Chapter 2

“Mow the lawn,” Mom commanded.

Really? I had done the dishes and there wasn’t enough laundry to do it again, but the lawn? I had mowed it just two days ago, but Mom insisted, so I did it. When I finished and came into the kitchen, she was making sandwiches and a fruit salad for lunch even though it was only ten thirty. I waited for further instructions but none came. Feeling it was too soon and that I hadn’t performed sufficient penance to be rewarded, I went upstairs and changed into my uniform.

Mom was waiting for me when I returned, leaning against the sink. She was wearing a different blouse, a pale yellow one, and I’m sure the bra underneath was different but it was still black. Beneath it, Mom wore a plain black skirt, not too tight but not really loose either. It was almost knee length. The blouse was tucked securely into the skirt; no bare midriff today.

Mom looked at my uniform and glanced at the baton hanging from my belt.

“I think you’ve had enough practise, Hector.”

I didn’t like her tone. “You can never get too much practise,” I mimicked the tone she used on me when she made me take piano lessons when I was younger.

Mom smiled, obviously getting my joke. I was standing in front of her. Despite the fact that I was facing Mom and we were looking at each other, unlike previous times, I took the waist chain out of my pocket and curled it around her waist. Mom didn’t try to block me.

“I’m serious,” she said. “You’ve had enough practise, at least on me.”

I clinched the chain—the cuffs were already perfectly placed at Mom’s hips—grasped her left hand and brought it up to the cuff. Mom resisted.

“No, Hector. I don’t want to do this.”

I closed the cuff.

“Don’t be silly,” I said, reaching for Mom’s right hand.

“I’m not being silly,” Mom protested as she tried, but not too hard, to tug her wrist loose.

I closed the cuff over her right wrist.

“Suspects don’t get to choose whether or not they’re restrained,” I said.

“Suspect? I’m not a suspect.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Suspect for what?”

“Terrorism.”

“Terrorism? I’m not a terrorist.”

“You fit the profile.”

Mom laughed, a harsh laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

I didn’t reply. Instead, I pulled the black headband out of my pocket, a remnant from my martial arts classes, spun Mom around and wrapped it around Mom’s head before she could move, and then tied it.

Prodding her back before she could react, I barked, “Move.”

Mom stumbled forward a couple of steps. I prodded her again. “Keep moving.”

I steered Mom to the doorway and into the living room, prodding her every second step. I positioned her in the middle of the room and then left, making enough noise that she could easily hear me going upstairs. Five minutes later, I returned and dumped my supplies on the floor. Mom had worked her way back to the couch and sat down. I pulled her up and placed her back in the middle of the room.

“Stand here,” I barked.

I pulled the drapes closed and returned to my pile of supplies, noisily sorting through them. Mom’s head turned slightly. She was listening to every sound. Good.

I went into the kitchen and got one of the fruit bowls Mom had made for lunch. Mom had put it in the fridge and I made a point of slamming the door shut. Returning to the living room, I checked Mom’s cuffs and the placement of the waist chain, though I knew they were fine.

“Remove your shoes.”

“What?”

“Don’t talk. The suspect will remain silent and obey the officer’s commands.”

Mom kicked off one of her black pumps, and then the other with a little more difficulty, almost stumbling in the process.

“Down on your knees.”

“Heck, I’m wearing a skirt. I can’t...”

“Silence!” I bellowed.

Mom was clearly shocked. Confused, she dropped onto one knee and then the other. I walked over and stood above her. Grasping her chin in my left hand, I turned her face upward.

“Good,” I said, and slipped a slice of orange into her mouth.

Mom was startled and almost spit it out but recovered and swallowed it. A sheen of juice shimmered on her chin.

“Let’s not have any more unnecessary noise.”

I went to my pile of stuff and returned with a length of rope. Kneeling behind Mom, I started wrapping the soft rope around her left elbow. Mom opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it, and clamped her lips tight. I pulled the rope through to her other arm for a couple of wraps bringing her arms close together behind her back. It couldn’t have been comfortable but I made sure she didn’t exhibit any sign of pain. She grimaced, but only briefly.

I surveyed my handiwork from the front. Mom’s breasts had been forced forward, thrusting out and upward. At least one button had popped loose so Mom was showing as much cleavage as she had on Tuesday, though I knew she hadn’t loosened any buttons today.

Satisfied, I got behind Mom and wrapped another piece of rope around Mom’s ankles. When they were secure, I tugged them up, enough to make staying on her knees uncomfortable but not too difficult. I tied the rope off to the line that kept her elbows together. If I pushed Mom over and tightened that line, she would be hog-tied.

Surveying her from the front again, I was pleased that the upward pressure on her legs made Mom’s stomach taut and forced her breasts even harder into her blouse. I turned the TV on and selected the nostalgia channel. “Streets of San Francisco”. Nothing too exciting.

I walked away and left Mom kneeling in the middle of the room. She didn’t know it but I stopped on the stairs and sat there to watch her. I watched until the show was over and another one started. “Kojak.” Mom occasionally struggled to stay upright but she didn’t whimper once. I returned to the living room.

“Is the prisoner hungry?”

To her credit, Mom simply nodded. I slipped a slice of orange into her mouth and then a slice of apple. Before she finished it, I pushed another into her mouth. When she exhibited difficulty swallowing, I put my hand on her throat and stroked it.

“Is that difficult?”

Mom nodded.

I put another slice of apple into her mouth and massaged her throat as she chewed. When she swallowed, I slid my hand downward, onto her chest, as if following the apple down.

“Does that help?”

Mom nodded. I pushed my fingers, bunched together, down to her solar plexus, my index and baby fingers scraping along the inner swells of alternate breasts until my fingertips collided with the bra stretched between them.

