Handgaglover

House Pet

Chapter 1

The Fifties was a decade of dreams and of despair, of nightmares and of recovery. For some, that decade was a time of peace and hope of a brighter future with the passing of two major world wars. Soldiers were coming home to greet their parents, get married if they weren't already, and were enjoying a much deserved leave after helping keep old Jerry at bay. While new families were being formed, others were degrading to a state of failure. It was in the first year of that decade when my family unit began to break apart – my parents' marriage, more specifically, was ending. As a result, it was not only my mother's life that took a turn for the worst, but it was mine as well. In the end, I think I experienced just as much abuse and mistreatment as the poor black folks who came through my town from time to time.

When I was born, in the year 1938, my father had already been in the army for twelve years. My mother was fortunate enough, as most women were at the time, to stay at home as a housewife to raise me and smother me with love and adoration. She still found time to worry about whether or not my father would return home safely. I suspected I was named James, after my father, in order to keep his name alive in the event that he should pass in the line of duty, for he was stationed overseas in Britain for most of my early life. He had to keep those Germans from pushing too far west, and, even after the war was over in Europe, he was required to return to his station until things cooled down. I saw him when he came home for his one-month leave before he had to go back again to supervise things.

We lived in a modest, yellow cottage on the right side of a circular caldesac at the end of a long stretch of twelve houses along the straight road leading to it. There were four such roads in our development which was called East Meadow. The house was large enough and met all of our living needs, since it was mostly just my mother and I. A short walkway from the street, which was surrounded by a small yard of green grass, lead to a white front door with an arched series of three glass panels at the top. To the sides of the door were rosebushes which my mother enjoyed trimming in the spring. The door opened into a living room with a plush, red couch at the far wall, a round, oak coffee table in front of it, and a wooden chair (that had been inherited from my mother's mother) just to the right of the door next to the window. A bookshelf occupied the entirety of the wall past the couch and was only half-filled with books.

The rest of the space contained various decorations and trinkets that my mother liked. We even had a television in the far right corner of the room on a small wooden stool with a wicker top. My father's salary from the military allowed us to possess such fine things, including a lovely dark-red Cadillac (My mother loved the color red, by the way). Ahead of the door through a short hall, with a small bathroom to the right just before the far entryway, lay the kitchen which was painted white with a yellow tile back splash around the white, smaller-tiled counters. Above the sink at the far wall was a small window which looked out onto our white privacy-fence enclosed back yard with more rose bushes lining the fence. The fridge was on the right side and to its left was the stove; an island with more counter and cupboard space was in the middle of the kitchen. Then, a four-seated pine dining room table was set just beyond the island and was dressed with a white-and-black polka dotted table cloth.

Past the table was another white door leading to the side of the house and right into the back yard. To the left of the front door was another short hall: the first door on the left was my bedroom with my bed just to the right of the door, a closet with fold-out doors in the far wall, and a small desk next to a chest of drawers lining the wall ahead of the door; to the left of the door was a series of shelves on which some of my toys and books were stacked. The wall ahead of the door, which contained a window, and the wall with the closet door were painted white while the other two had Superman wallpaper. The first door on the right down the hall was a closet, and, at the far end of the hall was my parents' bedroom with a large bed to the left of the door, done up in red and white sheets, of course, and my mother's makeup table with a mirror on the far wall to the left of a cherry armoire. To the right was my father's cherry bureau and a door to the master bathroom. At the end of the hall on the right was a staircase up to the attic which was painted a clean-looking white and contained our boxes of decorations for the holidays and various old things my mother didn't want downstairs.

Back to the kitchen, it was through the white side door that my father strolled when he first came home on his leave after the war ended. I was at the dining room table eating a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich for dinner because it was around five-thirty. My mother was staring dreamily out the window and looked as if she was nervous, as if she didn't expect my father to show up that day. I was absolutely ecstatic when my father came in the door: I bolted for him and he picked me up in his arms and gave me a great big hug. He didn't laugh, he just closed his eyes and smiled to himself. He kissed me on the forehead before putting me down so he could hug my mother.

Well, he would have hugged my mother if she weren't clutching a crumpled letter in her right fist; her dark-red nails that stuck out about a third of an inch [1 cm] past her fingertips dug into the parchment. I had no idea when she had taken the letter out, because she wasn't holding it when she was standing at the sink. Her black, slip-on house shoes could be heard on the floor along with the swish of her red-and-white polka dot house dress as she took two steps toward my father and slapped him hard with her left hand before following through with a wicked backhand. My mother's bangs and a few strands of hair from her bun moved in jerky motions as she exacted her punishment. Her glassed almost fell from her nose, but she was quick to push them back onto her face. Her cold, blue eyes could have cut glass, and her red-painted lips pushed forward slightly as a single tear fell from her left eye. The modestly-composed frame of her five-foot-eleven inch [1.78 m] body, which fell three inches [8 cm] short of my fathers, twitched once in reaction to the furious adrenaline rushing through it.

"You sick bastard," came my mother's low, seething voice which made my stomach drop even though I wasn't the one her fury was directed at. My father didn't seem surprised at all. He didn't strike my mother back, didn't bat an eyelash, and didn't say a word. Still dressed in his army fatigues, he slid off his wedding ring and held it out to my mother. She batted it out of his hand, and it flew across the kitchen to land in the corner behind my father. "Get out," were her final words to him. He averted his gaze from my mother's and knelt before taking my head in his hands and kissing me on the forehead; my dark-brown hair, the same color as my mother's, parted slightly as his nose entered it. He rose and walked out of the door he came through not five minutes before, never to be seen by either me or my mother again.

My mother looked at me, and I saw that some of the fire had dwindled, but only ever so slightly, from her gaze. She placed the crumpled paper on the table and told me that I could read it if I wanted to. She had some things to do, as she put it, which meant that she had to pack up what little remained of my father's things. He took most of his stuff with him to his station, so there were only a few things left, such as a belt and an old watch.

As my mother padded out of the kitchen, wiping the single tear from her cheek with her left hand, I stared dumbly at the ring in the corner of the kitchen. I knew something bad had happened just then, but I didn't know what it was for I was always told that my parents were never going to get divorced, so the concept just didn't occur to me. I picked up the ring and brought it over to the table before looking at the crumpled letter. As I read the letter from a woman named Sylvia, I realized just what had happened: my father had been seeing this other woman while stationed in Britain, and she had contacted my mother to let her know that when my father returned the two of them were going to settle down together. I was utterly disgusted by what I read; how could she have done such a thing, especially to a woman like my mother?

It was then that my mother walked back into the kitchen carrying a trash bag. She looked at me reading the letter, and an expression of tender caring came over her face. She took the letter and the wedding ring from me and put them into the trash bag which contained the rest of my father's things: shampoo, a couple towels, the belt, and the watch. She knelt and put her right hand on my left cheek, tenderly, and I told her I was sorry for her. A few more tears fell from her eyes as she leaned in to kiss me twice on my right cheek before taking me in her arms. She cried for a few moments before composing herself and putting her hand on my cheek once again, stroking the upper part of my cheek with her thumb.

"It's just you and me now," she said while sniffing a few times. I nodded my head, too dumb to know how to reply. Her smooth, soft hand felt reassuring against my cheek. "Come on," she said, picking up the trash bag to take outside to the cans at the end of the walkway. "Finish your sandwich and then come watch some television with me. Your favorite show is coming on soon," my mother said giving a final, gentle rub of my upper back. At four-feet-five inches [1.33 m] tall, I felt safe and secure when next to my tall mother and especially felt safe when watching The Perry Como Show in the evenings on our couch.

I thought things were going to be okay after that evening, but they quickly grew weird. The day after, my mother called our bank and inquired as to our financial situation given that my father had just left. The bank informed her, and she informed me, that we were going to be taken care of for as long as my mother lived. My father's immediate supervisor felt quite bad about what had happened and had donated a substantial sum of money to us and, on top of the substantial sum left by my father to raise me with, meant that my mother could stay home to raise me and then retire early off of what was left. I thought that it was quite nice upon hearing that news while my mother felt that she was owed at least something for what had happened.

The day after my father left went fairly normally except for the fact that my mother was in a very somber mood. She didn't get out of her dark-red pajamas the entire day, but simply showered, made me breakfast, and read books and watched television all day. Since I was home-schooled, out of convenience, and because it was the second week of May, my mother decided to end our school year early given the fact that she was not feeling up to teaching me anything academic.

"The only thing I want you to learn this week is that leaving your future wife will be the worst possible thing you could do to her," she told me after making me toast and scrambled eggs. I felt that I should leave her alone and simply made my own fun that day, treating it like a Saturday even though it was Thursday. I became lost in the world of Superman and Batman before lunch and became lost in the world of television after. I was excited because I got to stay up later than usual that night; on school days, my bed time was normally 9:30 pm. That was, oddly, the time my mother went to sleep that night while I stayed up and played with my superhero action figures before falling asleep around 10:30. My mother told me not to stay up past eleven because she didn't want my sleep cycle to become unhealthily irregular. I wasn't sure how she would monitor how late I stayed up once she turned in for the night, but I didn't question such things and did as I was advised.

The next morning was when things grew weird: firstly, the house was eerily silent when I awoke around eight. On most other days, my mother would have the radio playing while making breakfast so she could listen to the news and bits of music that would come on in between reports. Dressed in my white-and-blue striped pajamas, my dark-brown hair mussed from the night's sleep, I brushed my teeth and listened for signs of activity from my mother. I did hear some clanking of dishes in the kitchen and, once I finished brushing my teeth, smelled eggs cooking. It occurred to me the radio might have been broken, which would explain the silence. However, that was not the case; my mother was keeping the house silent for different reasons.

I used the toilet and, while washing up, became aware of the smell of toast and coffee as well. Other than the silence of the house, the day seemed off to a well enough start: the sun was shining, the weather was supposed to be warm the entire week, and Summer vacation was starting early for me. As I walked down the short bit of hall from the bathroom to the kitchen, I smelled cheese melting on the eggs which meant I was being cooked an omelette for breakfast. Rounding the corner of the hall and entering the kitchen, I saw my mother slide the cheese omelette out of the pan she used to cook it in and onto my plate which already contained two slices of white toast. My mother had set my plate out in my usual spot which was the chair closest to the wall and closest to the kitchen entrance.

Upon seeing me, my mother's red-painted lips spread into a sweet smile, "Good morning, deary. Did you sleep well?" I nodded and murmured and affirmative reply while sliding into my chair and inhaling deeply, savoring the scent of my breakfast. I noticed a mug of coffee at the table opposite my chair and figured it was my mother's for she had a cup almost every morning.

"May I have a glass of orange juice, please?" I asked my mother since she was by the refrigerator.

"No, dear, you're going to drink something else if you're thirsty," my mother replied, simply retrieving a carton of creamer. She didn't say another word as she came over to the table and set the carton of cream next to her cup of steaming coffee.

"But 3; why?" I asked tentatively. I was taught by my mother to never question her on the things she said unless it was about what she taught me during our school time. When I was eighteen (i.e. an adult), I would be allowed to question her if she told me to do something, but not until then. After my asking, my mother's face became quite serious. Her blue eyes glared down at me from behind her lenses while her red lips pursed slightly. She looked quite intimidating even though she had her hair done up into a loose, decorative bun, had dressed in a red-and-white polka dotted house dress, and had painted her nails dark red as usual. I quickly became nervous in a confused way.

My stomach seemed to churn with nervousness and, believe it or not, fear upon having my mother look at me the way she did. I didn't understand, though, why my mother wore such a serious expression when my questioning was so innocent. It was not as if I was questioning a command to clean my room; I simply wanted a glass of orange juice. And what did she mean by "something else"?

My mother had been resting her right hand on the table by the cream carton while I questioned her. What made me more nervous was when she began drumming her fingers on the table's surface, causing her nails to click solidly on the tablecloth-covered wood. I glanced at her large hand and then back up at my mother's stern face.

"Mommy-aaaaaahhh," I began before my mother snatched a painful grip of my hair with her left hand and pulled my head toward her while bending slightly so her face was only inches from mine.

"How many times have I told you to never question me when I tell you to do something, you little brat?!" my mother barked, raising her voice which added to the nervous flutterings of my stomach. The grip on my hair really hurt. She had never done anything like this to me, so why was she starting now? Was it because of my father leaving? I understood if she was angry, but she shouldn't have taken it out on me. I reached up and grabbed a hold of my mother's left wrist whose hand was gripping my hair with an intolerant ferverance. "Answer me! How many times?" my mother insisted with irritation sharpening her tone of voice.

"Uh 3;I-mmmmmphhhhh 3; mmphhh 3; mmhhmm," I began to stammer, but didn't have time to finish as I suddenly found that I couldn't speak at all. Upon hearing me stammer a reply, my mother shot her right hand forward and ensnared my small mouth within its expansive, velvety folds. I had never had a female hand over my mouth before, and the experience was quite unpleasant given the situation. My mother's thumb was squeezing my right cheek while her fingers splayed and squeezed my left cheek in an unkind embrace. Her soft palm, which was somewhat toughened from years of housework and the occasional bit of gardening, sealed my thin lips in a speechless hold, making all intelligent sound impossible and reducing my stammerings to barely-audible whimpers of confusion.

The pain from having my hair pulled was bad, but that feeling of having my mouth engulfed, along with more than the lower half of my face, by a big, strong female hand was almost worse because it made me feel so utterly helpless. What's more, I couldn't breathe properly for the upper portion of my mother's right hand between her thumb and first finger was covering about half of my nostrils. It was quite scary to be held in such a way, especially by my own mother who was still glaring at me and expecting an answer. I looked at her through scared eyes which were forced to be partially squinched by her tight-gripping hand over my mouth. With my small right hand still gripping my mother's left wrist, my left hand gripped her right wrist in an instinctive attempt to pull her hand off of my mouth.

"Put your hands down and answer my question!" my mother barked again, her face still inches from mine. I didn't understand why she was shouting at me; I was very nervous and confused. I immediately dropped my hands to my lap and simply sat wincing as she continued to hold my hair and my mouth. How did she expect me to answer her with her hand clamped so tightly over my mouth?

"Mmmphhh 3;mmhhmmm 3;mmphhhhh," came a tentative moan as I tried to answer my mother through her hand.

"I'm sorry, what was that? I couldn't quite hear you. Did you say, 'Too many times'?" my mother said in a manner that was almost mocking in nature. She turned her head slightly so that her left ear was close to my handgagged mouth.

"Hhmmhhh 3; mmphhh 3;mmmph," came another tentative, nervous moan from my completely oppressed mouth.

"That's what I thought. And you're right: too many times! Well, don't you worry, my dear, I'm going to teach you who's in control in this household. From now on, you will obey every single word I say or else I will punish you severely. Do you understand?" my mother said, turning her head so that her cold gaze was upon me yet again. I looked at her with confused eyes and produced a few more heavily-muffled moans which were meant to convey that I did not understand what was going on. I certainly understood that I wasn't to question her on anything at all, but why was she sounding so overly authoritative? "Oh, so you don't understand? Hmm, it looks as though I'll have to start showing you right away who's in charge. It's just as well since that's what I planned to do anyway," my mother said with what seemed a cruel edge to her tone of voice.

She released my mouth and, thankfully, released her painful grip of my hair which stuck out in the place she had been gripping. "Don't you dare go anywhere, and don't even think about touching that food," my mother commanded before leaving me to sit breathing heavily through an open mouth for I was not used to having my mouth held and having my nostrils partially blocked. My eyes were watery from the pain of having my hair held and also from having my mother shout at me about weird things which had never come up or been a problem in the past.

I looked at my omelette and toast which caused my mother's warning to replay in my head. I heard my mother pad down the hall to the master bedroom, which was solely hers now, before hearing a bureau drawer open and close. I wondered what in the world was going on and what she could be getting from her room. When she returned, my mother held three lengths of white rope in her hands. The strands were about a half-inch [1 cm] in diameter and looked like the typical rope that could be bought at any street corner hardware store.

"Turn around," my mother commanded as I looked at the rope in her hands with confusion. Her eyes warned me of the punishment I would endure should I disobey her. Something told me, though, that I would be experiencing punishment no matter how well I behaved. There was just something odd about my mother that was made evident by more than her stern lecture.

I swivelled slightly in my seat so that my back was almost completely to my mother and soon felt my hands being drawn behind my back. I noticed again how seemingly large and strong my mother's hands were as they engulfed my wrists and more than half of my hands. My wrists were crossed before rope was wound around them and tied off in an efficient manner that forbade me moving my hands, or for that matter my arms, much at all.

"Turn back around and face me," my mother commanded. I swivelled around a second time so that my front was to my mother at whom I gazed up with curious helplessness. She knelt in front of me and began winding wrope around my upper thighs just above my knees which she forced together. While winding and expertly tying my knees together, my mother glanced into my eyes which elicited a slight smile to touch her red-painted lips. It was a smile that, though brief, had an air of satisfaction and contentment which served to confuse me all the more. Once my mother was satisfied with the bindings of my knees, she moved on to my ankles which she tied tightly together so that I couldn't move my legs at all. I tested my bonds instinctively and found that I was in a truly helpless position.

"There, that's better. All that tying has made me hungry. Are you hungry?" my mother asked, almost sweetly. I simply stared at her with nervous eyes and nodded. "Good. Let me fix you something. Don't go anywhere," she said teasingly. I stared at the plate of food before me quizically. Was that not meant for me? My mother was filling a shallow bowl with Sugar Crisps, which was the cereal my mother bought for me. She also retrieved a small plate and returned to me before setting both on the floor beside the table next to the leg which was closest to my chair. I simply looked at the dishes dumbly while my mother poured a bit of cream onto the plate until the cavity created by its upward-curving sides was about half full. She put the cream away and returned wearing a confused expression.

"I thought you were hungry. Why aren't you eating?" my mother asked me. What got me was that she was serious. Before I could answer, she said, "Oh, I'm sorry, you need a little help, don't you? I almost forgot that you're a bit tied up." She put her hands under my arms and lifted me off of the chair so that I was standing on my feet which were as close together as they could be. "Don't worry, baby, I won't let you fall," my mother said reassuringly which didn't help matters much. She grabbed my upper arms and dragged me around the dishes of cereal and cream and forced me to kneel in front of them.

"Mommy-mmmmphhhh 3;mmmh," I started before my mother reached around my head and clamped her right hand very tightly over my mouth and lower face.

"Hush now, baby, it's time for breakfast. If you don't eat, I might just not let you have anything else the rest of the day," my mother said in a hushed voice into my left ear. I felt her breath on my lobe which caused me to shudder with tickle-like feelings of sensitivity. My face was released, and my mother sat in the chair that I had been in. She dragged her mug of black coffee to her and took a long sip. "Mmm, that's nice," she said before digging into the omelette and toast. I watched her eat heartily for a few moments before she looked down at me.

"Remember what I said, my little kitty. If you don't eat, you won't get anything else the rest of the day," she said.

"Little kitty"? What in the world did that mean? I assessed the situation and knew that I had to lean down to access the crisps in the dish. It was utterly humiliating and weird having to eat bound and, almost, like an animal. I guess that animal would be a cat in that instance. I bent over carefully until my mouth was close to the surface of the cereal before wrapping my thin lips around a bit of the stuff. I had to eat slowly and carefully so as not to lose my balance on my bound legs. The floor hurt my knees, but I did want to eat other meals that day, so I didn't protest.

My mother was finished eating long before I was and simply watched me with amusement from her chair. I felt her gaze upon me as I finished the cereal and looked up at her to meet her gaze. She did indeed wear a slightly bemused smile on her face. "Don't forget your cream, my love," my mother said in a sincere yet teasing manner. I carefully leaned back over and wondered how I was going to go about this since the saucer was so shallow. "Now, you know my feelings on slurping in this house, so I would figure out another way if I was you. Besides, kitties don't slurp, do they?" my mother said, again sincere with teasing edge.

I simply stared at the cream as I realized what I had to do. What a humiliating thing to make her own son do. Why was she doing this to me? She could have simply stopped after the lecture, because I learned my lesson then and there. I stuck out my tongue and lapped at the cream a few times, testing to see if it might actually work. While my tongue was shaped far differently from any cat's tongue, I did gather a little bit of cream onto it.

"That's it! What a good little kitty!" my mother said with what sounded like complete sincerity. I resisted the urge to look up and her with my confused eyes and simply resorted to lapping at the cream in the saucer. "Mmm, that's a good boy. You keep lapping until there's nothing left," my mother said simply while getting up from her chair. She washed her plate along with the rest of the dishes and poured another cup of black coffee before setting in her chair again to watch me lap at the cream. The position I was in caused my back to ache a little as it was not used to being in such a position. The rope around my wrists, knees, and ankles dug into my skin irritatingly and was beginning to frustrate me.

