My Mummy the Therapist.
Hi, I'm David, I am 23 years old now but when I was
15 my father met and started dating the psychologist from my school. Sadly my Mum
had suddenly passed away and the school rules dictated I had to endure
counselling sessions. These didn’t go so well and my father was called,
apparently I had an attitude toward women in authority. As far as I was
concerned she was a complete psycho bitch!
Her name is Kath. She’s now 43, and like most of
the cows at my old school she was used to getting everything her own way...
Anyway much to my shock, she and my father hit it
off and got married. From the Moment she moved in she started throwing her
weight around. My father was smitten with her and believed every word she said.
Nothing I did was ever good enough and as far as the bitch was concerned, my
father needed to teach me a lesson before I went completely off the rails. She
would constantly blow everything out of proportion in her effort to get my
father to take action and deal with me. She knew long before she moved in, my
father was never the disciplinarian in our home. These domestic matters where
always my mother’s responsibility and his preference to avoid such things
hadn’t changed one little bit.
It all came to a head one Saturday afternoon when
Kath blow her top over my general lack of respect and she insisted something
needed to be done. Once again my father attempted to avoid the issues but she
would not hear of it. She called me in to the lounge where my father was
sitting and told him, if he wasn’t going to punish me, she would. I could see
my father becoming increasingly agitated and eventually he said, well perhaps
you should, you are his mother after all and that does come with some
responsibilities’.
Right then
said Kath as she took a slipper from her foot and clasped a hold of my forearm.
You young man need to be taught a lesson.
She swatted my jean clad bottom several times but
stopped only because my father got up and mumbled something about the club. Moments
later the front door closed and we where alone.
Just to be sure he was completely out of ear shot
she yelled out loudly, you naughty boy and swatted my bottom several more
times.
I think were finally alone said Kath with a beaming
smile, I told you I’d get your fathers approval.
Finally I gasped; I still don’t understand why that
was so important to you.
Look sweetheart, I know you’ve been very frustrated
having to wait this long but it will be worth it in the long run, you’ll see.
I sure hope so.
It will be darling. Just think, now that I’ve got
the green light, it won’t be long before putting you to bed with a smacked
bottom will seem quite a normal event.
Your fathers not going to be home for a couple of
hours so let’s make the most of it shall we?
Should I put my pyjama’s on?
Absolutely my dear: I promised you I’d take care of
you, didn’t I?
You said you’d give me lots of smack bottoms and
early bedtimes, if you were my mother?
Yes my darling, it’s got to be the strangest reason
to marry a man there ever was, but it all went to plan just as I promised.
Finally you’re now both legally and morally my responsibility and now I can do
with you as I please.
That slipper is a bit lame, I can’t even feel it. I
hope you haven’t forgotten about the strap or putting me to bed in nappies.
Oh my sweet boy she said as put her foot back into
her slipper. Have a look in your bottom draw, now off you go and get your
pyjamas on. I’ve wanted to see you in your pyjamas stood facing the corner ever
since you fist told me your little secret and we both know your long overdue,
so let’s have some fun shell we.
I eagerly opened my bottom draw to see several
pairs of neatly folded little boy pyjamas, a pile of adult sized disposable
nappies, baby powder and she’d even found my Mums old belt. I gasped and my
bottom began to tingle with excitement.
Hastily, I put on my brand new, Cowboys and Indians little boy pyjamas. Standing silently with my face in the corner, I waited with a new found
sense of pride. My new Mummy hadn’t forgotten a thing.
Lance Miller.
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