The Day My Aunt Punished Me with Her Gloves
Over the years, many people have asked me where my fetish for rubber gloves comes from, why being humiliated and punished with them turns me on so much. Almost nobody knows the answer, and the truth is it isn’t an easy story to tell. I won’t say everything happened exactly like this, but what follows explains better than anything else how that desire awoke in me. Fair warning: there is domination, pain, belt-striking, hard cocks pressed against the sheet, and above all, gloves.
I was raised from childhood with two women under the same roof. One was my mother; the other, her older sister, my Aunt Casilda. My father was a contemptible man, a bastard for whom I’d run out of insults before I finished describing him. One day he left us for another woman and we never heard from him again. It was the best thing that could have happened to us, because he never took care of us anyway: he’d come home yelling, disrespectful, humiliating my mother with words, though he never laid a hand on her.
My Aunt Casilda, by contrast, had never married. As far as I knew, she’d never even had a partner. She was an unusual woman, with a very hard character, and any man who got close to her ran for the hills within two days. My mother was pretty but soft, too sensitive, and after my father she stopped trusting anyone. When she was left on her own, the two sisters decided to rent a house and split the expenses.
Casilda was in her late fifties. She had a big, heavy, voluptuous body; she’d always liked eating and it showed. Huge tits pulling at her dress, a broad ass, thick thighs rubbing together when she walked. A round face, a prominent mole on her cheek. As a kid I called her “the witch” because of how she looked, and she didn’t care in the slightest.
The two of them carried a burden that bore my name. I was a disobedient, ill-mannered boy, identical to my father in all his worst ways. Every day I became more unbearable, more arrogant, more convinced that the world owed me something. I got kicked out of school, fell in with the worst people in the neighborhood, and started getting into serious trouble: theft, fights, dealing. I could barely write, and I thought I was a king.
My mother no longer knew what to do with me. I didn’t obey her, didn’t listen to her, didn’t even look at her. But the trigger for this story was something else: one afternoon I behaved unforgivably with a girl from the neighborhood. She wouldn’t go along with my game, and the ugliest thing in me came out. I humiliated her, nearly came to blows. That marked me for what I was, an abuser, and I was nowhere near worthy of a woman.
My mother and aunt were deeply upset. They tried to talk to me, to reproach me, to make me see reason, and I insulted them and stormed out with my friends without looking back. My mother was crying. My Aunt Casilda, on the other hand, stayed silent, fists clenched, while an idea grew inside her.
—If you’re not going to do anything to correct your son, I will —she told my mother that night.
My mother didn’t take her seriously. She’d written me off and all she could do was cry. She waved a hand at her, telling her to leave her alone. But that was the day my aunt began hatching her plan.
She thought it through slowly, in private. It had to be a harsh punishment, painful, humiliating. Something that would make it perfectly clear once and for all who was in charge in that house. She wrote ideas down in a notebook and made a list of what she needed to buy.
It was Wednesday. She chose Friday, because my mother was on a double shift and would be out all day. It would be just the two of us. Without wasting time, she went to a hardware store and bought everything she needed. The clerk probably looked at her strangely, because what she was taking would be used to restrain someone, but Casilda didn’t care.
On Friday I woke up late, as always, after spending the whole night drinking and making stupid plans with my friends. I went down to the kitchen, made myself a coffee, and sat there doing nothing. I didn’t help around the house, neither with money nor with chores; I lived off my mother and aunt like a parasite.
I was halfway through breakfast when I heard Casilda calling me from her bedroom, at the other end of the house. I had no intention of going, but curiosity got the better of me. I found her sitting on the edge of the bed, in a sleeveless knee-length dress that left her fleshy arms bare. The deep neckline showed the swell of her huge tits pressed against the fabric. She was more serious than I’d ever seen her.
She ordered me to come in. As soon as I stepped inside, she got up, shut the door, and pressed her whole back against it, blocking the exit with her weight. We were locked in together. She stared at me fixedly, without blinking.
Without saying a word, she put her hand in the pocket of the robe tied around her body and took out a pair of long yellow rubber gloves, the kind used for washing dishes. She began putting them on slowly, savoring every second. The scene reminded me of those horror movies where the killer adjusts her gloves before getting to work, only here the killer was my aunt. The rubber squeaked as it slid over her thick arms, tightening, outlining every fold of flesh, and that sound made my hair stand on end. When she finished, she flexed her fingers one by one and cracked them against her palm, staring at me without blinking.
What the hell does she think she’s doing?
