Our home is ruled by a matriarch, me. I run everything. My word is law, and I answer to no one. I cheat on my husband when the urge strikes me or an opportunity presents itself. I could care less if my husband knows, and he knows. My kids know, too. I am also a compulsive masturbator, and nobody bothers me if I get behind a closed door. I do not lock interior doors, and no kid may even shut one.
I am very strict with my kids, and my fourteen-year-old, Cynthia, hates the repressive rules she lives under. Robby, my sixteen-year-old, can't date and gets punished for getting erections or soiling his sheets or underwear with his youthful penile emissions. He has wet dreams and gets punished for those as well.
They think I have a big hang-up concerning masturbation. I make masturbation seem like the crime of the century unless one is a matriarch. I am obsessive about the sport; or at least, I act that way. I don't even allow Sam to touch himself in my presence, though I know he indulges himself in the bathroom. I don't say anything to Sam about his lengthy stays in the bathroom, and he says nothing about my stays in the bedroom behind a closed door.
I make my husband deal with Robby. I deal with Cynthia, and I am relentless with her. She might touch herself at school. I can't stop her there, but inside my house, she has never touched her cunt. Not only do I bathe her, I handle her toilet for her. Though she is fourteen, I dress her and undress her. She sleeps in a tight girdle wearing boxing gloves. I play the part of a severe prude, but what I won't do is dress the part or act the part.
I have a killer body, big mounds of creamy soft tittie flesh, long pointed nipples, and legs that belong on a pro-football cheerleader. I measure thirty-eight, seventeen, thirty-seven, and that is on a five-foot-two frame. Although I impose ultra prudish standards on my daughter, I don't dress modestly. I like short skirts and loose, low-cut tops. My bras are half-cup, push-up teasers that leave the crest of each nipple exposed. I am expert at stooping to show my nipples while appearing mindless of my exposure. I can shoot a full crotch-shot beaver like a Soho whore while looking like a Sunday school teacher with her mind on the scriptures.
I was terrible to the kids after they entered puberty, a good mother, but a terrible hypocrite. Poor Robby, especially. The humiliation he suffered because of me, punished for erections that I usually gave him with an intentionally careless flash of inner thigh, transparent wet-crotch beavers, or a soft braless breast rubbed on his arm or shoulder while dishing out his dinner. I'd see his erection, then call on Sam to "do something with your nasty son."
Sam could see that it wasn't Robby's fault, but he never spoke to me about it, and would act the part of an outraged father and husband. He'd drag Robby off to his bedroom by his ear and smack his fanny for me. God, I loved hearing him berating Robby for looking at or rubbing himself on my intimate parts.
And Cynthia, forced to cover her luscious body in the terribly out of fashion clothes I made her wear, no boys in her life, no dates, no phone calls, no social life at all, really. Cynthia also had no privacy what-so-ever. My husband kept Robby from masturbating, but I handled Cynthia. She could not close herself in a room, not even the bathroom. Whenever I could, I supervised her toilet activities and wiped her like a baby afterward. I don't care who watches, either. I've wiped her ass with Robby beside us, staring into her wide beaver while I took my sweet time.
By remaining to watch, he risked an erection that I was sure to report, but he found the bathroom scenes irresistible. I put on exhibitions designed with him in mind. I made Cynthia piss with her legs wide while I pull her cunt lips out of the way. Afterward, I wash her cunt with a soapy rag, then dry her thoroughly. She will climax while I scrub her pussy; if not then, she will when I rub it dry. She is good at concealing her climax, but I can tell when she has one. The look on her face, and her flushed skin tone are dead give-aways, but it was failing the finger test that earned her punishment. If I pulled out a gooey finger, she was in for it.
I punish Cynthia in front of her father and brother to add to the humiliation. I make her strip and assume the most vulgar poses while lecturing her and striking her with her father's belt. I don't hit hard, just hard enough to leave a red mark. Punishing Cynthia is a form of family entertainment. Sam never complains and always heads straight for the bathroom after one.
Sam has seen Cynthia pee, but he has never seen her take a shit. If he did, he'd say something, I'm sure. Robby has seen it. Robby won't miss it. For bowel movements, or BMs as she calls them when she tells me she needs one, Cynthia has to remove all of her clothes and recline on the toilet with her knees drawn up and laid open. Her hands pull her cheeks apart. She looks like a woman delivering a baby, but oh what a baby she delivers.
