The Discipline My Own Son Earned That Night

The apartment buzzer breaks the quiet of the afternoon. Adrián is the first to open the door. The moment the wood gives way, my sister-in-law Camila wraps him in a loud, tight hug. Since she moved to Munich, it seems the whole world falls into chaos whenever she visits.

—Look at you, you’re huge! —she says, ruffling his fringe before coming to squeeze me next.

We move into the living room. Adrián, eager to show off his progress, sits down at once on the bench of the grand piano. While I prepare two martinis, my son’s fingers caress the keys through a complex, melancholy piece. I stay a few steps back, glass in hand, watching him in silence: the tilt of his neck, the stiffness of his back, the total concentration. He is a younger version of his father, the first and only man I ever loved. The resemblance burns my throat.

Minutes later, we move to the dining room. Rosaura serves dinner: wild salmon on a bed of roasted asparagus with citrus reduction. The metallic clink of minimalist cutlery sets the pulse of an animated conversation.

—Erich barely leaves the hospital, the shifts have him exhausted —Camila says, cutting into the fish—. And for Iván, school in Germany is driving him crazy. It’s an unbearable level of pressure.

I chew slowly while she keeps talking. This woman, who seems to drown in a glass of water, held me up with iron determination the afternoon the accident took my husband and my little Lía from me. The helicopter explosion left a crater so deep in my soul that, for ten years, I thought nothing and no one could ever fill it again.

—And tell me, Selene —Camila’s voice pulls me back to the present—. How are things at Volterra?

—Solid —I answer, wiping the corners of my mouth with the linen napkin—. We’re projecting thirty percent growth this year and closing the logistics expansion in Asia.

—Amazing. My brother would be proud of what you did with his empire.

I return a courteous smile. Inside, resentment knots my stomach. Proud. What a stupid word. It was his unforgivable cruelty to die and dump on me the monstrous burden of leading a multinational holding company. To keep the vultures from tearing me apart, I had to uproot the naive, loving girl I had been. I hardened until I became stone. What a lifesaver that man left me.

Adrián gets up to go to the kitchen for dessert. Camila waits until he’s out of earshot and leans over the table, lowering her voice.

—And you? Are you seeing anyone?

—I don’t have time for that. The company consumes me.

—Not even still with your… little games? —she asks, lifting a conspiratorial eyebrow.

—That’s in the past —I lie, brushing the subject aside with a wave.

Camila nods and drinks. She has no idea what the truth is. She thinks the “little games” were limited to the controlled beatings her brother gave me when I met him. I was his submissive. I spent years trying to drag him out of the darkness he had lived in since adolescence. But after his death, grief shattered me and, paradoxically, I ended up falling into that very same hell.

I walked down my own steps into pain alone. I started bringing submissive women and men into the house, dragging them into the playroom my husband had had built when he was single. I found in leather, restraints, and control the only relief that let me keep breathing. In there, with the crop in my hand, I made my submissives come until they were raw, fucked their cunts with silicone harnesses until they begged in four languages, buried my tongue in their asses while I whipped them, made them suck my heels soaked in my own orgasm. The things I learned to do in that room led me into terrain my late husband would never have dared to tread. I used all that contained cruelty to float above the other corporate shit, crushing my enemies with the same severity I learned in his stupid sadomasochistic room.

The kitchen door opens. Adrián returns with three slices of berry tart on a tray.

—What a treat! You always spoil me —Camila exclaims—. And how’s school going for you?

—Fine, auntie. Swamped with finals —he replies, serving the plates—. I still haven’t fully decided what I’m going to do when the semester ends. I’ve got a couple of options in mind.

I sink the teaspoon into the dessert. Look at him. He’s happy now, but for years he lived like an orphan of both father and mother. I hid in work and in my little games. Adrián became one more task, the heir who had to be trained. I built a wall and, without meaning to, punished him for a loss he didn’t even understand.

—Options related to the holding, I suppose? —Camila asks.