When she’d finished fitting them, fear got the better of me and I took a step toward the door. I tried to push her aside with my hand and got slapped full in the face. The gloved palm crashed against my cheek with brutal force.
The rubber’s smack echoed through the room. My face was burning, and the wet outline of the glove remained on my skin.
—You’re not going anywhere, idiot —she spat, her hand raised again in the air.
This wasn’t some game. She’d made that clear with a single blow. I stood still, looking at that threatening palm dripping the last soapy water from the hours of work before.
—Lie down on the bed, face down, right now.
I froze, not reacting, and the second slap landed, just as hard as the first. The tightened glove over her fleshy arm hit like a rubber whip. My cheek throbbed with pain.
—Do what I say or I’ll smash your face in with these gloves, you little shit.
All my arrogance vanished in an instant. I lay down face first without understanding what was happening.
—What are you going to do to me? —I asked, trembling.
—Shut up. I don’t want to hear a single word.
She climbed onto the bed and dropped her full weight on my back. She immobilized me completely; with her bulk, I was nothing but a doll beneath her. I could feel her fat tits flattening against my shoulder blades and the cunt hidden under her dress pressing into my lower back. She brought my hands behind me and I felt cold metal encircling my wrists. Handcuffs. Real handcuffs. She snapped them shut hard, making sure they bit, and anchored them with a thick padlock to the headboard. My arms were bent behind me in the most uncomfortable position imaginable.
—They hurt me, let me go —I protested.
—I’ve had enough. You’re going to keep your mouth shut.
She stood up and took things from a bag she’d prepared: gray packing tape, a thick dog collar, and another padlock. My nerves turned into real fear. She sat back down on me and cinched the collar around my neck, buckled it, and clipped it to the headboard with the second padlock, so that even with my hands free I wouldn’t have been able to remove it. And my hands weren’t free.
—Let me go right now, witch, you’ll be sorry once I get loose —I threatened her, terrified.
—You’re going to learn manners. You’re going to stop disrespecting your mother and me.
She stood to take off her underwear. I watched as she hiked her dress up to her waist, as she pulled down huge white panties over her thick thighs, as she flicked them off over her ankles with one foot. She rolled the panties into a ball in her gloved hand and dropped back down on me. She brought them to my face and I was horrified to see they were dirty, worn, with a yellowish stain in the crotch and a strong, sour smell, like an older woman’s sweaty cunt, that turned my stomach.
—Open your mouth.
Of course I clamped it shut. But she brought the gloved hand closer and started forcing the fabric between my lips, pushing with the fingertips of the rubber until she got them all the way in, pressing them against my tongue so the taste would stick to my palate. It was the first time in my life I’d ever felt completely humiliated. And not just by the panties: I discovered the gloves had their own smell, the smell of the cleaning products my aunt used to scrub with every day, a sharp stench of vinegar and bleach. The rubber was worn out, stained brown from use, with dried residue on the fingertips. I felt nauseous, and yet something inside me registered that smell —the vinegar on the glove mixed with the sour discharge from her cunt— so I’d never forget it.
She took the packing tape and wrapped it around my head several times, sparing nothing, making sure I couldn’t spit out the gag. I tried to insult her and only a muffled sound came out.
—That’s it, nice and quiet. You’re nothing but a pussy-eater. Where’s all your swagger now? Your mother won’t be back until tonight and nobody’s going to hear you. Go ahead, try to call for help, let’s see if you can.
She tied my feet with a rope and fixed them to the metal end of the bed, spreading them a little and leaving my ass exposed and apart. I was completely immobilized: wrists behind my back, neck anchored, mouth full of the taste of her dirty underwear. The witch I’d nicknamed as a child had become a real witch.
She strolled to the wardrobe completely calm, knowing damn well I wasn’t going anywhere, and took out a thick dark leather belt, one of those she wore over her dress to cinch her waist. She wrapped one end around her gloved hand and came back to the bed. She pulled my pants and underwear down to my ankles and left me naked from the waist down, my white ass exposed.
—I’m going to do what I should have done a long time ago. I’m not going to let you end up a bastard like your father. This is going to hurt, and hurt a lot, but I don’t care. You didn’t care about your mother crying, or the trouble you caused, or how you treated that girl either.
She drew her arm back and brought the first belt strike down on my bare skin.
The crack echoed through the room. I felt a line of fire cut across my ass from side to side. I wanted to scream, but the gag was too effective and I could only endure the bite of leather in silence.
—You’ll never disrespect us again.
Another blow. And another. Each strike hurt more than the last. The rubber of the glove holding the belt squeaked with every lash, and with each one she added a new order.
