I was fifteen years old when my father was killed in a car crash. Losing him was a horrible experience for me, but it was much worse for my mother Sarah -- she was utterly devastated. Even after a year and a half, she was unable to overcome the grief and put her life back together. My name is Julia, and I am her only child.
Watching my mother suffer was breaking my heart. Before Dad's accident, she was a sexy, vivacious woman of thirty-five with long red hair, a delicate and beautiful face with adorable dimples when she smiled. She was a dance instructor, which kept her body lithe and fit. Now, she was a shadow of her old self, shambling like a lost soul through life.
Eventually, I decided that I had to do something, and chose to have a heart to heart talk with her. One night after a glum, mostly silent dinner, I brought my mother into the living room and sat her down.
Kneeling before her, I took both her hands and said, "Mom, you've been mourning Dad for way too long. I miss him too, but he's been gone for almost two years! You've got to start living your life again. Don't you think he would have wanted it that way?"
Mom only shook her head sadly. "You don't understand, Julia ... it's m-my fault your father is dead."
I was stunned. How could it possibly be her fault? "Mom, that's ridiculous. It was an accident ... an accident, that's all."
"No, baby. If it hadn't been for me, Bill wouldn't have been in that accident in the first place," she whispered.
I stared at my mother in perfect incomprehension. "What -- Mom, what in God's name are you talking about?"
She sighed, staring down at her hands. "On the day he died, right before he was going to work, I picked a fight with him. It was about something utterly moronic, too ... I was just in a crappy mood, and took it out on your father. We ... we yelled and screamed at each other for nearly a hour. Finally, he stormed out. But by then, he was running late, and -- and he drove faster then he should have ... the police told me later that, if he hadn't been going s-so fast when the tire blew, he wouldn't have gone spinning off the embankment, the way he d-did." She gave a sob of utter misery, tears streaming down her face.
I came over, sat next to her and gave her a hug. "Oh Mom, it wasn't your fault," I said, tears welling up in my own eyes.
"Oh, God, I feel so horrible. I wish it had b-been me instead," she said as she broke down and wept.
I tried to soothe her, but she wasn't having it. "Leave me alone, Julia... please!" she gasped, blindly pushing me away before she rose and fled, stumbling from the room. I heard the door of her bedroom click shut, but her sobs continued.
I flopped down on the couch, my heart heavy as I listened to Mom cry. I felt overcome with helplessness. There was nothing that I could say or do to convince her how damn unreasonable she was being.
Or was there?
Staring up at the ceiling from where I lay, I thought things through.
Mom felt guilty because she believed she was responsible for Dad's death. Well, when I was young and knew, deep down inside, that I'd done wrong, I always felt better in the end if I was caught and punished by my father, even if it hurt. Dad was fair but pretty strict, and whenever I really got out of line, he'd spank me -- right on my bare bottom if the offense was serious enough.
For the first time, I wondered: did he ever deal with my mother in the same way?
Maybe that was what she needed -- someone to punish her! At the very least, it ought to purge this emotionally crippling need that Mom had to torment herself.
I wasn't at all sure about this, but I was desperate and had no other ideas. One big question remained, though: who could administer that kind of treatment to Mom? I racked my brain for awhile but came up empty.
Suddenly, the answer was in my grasp. I would have to punish her myself. After all, I did have lots of experience, even if it was all on the receiving end.
Once I'd made this decision, I felt a little nervous and very excited. I was also shocked to realize something else quite unexpected -- thinking about spanking my mother was turning me on!
I know that some people get off by being spanked, but I was never one of them -- having Dad punish my bare bottom was painful and humiliating, and he knew it. That's why he only used his hand on me when I messed up big time, which wasn't often.
On the other hand, I'd fantasized more than once about giving a spanking, usually to one of the cute girls I knew -- which in my mind, would always lead to some very hot sex. It was a masturbation scenario that never failed to get me off.
Of course, doing something like that to Mom had never even occurred to me, but once the idea took root, I was enthralled by it. What would it be like to have her lying over my legs, I wondered, her bare ass beneath my hand? That image gave me a warm, tingly feeling between my legs, and I could feel myself getting wet.