—That’s the logical path —Adrián answers. He glances at me for just a second—. Though lately we’ve been exploring other areas. Things that are less… rigid.

Camila smiles, completely oblivious to the double meaning.

—I’m glad to hear that. You seem different, more relaxed. And you too, Selene. You seem to have found a new balance as mother and son.

—We have, auntie —he says.

A balance built on dynamite. Just when I thought I would spend the rest of my days numbed by my submissives, the least expected light appeared. The day my son discovered me with a girl tied up in the playroom —me with the crop in one hand and my fingers buried in the dripping cunt of the submissive—, I thought my soul was collapsing like a house of cards.

But he didn’t judge me. He insisted on understanding my world. He pushed and cornered me with such skill that I finally confessed to him what life had been like with his father. Adrián can be very persuasive when he wants to be, and I ended up agreeing to teach him. I made him my submissive on the condition that he would never cross the boundaries between mother and son. “Boundaries.” What a stupid word. The first time I put my mouth on his cock to punish him for a technical failure, under the excuse of “teaching him to resist arousal,” I knew the line had already been pulverized. The second time he shoved it into my cunt, looking me in the eye while calling me “mom” and “Mistress” in the same sentence, I stopped pretending. I shattered the taboo like someone stepping on a sandcastle: quickly and without guilt.

—By the way, Adrián —Camila says suddenly, setting her fork down on the plate—. Did you consider the invitation I made you? The one about spending a season studying in Munich with us?

The utensil slips from my fingers and clatters against the porcelain. Munich? At what point did the conversation land on an invitation I should have been aware of?

Adrián straightens in his chair. His gray eyes shine with sudden excitement.

—Yes, auntie. I think it’s a great idea. I’d be happy to go this semester.

—Perfect. Then it’s settled —Camila claps softly.

The news punches a hole through my chest. Air leaves my lungs in one blow. What the hell are they talking about? How dare he make a decision that involves crossing the ocean without even consulting me?

The helipad scene comes back to me with sadistic clarity. The deafening roar of the blades. My young husband raising his hand behind the glass. Lía in her little seat. The blinding flash. Black smoke devouring the sky. A brutal explosion and, in a fraction of a second, nothing.

Now, just as I manage to rebuild my life, just when I finally get my son back, he wants to leave me too. My stomach turns and a wave of nausea bends me forward.

—Selene, are you okay? You’re pale —Camila asks, reaching out her hand.

—Yes. Sorry. It’s just… accumulated office fatigue.

—I can imagine —she says, sympathetically, before turning back to her nephew—. Tomorrow I’ll send you the itineraries. We can coordinate transfers and enrollment before the end of the month.

They keep talking about visas, dates, and programs. I smile mechanically, but my blood is boiling. Out of the corner of my eye I see Camila wink at Adrián. An intimate, complicit gesture. This didn’t come up today. They planned it behind my back. They left me out because they knew I would oppose it.

***

Two hours later, dinner ends. Camila says goodbye with warm hugs in the foyer. The moment the steel doors of the elevator close behind her, absolute silence buries the apartment.

I turn slowly. Adrián is standing in the hallway, hands in his pockets, still savoring his little European victory.

—How did the idea for this trip come about? —I ask, closing the distance with slow steps.

He shrugs, taking half a step back.

—I don’t know. Auntie mentioned it at some point. She must have told you before and you don’t remember.

—A casual remark? —I tilt my head—. How curious. And how is it that a casual remark already includes flight dates?

Adrián swallows. His defensive posture cracks.

—Well… auntie proposed it a while ago and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to me.

—If it was so natural, why didn’t you mention it until they dropped it at my own table?

—I don’t know —he looks away toward the floor—. I have no idea.

“I have no idea.” The hollow answer of a cornered teenager. He has no right to hide behind stupidity to justify a lie by omission. I contain my rage.