—You’re going to obey us in everything. You’re going to help around the house and get yourself a job. Tomorrow you’ll apologize to that girl on your knees. You know what’ll happen if you don’t obey? I’ll come back, I’ll tie you up, and I’ll break you again with the belt.
Between blows she shoved two gloved fingers through the crack of my ass, all the way to the hole, to remind me that she could use that too. The dirty rubber touched my tight ring and then the belt came again. I ended up crying like a little kid, undone, my ass raw, crisscrossed with red, swollen welts. It went on for fifteen or twenty endless minutes. When she finished, she took off the gloves, put them in the pocket of her robe, and left me tied and gagged on the bed.
—The day is going to be very long for you. I’ll come back later and we’ll continue. This has only just begun.
Before leaving, she pulled a blue bag from the wardrobe. Inside was a thin, flexible rubber tube, the kind used to carry gas. She’d bought it on purpose, knowing the pain it causes.
—When I come back we’ll see what breaks first, your ass or the rubber —she declared, and locked the door behind her.
***
I spent hours locked in, motionless, gagged, turning everything over in my head. My ass was on fire, my wrists hurt, the taste of that fabric filled my mouth. The stain from her panties dissolved on my tongue, mixed with saliva, and I no longer knew whether it disgusted me or whether I was swallowing it deliberately. And yet, at some point, a sensation I didn’t understand began to force its way through.
I discovered I was completely hard, my cock stiff as stone, pressed between my stomach and the sheet. Harder than I’d ever been in my life. Every time I tried to move to ease the pain in my ass, the head rubbed against the fabric and a jolt of pleasure shot up my back to my gagged mouth. It made no sense to feel that inside pain and humiliation, but there it was. My hips kept thrusting without my wanting to, rubbing myself against the mattress like a dog, and I hated myself for it and couldn’t stop. I decided I’d think about it later.
When she came back, the first thing she did was put the gloves back on. Again the rubber squeaked as it slid slowly over her arms, and again that vinegar smell. She gave the end a sharp tug.
—I warned you. This is going to hurt a hell of a lot more. You’re going to cry like a spoiled little girl, and I won’t care one bit.
Before beginning, she bent over me and ran two gloved fingers over my swollen ass, feeling each welt, pinching them one by one. Every time she pressed a mark, I jerked and she laughed softly. She pushed the rubber thumb into my sore hole, dry, until the knuckle. I squirmed, bit down on the gag, groaned muffled. She pulled it out slowly and wiped the gloves against my buttocks.
—You’ll learn this way too, if necessary. But today we’re doing this.
She lifted the rubber tube and brought it down on my already punished skin. The pain was infinitely worse than the belt. The rubber was thinner, crueller; it burned and stung at the same time over the earlier marks. She struck again and again, mercilessly, with all her accumulated rage. The tube hissed through the air and burst against the flesh, leaving red furrows that swelled instantly.
—Stupid brat. Today you’re going to learn what pain is. The same pain you give us.
I cried again, exactly as she’d promised, in silence, smothered by the gag. I discovered what the word helplessness means: being unable to do anything, unable to move a single inch, taking blow after blow with no possibility of defending yourself. And I discovered, to my shame, that my cock didn’t go down for a second. The harder she hit, the more the head dug into the mattress, the more precum dripped from the tip and soaked the sheet.
—Listen carefully —she said, bringing her face close to mine—. From today on you’ll obey your mother and me without arguing. If you don’t, I’ll put the gloves on, take the rubber, and whip you until you learn. Tied up and with your mouth covered. Do you understand?
I couldn’t answer, so I nodded as much as the collar allowed. I made a clumsy gesture with my face so she’d see I understood.
—Good. That’s how I like it. Disobey me again and next time will be much worse.
Before leaving, she reached out a gloved hand and slid it under my body, feeling between my stomach and the sheet. She found what she’d feared. She curled her rubber fingers around my hard cock, squeezed it, shook it once.
—Well, well. So you like it, huh, little pig. You’ve got a hard-on and everything. I figured as much. You’re a degenerate.
She let go of it abruptly with a rubber snap that hurt more than any belt strike, and left the room chuckling under her breath.
She left again, leaving me locked in until nightfall. I had more hours to think, and the more I thought, the less I understood it. I was still hard, my cock throbbing against the mattress, leaking pre-cum onto the already stained sheet. And it wasn’t terror: it was attraction. She had broken me with blows, humiliated me in the worst possible way, and I couldn’t stop thinking about her used gloves, her vinegar smell, her rough touch, the moment she had squeezed my cock with that rubber palm. Instead of loathing them, I wanted them. I wanted to feel them again on my skin, on my face, in my mouth, around my cock. I wanted to see her come at me wearing them.
