Tying My Mother To The Bed

Tying My Mother to the Bed

This is a story about a controlling mother who finds emotional release by being tied down on her bed. It contains depictions of anal sex, so if that offends, or it’s not your thing, please pass on by.

Comments welcome as ever.

Sylviafan

Dad finally left mum three months ago. If he hadn’t been such a wimp he’d have gone years before. And to be honest, he never would have gone at all except that he got a new secretary at work and she fell in love with him and spent nearly a year persuading him (and giving him the courage) to leave his wife and move in with her. Some women are obviously attracted to weak men, mum clearly was.

In my mother’s case, I think she wanted somebody that would provide for her but that she could completely control; someone who would unquestioningly do everything she wanted him to do. She tried it on with me, as I was growing up, and we had some titanic battles, some of which she won and others, a few, went to me. Partly because of her controlling behaviour I never went back home to live after university; I just left my dad to his fate, which went on for another four years, until he too left her to it.

Not, I hasten to add, that my mother is a bad person; she’s kind-hearted and generous and humorous. She just has to control every aspect of her life, from the perfect home to the lives of the people she lives with. I still go round once a week to see her, normally on a Sunday afternoon, but I was getting a bit worried about her. Straight after dad left she was ok, but as the weeks went by, all the life and spirit seemed to desert her and she just sat around staring into space. More worryingly, the housework seemed to be getting neglected, which would have been unthinkable a few months ago. When it comes to housework, my mother is nothing if not obsessive-compulsive.

I think I should start this story on the first Sunday that I asked my mother if everything was ok. It was early June, warm and clear, and I’d gone round in the early afternoon and been shocked at the state of the house; it was superficially tidy, but there was a film of dust on every surface, normally anathema to my mum, and the lawns at the front and back clearly hadn’t been mowed for weeks.

Mum looked unkempt too; not actually scruffy, but not her normal perfectly-presented self. Her make-up was largely absent and her hair looked lifeless. She sat on the sofa, ignoring her cooling cup of tea, and I faced her across the sitting room in an easy chair.

I should describe my mother, I suppose. She’s called Veronica and she’s fifty-one and looks very good for her age, or at least she did until recently. She’s about five-foot six and with a very nice figure. Athletic, I suppose you’d call it. She did a lot of dancing when she was a kid, and she can still do the splits and bend over with her legs straight and put the palms of her hands flat on the floor. She’s got long, shapely legs, a flat stomach and D cup breasts. I know what size they are because I sneaked a look at her bra once. She has a broad, faintly Slavic face with a generous, full-lipped mouth, very white, even teeth, high cheekbones and dark-blue, hooded eyes with dark eyebrows. Her hair’s dark-brown with streaks of fake grey and she wears it very short.

I’ve been attracted to my mother since adolescence. It’s not just the Oedipus bit, or that she’s attractive and has a sexy figure, it’s also the aura of authority that she wears. I must have wanked myself off a thousand times as I imagined her ordering me to fuck her. And when we’d had one of our rows, I used to fantasize about throwing her over the back of the settee and holding her down as I thrust into her pussy or her arse.

‘What’s up, Mum?’ I asked, leaning forward in my chair.

‘Nothing,’ she replied with a tight smile. ‘I’m fine.’

‘But you’re not,’ I insisted. ‘The house is… well… not like it usually is,’ I finished, diplomatically. ‘And the gardens…’ I waved a hand towards the back window.

My mother’s face fell. ‘Yes,’ she admitted after a pause. ‘I suppose I have let things slip a bit since your dad left.’

‘That’s not like you at all, Mum,’ I told her.

‘Well maybe you don’t know me as well as you thought you did,’ she snapped back, surprising me. Then she smiled. ‘Sorry, Sam. I guess I’m a bit on edge.’

‘Have you seen a doctor?’

‘I’m not sure a doctor could help,’ she sighed and it struck me suddenly that she might be talking about her lack of a sex life, so I let it drop, on that occasion.

The following week she looked worse. Her skin looked lifeless and she was wearing a blouse that she clearly hadn’t pressed and faded black denims; a far cry from her usual immaculate skirt and blouse, or cocktail dress and stockings. Again I asked if she’d seen a doctor and again she said no. I asked again the following Sunday, and the one after that. And, eventually, she told me what her problem was.

It was by this time early July and the weather had turned wet, although it was still very warm. I’d yıldırım escort taken a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon around on the Sunday afternoon and I’d persuaded mum to have a glass, then another and finally to help me finish the bottle. She seemed to relax a bit with the wine and I asked her again what the matter was.

