STORY: Paul and Susan Part 2c (F/f, m/F, Semi-Cons, Teen)

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She laughed but she stayed still. She must have thought this was cute.

I quickly went to my bedroom to get my belt. If it worked on me, it might
work on her. That time I had been on Dad's lap and hadn't been afraid, I
hadn't cried either until he started using the belt.

On the other hand, I didn't want her to know what was coming or she might
not cooperate. That's why I had blindfolded her.

When I came back into her room, she was still in position. At least she
wasn't disobeying me. I sat back down in front of her and guided her back
down across my lap.

"What's up?" she asked.

"Just get back in position and you'll find out soon enough." Part of what
I was hoping to do was to keep her guessing and get her worried. "Now remember,
" I said, "any resistance will be severely punished. You know the rules."

"I should, they're my rules," she said with a sense of irony, and returned
her hands to the underside of the pillow.

I put my hand at the small of her back and held her in place just in case.
Then, without making any sound with the buckle, I brought the belt down
as hard as I could across the full of her behind.

"AAAaaah!" she yelped. She was surprised. I continued striking at a little
faster than one per second but not at a full swing. The first one had been
really hard just to get her attention, but I hoped to keep some of my strength
in reserve for later. After two more strokes and two more similar yelps,
we both knew that I had found the answer.

She buried her face in the pillow to muffle her noises. I kept going, using
a trick I had used with Susan the night before. I started on the top of
one cheek and worked down it in half-inch widths from the top to the bottom.
It took about 14 strokes on Mom's nice big bottom. With each one, her yelps
were getting more intense. She was really fighting to keep control.

I then continued down the leg the same way. On the first thigh stroke, she
turned her head to the side and said, "Hey! Those hurt!"

This was magic! It was the same reaction as I had gotten from Susan. "They're
supposed to hurt," I replied with a little sinister laugh in my voice. I
realized that the blindfold was still on. There was no real need for it
at this point, so I untied it and removed it.

I continued down the leg toward her knee. She was really hurting now. The
yelps were turning into screams, still muffled by the pillow. I stopped
as the lower edge of the belt stroked the middle of the back of the knee.

She breathed a sigh of relief but she knew it wasn't over. The other leg
was next. She gripped the pillow really tight, expecting the next stroke.

I looked at her legs. The problem with the belt was that it was hard to
hit the outer leg with out hitting both. That would spread the stroke to
both legs and lessen the impact. I thought of a solution: I picked up her
outer knee (the right one) and raised it to lift her outer leg over the
inner one.

"Keep your right knee straight," I ordered.

She did, but she looked back over her shoulder and asked, "What are you
doing?" She was worried. The last time she didn't know what I was up to,
things had gotten painful.

I moved her now-stiff leg up and put the outer ankle over the inner one,
effectively crossing her legs. This kept the entire length of her right
leg exposed and at the same height.

"Now," I said, with an air of authority, "keep that leg taught and don't
bend the knee." She did. She put her face back into the pillow and held
on for dear life.

I resumed the procedure on the outer leg at the top of the hip and kept
the same tempo and same pattern. These probably hurt a little more since
she was flexing the entire leg the whole time.

As I worked down the bottom toward the leg, her yelps started to merge into
one another. "Success!" I thought to myself. She was crying and I still
had the entire leg to go.

I started in on the thigh and increased the power of the strokes a little
more. I also moved a little less with each stroke. The result was harder
strokes, and more strokes on a straight, taught leg.

She could feel the difference. She let go and started a rhythmic, sobbing
cry.

She was now being punished. Her crying was sad. She didn't know how much
longer this was going to last and didn't know how much more painful it would
get. She was scared.

I continued down her thigh slowly, making the strokes harder and closer
spaced as I went. At about mid-thigh, her calf muscles started to twitch.
I warned her against bending her knee and she straightened her leg as best
she could.

Her crying got more intense the harder I spanked. After a few more strokes,
she was wailing uncontrollably. She was having trouble holding still but
she desperately tried not to lower her leg.

As I reached the knee I kept going a little farther than before and spanked
a couple of times at the back of the calf. Then I stopped.

I removed her outer leg from the inner one and put them back side-by-side.
She cried hard and said, between sobs, "I'm so sorry, Paul, I really am."

She started to move up on her elbows, preparing to get up. I applied pressure
with my left hand in the middle of her back to indicate that we weren't
finished yet. She screamed, "No! You can't!"

Just as I had suspected: she still had the notion that she was in control.
We weren't going to be finished until she learned otherwise. I immediately
started some medium hand spanks on the center of her bottom just to make
it clear that the spanking wasn't over.

