Copyright© 2002-2003

The Sultan was peeved with his harem,
And cooked up a scheme for to scare'em.
He caught a big mouse
Which he loosed in the house.
(Such confusion is called harem-scarem).

"I suppose you had all sorts of fun together?" One of her eyebrows was raised and she wore a half smile, the sexual implications obvious.

"Mom!" Yes I was a little shocked. My mother never spoke about my personal life with my long-time live-in girlfriend, never hinting at our sexual intimacies together. It was a little disconcerting.

As I do frequently in any given month, mom had called me to come over to help with some 'man stuff' - as she liked to call it. This time it was to move the Christmas boxes back down to the storage in the basement of her building. After the chore was complete, she asked me to stay and 'talk' - which was not normal between us. My initial guess was that she was feeling lonely.

"Well did Carol at least have fun?" That naughty look had not disappeared yet and I was starting to feel nervous beneath its gaze.

Mother had offered to brew up some tea but after sitting next to me on the couch, the tea seemed to have been forgotten. The questions, at first, were about my car, her work and my work. The awkward tension still thick between us. Then mother asked about my girlfriend, Carol, and my vacation two weeks before Christmas - her eyes taking on a twinkle.

"Mom... that is none of your business!" My embarrassment was turning into a smoldering anger and I was wishing I could escape from this conversation, from this couch and even from my parent's apartment.

A short silence followed while mothers smirk slowly melted - I was not going to play any sort of verbal game with her. It was wrong, for one, and just plain weird for another.

Her small hand came out and gently gasped my arm, just above the elbow - and in a stupid reaction I pulled away. Her hand jerked forward again till it touched my rib cage above my sweater. In retrospect she was simply apologizing for the suggestive comments, so uncharacteristic of her, that I was totally innocent.

But of course, I am very ticklish and jerked away from her with a bark of uncontrollable laughter.

A wide mischievous grin spread upon her lips and she dove toward me with both hands shaped like claws. "Mom!" My protest fell on deaf ears as she began to earnestly tickle my upper torso and beneath my arm pits. It lasted less than a minute, but if your ticklish, then you know that that can be a very long minute!

This tickle attack was just like I was seven year old again and mother attacking me with her evil intent. It was all in malicious fun, of course, but when your enduring such an attack, you don't consider the lighthearted reasoning behind the aggressive act.

I finally grasped both her small wrists in my own and caught my breath. She was grinning playfully, that mischievous twinkle not yet extinguished from her eyes. I knew if I let her hands go, I would be attacked yet again.

I'll blame it on the earlier anger and then the defencive frustration of being tickled that caused my sudden movement when she was able to move her hands inside my arms and tickle the inside of my elbows. Also a ticklish spot! To stop another round of tickling, I yanked her forward rather roughly.

Mother was a small woman, much shorter than I and much lighter. So when I inadvertently yanked her, she practically flew from her seat and fell onto my lap. "Oh... your in trouble now honey... !" I could hear the threat in her tone - her evil ticklish intentions had not yet extinguished.

I still had one of mother's wrists in hand and held her firmly in place - determined not to be tickled any further. I am no longer a seven year old boy for gods sake!

There before me was her denim covered bottom, her sweater having being thrown up to her waist in the initial landing upon my lap. With barely a thought I brought up my free hand and watched it descend almost as if it was in slow motion so that it landed loudly upon mothers round soft bottom.

Suddenly all is quiet in the room. Mother is no longer struggling and I continue to stare dumbly at the bottom before me as my hand again hit it with a resounding smack. Gone was the threat of being tickled by an irritating parent leaving my anger smoldering.

I'm not a huge guy but I am much larger than my mother and I am quite strong, my hands being rough and large from years of camping and fishing let alone from working in the mills. Her ass though, each cheek was wider than the breadth of my hand, so that with each strike resounded with a loud violent splat upon her body. I struck either one or the other cheek at a time.

How many I gave her I have no idea.

Yet I became conscious that after the first several minutes she was jerking violently with each strike of her person and that my hand was starting to numb.

