Chapter 1

Hector. Can you imagine hanging that handle on your kid? Mine did. Everyone calls me Heck so that’s okay but when my parents are pissed at me they always call me Hector.

When I was a kid it made me stand up for myself, kind of like the guy in that Johnny Cash song, A Boy Named Sue. I took judo and karate for my own protection but developed a predisposition to straighten people out which eventually led me into wanting to be a prison guard.

A few months ago I enrolled in a training program to help me get a job in a prison. So, in a sense, my mother and father are partly to blame for what happened because, as part of my course work, I had to learn how to restrain people. We learned how to put people into cuffs, how to restrict their leg movements, and how to judge how long it would take before they would simmer down. For my part, I guess I’m to blame for bringing work, or rather school, home with me. I told Mom I needed to practise for the practical exam.

“What’s the big deal? I’m just going to put some cuffs on you for a few minutes.”

Frustration, the product of an exasperating back and forth exchange for the previous fifteen minutes, permeated my words. Mom shuffled stuff from one place to another on the counter and didn’t answer me.

“Arghh!”

I stomped out of the kitchen and thumped every step on the way upstairs to my room. Ten minutes later, I was back, entering the kitchen quietly. Mom didn’t turn to look but her body stiffened so I knew she was aware of my presence.

“So what are you making?” I asked in the my I’m-a-good-boy voice perfectly honed over years of practise from getting back on my mother’s good side after misbehaving.

The tension in Mom’s shoulders dissipated.

“An apple crumble,” she replied in a voice lacking the tension of our previous exchange.

“That’s great,” I said.

Stepping closer to look, I leaned over Mom’s shoulder and pulled her left hand out of the way so I could see better. She didn’t react when the cuff curled around her right wrist and snapped closed, probably because her mind had no basis to predict what was coming, but that passive state persisted for only a brief moment. I pulled her right arm behind her back and almost had the left within the cuff when she twisted violently sideways to free herself. But it was too late. Her hand was firmly gripped within mine and she was no match for my strength. Still, she struggled for almost a full minute before I finally managed to snap the cuff closed.

In her rage, Mom actually swore at me several times. I realized I had made a mistake. She hadn’t settled down when faced with the fait accompli as I had expected and was too furious to let loose now. She flailed about so much, knocking the Pyrex pan full of apple crumble off the counter and onto the floor, that I was worried for her safety. Putting my arms around her and almost lifting her off the floor, I gradually worked Mom out of the kitchen with its loose objects and hard-edged counters and into the living room. There, I forced her onto her knees and then onto the floor. Using my weight, as I had been taught, I pressed Mom against the rug and waited for her to settle down.

She was pissed, no doubt about it, but eventually she tired and her fury turned to a sullen anger. Her body heaved as she recaptured her breath and I became aware of the soft bottom trembling beneath the thigh I had thrown across to hold her down. I looked down to check that the cuffs weren’t too tight but my gaze strayed along Mom’s long, narrow waist and followed the rise up to a set of nice buttocks. Mom, I was surprised to see, had a nice ass, especially for a woman her age. I also noticed the lump in my pants that hovered above those twin, quivering humps. I jerked my head away in an attempt to toss the wicked thought and sight from my head.

Mom’s full-bodied, dark brown hair was in disarray, covering most of her face which lay flat on the carpet, turned my way. Her breath rasped through the sprinkling of curly strands pasted to her lips with the sweat by her struggle, breath pulsing with a subtle rhythm that hinted of strange excitement not quite hidden underneath the anger displayed on the flushed face. If she hadn’t been my mother, I would have brushed the hair from her mouth and pressed my lips to hers to taste the mystery of that raw emotion. Instead, I relaxed the tension in my thigh to relieve the pressure on Mom’s back.

“Can I let you go now, or are you still too mad?”

Mom twisted her left shoulder up to look at me but her eyes were closed. The action forced her breast tight against her light sweater, perfectly outlining its form. I wondered why I noticed and questioned myself for continuing to stare as it sagged beneath the sweater and then ballooned to refill it with each short breath. Mom’s eyes remained closed as she spoke.

“Are you done?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Mom didn’t respond further. I continued to watch her heaving breast for a moment but came to my senses when I realized she could open her eyes at any moment and released her wrists from the cuffs. I rose carefully, ready to protect myself from a sudden attack, but Mom remained still on the floor. I scanned her body, taking in her legs, quite exposed because her skirt had been pushed up high on the back of her thighs. They, too, were rosy from effort, tense and muscular, yet gorgeously feminine.

I slunk away to hide in my bedroom. Despite self-recriminations, I masturbated.