‘Oh, Sam,’ she said. ‘You keep asking. Maybe I should tell you, although it’s not very nice and you might never look at me the same way again.’

‘What can be so bad, Mum?’ I asked. ‘You’ve got a secret love child?’

‘It’s not funny, Sam. Not to me, anyway.’ She paused, mustering her thoughts, and then she began.

‘You don’t remember my parents, do you? They died when you were still quite young. But I suppose you’ve heard me talk about them and what nineteen-sixties free spirits they were.’ I nodded. ‘Well that’s all well and good, having parents that set no boundaries, but some children aren’t comfortable with that freedom and I certainly wasn’t. So I grew up wanting rules, wanting order and conformity. It became the guiding principle of my life, and I’m sorry if I was a stuck-up, controlling cow to you and your dad…

‘But as I got older, I found the role of mistress of the house becoming an almost unbearable drain on my emotional resources, the relentless responsibility of making all the decisions. I longed to be different, even for a few hours, but I couldn’t seem to let it go, even with your dad’s help.’ Mum blushed at the memory. ‘Then, one Saturday evening, we went to a party and I got talking to a lady I’d never met before. She was some sort of counsellor and I ended up getting mildly drunk and telling her all my woes. “Get your husband to tie you to the bed a couple of times a week,” she told me. “That’ll sort you out.”

‘Well, I was flabbergasted. I mean the idea of being tied to the bed and… And Sam, you must never repeat any of this!’

‘Of course not, Mum,’ I told her, my brain seething with imagery, my pulse racing.

‘Well, I eventually discussed it with your dad and to cut a long story short he tied me to the spare bed one Saturday afternoon and left me there for an hour.’

‘Did it work?’ I asked.

‘Oh, Sam, it was a revelation! I was astonished how well I felt after he untied me. I was relaxed and calm and, and serene, that’s what your dad said, serene. Just one hour of not being in control, of having no choices to make. It made a world of difference. I couldn’t believe it.’

‘Did you… did you and dad… er… when you were tied down?’ I asked, feeling my cheeks redden.

Mum blushed too. ‘Sometimes, not always. It wasn’t about sex, it was about relinquishing control. Most times I was fully dressed,’ she added.

‘And with dad gone, there’s no one to tie you down.’

‘Exactly. And even if I met someone, it would be months, maybe years before I’d trust them enough to let them do that to me. And it’s like a drug,’ she went on. ‘If I don’t get it regularly I fall apart, like I am now.’

We looked at each other for about thirty seconds, the big, unspoken elephant standing quietly in a corner of the room. ‘I could do it,’ I said at last. ‘I could tie you to the bed. If you were fully clothed, of course.’

Mum looked at her hands, which were clasped in her lap. ‘I hate asking my own son to do such a personal thing, such an intimate thing, even. But you’re the only person in my life that I can trust. Would you really do that for me, Sam?’

‘Of course.’ My head was spinning and my breathing rate had accelerated sharply in the last few minutes. It wasn’t that I thought it would lead to anything, but the very notion of strapping my controlling mother to the bed was fucking scorchingly erotic. I wasn’t looking beyond that. Not then.

‘I feel really embarrassed, now, even with the wine,’ mum said, softly. ‘But I need it so much.’

‘I can stay for a while, if you want to do it now.’

‘Oh, God, would you mind, Sam?’ She was indeed like an addict being offered a fix. She stood up and I stood and followed her upstairs to her bedroom, the one she’d shared with my dad for so many years. It was big and light, windows on two sides, fitted wardrobes along one wall and an en-suite bathroom. And a big double bed with short, wooden posts at each corner. ‘We bought it specially,’ mum said, ‘to attach the restraints.’

She bent over, giving me a good view of her rear, and pulled open a drawer in an oak chest. Rummaging around, she pulled out a tangle of nylon straps and clips and buckles. Straightening up, she turned to face me, her eyes serious. ‘I need to be sure that you’re comfortable with this, Sam. It’s a very unusual situation and I don’t want to alienate my son. You’re just about all I’ve got left.’

‘Don’t worry, Mum. I’ll be fine, and I’ll try not to enjoy it too much,’ I added mischievously.

Mum gave me a look as she untangled the straps and went around the bedposts, looping a nylon strap and buckle onto each wooden post. When she was done, she paused, as though yıldızeli escort she was about to say something. Instead, she handed me the Velcro ankle and wrist cuffs, kicked off her slippers and climbed onto the bed, where she lay with her arms and legs stretched out in supplication, looking at the ceiling.