Crossing her knees, my mother sipped her second cup of coffee with a slow, relaxed pace. I could tell she was deep in thought, as if she was organizing something in her head. "James, listen to me," my mother said. I looked up at her for a moment, streaks of cream running down my chin. A hard slap on the table above me made me jump with twitchy nervousness. "I said 'listen to me', not 'look at me'!" my mother snapped at me as she slapped the table. I quickly lowered my head again and continued to lap at the cream in the saucer. Taking a sip of coffee, my mother resumed. "This is how it's going to be: someone needs to pay for what your father did to me. Someone needs to be punished, and that 'someone', my dear, is you," she said. Dread began to creep its way into my nerves and accompany the confusion that still lingered within me.

"Since your father isn't here, isn't even in the country for that matter, I'm just going to have to make do with what I have. This punishment isn't just for my benefit, though. I want to make sure that you never, ever do anything to your future wife like what your father did to me. You will never mistreat her, undermine her, or talk back to her, let alone talk much at all because hopefully your future wife will keep you gagged as often as I will. I'm going to teach you who is truly in charge in this world, and maybe you'll learn to respect women more than the rest of the men in our society," my mother said with a serious, almost triumphant tone.

Did she own me now? Why was I being punished for my father's crimes against my mother? What 3;what right did she have to treat me this way? I looked up with incredulity filling my eyes which belied the fact that I was scared and extremely nervous. What kind of punishment was my mother talking about?

Upon seeing me look up at her, my mother moved like lightning: she slid out of her chair, knelt in front of me while leaning on her left hand, and took a very rough handful of my hair with her right hand all in one swift, fluid motion. I gritted my teeth and winced in pain at the feel of my mother's hand in my hair. She brought her face inches from mine while I was still forcefully doubled over. "Did I say you were finished with your cream?" she hissed at me before simply looking at my wincing face for a moment. A single tear ran down my left cheek. "No, I didn't. You're not going to be finished until there isn't a drop left. My little kitty needs to drink all his cream, or Little Kitty is going to be in for a world of hurt," my mother said before releasing my hair. She remained kneeling where she was and reached up to get her coffee mug from the table. As I bent my head to continue lapping at the last of the cream in the saucer, the tear that was on my cheek fell into the saucer. I imagine the tear went into my mouth along with the cream at some point, but I don't remember tasting it. My mother remained kneeling erect and watched with contented triumph as her pet finished his cream and licked the saucer clean.

When I was finished, my mother put her coffee mug in the sink along with the dishes my 'breakfast' was in. I knelt erect and felt my back remind me of the position it had been in for the past several minutes. My mother returned to me and took another rough handful of my mussed hair on the top of my head which was curtly pulled back. Looking at my face for a moment, with a serious, almost reprimanding look, my mother said, "Looks like you missed some, my pet." My eyes widened in horror as my mother brought her mouth close to mine and ran her warm, slimy tongue across my chin and then across my lips. Once her tongue was about half way across my thin lips, I tried to pull away for the disgusted feelings that overtook me made me react instinctively.

"No-mmmmphhhh 3;mmmphh," I began, pulling my head to my right, before my mother grabbed my mouth and lower face with her left hand. Her soft, broad palm sealed my lips while her thumb and fingers gripped my cheeks with a silencing fury that only a mother could exert onto her son. I found my right nostril was pressed closed by the edge of my mother's left index finger. That feeling of a reduced air supply, along with the tightened pulling of my hair, began to stress me considerably. I could feel my mother's warm saliva still on my covered chin and lips.

"No! You keep still when I'm playing with you, you little brat! You stay still and quiet, just the way I like you," my mother said with a scolding tone of voice. I couldn't believe this was happening to me. I couldn't believe my life was taking such a rapid turn. "Now, I'm going to untie you, so you keep quiet and don't make any noise. We don't want the neighbors to know what I'm doing to you, now do we?" my mother said. She held my mouth and hair for a moment while giving me a warning glare while I stared at her with eyes that were wide with fear. The incredulity that was once there was forced out by the amount of nervousness and anxiety which had taken over.

My mouth and hair was released, and I breathed heavily, feeling my heart thudding away in my chest, while my mother untied my wrists, ankles, and knees. Leaving the rope on the table, my mother grabbed me by the mouth with her big, strong right hand and pulled me to a standing position with her left which took an unkind, pinching grip of my upper left arm. I felt my mother's sharp nails digging into my skin and surmised that the marks would be quite red. It wasn't as if anyone would see those marks seeing as how I would have to be shirtless for them to be visible.

I was forced out of the kitchen, down the short hall, and into my bedroom, all the while kept quiet and helpless by my mother's large, soft hands. I thought of how hopelessly silent my mother's hands kept me, completely covering my mouth and more than the lower half of my face. The only thing I could do was produce a few barely-audible whimpers as I was forced into my bedroom.

When we entered the hall, my mother said, "Mmm, I love that sound: the sound of you trying to call for help while my hand is over your mouth. I might just have to keep the radio off all the time since I'd rather hear your muffled little 'mmph mmphs' then any old program they have on that thing." I would rather have not had the radio kept off since that would be the only thing that might keep me sane.

In my bedroom, at the doorway, my mother released me and pushed me so that I tottered into the middle of the room. My legs were still a bit unsteady from being bound so tightly in the kitchen, but I managed to keep my balance. "Now, get dressed because we're going to go shopping. If you're going to be my pet, you need to look the part," my mother said. I looked around dumbly, trying to decide which to go to first, the bureau or the closet. Sighing with irritation, my mother stood in the doorway and simply looked at me with impatience.

"You just can't do anything for yourself, can you? Although, I guess most kitties can't. Hmm," my mother said thoughtfully while drumming her fingers on my door. She stood in the doorway, in case I tried to make a run for it, I guessed, with her right arm leaning on the frame, her feet crossed, and her left arm stretched up with her palm resting on the door. After being commanded to open my closet, my mother told me to put on a white polo with short sleeves, a pair of tan shorts with a brown belt, knee-high tan socks and brown slip-ons.

"And tuck your shirt in, my dear. I don't want you looking like a bum when we go out," my mother said as I folded my pajamas and put them back in the top drawer of my bureau. "Good boy. Now, follow me," my mother said, turning in my doorway so that her back was against the frame. She beckoned and signaled that I should walk in front of her to wherever we were going. I passed in front of my mother, who simply looked at me as a hungry lioness might look at her prey, tentatively as I didn't know what she was going to do to me next.

Once I was past her, my mother clamped her right hand over my mouth again and began forcing me along toward her bedroom with a pinching grip of her left hand on my upper arm. That area was still sore from being grabbed before, but my mother thought nothing of such things and forced me along all the same. My mother took me into the master bathroom where I was forced to stand in front of the sink. While I looked into the mirror, my mother combed my hair to the side neatly with the part on the right side of the top of my head.

"There, all neat and tidy. We can't have anyone wondering why your hair was so mussed and frizzy. They just might start asking questions, and we can't have that," my mother said once she was satisfied with the way my dark-brown hair was combed. As my mother grabbed my mouth again, with her big, strong, soft right hand, I caught sight of my face in the mirror and confirmed my suspicions of how large my mother's hand felt. Indeed, more than my lower face was covered by my mother's hand which engulfed the area from my chin to the middle of the bridge of my nose. Well, it would should she decide to smother me. Her grips of my mouth so far that day had simply covered my mouth, chin, and some of the underside of my nose with her thumb pressed onto the middle of the bridge of my nose. Some of her soft palm was under my chin which forced my jaw to remain closed.

Once I was in my mother's bedroom, after being dragged out of the bathroom, I was released and told to stand where I was which was about three feet [1 m] from the edge of her bed. My mother sat on the edge of the bed near me and put on a pair of shiny, dark-red heels with a heel that was about three inches [7 cm] high and shaped like a one-and-a-half inch [4 cm] square which was rounded on the side facing toward the shoe. How my mother walked in those things was beyond me. I could never manage to keep my balance in shoes like those, regardless of how wide the heel was.

My mother sat on the edge of the bed for a moment and looked at me contentedly. "So, are you ready for our shopping trip?" she asked me with apparent excitement in her voice. I simply looked uncertainly at her and then let my eyes drop to the ground. I had been raised to never lie to my mother, and I knew that if I said I was excited about shopping with her for implements of punishment for me, I would be lying.

My mother grabbed my shirt collar and curtly pulled me closer to her body so that I was standing in between her slightly-spread legs. Keeping a hold of my shirt collar with her left hand, my mother grabbed my face with her strong right hand, squeezing my cheeks and causing my lips to purse. I looked at my mother with wide, nervous eyes and saw a touch of madness in my mother's expression. "What? What's the matter? You do want to go shopping with me, don't you?" my mother asked me with a warning tone in her voice that told me if I didn't say what she wanted to hear, things would not go well for me. "I mean, if you don't want to go shopping with me, I could always tie you up and leave you in my trunk with a gag in your mouth while I'm in the store. The thing is, I might be a little while, so you could be in the trunk for at least half of the day. And it does get awfully hot in there," my mother said, revealing my alternative punishment.

"No, mommy, I do! I do want to go shopping with you," I said though lips that were still forcefully-pursed by my mother's strong fingers squeezing my cheeks. I watched my mother's red lips spread into a sweet smile of loving contentment as if it was normal for a mother to hold her son the way she was holding me and to speak to him the way I was being spoken to.

"That's my good little pet. I'm glad you're beginning to understand," my mother replied. Her grip on my collar tightened along with her grip of my cheeks. I tried to keep my eyes open, even though the pressure of having my cheeks squeezed made me want to close them, because I wanted to see what was going to happen next. I watched in horror as my mother brought her face forward and kissed me fully on my thin lips, engulfing them in her full, womanly ones. Although her lips were unbelievably soft, I felt a shudder of confused revulsion course through my thin body as my mother suctioned her mouth over mine, forcing me to kiss her back. She pulled back slightly, releasing my lips from her suctioning hold, and gently kissed my top lip, then my bottom lip. I continued to stare at my mother with wide eyes as my face and shirt collar was released.

"Oh, look what you did. Now you're shirt's all wrinkled there," my mother said, indicating the area she had just grabbed.

"B-but 3;y-you just grabbed me-mmmmmphhhhh 3;mmhhh," I began, looking at her incredulously, before my mother shot to her feet, put her left hand on the back of my head and roughly grabbed my mouth with her big, strong, soft right hand. Her thumb and fingers fiercely dug into my cheeks while her broad palm squashed my lips into my teeth so that I could hardly make a sound.

"Did I ask for your opinion? Did I ask for you to talk back to me like a little snot-nosed brat?! No, I don't believe I did! Bad Kitty!" my mother said with a raised voice of thorough irritation as a couple more nervous moans managed to leak out of my covered mouth which couldn't be heard at all over the scolding. Bringing her face closer to mine, her mouth just a couple inches from my handgagged face, my mother said, "Now straighten that shirt of yours, or I might just decide to leave you in my trunk after all." Her words filled me with fear for she accentuated her threat by saying it in a low voice through clenched teeth, showing me how truly angry she was with me for speaking out of turn.

The grip on my mouth was so tight, along with that of the back of my head, so I couldn't really nod in understanding. I did my best and tried to make short, up-and-down motions of my head which was good enough for my mother, I supposed, for my face was released just after. I stood for a moment and attempted to catch my breath before straightening my shirt and tucking excess material into my shorts. When I looked up at my mother, her expression had changed completely. It was so weird how not a minute before she had fiery anger in her eyes and, when I was done straightening my shirt, she wore an expression of sweet, loving adoration on her face. I could sense, though, a look of triumph in her eyes. I think my mother knew that she had me exactly where she wanted me and that there was no way that I could escape.

"What a cute little pet you are," my mother said then with a smile that could have been mistaken for sweet. "Are you ready to go shopping now?" she said and, before I could even part my lips to answer, stepped forward to grab my mouth with her big, strong right hand and to take a pinching hold of my upper left arm with her left hand. Officially silent and helpless then, I was forced along through the house until we reached the front door. I realized that I was going to be escorted outside with big female hands covering my face and upper arm. Fearing that I was going to be seen that way, when we were in front of the door, I tried to stop and show my protest by fighting my mother's large, soft hand clamped over my mouth.

I whimpered a couple of times as I felt the seemingly vast expanse of the smooth, strong hand covering more than half of my face. I didn't have time to make any progress at all for as soon as my mother felt me touch her hand, she reacted to my protests. "Keep your hands down, you little brat!" hissed my mother while her grip of my mouth and lower face tightened to the point where my face immediately began to ache and hurt. A couple more pathetic whimpers escaped me as I continued to try to verbally protest going outside like this. "I don't care what you want. All that matters is what I want; so if I want to take you shopping with my hand over your pathetic little mouth, that's all there is too it," my mother said as if she could read either my mind or, more likely, my watery eyes that were forced to become slits since the grip over my mouth was so tight.

With that, my mother unbolted and unlocked the front door before forcing me outside. The morning air was somewhat cool for there was a light breeze blowing. It was purported to be warm later as heard from yesterday's radio broadcast. I attempted to look around with just my eyes while my mother locked the door. No one was outside yet; a thing which I thought was a little odd. That feeling could have simply been the effects of the emotions coursing through me as a result of my mother's mistreatment of me. However, in past years, I had seen our neighbor outside sometimes around that time. She, a woman around my mother's age with black hair who lived to our left, and the blonde woman across the street were often seen tending the flowers and few bushes in their immaculate front yards. I didn't see what else those women had to do for the woman living to our left was divorced six years ago, and the blonde woman across from us lost her husband to the war. Both women had babysat me before so my mother could go out on the town alone (to dinner, I guessed). I wonder how they would feel if they knew my mother was treating me the way she was. Thoughts of telling them about my mistreating mother raced through my head in the few seconds it took for my mother to deadbolt and lock the front door.

Never once did my mother remove her silencing, painfully-gripping hand from my mouth and face while she forced me down the three steps leading up to the door and then left to the driveway. I was forced in through the driver's side door of our dark-red Cadillac and commanded to crawl across the cream-colored vinyl of the front seat until I sat in the middle. My mother slid in next to me and simply smiled sweetly at me, as if we were simply a normal mother and son who were going into town. I knew differently, even if my mother's apparent craziness caused her not to.

As my mother backed the car out of the driveway, she put her right arm around my shoulders while driving with her left. I expected her to put her hand over my mouth, so I winced a little and tried to squirm. I received a very firm slap on my right upper arm. "Be still," said my mother evenly as she began to drive out of our neighborhood. "I thought it would be nice to stop by Lora Lee first to shop and then head over to Parham's for a bite to eat. What do you think?" my mother asked as if she actually was going to be considerate and hear what I had to say. No such luck, for as I turned my head to look up at her to answer, my mother quickly grabbed my mouth with her big right hand in a more-than-firm embrace. "Oh, that's right, you have my hand over your mouth and you can't speak! How silly of me," my mother chided, "Well, never you mind then. I'll make the decisions from here on out."

I desperately wanted to fight her hand off of my mouth, or at least try, because that helpless feeling of having my lower face encased within a strong female hand was unsettling. Also, I didn't want to go to Lora Lee's; it was a female clothing store which my mother had dragged me around a few times before while picking out dresses. It was just so boring. I wondered, though, given how my mother was treating me, what she would do with me while she shopped. Her earlier comment of how I was to 'look the part' as her 'pet' returned to me. Lora Lee's, to my knowledge, didn't have a costume section, if that's what was meant. So, what was going on? One nice thought, though, was going to Parham's because they have great sandwiches and, if my mother feels generous, great malt shakes too.

"Now, you just keep quiet so we can have a nice, peaceful drive. No one needs to hear that mouth of yours," my mother said as she released my mouth. She kept her arm draped around my shoulders, her large right hand on my lower chest.

The drive into town was not long in actual time, but the minutes seemed to pass by at a crawling pace. While I was forced to remain cuddled up against my mother's right side, inhaling the smell of her bath products, I began to feel the large, female hand on my chest do some unsettling things. I felt a bit of movement as we started the drive to town. Looking down, I noticed my mother move her hand to my shirt where my right nipple was. Curling her fingers, my mother began playing over that small spot with her red-painted nails, softly scratching at the tip of my nipple through the shirt fabric. I shuddered as I first felt the touch for it was weird and because I had never been touched there like that, least of all by my mother. I shifted slightly in order to make my discomfort evident to the woman touching me.

When my mother felt me shift, she took a quick, very-unkind pinching hold of my small, right nipple. The tight, sharp twisting caused me to shift and gasp through gritted teeth. "Now, are you going to stay still?" my mother asked with an irritated edge to her voice.

"Uh-huh, uh-hu-mmmmmphhhhh," I stuttered in affirmation before I was rudely cut off by my mother who released my nipple and grabbed my mouth in a tight hold.

"Good, that's what I expect. Stay still and sit on your hands. That should help," my mother said, and I quickly did as I was commanded lest more punishment come my way. More punishment did, however, come my way as my mother soon released my mouth and lower face so that she could take another even rougher pinching hold of my tender right nipple; its throbbing aches had ignited into heated pain again. Sitting on my hands, I gritted my teeth and looked up at my mother with squinched eyes as an attempt to beg for mercy. My mother didn't look down at me and didn't say so much as another word. She also didn't release my nipple until we were parked in front of the clothing store.

My mother parked curbside in one of a dozen spaces that was defined by two diagonal lines facing the direction we approached from. Once the car was off, my mother tucked the keys into my right shorts pocket before unkindly grabbing my mouth with her big, strong right hand and curtly hooking her wrist so my head was forced to my left. "Now, while we're in there, you are going to be quieter than a church mouse, or so help me God I will punish you right there in the middle of the store. I don't care who's watching, so you just mind yourself," my mother warned me with a glare of triumph and stony coldness.

I produced a shaky, brief whimper and tried to nod my head, but my mother's grip was simply too tight. However, she felt my efforts and could see my understanding in my wide, nervous eyes, both of which were enough for her. I was released and commanded to get out of the car on my mother's side once she had exited first. As when we were in the car, my mother immediately draped her right arm around my shoulders and kept her hand dangling over my right one. Her hand, I noticed, was kept close to my mouth in case the need was felt to silence me for some reason.

The clothing store had a façade which contained a darker almond-green stucco with 'Lora Lee' spelled out in a type of cursive-print font. A large, enclosed display window dominated the front and contained seven mannequins advertising the latest and greatest of what was inside. The entrance to the store was a single swing-open door on the left which is where my mother forced me to upon leaving the car.

"Remember what I said," my mother reminded me as we approached the door, "Not a peep out of you. Now, why don't you open the door for a lady?" Her arm left my shoulders as I held the door for her. When she was a step ahead of where I stood, she quickly reached back and grabbed my left arm with her strong right hand and curtly pulled me inside before draping her right arm about my shoulders again. I guess she reacted quickly in case I had the notion to try to run away.

The inside of Lora Lee appeared to be a typical clothing store: racks of free-hanging dresses lined the left wall while various blouses, stockings, undergarments, and even gloves hung from smaller racks throughout the floor. The right wall was completely devoted to shoes and scarves of various lengths and materials. The register counter was just to the right of the door and was supervised by a beautiful middle-aged woman with dyed-blonde hair done up into a bun. It was the blonde woman across the street from us! What was her name? Oh, I couldn't remember, because she hadn't babysat me since I was four years old.

Dressed in a yellow sun dress, the woman was looking down into the glass-topped counter and appeared to be studying the rings and necklaces inside. Upon hearing the bell over the door jingle, the woman looked up and greeted my mother and I with a broad smile and a cheerful tone of voice.

"Good morning, Marion! Welcome to Lora Lee," the woman said, greeting my mother. Returning her smile, my mother bade the woman a good morning as well before ushering me in a manner with hidden force into the store. Five other women were perusing the racks in the middle of the store and observing and feeling various wares.

"You remember Lora Lee, don't you, darling? And Darlene? She babysat for you when you were just a little thing" my mother asked me in a low voice while forcefully escorting me through the racks to the back of the store. The look in her eyes when she looked down at me warned me that I was to only nod and not speak. I nodded even though I didn't remember anything about 'Darlene'. "Well, I bet you don't know about the private collection they have here. I've never taken you there before. It's a very exciting little place," my mother said. I looked up at my mother with worry in my eyes as we passed the last of the racks on the main floor.

The back wall of the store contained one bathroom door on the left, more shelves of gloves, and another door which was a storage room. Labeled 'Employees Only', the door was of solid oak and was kept shut by a heavy-looking handle. Approaching the door, I noticed that there was a doorbell to the right of the door that looked like any old one on a house.

My mother pushed the button while I looked past her to her left and noticed another middle-aged woman with red hair going just past her shoulder blades and pale skin trying on a pair of black velvet gloves. She held her long right index finger to her red-painted lips which pursed in a slight shushing gesture. I looked at her with nervous confusion until my concentration was broken by the clicking of heels behind my mother and I.

