My Mother, My Mistress

Standard Disclaimers- This is a purely fictitious story and does not reflect the actual views of the author. All characters engaging in sexual acts are 18+ at the time of any sexual relationships and do so with given consent. Nor are any of these characters based off of real people or lived experiences.

Furthermore, If you are uninterested in or offended by foot fetish, hardcore femdom (involving some references to scat), willful slavery, incest, and what could be considered sacrilege to major world religions, (or a combination of the these) you should not read this story. I recognize that these categories are all quite niche. This becomes especially true when they are combined. I don't want anyone to use their precious time reading this only to feel burned at the end. I would ask that you please carefully consider whether you think a story containing these elements will appeal to you before reading.

Now, without further ado.

My Mother, My Mistress

Preface:

I have drawn several revelatory conclusions throughout my brief time walking this earth. The most salient of which would have to be the identification of what I personally consider the root of all things in this universe, at least as they relate to me. My Mother, whom I revere as a Goddess, is the linchpin to my entire worldview.

I suppose one could argue that I worship Motherhood in general, but that is rather abstract, is it not? In practice, the conclusions that I drew in my youth led to me willingly giving myself over to my Mother as Her slave. Indeed, from the age of 18 to the present day I have thought only of serving Her. That is the condition under which I am writing now, albeit of my own volition.

As for the timing of my writing, I feel that I have arrived at my final answer for life's difficult questions such as "who am I?" and "why am I here?" with but a single phrase that I have coined as my own personal mantra.

That phrase being, "Mater est radix omnium." (The mother is the root of all) the meaning of which this entire work serves to highlight.

I determined that now would be a fitting time to make an attempt at articulating the heart of my perspective on the world and reflect on the circumstances that led me down this path. By doing so, I hope to bolster my own convictions and perhaps serve as a guidepost for any lost souls who struggle for an answer as I once did.

In asking my Mistress for permission to write of Her in my limited extra time, She took some measure of interest in this paltry project. She was altogether unimpressed upon Her reading of an early draft. Citing the high-flown philosophic style that I had originally chosen to fit the subject matter of pondering the Divine as "passionless" and "uninteresting," She recommended that I "drop the pretense" and start again but this time, to use my Mistress's words, "make it interesting."

Thus, with the exception of this preface, I have labored to "tone down" some of the formality contained in this text and instead produce an account that will better suit my Mistress's tastes. Although it occurs at Her own behest, I beg my Mistress's pardon for writing of Her in so vulgar and informal a manner.

Part 1: Beginnings

How young was I when I first started dreaming of my Mother? Fantasizing about Her? I am confident I can trace the majority of my current sentiments back to one specific moment in high school. Sure, I can recall some feelings and vague visions from as far back as elementary school. It is clear that my feelings were fairly innocent at that age; I remember wanting Mom to be happy and very little else.

I was in junior high when I started to take notice of the opposite sex, but I had few positive encounters with my peers worth noting. It didn't help that my Mother constantly told baby stories of me at every social gathering within the local community. I couldn't help but feel like She was deliberately undermining my attempts to be cool or fit in with the crowd. She would say things like:

"Oh, no, not my little Jonathan! He wouldn't let anyone hold him as a baby but me! The second his dad or anyone touched him he would go off without fail!"

Well, that kind of stuff and actively comparing me to my father... You know how it is. She happily provided details to anyone who would listen that would surely serve me well as I navigated the political landscape of junior high school.

This is not to say that I disliked my Mother or having Her talk about me in front of others. We were actually incredibly close despite Her embarrassing me from time to time. Looking back, I can see that my intimacy with my Mother most likely contributed to my isolation from girls my own age. I am so glad now that this was the case.

In any event, I only ever had one meaningful encounter with a female peer while I was a senior in high school and had literally zero experience up to that point in my life. I will not elaborate here, but suffice it to say that it was an eye-opening experience that did not end well.              