Wary of Mom’s anger, I waited for Dad to come home before I went downstairs but the feeling of safety that had enveloped me upon his arrival dissipated as I descended the stairs. I was worried that Mom was aware of my appreciative observation of her tit and that she might have guessed what I had been doing in my room. What if she had told Dad?

I watched Dad closely as I traversed the last few stairs to see if he looked angry. I tried to be quiet and was poised for a hasty retreat but he saw me and called me into the living room. I couldn’t read his mood but dread filled me anyway. I trudged into the living room as if an invisible hand was roughly nudging me along.

“So, how’s the course going?” Dad asked, his face still buried in the newspaper.

Pent-up breath expelled so forcefully from my lungs that Dad looked up in surprise.

“Really good,” I said, swamped with relief but trying to sound enthusiastic.

“Any problems?” Dad asked, looking concerned despite my bravado.

I sat down on the couch next to Dad’s chair and looked across the intervening end table.

“No, I just need to practise more,” I replied, raising my voice in case Mom was listening.

“Oh,” Dad responded and turned back to his paper.

I waited for another question. Dad was in the habit of extending his queries after returning to whatever he had been occupied with prior to initiating an interrogation, or staring into space if he hadn’t been doing anything. However, my expectation wasn’t met. After a moment, possibly aware of my attention, Dad “mmhmmm’ed” and continued reading the paper. Feeling awkward, as I always did in these moments, I got up and went into the kitchen.

Mom’s mood was easily determined. She moved about the kitchen in the tight, controlled movements that were characteristic when she was angry.

“What’s for dinner?” I asked in a tentative voice.

“You can set the table,” she replied.

“Okay,” I responded meekly.

I retrieved three plates and put them on the dining room table, then followed with glasses and cutlery. By the time I was finished, the vegetables were ready so I fetched some serving bowls from the cupboard and held them near the stove, ready to be filled. I was sucking up and Mom knew it but then that was the whole point. Mom filled the bowls without acknowledging my initiative but I knew she would be pleased. Despite her rigid composure, I knew from experience that she would soften.

“Tell your father dinner is ready,” she said, voice still terse.

I carried the bowls to the table and relayed the message to Dad. Returning to the kitchen, I nearly blew it. Mom was bending over, pulling the roasting pan out of the oven. She was having trouble getting hold of it which offered a pregnant moment in which I had time to admire her hanging breasts as they swung to and fro, not to mention her shapely butt.

Mom was wearing a pair of Capri’s that ended just below her knees with a decorative string tied on each side in a little bow. The cotton was thin and, in her current position, molded to each buttock. When Mom abruptly stood up, the material clung to each cheek, sticking so tightly that her behind looked for all the world like a set of half pears begging to be sampled. They jiggled appealingly as Mom held the roasting pan above the open oven door.

I had stopped dead in my tracks and didn’t move but Mom became aware of my presence.

“Hector, don’t just stand there, for goodness sakes. Get the door!”

I jolted forward, turning my head to see if Dad had witnessed the inappropriate ogling of Mom’s behind. Apparently he hadn’t since he was pulling his chair back, getting ready to sit down. I bent down to grab the door and swung it up, acutely aware that my face was only inches behind the bottom I had so intensely admired just seconds before. I dared to quietly inhale through my nostrils.

“Quickly, Hector!”

I pushed the door shut and stood back, glancing at the roast, but my eyes quickly dropped to fix upon the tastier treat below.

“Bring the platter over here,” Mom barked, nodding at the far counter.

I grabbed it and held it near the pan while Mom used two large forks to pull the roast up and out, then set it down, her breasts scraping across my arm. I inhaled again, this time loudly, as if appreciating the smell of a perfectly cooked roast but in reality I was enjoying the scent of Mom’s perfume.

“That smells awesome, Mom.”

“Mmhmmm. Take it to the table while I make the gravy.”

I did as she said and returned to get a carving knife for Dad. I stopped in the doorway again to watch the gentle motions of Mom’s body as she stirred the gravy. She turned to look at me.

“Here, you can do this.”

I took over and stirred the gravy while Mom filled a bowl with roasted potatoes.

“Take this to the table,” she instructed, relieving me of the wooden spoon, “and then come back.” Her voice held less anger. I think she enjoyed bossing me around.

When I returned, Mom had set a gravy boat on the stove. She told me to hold it while she emptied the pan. I managed to get my arm in position for couple more scrapes.

Supper was delicious and I probably expressed that opinion too many times but Mom didn’t seem to mind. I think she enjoyed me sucking up as much as she liked telling me what to do.

After dinner, I was told to clean up while Mom joined Dad in the living room for a glass of sherry. I was almost finished when she entered the kitchen.