"Well, hello again, my dear. May I get the door for you?" said Darlene who appeared at my mother's left. I noticed the woman obscuring my view of the redheaded woman was the blonde supervisor from behind the counter. The clicking I heard was due to her off-white pumps.

"Yes, please, that would be great," my mother said with a knowing smile which was returned by the blonde woman. The confusion in my eyes increased as I wondered just what in the world was going on. The blonde woman, I noticed then, was wearing a very thin gold chain to which was attached a small key which she used to unlock the heavy-looking door in front of us.

"As always, take your time and mind the door when you leave because it locks on its own," the blonde woman said. My mother thanked her and exchanged a playful bit of chatter that revealed a little bit about what was going to happen to me 3; something about an 'outfit'. A wicked grin was flashed my way by the store attendant before she walked away.

"Now, my dear, let's find something for you to wear," my mother said mischievously before opening the door and forcing me inside the back room.

I was faced with a large room that was illuminated by the same type of lights which lit up the official store, only these were slightly more yellow. The dark-wood floor contained several racks like those in the original store, only these contained costumes. Confusion seemed to take over me as I looked at the various things on the racks in front of me: here was a nurses uniform which contained a small white and red bra, skirt, cotton panties, and white stockings; there was a Superman costume which contained a tight, pantyhose-like top with the symbol on the chest, blue stockings, red cotton panties, and red pumps. The costumes I observed appeared to all be of small sizes; small enough, even, to fit me.

The left wall of the back room contained things I had never seen before: they looked like whips, riding crops, and various wooden paddles. The right wall contained various sets of small-sized gloves of different lengths. The back wall, whose shelves were to the right of two fitting rooms, was devoted to shoes of various sizes and types, and what I now know to be gags which included fat balls attached to leather straps and thick leather pads with buckles.

"Isn't it just wonderful? All these possibilities and all the time in the world to try them out on you," my mother said while forcing me into the middle of the room in between two rows of racks on the left. My breathing rate had increased as nervousness accompanied the confusion that was flowing within me. "I can see you're already excited too. Well, just you wait until we get one of these cute little outfits on you at home. Then, we'll really be having some fun," my mother said upon noticing my increased rate of breathing.

I simply looked up at her and tried to protest with just my eyes since I knew of the consequences should I try to voice any of my concerns to her. "We'll start with two today and maybe get a few more later in the week. Ah, the possibilities are so exciting!" stated my mother. Her arm still draped around my shoulder, her large hand hovering near my lower face, my mother forced me slowly down the aisle so that I could observe the various outfits on the racks. "Hmm, they all look so good. Oh, here's a good one. Take this," my mother said while handing me a stack of wearable things. It was the Superman outfit I mentioned only this one had long, red cotton gloves that would probably extend to my upper arm.

"And, I think, we'll get this one as well. Here," my mother said while placing another stack of wearable things on top of the one I currently held with both hands. I couldn't see what these bags contained. Since they were stacked, what was in them just looked like a lump of black fur. "I think that should do it. I already have some things to gag you with and some other things for you to wear, so I think this will be good for now," my mother said while taking the lead and commanding me to follow her.

The heavy door thudded shut before a heavy clicking sound was heard which meant that the door was locked. Making my way behind my mother to the counter up front, I noticed there were now six women shopping the store. I noticed three of them staring at me with lustful satisfaction: the redhead from earlier was one of those women while the other included a brunette who had hair a shade lighter than my mother, and a lanky woman with raven-black hair which hung to just below her shoulder blades. I looked at them briefly with nervous eyes as I suspected that something horrible for me was about to occur.

"Did you find everything alright?" the blonde woman asked my mother as I lifted the stack of wears onto the glass-topped counter.

"Oh, yes, I always do, thank you," my mother replied while the blonde woman put the outfits in a paper sack.

"And will that be applied to credit?" the blonde woman asked my mother. Credit? My mother had an account for stuff like this?

"Yes, please, that'll be fine," my mother said.

"Alright, you're all set. I really hope you enjoy yourself. He's a real cutie and looks like a lot of fun to play with," Darlene said. I looked at her incredulously as she handed me the paper sack with a warning glare. I took it for I recognized that look as one my mother gave me earlier. It warned me that if I didn't take the bag, serious consequences would follow.

"Oh, I will. We're going to have lots of fun together," my mother said while putting her left arm around me and giving me a hug from the side. Her big, strong left hand moved to tightly clamp over my mouth and lower face. "He just loves it when I play with him. He's really taken a liking to it. Or, at least, he will after a few years of training," my mother said. The blonde woman behind the counter grinned broadly with knowing mischief that filled her sparkling blue eyes.

"Hnh hnn, that sounds wonderful. He really is adorable. I'm currently training my little Jeffery too. He hasn't quite taken a liking to me playing with him, but he'll learn eventually. Would you like to see him?" the blonde woman behind the counter asked.

My mother agreed heartily and, after the blonde woman suggested she come around the counter, forced me with her hand still clamped super-tight over my mouth behind the register. The small area was about nine feet long and three wide [2½m x 1 m] and supported the counter whose lower half was hollowed out for storage. It would have normally contained things to help maintain the store, but, instead, inside a two-foot [60 cm] deep hollow, laid a young boy of about eight years old. A natural brunette whose hair appeared to be grown about a foot [30 cm] long and tied in a ponytail, the poor boy was dressed in a yellow sun dress like his mother. He also wore pantyhose and small off-white pumps on his feet. He was inhumanely bound with white rope: his wrists and elbows were bound together so they were touching while the same was done with his ankles and knees with rope above and below where his legs bent. I could see his small package through the pantyhose for he was forced into a vicious hogtie. His mouth appeared to be stuffed to the brim with some sort of fabric which was kept in place by a yellow silk scarf tied very tightly around his lower face.

I heard the boy's breathing rate increase faster than it already was as he turned his head, for he was facing toward the door, to look back at us with his left eye. He winced, though, upon feeling the scarf tighten even more around his mouth, and resorted to simply keeping his head facing forward.

"Oh, what a cute little pet you have," my mother said delightedly.

"Thank you, I think so too. I bring him here every day and make sure he stays very quiet so as not to bother the lovely ladies that shop here. Well, Jenna, why don't you say 'hi'?" the cruel blonde woman asked the poor boy. She firmly nudged him in the ribs with the toe of her left pump which elicited a barely-audible groan from the helpless boy. My mother and the blonde woman shared a laugh at his expense.

"His name's 'Jenna'? That's a lovely name," my mother said.

"I know. It's much better than Jeffery, which is what his father named him; pathetic man. I'm teaching Jenna here to never act the way he did. I think this is certainly doing the trick," Darlene said.

"I agree. That's what I'm teaching Jamie. Which reminds me, we better get home and get started. There's much punishment to be had and lots of lessons to be learned," my mother said. The blonde woman wished my mother farewell and told her that she was welcome back any time she pleased.

I was forced out of the store by my mother who didn't release my mouth until we were just inside the store. "Oh, what a lovely woman. It's so thoughtful of her to educate her son the way she is. Don't you think?" my mother said as she forced me out of the store with her toned-lean right arm around my shoulders. She clamped her big, soft right hand tight over my mouth for a couple of seconds; just long enough to taunt me. "Oh, silly me, I forgot. You can't speak with my hand over your mouth!" my mother said. As she removed her hand from my mouth I simply looked at her and wondered about how crazy she had become in such a short time. Besides that, what if someone saw her putting her hand over my mouth? We were right out in public! Granted, there were only a few passersby at each end of the sidewalk we were on, but that didn't matter. One of them could have still looked over just at the right moment, and then my mother might just be questioned. I imagined she would easily weasel her way out of the question, but I wondered how.

Once my mother unlocked the passenger door, I was commanded to place the outfits on the floor in front of the seat. The car was then locked and I looked at my mother questioningly once again as she put her toned-lean right arm snugly around my shoulders again. "What?" my mother asked as she looked down at me contentedly before deciding to engage in a little more one-sided conversation, "You didn't think that was the only stop we were going to make, did you? That didn't take long at all, which is good because we have a few other things to do before lunch. You need a new wardrobe which will better suit your new role as my plaything, so I figured Bettie Page's place might have just the thing. They do have a youth section, you know."

Bettie Page's place that my mother was referring to was a relatively new store that had opened about five years before my mother's craziness began. It was opened and made popular by the 'queen of pinups' and, according to my mother in the past, had quite the nice selection of boutique. I looked up at my mother with confusion as I wondered if Bettie Page actually carried boy's clothing. Just the name of the place didn't exactly inspire confidence pertaining to that fact which I doubted very much.

I was being forcefully escorted down the sidewalk extending to the right of Lora Lee, approaching the very same corner that contained a few passersby who might have seen my mother grab my mouth not a minute ago. The deep, airy sounds of cars could be heard as we began to round the corner. I looked at the people standing at the corner waiting for the crosswalk to be passable: two men in fine business dress were waiting, one smoking and the other looking at his watch and fidgeting irksomely; a woman with short, auburn hair tucked into a rounded hat with a black bow tied around it stood there as well. She was probably around my mother's age and was thinner in build. A copper colored dress, which had a loose, wide band of fabric as a belt at the waist, seemed to float on her stork-like frame. She had a face that appeared sweet but brown eyes that appeared a little crazed. The woman looked at me and then at my mother as we rounded the bend at the corner of the Lora Lee building. My mother looked at the woman sweetly before the woman winked knowingly at her. As she looked at me, the woman put a thin finger to her slightly-pursed lips in a brief shushing gesture. I simply stared at her as my mother forced me to walk in the opposite direction of the strange woman who then crossed the street behind the two businessmen.

On the large wall that made up Lora Lee and the building behind it were two grand advertisements: one was for a perfume that boasted a 'real' honeysuckle scent while the other was for Bettie Page's clothing store and pictured a blonde woman in a white dress and long, satin gloves, as if she were ready for a night on the town. As we neared the next corner of sidewalk, I noticed more people coming around it from the other side. A short man in a cheap brown suit and a Stetson rushed past, huffing and transferring his briefcase from his right hand to his left. Two women out for a stroll followed behind, and children, presumably theirs, walked next to them. The women were engaged in chattering conversation whose content I only briefly glinted as we passed them. They were younger, about in their early thirties, and seemed vibrant with radiant energy. The kids, one boy and one girl, looked nervous and a little confused. As I was escorted past them, I understood why. The brunette on the left was going on about how quiet she could keep the boy with her hands. She raved about him loving it as well, but, judging by the look of anxiety on the poor boy's face, I believed she was lying.

"Yeah, my little angel here does too! You wouldn't believe how perfectly her little mouth fits into my hand," added the woman with raven-black hair on the right as she held her thicker, short-nailed hand close to the face of the blonde girl she was escorting. The girl flinched and winced which made me feel bad for her as I understood her reaction completely.

"Good boy. I thought you were going to try to talk to them or call for help to those guys back there. You seem to be accepting your new role nicely," my mother said as the younger women passed us. What in the world was going on? Did that guy in the brown suit not hear a word those women were saying? Did he not care? Was that it? I just didn't understand at all.

My mother and I rounded the corner of the building which happened to be the Bettie Page clothing store, not passing or seeing anyone else out and about in town until we did so. The front of the building was similar to Lora Lee in that it was meant for display purposes: a set of double-doors was set in the middle of the façade which was sided by two large display windows sporting three mannequins each. The words 'Bettie Page' were stamped in swirly, raised letters above the door in black font. I saw that the only indication of the store carrying children's clothes was given by two smaller mannequins on the left next to a 'mom' mannequin that were dressed in pink cotton pajamas and a black dress with matching wrist-length, cotton gloves, respectively.

"Look," my mother said wistfully, "Look how cute they look all done up in their little gloves and dresses." We had just passed the left-hand display window whose advertised wares I had just been indirectly commanded to look at. I wondered why my mother was talking about the mannequins in the way she was. I mean, it wasn't as if she had a daughter that she could dress up in things like that.

Glancing to my right, I noticed, then, a police car cruising down the street. The driver, first glancing to his right further down the sidewalk from us and then to his left, glided by without so much as flicking his eyes toward me.

My mouth was suddenly engulfed by warm, soft female flesh as my mother quickly clamped her large, right hand super-tight over my thin lips and lower face. Her thumb pressed down much-more than snugly over the upper bridge of my nose, her short, red talon digging into the top of my left cheek. My eyes were forcefully squinched due to the pressure exerted onto my face by the broad palm which completely stifled any cries for help that I could have mustered. A thin, breath-lessened whimper never made it past my mother's big hand as she took a pinching grip of my upper left arm and forced me quickly into the slight entryway which was created by the doors which were set back into the building about three feet.

"Keep quiet, keep quiet!" my mother hissed into the left ear as she forced me curtly into the doorway.

"Mphh 3;mph-mmphhh," I moaned in worthless protest while trying to shake my head and rid myself of the horrible sensation of being handgagged.

"How dare you try to signal that policeman! That was bad! Bad kitty!" my mother continued to hiss at me, curtly shaking my head by using her handgag as leverage in order to emphasize her words. Another couple of heavily-muffled moans escaped me as my mother quickly opened the door to the store with her left hand while keeping her right locked vise-tight over my mouth and lower face.

I was forced into a short hallway which was, evidently, the beginning of the inside of Bettie Page. The hall was painted a deep-fuscia color and supported a sign on the left which read 'Welcome to Bettie Page' and had a picture of a pretty woman with black hair and short bangs smiling. The right side of the hall, which was maybe ten feet [3 m] long, contained nothing but a door labeled 'Employees Only'.

As the door swung shut, my mother berated me with more hissed warnings of punishment for trying to call for help. "Now, you keep quiet while we're in here. Remember, should I hear so much as a peep out of you, I'll punish you right here in the store," she said. I had been forced to look up at her by the curt hooking of her strong, right wrist which forced my head up and back while being pinned against her upper arm. I watched my mother's face through squinched eyes while listening to my rapid breathing rasping against the upper edge of her palm pressed against my nostrils. My mother watched my face mostly covered by her hand for a few seconds, as if she liked nothing more than seeing me in that state. Smiling broadly, my mother then said, "Come on, let's find something adorable to dress you up in."

My mother loosened her grip on my mouth before sliding her hand away slowly and letting it rest on my right shoulder. I made slight gasping sounds as I found myself able to breathe semi-properly for my nose was a little clogged from the rough treatment during the morning's progression. I could feel heat in my cheeks, meaning they were flushed, and looked around and ahead of me as we made our way into the store.

The entirety of the inside of the store, which was one large square, was painted approximately one shade lighter than the short hall which I first entered. The fuscia color was broken only by curved, black lines here and there and the many posters of the same raven-haired woman with short bangs that was on the 'Welcome' sign just inside the door. Each picture seemed to contain her striking a different pose in a different outfit while giving lustrous looks to whatever camera was being used to photograph her. These pictures were all black-and-white and were set up high in the ceiling above all the merchandise.

The left wall was devoted to adult women's shoes and contained everything from pumps to thigh-high boots both flat-soled and with heels. The floor seemed to be divided into two sections: the front half seemed to we all adult women's apparel while the back half, I found out soon after, contained all of the children's clothes. I could see wooden rack after rack of dresses, blouses, scarves, skirts, pants, both short and long, until I looked to the right wall which contained the front counter. That was glass-topped and contained jewelry of various types and a few mannequin hands, both bare and gloved, advertising some of the gold and silver inside. Beyond the counter, toward the back of the store, were many shelves of hats and some of gloves tucked into the far corner.

There were quite a few other women perusing the goods of the local store. All were watched over by the photos of the raven-haired woman and by a lookalike operating the cash register on the counter. In her late thirties, the woman had a strikingly similar look to the woman depicted in the photos: she had light skin which was accentuated by a toned-lean build similar to my mother's and black hair that she wore down on the fronts of her shoulders which were covered by the material of her black, button-up blouse that was tucked into a long black skirt. What she wore on the bottom could be seen for she was standing in front of the counter facing in my general direction, looking curiously at a black silk dress on a rack in front of her. She also wore black stockings, which could be seen on her calves for her skirt only extended to her knees, and black pumps with white spots on them. Her lips were painted a fierce red color and spread to show a dazzling, white smile as she looked up to greet us.

"Hello there, and welcome to 'Bettie Page'. Can I help you find anything?" the woman asked. I couldn't quite make out the white tag pinned to the upper left breast of the woman's blouse, so I couldn't deduce her name at first.

"Well, actually, yes," my mother started as we made our way over to her rack of clothes. Drawing nearer, I noticed the woman's name was Celia, which made sense for it seemed like a wicked name – a wicked name for a wicked-looking woman. She seemed as though she could be sweet, but when she flashed me a greedy, lust-filled look that was accented by her cold, blue eyes, all thoughts of sweetness evaporated and were replaced by evil. She smelled of sweet, flowery perfume, and I wondered if that was what pure wickedness was like.

"Certainly! What would you looking for?" Celia asked in a polite, bright, smooth voice that made my danger-meter go off. This woman conveyed a sense of sweetness, but I knew within me that there was something going on in the background, something that no one but her knew about. I could just feel it, and that feeling was reinforced by the memory of the young, long-haired boy bound and gagged at Lora Lee.

"Well, I need something to dress up this little guy in," my mother said while giving my right shoulder a light pat with her right hand. That wicked look was flashed my way again by Celia as she looked me up and down with hungry eyes.

"Oh, really? What did you have in mind?" the evil-looking woman asked my mother while dragging her eyes off of me.

"Mmh, well, I was thinking about just looking through what you have here, but I didn't know if you had any costumes? See, I was just at Lora Lee and bought a cat costume for him, but I'd really like to see if you have anything better," my mother said. I looked up at my mother for a second who gave me a warning glare before looking at Celia again.

"Hmm, I do have a couple cat costumes! They're in white, grey, or black and sort of come up over the shoulders and cover the head a little too," Celia said while sliding her hands over her shoulders in a demonstrative gesture.

"Oh, that sounds perfect! Where are they?" my mother said. Celia lead the way, then, through the jungle of silk, suede, vinyl, leather, cotton, and wool to the back, right corner of the section of children's outfits. One of the racks on the edge, after which there was the right aisle and the wall of hats and gloves, contained several furry things on hangers that had been specially designed to accommodate head pieces. There were, about five of each, white, grey, and black-furred cat costumes that were sized for someone like me: thin and somewhat short. I had never seen, or dreamed of, anything like them. I couldn't really make any sense of what the outfits were, even as Celia held out the sleeve of the black one at the front of the peg to explain the features.

"See, the sleeve is all fur, inside and outside, and ends in these adorable little gloves here which are attached. Now, I have some with claws and some without. Also, the individual fur leggings have feet attached to them, and, what's really cute about them is that they have individual toes on them," Celia explained as my mother delighted over her words. I looked on in horror and realized that my mother was actually going to make me where one of those things! Why? So many 'why's' raced around my head while Celia explained the zipper feature of the top of the costume that secured it to the wearer's chest.

"The hood here goes over the head, and has just the cutest little ears too. If he does wear this, his ears will be covered but the hood will end just before the corners of his eyes, so it won't go too far," Celia explained, flashing me another hungry look while referring to me wearing that Godforsaken thing. I really didn't like those looks; they reminded me too much of how my mother had been looking at me lately, particularly when she had her hand over my mouth.

"Oh, my, that's just fantastic! And you're right: those ears will simply look adorable on him," my mother said as Celia finished explaining the details of the outfit and tore her hungry eyes off of me to look back at her customer.

"So, how many would you like?" Celia asked my mother.

"Oh, just a black one without claws, but I'll more than likely be back later this week for a white one," my mother replied.

"Great! I'll take one up to the counter, then. Is there anything else I can help you with?" Celia asked.

"Well, I was just going to browse your glove collection," my mother said politely.

"Alright, then! If I can help you with anything else, just let me know!" Celia said with a chipper voice before removing a black, clawless cat outfit and taking it to the counter.

Watching Celia go, I noticed her flash a quick, hungry look back at me that displayed an alarming amount of mischief regarding something that I had no idea about. What in the world would cause such a strange woman to give me a look like that?

Once my head had been turned to my right for about two seconds, my mother clamped her strong, soft right hand very-firmly over my mouth and lower face. A brief, barely-audible whimper escaped me as my head was curtly forced to my left where my mother was standing. My face immediately flushed with embarrassment while my eyes filled with confusion. I began to move my hands up, intending to make an attempt at removing the large hand engulfing the entirety of my lower face, but stopped them when they reached the top of my stomach for I remembered the hissed commands outside of the store. I simply looked at my mother's face, which was in line with mine for she had bent slightly, with confusion while receiving a warning glare.

"You know, I don't like it when you look at other women that way. Do try to keep your eyes on me at all times, my love, unless I tell you to do otherwise. I'm the only woman you ever need to look at," my mother said. I looked on with confusion as my brow wrinkled to show that dominant woman just how crazy I thought she was sounding. "Now, let's go pick out some gloves to use on that cute little mouth of yours," she continued, the warning glare on her face settling into a satisfied smile.