She stayed on her elbows and yelled, "This isn't fair! I wasn't this bad!"

I picked up the belt, threatened her with it and said, "What would have
happened to me if I had tried to decide when a spanking was over?"

She dropped her head in silent recognition that she would have been much
harder on me, had I been that disobedient.

I told her, "Lie back down now or we'll start talking about severe consequences".
She got off of her elbows, lay back down and hugged the pillow to her chest.
She was pretty smart. If she had put her hands back to protect herself or
if she had resisted, I would have administered "severe consequences" and
then continued with the belt.

As it was, I put down the belt and picked up the hairbrush, rather than
continue with the hand spanking. This time, I delivered a more traditional
spanking that circled the bottom and elicited some more shrieks. After ten
strokes with the hairbrush, she was back to a continuous cry and I switched
to using my hand.

This wasn't strategic. I just wanted to spend some time feeling her as I
spanked. We had finally arrived at a traditional "proper" spanking: bare
hand, bare bottom and crying. She was now afraid of me and of what I could
do to her when necessary.

I continued for a couple of minutes with medium hard strokes. She kept crying,
but it was more of a sobbing than anything else. These spanks weren't that
hard on her body but they were reaching her soul. She was being forced to
submit to a spanking and she was not in control.

All that remained, at this point, was to establish who was in charge and
who would decide when the spanking was over. She was right. Her original
behavior had not earned the punishment she had just received. It was the
fact that she hadn't taken the original spanking seriously that had earned
her the more severe spanking.

After two more minutes, I began to ease off. I moved her pajama top up and
started rubbing her back with my left hand as I continued to spank with
the right. My spanks became slightly less intense with each stroke. Eventually
I began rubbing her bottom and her legs rather than hitting them. She relaxed
but she didn't dare assume it was over.

She was still in the whimpering stage. It's that time after the spanking
has ended when your body still has some crying left to do. She turned her
head back to me and said, "That's really n-nice, Paul. I don't remember
ever ta-tapering off a spanking like-like that. (Deep breath,) Now that
I think of it, I don't think anyone has ever d-done that to me before either."

I smiled and said, "How do you feel?" as I continued the gentle stroking.

She turned her head forward, rested her chin on her crossed arms and thought
for a moment. "Right n-now," she said between sniffles, "I feel truly loved
and c-cared for." She looked back at me and continued, "and I feel like
I have the mo-most wonder s-son a mother c-could have." There were some
new tears now but they were happy tears.

She laid her head on the pillow and purred. She still had little sobs now
and then and her breathing was rough. After a couple minutes, she tried
to breath through her nose and couldn't. "Paul, do you mind if I lean up
and take my top off," she asked.

Then, realizing what she had said, she put her face in her hands and laughed.
She said, "Hmm... Would a fourteen-year-old young man want to see a partially
dressed, sniveling woman take the rest of her clothes off?" We both smiled
at that since we both knew the answer.

"What I mean is," she continued, "may I have your permission to lean up
and take it off? You wouldn't mind if I got naked in front of you but you
might mind if I tried to get up before the spanking was over."

I feigned seriousness and said thoughtfully, "Oh, I think that would be
alright..." I nudged her a little to lift her left shoulder but kept my
right hand on her left thigh. She took the hint and shifted onto her right
side. She moved to un-button her pajama blouse but I stopped her and said,
"Let me..."

She looked at me and smiled appreciatively, then moved her hands to her
sides. I slowly unbuttoned her from the top with my left hand, all the while
stroking and squeezing the outer part of her upper thigh.

After three buttons, her breasts came into view. At the last button, I tossed
the shirt tails open and admired her.

"Oh, Paul," she said as she blushed, "you really know how to make an old
woman feel pretty." I helped her off with the top by pulling the sleeve
off her outer arm. Once that was free, she was able to slip it off of her
other arm.

The whole process made her tits bounce and move all over the place. They
weren't firm and pointed like Susan's but they were bigger and demanded
the attention that my eyes were giving them.

Mom stayed on her side and looked at me for a moment, watching me watch
her. Then something wet plopped on her boob right near the nipple. She looked
down and I realized that she really needed to blow her nose.

She sat up (I let her) and blew her nose into her pajama shirt. She sniffled
and did it again, moving to another part of the shirt. She was sitting on
my lap sideways and facing to my right. I put my left arm across her upper
back and pulled her into me. She laid her head on my shoulder and I slid
my hand down her side. It was a combination of hug and free feel.

She looked up at me with a goofy grin like a little kid feeling silly for
crying. She put her head back on my shoulder and I took the shirt from her.
I used it to wipe the tears and snot off of her chest. When it didn't work
to well, I used my hand, letting it linger and caress and cup her soft breasts.

