Lydia's Son
I’d promised him something special for the end of summer. Something “more creative,” I’d said, in the way a piano teacher says “student choice” and you know they’ll guide you right to Chopin anyway. I wanted control of the script. He wanted a little risk, a little humiliation, a little “mother’s day in hell.” We met somewhere between my penchant for mise-en-scène and his appetite for true suffering. He’d asked, in his clumsy, trembling way, for piercing this time. Not a cock or a tongue, just… “something.” He didn’t dare say “skin,” but he looked hungrily at my hands whenever I sorted the finer needles in the craft room, so I let him believe I’d only just thought of it.
That morning, I set the table with the precision of a pastry chef. Fresh white sheet, medical blue underpad, fragrance of alcohol and hospital latex saturating the air. All my tools laid out: a Russian nesting doll of gleaming boxes, each smaller one more secret and specialized, rubber stopper vials aligned for my pleasure. Every layer of preparation was a caress, a promise that when the pain came it would be deliberate and meaningful.
He appeared in the doorway still damp from the shower, wearing only a towel. His skin was flushed from hot water and anticipation. I patted out the sheet with a mother’s composure. Never hurrying, never flustered, just the gentle gravity of someone who will clean blood from a wound and not blink while doing it.
“Welcome to the clinic,” I said, turning to smile at him. “Drop the towel and get on the table, please. We need to begin your treatment immediately.”
His eyes traveled the length of my body, the pristine nurse’s dress with its full skirt belling above my knees. Nothing like what he was used to seeing his mother dressed in. The towel dropped and revealed his cock already half-hard and rapidly expanding. He had the courtesy to blush as he lay on the exam table.
“It’s a good thing you showed up today,” I told him, fully in character. “We had a cancellation, so I can get you started.” I fastened his wrists in the under-table restraints. Placed his legs in the gyno stirrups and tightened the straps on his ankles. “Unfortunately, young men are often careless and need this sort of… attention.” I tightened the straps at his hips and chest. “How well do you tolerate pain? Oh, never mind. You look like a bit of pussy.”
I stared down at him as I laid the ball-gag and chin strap on his chest. His cock was fully erect now, but I ignored it. For now. I smirked down at him.
“Anything to say for yourself?” I asked. When he drew in breath to speak, I slapped his mouth. Not hard, but firm. The crack of flesh-on-flesh echoed in the small room. “No. You will not have anything to say for yourself. You are a filthy, disgusting boy and you need to be treated firmly. Trust me, young man. You will get what you deserve in this clinic.”
I shoved the gag into his mouth. Not exactly roughly, but not gently. It was a clinical precaution, after all. I stared into my son’s eyes as I seated it behind his teeth. Leaned down close and whispered.
“Boys like you disgust me,” I said. “The clinic doesn’t like my honesty, but I think dirty boys need to hear the truth. How are we going to break you of playing with your horny little cock if we never tell you how a real woman feels about it? You’re sick. But don’t worry. I’m going to cure you.” I patted his cheek and tightened the straps. “This is so I don’t hear your whiny-ass bitch about how much it hurts. Because…” I stroked his face with one hand. “I’m going to make it hurt. A lot.”
The smile on my face was authentic as I wrapped the restraint around his head. Not only was his mouth full, but he couldn’t open his jaw. The combination would let him scream, if he wanted, but it wouldn’t let much of the sound through. That was part of the torment I wanted for him… he could make as much noise ...