I started moving my hips against the mattress, first slowly, as if I weren’t the one doing it. The sheet tore at the fresh scabs on the welts and every brush of fabric hurt and at the same time drove my arousal up another notch. I thrust, rubbed my head against the cloth, imagined the gloved palm wrapping around me again, squeezing, shaking. I imagined it in my mouth too, gagging me with the rubber, forcing me to lick the fingers that had just been inside her old cunt. I imagined those dirty panties returning to my tongue.
Without touching myself, with nothing but those images in my head and the burning rub of the sheet against my cock, I came. I felt the spasm of semen shooting out in hot bursts, trapped between my stomach and the mattress, soaking my skin. I soaked the sheets completely, with a thick load that mixed with sweat and tears. And as soon as I caught my breath, a new urgency took over: that she mustn’t notice, that she mustn’t discover what her punishment had awakened. That she shouldn’t see the sticky pool beneath my belly. Though by the way she’d squeezed my cock with those gloved fingers before leaving, she already knew perfectly well.
I didn’t understand anything I was feeling, but I knew with complete clarity that I wanted to feel it again. Not that day, or the next —my ass was wrecked and her threats were real— but someday. I wanted her to tie me up again, gag me with her panties, fill my ass with rubber fingers, and this time pull my cock out too and make me come all the way with the glove.
***
When she came back one last time, she already had the gloves on; maybe she hadn’t taken them off since she left. She came up behind me and grabbed the back of my neck hard, twisting me with the rubber until I let out a muffled whimper. Then she brought her free hand down between my legs and felt my balls, checking the cold, sticky puddle I’d left under my belly.
—Look what the brat did. He came like a bitch in his own punishment. Pussy-eater, pig, degenerate. You didn’t get it, did you? Well, we’ll understand each other soon enough.
She shoved two gloved fingers deep into my burning hole, all the way in, and worked them around. I felt the pressure and the pain, but also, to my own shame, another stab of pleasure that made my ass clamp down on the gloves inside. She noticed.
—Yes, sir. You understood perfectly. This ass is going to be mine whenever I feel like it.
She pulled them out slowly, brought them to her nose, smelled them with a feigned grimace of disgust, and passed them under my gag so I could smell them too. The rubber, stained with sweat and my own insides, filled my nose.
—I’m going to let you go. Your mother’s about to get here. You’ll greet her politely and apologize for everything. You’ll make it clear that you’re going to change. And I’m telling you this once: one more sign of disrespect, one single act of disobedience, and what happened today will seem like child’s play.
She took off the handcuffs, the ropes, and the collar. Before removing the gag, she held my chin with her gloved hand and squeezed my cheeks until my mouth opened all the way.
—You’re nothing but a pussy-eater. Next time they might be even dirtier. I might not even take them off before I put them in your mouth: I might take them off myself in front of you after wearing them all day. Dare to disobey and you’ll find out.
Before I pulled my pants up, she gave my ass one last slap with the open gloved palm. The pain over the welts was so brutal that two more tears escaped me. And yet, while I fastened my belt with shaking hands, my cock was getting hard again beneath the fabric.
My mother arrived and I waited for her at the door, just as I’d been ordered. I apologized with a humility she didn’t know I had and promised never to disrespect her again. While I spoke, I kept glancing sideways at my Aunt Casilda, a few meters behind me, softly tapping one glove against the other. My mother was moved to tears. For the first time in years, that night she was happy.
I was about to go back to my room, exhausted, when Casilda stopped me.
—Not so fast. You haven’t eaten anything today and I’m not going to let you get sick. Remember the plate you threw on the floor the other day, insulting us because you didn’t like it?
—Yes, Aunt. I remember. I’m very sorry —I answered, impeccably polite, feeling my body betray me again and my cock swell once more inside my pants.
I watched her put the gloves back on, and again the squeak of the rubber raised goose bumps on my skin, half fear, half desire. She looked at me fixedly, with a half-smile, while she ran her gloved fingers over her lips as if licking them.
—You’re going to eat every last bite from my hand, without arguing. And after that you’ll come up to my room with me. There are still sheets to change because of you, pig. And this time I’m not going to let you off so easily.
And I knew, as the dirty rubber came toward my mouth and the vinegar smell filled my nose again, that that day had not finished changing my life. It had only just begun.
