Locked up with Mommy

"And you've assessed all applicable case law?"

I'm on zoom, talking about an important case with my paralegals. Lockdown has just begun, our entire state is shut down. Usually I manage a team of law staff at the office, now we're having to do it online.

"Yes."

"I'm not hearing confidence in that 'yes'. Go back, ensure that we have watertight precedents that this article was not defamatory."

"Sure."

"By 9am tomorrow I want better details."

"No problem."

"Get on it."

We end the call. I don't have the greatest confidence in my staff, but the confidence I do have is shattered by having to conduct our case online. Usually I'm in the room, going over the law and previous cases. I'm in my smart black business suit and heels, my paralegals can feel the consequences that will come down on them if they miss anything.

But now, at home, I don't have that authority. Online is too distant, it lacks that team spirit where I inspired, with toughness and understanding, the most successful law firm in the state.

I get up and go to make myself some coffee. Immediately my day is made worse by the sight of dirty dishes. Just before lockdown my son Matthew dropped out of college. He was studying law, I was his role model, yet it's only freshman year and he's out. Couldn't handle it he said. But I know he's a bright kid and had the potential to be where I am. Now it's just us at home, for who knows how long, and he has no prospects.

I'm going to shout. "Matt get down here." No answer. I go up to his room and try to open the door. It's jammed, I bang and shout again.

"What?" I hear.

"The kitchen's filthy. Clean it now."

"One minute."

"No now." If I allow a minute it won't be done today. I continue to bang loud enough to annoy him. When I hear the rug being moved to unjam the door, I start to go downstairs.

Matthew comes down after me. It's a shame because I look at him and I feel such a mix. The overwhelming love of a mother is there as strongly as when I held that newborn - my only child - on my chest. Yet disappointment threatens to cloud that love. He has potential he's not fulfilling. Not that it matters so much in lockdown but his facial structure is classically handsome and his blue eyes shine. He could attract a beautiful girl, yet he's letting himself become one of those, I think the expression is, neckbeard incels. He was always smart. Elementary school Matthew topped all his classes, but high school Matthew sank into indiscipline and aimlessness.

Despite my efforts the loss of his father at a young age affected him, but perhaps I spent too many hours at the office. At least now we have this time together, I want us to find closeness again and put his life on the right path.

He starts washing the dishes and I make myself a coffee.

"Hazelnut latte?" I ask him.

He shakes his head and keeps washing.

"No thank you." I say, in my manners-maketh-man voice.

"No."

"No thank you."

"Mom no."

I see there's little chance of getting more out of him, so I leave him to clean. As he finishes, I ask "what you doing in there."

"Just a game."

"Which one?" Perhaps if I'm friendly, he'll open a little and I can get through to him. It doesn't work so I lay down rules.

"Thirty minutes then stop."

"What?"

"It will be time to cook dinner then. And you're on it enough."

"Everyone else is on it more."

"Not the ones who are studying."

He rolls his eyes at me and goes back upstairs. I'm going to stick to it, thirty minutes I want him to help make the lasagne. Then clean the bathroom. If he won't study he can work.

I wait the half hour, then repeat the fight with the rug, the banging, and the negative energy that emerges. I tell him to come downstairs, we're going to cook.

"I'm not hungry."

"You will be in an hour when it's ready."

"Can't we order pizza?"

"No we eat healthily in this house. Come."

He comes down. I ask him to take the canned tomatoes out. He grunts. Then I ask him to grate a block of cheese. He grunts. But he does both of these things.

I try and make conversation "any girls you're playing your game with?" But I just get a head shake. He's not emotionally articulate my Matthew. So I leave it, I let the awkward silence marinade the atmosphere until the lasagne is ready to go in the oven.

He was helpful, I'll give him that, I just wish there was a way to bring back passion for something other than gaming. As I place the lasagne in the oven and turn it on, he goes to leave the kitchen.

"Where are you going?"

"It takes an hour."

"I said enough screen time. We're going to clean."

"Clean what?"

"Clean the house we live in."

"Mom no."

"Someone has to do it and we can't hire anyone while we're all at home."

"No."

He turns back round to go upstairs but I won't let him. I walk up to him and grab his left arm to pull him back. He tries to shake me off.

"We've got cleaning."

"Later."

"Now." My voice gets louder and slightly deeper, I feel something of what I do when I'm in the office.