She looked up at me again. "In case you're wondering," talking like someone
with a stuffy nose, "I always take my shirt off to blow my nose after a
spanking." She giggled. "I started it years ago to get John, uh ... your
father, excited." She was embarrassed but wanted to share her thoughts and
feelings. I held her tighter but somewhat less sexually.

"He would see my bare chest and his thoughts would turn to lust rather than
punishment. Even today, he usually pushes me back almost immediately and
fucks me."

I shivered slightly. Hearing my mother talk about getting fucked, and using
the word "fuck" was disconcerting.

She looked up at me to see what was wrong and saw my expression. She laughed
and said, "Yes, Paul, your mother gets laid on a regular basis and she always
gets sex after a spanking." She caressed my cheek and kissed me on the lips.

A million thoughts passed through my head in an instant. Calming them, she
said, "But not today." I was relieved but disappointed. I wanted to have
Susan be my first and I really did not want to have to measure up to my
mother's standards of a good lover. On the other hand, I was holding a nice
looking naked woman and she had just dashed my hopes of getting inside her.

I think she saw all of that pass across my face. "It's alright, Paul. You
don't have to make that decision. Your father is the only man who has ever
had me and he is the only one who ever will... But thank you for at least
thinking about it," she said as she put her head back on my shoulder.

After a few moments of hugging and back rubbing, she looked up at me, "Paul,
I love you. We can share moments like this whenever one of us needs to
be loved. I'm a child of the '60s and I have no hang-ups about nudity, sex,
love or passion. My choice of only fucking your father isn't because of
the 'sanctity of marriage'. It's because that feeling belongs to the two
of us. We're like little kids who don't want to share our toys."

"On the other hand," she continued while caressing my chest through the
soft cotton of my pajamas, "you have nice strong protective arms and I like
the way you hold me. There's no reason to feel guilty about enjoying the
way this feels."

I remembered my parents telling Susan and me from the time we were toddlers
that sex and love were something that each of us could share, or not share,
as we wanted to. It was nice to know that she really meant it.

All of this talk, however, raised an old question in my mind. It was a question
that had to be asked, now that she had said the bit about Dad being the
only man who had ever had her. I slid her off of my lap and onto the bed.
Then I turned and faced her. I reached up and caressed her face with all
the tenderness I could muster. She wrinkled her nose and looked at my hand
for a moment but looked right back at me and said, "OK, out with it."

I wondered if I was that easy to read or if she was just that good at reading
me. I looked down, not able to face her, saw her pussy and decided that
I couldn't look at that either at the moment. In fact, with all of the delectable
feminine charms before me, there was no safe place for my eyes. Her face
it was, then.

"Mom..." I started, taking a deep breath and then stalling.

She took my face in her hands, looked into my eyes, as if to read my thoughts
directly. A look of apprehension started to form on her brow and she said,
"Go ahead and ask."

That gave me the courage. She already knew what I was going to say. One
more deep breath and I said, "Mom, you're a natural blond."

She smiled weakly and said, "Well that's pretty obvious now that you've
seen all there is to see."

I was trying to be serious and she wasn't making this any easier. She knew
where this was leading and probably wanted to distract me away from it.
I continued, "Dad has medium brown hair. Susan and I have really dark brown
hair. Looking at you and Susan, you're obviously shaped the same."

Mom smiled broadly, "Why thank you!" It was another ploy to distract me
and get me to change the subject.

I finally just asked, "How can you say that you've never had any other men,
when it's obvious that Dad isn't our father?"

Her smile disappeared instantly, replaced with a look of pain, regret and
surprise. Apparently she hadn't expected me to be so blunt. She swallowed
hard and looked back at me. She put her hand on my lips to silence me, took
me in her arms and held me as tightly as she ever had.

In my ear, she whispered, "Just one last time, Paul. Hug me one last time."
I did. I held her for all I was worth.

I rubbed her back with both hands and whispered, "It's OK, Mom. I'll still
love you."

She sniffled and said, "You don't know, Paul, and I want one last hug before
I tell you."

We held that hug for several long minutes. If my mother wanted comforting
before telling me her "big secret" that was fine by me.

I held her and rocked her and shared every ounce of love that I had. She
felt wonderful, but most of all, she felt like my Mom. I didn't care about
an affair she might have had or even if Dad wasn't her first husband. I
didn't care if my "real" father was a cab driver or a prince. All I knew
was that I loved her and nothing she said was going to change that.

Finally, she let go and took my hands in hers. She looked down at them,
unable to face me. "Paul," she said and took a really deep breath, "I'm
not your 'real' mother."

To be continued...

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