I fitted the first cuff to her ankle. She was wearing her black jeans again but her ankles were slim and the cuff went round easily. I clipped the cuff to the nearest strap and moved onto her other ankle, then her wrists. She was wearing a short-sleeved top and her arms looked thin and vulnerable as I clipped the cuffs and pulled the straps to tighten them.

‘Make it really tight, Sam,’ mum breathed. ‘It’s better when I can’t move at all.’ So I pulled on the buckles and her arms and legs went taut and she pulled uselessly against the nylon webbing.

‘That’s perfect, Sam, thank you!’

‘How long should I leave you, Mum?’ I asked, looking down at her on the bed and feeling a sense of unreality.

‘Can you spare me an hour?’ she replied. ‘I know it’ll be boring for you…’

‘No problem,’ I assured her.

‘And can you close the curtains?’ I drew the heavy drapes and the room darkened to a twilight gloom.

‘Ok,’ I said, ‘I’ll see you in an hour.’

I slipped out of the bedroom door and closed it softly behind me. Downstairs I sat with my head whirling for a few moments before springing decisively to my feet. Over the next hour I vacuumed and dusted the downstairs rooms, polishing the big cherrywood dining table and mopping the kitchen floor. Looking at my watch, I realised with a start that mum had been on the bed for nearly an hour and a half.

I shot upstairs and into the bedroom. ‘God, I’m sorry, Mum. I completely forgot the time.’ I went around the bed loosening off the straps and unclipping them and mum sat up and massaged her arms and her leg muscles.

‘That’s fine, darling,’ she smiled at me. ‘Sometimes your dad would leave me for a couple of hours. Any more than that and I’d start to get cramp.’ Her voice sounded different, less flat. She climbed off the bed and stretched.

‘Right, I’m going to have a shower and then I’m taking you out to dinner. No arguments.’

I wasn’t about to argue. It wasn’t every day that I was taken out to dinner, especially by someone who’d spent part of the afternoon strapped to her bed.

I went downstairs and about forty-five minutes later mum came down in a dark-blue cocktail dress, black stockings and matching high-heels, a strand of pearls at her throat. She’d done her make-up carefully; her eyes looked huge and her lips were painted a dark-red, to match her fingernails. It was a transformation, and I looked at her in awe.

‘You look fantastic, Mum!’

She smiled gratefully. ‘Not too bad for an old dear,’ she replied. ‘The restorative effects of being strapped to the bed are quite remarkable, aren’t they? I feel like a new woman, literally.’

And she was a new woman that evening as we sat in a bistro and ate medium quality Italian food. Or rather she was like her old self, but softer, less prickly.

‘When should I come round again?’ I asked as we sipped our post-prandial liqueurs.

‘Well I know it’s a bit of an imposition, but I’d rather not wait until Sunday. Can you come round in the week?’

‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘It’s really no trouble. I usually do a bit of work on my tablet in the evening, but I could just as easily do it at your house, especially if there was a dinner afterwards,’ I added with a grin.

And that was how it came about that I went round to my mother’s house two or sometimes three times a week and strapped her to the bed while I sat at the kitchen table writing emails and examining spreadsheets. I normally left her for ninety minutes, but occasionally she would ask to be left for the full two hours. And afterwards, when I released her, she would appear downstairs glowing with contentment and she would cook us dinner and we would chat and laugh late into the evening.

Which was all very well, but in the same way as it had an effect on my mother, it had an effect on me. At first I was mildly aroused. My mother never wore sexy clothes during our sessions, but the sight of her spreadeagled on the bed inevitably gave me an erection. She was, as I have said, an attractive lady, in the prime of her maturity, and my childhood fantasies re-emerged with added vigour. I now masturbated two or three times a day, exclusively to visions of my mother. Sometimes I masturbated while she was in bondage upstairs.

In the act of tying her down, and when she was fully secured, I felt an almost irresistible urge to touch her, in inappropriate places: her breasts and her crotch. I wanted to take a handful of her hair and pull her head back and force my mouth onto hers, tasting her lipstick and pushing my tongue into her mouth. And afterwards, when she had showered and dressed, I wanted to touch her gently and stroke the soft skin of her neck, as though yozgat escort we had just made love.

