Amelia's Son

I never allowed myself to rush. Anticipation was half the pleasure. I watched as my son stripped naked under my stare, his eyes at first unsure, but soon darting everywhere but my face as the reality set in. He stood in front of me, sheepish, cock already thick and stubbornly upright, the flush on his neck creeping down to his chest. I patted my lap with deliberate slowness. "Now," I said, the command as simple as it was absolute.

He hesitated, but just for a heartbeat. When he climbed over my knees, the trust in him almost made me soften. Almost. He settled, the hard length of him jutting against my thigh, his body warm and rigid and, despite himself, shivering. I pressed my knees together, trapping him, the thick head of his cock cushioned between the muscle of my thighs. I could feel it pulse. He could feel how easily I could squeeze, pin him, deny him. He squirmed reflexively.

"You're already so worked up," I murmured, leaning in so my words tickled the back of his ear, "and I haven't even started. Is this what you want?" He tried to shake his head, a child’s denial, but his body betrayed him. "Say it," I demanded, tightening my grip just enough to make him gasp. “Tell me the truth.”

"I—" His voice shook. "I want it."

"Want what?" I said, crisp. My palm hovered above his bare ass, tracing circles in the air. A curl of anticipation ran through my belly. Wet heat sank from there until the spot at the apex of my thighs felt like an inferno.

"To be punished," he whispered. "By you."

It was all the invitation I needed.

The first slap was measured, stinging, but gentle enough to make him think he could handle it. I loved the way his muscles tensed under my hand, the way his hips flexed forward, grinding himself instinctively against my thigh. The next landed harder, the sound sharp and satisfying, echoing off the bare walls. He whimpered, and I shushed him with a caress along his lower back. My hand was a metronome: even, steady, unwavering, building the ache, the heat, the expectation.

"You know why you're here," I said, never breaking rhythm. "Because you can't help yourself. Because you think about me at night. Because you touch yourself to the thought of your own mother." I smiled as he moaned, face buried in the crook of his arm. "Say it," I ordered, and delivered a slap that left my palm stinging, a print already blossoming on his skin. “If you’re man enough to think disgusting thoughts of me when you jerk off, you’re man enough to admit it.”

"I think about you," he choked, voice muffled. "I can't stop—"

I rewarded him with another flurry: three sharp strikes in quick succession. His body jerked, cock pinned between my legs, leaking. I squeezed my thighs, relishing the way his hips bucked helplessly.

"And what do you imagine?" I asked, voice low. "When you’re alone in your room? What do you think about doing with your mother?”

He hesitated. The blush now painted his entire body, a living canvas of shame. I stopped spanking, let the silence weigh on him, then slid my hand down between his legs to stroke the line of him with my fingertips. He twitched, breath hitching.

"Answer," I said, nails digging in just shy of pain.

"I imagine you…doing this," he whimpered. "Using me."

I resumed the spanking, faster now. My hand mapped his ass with practiced precision, turning his pale skin to a patchwork of reds and pinks. The sound of flesh on flesh filled the room, louder than his stifled cries, louder even than my own heartbeat. With every blow, I could feel him getting closer, cock thickening, breath coming in desperate pants.

It was a delicious chain of cause-and-effect. My hand popped against his bare ass, making him jerk. The movement of his body rubbed his throbbing cock against my thighs. The friction of that motion, now lubricated by the pre-cum leaking from his cock, brought him a little closer to exploding. It made him whimper and pant.

“Go ahead and beg for more,” I said. “Give in to what you are.”

I angled my thigh up, pressing the length of him tight between my legs, and began grinding in counterpoint to the rhythm of my palm. Every time my hand landed, my thighs flexed, trapping and stroking him. He was trembling now, every nerve ending raw, every instinct fighting to keep him from exploding too ...