"Just one game."

"No now." I pull at his arm again, he pulls me off, but as he does he turns round to shake himself free. The buildup of annoyance is too much, the frustration of lockdown combined with his dropping out, then his refusal to clean - I can't keep my annoyance in check. With my right hand I slap his left cheek as hard as I can, slightly scratching him with my nails.

Shocked, he runs upstairs. I don't chase after him. I tell him "I'll say sorry once you've cleaned." As he gets in his room I hear furniture being moved. No doubt he wants to keep his door barricaded from his mother.

I sit down in the lounge and think about what happened. Was it wrong? We're told nowadays physical punishment is abuse. But if that's true haven't I already failed? I have a dropout with no prospects for a son.

Yet I won't doubt that part of me enjoyed the slap. How often I've longed to do the same to my paralegals when they mess up. Discipline, chastisement, myself in the position of power and ability to punish - I like it.

After an hour the lasagne's ready so I call down. No answer. But I know I'll win, no man's stubbornness ever beats his hunger. I eat my share and wait for him. It takes another hour but I hear again the furniture move. A door upstairs opens and Matthew comes down.

I watch him go to take his lasagne. He puts some on a plate and I can tell he's about to leave the kitchen.

"Where are you going sit down." He knows we don't take plates upstairs.

"Can I just chill?"

"Finish your meal first."

"I just want to eat in peace."

"Do that here."

I notice Matthew's face turn red. Anger and annoyance at my rules is welling up. My expression shows I will not budge in this, his exasperation boils over. He smashes the plate into the wall, spraying lasagne everywhere. He's messy, the kitchen's messy, luckily I stayed back.

This does not get sympathy. "Clean it."

"Why are you so in my face, always fucking telling me what to do?"

"Somebody has to take care of you."

"Why did it have to be you? Cancer got the wrong parent."

He says it, he says it strong enough to mean it, but I know from the tiny waters in his eyes he regrets saying it. He steps back, mumbles, then says "I'm, I'm sorry."

"Clean it and we'll talk."

I go to the lounge. I hear him throw the bits of plate in the trash, spray the walls and floor, even mop. He comes in looking apologetic and I tell him "Good boy."

He sits down across from me. He looks down, ashamed yet I feel as if he wants to open to me. I sense he won't speak first so I start.

"If I'm strict it's partly because I want a nice house but also because I'm upset that you've dropped out."

"It's my life."

"But mine too you're living off me."

"I'll get a job."

"Doing what?"

"Streamer maybe."

"Are you even streaming?"

He shakes his head.

"Baby I just tried to support you."

"Yeah great job mom. You were never here."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I had to work. But there was nobody else, our state doesn't give out much in welfare."

"Excuses."

I glare at him.

"That's what you say to me."

He's right. I always tell him not to make excuses yet here I am, excusing the evenings, the weekends, the holidays I was in the office.

"I'm sorry Matthew. I should have been there more, in high school, when you needed me."

"Do I get to slap you back?"

He looks at me with a slight smirk. But I need to maintain a discipline.

"You start studying now, no more slaps."

"Alright for ten minutes."

"Good boy."

He smiles at that. Something about my disapproving slaps and my approving words - they affect him. Great, he still cares enough to listen to me.

I get up. Bring the textbooks down, study in the kitchen, I'll test you in an hour.

He does it. Finally, my Matthew is listening. My Matthew is accepting discipline.

As he studies in the kitchen I watch him from the lounge. Even now it's not too late to mould him. My boy a successful lawyer. My boy a handsome young man who has his pick of the ladies. My boy a hard-working and good-hearted man I can be truly proud of.

"I'm done." He says and I go to check on his work. He's done a quiz at the end of chapter 3, on tort. I notice a couple of answers are wrong, and as I say "almost" I playfully slap his right cheek.

He laughs at that. I joke with him: "you better get everything right next time or else."

"Maybe I'll fail on purpose."

He smiles again at me, flashing his lovely blue eyes in an eye-smile. He takes his books, and with a "night mom" goes back to his room. I head to bed too. I'm proud of myself, I'm finally getting through to him. I get in bed and take out my vibrator. Usually I like to look at pictures of the muscly Marvel superheroes, read a bit of spicy fanfiction about Thor railing Black Widow, and thrust my vibrator until I'm satisfied.

