Over Mother's Knee

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 exposed 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 having retained her looks, tall, 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. I looked up to see 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 tones were 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 buckles, 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 don't mind, let's try again," I said, feeling a thrill just at the sound of mother saying the word 'suspenders'.

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 thighs 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 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.

"Oh," she gasped. "Silly Mummy, but you caught me."

"And I caught that," I said, pointing to the china jug on the floor.

"Clever boy," cooed Mother, lowering herself to the ground and rearranging her skirt. "I've had that jug since you were a baby, wouldn't want to lose it." She kissed me on the cheek, a ritual that seemed to be growing more frequent. "Thank you Paul, for your level head and quick reactions."

"S'OK Mum," I shrugged. "As long as you're not hurt is what matters."

"I'm fine, darling. Now I'd better be getting ready. I need to be at the theatre by six for tonight's premier. With that she went up the stairs, and I once more looked on as she ascended, back to me as she went. Perhaps Mother glimpsed me watching her, I couldn't tell.

"Now I'll get out and you park up Paul. Curtain isn't up until seven, so you'll have time to get a drink in the theatre bar if you like. Here's your ticket, and wait for me in the bar after the performance, would you?" She handed me a slip of paper, and I looked at it.

Blackmail in Parliament

A thriller for our time.

Performed by the Tunbridge Wells Players Theatre Company.

Directed by David Jackson.

Mother then stepped out of the car, once more struggling with the modesty of her skirt due to the lowness of the seat, stocking tops and thighs exposed. I saw a passing man look admiringly as Mother got to her feet.

"Paul, aren't you going to say, 'break a leg'?"

"With legs as beautiful as yours, Mum," I blurted out before I could stop myself. "I wouldn't ever say that, only wish you good luck."

"Well," she blushed, "my little boy's quite the charmer." With that she turned and entered the theatre, and I, feeling flushed and embarrassed myself, drove on to the car park at the rear of the building.

The play itself was interesting enough, and I did indeed have a good seat, close by the stage and in the middle. The plot revolved around an MP blackmailed by a foreign power using a honey trap, i. e., lured into compromising situations that were secretly filmed by my mother's character, who was only known in the play as 'Madam Discipline'. And Mother was magnificent in the role, utterly alluring in her costume, although the make-up she wore, cruelly dark red lipstick, heavy mascara, curving black eyebrows, thick pale foundation, and so on, made me shudder just a little. It wasn't really in her character to look like that. But... I guess after all, she is an actress, I thought.

I smiled to myself as Mother rode the MP around the room, whacking his backside, not with a court shoe as she had with me, but her leather riding crop. It actually looked quite painful for the poor chap playing the MP.

Once the play was over, with deafening applause and several curtain calls, the audience began to file out and I found my way to the bar. Before I could order, my phone rang. 'Mum' it stated.

"We're finished, but everyone's going for an after-rehearsal drink. They're giving me a lift. The Vines wine bar, just about a mile from the theatre. Can you find it?"

"Sure Mum, see you there."

I went to the car, looked up the address of the Vines, and keyed it into my Sat-Nav. As Mother had said, about a mile from the theatre, with street parking if the map were to be believed. In a few minutes, I was pulling up outside the Vines, and sure enough, there was a parking space right outside. Climbing out of the car, I entered the crowded bar and immediately saw the group of thespians at the end of the room, all still dressed in their costumes, and already merry judging by the raucous laughter, empty bottles, and half-filled glasses next to them. I pushed my way to the bar and ordered a diet coke (I love my wine, but don't like to drink and drive, something Mother drilled into me from an early age).

Then I saw them. The two of them.

Mother was standing in a corner at the back, still dressed in the gothic governess costume she had so exquisitely performed in earlier. The five-inch heels made her tower over most of the people around her, even the men. All except one, a foppish looking fellow, perhaps my height (six foot three), a man of around Mother's age, with a slightly corpulent figure and mop of curly grey hair. I could see him leaning too close to Mother, and her trying to lean away. But he was insistent. Eventually, she pushed him with one hand and turned away, whereupon he pulled Mother round again and said something which clearly distressed her. I elbowed my way through the drinkers as fast as I could.

"Hi Mum."

"Oh, Paul," she said, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Shall we go?"