—Luckily, Camila hasn’t bought the tickets yet —I sentence—. Tomorrow first thing I’m calling her to cancel the whole thing. You are not going.

Adrián’s face contorts. The good-boy shell disappears and gives way to an uncontrolled tantrum.

—You don’t have the right! —he raises his voice, gesturing wildly—. It’s my life! It’s an important trip for my studies, I need to socialize and get international exposure!

—If it were really important, you would have consulted me first. You didn’t because you knew perfectly well it was a terrible idea. End of discussion.

—I’m going anyway! —he snaps back, defiant, his face red with anger—. It’s already set with auntie!

I stay silent. I look him up and down. None of my submissives would ever have dared such insolence. Is he, in his subconscious, provoking me because he desperately needs a punishment? Does he need me to remind him who that cock belongs to? It’s been months since I disciplined him harshly.

—The matter is closed, Adrián. You’re not going to Germany.

—Why?

—Because I’m your mother and I said so.

—Please… —he insists, his voice trembling, caught between rage and childish frustration.

The plea takes me back to when he was a small child throwing a fit over a toy. The nostalgia lasts a second. A dark severity, one I had kept asleep for months, wakes abruptly. I lock eyes with him.

Adrián senses the change in the density of the air. He studies me, searching for an escape.

—Are you saying that as my mother or as my Mistress? —he asks, trying to use our dynamic as a shield.

I flash a sharp smile.

—Is there a difference?

As his mother, I have the obligation to straighten him out. As his Mistress, I know exactly how to do it. A corrective requires pain; without pain there is no correction. But the true weight of a punishment lies in anticipation and fear. Terror must come before pain.

—Take your clothes off —I order.

—Here? —his eyes go wide.

—Yes. Here.

—But Rosaura is in the kitchen clearing the plates.

—I don’t care in the slightest.

He swallows and obeys with conditioned reflex. His hands move to the shirt buttons. The fabric falls to the hallway floor, followed by his trousers and underwear. He stands completely naked, hunched with shame, his flaccid cock hanging between his thighs, still asleep but betraying him under my fixed stare. After so many times I’ve seen him like this, when I take on the role of stern mother, his body still writhes under my gaze.

I’m wearing a white wool blazer that doubles as a short dress. The garment, far too brief, leaves my legs bare, shaped by very high matching heels. I sit in the armchair. I know that, if anything embarrasses him more than his nakedness, it’s his mother watching his cock harden just from breathing the same air as I do. I open my legs slightly, just enough for him to glimpse the join of my thighs, and give him a brief look at the inside of my lace panties, already soaked through. His cock starts to swell against his will, thickening and rising in slow, humiliating centimeters. He bites his lower lip, mortified by his own body’s betrayal. I nod in satisfaction.

—Sit at the piano and play for me.

He hesitates for a fraction of a second, but obeys the order. He settles naked on the leather bench and rests his fingers on the keyboard. His stiff cock knocks against his belly when he sits. A nervous classical melody spills from the instrument.

At that instant, Rosaura’s head appears from the upstairs balcony. Luckily for him, the wall angle hides his body.

—I’m going to wash the dishes. Do you want tea, Selene?

—No, thank you. We’ll wash what’s left. Go to sleep.

—Good night.

Rosaura withdraws. Adrián keeps playing, but now his forehead shines, beaded with cold sweat. I take out my phone and check a couple of work emails. I let him stew in his own shame, his hard cock twitching every time his fingers press the keys.

After a while I walk behind him. The sound of my heels on the wood makes his shoulders tense.

—Turn around —I order.

He turns on the bench. His cock is fully erect now, hard, thick, with a pink tip and a fat drop of precum hanging from the glans, gleaming under the overhead light. His testicles tighten under my scrutiny.

—Spread your legs.

He does. I lift my right leg and place the sharp point of my shoe directly on his tight balls. I press downward, crushing the sac against the bench. I moisten at the mere thought of the rough dirt of the sole pressing into the most sensitive part of my son. His cock jerks, hardening even more, leaking another transparent strand that runs down his shaft.

