Mother & Richard

Evening Baths And Other Care

   Mother led me upstairs that night for bedtime evening bath. It’s different than a morning tub bath. You stand naked in a wide shower stall, barefoot on a bench raised eye-level to Dominas. Soapy female hands bathe you. The last part is an ultra-sensual mercy.

   By that time, I’ve had a full day of screaming Discipline. My fanny (often, bottomcleft and upper thighs) is sore, swollen, and tender. Recent raw welts are worst – even bare soapy hands on them make me shriek. A rough washcloth would be unbearable.

   Basically, evening baths are nice (and necessary – I’m pretty sweaty and funky after my daily thrashings). The best part is genitals, but even the soapy middle finger up my rectum feels squishy-good. I wear a protective bath-cap.

   My hair is only washed on Sunday nights. The styled, shoulder-length tresses need special care, and I’m put to bed in curlers.

   But only after a lengthy and deep full-body 30-minute massage with Male Body Ointment. The stuff smells horrible, and makes me tingle tip to toes. Dominas wear skimpy bikinis when they massage it in. Their strong hands and fingers leave me limp as an overcooked noodle, excepting my rigid cock.

  Mother’s Lotion Massages

   Whenever Mother does the honors, she says things like, “This makes your delicate skin soft, supple, and silken. Girls love that.”

   And, “Ooh, my Brunch guests tomorrow are gonna be jealous! They all have young sons or grandsons. Tara and Matilda have twin girls, poor things, but their grandsons are adorable. Your naked O to me will outdo those twerps.”

   “I want this luscious fanny high and wide, pointed at their snooty noses. Suck my toes like your life depended on it. I want loud slurps and slobbers. I want this tasty prick hard and drooling. Show those society bitches how a son loves his mother.”

   And, “New bath girl tomorrow. Young and pretty [Mother knows young ones humiliate me dreadfully]. Obey her slavishly, or else”. [“slavishly” reminded of history classes - many men were actually slaves until the Modern Era. My prick jumped.]

   And other such pleasantries. Often when I’m supine on the enema bench, legs apart. Mother standing at my groin massaging Body Ointment into my genitals. Perspiring from her efforts, full titties exposed, huge pink nipples exuding milk.

   Or when I’m prone, Mother’s ointment-drenched finger completely up my rectum. In both cases, I’m gasping and groaning.

   Adele has her own choice words for me in situations like that. Other Dominas do, as well. Did I mention the ferocious, merciless spankings beforehand?

   Well, you must admit I was “well cared-for” before marriage.

   Every third Sunday I endure 90 minutes of Genital Ointment. On alternate Sundays, I get a Triple Enema, if I haven’t received one in the previous two weeks. I dread Sunday nights. Male care and cuteness comes at a price.

   Dominas wear ordinary heels for my evening baths, with clear plastic knee-length aprons over their skirts or dresses.

   I’ve had baths and Discipline from all my extended-family Dominas (over two dozen, including in-laws and twin-girl second cousins).

   Evening baths are sweet, made sweeter by anticipation of being tucked in. Long languishing kisses, exquisite friggings, more kisses. The prospect of a dual-lotion diaper (frequent) and a cock chastity cage (always) don’t detract from the evening bliss. There are many sweet moments in male life.

  My Discipline Diary

   Mother pulled off my shirt, squeezed my nipples. She squatted to remove my pants and shoes, which itself is extremely sexy. To my delight, her full titties flopped out of her blouse again. I shivered with lust, my erect cock spraying precum on her hair and shoulders. We both laughed.

   She cupped my testicles, large enough to fill her palm, round and bursting with cum.

   Mother looked up at me with wry pretended confusion.

   “Now I distinctly saw cousin Emma’s frigging after supper. You spurted several ounces of milky cum. But here’s your genitals in my hand, testicles so heavy it might have been yesterday. I declare, my son is a stud horse.”

   We laughed again, as Mother reached for the pump bottle of liquid soap. Then pulled away.

   “Oh my goodness, I almost forgot to read your Discipline Diary. Here it is, in the satchel.”

   She sat on a spanking stool. Mother’s brow furrowed in concentration as she studied the list. Every male has a Discipline Diary which records the common intimacies of his life. Computer pad, picture-phone to Domina (for unmarried boys, usually sisters), paper and pen.

   My First DD & Cover Photo

   My DD was kept in a leather case. The cover had a series of full-length, color, 3-D photos. Adele and me at our most recent family portrait sitting. The first was a standard full-length brother-sister pose, which always aroused me.

   Standing side by side, facing the camera with bright smiles, Adele’s right hand possessively grasping my left shoulder. Her own shoulders much wider, my head barely higher.

   My sister’s long black-auburn hair up in a bun, handsome face, square jaw under full lips, cherry-red lipstick. Voluptuous under a gauzy black mid-thigh dress.

   Thick muscular legs, deep décolletage, shiny strappy black heel sandals, black nail polish (applied by me). Her long plump toes glistened (my saliva). She was 6-4 and gorgeous.

   Adele’s brother is naked. Long dark brown hair styled in fat ringlets and pink ribbons. Extravagant eyelashes, pink lip gloss, silver rings in pierced ears, nose, and nipples.