I placed my hand on her back and went to turn towards the door, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see the curly haired antagonist who had so clearly upset Mother.

"And who are you, sonny?"

"Paul Charleston, who are you?"

"Ah, Maxine's little boy eh?"

"So, who are you?"

"Your elder and better, so be a good lad and wait over there whilst the grown-ups are talking. I need to chat with your mother."

I subconsciously stretched myself to my full height. I had thirty years and probably an inch of height over this guy. Plus, I was fit and I was sober.

"We're leaving mate. And you leave it at that."

I put my arm around Mother's shoulders, turned and walked away. The grey-haired fop didn't follow.

"Oh darling, that awful man. He... he touched me, said lewd things, wanted me to..."

"Don't worry Mum, we're leaving now."

I picked up a bag by her feet containing her day-to-day wear. I could also see the riding crop sticking out.

"But he runs this show, Paul. This theatre troop. He directed this play. If I reject him, I'm finished."

I saw red.

"OK Mum," I said, opening the car door and placing the bag on the floor of the passenger side. "Just wait here. I'll sort it. Is he married?"

"Yes, to Freda Jackson, woman who does all the wardrobe stuff. He's called David, by the way."

"She's that woman with the dyed pink hair, the older one?"

"Yes."

Thanks. Now wait here, and keep the car doors locked, OK?"

"OK Paul."

I walked back into the bar, where the noise seemed even louder. David Jackson was standing at the very end, and his wife, with her signature pink hair, close by. I walked over to him, and he noticed me coming.

"David, isn't it?"

"What's that to you, sonny?"

"Just need a quick word Mister Jackson," I said, as deferentially as I could. "Message from Mum. She'd like to see you, but not here." I looked over to his wife. "You know," I winked. "Can we have a quick word in the beer garden out the back?"

"Course son, and I didn't mean to be rude before. It's this way." He topped his glass up and then walked (or perhaps slightly staggered), towards a pair of French windows. We opened them and entered the beer garden, which was mostly dark, with just a few lights here and there, which at least stopped it being pitch black.

"So, Laddy, what's your delectable Mum's message?"

"Put your wine glass down," I said, pointing to a stone table.

"What?"

"Put it down."

He did so.

"OK, I've put it down, now what?"

"What did you say to my Mum?"

"None of your goddamn..." he mumbled drunkenly.

"What - did - you - say - to - my - mum?" I moved towards him. He spat.

"If yer must know, I asked her to give me blow job out here. Lives on her own, not bad looking, thought maybe she's the town bike"

I saw even more red.

"Town bike?"

"Yeah, now fuck off, sonny, I'm going inside."

He picked up his wine glass, downed the contents, threw the glass into a bush, and turned to leave. I stood in his way.

"You just made a big mistake, David Jackson."

He went to push past me and I punched him, hard and true in the solar plexus. He doubled up. I grabbed his hair and lifted his face towards mine. I stared into his eyes. Then I punched again, same place. He groaned and I jumped back as he vomited. He looked up at me, eyes red and confused.

"Wha... wha... what do you want?"

"That woman in there, pink hair." I pointed to Freda, visible and in full social flight through the French windows. "Your wife, right?" He nodded, before vomiting a little more.

"And you run this outfit, the Tunbridge Wells Players, right?"

He nodded again, then more vomit.

"Well, here's how it goes. Mum gets the plum parts from now on, you never so much as look at her, let alone touch, and I don't tell your wife, or, er... hurt you anymore." With this, just as he stood up, I punched him again, harder this time, and in the stomach. He groaned, then nodded frantically.

"Yes, yes, don't tell Freda, and don't hurt me anymore."

"But you asked," I said with loud incredulity, "my mother to give you a blow job out here?"

"Yes, I'm sorry, OK?"

"Phwaa," I shrugged, then went to turn, before placing another, well aimed punch to his stomach. He doubled up once more and began to cry.

"Mum will see you at tomorrow night's performance. Make sure she enjoys herself." He nodded and said nothing more. I then walked to the rear car park, and opened the car door to see Mother still sobbing. I sat beside her.

"David Jackson won't be bothering you anymore, Mum," I said, putting my arm around her shoulders.

"But won't he hate me, stop me from getting parts?"