He smothers a rough moan, clutching the edge of the seat. His thighs tremble.

—I don’t like being challenged, Adrián. Look at the position I’ve got you in. Your cock standing up like a dog and your balls under my heel. That’s what you are.

I press harder. His eyes immediately fill with tears. The cock spasms violently and releases more pre-cum, a sticky thread that stretches all the way to his navel.

—I’m so sorry —he begs, breathless—. I’m sorry, mom.

—“Mom” —I repeat with sweet contempt, increasing the pressure until he groans in agony—. What a filthy word, coming from a son with a dripping cock.

I remove my foot. The imprint of the heel stays on the skin of his scrotum, red and throbbing.

—Come to the kitchen.

***

We enter the steel-and-granite space. He stands in the center of the room, naked and helpless, his cock still pointing at the ceiling, impossible to hide. I go to the playroom and return with a heavy metal object, strawberry-shaped and polished, with a short flat handle.

—Do you know what this is?

He shakes his head, frightened.

—Doesn’t matter. You’re going to find out. Bend over.

He obeys, placing his hands on his knees. His buttocks tense, opening just enough to reveal the tight bud of his asshole. I take my time admiring it. I raise the object and bring it to my mouth. I gather an obscene amount of saliva and let it pool in the hollow of my tongue. Then I lubricate the steel strawberry by running it through my mouth, sucking it slowly, covering every millimeter with a thick, viscous coating while I hold his gaze. He looks over his shoulder, swallowing hard, knowing what’s coming.

I pull his buttocks apart with my free hand. The skin parts, leaving the opening visible, wrinkled and pink. I set the cold metal in the center and push with sadistic slowness. The entrance resists, yields, resists again, and then the anus suddenly stretches around the widest part of the strawberry. A sharp moan —half invasive pleasure, half the pain of stretching— echoes off the kitchen tiles. I keep pushing until the object is seated inside, with only the flat handle sticking out between his cheeks.

—You can stand up straight.

—Yes, mom —he says, upright but submissive, breath coming in gasps. His cock bobs as he straightens, still hard and dripping.

—This is very simple. You’re going to wash the entire kitchen. If the object I just put inside you falls to the floor, I will punish you like never before in your life. Is that clear?

—Yes, mom.

Poor naïve fool. He thinks he has any chance of getting out unharmed. I sit on a high stool, cross my legs, and take out my cell phone. Adrián moves toward the sink in tiny, shuffling steps, clenching his buttocks desperately to keep the weight from winning. He trembles, sweats, and whimpers under his breath, while his ass cheeks strain exaggeratedly trying to contain the uncontrollable. His cock swings heavily between his legs, dripping drops onto the ceramic floor that he will have to clean himself later.

Fifteen minutes later, he turns to me.

—I’m done —he announces, exhausted.

I lift my eyes from the screen and shake my head.

—You forgot to sweep.

He nods, defeated. He takes the broom, but when he looks for the dustpan he discovers there’s only a small hand scoop.

—But… mom… with this I’ll have to…

—Not my problem —I answer without looking at him.

He tries to lower himself by bending only his knees, keeping his back straight. Gravity is merciless. As he drops into a deep squat, the muscles of his ass give way. The object slips and shoots out like a projectile, spat from his anus, and smashes against the ceramic floor with a deafening metallic clatter.

He freezes on the floor. He looks up at me with eyes as round as saucers. His cock keeps swaying between his thighs, betraying how hard it still is.

I sigh heavily. I stand from the stool in silence. I pick the device up from the floor and, without saying a single word, leave the kitchen.

Adrián follows me down the hallway with his head bowed, dragging his sentence. And his erection.

***

We reach the end of the corridor. The reinforced door to the living room opens with my code. I go in and turn to him.

—Kneel.