I was led forward for several feet toward the back of the store until we stood in front of the grand back wall of the store that was riddled with shelves of gloves. Displays were set up of single, mannequin hands attached to a length of arm on which gloves were placed in order to create advertisements. Boxes of each glove displayed were stacked next to each mannequin arm, and I noticed that only three spots out of the three dozen or so were empty of merchandise. The displays were still there and were of long, white cotton gloves, short grey gloves with leather pads where the palm and finger pads were, and yellow, lace gloves that were wrist-length.

"Oh, darn," my mother said as her hand loosened and then slipped from my mouth to rest on my right shoulder again. The feel of her fingertips brushing over my lips gave me the creeps and caused my stomach to turn a little colder. "I was hoping to get those grey gloves today. Oh, well, at least I have that brown pair at home. Let's see what's over here," my mother said as she directed my attention to the right rear corner of the store where the shelves of gloves began after the ones of hats ended. Before I turned, I overheard a slightly raised voice of a woman next to us farther down the wall.

"No! You don't ever try to pull my hands off of your mouth! How many times do I have to tell you?" said a thick, plump woman with large breasts and a full, curvy waist. She wore a white housedress with imprints of small, yellow flowers here and there and flat, white shoes. Her black hair was cut short and had a fake, yellow flower tucked into it along her right temple. She was yelling at a poor little redhead boy who was maybe a year younger than me and was a skinny thing with pale skin, freckles, and thick read hair piled atop his thin head. His glasses were being removed by the big woman holding him with a thick, plump yet strong hand clamped with a viciously tight fury over his mouth and lower face. The boy's hands hovered around his navel as if he wanted so desperately to free his mouth from the burdening hand of the woman holding him but knew the consequences should he try.

The woman tossed his glasses onto a disheveled pile of four white boxes, which contained the gloves she was presumably trying on, and trying on the boy's mouth, and quickly knelt on her hearty right knee. She then released the boy's mouth only to force him to bend and his stomach to land squarely on the thick thigh of her left leg.

"P-please, I-mmph," the boy started, somewhat breathlessly for the wind had been knocked out of him, before the woman smacked her left hand squarely over his mouth and lower face. Her full, red lips spread into a satisfied yet twisted smile as her eyebrows rose slightly creating a look of triumph on her face. She yanked the poor kid's brown trousers down, and I saw the button of the pants fly and hit the rear wall of the store while the sound of the zipper being ripped open zapped into my ears.

The woman then looked squarely at my mother and said, "God, pets can be such a pain sometimes." I looked at her with confusion, disgust, and incredulity roiling about my eyes all at once. How could she treat this poor kid in such a way? I immediately grew more fearful of my mother for I was now seeing evidence of what she had threatened me with. I took a quick, rounding glance of the rest of the store and could only see two brunette women down the aisle I was standing by for the shelves and racks were too high for me to see over. Neither of them looked over or even so much as gave a curious glance as to what was going on. They simply continued to look at the dresses and outfits in the aisle as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening. I expected to hear the quick clacking of Celia's heels as she came over to see what was going on, but I heard nothing except the poor redhead boy's barely-audible moans of despair behind the thick woman's big, left hand.

"You got that right. Is he your son?" my mother asked the thick woman who sighed.

"Oh, no, he's adopted. My ex-husband managed to get live-in rights with mine, so I just had to find a new toy to play with," the dark-haired woman said before looking back at the half-naked boy lain across her leg. She then brought her thick, right hand down hard onto the boy's white butt, beginning the spanking session which was to continue for a good ten minutes.

I looked up at my mother as she turned me toward the beginning of the shelves of gloves, smirking with a knowing amusement at what had just transpired. Frankly, I wasn't sure that I wanted to know about the underlying conspiracy that seemed to exist among the women of this town. How far did it spread? Did it occupy the whole country? Did all women treat their kids, particularly boys, like this?

"You see? No one cares; it's just a normal part of life, so remember what I told you about making any noise or misbehaving," my mother said while looking down at my nervous, upturned face before moving her eyes to the shelf of gloves before her. "Alright, first I need to get the last piece of the outfit I plan to wear while playing with you. It really is my favorite thing, but it's missing just one piece. I planned to wear it for your father when he got home, but now I can wear it with you! I know you'll love it just as much as I do," my mother said while searching the shelves of gloves in front of her. I very much doubted her promise but dared not vocalize such things.

"Aha! Here we go; hold this. I found them," my mother said while snatching a long, white box from next to a mannequin hand and arm displaying a purple velvet glove that ran from the hand to about three inches [7 cm] past the elbow. "Just you wait until you feel those over your mouth, my love. You won't be able to make any sound whatsoever," said my mother as she hooked her right wrist a little so she could briefly stroke my cheeks with her fingertips. I looked at the long box and then up at my mother with nervous innocence filling my eyes. My mother smiled down at me as she continued to stroke my cheek with the fingertips of her right hand in a gesture one would think she would give to a lover. It did not feel like a loving act that a mother should force her son to partake in, and it certainly did not seem normal.

Sliding her fingertips along my cheek, my mother brought her semi-long red nails across the corner of my mouth until they were at the middle of my thin lips. "Kiss them. I know how beautiful you think they are," my mother said while still smiling down at me with lustful satisfaction. I crossed my eyes a little to look at the four red nails in front of my mouth before looking up with confused nervousness at my mother. Her face settled into a look of stern irritation before I felt a severe sting fill the front of my face.

My mother smacked my nose and mouth hard with the pads of her toned-lean fingers which instantly made my eyes water and a slight whimper escape my lips. She once again held her red nails in front of my now-quivering lips while wearing an expectant look on her face. Her eyes warned me not to hesitate again. "I said 'kiss them'! I'm not going to tell you again," said my mother as I moved my head forward a little until my lips made contact with the red nail of her middle finger. Smack! I winced heavily and produced another surprised whimper as my face was struck again by the toned pads of my mother's fingers. A tear fell from my right eye as I gasped from feeling the pain of my already sore nose and lips intensify.

"No! Start with the first finger and work your way down. Why would you start with that finger? That makes no sense," my mother said with irritation edging her tone. My lips continued to quiver from pain but also because I was attempting to not cry from the surprised stress of having my face struck. I gripped the fabric of the front of my shirt in order to fight the temptation to reach up and touch my tender nose and mouth. Moving my head forward once again, I felt my lips touch the sharp edge of the nail on my mother's right index finger. I wrapped my thin lips around it before suctioning them briefly, producing a soft, airy kissing noise. That sound, along with the fact that I was in public and the feel of the nail on my lips, made the nervousness inside my stomach grow a little. Here I was, in a shop surrounded by women who were, I assumed, like my mother, being dominated by my mother who apparently enjoyed teasing me with her large, strong, soft hands that made me feel so utterly helpless.

The finger whose nail I kissed moved upward to my nose so that the next nail could be presented to the center of my mouth. I guessed that was an indicator that my mother wished me to kiss the next fingernail, so I moved my face forward a little and wrapped my thin lips around its edge. It was just as sharp-feeling as the last one and filled me with a sense of dread as another airy kissing sound was produced. If it weren't for the fact that my mother was standing right next to me, she probably wouldn't have been able to hear those kissing sounds for the noise made by the spanking ordeal behind us would have drowned it out.

It wasn't the whimpers that the boy was producing that would have made the kissing sounds difficult to hear. Oh, no, the boy could barely be heard over the heavy-sounding smacks of the woman's right hand raining down onto his butt. I could only imagine how red and incredibly sore his poor cheeks were turning; probably almost the color of his hair.

My mother watched with satisfaction as my thin lips wrapped around the nail of her middle finger as a worshipping gesture, but she moved her gaze back to the shelves of gloves once she put her ring-finger nail in front of my mouth. I immediately began kissing it and devoting my worshipping lips to it for I really didn't want my mother to smack me again. "Mm, those look nice," my mother said thoughtfully as she brushed her left hand over a displayed glove which was long and made of dark-grey satin. It shone in the light of the overhead bulbs and reflected every bit it received which made it look almost alien in origin. "Don't you think so, my love?" she asked, looking down at me as I made another airy kissing sound by wrapping my lips around her ring-finger nail again. I simply looked up at her with my eyes before noticing an absence of nail at my lips.

My mother had pulled her right hand back, swiveling her wrist and moving it forward from my face as well, before smacking it hard over my mouth and lower face. I could even hear the clapping sound her soft, toned palm and fingers made as they made contact with my sensitive lips and cheeks. My mother hooked her strong wrist and moved my head up and back so that I was forced to look up at her through forcefully-squinched eyes. "What was that? You do like them? Well, that's just dandy then because I'm going to buy a pair. Maybe I'll wear those on our date tonight," my wicked mother said while gazing with lustful satisfaction into my helpless eyes.

I produced a couple of questioning whimpers into her overly-tight gripping hand upon hearing my mother mention this 'date' word. "I know, I can't wait as well. I've been anticipating it all morning. We're going to have a splendid time, you and I," she said while moving my head so that I was forced to look forward again by using her overbearing grip on my mouth as leverage. I pondered what my mother meant by 'our date' as the woman in question resumed her considerations of the hand-hugging merchandise in front of us. The stinging in my thin lips caused by the impact of my mother's thick palm against them subsided to a dull throb as another long box was handed to me. I stacked it on top of the other box I was holding and found that I couldn't hold both boxes with my hands for the stack was too wide. I resorted to holding them across my arms, as a servant might, and hugged them to my chest.

"Now, let's see what else we have here," my mother said as she moved me slightly to the left so she could review the merchandise tucked into the corner created by the right and rear walls of the store. "Ah, here's something nice," she said as she brushed the fingers of her left hand across a mannequin hand displaying a red, leather driving glove with no fingers and heart-shaped holes where the knuckles would bulge through. "Take one of these too. They'll look absolutely fantastic over your little mouth," my mother said as she handed me a box similar to the ones I held but was about a third of the length.

The large, strong hand over my mouth and lower face was beginning to grow quite warm from holding my mouth most of the morning. The light dampness accumulating within its soft folds created a much more effective seal across my lips than I could have ever thought possible. I sure wished that my mean mom would take her hand off of my mouth because my cheeks, lips, and nose were aching consistently at that point. Every protest I would try to make would only turn into the most pathetic-sounding, barely-audible whimpers of helplessness that were ever heard.

"Don't you dare let any of those fall. If you do, I'll spank you a lot harder than the woman behind us. Now, let's see 3;Oh! Those look nice!" my mother warned before glancing over her left shoulder at the shelves of gloves on the rear wall of the store. Using her ever-so-tight gripping hand as leverage, my mother pulled me backward and slightly to the left so that we were now facing the rest of the gloves on display. I noticed out of the corner of my eye as I was being moved that the poor redhead kid had been allowed a break from being spanked. His once pale butt was so red that it almost matched the color of his hair. He lay over his mistress' hearty left knee and hitched out barely-audible sobs into her thick left hand still gripping his mouth and thin lower face with a silencing fury. I could hear his breath rasping through his partially-clogged nostrils that were made so from his crying.

My mother's body then obscured the sight from view as she stepped forward and ran her left hand all over a long, brown leather glove on display. She studied it thoughtfully as if she were deciding which outfits those gloves would look nice with. Throughout the couple minutes she decided, she kept her big right hand locked super-tight over my mouth and lower face. My cheeks decided they'd had enough and told me so via their language of throbbing aches which increased slightly in intensity.

"Mphh 3;mhmphh 3;" I whimpered briefly into my mother's tight-gagging hand which caused my mother to look down at me, her left hand still resting on the displayed glove.

"What?" she asked impatiently and sounded quite irked that I had diverted her attention from something that was, apparently, more important than the comfort of her own son.

"Hmphh 3;mph 3;" I whimpered again and attempted to move my head a little as an indicator that I wanted very much to be rid of the merciless hand over my mouth.

"No, I will not remove my hand from your mouth! How dare you even suggest such a thing. Get used to it, my little pet, because you're going to be having my hand over your mouth most of the time from now on. I can't have my kitty thinking that he can speak whenever he wants, now can I?" my mother said with a cruel tone of voice that confused me less and scared me more. This was actually happening: my mother was becoming a psychopath obsessed with keeping me quiet and making me her 'pet'. In fact, something weird was going on with all of the women I seemed to have come into contact with lately. What the heck was going on?"

My train of thought was broken by another box being stacked on top of the few that were cradled in my thin arms. The aching of my cheeks returned as I was pulled leftward by the mouth a couple of feet by my mother who saw yet another pair of gloves she wanted. "Oh my God, how great do these look?" she exclaimed after yanking me in the direction she wished me to go.

Luckily, I managed to make my feet find their way in time to keep my balance which allowed the boxes of gloves in my arms to remain hugged against my chest as opposed to being on the floor. My mother reached out to the waist-high shelf ahead of her and felt a mannequin hand displaying a black, cotton glove that was quite long but was fingerless as well. It was a strange sort of look for it combined the elegance of the opera-style glove with the daring rebelliousness of a fingerless one. "

I could wear these with just about anything, and they would always look good over your mouth regardless," my mother said as she snatched a box from the shelf and forced it against my chest. Thankfully, my mouth was released then so that I could perform my duty as "glove box holder" more efficiently. I was commanded to tuck the top box of the stack I was holding under my chin so that I could more securely hold my mother's merchandise.

"Well, I think that's everything for now. Shall we go to the park and play before lunch?" my mother said with a contented sigh which made me wonder what exactly she meant by 'play'. Her mentioning of the word made my stomach turn with nervousness as I had no idea what was going to happen to me. Whatever it was, I knew I wouldn't like it one bit.

"Never mind, don't bother answering. I don't need to hear your mouth anyway," my mother said while putting her right arm snugly around my shoulders before beginning to escort me up to the register. As we walked away from the back of the store, I noticed the plump woman had stood the redhead boy in front of her and had pulled his pants up before straightening his shirt. She was stroking the boy's face with her big, thick hands with an almost tender affection which, I saw, confused the boy a lot. Before directing my eyes forward again, I saw the woman lean forward and kiss the boy fully on the mouth, engulfing his small lips with her full ones. The boy moaned in protest but couldn't go anywhere, for the woman gripped his face and forced him to stay where he was. I felt so sorry for the kid and wished there was something that I could do. Sadly, I had more than enough of my own troubles to deal with.

Upon reaching the counter, Celia got up from whatever she was sitting on behind it and began helping me put the boxes of gloves near the register. I noticed how lean yet strong her long fingers looked as she took the boxes of gloves from me while eyeing me mischievously for a brief moment. My mother kept her arm snugly wrapped around my shoulders while Celia completed the transaction and then looked up from the register.

"I'm just checking, but would you like this on your tab?" Celia asked my mother after indicating the total amount which was over one hundred dollars.

"Yes, please," the woman who essentially ruled my life replied. "Hey, did they ever find your little boy?" my mother asked Celia who looked up with the broadest smile on her face.

"Yeah, they did. He actually managed to make it across the state line but, luckily, I have a few friends in the county. The one is a state cop, and, after she found him, she took him to my other friend's place out in the country. I'm actually visiting him this weekend," Celia said.

"Great! That's wonderful. I'm sure glad he didn't find any help. Are you bringing him home with you?" my mother asked with concern as Celia handed me the bag of glove boxes which was surprisingly heavy.

"No, he has a lot to learn after pulling a little stunt like that. I'll probably bring him back in a month or so, but not a day before. He needs to learn just how good he has it here at home. My friend isn't as 3;nice 3;as I am," Celia said which made my mother smile a shark-like grin full of understanding. "As soon as he's back, though, I promise we'll do a little 'pet-swapping' and have ourselves some fun," Celia said as we began to turn from the counter to leave.

"Oh, yes, the variety will be really nice. I can't wait to get my hands on him," my mother said as we walked parallel to the front windows of the store toward the door in the corner. "I suppose you're wondering what that was all about," my mother said as she pushed open the right hand door before escorting me through it. "Celia's little boy didn't take to the whole 'pet' life very well and managed to escape her house on foot. He was lost for three days; no one could find him at all."

I had been forcefully escorted to the right after exiting Bettie Page's store and was being lead back down the sidewalk toward the corner of the store. "She was, of course, very worried that he might meet someone who could get Celia in trouble. Luckily, as you heard, she has a friend in the state police unit. Rather, she at least poses as someone in the state police. She actually inherited the things from her deceased husband, and good riddance, if I might add. He was a real cheating bastard," my mother continued. I looked up at my mother then for I had never actually heard her curse at all. She was always so adamant about me never using such language and set an example by not using it herself.

"I wanted to tell you that so you would have an idea of what would happen if you managed to get away from me. For your sake, I wouldn't try anything so foolish; everyone I know has friends like that as well. Besides, you wouldn't be able to make it out of our neighborhood let alone out of the state," my mother said with a haughtiness that I never thought would come out of her. She strolled me down the length of sidewalk that ran parallel to the side of the clothing stores we were in with an air of satisfied, yet confident, ease that made me nervous. No one knew that my own mother was dominating me even though she was simply keeping her arm around my shoulder.

Rounding the final corner and making our way to where the car was, I saw that there were puffy clouds in the blue, sunny sky and wished with all of my might that I could fly like a bird among them. I'd be free from oppressing female hands and a life that had suddenly turned very weird and unpleasant. My mother had me set the bag of glove boxes on the passenger side floor when we had reached the car, never once removing her snugly-gripping arm from around my shoulders. I thought, as I was being lead back toward the sidewalk, that we were going to leave, but my mother had a different idea.

"No, not yet. I want to get some champagne to celebrate our new life together. We can have a drink in the park, play for a little while, then get a nice lunch. I think that sounds like the perfect start to a date," my mother said as we began walking past Lora Lee's to its left. Beyond it, and practically right next to it once a narrow alley was passed, was a liquor store called 'Nantucket Spirits' which I thought was strange since we didn't live in a place called Nantucket. It was a small place with a white-washed façade with a large window that was half covered by advertisements for various adult beverages. The door was on the left side of the building and dinged open when my mother pulled it.

"Hello?" my mother inquired and I noticed a graying-haired gentlemen with a mustache sitting on a stool behind the counter directly ahead of us.

"Yes, good day," grumbled the man who was a short, pudgy fellow about sixty-five or so.

"Is it alright if I bring my son in with me? I'll only be a minute," my mother asked in a higher-pitched voice that was meant to sound innocent.

"Yes, yes, that's fine," the man grumbled, not looking up from the book in front of him. The only thing that could be heard in the small place was the sound of the fans inside the ice box coolers that made sure the cold air was distributed evenly. I wanted to call to the man and make him aware of the woman leading me around, but I was quickly forced directly to the right of the door and behind racks of wine.

Those racks obscured any view the old man might have had of me and ensured that he didn't see my mother's big, strong right hand slip up and over my mouth before clamping down super-snugly over the entirety of my lower face. "Shhh," came a soft, shushing sound from my mother who put slightly-pursed lips to my left ear as she lead me along the right wall of the store to the first cooler. A brief, breathless whimper that displayed my ultimate helplessness leaked out of me as I was forced over to the cooler quickly by my mother who pulled open the door and selected a chilled, dark-green bottle with a cork wrapped in foil. I was then forced back along the same way we came in so that the same racks of wine would obscure any possible view of me being kept so utterly quiet and helpless by my cruel mother.

Releasing my mouth as we rounded the end of the wine rack to go to the counter, my mother held up the bottle and set it next to the register. Upon hearing the bottle being set down, the old man looked up and creakily stood from the stool he was sitting on so he could operate the register.

"Is this for someone special?" the old man said kindly.

"Yes, my husband just returned from the war," my mother responded while the old man briefly glanced at me.

"Oh, congratulations, that's good to hear. Well, you can just have that for free then. I believe in veterans getting something for free, even if it is just an old bottle of spirits," said the old man.

"Why thank you! That's awful nice of you," my mother said, putting an almost southern drawl on the 'awful'.

"It's nothing. Have a nice day," the old man said while turning to walk back to his book.

As soon as his back was turned, my mother grabbed my mouth with her big right hand and began forcing me out of the store. She was quick about it so she could get me out of the store before the old man had a chance to turn around. Shoving the door open with her left shoulder, my mother forced me outside and began walking me to the car with that same confident ease to her stride which was different from the swiftness of her actions inside the liquor store. She didn't remove her hand from my mouth while escorting me to the car and made a snide remark about how the old man couldn't have helped me even if he wanted. Her voice had returned to its normal, natural pitch which carried a dominant edge to it.

The nervousness tinged with fear that had been rolling around in my stomach intensified as my mother forced me to, and then through, the driver's side door after commanding me to open it so she could maintain her super-tight grip of my mouth. Releasing my face then, my mother put her large right hand on the back of my head and pushed me downward and forward and forced me into the car. Her hand on the back of my head felt large even then and felt like she was practically palming it.