“I completely forgot about dessert.”

Mom dragged a large crystal serving bowl containing the apple crumble out from the back of the counter and removed the tea towel that covered it. She arranged three black bowls on the counter and dished out a generous amount to each one as I slowly dried the roasting pan. Mom moved deliberately, transferring only a small amount of dessert each time. She seemed to be aware that I was watching and I sensed she was pleased by the attention. Time moved slowly and I had the strangest feeling that Mom and I were momentarily in a world of our own.

Mom got some French vanilla ice cream from the fridge and began scooping small amounts of ice cream into each bowl. Despite the glacial movement of her arms, her hips swayed with each dollop of ice cream. When she was finished, Mom closed the container and licked several droplets of melted ice cream that had strayed onto her fingers.

She floated toward the fridge. I put the roasting pan on the stove and neatly hung the dish towel over handle for the oven door. Mom opened the freezer half of the fridge and put the ice cream away and I moved to the fridge and stopped behind her just as she shut the door. I was as surprised as she was when the handcuff closed over her left wrist, having removed the cuffs from the belt pouch behind my back without being aware I was doing it.

It was too late to undo what I’d done. I expected a violent reaction or, at the very least, an angry retort, but Mom simply leaned toward the fridge, silent. I pulled her left arm behind her and then captured her right. Bringing her hands together, I closed the cuff around the right and pressed Mom against the fridge, forcing her to sag onto the door.

“Don’t resist,” I said, using the command voice I had been taught despite her complete acquiescence.

I held the chain linking the cuffs and knelt down behind Mom. Tentative in mind but firm in motion, I patted her bare legs as if checking for hidden objects. The action became somewhat less absurd when I reached her knees but only marginally so, given the thinness of the cotton Capri’s. I stood but kept my hand on the outside of Mom’s right thigh.

“Stop resisting,” I said.

I spoke for effect only, Mom hadn’t moved or even acknowledged her restraint let alone offered any sign of resistance. My hand climbed up Mom’s outer thigh to her hip and dipped into her waist, then moved across her back to the other side where I flipped my hand around. Slowly, I slid my palm down the outside of Mom’s left thigh to her knee. Instead of kneeling so I could continue down to her feet, I brushed my hand past the back of her knee and slipped it between her legs where I paused to gauge her reaction.

Nothing.

Slowly, much more slowly, I scraped my palm along the inside of her thigh. I chickened out and stopped when the edge of my thumb was about to encounter the joining of her legs. Twisting my hand around again, I slid it down the inside of Mom’s right thigh just as slowly as I had risen up the left. Reaching her knee, I turned my hand part way and brushed it up the back of her thigh, and paused near the top.

“Don’t move,” I hissed.

I slid my hand up onto her buttock and stopped. Mom released a sigh so long I suspected she had been holding her breath. I brushed my cupped palm across to her other buttock, trailing my fingers behind but pressing inward to assess the curve of her left cheek. I wanted to grip it hard but was afraid to step further out of line. Instead, I returned to the right cheek and lightly cupped my hand over its delicious shape.

Now feeling too close to the edge, I left Mom’s behind and pulled my hand higher, over her cuffed hands, and brushed the back of my fingers up her spine. Twisting my hand around, I found her bra strap, fitted my fingertips underneath, and ran them across her back. Pulling her arms to one side, I rubbed down the inside of her waist, pushing my fingers far enough forward to allow the briefest scrape along the outer swell of her breast, then repeated this check on the other side. I wanted reach around to search underneath the sag of her tits but was again afraid of going too far. I leaned back. Mom looked flushed and her hair, despite the fact that I hadn’t touched it, was in disarray.

“Okay, Ma’am. I hope you understand this was necessary for the security of the nation.”

I released Mom’s hands from the cuffs. She remained still, slumped against the fridge, forehead pressed to the door and eyes hidden behind her tousled hair.

“If you’d like to register a complaint...”

Mom shook her head, the only sign she made that she was even aware of my presence. I stepped back and put the cuffs away. Mom pushed herself away from the fridge and stepped sideways to the dessert bowls, smoothing her hair as she moved. She picked up a bowl, walked across the kitchen to the cutlery drawer, and picked up a spoon. She spoke without looking at me, once again using her command voice.

“Bring your father’s in for him when you come.”

Mom walked deliberately into the living room, unhurried and apparently unfazed.

I almost wore my cock out that night.

As usual, I joined Mom and Dad for breakfast the next morning. Mom was wearing the same kind of outfit as she had the day before, just a different color of pants with another white blouse, except this one was thinner or maybe her bra was a darker color. Anyway, I could see the vague outline of her breasts beneath the blouse better than the day before. They seemed to hang lower and appeared to be less constrained. Yes, the bra had definitely matched the white of her blouse before but this one didn’t.