When I finally stopped, staring dumbly at my mothers abused bottom - realizing, thankfully, that the denim hid any abusive evidence. I could hear both mothers and my own heavy breathing.

Minutes passed and nothing moved and no sound was made in her well kept living room. The enormity of what I had just done hit me - and I tried to put meaning into it; that this was the moment that mother will finally understand that I'm not her little boy any more, but a man. My striking of her ass was not within the same boundaries of her playful tickles - I had lost my patience and my anger had exploded into action. Now, though, I was left with a confused mess of emotions and a rapidly burning palm.

Mother slowly, as if each movement was an effort, rolled off my lap so that she knelt upon the floor. Her face was turned away from me and I could feel the awkwardness of the moment.

What I had just done must have hurt her terribly - I had put my anger, humiliation and frustration into each strike. She had been an innocent to receive such a punishment - the first time I had ever struck a woman.

Without a word I stood in a smooth motion and then walked from my mothers apartment. I felt her eyes following me until the door shut, cutting off her gaze.

Ultimately it had been months later that I again stepped into my mothers home alone. Oh sure there had been the normal functions that I had always attended - the most reoccurring was the Sunday supper, each and every week. My girlfriend Carol always attended with me those days. Nothing was said between mother and I, nor did I tell anyone else, even my girlfriend. It was just so strange, such a surreal memory that it it could not have been an actual event.

The days and then the weeks following had been awkward - mother not even able to look at me. Carol asked me about it and I told her I had no idea what had gotten into my mother. After mother overcame whatever emotions she endured, there still existed an awkwardness whenever she spoke to me, almost a fear... of something.

Mom then asked me to come over early the next Saturday morning, there was a chore for me that only I could help with.

For the first time since the event that caused me to place her over my knee for a harsh and lengthy spanking, I dared go over without Carol. Whom I may add, was still sleeping when I left for mothers'.

Something was wrong, I saw it in moms eyes after I shut the door behind me, discarding my boots and winter jacket. She stood at the end of her short hallway with her hands on her hips, wearing her pearl coloured two-piece silk pyjama tops and bottoms.

"Whats up mom?" A nervousness crept into my heart.

"Don't you 'mom' me! You forgot to call...", what followed was a five minute dressing down, with the tone of mothers voice getting louder and shriller.

The frustrating thing for me was, what she was blaming me for was something she told me weeks before to not bother with. When I tried to interrupt and explain my side of things she had more ammunition, this time for rudely interrupting her! I barely said two words in those first minutes of my visit!

At one point minutes into the dressing down, I snapped and turned to retrieve my boots and jacket - I was getting out of there. Mother was going nuts or something! Maybe Carol was right and it was a hormonal thing, something about the 'change of life'. Whatever the fuck that was.

Like a little pixie, she rushed frantically forward and snatched my jacket while I was putting on my boots and quickly retreated further into her apartment. Since it was negative thirty outside, not counting the wind chill, there was no way I could leave without my parka.

"Mom! Mom... ?" Now this was a mature way for her to act!

With my boots on, and tied, I strode purposefully into her living room to see her standing there, my jacket beneath her bare feet on her carpeted floor. That is a very expensive jacket! As soon as I saw this she started in, continuing my dressing down where she had left off before she had stolen my jacket.

I could not leave with her standing on my jacket, I could not take much more of this mindless yelling either.

It was not so much a snap as it was a flash of a recent past event - of her laying over my lap as I punished her for treating me so commonly. Nothing had been said that time and the punishment, regardless of how guilty it made me feel, had worked - it had stopped mother treating me like a pre-teen.

She did not fight as I yanked her by her elbow. I dropped down to the couch, mother across my lap. I moved my hand so that it held one of her hands behind her back as if to restrain her - but mother had stopped talking and lay over my knees without any resistance, without a sound.

Not so unlike the last time I watched, as if in slow motion, as my hand rose up and then dropped back down upon the bottom there before me. It was different this time, no thick denim or undergarments - only the thin silky pyjama bottom to cover her fleshy ass. The flesh beneath her covering danced wildly with each strike. I rained half a dozen spankings upon her ass, distantly analyzing the difference in sound and feel of each strike from the last spanking I had given her while mother jerked before me with each hit.

