tagMind ControlObedient Son

Obedient Son


"Come here, Mother."

I shuddered within the privacy of my body, thankful that he couldn't see my eyes squinted in disgust.

"I'm tired of this game," I said. His eyes took on a mildly droopy look of puzzlement, his lips parted on the way to a frown.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "I thought you liked to play."

"I like to play," I said, "but I'm tired of this mother-son game. It's not right; there's nothing natural about it."

I hated playing Mother. He liked it when I took control of him, disciplined him in a way that would have been forbidden, had we actually been of our roles. For months, I'd been bossing him around, making strict demands into his ear, allowing my bothered breath to tease his lobes while I sent mother's orders his way.

It was a fascinating arrangement at first, this game of pretend. A warped game of House. But spanking my naughty boy when he'd gotten himself grounded was so trite, and I was bored of having to do all the real work. I wanted our time together to feel true -- this roleplay felt wrong when I gave it too much thought, and I was tired of feeling morally off when I did things that were, well, morally off.

I continued to face the wall, which was cold to the touch. Only the tips of my toes knew this, at first. When he saw that I wasn't going to budge, he came up behind me and rubbed his hands up and down my arms, creating a friction of affection, attempting to make nice. He leaned in and kissed the nape of my neck, the very top of my spine, and let his face sink into the curve below my left ear and above my shoulder. As he leaned into me with just a hint of his weight, I leaned with him and let the front of my body slowly merge with the wall. My nipples stiffened to attention at the shock of such a chilly surface.

He picked up his head and rested his lips over my ear.

"Don't torture me," he said, just above a whisper.

I said nothing in response. He began to very gently kiss each of the delicate vertebrae that ran down the length of my back, letting two of the fingers on his right hand trace a line parallel to his mouth. I was still wearing my black mesh boy shorts, the underwear that existed only to taunt him. When he reached the waistband, the kisses stopped but the fingers tugged. He was on his knees at this point, his left hand holding my bare waist, his right hand undecided about whether to taste what was underneath the fabric.

My hands were braced against the wall for leverage. My heart rate started to inch up with what I'd hoped could be anticipation, only I didn't expect that he was assertive enough to take from me what he wanted.

When he stood back up, I became aware of the difference in temperatures before and behind me. Goosebumps rose across my abdomen and thighs at the air that hovered in front of me, and yet, a great layer of warmth came upon me from behind, sandwiched most noticeably between my back and his chest.

He let his lips fall back onto the left side of my neck, and I could almost hear his nostrils flaring with impatience. He held onto the left side of my waist with his left hand, and reached around me with his right. His fingers lowered into the crotch of my panties, grazed my clit, and then curved up and inside me. Cradling my cunt with his hand, he brought with careful force his index and middle fingers, the same two that had only minutes before run down my back, up through my inner walls.

The touch of his hard fingers made me suddenly aware of the soft, pink cushioning that enveloped them. He eased the joints just below his fingertips across the horizontal bone inside me for support, pushing his fingers forward to create pressure over my most sensitive spot. The pressure sent a light tingling sensation through my lower abdomen, and I let out not a gasp but a single hard breath.

He rolled his fingers forward in a circular motion, almost as if he were petting those inner walls, and then allowed the pressure to grow increasingly fast and firm, until finally I grew wet, coating his prints with a layer of warm juice. When I'd nearly had my fill, he removed his fingers but kept his hand inside my panties, rubbing assertively, leaving my outer lips sticky with my own scent, arousing me further until the crotch of my shorts had become flooded with the proof of his efforts.

"Shut up," he said.

"But I didn't -- "

"Shut up," he said.

He freed his hand, now wet with me.

"Suck on them. Each and every one."

Yes, sir. I didn't actually say this, of course. I started with his index finger, the one he first directed in the air. I took a gentle hold of his forearm with both of my hands, and ran my tongue down his finger before covering it with my mouth. I looked up at him, and he looked down to me. I licked his finger from inside my mouth and left him clean, tasting each drop of myself along the way.

When the stickiness was gone, my lips took hold of his middle finger, and the process repeated. Once his hand was fully moist with my saliva, he ordered me to stand and face the wall again. I was a bit warmer with adrenaline, but facing the wall again reminded me of how cold it was in this room. As he took a moment to leave without explanation, I peered over at the window several feet away, which was shut but frosty, and would have left us in plain view to those outside, were our home not consumed by snow. Today, we were trapped.

He returned and told me to keep facing forward. He approached me from behind and pulled my hands together, binding my wrists with the handcuffs I'd once bought but never had a chance to use. He must have gone through my underwear drawer to find them.

My nose was just a few inches from the wall, so he gently grabbed onto my waist with both hands and signaled for me to walk a couple of feet back.

He squatted down and pulled my panties to the floor in one quick move. I stepped out of them at his prompting, and he threw them across the room. He then got back down on his knees, and placed his hands between my inner thighs in a guided attempt to push them apart. My legs open, he ducked his head between them and turned around to face me, while seating himself on the floor. He raised his face to my cunt and kissed it softly, then lightly sucked on it for a few seconds, and then, bracing himself with his hands around the backs of my thighs, he started to run his tongue along my outer lips.

Given his position, I'd expected his tongue to greet me, and yet, I still felt a jolt when it finally did, our combination of soft and moist and pink coming together in a way I was all too happy to receive. He licked my kitty with long, slow strokes, up, up, up, and back down. And after a minute or so, he centered the tip of his tongue over my clit and formed it into a point that circled me until I could feel myself swelling with pleasure. He kissed my outer lips again, licked them for a teasing moment, and then plunged his tongue into me.

He mimicked the movements he had made with his fingers a few minutes prior, circling, pushing, focusing added pressure upward. His mouth had formed a vacuum around the front of my cunt by now, not a bit of air getting in the way of the bond between his lips and mine. A line of my juices ran straight into his mouth, and he willingly absorbed every drop of dewy liquid that fell.

Without being able to hold myself up with my hands, I nearly collapsed over him when I trembled at the knees. But he caught me and held me in place by getting a firm grip on my hips. I wanted so badly to run my fingers through his hair -- his soft, dark, perfect hair -- and push his head into me. But I was restrained, and allowed only the power he would give me so long as he, obedient son, remained below me.

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