"Far from it," I laughed. "From now, on he'll do whatever you want."

"Your hand, it's bruised," she said, looking down at my blue knuckles.

"Just a trick of the light Mum, now come on, home time."

"You know," she said after a few minutes of driving. "Your Dad did something when we were first courting. Some other naval officers got, well... a bit fresh with me at a dance in Plymouth. He took them outside, came back in and they were as sweet as light. I don't know what he did, but one of his friends said to me, I don't know, now what was it..." She scratched her head. "Yes, you look Johnny Charlston in the eye and you don't want to know what's going to happen next. What did you say to David Jackson?"

"I just told him to behave himself, Mum. And that it had better not affect your acting. That's all."

She looked at me, as adoringly as I could have imagined. Then she wriggled and came out with her usual practical type comments.

"Sorry, but this bloody pencil skirt's killing me. All very well to be a gothic governess on stage but..." She started undoing buttons down the middle of the front of the skirt. "I'm sorry, I can't sit like this any longer. Torture." She undid each button up to almost the top, then parted the two halves of the skirt to reveal her thighs. Black, fully fashioned stockings, black suspender belt, the ebony-coloured lingerie showing her creamy white thighs in even more relief than when she wore tan stockings. I looked down and swerved the car, only just correcting the steering before hitting a broad oak tree that stretched out over the road.

"Careful Paul," she said. "Keep your eyes on the road."

Had she seen me looking at her legs? We arrived home, and on entering the hall, Mother looked at the clock.

"It's quite early and it's not fair on you Paul, having to drive, not drinking."

"Seems to me my Mummy told me I shouldn't drink and drive., " I said with an attempt at irony."

She did, didn't she", said Mother, playfully going along with my mood. "But now we're home, let's crack open a bottle of wine. After all, I haven't seen you since, when..., Christmas I think."

She went to the kitchen, I heard the clink of bottles and glasses, then a corkscrew pop, and Mother appear back in the lounge with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. She was still dressed in her costume, including the hat and black lace veil. She poured two glasses of the velvety liquid. I was mesmerized.

"There, darling," she said, sitting down, legs once again exposed to the stocking top. "Here's to..." She paused and lifted the veil. "To... us."

We clinked glasses, sipped, and then an awkward pause ensued.

"You frightened that guy Jackson, didn't you?" she eventually asked.

"He wanted you to... well you know what he wanted you to do. I'm not having that." I held up my bruised knuckles. "I did a lot more than just frighten him."

"I know," she said. "And it makes me glow with... well, something. But I must ask you, what is it with this girl Carol?"

"Oh Mum, don't ask. I'm comfortable with her. She's older than me, but it works, OK?"

Mother looked at me with a sly grin.

"Does she, er... spank you?"

"What?"

"Spank you. Lots of men love it."

"Mum..."

"Well does she?

I took another draft of the wine, and felt it go to my head.

"OK, Missus nosey parker Maxine Charlston, yes, sometimes. She likes to."

"And you, do you like it?"

"Dunno... it's not the same as..."

"Same as what?"

I looked away, feeling my cheeks rouge. I took another draft of wine.

"The same as what, Paul?"

"I, er... can't say."

Mother stared at me.

"Oh, you can, Paul."

What the hell, I thought.

"You won't be angry, think less of me?"

"Never."

"Then," I said, looking into Mother's eyes as deeply as I could. "Not the same as being spanked by you. Being disciplined like you did yesterday afternoon, putting me over your knee. I felt, well... wonderful. There, I've said it."

I stood up and began to pace. Mother looked up at me from the settee, and I noticed a wicked glint in her eye. She stood up herself, walked over to the wall and turned the dimmer switch to put the lights down low, then returned to the settee.

"I believe some further discipline's in order, Paul."

"Sorry?"

"Take off your clothes."

I wondered for moment whether Mother was joking, then realised by the look in her eye she was not. As if in a trance, I removed everything except my boxer shorts, inside which my cock was already fully erect. Mother parted her legs, then patted her left thigh as she had done earlier. But this time, it felt real, somehow genuine.

"Over Mother's Knee," she said softly, as I settled in the leg lock position. "You're a good boy Paul, but sometimes even very good boys need discipline, don't they?"