This has been my only sexual experience since my husband died ten years ago. I've not dated since then. I devoted everything to my career and to bringing up Matthew. I suppose you could say that Matthew is the true love of my life. I've forsaken all others for him. But I'm still a woman of needs and my toys I rely on for satisfaction.

Though I try to bring myself release tonight it doesn't work. Chris Hemsworth's biceps look as perfectly formed as ever, the thought of him taking me to the stars to be ravished as exciting as ever, but tonight I can't let go and relax.

I think about Matthew. His future, the knife-edge between rejoining college and dropping out. My discipline, the first hard angry slap and the second playful teasing slap. I enjoyed both. Is that wrong? I would die instantly without question if it would prolong his life a minute, I care about nothing so much as him living the best life he can. And I was brought up to believe - and do believe - that we need discipline. Yet why did I enjoy the discipline, enjoy seeing him squirm as he took it?

I finally sleep, and next morning I start early. I don't have time to check on Matthew; if he overslept I didn't know. The paralegals have done some work but I have to check over them, ensuring every case on our workload has every possible hole plugged.

At lunchtime I check on Matthew. He's done some studying I'm proud to say. I check the chapter 4 quiz - on constitutional law - and he has got every question correct. I tease him with a pretend slap - he thinks I'm about to slap his cheek but I tickle his beard.

"Shave this, we're making you a fine specimen."

"My friends all have one."

"You look better without. We're going to start home gym tomorrow too."

"Mom no."

"When this virus is gone I want you as the most eligible lawyer in the land."

I leave smiling. I like the bond we're starting to build. He's the only man I can see in this lockdown and he's someone who needs fixing. He's someone I already loved, someone who needs my help, someone who is finally accepting me.

I go back to work. I know he's back on his games. I finish, and call him down to make dinner again together. He comes straight down. Tonight there's fried chicken. Willingly he dices chicken breast, wraps it in breadcrumbs, and fries it.

"If only that breast belonged to one of the ladies who must be after you."

"Mom!"

OK when I feel proud I get a little inappropriate. But I need to suggest that he puts himself out there.

"I'm just saying why don't you join Tinder or something even now? Get a long line of sweethearts waiting for after covid."

"Mom please."

"Tomorrow I'm sorting you out. Get you presentable for when this madness is over."

"I'll come back when it's done."

He leaves, I make sure it fries and I leave some out for him. I let him be alone tonight, only sending an email to work that I won't be in meetings tomorrow.

The next morning, I get up and put on my gym clothes. Matthew is in his room, so I change the WiFi password and reboot the router. He soon comes down, and I explain to him he will have WiFi again after exercise.

Realizing he has no choice, he changes into shorts and a t shirt. Putting on his tennis shoes, we go to the garage. I have a home gym, I bought enough equipment a few weeks before lockdown. We go inside and I show him the boxing bag, the beam for pull ups, and the weights. I hand him some boxing gloves, he puts them on, and I watch him.

It's hard not to compare our bodies. My son is 19, I'm 45. I've always done my best to be healthy. Middle-age and childbirth - even once - has given me a small but stubborn belly I've never been able to lose. But I like my body. It's healthy, it is ageing well and I can still punch, lift, and carry its weight with my arms.

I look at Matthew as he punches the bag. I can see some tone, some muscle, and his skin has the youthful glow. But he's let himself go a bit, too much time eating junk in front of screens. This lockdown is an opportunity. Matthew, by the time we're set free you'll have the body of a Norse god.

He punches the bag as I cheer him on. The sweat forms around his neck, dripping from his beard - he'll need to shave soon. I put on gloves and punch with him, cheering him on. We keep going and going, and punching until his arms burn. We stop, remove the gloves and high-five.

"Well done. First time in a while is tough."

I'm impressed with him. We take a few minutes to rest then I show him the pull ups. I lift my body with my arms and swing my legs back and forth. I get down, say "your turn" and he goes to lift.

He can't quite get up there. Upper body isn't trained enough. He drops down embarrassed but I say "never mind, we're getting there." He puts the gloves on and punches again. I watch him, admiring his determination. I cheer him, saying "this is what I was talking about. Effort. Sweat. Passion."