"Get in there and sit on your hands," came a low, sharp command from my mother whose tone of voice warned me that playtime had begun and that I was to be on my best behavior. My mother slid into the seat after me and immediately shoved the cold bottle of champagne between my legs, making sure that it pressed firmly against my crotch. The coldness from the bottle shot up into my torso via my genitals and caused a gasp to escape my lips. My mother was quick to clamp her right hand vise-tight over my mouth to silence me, hooking her strong wrist and forcing my squinched eyes to meet her dominant ones.

"Shut up! I didn't give you permission to make any noise! Therefore, you don't make a sound unless I say so, do you understand?" my mother suddenly snapped at me which caused a chill of fear to run down my spine. Her grip of my mouth was so tight that I could only produce the most pathetic-sounding, stifled whimpers through lips that were squashed into silent oblivion. The sounds were enough to make my mother's face spread into an almost sweet grin that could have lit up any room under normal circumstances. To me, though, that smile only seemed creepy considering how crazy the woman wearing it was.

"Goodie. That's my good little pet; you're beginning to learn just who's in charge here, aren't you?" said the wicked woman dominating me before releasing my mouth and starting the car. The coldness from the bottle had actually numbed my crotch but still left a bit of stinging pain in the general area. I wanted to moan and plead for mercy to my mother so she would remove the bottle, but the consequences for doing so would be severe should I do such a thing.

"Also," my mother said as she backed out of the parking space before driving in the direction of, and then past, the liquor store, "You don't even want to know what I'll do to you if you let that bottle fall. So, for your sake, I'd hug that thing with your cute little thighs as tightly as possible." I was way ahead of her as my thighs had indeed been hugging the champagne bottle tightly since it was shoved between my legs.

I felt my mother's right arm slip around my shoulders before feeling her right hand smoothly slip over my lips. She clamped her hand very tightly over my small mouth then: her broad, soft palm sealed my lips once again while her long fingers wrapped much-too-snugly around my left cheek, leaving her thumb to press down firmly onto the upper bridge of my nose. I fought to keep my hands under my butt and to not give in to the feelings of extreme discomfort at having my face held the way it was, forcing me to experience the utmost sensations of helplessness.

"Mmh, now for a nice, quiet ride to the park, just you and me. A little playtime, a little champagne, a little lunch 3;I think we'll have the time of our lives," my mother said as we took a right at the next light before taking an immediate left. "At least, I'll certainly be having the time of my life. It doesn't really matter if you like it or not. Isn't that right, my pet?" I felt my head being turned to my upper left just enough so my eyes could reach her gaze.

"Mphh 3;hmphh 3;mm 3;" I moaned almost breathlessly into her overly-tight gripping hand as the only means of response that I could manage.

"Hnh hnh hnn, that's right, little boy. It doesn't matter at all," replied the evil woman as she drove off while keeping me secured within her clutches.

The conditions of the ride to the park continued to remain in a similar manner until we reached the parking lot just outside of it. My thighs had become quite cold, from holding the bottle of chilled champagne steady, and had become tingly with little pin-pricks of sensation. What had also become somewhat numb were my hands on which I had been forced to sit so that I would not succumb to the temptation of reaching up to pull and pry at the large, strong, soft female hand that had silenced me for extended periods of time during the ride.

Upon coming to the three stoplights that were encountered before entering the relatively direct stretch of road to the park, my mother would remove her hand from my mouth so that no one in the vehicle stopped next to us would see her mistreating me. I was not able to notice right away that we approached the lights until we came to a stop for my eyes were forced to become squinting slits due to the size of my mother's hand over my mouth and the pressure exerted by it. I would be commanded to keep looking straight ahead and to not attempt to make eye-contact with anyone in a vehicle beside us lest I wished to suffer the consequences.

After each stoplight, my mother would slip her big right hand up and over my mouth before unhurriedly and methodically clamping it tight over my thin lips and lower face, thereby rendering me completely silent and somewhat deprived of sight. The smell of my mother's hand, which I detected through partially-clogged nostrils, became musty from use due to the body odor of the woman holding me captive. I would not always find myself immediately robbed of speech after the stoplight. It would depend on the situation. For example, after the first stoplight, we happened to be taking a right while the car to our left continued straight. In that case, my mother did immediately resume her hellacious handgag while making a few snide remarks about me being her good pet that was quickly learning the acceptance of my role in life. However, my mother's car was behind another at the next two stoplights, after which, in both cases, we continued straight. The car ahead of us at the second stoplight did not turn until approximately two minutes after the light while the car at the third stoplight did not turn until five minutes after the light. So, my mother was only able to handgag me for the couple minutes between the second and third lights.

After that, my mother simply kept her big right hand draped over my right shoulder and resting on my chest as an unfriendly reminder of the consequences should I think of disobeying her by trying to make a fuss. I remained in a handgag-free state until the car ahead of us turned off on a different road at which point there was only about another five minutes of travel left, for the park was set behind the line of broad-leaf trees that bordered the eastern edge of town. As soon as the car ahead of us turned, my mother quickly clamped her strong, soft right hand super-tight over my mouth, squashing my lips into a hopeless state of silence. She used quite a bit of pressure which made a few barely-audible moans of helpless irritation escape me. The justification for using so much pressure on my face was in order to make up for the fact that I had 'missed out' on the experience for the few minutes of travel after the third stoplight. I listened to my crazy mother's 'justification' and felt the knot of nervousness and confusion in my stomach tighten just a little more, a thing which I thought could not happen. That knot remained tightly cramped within me even after my mother slowed the car briefly before turning left into the parking lot stretching along the western edge of the park.

Entering the long lot, whose vehicle slots were on the left edge, my mother released my mouth (for which I was thankful) in order to make the careful, sharp turn required to park the car. Once idle, my mother grabbed my mouth again with her big right hand and forced my head up and back so that I had to look into her stony, lust-filled eyes.

"Now, we have to get some things from the trunk before going into the park, so I won't be able to safely handgag you until we're actually out of the parking lot. I just want you to know that, should you think of doing anything silly, like trying to run away or call for help, I'll bind and gag you and leave you in the trunk for the rest of the afternoon. Understand?" my cruel, dominant mother said with a heavy tone of warning. She felt me nodding as best as I could, a thing which was quite difficult seeing as how her grip over my mouth was so tight that I could barely move my head at all. What also helped demonstrate my forced understanding was the couple of short, heavily-muffled whimpers that leaked from behind my mother's strong, soft hand.

It was then that I found my face free of female hands, the first time since breakfast. I pulled my half-numb, aching hands out from underneath my butt so that I could take a hold of the champagne bottle, thereby providing some much-needed relief to my cold, hurting thighs and crotch.

"Oh, and grab the small box from the bag, my pet. Those are the gloves I'm going to start on you with," commanded my mother as I started to scoot across the seat toward the driver's side door. I retrieved the small box from the glove bag and hurried to get out of the driver's side of the car for my mother was snapping the fingers of her right hand in an impatient gesture. "Hurry up, little lady, we don't have all day!" snapped my mother as I finally exited the car. "Well, actually, we do," she continued as I walked around the car to the trunk, inside of which, I found out, was a picnic basket of the kind that opened up on both sides. "I'll carry this, my dear, since your hands are full," my mother said as she took the basket from the trunk with a confident ease that made apparent the fact that her life was exactly the way she wanted it.

As the dominant woman took the lead into the park, I reflected on my mother's reference to me as "little lady". Even as my mother sharply commanded me to keep up and keep quiet, that phrase played over and over again in my mind. Pieces of the puzzle were obviously falling into my lap at that point. I just didn't know how to assemble them. There was this sinking feeling in my stomach, which somehow had room to accommodate it and the stony knot of nervousness, that suggested that my mother intended for me to become her daughter. How was that possible, though? Never mind that it was a horribly disturbing notion; I felt that I would apply the appropriate emotions to that consideration later.

So, was my mother simply meaning to make me play "dress up"? And why in the world did she buy those costumes for me? And why all of the hungry looks from her and the other women we encountered? I just didn't understand any of it and grew tired the more I tried to analyze the possible reasons for what was happening to me. I felt that there was more to the story than my mother simply wanting to demonstrate why the actions of my father against her were wrong. That was clearly demonstrated by her reaction to the letter, so there must have been something more.

The park I was being led through was called "Hertfordshire" after the woman, believe it or not, who pushed for its establishment several years ago. I could hear my mother's red pumps clopping along the off-white, concrete path that wound in and around the vast expanse of land that made up the park. That sound filled me with utter dread and nervousness for it had such a dominating air to it. The cool breeze brushed across the slightly-damp parts of my lower face, creating an atmosphere of what could be mistaken for pleasantness. It only allowed for the nervousness in my stomach to be maintained since it reminded me of the real reason why my face was slightly damp: my mother's big, incessant hands plastered over its lower two-thirds.

"How are you doing back there? You've been awfully quiet; you must be contemplating how incredible your new role in life is," my mother snickered over her right shoulder. Her voice brought me out of the bit of daydreaming I had been doing which had caused me to keep my gaze pealed to the sidewalk.

"Huh?" I said reflexively as my daydreaming spell was broken. Instantly, my mother stopped and whirled around, her right hand shooting forward as she stooped a little. My face was roughly grabbed by my mother who gripped my lower jaw in her big right hand by clamping her hand onto the underside of it while the red-nailed tips of her fingers and thumb dug painfully into my cheeks. I gasped at the sudden movement of me being pulled a curt step toward the dominant woman who grabbed me. Cold fire shone in my mother's eyes as she turned her angry gaze upon me, her mildly-full, red lips pursing in irritation.

"What was that, huh?! I thought I told you to keep quiet, and there you go already making noise. What is the matter with you?!" my mother hissed at me. Eyes wide with fear, I breathed through my forcedly-agape mouth and gripped the things in my hands out of instinct. I was awestruck into silence for I knew that I had incurred my mother's wrath just by making that barely-audible questioning noise which I had no intention of even uttering. I didn't dare respond, but my mother didn't leave any time for me to anyway because, as soon as a couple seconds passed following her question, she released my lower jaw and face and slapped my left cheek hard with two quick strikes. The clapping sound was loud enough so that it could be heard over the wind whispering through the leaves.

"Bad girl! That's a bad girl! Now, come on. I need a drink after having to have this talk with you. Keep up and keep quiet," my mother said, emphasizing her slaps with condemnations. The strikes left a heated pain in my left cheek and caused a startled tear to fall from the corner of my left eye. I had to leave it for the wind to dry seeing as how I was curtly commanded to follow my mother again after the slapping. As I began moving forward again, I looked around instinctively to see if anyone had seen what had happened. There was no one in the immediate vicinity which consisted of the area about fifty feet ahead of the parking lot. Gosh, we hadn't moved far at all. It must have been because of the nonchalant strolling pace my mother had established. I did hear a few faint voices far ahead of us, so I guessed the other people in the park were ahead of us. That had to have been the explanation for there were several other vehicles in the parking lot when we arrived.

"God, I can't wait to shut you up. You really do need to be shown who's boss around here," my mother quipped after about another minute of me following her had passed. The path we were on wound through a grove of wide, dense spruce trees that were themselves surrounded by a stretch of open grassy field that was dotted with spruces and dark bushes. After the grove of spruces, the path continued through a semi-oval shape of grass that contained a couple of horse-shoe pits situated next to three picnic tables and a permanently-established grill.

On one of the picnic tables sat a woman approximately my mother's age and with hair the color of light honey styled into an "updo". A thin, white hair band kept the hair back and outlined the thin-cheeked face that a defined jaw and thin lips. The woman wore a yellow, short-sleeved blouse that showed the shoulders, a billowy off-white skirt and off-white pumps. She was using her long, slender hands to feed a young boy, not much younger than I was, who sat on her left. He had a long black skirt on, black pumps meant for a girl, and a thin white blouse. His sand-colored hair had been combed straight back so that the small turquoise earrings forced into his lobes could be seen. I could tell he couldn't move his arms and looked quite uncomfortable, so I assumed his hands were tied behind his back. The woman had her left hand on the back of the poor kid's head while she hand fed him what appeared to be pre-cut pieces of watermelon with her right. The victim kept his nervous eyes on the woman who wore a creepy expression of satisfied contentment on her face while she fed the poor boy.

As we passed by, I saw a piece of the watermelon being finished by the boy who was then forced to endure his captress' fingers being forced into his mouth. I looked away from that scene, for the empathy I felt for the boy was overwhelming. Also, there was the sound of female chattering to my right a little farther down the path. A series of picnic tables had been distributed throughout a bit of field running along the eastern edge of the path. Several women were having lunch here: two women were having lunch together but were alone save for each other's company.

A few table-groups away, a dark-haired redhead, in a red business suit and black heels, and a brunette, in a white floral-patterned housedress and white pumps, were hand feeding a poor brunette boy who had been forced to wear a small, red housedress with black polka dots and flat red shoes. I couldn't see his face for he and the redhead had their backs to me. The redhead had her arm wrapped around the boy's shoulders and was gripping his lower jaw, thereby forcing his mouth open. The brunette was cramming in what appeared to be bits of bread into the boy's mouth. Both of the women were talking to their victim, but I couldn't make out what they were saying for they were a hundred feet or so from us. I did notice the boy was forced to wear long, black gloves before having his wrists and elbows tied tightly behind his back. I watched with empathy and horrified interest until I accidentally stepped off of the edge of the sidewalk with my right foot. I exhaled sharply out of surprise before quickly getting back onto the path and following my mother.

"Do try to keep up, my pet. If you lag behind, I will be very upset," warned my mother without looking over her shoulder. I did my best before marveling at the next set of women having lunch. It was a group of three brunette women, each with a varied degree of darkness to her brown hair. Each wore a business suit: one colored a dark turquoise, grey, and black, each with a white blouse underneath the jacket and matching heels. The styles of hair I didn't really notice for it was the sight on top of the table at which they sat.

A boy, with short blonde hair that was slightly curled and disheveled on his head, was dressed in a tight, dark-blue swimsuit that was meant for a girl: the thing hugged his thin chest and ended at his upper thighs for it had barely any leggings at all. His hands had been tied above his head, for he was on his back, and must have been tied to the table somehow. His bound feet were also tied to the table after his ankles and knees were bound together. I saw food stuffs on the boy's swimsuit-covered body and assumed the women were using the boy as a sort of table. The women were chattering excitedly about something going on later that day that would involve the young boy bound in front of them.

As my mother and I passed this first area of picnic tables, I noticed the blonde boy had a white scarf tightly tied around his mouth which, judging from the way his face was slightly scrunched up, may have been stuffed with some sort of fabric. Gosh, I just felt so sorry for all of these boys being forced into their various predicaments. I imagined, though, that I would be forced to deal with my own predicament soon. Thoughts raced through my head suggesting possible situations my mother would force me to endure in the near future.

My cruel mother and I then passed away from the first cluster of picnic tables and grills that ended at another grove of fat spruces on our right and the slight sloping of a hill on our left. The path continued for several paces before curving to the right and leading farther into the park. Our destination, apparently, was on the left up a set of thick wooden planks set into the hill. Ascending the stairs, I looked around the left side of my mother and saw a broad-leafed tree whose dense canopy was slightly situated to its right side, thereby providing a circle of shade extending away from the trunk. It was to that shaded area that I was led by my mother who set the picnic basket just outside of it.

"Put the champagne and gloves next to the basket, my pet, and spread out the blanket for us. It's in the basket," my mother commanded and stood back to watch me work, all the while wearing a coy expression that showed her satisfaction. Her large hands were placed on her hips which maintained her air of dominance. I spread out the dark-blue sheet onto the shaded grass under the tree while doing my best to keep my hands from shaking for I was so nervous. While I spread the last of the blanket, my mother had apparently put on the red, fingerless leather gloves that I had been forced to bring along.

When I turned around to signify that I was finished, I noticed a wicked smile touch my mother's lips as she saw me look at her large gloved hands on her hips. Those gloves really made her look dominant, a thing which made the knot of nervousness in my stomach seem to loosen into fluttering waves of anxiousness. I didn't know which I preferred: the knot of nervousness or the feeling of butterflies in my stomach.

"Hnh hnn, I can see how anxious you are to feel these gloves over your mouth. That'll happen soon, I promise. But, first, you need to get the glass out of the basket so I can have a drink," my dominant mother commanded, and I had to tear my eyes off of her gloved hands so that I could focus on my next task. I did notice a glass wrapped in a serviette as I removed the blanket from the basket, and it was that which I retrieved. As I did so, my mother took the bottle in her strong hands and commanded that I fish around in the basket to find the bottle opener she brought. I found that first, for it was just next to the cloth-wrapped glass, and watched for a moment as my mother used her wicked-looking hands to twist the swirled piece of metal into the cork and pull it out deftly with one, popping stroke. There was no foam, thank goodness, but the popping sound startled me a little.

My mother giggled giddily at the sound of the cork popping but stopped when she noticed me watching her. "Well? What are you waiting for? Get my glass ready!" my mother said with a tone if irritation. I couldn't help but notice that sly smile touch her lips as I hurried to unwrap the napkin from the champagne flute. She knew that I would naturally watch her as she used her big hands to open the bottle, and she knew that her presence had really begun to intimidate me.

I handed the glass to my mother who immediately filled it to the brim with the golden, bubbly liquid in the bottle. She sighed contentedly as she heard the fizzing of the carbonation that resulted from her pouring. Sitting in the middle of the blanket, my mother then held the glass of champagne in her gloved left hand and patted the area just in front of her.

"Come here, my love. Sit next to me and enjoy the view. It's such a nice day out, you know," said the commanding mistress in front of me. "Oh, and bring the basket too." As I moved, I glanced at her large, left hand whose fingers seemed to envelope the champagne flute. It was such a dominant-looking hand, all done-up in a fingerless, red leather glove with red-painted nails that were just a shade darker than the glove. The hand that beckoned me in front of its owner looked just as menacing and filled me with a sense of dread. My mother moved to a kneeling position before sitting back on her haunches with her knees slightly spread. I was thankful that the skirt of her housedress was long enough so that her undergarment was not revealed.

"Put the basket here," my mother said, motioning with her right hand just to the right of her, "and then sit here so you can have the best view." As I sat in front of my mother, I looked warily over my right shoulder as my mother slowly slid her right hand around my right side, brushing smoothly over my upper arm, to my chest on which it then pushed a little. "Here, scoot back a little, my love," my mother said and I did so while feeling the butterflies in my stomach flitter about.

"Good girl. That's my good girl," I heard from behind and above me before my mother quickly clamped her big, strong, gloved right hand tight over my mouth and lower face, completely engulfing it in a warm, leathery, silencing embrace from which there was no escape.

"Mmphhh 3; hmphh 3; mmh," I moaned in startled surprise before hearing a hissed shushing sound above my head as my mother verbally silenced me as well as physically.

"Shhh, just keep quiet. I don't want your mouth ruining our nice morning here. Besides, you need to learn how to appreciate how my hands feel over your mouth since they're going to be there so often," my dominant mother said tightening her grip over my mouth a little. The feelings of helplessness were absolutely overwhelming. My thin lips were smushed together while my cheeks were pushed up and back into my face, thereby forcing my eyes to squint from the size and pressure of the hand over my mouth. Every limited breath I took was overpowered by the smell of leather, for the upper edge of my mother's hand was pressed against my nostrils, cutting their spaces by at least half.

What was scary was that my mother could smother me with just her palm alone, for I felt the bottom edge of it extend just past my chin. Her thumb was resting in a semi-firm state over the bridge of my nose while her long fingers wrapped around the left side of my face with her nails just touching my ear. Remembering threats and warnings from earlier in the morning, I gripped the portion of my shirt I front of my stomach in order to fight the feelings that wanted to motivate me to try and pry the suctioning hand from my mouth and lower face. I could hear my breathing rate, increased due to the nervous thudding of my heart, rasping against the upper edge of my mother's large hand. To further eliminate any possible chance I might have had of moving my head, my mother had pulled me back into her so that the back of my head was pressed into her bosom.

"Ahh, there we go! That's just how I like you -- quiet, helpless, and completely at my mercy. But, as I said, this is for your benefit so you can appreciate my hands," my mother said before taking another sip of her champagne with a contented sigh.

"Hmphh 3; mhmph 3;" came a few barely-audible whimpers from my engulfed, little mouth as I tried to move my head in an effort to naturally resist what was being done to me.

"Stop trying to move your head," commanded my mother as patiently as she could, "You're not going to get away." I felt the butterflies in my stomach increase the speed of their fluttering when I heard those words that were stated so simply and yet had such a dominant-sounding tone.

"I know you want to struggle, but I can't allow that. What I do want is for you to feel my hand over your pathetic little mouth. Stroke it, touch it, feel how strong it is with your hands, but don't you dare try to pull on it. Just caress it with your hands. This will help you appreciate what I'm doing to you," said my mother as I inhaled the smell of warm leather and listened to the words of the crazed woman holding me in that inescapable mouth-hold. I hesitated momentarily for I wasn't sure that I heard her correctly. I mean, I did know that I heard her correctly, but the words were so crazy-sounding that I didn't think she could possibly mean what she was saying.