As usual when faced difficult circumstances in life, it was my Mother who helped me through it. I think my mentioning that we were close earlier is an extreme understatement when looking at our relationship at the time objectively. We had become a lot closer after my dad died back when I was 7, and the intimacy in our relationship just continued to grow incessantly.

It was during the aforementioned time of my senior year that I started to perceive a shift in my feelings toward my Mother. I had always loved helping Her around the house. I did chores such as laundry, dishes, trash duty, cleaning the toilets etc... It made me happy to lighten a now single Mother's load, but it wasn't just about being helpful. I began to feel a servile pride when helping Her that I didn't yet understand.

I had turned 18 a few months prior and felt that I wasn't contributing anything of real value to the homefront despite my legally being an adult. I started to view my relationship with Mom as one in which I only engaged in the receiving side of things and never the giving. I earnestly made a conscious effort to pull my weight.

Somewhere along the line it had become my solemn duty to help, and while doing menial tasks on Her account, I nearly always ended up feeling aroused and often struggled to conceal my shameful erections as Mom checked up on me. I had recently learned from my isolated encounter with the opposite sex that the size of my penis was certainly nothing to brag about, but I still felt it might be noticeable if one were to look closely enough.

Although I still didn't understand why, nor did I dare attempt to, my Mom came to dominate my thoughts as time marched on. I would write Her name over and over while halfway listening at school. Camilla, Camilla, Camilla... you get the idea. I, who had little to no artistic talent would nevertheless on occasion attempt to draw Her on scratch paper.

I painstakingly attempted to draw all of Her features to scale. My Mother was a charming woman of about 5 foot 8. Her face was somehow sharp and soft at the same time; weighing in at only 137 pounds She was in remarkable shape for the age of 46. I always theorized that somewhere around a third of that weight came straight from Her bust and rear.

In depicting Her, I would pay extra careful attention to Her most flattering features: Her toned and fairly long legs, Her brown wavy hair swerving around enthralling brown eyes. Her pale skin was easy to reproduce due to the paper's default color.

I struggled to accurately represent the gentle curvature of Her hips and the firm, perky-looking breasts which contrasted sharply from the surprisingly flat belly of a Mother. I never tried drawing Her from the back, so Her eye-catching rear at least was safe from my cheap imitations. But just for the record, the view from the rear was also exquisite.

I did, however, pay close attention to how I depicted Her feet. My Mother's feet were something of an obsession of mine, and I often lay at them while She watched TV when I was younger. Thus, I considered myself intimately acquainted with Her from the ankles down.

I knew where to place every wrinkle and every vein. I knew exactly which toes were longest and shortest including by how much, and I was more than familiar with which way they tended to curve. I knew the angles at which each toenail slightly arched sitting atop Her smooth skin. I honestly knew my Mother's feet better than my own hands. This could be taken as a sign of how much I had always liked them. Even back when it was an innocent fascination and had not yet developed into a sexual attraction I had loved playing with them. "This little piggy" was my favorite thing ever as a child. Some kids like dinosaurs, some like planes. I guess I just happened to really like my Mom's feet.

Once it did become sexual for me, I developed an absolute fixation on a sole (pun intended) aspect of Her lovely feet above all else. I became enthralled by the gently sloping arch supporting Her supple feet. I would become wholly engrossed when viewing Her standing barefoot in the kitchen from the side. I swear that I started to drool on one occasion when She stood up on her tiptoes to reach for something from the top cabinet. As much as I craved seeing that sight again, my innate servility couldn't bear to see Her struggle to reach the top. Every time She needed something from that point onward I would grab it for Her instead.

It was fortunate for me that my view of Her precious feet was generally unobscured. My Mother rarely wore socks due to Her collection of shoes consisting almost entirely of open-toed shoes. This allowed Her to show off Her women's size 8.5 feet with Her toenails almost always painted a provocative shade of red that was nicely juxtaposed against Her pale skin.

The one exception to my Mother's general abstinence from socks was on especially cold days in the middle of winter. While I vastly preferred seeing Her barefoot or in open-toed footwear, I did appreciate the after effect of Her having worn socks all day.