   Legs apart and bowed, genitals shining with perfume oil. Prick erect and dripping. Impressive bulbous testicles (Adele’s loves how they fill her large hand) beneath engorged with spunk.

   That leather case lay under the computer pad Mother was engrossed in. I stood naked in the shower stall across from her. Impatiently waiting for my bath, transfixed by her large elegant feet arched in heel sandals.

   She crossed her legs, bare under the skirt. My prick guiltily twitched when I saw her exposed vaginal cleft, thong panties deep inside.

   A boy’s Discipline Diary, and the satchel it’s in, is kept close. Stray too far, a shrill alarm sounds on his neck collar. I made that mistake when very young. There was a good excuse, but it was worthless.

   Adele gave me Switches & Nettles. I rarely escape a year before another S&N nightmare. But memories of that first week-long horror still make me shudder.

    My DD is vitally important. It can be inspected by virtually every female in heel sandals. I’m Under Authority in public, but Dominas often need to leave males alone for brief periods. For example, men can’t enter some government buildings.

   I’m always leashed and locked securely in two places. Until marriage, by neck collar, plus wrist or ankle collar.  Since then, the titanium wedding band at the base of my testicles is always used for one lock. Domina tucks the Satchel in the crook of my arm, pats my fanny, and says I’ll be perfectly safe.

   There’s plenty of tough, protective Governesses walking around with their chastened charges. Frequent police foot patrols. Civic-minded Dominas everywhere.

   Even so, being alone in public scares the dickens out of me. It’s a relief when a hand grasps my testicles, a feminine voice demands my DD.

   Today, I’m often in public with shirt and tights, like a proper man. Otherwise, I’m blushing with shame and outrage. In a shamefully short frilly frock or pinafore and sunbonnet. Brutal butt plug up my rectum, fanny burning from a recent savage spanking.

   Before marriage, the latter miserable condition was most frequent. Topping off the embarrassment, we leave the house immediately after my spanking and Salve. You know how it is for guys, 30 minutes or so after spankings. We need to cum in the worst way!

   My DD records my daily care and Discipline. Every pee, poop, and cum – suppositories and/or enemas. All Discipline – by instrument, type, length, severity, and reason (if any). As an unmarried boy, my spankings were always of particular concern.

   Mother Finds A Spanking Error

   Mother frowned, muttering under her breath. Muttered some more. Punched computer keys. She finally looked up from her chair in exasperation. Slapped my frantic erection, gobbets of precum flying.

   “Richard, you have only 42 standard-severity minutes. 5 minutes of handspanking from that young girl don’t count. That’s what confused me. It should be 45 or more, as we both know.” Her voice was stern. I didn’t dare make a peep.

  Foolish Arguments About Spankings

   Mother and Adele are inflexible about my spankings. Every day, I need a minimum of 45 screaming minutes across Dominas’ laps. Often their own. No excuses, no exceptions, no mercy.

   “But that can be righted easily enough. 15 minutes with Lady Lash will do nicely, don’t you think? A hearty 10 strokes per minute, perhaps?”

   It wasn’t a question. It was a judicial sentence. The cruelest spanking strap known to man. Hard leather stitched around a flexible steel blade. Bloody screaming hell!

   Aw, crap. This happens almost once a week. It’s not my fault! I can’t spank myself! It’s only a few darn minutes!

   I tried to argue with Mother and Adele at first. Sometimes I still do, and boy! I always regret it. Pleading, stuttering, trembling in fear.

   “B-b-but … it’s not my fault!”

   “You could have asked after your last spanking.”

   “B-b-but … just spank me for 3 minutes!”

   “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s just silly. 10 minutes if I’m rushed in the morning. Otherwise, 15. Or more.”

   “B-b-but … I’ve been good!”

   “Oh, really now? Arguing with me. Questioning my decisions. Being balky. Trying to evade a proper spanking. I say that’s Insolence verging on Disobedience. I say that’s 20 minutes. Do you disagree?”

   I’m sometimes too stupid and terrified to answer quickly enough. 25 minutes! Mother, like every female, is most severe when I argue with her. Mornings after, my fanny burns when I’m put on toilet. That’s unusual, and invariably makes me constipated.

  Mother Spanks Me

   That night, I didn’t argue or object. I followed Mother’s heels to my bedroom. She pulled her skirt up as she sat on the Stool. I tried not to look at her bald vagina. Glistening wet with aromatic cuntal fluids.

   “Stand against my right leg. Look at you, dripping precum all over me. Know what that means? Your prick is smarter than your brain. It knows how much you need my Discipline.”

   Kicking my own in helpless agony, looking at Mother’s feet. So sexy and elegant, instep arched by her heels, toes long and plump. Eventually, I got my wish to lick and suck them.

   Evening bath that night was sweet, despite my blazing fanny. As Mother toweled me dry, my prick grew hard and hungry.         

Mother Tucks Me In

   Mother tucked me in bed, her oiled hand around my hard cockshaft. “Sandra’s a good girl. She likes you a lot.”

   “Do you really think so? I mean, honestly? Really? Oh! Ah! Oh! Uh!”

   After she fastened my segmented lotion-diaper, a last goodnight kiss. “Be patient, young swain. Your Princess Charming is very close.” 

   Next morning, I was still half asleep as my prick hardened in a female mouth. I assumed it was Mother. No. Sandra.