I heard my mother swallow more champagne before reinforcing her demands, "I'm not going to tell you again, little lady. You better learn to obey me instantly, or else your life will become a living hell." Those last words were whispered almost sensually into my left ear which made me freeze for a moment out of fear before instantly complying. I released the portion of my shirt by my stomach and brought my hands to my covered, lower face. Touching the leather-covered back of my mother's big right hand sent a bolt of nervousness shooting straight to my stomach, for I began to gain a new understanding of the predicament I was in. I was actually touching the instrument of domination my mother was using to keep me her subdued prisoner. The leather felt somewhat soft even though it was pulled taught against the tightened muscles of my mother's strong hand. I slowly ran my hands over the back of that hand with my right before moving my left to feel the heart-shaped holes where my mother's knuckles flexed through the glove.

"Mmm, that's a good girl," my mother said in a low, satisfied voice once a couple minutes of my stroking and feeling had passed. "Can you feel how big and strong mommy's hand is? Huh?" I couldn't exactly reply verbally, so I simply produced a few more mewling whimpers that could barely be heard over the breeze running through the canopy of leaves under which we sat. "Hnh hnn, I know you can. Always remember that these are the hands that will punish you should you ever think of disobeying me. I do know you want to be a good pet for me, so I know you won't think about acting out of turn," said my mother with undertones of warning as she brought her left hand around to my limited field of view. Her empty glass was held in front of me before I was commanded to hold it with my left hand while continuing to feel her gagging hand with my right.

After refilling the glass, my mother set the bottle of champagne back by the left side of her body and took her flute of golden liquid back. As my mother took a sip, I moved my left hand back to its task of caressing the big, gagging, gloved hand over my mouth and lower face. While my right hand remained on the seemingly endless, leather-clad back of the gagging hand, my left hand moved past the exposed knuckles and began to feel the long, soft backs of my mother's fingers gripping my left cheek. Gosh, that hand just seemed to go on for ages in every direction!

Another bolt of nervous shuddering went down my spine as my thin fingers found the slightly-rounded tips of my mother's nails which just touched my left ear. I felt my mother briefly flex her right hand a little, thereby tightening her grip over my mouth. Even though it was for a short second, I felt my already aching face begin to ache just a little more. The cruel woman holding me captive snickered to herself while watching my reaction and hearing the reflexive mewls escaping my hopelessly oppressed mouth.

Eventually, the thin fingers of my right hand followed the leather back of my mother's gagging hand up to her hooked thumb that was firmly resting on the bridge of my nose. It felt longer than I thought it would, but maybe that was because of the position that I was in. I brought my left hand to my right, after feeling my mother's thumb, and began feeling the broad leather-clad back of her hand again for its size was tantalizing even though she was not that large of a woman. Her hands probably would be normal-sized when compared to those other women, but they felt so big to me and so overwhelmingly strong. I felt as if I couldn't possibly escape this gripping hand cemented over my mouth and lower face even if I was allowed to try. All I could do was listen to my rasping breaths and inhale the scent of warm leather as my mother held me in the shade while enjoying her champagne.

I felt my mother lean forward a bit before feeling the tip of her nose on the middle of my scalp. She inhaled deeply and sighed with a purr of contentment before taking another sip of champagne. "You smell good, little one," said my mother in a smooth, soft tone of voice through lips that were very close to my left ear. My hands slowed their caressing motions on the back of my mother's right hand upon feeling her lips near me. The dominant woman brought her lips toward my ear until they made contact with the middle of it, just on the inside of the lobe, and brushed a kiss on that spot. Her touch was so eerily wicked but yet sensual enough to send shivers down my spine. She mistook those shivers for pleasure when they actually were a reaction to the creeped-out sensations that accompanied my mother's soft kiss.

"Mmhmhh 3; mmphh 3;" came a couple shaky, barely-audible moans from my severely oppressed mouth which had really begun to ache in the past couple of minutes.

"Shhhh, stay quiet for me. Also, I didn't tell you to stop stroking my hand, so, if I were you, I'd get back to it," my mother said with her mouth still quite close to my ear. As I resumed my feeling of the back of her seemingly-gigantic hand over my mouth, my mother straightened a little and took another long sip from her champagne glass, apparently emptying it once again.

I felt movement behind me then as my mother leaned forward to reach over me with her left hand so she could place the empty champagne glass between my legs. "Keep that there for me so mommy can get more comfortable," said my dominant mother who, while keeping her right hand plastered over my mouth and lower face, leaned on her left hand and sat on her left hip. Her legs stretched out to her right in a slightly supine position. My head was still forcibly pulled back into her bosom so the handgag remained reinforced, but my mother could now more easily look at the left side of my covered, squinched face.

"Ah, there we go; much better!" my mother said before looking out at the grassy field ahead of us that was dotted here and there with thick groves of spruces and the occasional broad-leaved tree. I snuffled a few breath-lessened moans as I realized that I was being forced to settle in for an even longer bit of having my mouth held than I initially thought.

"Say, did I ever tell you that it was right under this tree that your father and I went on our first official date?" asked my mother to, apparently, me before looking down at the left side of my hand-gagged face. Since my eyes were forcefully squinted, my peripheral vision was virtually eliminated so I couldn't see if my mother was looking into my eyes or not. After only hearing a few muffled whimpers out of me, for I was growing quite tired at that point from all of the hand abuse I was receiving from someone I loved, my mother looked up again and continued her story.

"Yup, it was right where we're sitting now that your father and I spent time together before he had to leave for his third deployment overseas. I knew that I was in love with him right then and there. Tsk, what a fool I was, believing that such a thing would last. I should have known that his forward masculinity was concealing his brazen overconfidence. I should have told him right then that if he ever fucked me over, there would be absolute hell to pay," continued my mother. Upon hearing my mother use that outrageous curse word, I tried to move my head to my left to see if it was still my mother speaking for I had this brief, crazy idea that it wasn't actually her using that word. She had always been so adamant about having a "clean vocabulary" in our house and would have thoroughly punished me for even coming close to saying that word.

My mother felt me trying to move my head and looked down at my face. "What? I can say that word if I want. I can say anything I damn well please, and if you don't like it, then you can just keep moaning about it for that's all you'll ever be able to do from now on! And, besides, what's wrong with those words anyway? They're just words! I can say whatever I want, and don't you forget it," snapped my mother who tightened her grip over my mouth and pulled me more firmly back into her bosom which caused me to moan in discomfort.

Looking back up at the field, my mother said, "See, that's what I should have done. I should have made it clear to your father just how effective I can be at punishing those who deserve it. He would have stayed faithful to me then! But, oh no, it wasn't my fault, though. That's not what I'm saying, and don't you think that's the case," my mother said looking down at the side of my tightly-handgagged face which was aching with consistent throbs by that point from being so roughly treated all morning.

"See? See how obedient you are with my hand over your mouth? That's all it takes! All it takes is for me to show you just how effective my hands are at keeping you quiet, and you turn into an absolute peach!" My mother then moved her head down so her soft lips were close to my left ear again, "And what a peach you're going to be. Just a little more training and then playtime forever and ever." Those words were incredibly creepy, especially considering who they were coming from. I whimpered nervously into the tight-gripping, gloved hand over my mouth as her words sunk into me. She sounded so crazy; just so utterly crazy.

I felt my mother move her left hand, then, over my left shoulder before letting it slide down my chest, stomach, and right to my crotch. The feeling of the leather through my clothing made me stop the stroking motions of my hands on my mother's and made my body instinctively tense up. There was a cold feeling in my stomach that developed as soon as my mother's half-gloved fingers moved slowly over my small package. To my horror, my small member instantly became hard and began poking through the stiff material of my shorts. What in the world was going on?! Why was I reacting in such a way to my mother's mistreatment of me? For crying out loud, it wasn't as if I liked what she was doing to me; just the opposite in fact.

I nervously whimpered into my mother's tight-gagging hand still locked over my mouth and lower face as I heard her nails make contact with the empty champagne flute between my legs, creating a slight dinging sound. "Hnh hnn, settle down, little one. I'm just moving my glass to a better spot so you don't break it. I'm flattered that you're receiving your punishment so well, though," said my mother with a bemused tone while wrapping her fingers around the champagne flue. Even though my eyes were forcibly squinting, my gaze was still temporarily rapped by the brief, up-and-down stroking motions of my mother's gloved left hand on the champagne flute between my legs. I felt my little thing twitch slightly as creepy feelings of wanting that I did not understand pervaded my body.

My mother only snickered before removing her glass from its position and putting it somewhere to her left. "Who needs silly old glasses anyway? I can drink straight out of the bottle just like any pathetic man in this world," said my mother indignantly. I exhaled with only minor relief at the absence of my mother's left hand on me for that was so gosh-darn creepy. My mother gulped down a couple swigs of champagne before setting the bottle back down and burping audibly. "Ah, so that's what that feels like. No wonder men do it so often. How refreshing," said my mother after letting out the pent up gasses from her drink.

"Mmm, I'm starting to feel all warm and fuzzy inside. What a nice morning this is turning out to be: the sun is shining, I got some shopping done, and I have my favorite pet all gagged up and at my mercy," my mother continued, all the while sounding crazier and crazier as she went on.

"Mphh 3; mhmhh 3;" I moaned in irritation into the big, gloved hand still clamped over my mouth with the same force as it had been for what seemed like ages at that point.

"Oh, what's the matter? Can't you speak? Hnh hnn, I guess not. But don't get all fussy just yet. You still have a long day ahead of you. It'll be fun, though. I promise," my mother said playfully in response to my barely-audible moans.

"You know, I think you've felt my hand enough for now. I wouldn't want you becoming spoiled with that honor, now would I?" my mother then said as she moved to a kneeling position behind my body while keeping her big, strong right hand clamped over my mouth. She then sat behind me on the blanket while spreading her legs so I was between them. Finally, at long last, my mouth was free of her relentless hands. The cool breeze briefly cooled the skin of my lower face which had become warm from being so unkindly handled. My relief was short lived for my mother leaned back on her hands so that she could cross her long legs and squeeze me between her strong thighs.

"Uhh 3; ah-mmphhhh 3; mmhmh 3;" I began to gasp in surprise at feeling my body having the air forced out of it due to my mother's very strong legs. My mother quickly put her weight on her right hand and clamped her big, strong gloved left hand tight over my mouth and lower face, thereby cutting off my gasps and preventing me from calling for help.

"There, try to feel my hands now, you little brat!" snapped my mother after ensnaring my mouth. What was she talking about? She was the one who demanded that I feel her hands! It wasn't as if that was something I wanted to do. My head was firmly pulled back into my mother's chest just below her bosom which allowed for further immobilization of my head. The only thing I could sort of move were my feet for my mother's crossed lower legs were planted on my thighs while her shoed feet were on my calves which kept my legs pressed into the blanket-covered ground.

"Oh, hush. You know you like this just as much as I do seeing as how the slightest touch of my hand makes your little friend wake up," said my mother as I struggled to readjust my breathing rate to the limited amount that it was before. The upper edge of my mother's left hand was forced against my nostrils which cut their breathing spaces by an alarming amount, thereby causing my restricted breaths to rasp audibly against that area. Once again, due to the pressure exerted by my mother's cruel hand, my face was forcibly scrunched up to the point where my eyes squinted to slits and my cheeks were pressed backward. The fact that my mother's surprisingly-strong thighs were squeezing my stomach like a tube of toothpaste did nothing to help out my breathing situation and added to the feelings of stressed confusion that had been slowly building in intensity throughout the morning as the treatment I was receiving became rougher and rougher.

I tensed my arms as I instinctively fought to struggle even in the slightest against the confining restraints of my mother's legs. My arms remained tightly pinned against my sides so much so that they began aching as soon as I was put into that merciless hold. So, not only did I have to contend with a forcefully-reduced rate of breathing, due to the holding of my mouth and body, I also had to deal with the aching of my arms and legs that were pinned by my mother. The situation I was in started to get to me a little after I reminded myself for a second time, by attempting to struggle again, that I was completely helpless and at the mercy of my merciless mother.

I felt my palms dampen with sweat as my breathing rate increased which reminded my air-starved body that it wasn't getting the proper amount of oxygen it needed to keep up with its increased heart rate. Panic was building within me as my body reminded itself that it needed to be rid of the oppressing female hand and legs holding it as soon as possible or else things might take a turn for the worse. That panic was attempting to make itself audibly apparent in the form of heavily-muffled moans in the back of my throat that fought to make their way around my mother's strong, gloved, engulfing hand over my mouth and lower face. I began struggling as much as I possibly could, thereby, unbeknownst to me, adding to the stressed feelings that created the situation in the first place. In short, it was a losing battle for I was creating the terms of my own defeat.

"My, my, you're just a fussy one today! Stop struggling. You know you can't get away," said my mother in what could have been mistaken for mock exasperation. I barely understood what she said for I was consumed with panic at that point as I continued to struggle as much as I possibly could. The moans that started in the back of my throat progressed from their usual confused, helpless tones to high-pitched squeals that illustrated how desperate for freedom I was becoming.

"Alright, fine! You whiney little brat, you!" my mother snapped in frustration as she finally released my mouth and body. I think she initially meant for me to simply sit between her legs and breathe, but I immediately began trying to crawl away from the cruel woman out of pure instinct. I gasped for air and greedily sucked in as much as possible through tired lungs while attempting to slow my heart beat. I desperately wanted to cry as a means of relieving some of the pent-up tension, but my instincts fought back those tears; my body knew that, if I started crying, I wouldn't be able to breathe so well.

"Oh no you don't!" my mother hissed as she ensnared my thin right ankle in her big, gloved left hand. She yanked me toward her and, realizing that there was no hope of escape in the condition I was in, I settled for lying on my left side and curling into a slight fetal position. "You stay right there," hissed my mother in a low voice while pointing her right index finger at me. She had moved into a kneeling position as I attempted to crawl away from her and was, at that point, moving to reach into the picnic basket that was near my head.

While my mother, apparently, retrieved rope from the picnic basket, I fought off the last of my panic attack and rejoiced as my breathing and heart rates steadied. I gingerly petted my sore lips and cheeks which had ached consistently from the fiery passion of my mother's gripping, gloved hands.

"I figured you might not want to cooperate with me," said my mother with a sigh that illustrated disappointment and irritation. "So, that's why I made some preparations ahead of time. I'm really hoping you'll be more obedient from now on, but, if you aren't, at least I'll have an excuse to punish you some more." So, what was being done to me at that point wasn't punishment? How crazy could this woman be to think that what she was doing to me could be considered as something normal?

I was forced to lie on my stomach before having my arms drawn behind my back. The rope used to bind my crossed wrists was white and felt a little rough since it probably was not the softest stuff that could have been bought. "I think I'll be nice and won't tie your elbows," my mother said, as if I was supposed to be grateful that she would show such consideration. "But I will tie your legs nice and tight so you can't try to get away from me. I can't believe you would do such a thing!" As my mother moved to tie my ankles together, she said, "Oh, and, if you make any noise while I'm finishing up, I'll put a gag in your mouth and then just leave you here until someone else finds you, and I promise that it will be a woman who won't be so nice as I am." I simply continued to breathe into the picnic blanket as I felt rope being wound around my ankles and then just above my knees, thereby rendering my legs completely immobile. The goal for me at that point was to just get my breathing rate back to a steady rate, a thing which was accomplished by me attempting to pant as quietly as possible.

I was rolled onto my left side and then forced to sit up so that I was facing my mother with my bound legs stretched out in front of me. Kneeling over my bound legs, my mother commanded me to sit up straight and to not slouch due to the fact that she disapproved of bad posture. As I obeyed, the dominant woman sat back on her haunches until I felt her sit on my bound legs. My mother reached into the picnic basket and pulled out a white dish towel that was wrapped around a semi-spherical bulge and was tied off by a bow made out of wide, red ribbon. The bow was undone and the bulge was set just to my mother's right. I saw the contents were several fat strawberries whose greenery had been cut off and dug out of each one.

"Now for your next lesson: the best things that go with champagne are strawberries," said my mother who took one in the bare fingers of her gloved, right hand. Holding one of the deep-red, swollen fruits before my face, she said, "What do you think? Would you like one?" I looked at the fruit, and the way her toned-lean, strong fingers held it, before looking up into her eyes. Nodding, I watched as my mother moved the strawberry to her mouth, instead of mine, and bit off a chunk that cut the fruit in half. Her soft lips briefly suctioned around the fruit to kiss away whatever juice that might have ran down it.

After wordlessly savoring the strawberry, my mother held the other half of the fruit in front of my face again. "Alright, then. I suppose I can let my kitty have a treat," she said as she took my chin in her left hand, trapping it between her thumb and the edge of her first finger, and tilted my head back a bit. Once I was commanded to open my mouth, my mother slowly pushed the rest of her strawberry past my lips and traced the soft pad of her right index finger over my top one.

As I began to chew the luscious fruit I had been allowed to enjoy, my mother put her left hand on the back of my head and inverted her right one before pressing it down onto my mouth and squeezing, thereby rendering me quiet and helpless once again. A brief, breath-robbed whimper of surprise escaped my occupied mouth that was oppressed by the leather-clad palm of my mother's big hand. Her thumb was locked under my lower jaw which prevented me from moving it at all or eating the fruit in my mouth. A slow smile spread across my mother's red-painted lips as she watched me struggle to cope with the added bit of helplessness that she forced upon me.

"What? You didn't actually think I was going to let you enjoy your treat with a free mouth, did you? Silly little thing!" my mother said teasingly as I experienced the mixing of the scent of leather and the taste of the strawberry still in my mouth. I tried to move my head in any direction so that I could at least get the fruit soft enough to swallow. "Ah ah ahh, you're not going anywhere, little one. You'll have to just use that cute little tongue of yours to eat that strawberry. It'll be good practice for you since you'll be using it a lot in the future," said my mother as she felt my attempted struggles. What did she mean when she said that I would be using my tongue in the future? Using it for what? Did she mean at the sandwich place that she planned to take me for lunch?

Working my tongue around the strawberry, I pushed the fruit against my pallet and, after a couple of frustrating minutes, turned it into the consistency of jarred preserves. Throughout my efforts to eat and swallow the strawberry, my mother watched my squinched face with visible interest and delight. She must have been greatly amused while staring into my squinted eyes, made so by the size of, and the pressure exerted by, her seemingly enormous gloved hand over my mouth.

"Mmm, did you enjoy that, my love? The taste is simply heavenly," my mother said once she saw my throat muscles working to swallow the strawberry. I produced a couple of barely-audible whimpers into her tight-gagging hand steam-pressed over my mouth and lower face. "Yes, it is. Say 'Thank you, Mistress'," commanded the dominant woman holding me captive. Looking at her silently, I wondered if she was aware of how crazy she sounded at that point, asking me to say something when she knew without a doubt that I would be unable to answer her. Her eyebrows dropping a little, my mother began to wear a sneering expression on her face after realizing that I was dawdling. "Say it! Thank your mistress for allowing you to have a treat," she hissed as she gave my head a curt shake while tightening her grip over my mouth and lower face.

"Mhmhh 3; mhmphhh 3;" I quickly answered to the best of my abilities. Those awfully pathetic sounds were the only forms of response that I could muster. What was worse was that my mother knew that. She was simply playing a twisted game and loved every minute of it. A shark-like grin spread over my mother's lips while a lustful intensity filled her eyes.

"That's my good girl. You're beginning to learn," said my mother in a low, throaty voice that dripped with raw, animalistic wanting that creeped me out to no end. The slits of my eyes widened slightly as I experienced feelings of nervous fear upon the hearing of that voice. My mother's face receded to an expression that was something similar to normalcy as she straightened herself, for she had hunched her shoulders a bit when she scolded me. The hand that was over my mouth slowly relinquished its grip before sliding away from my mouth in a smooth motion.

With her left hand still on the back of my head, my mother stroked my left cheek with her big, gloved right hand, briefly rubbing her right thumb over my left eyebrow and then my temple. She wore a light, contented smile on her lips before saying, "There, that's my good girl," again. As she leaned forward, I briefly wondered why she kept on referring to me in that manner. That wondering was ended when I felt my mother's lips make contact with mine. The red-painted silk enveloped my parted lips, suctioning over them and forcing me to kiss back. A shiver of uncomfortable weirdness ran down my spine as I instinctively tried to pull away from my crazy mother who was kissing me.

A brief moan of disgusted helplessness escaped my trapped lips as I did so. My mother held me firmly in place with her left hand on the back of my head and the right hand on the left side of my face. Releasing my lips from hers, my mother briefly ended the kiss before bringing her mouth to mine again. Her long tongue snaked in between my parted lips and invaded my mouth, exploring every crevice and painting every bit of it with her saliva. The warm, slimy thing twirled firmly around my tongue, again forcing me to kiss back, before sliding away and playing over the top of it. A brief moan of further disgust escaped me while one of satisfied pleasure escaped my mother, combining to create the sound of pure domination.