If you recall, I often did menial tasks on my Mother's behalf. This meant that I got to do all the laundry for Her (barring Her underwear which She wouldn't let me touch). I loved when a pair of Her socks ended up in the laundry basket needing to be washed. I would close the door and spend minutes holding them to my nose trying to drown myself in Her scent.

When Mom was out of the house and I was feeling particularly brave, I would wrap one of Her socks around my fully erect penis while holding the other one to my nose. I always did it the same way. I spent several minutes teasing myself by imagining that I was a lowly slave forced to hand wash my cruel Mistress's dirty socks. I would then get down on my knees and begin to stroke my penis with the sock enveloping me. I would picture myself as a pair of my Mother's shoes while Her sock clad feet pressed me down into the filthy ground below. I would be sullied so that She could remain pristine.

It always ended the same way too. I would explode into Her dirty sock filling it with my warm cum. Then I would wait for a bit to allow the sock to soak my cum in just a little bit, hoping that it would become suffused with my Mother's sweat and grime before ingesting it. I loved the warm feeling seeping through to my hand from the bottom of the sock. After I felt enough time had passed, I would pretend that Mom had caught me and angrily ordered me to lick Her sock clean of my befouled seed.

I may be making the idea of licking your own slowly drying ejaculate from your Mom's dirty sock sound like a sordid affair to you. That's because it absolutely was. Even I will admit that it was kind of disgusting. But like many other sexual acts, the disgusting nature of it only serves to make it better. After I had finished slurping down the foul cocktail from the inside of Her sweat-stained sock, I would then finally go about the business of actually washing the rest of our clothes like I was supposed to.

Having full access to Her wardrobe like this also facilitated my drawings. I wanted to try depicting Her in some imagined risqué outfits, but I generally stuck to Her actual matronly apparel for two important reasons. First, I was drawing in a classroom setting. I absolutely did not need to be caught drawing erotic pictures of my Mom in a school setting. Secondly, I was never particularly good at depicting the cascading effect fabric should have anyway, let alone purely from imagination. So, I decided to focus the majority of my attention on things I was at least slightly better at portraying such as my Mother's shape and body rather than waste my efforts elsewhere.

On one occasion, I remember being roused from my "artistic daydreams" (if you could call them artistic at all) by my psychology teacher. He was an odd man given the best of circumstances, and today he was rambling about a certain Sigmund Freud. He prefaced his lecture by saying this man had many strange ideas but was despite this an influential early figure in the field of psychology. I remember the tingling feeling when he started talking about Freud's ideas of filial fixation upon the parent of the opposite sex.

While I do not consider myself stupid, I wont go so far as to claim that I am clever enough to recount the entire theory here without citing references. In fact, there is a significant chance that I completely misunderstood the whole thing from eggs to apples as the Romans would say. Still, the actual contents of Freud and his theories aren't important. What matters is that men hear what they want to, and in my impressionable emotional state, I interpreted what I was hearing in the way most conducive to justifying the that I felt.

This lesson was most likely the single greatest contributing factor to the formation of my worldview. At the very least I can tell you that for the first time in a long time, I felt a wonderful, if not slightly frightening, sense of validation in that moment. I hadn't thought too deeply about what I was doing with my Mom's laundry or my drawings of Her, but up until that point I did feel an intense amount of shame over it.

I hadn't dared to directly equate what I was doing to the previously taboo concept of incest. It was unthinkable to do so even if it were true. Then suddenly, some apparently famous psychologist was saying that it might be normal? That revelation, or at least my perception of it, after 18 years on this earth led to my feelings of isolation melting away. It was like I was no longer all alone on an island. It didn't matter anymore that I had no contact to speak of with other girls and likely never would. I realized then that I would never need to because of having Mom in my life; in summation, it was life-changing.

