yes, Madam."

"And we know what happens to naughty little boys, don't we?"

"Yes, Madam."

At this, Mother raised her skirt to reveal tightly suspendered stocking tops, with creamy white thighs above. Then she sat on the settee and gently patted one of her thighs. The script said I was to bend over one knee while she locked her other leg over my back. I crawled up to try and get in position but slipped off.

"Oh, this is a bit awkward Paul," Mother said in her normal voice. "And these suspenders don't make it easier, but it's all I had to put on after that last pair of tights laddered so badly. You don't mind, do you? We can stop if you like?"

"No Mum," I said, feeling a thrill just at the sound of Mother saying the word 'suspenders'. "I don't mind, let's try again,"

And did I mind? Hell no!

I crawled back up and this time managed to settle across Mother's left thigh, whereupon I felt her right leg locking over me. My head was bent downwards, with my chin resting well over her stockinged knee, so that I could see the curve of her calf and the seam of her stocking reaching down to an elegant court shoe. I just prayed Mother wouldn't sense my bulging cock, which was straining to be released from the prison of my underpants and trousers.

Thwack!

I felt her hand come down on my bottom

"Ooh... it wobbled," she whispered mischievously. That line wasn't in the script.

"That's because I wasn't ready. Just try it again, hard as you like." I clenched my buttocks and she brought her hand down against them.

"Ow," she yelped, shaking her hand in the air. "Hard as anything, Paul."

My bottom wasn't the only thing in that room as hard as anything.

"Now then, let's resume and get this spanking scene over."

She then repeatedly spanked me, but more gently this time, whilst strictly telling Tarquin what a naughty boy he'd been. My line was just to repeat "I know, I know, spank me again Madam."

Eventually the scene finished, with Mother telling Tarquin what a fool he was, and to come back at the same time next week for more games and discipline.

I climbed off Mother's knee and stood up, while she adjusted her skirt.

"Thank you darling," she said, her cheeks looking quite flushed. "I do hope that wasn't all too embarrassing. I really needed the practice before tonight's dress rehearsal. Ooh, look at the time, we'd better go."

"Just need the loo," I said, turning quickly so she wouldn't catch sight of my erection. I went upstairs, straight into the bathroom, locked the door, dropped my trousers, grasped my throbbing cock, and ejaculated into a tissue. The whole process can't have taken longer than about twenty seconds, such was the state of my arousal. I cleaned myself, flushed the toilet, then walked downstairs again. Mother was standing in the hall, ready to put her coat on.

"Let me help you with that," I said, and held up the coat, a shiny white plastic mac, so that she could slip her arms in. She turned and kissed me on the cheek.

"You're such a good boy" she cooed.

"Not a naughty one, like Tarquin?" I laughed.

"Why Paul," she gasped with mock surprise. "Would you like to be?" It was Mother's turn to laugh back at me.

"Come on Mum," I said, holding open the front door. "You're going to be late."

We drove across town in relative silence, an atmosphere perhaps fueled by the intensity of our "rehearsal". I felt sure by the flush on Mother's cheeks she had sensed something more than just enacting an amateur dramatics scene.

Or did I?

Coming to the theatre where the dress rehearsal was to take place, we pulled up, and Mother took out a compact from her handbag, powdered her nose, then began applying lipstick. I looked sideways as she pouted and licked her lips, then got out, went round to her side of the car, and opened the door.

"Thank you darling." She undid her seat belt and slightly awkwardly climbed out of her seat (it was a low-slung Mazda sports car, a twenty-first birthday present). As she did so, I was treated to the most glorious look up her skirt. Tan stockings with darker brown welts at the top, white suspenders (with six straps rather than the usual four as far as I could see), pale skin above, leading to white panties. Between her legs, I could see a dark triangle of desire through the lacy fabric. I took her hand and helped Mother up, her eyes meeting mine for a fleeting second as I did so. But if Mother had seen me peeping up her skirt, she didn't show any sign of it.

"Now then darling, It'll be about three hours, so around nine o'clock. I'll give you a call when we're finished."

"Is that what you'll wear on stage," I said, looking Mother up and down.

"Oh no, it's a full dress-rehearsal tonight. I get to wear a sort of gothic governess outfit. You know, high collar blouse, waist clinching corset, tight pencil skirt, black seamed stockings and about five-inch spiked heel stilettos. Impossible to walk on for more than a few minutes. Plus, a pill box hat with a black lace veil." She laughed. "Never worn it yet, but the whole costume looks pretty damned uncomfortable, actually."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," I gulped, cock bulging at the thought of Mother dressed up like that. "See you around nine."

I felt restless, so rather than going back home, drove around, music blaring, my thoughts never far from Mother.

"She's my mother, for Christ's sake," I shouted out at one point. "And I want to fuck her more than anything. What's wrong with me!"

Then the phone rang.

"Hello Pauly," came a deep, female voice. It was Carol, a lecturer at my university I had been seeing now for over a year. Carol was thirty-seven, so fifteen years my senior. Great company, and great in bed, I enjoyed being with her. Did I have some sort of penchant for older women? And if so, why? Was it because I'd been brought up by a single mother, with no male role model at home? My thoughts raced.

"You were going to call me, Pauly."

"Sorry Carol, I was late getting here and had to drop Mum off at the theatre."

"She's in another play?"

"Yeah, and quite a risqué one by all accounts."

"How delicious," Carol giggled. "One day you must introduce us. Judging by the photos you showed me, your mum's a real stunner."