Dad glanced up. “I thought you didn’t go to school on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” he remarked.

I looked down at myself, realizing only then that I had put on my trainee uniform.

“Oh,” I said, trying to cover up my surprise. “Yeah, well, uh, I’m meeting a friend to practise some of our techniques.”

Mom didn’t look or comment. Satisfied with my answer, Dad returned to his newspaper. I tried with little success not to pay attention to Mom but it was impossible. While eating my eggs and toast, I couldn’t keep my eyes off her pants, calves, ankles and the painted toes sticking out her sandals. When she sat down, my gaze strayed repeatedly to her chest and the outline of her bra which, I now noted, was black. This one let her breasts hang lower and allowed more freedom of movement, an observation confirmed each time she changed pages on her section of the newspaper.

Her and Dad’s rapt attention to the news allowed me free reign to gawk at her imprisoned tits. I was sporting a huge erection and it didn’t help that several times, when Mom shifted her legs under the table, her foot brushed against me. Such a simple, accidental touch but one that had an electric effect. I almost forgot this woman was my mother, I wanted to touch her so badly.

Dad dawdled over breakfast. Go, go! my mind screamed, so I can put Mom up against the fridge. But he didn’t. I could have killed him when he asked Mom for her section of the paper. The Arts section, for Christ’s sake. When had he ever read that?

Finally, he finished. Even then, it took him almost another fifteen minutes to get out of the house. Mom went to the door to give him a kiss goodbye, as was her habit. I stood up and waited for her to come, and she did, as soon as she closed the door behind Dad.

“You can clean up those dishes,” she snapped as she passed through the doorway into the kitchen.

Sitting down in Dad’s spot, Mom picked up the main section of the paper and lifted her cup to her lips. I stared in shock as she sipped her coffee but Mom totally ignored me.

Okay, fine. I’ll do the fucking dishes!.

I gathered all the dishes, rinsed them, struggling not to bang them around, and put the food away. I’ll even go one farther, I thought. I washed the dishes and rinsed out the sink.

“Dry them,” Mom barked, “and pour me some more coffee.”

That really ticked me off, more by the tone than the command, but I poured her coffee anyway, motivated by the black bra beneath her blouse.

The hell with it. I thought, openly staring. Dad’s not here to catch me.

Mom didn’t even look up. I dried the dishes and put them all away, in their proper place instead of just stashing them wherever as I usually did. I didn’t want Mom to have any excuse to get mad at me. I hung the dish towel neatly on the oven door handle and turned to face Mom.

“You can do your own laundry from now on. Get started.”

I stared at her.

Really?

I expected Mom to relent under pressure from my penetrating thought and put-upon stare but she studiously ignored me and concentrated on the newspaper which she could have read ten times over by now, her foot blithely tapping the air.

Fine! I’ll do the fucking laundry.

I managed not to stomp up the stairs, gathered my dirty clothes and took them downstairs. About to ask Mom how to operate the washing machine, I changed my mind. She was still tapping the air with her foot and seemed all business except that the heel had fallen off her foot and was flapping from her toes with each bounce of her leg. It was strangely sexy but from Mom’s composure it evidently wasn’t intentional. I walked quietly past her and made my way to the laundry room.

I washed my clothes. I actually did know how to operate the washing machine. I waited until the washer was finished, figuring Mom would ignore me until it was done anyway. After stuffing the clothes into the dryer, I went upstairs.

Mom was still reading the newspaper, for God’s sake, and her foot was casually tapping the air although the shoe had fallen completely off but something about her seemed different. I approached cautiously and stopped ten feet away, unsure about disturbing her, and tried to determine what had changed while I was doing the laundry.

There, I had it! Mom had brushed her hair and put on some make-up. It wasn’t just lipstick but, lacking sufficient knowledge, I couldn’t tell what else. However, her face had definitely experienced some kind of treatment during my absence. I felt a twinge in my pants and moved toward her, my confidence returning.

“When your clothes are finished drying, take them up to your room. Put your socks and underwear away and bring the rest down here to iron.”

What the fuck? Did she expect me to do my own ironing too?

I was unable to hide my disappointment and, to make matters worse, I’m pretty sure I noticed Mom smile. Well, if not a smile, at least the corners of her mouth turned up. I stomped once on the way back to the laundry room but was careful to use more measured steps when I returned with the dry clothes. Mom looked fabulous and was still reading the newspaper. It was weird but the strangeness of it all made me even hornier. I couldn’t wait to get her up against the fridge. I was sure this was all about paying my dues, at least, I hoped it was.