Pulling back, my mother planted a soft kiss on my top lip and then my bottom one. The feeling was so creepy that I shivered, but was, to my horror, so sensual that I felt my small member strain against my underwear and shorts. "Mmm, your lips are so soft," said my mother in a hushed whisper while looking at me with eyes that sparkled with delight. And did a part of my subconscious see the beauty that my father may have once seen so many years ago? No, damn it, no! Remember, this is a crazy woman who is doing things to you that are not meant to be done! the better part of my subconscious screamed. Of course I remembered that, and I was quickly reminded as my mother sat up straight and finally pulled her face away from mine.

Taking another strawberry with her right hand, my mother brought the fruit to her mouth and bit it in half, slowly eating and savoring the sweet flavors. "Mm, this is the best day I've ever had," sighed my mother while looking out over the top of my head and into the park beyond. The last of the creeping feelings pervading my body worked their ways out of my system as I felt the leather-clad left hand move off of my head and come into my field of view. "Now, just because your hands are tied, it does not mean that you can't appreciate my hands," said my mother holding up her left hand so that her fingertips pointed upward and her leather-covered palm was directly in front of, and mere inches from, my face. I looked at her questioningly with somewhat wide eyes as I waited for her to tell me what to do.

"I want you to kiss my hand and feel it on your lips. They are some of the most sensitive things on your body, so they'll give you the best experience of my hands. Start with the palm and work your way outward. And, don't worry. I'll finish the strawberries for you. I know you'd much rather kiss my hand than eat any old fruit," said my mother with a commanding, arrogant tone. I experienced a bit of a sinking feeling in my stomach as I realized that I would not be allowed to have any more of that delicious fruit. It wasn't as if there weren't enough for the both of us since there were at least nine more strawberries left in the unfurled towel. I puckered my lips a little and moved them closer to my mother's hand until I could feel the flexible leather.

A feeling of utter helplessness went down my spine before settling in my stomach when my lips made contact with the palm of the large hand in front of my face. The slight kissing sound of my worshipping lips was a horribly pathetic sound seeing as how it illustrated just how beneath that woman that I was. I could even hear that soft, airy sound among the breeze through the trees and my mother's strawberry munching. As I puckered my lips for another kiss, I was almost overwhelmed by the size of my mother's big left hand. Her upward-pointing fingers went just above my forehead even with the bottom of her palm at my chin's level. The scent of leather was quite pungent and was the predominant thing that I smelled while worshipping my mother's hand.

"Mm, good girl," said my mother before swallowing the strawberry she had in her mouth. I looked up into her cold, content eyes through the fence-like veil of her long fingers over my eyes as I ended my next kiss on her broad, leather-clad palm. A few more kisses and my mother was satisfied with the extent to which I had adored her palm.

"Here, let me make it easier for you," said my mother who pivoted her left wrist so that her hand was held out with her fingers pointing at my chin, as if she was serving something to a pet. "There's a lot more of my hand for those cute little lips of yours to explore." I then bent my head and tore my eyes away from her slightly crazed ones, for I couldn't bear to look at them anymore. I could only handle so much madness at one time. Pursing my lips, I lightly put them onto the upper area of my mother's palm just below her fingers since I imagined she wanted me to work my way toward her fingers. I worked my way from my right to left along that area that seemed to have spanned a good five inches from index finger to little finger.

"That's my good little pet. Now, kiss each finger individually, up and down, and then wait for my next command," ordered my dominant mother. Without looking up, I immediately started planting light kisses along her left index finger, starting at its base, then where the glove's finger sleeve ended, and along to the pad. I retraced my kissing path down the finger and onto the leather-clad base of her toned middle finger. Long minutes passed as I continued in like manner up and down each and every one of the fingers on my mother's large, gloved left hand. I say that the minutes were long due to the slight aching of my body, from being bound and forced to stay in the position I was in, and the fact that the dominance being exacted onto me seemed to make time stretch.

The minutes were also long because, as soon as I reached the base of my mother's little finger for the second time, for I had to go up and down each finger, I was commanded to start all over from the base of the wicked woman's index finger to the base of her little finger. For the second round, I was commanded to go more slowly and to make my kissing rate even more frequent than it already was. I sighed in hearty discontent, without looking into my mother's eyes or even looking away from her hand, before starting my second round of hand worship.

"Oh, humph yourself! You know, you're lucky I'm even allowing you to have the honor of worshipping my hands at all. I could have simply left you tied up and gagged in the trunk while I enjoyed myself out here. Maybe next time I will. Maybe next time, I won't be so nice," said my mother first mocking me and then reminding me of my place in life in a scolding manner. I continued worshipping the pads of my mother's fingers with my lips while bracing myself for a blow of some sort, be it a slap or a rough mouth-grab. Thankfully, nothing of the sort happened for I guessed my mother didn't want to disrupt the flow of pleasurable feelings coming from my lips' forced adoration.

The woman dominating me had reached under her left arm with her right hand, while I was being scolded, and took the bottle of champagne. I heard the cork being pulled out of the bottle, presumably by my mother's teeth, before hearing a swig being taken directly from it. "Mm, a little champagne, some strawberries, and some hand-worship. I've never had it so good, and you haven't either. Just you remember that," said my crazy-sounding mother before taking another drink of champagne from the bottle. I still had several minutes of worshipping to do for I was, at that point, only at the middle of my mother's middle finger on my first pass. It would be some time before I was to reach the base of my mother's little finger for the second time, thereby completing my current task.

Eventually, after who knows how many minutes had passed, my mother had become satisfied with my hand worshipping and saw fit to let me have another "treat". As my lips touched the leather-clad base of my mother's little finger, I looked up at her as an indication that I had finished my second pass over her hand. I saw that she was making slight waving motions with the champagne bottle in her right hand while wearing a bit of a smile.

"Would you like some? There's just enough left for you to have a taste," said my mother. She could see the doubt in my eyes and was quick to dispel that notion. "Oh, trust me, you'll absolutely love it! I bet you won't be able to not want it after today," she said as she placed the bottle by her right side before leaning over me. I received a face-full of my mother's dress-covered cleavage as my mother leaned forward to untie my hands. It was really weird having my mother's chest touching my face even though it was covered by the material of her dress. I also received a generous whiff of my mother's perfume as she pulled away to kneel erect again. I tried to think ahead about what my mother might want me to do, so I opened my mouth slightly and waited for her to pour the champagne into my mouth.

Turning back to me from retrieving the bottle by her side, my mother stopped for a moment and looked at my face with delighted amusement. "Oh, well aren't you just adorable!" she said with a giggle. "I'll want your face looking like that later tonight, but not now. I have something different in mind at the moment," said my mother, after which I closed my mouth slightly so my tired lips were merely agape. "Hold out your hands for me and cup them," said my mother and, after I complied, she began to slowly pour the remaining bit of champagne into my cupped hands in front of my chest. "And don't you dare spill a drop. Your life won't be so pleasant if you do," warned my mother as the stream of carbonated, golden liquid ended. The champagne in my hands was still quite cold and chilled my skin even though the space created by me cupping my hands was only filled half way.

Setting the empty bottle aside, my mother then said, "Now, tilt your head back a little," and then, after I complied, "That's it. Good girl." I watched as she then dipped the red-painted fingernails of her right hand into the golden pool in my cupped hands. She made sure to dampen each nail, including the one on her thumb, before moving her right hand to my face. "Stick your tongue out," commanded my mother in a soft tone of voice. I looked at her with nervous eyes before complying, but only putting about half of my tongue out.

"Good! That's perfect. Stay just like that," said my mother as she let her hand drift toward my face. She dangled her partially-gloved fingers over my tongue and let any excess drops of champagne fall onto my tongue. Even though I wasn't allowed to swallow at first, I could still taste the sweet liquid that seemed to have a bitter aftertaste. I didn't really know what champagne was at the time, so I didn't have any idea as to why the aftertaste was so unpleasant.

While my tongue was still out, my mother turned her hand and allowed the backs of her champagne-tainted fingernails to run once over my tongue, starting with her index fingernail and ending with her little fingernail. I continued to look at my mother with eyes widened by the nervousness coursing through my fragile mind. My mother had watched me taste the champagne with an unsettling smile on her face that illustrated the disturbing nature she had developed.

"Good girl. Put your tongue back in your mouth, but don't put your lips together yet," commanded my mother in a low, sensuous voice. I obeyed, for I did not wish to incur any of her wrath, and then watched as my mother dipped the nail of her right thumb back into the pool of liquid still chilling my hands. Bringing her hand up, she then turned it and placed the pads of her fingers on my neck, just past my chin. I felt her thumb enter my mouth and immediately tasted the champagne that coated the nail. I had never had a thumb in my mouth like that before, for obvious reasons, so I simply froze, unsure of what to do.

"Hnh hnn, what a cute little mouth you have," said my mother in that low, sensuous voice again as she began to move her thumb around the inside of my mouth. The movements of her thumb made me instinctively begin to wrap my lips around it and suck on it as a way of attempting to control where it was going. My attempts to control the extensive explorations of my tongue by my mother's thumb were futile, and I had to simply sit helplessly and wait for my mother to be finished. I really hoped that she wasn't thinking that I was enjoying what was being done to me. The whole situation was just plain weird, and I wished with every fiber of my being that it would end.

Well, apparently not every fiber of my being wished the situation would end for I could, to my horror, feel the stiff little head of my small boy-cock pushing stubbornly against the fabric of my underwear beneath my shorts. Maybe the feeling of the soft skin of my mother's thumb, or the smoothness of her nail, or the chemically taste of her long-dried nail-polish, or the sharpness of the nail's edge awakened some dormant, subconscious desire for female dominance within me. Gosh, I certainly hoped not.

A few minutes of me just sucking my mother's thumb had passed with all traces of champagne being removed from it long before. Sliding her thumb from my mouth, my mother wiped it on the shirt material covering my left shoulder, thereby removing all traces of my saliva from it. She continually wore that creepy, satisfied smile on her red-painted lips as she then dipped the nail of her right index finger into the pool of champagne in my cupped hands. Bringing her hand up, my mother then put the tip of her index finger into my agape mouth and began making slight sliding motions with it, bringing the tip of her nail to the inside of my lips and then to the middle of my tongue. Once again, I instinctively wrapped my lips around her fingertip in a sucking motion.

"You know," said my mother thoughtfully as I sucked on the tip of her finger and experienced more of the champagne's taste, "I tried to do this with your father on our first date here, but he wouldn't do it. He thought it was unusual that a woman would want a little champagne licked off of her hands. He couldn't explain why he thought it was unusual. He was just so insistent on telling me that it was an unusual thing. What a stubborn, silly man! I'm glad you don't think it's unusual." I looked at my mother with eyes that were still wide with nervousness and confusion as she finished her statement. Oh, if only I had the ability to speak at that point so that I could tell her what I really thought about what she was doing to me. It was unfortunate that my legs were bound and trapped under my mother or else I could have maybe tried to make a break for it after protesting.

Removing the nail of her first finger from my mouth, my mother then dipped it and the nail of her middle finger into the pool of the sweet bubbly still contained within my cupped hands. She curled her other fingers while letting just those two dangle over my agape mouth before forcing her nails past my lips until their rough tips touched my tongue. The fact that I didn't like the taste of champagne was made apparent to me as I yet again had to taste the sweet-sour droplets that clung to my mother's nails.

"Mm, that feels nice. It's just the sort of thing a kitty should do for her mistress," said my crazy, dominant mother as she forced me to worship her nails. Kissing and sucking, I watched her stare at my working mouth and lips before looking over my entire face and occasionally glancing down at my torso, making it painfully evident that she enjoyed eyeing me in the helpless position I was in. A couple more minutes of me worshipping my mother's nails passed before the insane woman decided she had had enough. Removing her nails from my mouth, she wiped them on the shirt material over my left shoulder before looking deep into my nervous eyes.

"I think that's enough for now, but I don't want to waste such good champagne. Would you like to drink the rest?" asked my mother, giving me the illusion of choice. I slowly and tentatively shook my head in order to express how I honestly felt about the matter. I feared that if I nodded, then my mother would accuse me of lying and would punish me. I also feared that she would punish me anyway for refusing. Gosh, this was just so stressful!

An almost sweet smile spread across my mother's red-painted lips which made me quite nervous. "It's okay, I don't blame you," she said before bringing her head forward, tilting it down, and spitting a long, thick stream of saliva into the pool of champagne sitting in my cupped hands. I watched as the horrible stuff flowed out of my mother's lips before landing in a slimy froth upon the surface of the golden liquid.

Straightening back up, my mother asked, "How about now? That should make it tastier, right?" I continued to stare at the nasty spit as it spread out to cover the entire surface of the champagne in my hands. I suddenly winced and produced a slight gasp as my mother quickly grabbed my right ear with her left hand and twisted it painfully as she pulled my head up and to my side.

"Right?!" growled my evil mother through clenched teeth while bringing her face closer to mine. "Don't speak, just nod for me," she said impatiently as I hesitated to answer. I quickly nodded my head so that I would be rid of the wicked hand holding my ear. Holding on a few seconds longer, my mother then released my reddened ear before straightening herself again. "Now, drink," was her only command.

I brought my cupped hands to my thin lips and drank until there was nothing left but a sticky coating on my palms and fingers. My mother watched with wicked delight as my face scrunched up in disgust as the nasty combination of liquids ran down my throat. I looked at the coating on my hands after I drank and wondered what my mother wanted me to do about that. My thought was broken as my mother immediately grabbed them, crossed my wrists, and tightly wound rope around them before tying a strict double-knot. "Don't worry about that. We'll get you cleaned up before lunch," the dominant woman said as she finished her expert tying of my hands.

My mother then put her large, gloved right hand on my chest and pushed me backward rudely which caused me to fall until I lay flat against the picnic blanket. Sighing with victorious satisfaction, she then put her big hands on my bound ones and scooted forward a little until my arms were trapped beneath her. I trembled nervously as I felt her dress move up her thighs until her soft, cotton panties could be felt on my arms.

"This is something else I tried to get your father to do when we were here together, but he didn't want to do this either. That man was no fun at all," sneered my mother before she slapped her big, strong, gloved right hand over my small mouth. She immediately squeezed my lower face until I was rendered completely silent within the leather-clad and bare folds of her large hand. Through squinted eyes, I saw the dominant woman straddling me lean on her left hand, which she planted just to the left of my head, as a means of giving herself support.

"What do you think? You like what I'm doing to you, don't you? You're not some boring thing like your father was, so you must like our games," said my mother as she settled in for a terribly-long, tortuous mouth-hold. I felt so very helpless having my lower face mercilessly encased within the thick, silencing mask created by my mother's hand. The upper edge of that hand was butted against my small nostrils and forced me to only have slight amounts of air that I inhaled with snuffling efforts. Long fingers wrapped snugly around the right side of my face while a strong thumb locked under my jaw kept me from trying to open my mouth. The smell of leather, made warm by the breath from my nostrils, overwhelmed me and was really the only thing I could smell other than the occasional whiff of my mother's perfume. A few distressed, barely-audible whimpers escaped me as the restricted feelings of my bound limbs and oppressed mouth all bore down on me at the same time.

"I know, this is pretty romantic, isn't it?" asked my mother as she used the fingers of her left hand to brush my hair off of my wrinkled forehead and back into the side-part she earlier created. The feeling of her nails gliding over my skin added to the feelings of nervousness already racing through my system. "Yes, it is. And just think, we have the rest of our lives to enjoy ourselves out here. Just you and me," continued the crazy woman straddling me. As she spoke, she leaned down a little until her face was close to mine before planting a soft kiss on the middle of my forehead. Considering that was really the only part of my poor face that wasn't confined within her big, strong right hand, she wouldn't have been able to kiss me anywhere else.

I could feel my stomach sinking lower and lower as my mother's words fell upon me. It was at that point that the realization that my life had so dramatically changed began to "sink in", as they say. That was a very appropriate way to describe what I was feeling since I did indeed feel like I was sinking; sinking into a secret way of life that involved me being completely at the mercy of my mother's hands and, maybe further, the hands of whoever my mother invited to join in that secret way of life.

It was then that my mother briefly released my mouth for she had thought of a different handgagging position and wished to try it on me. The breeze momentarily cooled the thin layer of dampness resulting from my sweat that built up on my face from being mistreated. I was soon forced to endure the presence of more warm leather in places that I didn't want as my mother clamped her large, gloved right hand tight over my mouth in a position that entailed her broad, leather-clad palm sealing my thin lips while her thumb gripped my right cheek and her long fingers splayed slightly while gripping my left. The area of her hand between her thumb and index finger came startlingly close to blocking my nostrils, but my mother saw fit to allow me to have a little air to breathe. The pressure points along my cheek bones flared up a little as my mother put pressure on them with her fingers and thumb so she could better secure my face and immobilize my head. She leaned on her left hand, which she placed by my right side, so she could lean over to see my face while maintaining her balance.

"There, how do you like this one?" asked my crazy mother. I was assuming she was talking about the current hand-domination position I was forced to participate in. I was incredulous, to say the least, at being asked such a silly question, for I knew that she knew that I wouldn't be able to answer her at all. "Oh, that's right. How silly of me! You have my hand over your mouth and can't speak. How do I keep forgetting these things? You'll just have to start reminding me, won't you?" said my mother before I had a chance to produce muffled whimpers as my only means of response. She then cackled a little after teasing me, and I watched with nervous, slightly squinted eyes while she did so. The sound of her cackling only made me feel that sinking sensation even more for I reminded myself that I would have to endure this sort of thing day in and day out.

"Ha hah! Oh, isn't this fun?" asked my dominant mother after coming down off of her laughing streak.

"Hmphh 3; mff 3;" I whimpered in an attempt to convey my utter discomfort and downright displeasure at being treated the way I was.

"Aw, I know you think it is too," said my mother through slightly pursed lips, "That's why I'm playing with you. I know how much you enjoy it." What in the world was she talking about? How had I given her even the slightest inkling that I derived any pleasure whatsoever from what she was doing to me? A bit of confusion settled over my mother's face whose expression became more serious that happy. That same glimmer of insanity that I noted in her bedroom shone in my mother's eyes.

"What? You 3; you mean you don't like what I'm doing to you? You're not enjoying this at all?!" said my mother with a short occurrence of hurt in her tone before rising into anger. Then, without skipping a beat, my mother swung her right leg back and over my body so that she was kneeling on my right side while still holding my mouth. Tightening her grip on my mouth considerably, my mother brought her face close to mine. "Fine, then! I'll just have to teach you how to appreciate our playtime! It seems you need a lot more training in order to be a good pet!" hissed my mother, practically spitting the last word at me.

Before I had time to even register what was going on, my mother rolled me over, so that I was face down and forced to lie on my bound hands which immediately reminded me of the uncomfortable position they were in. I immediately found my mother's sizeable gloved left hand clamped super-tightly over my mouth and lower face from my left side by which she was kneeling.

"Mmphh..mhmf," I began to whimper before my mother verbally ended any protests I might have tried to make.

"Shut up! You just shut up and keep quiet! I've about heard enough out of you today," hissed my mother while giving my head curt, firm shakes in order to emphasize the anger she was feeling. I could feel my heart thudding heavily in my chest as fear and overwhelming uncertainty gripped my thin body.

Smack! came a thick clapping sound from behind me. "Mmphh 3; hmm," I moaned in surprised pain as I felt stinging fire on my right butt cheek. Gosh, it really hurt too, even though the material of my shorts!

"That's one. I think you need at least twenty in order for you to learn your lesson," said my mother in a flat, cold manner that scared the living daylights out of me. I didn't expect her to spank me that hard! It really hurt. I could also feel the strain in my neck from having my face forcefully kept up and pulled back by the strong grip of my mother's tight-gagging hand vise-clamped across my mouth and lower face. Since my breathing rate increased as a result of the surprise and pain of having my butt spanked, my nostrils were once again pervaded with the scent of the warm leather of my mother's gloves.

Smack! came another painful strike on my left butt cheek. That tingly fire shot through me again as I whimpered helplessly, and almost silently, into my mother's big hand clamped over my mouth.

"That's two. And do try not to make too much noise. I don't want you disturbing anyone else in the park. That would be extremely inconsiderate of you," said my mother in that same flat tone before voicing her warning in a snotty, authoritative tone. I just didn't understand why I was being punished! Further, why was she spanking me with such hard strikes? She had never even come close to spanking me that hard the few times she did when I was younger. It was just painful enough to get the point across back then. That time in the park was over the top and really caused me a lot of discomfort. And to think that I had to endure twenty of those horrible strikes! It truly turned out to be an uncomfortable morning for me in ways that I had not been able to imagine.