"Erm... yeah, one day soon Carol, when I'm ready."

The conversation went on for almost an hour as I drove through the darkened Kent countryside, Carol telling me about her day, what was happening at the college, spats with other lecturers, all the usual trivia.

"I miss you Paul."

"Me too," I said vacantly, my mind actually fully focused on Mother's stocking tops.

"And, well, I need to talk to you. I'm not getting any younger, and, erm, you know... my biological clock's ticking."

Mx heart sank. Usually, a situation like this would be something I'd talk to Mother about, but right now that seemed the last thing to do.

"Look, we can't talk about that on the phone. I'll be back in a few days, OK?"

"I love you Paul."

"Me too," I said quietly. "Got to go now,, coming up to the theatre," I then lied, as I was still deep in the country lanes. "Bye."

No sooner had I finished the call than the phone rang.

'Mum', stated the dashboard. I pressed 'Answer'.

"Paul, can you hear me?"

"Yes Mum."

"All finished, can you pick me up?"

"Sure."

I drove through the night and back to the front of the theatre, where mother was waiting

"Howd'it go?"

"Oh, really well. All ready for to-morrow evening. You will come, won't you? I've reserved a good seat, down near the stage."

"What, miss you whacking that poor guy's arse with your riding crop?" I laughed. "Course I'll be there."

"I'm tired," Mother said with a yawn as we entered the front door.

"Let me help you with your coat," I said, slipping the white mac from her shoulders.

"Thank you darling," she said, kissing me softly on the cheek. "Now I'll turn in, I think. Nightie night."

I watched as Mother mounted the stairs, her just above the knee kilt affording the slightest glimpse of stocking top as she reached the landing. She turned and saw me staring.

"Nightie-night," she repeated, then blew me a kiss and disappeared into her room.

My next assignation was once again with a tissue in the bathroom, the thought of just that glimpse of stocking top enough to make me squirt uncontrollably in a very few seconds.

The following morning, I woke late, and immediately sensed my 'morning wood', as we had called such involuntary erections at school. As I was walking to the bathroom (and this time merely to wash and brush my teeth), just dressed in boxer shorts, cock sticking erectly out of the flies, to my horror Mother's bedroom door opened and she stepped out, wearing a white full length lace dressing gown. The gown was done up at the waist, but open below, showing off her bare legs, all the way down to a pair of low heeled white fluffy bedroom slippers. The sight did nothing to dampen my hard-on, and I covered myself as best I could and ran across the landing, slamming the bathroom door behind me. I caught a quick look at Mother's face, her mouth open, her eyes wide, gasping a little as she took in the sight of her son's throbbing erection.

By the time I had dressed, Mother was already down in the kitchen, still wearing the dressing gown and busily sorting the washing basket into separate bags to take to the launderette the next day.

"Morning Paul," she said, without looking up, and clearly making no reference to the embarrassing scene on the landing. "I'm sorting these into four bags. One for white clothes, one for dark colours, and one for white and one for black underwear. Could you give me a hand, sort that lot?" She pointed to a pile of underwear on the floor, bras, panties, and tights of different colours.

"Er... sure." I set to work, picking up the silky panties, some of which had the scent of Mother and were even slightly soiled. I also shivered when feeling the fascinating touch of her underwired bras. "What about the tights, Mum?"

"Copper and champagne-coloured tights in with the whites, black ones in with the darker colours. Now I'm going to get dressed. Can you do us both a coffee?"

"Sure Mum," I said as she left the kitchen, dressing gown flowing apart to show off her pretty legs right up to her panties. I was sure she saw me looking, but once again, she showed no sign of it if she did.

The rest of the day was lazy, with Mother pottering about the house doing minor chores whilst I spent time on my laptop completing an essay for college. Nevertheless, with Mother once again dressed in her kilt that fell just above her knees, along with a fitted white jumper that clinched her waist and accentuated her breasts, white low-heeled court shoes, and of course, the fully fashioned stockings, I was distracted. I took every opportunity to try and peep up her skirt, some more successful than others.

"Oh Paul," she called at one point from the kitchen.

"Yes Mum?"

"There's a jug up above the dresser. I need it but I can't reach it, can you get it for me?"

I came into the kitchen and looked at the jug in question, then to a set of folding steps in the corner. Ours was an old house with very high ceilings, so that the jug would have been at least eight feet from the floor.

"I'll never reach that jug either, Mum. What if we use the steps there?"

"Alright Paul, but you're a big boy, and those steps are quite old and fragile, so it had better be me who goes up and you steady the steps. OK?"

"OK," I said, grinning inwardly that my plan was working. I unfolded the steps, held them by the frame with one hand and took Mother's arm with my other hand. "Now you go very slowly up, get the jug, then slowly down again. I'll be here at the bottom.

Mother slowly ascended the steps, each rung exposing more of her pretty white thighs above the stocking tops, and eventually, her white lace knickers. She grasped the jug and looked down at me.

"Shall I also come down backwards, Paul?"

"I think that's going to be safest, Mum," I said, hoping to prolong this delightful leg show as long as possible. Mother began to slowly step downwards, legs still fully on display. Then, suddenly, she slipped on a rung, the china jug falling from her hand as she struggled to grip the frame of the steps. I somehow managed to catch the jug and placed it on the ground, while Mother still rocked on the steps, before falling backwards. As she fell, I caught her in my arms, cradling one hand under her back and other under her legs. She looked up at me, then down at her skirt, which had now ridden up above her waist.