He falls to his knees. With the tip of my shoe I shove his shoulder to force him onto all fours on the dark carpet. His hard cock hangs down between his arms, pointing at the floor. I step forward and press my heel firmly into the divide of his buttocks, scraping the sac hanging between his thighs.

—You disappoint me, Adrián. I thought by now you’d already learned to obey me. To respect me. But all you do is hurt me. Do you think it’s fair that your mother should suffer like this because of your selfishness?

—I’m sorry —he cries against the floor—. I swear I’m sorry.

I pull my foot back, turn, and stand directly in front of his face.

—Kiss me.

He crawls forward an inch and starts kissing the tip of my shoes. Then the bare skin of my ankles, climbing my calves with desperate devotion, climbing the inner side of my thighs with a hot tongue. I let him get all the way to the edge of the blazer, to where the smell of my wet cunt hits his nose. When I feel his breath a millimeter from my groin, I step back.

—Not yet.

He groans, frustrated, lips shiny with saliva and cheeks wet.

I walk to the shelf. I take down a steel device with mechanical joints.

—Do you know what this is?

He shakes his head again, too frightened to look up.

—It’s a leg spreader. It moves in only one direction: it opens, but the gears don’t allow it to close. Lie down on the bed.

He obeys. I tie his hands to the thick canopy frame and adjust the leg spreader straps around his ankles. His body is left exposed, vulnerable, and anchored. His cock remains erect, soaked with its own slime, trembling against his flat stomach. His testicles, taut, hang heavy between his open thighs.

I take a black feather from the shelf. I step closer and begin to stroke his skin. I trace his torso, circle each nipple until they harden like little stones, travel down to his navel and on to his groin. The tension builds, excessive. His cock rises, demanding the caress, the glans shiny and swollen, almost purple. I run the feather over his frenulum and he howls in a choked moan. I stop abruptly. Instinct forces him to seek more friction, spreading his legs to stretch toward me. The tube mechanism clicks. When he tries to bring them together again, the metal locks.

I smile. I keep going with the feather over the inner thighs, the base of the cock, the swollen balls, the seam dividing the sac, the most sensitive tip of the glans. He shifts again by reflex. Another click. It opens even wider, obscenely exposed.

I set the feather aside. I kneel on the mattress between his forcibly spread thighs, place my hands on the insides of his legs, and wait. His chest rises and falls in agitation. His cock demands me with rhythmic movements, bouncing on its own, searching for air. It begs for touch and spills all its clear fluid like desperate tears. Pre-cum runs down his shaft, soaks his balls, and forms a shining little puddle at the base.

I lower my head and stick out my tongue. I move it, slow, a scant inch from his cock, without ever touching it. He feels the hot wetness of my breath and cries out in pure torment.

—Please —he sobs— please, mom, touch it.

—Touch what?

—My cock. Suck it, please. Anything. I can’t take it anymore.

I let a thick thread of saliva drop from my lips, landing straight on the glans and sliding down the shaft. He convulses at the microscopic stimulus. Nothing more.

When I’m sure the desire has become unbearable, I push outward with all my strength. The gear roars and locks him into a total, shameful split. The tendons in his groin tense like cables. The cock leaps, forced by the brutal stretch, and releases another transparent spurt that stains his navel.

He opens pleading eyes. He looks for his Mistress, but all he finds is his mother’s severity fixed on him.

I untie one of his hands. I walk to the back wall and unhook a long object.

—And do you know what this is?

He shakes his head again, trembling.

—It’s a crop. It’s used to train racehorses. A very flexible wooden rod wrapped in braided rawhide. Used badly, without control, it can tear pieces of skin off you and leave scars for life.

I stare at him. He gulps air.

—But if it’s used properly —I continue—, its disciplining effect is relentless. When you take a strike, the skin first contracts from the impact. Then a needle of pain goes through you so intensely you can’t help shouting and the tears escape even if you resist. The area burns so much you’d want to tear the flesh off just to make it stop.

—Oh God —he whispers in terror.