I'd been aware of my bisexuality for about a year at that point, after a night of passionate lovemaking with my best friend Beth. That was our only time together, but it was enough to hook me. In fact, I pretty much knew that girls got me way more excited than boys.
Honestly, I wasn't even sure if I could be sexually attracted to my own mother -- but the thought of spanking her had me hotter than a pistol!
I knew from personal experience that it was impossible to avoid exposing everything you had to the person punishing your ass, so if I went through with this crazy scheme, I'd be getting a very good look at Mom's pussy! My mother was not one for casual nudity, and hadn't shown herself in anything more revealing than a nightie or a one-piece bathing suit since I was a little girl. I'd seen enough to know that she still had a great body, though.
So if I got Mom undressed and spanked her, what else might happen between us?
As if it were operating independently of me, my hand slipped under the waistband of the sweats I wore and into my panties, fingers teasing my wet pussy as I fantasized about Mom, allowing my imagination to wander to some very forbidden places. God, my heart was pounding like a jackhammer! I quickly found my clit and within minutes panted through a mind-blowing orgasm.
After I recovered, lying back and idly licking my fingers, all I could think of was just how much I wanted to make this spanking idea happen. I decided to make my move on the following night.
The next afternoon, after arriving home from school, I spent a long while getting myself ready. I took a long hot soak in the bath, then shaved my legs and underarms. Then, after a moment's hesitation, I trimmed my pubes into a neat triangle, telling myself that I was only doing this because I needed to, not because Mom might see me naked later on.
I carefully selected my clothes for the evening, wanting to look my very best without being obvious about it. I chose a pair of tight blue shorts that showcased my ass to great effect, and a skimpy yellow top, which I wore without a bra.
When Mom got home from work, she changed into khaki shorts and an old t-shirt, then came and plopped down on the sofa beside me, where I was sitting, pretending to casually watch the news.
I glanced at her, feeling a twinge of sorrow at the emptiness I read in her eyes. Then I swallowed hard, summoning up my courage as best I could. Well, here goes nothing, I thought as I turned to her.
"Mom, I was thinking about Dad, remembering how strict he could be sometimes. And I sort of, well, have a question about that. Did he ever ... punish you?" I asked.
My mother's face had gone slightly pale. She gazed at me for a long moment. Then, looking away, she quietly replied, "Yes. He used to spank me whenever he decided that I'd crossed the line."
Emboldened by that knowledge, I continued. "Did he do that to you on the day he died?"
"No," she replied. "He told me that I was lucky he was running late, or he would have turned me over his knee and spanked me like a bad little girl." She sniffled, on the verge of tears. "He ... he promised to do it when he g-got back..."
"Well, maybe if he had, you wouldn't feel so guilty about what happened," I said, cutting her off before she began to cry again. Then, taking a deep breath, I plowed ahead. "Anyway, since he didn't spank you then, I feel it's my duty to do it now."
There, I'd said it. My mother just sat there staring at me -- her mouth slightly open, as if she hadn't heard correctly.
I continued. "Even though Dad's death wasn't really your fault, you feel guilty ... and the only way you can be free of that guilt is to be punished. And since I'm the one person who loves you more than anyone else in this world, I feel like it's my responsibility."
I watched Mom closely as I spoke. Slowly, I could see comprehension dawning in her eyes.
"Mom, I want you to stand up and take off your shorts," I said, holding my breath, not at all sure how she would react.
She just stared at me. Her lips moved to speak, but nothing came out. Finally after a few deep breaths she managed to stammer, "Julia ... I d-don't know about this..."
Determined to hold firm, I cut her off. "Mom, you remember what Dad always used to say before he spanked me?" Before she could answer, I did. "He'd say, 'If I didn't love you so much, I wouldn't be doing this.' Dad meant that, too ... that's why I couldn't ever stay mad at him for long, no matter how much my butt hurt when he was finished."
.... There is more of this story ...