“Oh, this could be a problem,” I said, but retrieved my fingers without explaining why.

I fed Mom a couple more slices of orange and then sat on the couch behind her. When “Kojak” was half over, I tested the ropes for the first time, making sure to run my fingers along the inside of Mom’s upper arms and the entire length of her legs, up to and just under, the hem of her skirt. During the remainder of the show, I checked the ropes three more times.

Mom had now been restrained, on her knees, for two hours. I pushed her gently forward until she was lying on her stomach. “Father Knows Best” came on. I checked the ropes twice more, turning Mom a little onto her side in the process, and managed to raise her skirt a couple of inches as I twisted her over.

When the “Andy Griffith Show” came on, I used the baton to prod Mom’s arms, legs and sides, ‘accidentally’ pressing against the soft tissue of her breasts. Checking the ropes near the end of the show, I laid the baton on the rug, between Mom’s knees and against the inside of her right leg so she was aware of its presence. The next time I checked the ropes, during the commercial break, I “bumped” the baton, pushing it underneath Mom’s skirt. It landed high between her thighs but not far enough to strike gold. We were now almost three hours into Mom’s preparation. I noted by her flinching right thigh that she was very aware of the baton’s presence, a signal that we were ready to move on.

“Lassie” started.

“Let’s get you something more to eat,” I said, crouching over Mom.

I pulled the tails of the blindfold back, lifting Mom’s head and used a short length of string to tie it back to the rope binding her elbows. Retrieving the bowl of fruit, I fed her slices of orange and apple. After each one, I stroked and massaged her throat, reaching down and around to her solar plexus, and managing to scrape my hand over the front of her breast each time. I don’t know if they were but I imagined her nipples were stiffening under the bra and the picture wrought the same effect on my own equipment.

During the ‘meal’ I kicked the baton forward until it pressed into the crux of Mom’s legs. I ‘accidently’ rolled it about with my knee as I held her head back so I could push fruit into her mouth. It hurt my knee, but it was worth it to hear the barely audible sigh when I rolled the baton the right way.

After a while, I pulled Mom up onto her knees. Her feet were tied too high up toward her arms for her to stay up on her own so I leaned her back against me. Mom didn’t protest when I wrapped more rope around her torso and over her shoulders, not even when I pulled the rope too tight, ‘accidentally’ pinching her blouse and popping another button completely off. A couple more ‘accidents’ left the blouse open almost to Mom’s waist, baring the lacy, black bra which made of material thin enough that her stiff nipples were readily apparent. I wrapped the rope all around Mom’s tits until they were forced through a mat of encircling hemp.

I lowered Mom back to the carpet, slackened the string restraining the blindfold so she could comfortably rest her head on the rug, and replaced the baton between her thighs. Mom exhibited no surprise when I pushed it up a few more inches and positioned it beneath her pussy. We were beyond pretending.

I left the room so Mom could enjoy the baton by herself and noisily washed the bowl that had held the fruit so she would know she was alone. I went upstairs and took my uniform off. When I returned to Mom, I was wearing only my underwear, my cock ensconced within a rubber. I knew I wouldn’t be able to last without coming and I didn’t want to make a mess. I had meant to pull my pants back up but at the last minute took them off. Mom wouldn’t know. She was blindfolded and I was certain she wouldn’t remove it. I took my shirt off too.

Mom was humping the baton and didn’t abate even when she became aware of my approach. She was also squiggling her chest on the carpet which I found strange until I realized she was scraping her tits across its fibers. Mom must have sensitive nipples.

I grasped the baton and lifted the handle up, applying greater pressure of the tip against Mom’s pussy. I twisted it around and began rubbing it back and forth. Immediately, Mom’s thighs tried to clutch it tight but I kept it moving. Her moan startled me. I guess she had been horny for hours now and was more than ready to come.

I pulled the baton away. Mom groaned. I pushed it in and Mom humped at it but I pulled it away before she could trap it between her thighs. A minute later, I pushed it back in and let her roll around on it. While she was occupied, I tugged her skirt up onto her ass. For the first time, I could see the back of Mom’s pantied mound working on the white rubber tip. The back of her panties, damp from the sweat of her exertions, were buried in the crack of her ass and the lower part covering her pussy was absolutely soaked. I grabbed the baton and pulled it away, prompting more groaning, louder this time.

For the next half hour, all through “Dennis the Menace”, I teased Mom mercilessly. In the commercial break before “Leave It To Beaver” I re-tied the blindfold so Mom’s head was raised. Inserting the blunt, white cap back under the front of Mom’s panties just as the show started brought a long, desperately pleased groan. As Mom humped her way to glory, instinctively knowing that I wouldn’t interfere, not with “Leave It To Beaver” on, I slipped a couple of fingers into her mouth. While Mom sucked them, I patted and stroked her fantastic ass.

I waited until the last commercial break of the show before sliding my fingers under Mom’s bum and onto the panties that were now so wet they were almost one with her throbbing labia. I had thought she would be too far gone to notice my touch but Mom’s breath came harsh and fast as soon as my fingers brushed onto her panties. I wanted to slip them underneath to touch her bare pussy but chickened out, thinking such direct contact would be a mistake.

One step at a time.

I allowed myself the thrill of pressing against her puffiness, forcing it harder onto the baton. My timing was awkward at first but soon I was applying pressure perfectly in concert with her short, humping movements. As Mom got closer, her movements became more erratic and her pussy sometimes jerked away from my probing fingers, but only briefly. She seemed to love the reconnection so much that I started drawing my fingers back as she strained for reunion, teasing her with just a pat before she just had to find the baton again. Thrusting onto the baton and then back for a quick pat, then two, quickly in a row. Soon, Mom was grinding on the baton, never leaving it. She was near, very near.