—After twenty-four hours there’s no physical trace, but in your mind it can take months before you forget the punishment. That’s why it’s so useful for taming wild horses. They never forget a crop strike.

I whip the leather through the air. The crack slices the oxygen.

—What are you going to do with that? —he asks, breathless.

—Very simple. I want you to touch your cock and come in front of your mother. If I’m satisfied with what I see, I won’t use it. But every time I don’t like the way you handle it, you’ll receive one strike that will teach you a lesson for the rest of your days. You may begin.

Adrián lowers his trembling hand and wraps it around his swollen cock.

—One more thing, my boy —I add—. I’m going to try to be as professional as possible, but if at any point I remember the damage you did to me tonight, I’ll probably lose control and then… well, then I can’t guarantee the blow will land cleanly. You might lose something important between your legs.

My son’s firmness, which a second ago was diamond, begins to give way, annihilated by terror. The glans deflates just a little.

—I can’t… —he whispers, fighting his own softness.

I test him. I cut the air with the crop a few millimeters from his naked thigh. The sound makes him jerk and a shiver shakes his chest.

With his only free hand he wraps the base and begins to stroke. His fist moves slowly up and down the shaft, the skin sliding against itself, the tip appearing and sinking back inside the ring of his fingers. Fear delays the response, but the constant friction does its work. The cock swells again, turns violet and taut, shiny with its own slime. In a rush to be rid of the threat, he picks up the pace frantically. His hand flies over the cock, the sticky sound of wet flesh filling the soundproof room.

Just when it seems he’s about to reach the limit, when his balls draw up and his breathing catches, I let my arm drop in a long, swift arc. The blow is precise and severe. The leather bites into the skin of his left thigh, a finger’s width from the groin.

A tearing scream bursts involuntarily from his mouth. The cock spasms violently, squirting a single fat drop that lands on his navel, but the orgasm is cut off in an instant, stolen. He writhes on the mattress, but the leg spreader won’t let him move.

—You’re going too fast —I rebuke coldly—. And you were about to come without permission. Double fault.

The burn radiates through his whole body, traveling from the denied cock to his buttocks, which clench in a spasm. It takes him several minutes to get his breath back. He tries again, this time torturously slowly. His hand climbs the shaft millimeter by millimeter, stops at the corona, circles it with two fingers, lowers again. The cock, hard once more, throbs between his fingers.

Time passes. The room is swallowed by the wet sound of his fist sliding over the soaked flesh. Suddenly, I send another lash of fire across his right thigh.

—Ahhh! —he howls, banging his head against the pillow.

Tears and snot erupt uncontrollably. His cock jerks in the air.

—You’re getting distracted. You’re not even looking at your cock. Look at it. Look how pathetic you are. I don’t have all day. You have to finish. If I don’t see you truly humiliated, coming over your own stomach like the submissive you are, this doesn’t count as punishment.

That leather has known many submissive women. It also bit my skin once when I rebelled purely for the pleasure of it against my Master. My body knows the terrible burn that eats through to the bones and wipes out any thought. Asking him to masturbate in that state of pain, frenzy, and shame is one of the worst punishments. Far from feeling remorse, my panties are completely soaked, my cunt throbbing in time with every strike. I can smell my own wetness mixed with the sweat and the nascent semen of my son.

Adrián wipes his tears with the back of his free hand. He tries again, but the dry friction hurts him. I lean over his hand and let a generous, dense column of saliva fall to lubricate his grip. The spit bathes his cock, runs over his swollen balls, reaches the anus still dilated by the strawberry that he expelled in the kitchen.

He starts moving again with more rhythm. Now the hand slides easily, the fist twisting and squeezing the glans on each upward stroke, pulling the foreskin down on each descent. The tension is immense and his testicles have shrunk until they nearly disappear, pressed against the base. I know his cock well enough to know he’s on the verge of overflowing.