It was a cumulative effect. I coped with it for the first five or six weeks, but eventually I began to fear that I wouldn’t be able to control myself. That I would fondle and grope her as she writhed in protest and told me to stop. Maybe I would masturbate in front of her, splashing her with my spunk as I came. Splashing her face as she turned from me in disgust. That, I decided, could not be allowed to happen. I needed to talk this through with her, to tell her how I was feeling and maybe suggest that we had to stop, although God knows, I didn’t want to.

I chose a warm, August Sunday. We had lunch in the garden with a bottle of chilled pinot grigio. Mum was happy and relaxed, anticipating what would happen later in the afternoon. I was tense and edgy and eventually she looked at me and asked what the matter was. I prevaricated, said it was nothing, but my mother is neither stupid nor insensitive.

‘It’s about us, isn’t it?’ she said, looking at me with her hooded eyes. ‘What we do.’

‘Yes, Mum,’ I whispered.

‘You’re not comfortable with it anymore?’ she asked, her face a study in disappointment.

I braced myself. ‘The problem is that I’m too comfortable with it, Mum. It’s beginning to dominate my thinking. And I’m starting to have the most inappropriate thoughts and feelings.’

‘About me?’ my mother asked, quietly.

‘Yes,’ I told her, ‘about you.’ She looked down at her hands. Her nails were painted a bright red. She always seemed to have painted nails now, just as she wore more make-up.

‘I was afraid that this might happen,’ she began, eventually. ‘I suppose I just hoped it wouldn’t, but that was silly. I put you into an essentially sexual scenario with me and asked you to repeat it two or three times a week. What could I expect?

‘I don’t want it to stop, Sam,’ she said with a tone of pathos. ‘Is there some way we can work around it?’

‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘The feelings I get are so strong.’

My mother paused and swallowed. ‘Would it help if you touched me when I was tied down?’ she asked in little more than a whisper, ‘relieve some of the tension? I couldn’t stop you anyway, if you wanted to,’ she added.

I looked sharply at my mother and she returned my gaze and something fizzled in the air between us like the buzzing of high-tension electrical cables. I felt my throat constrict and I felt suddenly short of breath.

‘Maybe we could try,’ I said, huskily.

‘Let’s do that,’ my mother said quietly, draining her wineglass and standing up.

Afterwards, when I was thinking straight, I realised that inviting me to touch her when she was secured to the bed wasn’t the way to control my sexual urges, quite the opposite. Later still I came to understand that what my mother wanted was to excite me to the point that I would make some move. She was still controlling me, but in a more subtle way.

But that was later. Right now I followed her up the stairs to her bedroom in a haze of arousal, my cock like steel in my trousers.

The restraints were already on the bed posts so mum just kicked off her pumps and climbed on, lying on her back, her arms and legs stretched out, smiling at me calmly. ‘Nice and tight, now, Sam,’ she whispered.

She was wearing tan slacks and a matching short-sleeved satin blouse. Her make-up was carefully applied, her red lipstick matching her nails, and she looked scrummy. And that was part of the problem; after the first couple of times, it wasn’t a dowdy, middle-aged woman I was strapping down to give her a fix, but a shapely, attractive, well-dressed lady, with the added allure of being my mother.

I swallowed nervously and started to secure the cuffs to her ankles and wrists while she watched me with a gentle smile on her face. Then I clipped the cuffs to the straps and pulled them very tight.

‘Ooh that’s lovely,’ she cooed, flexing her arm and leg muscles against the restraints.

‘Can I touch you, now?’ I asked, thickly.

‘That’s up to you, Sam,’ she said, softly. ‘I can’t stop you.’

I sat tentatively on the edge of the bed, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and intense arousal. ‘It’s awkward,’ I stuttered.

‘Don’t be shy,’ she whispered. I reached out and stroked her bare arm with one fingertip, feeling the soft, downy hair on her forearm. She smiled and closed her eyes. ‘Mmm.’ I stroked her arm for another minute, my guts churning. Ok, it was just my mother’s arm, but sons didn’t touch their mothers like that, did they?

I moved my hand up, running my fingertips over her soft cheeks and her neck. She cooed again and turned her head to and fro like a cat being stroked. ‘That’s nice,’ she said quietly. I ran my fingers through her hair, feeling its softness, my guts constricting with fear and excitement, my cock a rigid pole.

I wanted to touch her breasts but part of me was saying no, don’t! I stroked her neck again and her shoulders. I ran my fingers down her stomach and over her hips, tracing their feminine curve. I stroked her thighs and her lower legs, feeling the tautness of her calf muscles, then back up to her hips, straying slightly towards her crotch, watching my mother’s face as my hand went past the waistband of her slacks and up towards her breasts.

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