Despite my paradigm shift in thinking, I continued acting fairly normally for some time while keeping my thoughts buried. I had settled into my life of waking up, going to school, coming home to make myself useful to Mom in some way, and then I would sleep, and finally repeat.

Eventually, May of my senior year came with its usual warmth and humidity followed by the month I had been somewhat dreading... June. The stereotypical month of marriages and graduations the world over. I was afraid everything would change now that I was an adult who had graduated (legally if not mentally). Sure, I had turned 18 just before the start of the school year and would soon be 19, but adulthood hadn't felt real to me until I had walked across that graduation stage.

Mom's expectation was that I would go off to college and ultimately move out, find a job, the whole 9 yards. I decided to please myself and my Mom simultaneously by attending a local university to which I could commute daily from home. This allowed me to maintain the status quo for a least a little while longer. School, help Mom, repeat. Mom was astounded that I was still so helpful to Her when I was presumably busy with school. I put on a brave face; in reality I was at my breaking point trying to balance it all.

Just when I felt that I was going to die from the exhaustion of spreading myself too thin, October arrived... a month college students love and hate for the same reason. Fall break. Ah yes, the older but lesser known sibling of the esteemed spring break in March. The break is great, but the turning in of papers and midterms that precedes it earns the week before break the affectionate(?) nickname "Hell Week" by students and professors alike. It was during this particularly stressful time at school that Mom confronted me telling me how I should prioritize my academics and She would pick up the slack at home.

I rejected Her proposition like there was no tomorrow with my emotions apparently rising up on my face. Had I been in my right mind I would have simply played it off as a stress-induced breakdown. However, that is assuredly not what I did. Instead, I went into an emotionally charged tirade. I told Her about everything in its due course- the pictures, the feelings, Freud, my pleasure gained through serving Her... all the myriad reasons why I couldn't simply allow Her to pick up all the slack. By the time I was finished, I must have been hoarse. I don't know what I expected, but I certainly didn't expect the reaction that I got.

She smiled and said, "Oh."

Then hesitantly added, "Well I had noticed your, umm... excitement?"

My Mother has always had a darker tone of voice coupled with a slightly lower pitch than your average woman. It gave Her a certain seductive quality that while distinctly feminine was challenging to nail down exactly. In this instance she had raised Her voice an octave. She was speaking as if asking a question while trying to determine a tactful way to refer to my conspicuous erections.

"I thought you were just busying yourself thinking about some girl at school as you worked," She clarified.

Meanwhile, I couldn't bring myself to say anything. She seemed puzzled as to where to go from here, when finally She threw me a lifeline saying,

"Thanks for telling me though, honey. I really am so glad you trust me enough to talk with me about this kind of stuff. We can talk more after supper. Okay?"

I appreciated Her giving me time to cool off and collect my thoughts, but it ended up being in vain. I tried valiantly to settle down at first, but I quickly gave into the nerves and stewed in anxiety for the next few hours wondering how I could take it all back... Then, after what felt like the changing of at least three seasons, supper time came.

I had no appetite; quite the opposite. I felt simply being around food would make me rush to the bathroom to vomit out my nerves. Mom seemed calm enough, but the air was definitely tense. Seemingly out of nowhere She broke the silence that had settled between us and began by saying,

"You know, even I have heard of Freud's theories before. I am no academic, as I think you know, honey." She said with a chuckle before continuing,

"But even then, he is very famous! I think maybe he was more clever than either of us will ever be... so... I think maybe it's okay?"

The amount of hedge words She was using such as "I think" and "maybe" indicated to me how carefully She was treating the subject. Despite this, I couldn't shake the feeling that She was being entirely too calm about it all. Personally, my head was in a spin, so I can't really remember many of the details, but we eventually reached the point of negotiating where to go from here.

Mom pitched the idea that it would be most beneficial to be completely honest with one another from this point forward as we had already reached a kind of point of no return. In response to my agreement to Her terms, She resumed our conversation,

"Okay! I want you to tell me exactly what you want. What do you want to do? What do you want me to do?"