I calculate the exact millimeter. A third strike falls a centimeter from the base of his cock, right in the fold of the groin. The burn collides with pleasure and spreads across the whole area like an electric bolt. The raw scream would have woken the entire building if the room weren’t soundproof. A spurt of semen escapes against his will and stains his navel, a botched orgasm that gives him no pleasure, only humiliation.

His breathing is a mess.

—You’re doing it wrong —I decree, lowering the crop—. You came like an idiot, without permission and badly to top it off. It doesn’t even deserve to be called a cumshot.

His eyes are wet and bloodshot. His cock, miraculously, is still standing, swollen, still dripping the frustrated semen mixed with spit. He has no idea how long my discipline is going to last.

I set the leather on the floor. I slip off my panties, which fall floating down my legs until they become a puddle of transparent fabric, the crotch darkened by moisture. I pass them under his nose. He inhales desperately, drugged by the smell of my cunt.

—This is what you do to your mother. This is how wet I am while I destroy you.

I stuff the soaked panties into his mouth. He bites them eagerly, sucking my wetness like an infant.

I climb onto the bed. I’m still wearing the extra-short blazer and the heels. I straddle his face, my skirt riding up, and place my naked cunt right over his mouth gagged by my panties. I rub my open lips against the fabric and against his nose. He breathes in my scent in gasps, moaning beneath me, trying to get his tongue through the cloth to lick me.

—Suck —I order.

I pull the panties out of his mouth. Instantly, his tongue finds my swollen clit and licks it in clumsy, desperate circles. I ride his face, crushing his nose, rubbing myself against his chin. His tongue buries itself between my lips, searching for the entrance, and when it finds it, it penetrates with hungry fury. I grab his hair with both hands and fuck his mouth with my cunt, going up and down on his stretched tongue.

—Like that, my love. Suck your mother’s cunt. That’s the only thing you’re good for. Suck it properly, swallow everything, don’t you dare miss a single drop.

Adrián moans beneath me, a choked, desperate sound. His tongue works frantically, his nose pressing my clit every time he sinks into me. I move, riding his face, feeling my wetness run down his cheeks, down his neck, staining the sheets. The first orgasm hits fast, without warning, and I soak his whole face, shaking against his open mouth while he swallows what he can.

—Good boy. Now you won’t forget your mother’s taste.

I slide back, dragging the wetness over his chest, over his stomach. I lean against the headboard to tie the free hand again, and my garment rides up, leaving me exposed. Still aching, he fixes his gaze on my dripping, shaved cunt, shining with my own release.

I lower my hand to his cock and grip it firmly. It’s so hard it seems ready to burst, burning between my fingers. I position the tip against the entrance to my cunt and roll it slowly over my soaked lips, wetting the glans with my arousal. He moans like an animal, pushing his hips up, but the leg spreader and the restraints keep him nailed down.

—Don’t move. You don’t fuck. You endure.

I straddle his pelvis and lower myself slowly, sinking all of his throbbing hardness inside me. Millimeter by millimeter. I feel my son’s cock forcing its way through my flesh, the crown bumping against the entrance to my womb, every swollen vein dragging pleasure along the walls of my cunt. When I reach the bottom, when I have him all the way inside, I squeeze my muscles and milk him. He lets out an animal roar.

The relief of wet heat makes him exhale in one burst. I stay still, immovable, feeling all his tension inside me. Each pulse of his cock hits my walls. I can count every beat.

—Are you sure you want to go to Germany and leave me alone? —I whisper over his lips—. Are you going to find in Munich a cunt that milks your cock like this? Are you going to find a mother who sucks it like I do?

He can barely form a word. He’s desperate for me to move, but my static rhythm is driving him mad. He contracts his pelvis, trying to thrust, but the leg spreader prevents it.

—N-n-no —he stammers, motionless.

—What was that? —I arch an eyebrow.

—That I don’t want to leave you alone. I want to stay with you. I want your cunt to be the only one I fuck.