"Yes Mother."

I felt her hand gently feel the elastic waist of my boxers, then deftly slip them down, to reveal my vulnerable backside. Mother stroked my buttocks for a good minute before suddenly bringing her hand down with a stinging smack.

"Such pretty and taut buttocks, my little boy has."

"Yes, Mother."

"Naughty little Paul," she cooed. "Such a very, very, naughty little boy. You've been peeping up my skirt all day, haven't you. Did you think Mummy hadn't noticed?"

"Er... I mumbled. "I-I-I don't know.

"Shh," she said softly, holding one finger to her lips. "When little boys are caught looking up their Mummy's skirt, they should know what will happen." She smacked me again, harder this time. "And yet Mummy loves you." She smacked again. "It's for your own good, you know. Spare the rod and spoil the child."

"I know, Mother," I groaned, feeling my cock about to release everything it had before the time was right. And yet somehow in all this feverish erotic chaos, I found self-control. I didn't want to cum, not now. I wanted to fuck my mother. I lifted up and looked her in the face. Such a beautiful face that I burned with love for her. My own mother!

"Mum, this isn't enough. I need to..."

"Shh..." she whispered, pressing her finger to her lips once more. "I know, now lie on the carpet and Mummy will make everything better." She pointed to the floor. "On your back, there's a good boy."

I lay down as commanded and she stood up, then raised her skirt and removed a pair of black lace panties, very carefully stepping out of them. She bent down and rubbed the knickers in my face.

"Paul likes his mother's knickers, doesn't he?"

"What do you mean?"

She smiled, a smile that meant I could say anything, do anything.

"I found a pair of pink frilly panties of mine were missing today. You hid them under your pillow."

"You found them?" My cheeks went the reddest of hues.

"Never mind those panties, try these." She rubbed the black knickers harder against my nose, they smelt of... well, woman. She threw them to one side, and raised her skirt again, ebony stockings and suspenders framing her sex, which was still covered with a thick black bush despite her being over fifty. Her gothic governess clothes, with the blouse, skirt, and stilettos, only heightened my excitement, and when Mother threw down the lace veil over her beautiful face, I was all but consumed.

Decisions were no longer mine.

"So," she said, looking down at me, skirt still raised. "We're going to play 'Rrr-ide a Cock Horse'". She rolled her 'r' when pronouncing the word 'Ride' in a way that played havoc with my senses.

But for all the arousal from her clipped tones, for a moment I was deflated, and my cock went limp. Sure, it had been fun that previous afternoon enacting the scene, but all a bit silly. Mother saw my emotion.

"Oh no darling, not that version. We're going to play a very different game."

With that, she bent down, and slowly removed my boxer shorts, under which my cock was now recovering from its temporary shock. Once removed, she threw the shorts over to where her knickers lay, then stepped above me, legs astride my face, so I could fully see up her skirt. The make-up from the performance that had given me a shudder was still on as well, so Mother was wearing the reddest of lips, almost cruel, with matching foundation, eye shadow and mascara. I no longer shuddered at the sight, which had now become totally intoxicating. She parted her legs, looked down knowingly and with the tiniest of smiles at my now raging erection, straddled me. I felt my cock slipping into the petals of her sex as she lowered herself upon me, each soft flap of skin unfolding, one by one, as if my cock was being gently welcomed, always meant to be there. The warmth, the closeness, the tightness. In a brief moment of practicality, I remembered I had been born by C section. Mother had never actually delivered a child through her vagina, and it told.

She sat above me, a fully clothed as a gothic governess, riding me, loving me as only a mother can with her son. Then Mother began to sing, just as she had when we enacted the scenes that afternoon...

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

With each line, Mother thrust up and down, riding me as if I was that Cock Horse. And I, consumed by an unmanageable ardour, thrust back, deeper into Mother's welcoming vagina, deeper into her sex, that place from where I had come, and into which I was now about to cum. I wet my middle finger, touched mother's clit, and she screamed.

"She shall have music wherever she goes," Mother yelled, half singing, half shouting, as she climaxed. The throws of her orgasm tightened the walls of her crevice in desperate muscular spasms, and this in turn stimulated my orgasm, a mix of madness and pleasure that took me to a place never before (and never since) visited.