Rebecca's Son

I always thought four-poster beds were romantic, so when my husband spent our tax return money on a bedroom set, I made sure he got what I wanted. Reality hadn’t been as romantic as my dreams. Too many nights alone in that bed after I knew he wasn’t really working late. When I had enough, I got rid of the husband, but I kept the bed.

My son stood before me naked, back to one of the sturdy posts that almost touched the ceiling. I lifted on my toes and pulled his mouth to mine. We shared a long, deep kiss that left me hot and almost panting.

I’m not sure when I decided rope was romantic, but I spent enough hours reading about bondage that I was confident as I bound my son in place. The rope slid through my fingers like a familiar lover, secure and unyielding as I fastened his wrists to the upright. His breath hitched, a symphony of nervous energy that sent a thrill down my spine. His cock throbbed, reminding me that it would love my attention.

Instead, I pressed my face to my son’s chest. With slow, deliberate passion, I spread dozens of kisses from his collarbone to his waist and back. Soft, warm flesh flowed between my lips. My lips fastened at his nipples, sucking as my tongue fluttered at them.

“You’re mine,” I whispered, touching his face. “My baby. My son. My lover.”

The cotton cord slipped through my fingers, soft and scratchy at once, its tautness a promise. I held my son’s waist gently, then pinched a spot of skin along his ribs and fastened the first clothespin there. The wooden bite was mild, almost playful, but he jerked and hissed through his teeth. I smiled and kissed the place beside it, then secured another pin beneath his pectoral, then one at the tender, hollow place inside his elbow. Each one was joined to the next by a loop of twine, a crude garland that mapped his body in lines of tension and submission.

He trembled. His hands clenched behind him, flexing against the rope, and his cock, so close to my mouth, bobbed restlessly, as if searching for my attention. I let it brush my cheek, then ignored it, focusing on my slow, methodical work. The clothespins drew patterns of pink and white across his torso. I could feel his heartbeat through his skin, could see it in the quickening rise and fall of his chest.

“Take the pain,” I said. My voice was low, the way he liked it: commanding, almost bored. I poured a little oil into my palm, warmed it between my hands, and let it drip onto his cock. My slick fingers wrapped around him, working slowly from root to tip. “It’s the only way you’ll get pleasure from me tonight. Suffer for your mother.”

He didn’t answer with words, but his hips bucked forward into my grip and his eyes rolled up, just for a second, before he grit his teeth and brought himself back under control. I loved watching him fight himself. I loved knowing that he wanted to obey me even more than he wanted to come. That was the real gift he gave me.

As I worked, I added more pins at random. Some to his inner thighs, some at the crease of his hip, some to the soft skin below his armpit. Each time, he flinched and shuddered, but then he let himself settle into the pain, breathing through it. I slowed my hand on his cock to a crawl, barely moving, denying him friction when he wanted it most.

His whole body was a study in discipline and longing. I could see every ripple of muscle, every bead of sweat that prickled down his chest and pooled at his navel. He was beautiful like this: surrendering, suffering, silent except for the desperate sounds he tried to hold in. I paused occasionally to lick the tip of his cock, letting my tongue flick across the slit, then pulling away and watching the agony bloom on his face. He was close. I could smell it on him.

“You know what this does to me?” I said, circling his cock with two fingers while my other hand tugged gently on the line of pins, making them pull at his flesh in wave after wave. “It makes me want to fuck you right here, right now. But I won’t. Not until you beg for it.” I pressed my mouth to his ear, letting my breath tickle the fine curls at his temple. “Not until you mean it. Not ...