I rise a few centimeters, just enough to slip nearly out, and lower myself again. One centimeter, another centimeter. The desperation in his eyes spikes. I shake my head.

—I don’t think you understood anything about this punishment.

—What? —he asks, blinded by desire and pain.

—What you want or don’t want is completely irrelevant. What matters in this house is what I want. Your cock, your ass, your mouth, everything hanging between your legs, is mine. I decide when it stands, when it comes, when it bursts, and when it’s left wanting.

He thinks it through and understands.

—I swear I’ll do whatever you say —he answers in a thread of a voice, defeated—. It’s yours. It’s all yours. Do whatever you want.

I stroke his sweaty cheek.

—Perfect.

With astonishing slowness I begin to increase the pace. I rise until only the tip is left inside and come down with a hard drop, feeling his glans slam against the depths of my cunt. Up and down, up and down, each thrust deeper than the last. Adrián moans desperately, tugging at the ropes until they leave red marks on his wrists, but I anchor myself on his hips, squeezing with my shoes to pin him to the mattress. My heels sink into his sides.

I hold his gaze and, this time, I let him see the loving, sweet mother who is holding him inside me. His body convulses at the sight of me. I, the woman who gave him life, riding his cock like a runaway mare, blazer hiked up, breasts bouncing under the fabric, hair stuck to my forehead with sweat.

—Look at your mother, my love. Look at who’s fucking you. Look at who’s the only woman who will know how to handle you.

I raise the rhythm, going from a soft rocking to a furious, untamed, relentless ride. I move so fast the sound of my ass striking his thighs mixes with the moans and the obscene sloshing of our sex. His cock swells even more inside me, an unmistakable sign he can’t hold out another second.

—Give it to me —I order, sinking to the hilt—. Blow inside your mother’s cunt. All your cum in here. Now.

In only a few movements the dam gives way. Adrián breaks completely, surrendering with a choked cry, and I feel his cock begin to pump violently inside me, stream after stream after stream of thick, burning semen flooding my womb. His cum is so long, so abundant, that I can feel every pulse pouring inside, filling me, overflowing me. I contract my muscles around his cock and milk him to the last drop. I stay still, waiting for him to empty completely, letting his cock keep throbbing inside, sensitive and still hard.

When he finally quiets, I rise just a little, letting his cock slide out of me. A thick white river leaks from my open cunt and spills over his stomach, over his still-shiny cock, over his empty balls. I lower my hand, gather the mix of my wetness and his semen with two fingers, and bring it to his mouth.

—Suck. Taste it.

He opens his lips and sucks my fingers, swallowing his own cum mixed with my juices, looking into my eyes with absolute devotion.

I sink against his chest, satisfied.

***

I kiss him slowly. First on the mouth, a soft, maternal brush, tasting on his tongue the salty trace of the two of us, cleaning with my tongue the rawness of what has just happened. Then I free his hands and feet. With infinite patience I apply cream to the red areas where the leather bit his skin, including the mark near the groin and the bruise beginning to form on his thigh. I rest my hand on his flaccid, exhausted cock, now asleep, and leave it there for a long while, protecting it, stroking the sensitive skin with my thumb. Adrián gives himself over to my care.

I take him by the hand, lead him out of the room, and take him to my own bedroom. I remove my coat and shoes. I crawl naked into bed beside him and hold him tightly from behind, pressing my body to his until my breasts are one flesh with his skin. I feel his soft, satisfied cock against the back of my hand when I wrap my arm around his waist.

I stroke his hair in the dimness while his breathing steadies. Before sleep takes him, I whisper in his ear:

—You have to go to Germany. It will do both of us good to have some distance for a while.

He nods slowly in the dark. Before he surrenders to sleep, the last trace of fear appears in his voice and he asks me in a rough whisper:

—Mom… could you really have split my skin open with that crop?

I smile in the half-light. I let my words fall like a cold lullaby on his ear:

—Let’s hope we never have to find out, my love.