She finds this treatment absolutely humiliating. I have her get undressed, because, after wiping her ass thoroughly, I bathe her. The position is, ostensibly, to make wiping easier. Afterward, after I wipe her ass good, she lies on her back in the tub in an inch of warm water, assuming the same position.
I give her a bath, then start on her anal cleansing. After two soapy fingers have scrubbed her colon for ten minutes, it sparkles. When I'm through, you could eat off that kid's asshole. I use a hand wand on pulse to wash her crotch, but I mostly tease the spray over her standing clit. She cums when I dry. This performance never fails to produce an erection in Robby, but I never take notice until the end.
You would think the kids would see right through this, but I keep a strict, dispassionate, serious expression throughout. Though Cynthia's BM sessions are a new development, the treatment is not out of the norm, at least the norm they are used to. I've been giving them enemas since they were babies, in the tub, on their back. They get an enema for sniffles. In our house, an enema is the miracle cure-all.
Robby gets hard as soon as the nozzle hits his anus, but enema erections aren't punished. These are tolerated because he has no control over them, and hasn't since early childhood. He is only punished for those he should control. I wash his erection when I wash his ass. I use my soapy hands, and he will always climax. Again, he's not held accountable. I rinse his spend along with the soap suds. This gives me frequent opportunities to fondle my son's young cock, but I do it in such a way that it appears incidental and means no more to me than washing his feet.
I can make him cum while keeping a straight face, sometimes dodging a high flying wad of ropy sperm flying past my face or landing on my arm. Mostly, I don't dodge well enough. I have taken a rope in the face more times than not, but that gets wiped off after I towel him dry. In the interim, his cum slides down my face which fascinates Robby. If some gets on my lips, and some usually will if it hits right, I'll ignore that, too.
I like to find an excuse to talk when his sperm is running between my lips. I've made sperm bubbles doing this. Try keeping a straight face while making sperm bubbles when you speak. I can do it, but Robby can't keep a straight face while watching. If he so much as cracks a grin, I'll act angry and say, "So you think this is funny? I don't think it's one bit funny. If I thought you had any control over this whatsoever, I'd wipe that stupid grin off your face. I think this is disgusting. Your father should do this for you, young man. I'll bet you'd show control if he were administering your enema. If I had my way, he would."
I love my bathroom games, but the games I play with Cynthia outside the bathroom are just as entertaining. I constantly accuse her of touching herself, embarrassing her horribly by sniffing her fingers or pressing a dry tissue to her naked pussy to see if it comes up wet. I'd drop her panties at the dinner table if I suspected anything, and I often suspected when Sam and Robby are present.
The tissue will always come up wet if you rub hard enough or long enough. A small spot was proof enough for me to spank her on her naked ass right in front of her father and brother while I berated her for playing with herself or thinking nasty thoughts. I took perverse pleasure in seeing to it that everyone remained sexually frustrated and humiliated except me.
This may sound awful to you, but my kids didn't suffer too long without getting much-needed relief. They just couldn't do anything on their own. My kids got off when I got them off.
Sam fared no better. Seeing Cynthia's cute pussy and tits always made him hot. When I knew he needed it most, and that was always after seeing Cynthia's hard young body, I had a headache. I rationed pussy to him and gave him the deadest fucks. Still, he'd take what he could get and would spend long sessions in the bathroom, exercising his hand. My extra-curricular activities made my games at home even more pleasurable. I was never unsatisfied.
The ultimate came when I hired a young Swedish maid, a runaway. She was only seventeen, but God, what a body and all the classic Nordic features, fair as new snow and blond as they come.
The kid was hard up, in the country illegally, on the lamb. Her uniform was a hat and high heels, and that's all she ever wore in my house. If you think that didn't turn up the heat, think again. Sam will never recover and Robby suffered brain damage. Too bad she only lasted a few weeks. At least I got my fill of her. Her mouth stayed glued to my cunt almost the entire time, and I didn't give a fuck who watched.
A good matriarch nurtures, but she also deals out pain or pleasure in the proper doses at the proper times. I know; I was raised by two.
Copyright © 1997, Phil Phantom, ALL Rights Reserved
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