He finishes punching, clearly exhausted, so I take his gloves off for him. I hug him, tell him "great job. I'll change the WiFi back." We laugh, he's deserved a rest. To be healthy I make him a fruit salad full of berries, almonds, sliced apple and mandarins. I bring it to his room, and with a look communicate it's time for him to clean it.

I relax in the lounge. I receive an email from his college that due to the disruptions of covid any freshman who dropped out can, if they pass an end of term exam, move to sophomore year. This is his chance! If he studies, if he passes, he can refocus on becoming a lawyer.

I go to his room, pull off his headphones, and tell him. He's not enthused.

"But you've done well. You're studying, you can do it."

"Yeah but mom, I don't know if it's quite what I want to do."

"Well what else is Matthew? Are you making money online right now?"

"No but--"

"You're not leeching off me forever."

I unplug his PlayStation. He will study.

"Mom no."

I slap both his cheeks. He looks shocked. I slap again.

"You will go to the kitchen right now, open your textbook, and complete chapter 5."

"Mom I have a choice."

"Do it." I say it again with a hard slap to his left cheek.

"What if I don't?"

I'm crushed. So much goodwill, his efforts at boxing today, his passing of the chapter 4 quiz. He's still going to be a dropout? I can't help myself. I run to my room, one of my work outfits has a leather belt. I remove it, head back to his room. He's lying on the bed on his back. I push him over, pull up his shirt and give him on stroke of the belt. He screams.

"You don't like it? Your choice is to get your lazy ass down to the kitchen and study or I will shred this idle ass."

He looks at me, scared, maybe wanting guidance but I'm not in the mood to be nice. I spit in his face.

"Still not going to go down?"

He shakes his head. I pull down his shorts.

"You want more?"

"I don't feel like studying."

"That means you want more."

He says nothing. He wants more? He wants my punishments and my discipline? He had a funny way of showing that these last ten years.

So I put it to the test. I strike his ass, the belt making a red line. He screams, but doesn't tell me to stop.

OK then, he wants it I'll give it. I lick my lips as I pull his shorts and t-shirt off. His back, his ass, his legs, all mine to punish. I whip him without ceasing. Every scream of his, every stroke of mine - I feel my clit throb and juice reach my pants. Even my nipples seem to tingle. I strike him more until his whole back glows red, until blood is staining his entire ass.

I check on him. His eyes are filled with tears, his face flushed like he's released years of emotion. I kiss his cheek.

"You alright my darling?"

"I'm sorry mom. Sorry I wasn't good enough."

"Make me proud my darling boy." I stroke his hair as I say this.

"Give me more. I like it mom. I like you punishing me." I wonder what else I can do, what else will bring home the discipline he needs and is now craving. Then I form a plan. I go down to the kitchen and get a bottle of olive oil - for massaging him better afterwards - and a bottle of chilli tabasco.

It's makeshift, it's amateur, but it will do. I take my vibrator and strap to my belt. Back in the room Matthew is lying there in pain - seemingly reflecting on what happened. I cover the vibrator in tabasco, dig my nails into his shoulders, and enter his ass as I turn it on.

He screams again, cries out but that tells me he needs more. I thrust in him, repeating a harsh motion and reapplying the tabasco. His screams intensify, each one bringing me a joy that only ceases when I feel my pants soak through. I let out a cry of bliss, the mental enjoyment of owning him bringing me to fullest orgasm.

I release my nails, take off the belt and vibrator, and pull him close. I place his head on my right breast, my bra keeping him firm. I pour the olive oil on and massage all throughout his back, his neck, his shoulders, his arms, his ass, and his legs.

His face is full of tears, cry too. This is the strongest, purest feeling of love I've experienced since I first held newborn Matthew like this 19 years ago. As I hold him, I sing the first verse of "hush little baby" and let him nestle in my arms. I had to discipline him, I had to show him that he needed to obey my instructions and work at his life. But it's out of deep compassion and undying love.

"Now my darling, get ready and start studying."

"Yes."

I leave him to shower, change, and start work. There'll be time to talk about what happened later, but right now I want him to focus. What we did just now, no doubt it would disgust most people. But I'm his mother, and nobody else knows what he needs. He still belongs to me, and my job is to make a true man out of him.

I hear him open the books in the kitchen. I'm not surprised he allowed what he did. He was always a caring, sensitive boy. He'd be upset if another kid at school was bullied and try to help them. Today he realized he'd let his life decay into nothing and needed my lead to bring him back.