Mother made no resistance up to that point, other than jerk her whole body as my hand struck, when I thought it would be more effective if a spanking would happen upon bare skin. It was a malicious thought rather than an inquisitive or sexual one. And I could not tell you whence it originated. Only that my smoldering anger was still hot with passion and I was not yet done punishing mother for acting so immature.

Yet when my hand grasped the elastic waist band of her pyjama bottoms, mother started to kick and fight me, trying to roll away. She was yelling "No", over and over. Obviously she understood what I was about to do, want I intended and she did not like it very much evidently. Hell - she should have thought of that before screaming at me for ten fucking minutes and then standing on my jacket like a child!

This reaction from her only added to my fury and my restraining hand held her arm bent behind her back firmly holding her waist directly upon my lap even as her bottoms were pulled down to a point mid way to the back of her knees.

What I saw froze me for nearly a full minute - mother also calming down to her earlier quiet stillness, letting me get my visual fill.

I've seen many bare female asses since I was a teenage, and could properly evaluate each one individually, but none like the one before me. For one, it was my mothers - and that adds a certain alien quantity when weighed against any other woman. Then it was also the oldest ass I have ever seen, and if truth be told it could easily compete against some of the sluts I've bedded before finding Carol. Mother was a tiny woman, small of bone and frame - yet she had a flaring waist with a full bottom that thrust out provocatively. It was not overly pronounced - but god help me, I shall never be able to look at her from the back again without seeing her bare ass in my mind.

The white skin was unblemished and very smooth so that it nearly shone in the bright morning light. It already had a hint of redness where I had struck her earlier - looking so out of place that it suddenly felt criminal what I had done to it.

I placed my open palm gently upon the far cheek and still mother did not move - but she let out a long loud sigh as I gave her a single squeeze.

What the hell has gotten into her - with me?

I no longer watched my hand but the white flesh as I began to spank its tender skin. The whole of each cheek flattened violently and a wave of flesh rapidly flowed out from my hand. When I withdrew it, for another strike, the skin was brighter in colour, almost glowing with proof of my anger.

I spanked mothers ass for what felt like forever - her normally white skin a bright red hot mess before me. Gone was my anger and was replaced by something else, something almost animal in its intensity.

She had jerked violently at each strike and had gasped out at the pain, yet the only other response was a harsh deep breathing. When I stopped striking her, that irregular breathing turned to sobs and mother begin to cry, her whole body convulsing with anguish.

Gone was my anger, gone was my frustration, gone even was that alien feeling that drove me to strike mother's bare ass. I had hurt the most important family member in my life and I felt like a lowly piece of shit.

I watched as mother slowly rolled onto the floor and awkwardly stood before yanking up her pyjama bottom with one hand, the front over her crotch as she ran out of the room, bare red ass dancing wildly. I heard the door to her bedroom slam shut and then the muffled sobs behind it.

I sat for a long while, remembering the sight of her ass as I struck it, as she hobbled out of the room comically, tragically.

As silent as I could I retrieved my coat from the floor and made my way out of my mothers apartment. Only when I got into the frigid cold did I feel something on one of my legs. There on one denim thigh was a round damp spot approximately where mothers waist had been.

The memory of that wet spot, which I instinctively knew was not urine, allowed me to overcome my embarrassment much faster than the previous time I had overstepped my boundaries as a child.

If I had thought about it, I would have realized why mother did not fight when finally placed upon my lap. That it was from some strange desire or kink to be spanked! Only after that last encounter, driving home on the dangerous icy roads did I realize that the whole thing had not been an accident. That mother had not worn her silk pyjamas by chance and that the spanking had nothing to do with hormones when her mood changed as quickly as the wind. No, she knew I would be alone and had wanted to be placed over my knee yet again, wanted even to be struck like a naughty child.

Believe it or not, I had never thought of my mother as a woman. The realization that she had some deep seated need to be spanked, especially by her own child, was beyond me in understanding but gave me the knowledge and the power that she could not force me to do it again unless I wished too.