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a-----2.sex.stories.peperonity.net

Tied Mom

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.

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"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 didn't 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.

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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 ...
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