My mother took her time with the spanking, ensuring that every strike counted so that the deepest impression possible would be left on me. After the third strike, hot tears of confusion, irritation, stress, and pain began to leak out of my forcefully squinted eyes that were made so by the overly-tight gripping hand over my mouth and lower face. It was clear that my mother was enjoying what she was doing to me even though she didn't say a word in the long minutes that made up that spanking session.

What made the strikes so painful was the seemingly expert technique of my mother's hand. She would bring her hand down forcefully and, as it made contact with my butt cheek, she would rotate her wrist and would quickly roll her hand upward. That would cause the area just at the curvature of my cheek to be hit which, as far as I was concerned, was the most tender of areas. She never missed and accidentally hit my lower back. It was the expert spanking technique and the fact that the same area on each cheek was hit over and over again that made the experience so painful and downright stressful.

It wasn't as if I could try to struggle for my bound hands were pinned under me by my lower stomach while my legs were still immobilized by rope. I tried to move my legs around after the fifth strike, but my mother snapped at me to keep still. I didn't want to make her any angrier than she already was, so I obeyed and did my best to keep still. Still and quiet; that was the only way my dominant mother wanted me. That was the only state in which I could manage to remain: still, quiet, and shedding rivers of stressed tears that caused my nose to become stuffy which only added to my overwhelmed state since I could hardly breathe at all.

By the time the spanking session had finished, my butt was so sore that I thought I wouldn't be able to sit for at least a week. Smack! came the final fiery strike onto my left butt cheek after which I sobbed in semi-relief for I knew that I wouldn't receive any more blows. Well, I didn't know, but I figured that the dominant woman who was spanking me might be at least true to her word that twenty was all I would receive.

"And, that makes twenty," said my mother, not in her earlier flat, cold tone, but in a lighter, more matter-of-fact tone that she might have used after completing a household chore or something. She didn't immediately roll me back over. Instead, my mother kept a super-tight grip of my mouth and lower face while kneading the tender cheeks of my butt with her spanking hand. I didn't know what she was doing, but it didn't feel good since she was playing with a part of my body that had just been through a horrible ordeal.

"Mff 3; mhmph," came a few snuffled, barely-audible whimpers from my handgagged mouth as I tried to make this new discomfort known to the woman putting me in the situation.

"Oh, I'm sorry, does that hurt my little kitty?" asked my mother in a cruel tone while giving my head a curt shake and my mouth and extra-firm squeeze, "I'm just making sure you're taking your punishment to heart so that you don't disobey me again. Although, this has been quite fun, so maybe you should misbehave every now and again."

Before I could further produce any more muffled protests, my mother abruptly pinched my runny nose closed by trapping it within the area between her thumb and index finger. "Gmm 3;" came a short, gurgled moan from the back of my throat as I suddenly felt myself completely deprived of air. For a few horrible, stress-filled seconds, my mother continued to knead and squeeze my tender butt cheeks while holding my nose closed and my head immobile with her big, strong, gloved left hand. It was when I started to move my legs in a desperate attempt to struggle that my mother saw fit to release my face entirely.

"Uhhh 3;" came a desperate noise from my agape mouth as I greedily inhaled as much fresh air as I possibly could. My mother stopped playing with my butt and rolled me over onto my back as I continued to gasp for air. She reached over me and took the towel the strawberries were contained in and began to gently wipe my face with it in an attempt to rid me of tears and snot from my runny nose. I felt an odd sort of relief when I felt the cloth touch my face in such a gentle manner. It felt as if I was in normal circumstances. The action was quite unexpected seeing as how my mother's treatment of me had taken a severe turn for the worst. I managed to get my breathing under control while my mother began to wipe the warm tears from my face.

"Shhhh. See? That wasn't so bad, now was it?" my evil mother said as she made a pass with the towel over my upper left cheek before moving to my right one. "Now you know that I can be fair when I punish you, and I'll continue to be fair if you behave. In case you're wondering when I'll be cruel 3; well, that'll come later," said my mother in a mischievous tone of voice. I simply stared at her with wide, nervous eyes as she put the towel to my nose and wiped my nostrils with it.

Kneeling straight again, for she had leaned over me to wipe my face, my mother examined the glove on her left hand with a bit of a disgusted expression. "Ugh, you naughty little thing," she said as she put the towel to her hand and wiped whatever tears and snot that may have been on it, "Why did you have to do that to Mommy's gloves when you knew she spent so much hard-earned money on them?" She didn't say it in a heavy scolding tone but one of arrogant reprimanding.

"M-mommy? I r-really need to pee ," I said with a tentative, shaky voice that resembled that of a mouse more than the "kitty" I was supposed to be.

The sentence was hardly past my lips before my mother quickly leaned forward and roughly grabbed my mouth with her big right hand, her splayed fingers gripping my left cheek and her strong thumb digging painfully into my right. "What do you think you're doing?! Don't you know how to properly address a lady?! Bad girl! That's a very bad girl!" snapped my mother while giving my head a few curt shakes to emphasize her point. That was all scaring me very badly and almost made me want to wet myself right then and there. I produced a few shaky mewls into her tight-squeezing hand gripping my mouth with a relentless fury while I fought to keep my squinted eyes open.

"You will address me as 'Mistress' only. Do you understand?!" asked my mother with an irritated sneer, her cold eyes piercing to my very core.

"Mhmphh..mff 3;" I whimpered as I tried to nod my head, but my mother's grip was so fierce that I couldn't do so at all. She must have felt me try for my mouth was, thankfully, soon released after another moment.

"Good girl. Now, try again, and this time, use the appropriate name for me," said my mother as she straightened and put her hands on her hips. It took me a minute to get my bearings for that sudden, rough mouth-grab really startled me.

"M-mistress? I have to pee," came a shaky response to my mother's demand.

"That's better! See? That wasn't so hard! Okay, little one, you may go behind this tree," said my mother indicating the one under whose canopy we were situated, "I was going to ask you anyway, so, from now on, you are not to make any more silly requests like that. I'll make sure I let you relieve yourself every so often, so don't worry about it." I had to go behind the tree? That didn't make any sense since there was a small building not another five minutes down the sidewalk with bathrooms in it.

My mother sat me up before standing behind me so she could put her big, gloved hands under my arms in order to lift me up and drag me over behind the tree so that I was obscured from the view of any potential passerby on the sidewalk. I was forced to kneel on the grass and thought that my legs would be untied so that I could more easily fulfill my need. Well, my dominant mother was having none of that for, after forcing me to kneel, she knelt behind me and forced my bound hands up and over my head so that my elbows were forced into the air. I felt my hands touch my mother's bosom and instinctively tried to pull back before receiving a curt command from the lady who told me not to move. I felt my mother's hands on my upper thighs and felt a wave of coldness pass through my stomach as the top button of my shorts was undone.

As soon as I felt my mother touch my small package through my underwear, I gasped in surprised horror for I had never felt her touch down there before. I soon found my mouth occupied once again, for my mother clamped her left hand tightly over it in order to prevent me from making any more noise. I felt my stiff little member still poking against the fabric along with potent essences of shame and disgust making their ways through me. With her right hand, my mother moved aside the two overlapping flaps of material that made up the front of my briefs in order to allow my small member to escape. The feeling of my mother's soft fingertips on my member's head instantly filled me with the most startling, sickening sensations of denial and wanting. What in the world was happening to me? For the hundredth time, I told myself that I was definitely not enjoying this experience. Again, I had never felt a touch like that down there before, and the experience was definitely not one that I wanted to go through at that point.

My mother only handled my small thing for a brief moment and let go of it as soon as she could see the tip protruding from my underwear. I strained my nervous eyes upward as much as possible and saw a very disturbing smile touching my mother's red lips as her eyes were locked onto the small head of my thing.

"Well, what are you waiting for? I thought you had to pee," said my mother with slight amusement after she turned her gaze to my face, much of which was obscured by her seemingly huge hand. I realized that I was going to have to go just like that with my mother holding me quiet and helpless. I looked forward and closed my eyes as I mustered every ounce of concentration that I could spare. The warm scent of leather overwhelming my partially obscured nostrils, I mentally found the feeling of the need to urinate and focused my concentration on remaining relaxed so that things could flow normally. Gosh, it was awfully hard when I could feel my mother's body pressing into mine and when her big, gloved hand was squeezing my mouth and lower face. At first, only a few dribbles came out of me, but, after a moment, I finally felt things flowing. I inhaled the scent of my mother's glove as relief washed over me after my stream ended.

"Good girl! That's my good girl," my mother said softly as she leaned forward and planted a soft kiss onto my right elbow. "Let's get those shorts on again," she then said as she removed her gagging hand from my face and moved both hands to my crotch again.

Suddenly, my mother froze for a moment before rubbing her thumbs and index fingers together. "What? What's this?! Oh, you bad little girl!" said my mother in an incredulous tone of voice. She roughly grabbed my mouth with her big, strong, gloved left hand and twisted my face slightly to her left and away from her. I produced a pathetic, barely audible gurgle of a whimper in the back of my throat as I felt my mother's right hand grab my neck. "You think you can just piss all over your clothes without consequences? Huh? Do you think you're some kind of animal and that you can just pee wherever you want?!" growled my mother while giving my mouth and extra-extra-firm squeeze which made my face ache considerably. I produced another one of those gurgled whimpers as a response which only made my mother sigh heavily as if she was disappointed in me.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing! She was the one who put me in that situation without untying my legs and hands so that I could do the deed myself. She was acting as if her actions were my fault. I was forced to kneel straight once again as my mother released my mouth and neck in order to quickly button up and zip the fly of my shorts without tucking my small member, which was as stiff as ever, back into my underwear.

"Ugh, unbelievable," said my mother with sneering disgust as she felt the pee-soaked material of the flaps of my shorts again. I didn't understand why a few dribbles were such a big deal. I was quickly turned to my left and forced to lie on the blanket face down with my bound hands pinned beneath my stomach. I immediately found my mother's left hand clamped with alarming tightness over my mouth as soon as my chest hit the blanket. I moaned shakily into her thick palm steam-pressed over my lips as I felt my legs being untied.

"I'm not that mad at you, Jamie. I was planning on having you change your clothes anyway before lunch. I just wish you would have said something before you started to go so that I could have held your cock for you," said my mother as she worked at the ropes binding my legs. What did she mean by "said something"? I couldn't have spoken even if I tried let alone make any noise! That's how tight her hand was clamped over my mouth as I was peeing. I still couldn't believe she was blaming me for that, but, looking back, I should have been used to that sort of treatment by that point.

Once my legs were unbound, my mother released my mouth and forced me to stand, making sure that I wasn't too wobbly after being bound for an extended period of time. I felt my circulation returning to normal after a few seconds, but the same couldn't be said for my hands for they were still bound in front of me. I could feel the bit of dampness on my shorts but still didn't understand why the dominant woman before me had gotten so angry.

"Now, clean this mess up so we can get you changed," commanded my wicked mother before stepping off of the blanket to watch me work. As I gathered up the pieces of rope, I heard the voice of my mother once again. "And, if you make one sound, I'll leave you bound and gagged in the trunk while I eat your lunch for you." That thought really depressed me and made me nervous at the same time. I worked as quickly as I could to gather up the picnic blanket, pieces of rope, towel, and empty champagne bottle with my bound hands.

My mother had me carry the blanket so she could carry the basket on our way back to the car. The walk back was eerie because all of the lunching women and their boy-slaves were gone. "Probably further in the park playing with their toys," mused my mother over her shoulder at me with an evil chuckle as we passed through the area. The quietness and solitude of the area was unsettling for I could only imagine the causes of such silence. Thoughts of those women in formal business attire keeping that poor little boy quiet with their big, lean-toned hands and smothering him so that he wouldn't be able to make any noise.

As my mother's car came into view, I felt the butterflies in my stomach once again for I knew that my situation was about to change in a negative manner. Once my mother put the picnic basket in the trunk, she grabbed the blanket out of my hands and curtly tossed next to the basket. She then grabbed my upper left arm in a pinching grip and forcefully escorted me to the driver's side door and then into the car. As soon as the engine came to life, my mother reached around my head and clamped her hand tight over my mouth and lower face before pulling me down so that my left ear was resting on her right thigh. I instinctively reached up with my bound hands in a feeble attempt to resist the mistreatment of my face, but a taught command from my mother, who told me to not touch her hand, ended any resistance I might have put up.

Since all I could do was attempt to snuffle in as much warm, leather-scented air as possible so that I didn't become light headed, the drive home seemed much longer than the drive to the park. Maybe we encountered more traffic than before; I didn't know. All I knew was that having my mouth and lower face encased in red leather was a sensation that I really did not care for. It was just difficult to breathe, and I so badly wanted to speak again. Since my vision was occupied by the steering column and my mother's feet working the pedals of the car, I didn't know that we were home until the woman dominating me forced me to sit up and released my mouth in order to retrieve her keys from the ignition.

Another quick, pinching grab of my upper left arm was taken before I was pulled out of the car and to the trunk to retrieve the things from the park. After my mother opened the trunk lid, she grabbed my mouth with her lean-toned, gloved hand and told me to grab both the basket and the blanket so she could keep her hands free in order to ensure that I would remain silent. As I was turned to my right in order to head toward the front door, I saw out of my peripheral vision our neighbor, the one with the raven hair, in the yard. Feeling my mother stop, her hand remaining viciously tight-clamped over my mouth and lower face, I realized that the woman living in the house to the left of ours would see me in this state.

Mortification and embarrassment seemed to overwhelm me and would have caused my face to become flushed, but the rough mistreatment of it throughout the morning meant that I was already rosy. What embarrassed me even more was that my mother actually turned me to face in the direction of our neighbor so she could make a bit of conversation with her.

"Morning, Dita! How are you, my darling?" chirped my mother as our neighbor finished a slight wave for she had seen us walking around the car. Dita, short for Dorothy I think, was a woman of similar lean-toned build and height as my mother and was in her mid-thirties. Her skin, which was in stark contrast to her dark hair, was quite pale, and I didn't understand why she was sunbathing. Her face had a sweet, innocent look to it since she had somewhat lower cheekbones which caused her moderate cheeks to put her naturally-red lips into a natural purse that was usually removed by her easily created smile. Her deep brown eyes were shaded by oval sunglasses, and her dark hair, so dark that it was almost black, was down on her shoulders while the top of her head was covered by a wide-brimmed, yellow sunhat. Our neighbor also had on a yellow one-piece bikini which I thought was very lewd. I didn't know why my mother was allowing me to see our neighbor in such a state, and, further, I didn't know why our neighbor was even dressed like that. The bathing suit appeared to be yellow, but, upon a second glance, I noticed it was white with yellow polka dots. A sweating drink with an umbrella in it was loosely nonchalantly clutched by the long fingers of Dita's right hand which looked quite large upon seeing it wrap around the glass. Her nails on her fingers and bare feet were painted a deep crimson color.

"Good morning, Marion! Oh, I'm just wonderful thanks to this gorgeous day," Dita exclaimed. Even with her shades on, I could tell Dita looked directly at me then. "And how are you, Jamie? Are you enjoying this fine day as much as I am?" she asked as I tried to avoid her gaze. I really didn't want to be seen by her in the state that I was in. And how on earth did she know the nickname my insane mother had bestowed upon me as if I was actually supposed to be called that. My name was James, for crying out loud. Jamie was a girl's name!

"Go on, Jamie. Answer Miss Dita when she asks you a question," my mother said as she briefly motioned in the direction of our neighbor with her left hand which had been on her hip. For the hundredth time that morning I asked myself how my mother expected me to answer with her hand relentlessly gagging me. How was I supposed to make any noise whatsoever?

"Mphh..hmmhhh," I replied to the best of my abilities. The pathetic, muffled whimpers could barely be heard even by me, but they brought out a few delighted giggles from Dita and my mother.

"Oh, he's just adorable! I can't wait until this evening. It's going to be so much fun!" exclaimed Dita as she sank back into her lounge chair after having her laugh.

"I know! I'm actually going to get him changed now. Do you want to see him before I take him to lunch?" asked my mother as Dita took a long sip of her drink which was probably alcoholic.

"Oh, yes, I'd love too! Bring him around when you're ready. You know where I'll be," Dita heartily replied.

And, with that, I was then turned toward the front door and forcefully escorted into the house with my mother's warm, large hand locked vise-tight over my mouth. The pressure of that fierce grip never wavered in the slightest as my mother closed the door and led me through the living room to the kitchen where I was commanded to place the picnic basket and blanket on the table.

"Now, let's get this mess cleaned up before we get you changed," my mother said, indicating the things I had just put on the table. I thought that she was going to let go of my mouth, but, when she didn't, I tried to look up at her with my squinted, nervous eyes.

"What?" asked my mother with slight amusement that she tried to hide with an irritated tone.

"Mmphhhh 3; mhmhh," I whimpered while bringing my bound hands up to indicate that those pathetic vocalizations were in reference to her hand clamped over my mouth.

"What, you actually think that I'm going to let you go around with your mouth free? Think again, little lady. Now, pick up the blanket and get moving," commanded my mother as disappointment filled my thin body. I took the blanket in my hands and was then led to the closet in the hall so that I could deposit it onto the lowest shelf. I was then forced to place the empty champagne bottle into the kitchen trash can, to drape the towel over the handle of the oven, to place the flute in the sink, and to place the basket next to the door leading to the back yard. The pieces of rope that were used to bind my legs and ankles were left for last for they went in my mother's bedroom which was also where my mother intended me to go anyway to "get changed".

It was quite difficult to accomplish those tasks what with a large, gloved hand clamped so tightly over my mouth and lower face. I could barely see what I was doing since the pressure exerted by that gripping, gagging hand caused my eyes to squint along with the rest of the exposed parts of my face. It must have taken a good ten minutes to put everything in their respectful places since my mother insisted on me walking slowly so that I could experience her hand over my mouth for as long as possible.

At long last, I was led by my leather-oppressed mouth to my mother's bedroom where I was commanded to place the bits of rope onto the bed. "Now, I'm going to let that mouth of yours go for a few minutes so that I can get you into some new clothes, so I want you to be on your best behavior or else," my mother warned after hooking her strong wrist and forcing me to look up at her with watery, slitted eyes. Finally, my mouth was free of her wicked hands. The air circulating through the house could be felt on my face for it began to dry the perspiration that had accumulated on my lower face from being encased within the folds of my mother's hand.

After breathing a sigh of relief, I watched my mother undo the expert knot that secured the rope about my small hands. I tried to rub my right wrist with my left hand in order to relieve some of the pained irritation that had accumulated as a result of the tight binding. However, my mother immediately seized my right hand, completely engulfing it within the gloved folds of her larger left one, and pulled me over toward the large, cherry armoire to the right of her makeup table. Once the doors were open, all I saw was, as was always the case in the past, a blur of clothes on hangers and various boxes piled on the shelf above the rods upon which the hangers hung. What were we even doing? Was that where my supposed "new clothes" were?

Speaking of new clothes, I wondered if my mother remembered that the bags of stuff from the stores were still in the car. Did she have other plans for those things? That train of thought was broken by my mother who, after sifting through the row of clothes, held before me a set of two hangars. On the one hung a button-up baby-blue blouse that appeared to consist of a thin cotton fabric. The other hanger contained a loose, but not frilly, white skirt that seemed like it would come down to my knees if I was indeed expected to wear such things. Oddly, the outfit seemed as if it was tailor-made to fit someone of my stature. What 3; what was going on? Just how long had my mother planned to take over my life the way she was?

"Ah! There we go! That's just perfect," my mother said as she held the clothes closer to me as if using me as a mental model. "Yes, I think that'll work nicely. Take off your clothes," commanded my mother once she was satisfied with her choice of outfit for me.

I stood there dumbfounded, my limbs rendered immobile and my jaw slack by incredulity. I couldn't actually believe what was happening. My mother had been watching my reaction with more than a little amount of amused satisfaction in her glimmering eyes. That satisfaction was belied by the seriousness of her expression when she saw my delayed obedience.

"Take off your clothes! I won't tell you again!" my mother snapped which sort of jolted me back to this horrible reality that I had been forced to endure. Trembling, my hands went to the buttons of my polo shirt and attempted to undo them from their receptacles. I couldn't keep my hands from shaking and, as a result, the process of just undoing the top button took longer than it should have. What was worse was that I still had two more to go.

After a few seconds of me fiddling with the top button of my polo, I finally got it undone, but my mother was already tapping her right foot so that her impatience would be illustrated. Fed up, my mother dropped the clothes to the floor and came over to me with a purposeful stride.

"Jesus, you are absolutely pathetic," said my mother thickly as she batted my hands away and made quick work of undoing the rest of my polo's buttons. She then pulled the polo off of me and forced me to cooperate by putting my arms up whether I wanted to or not. I was spun around before feeling my mother's body pressed up against my back, her long, lean-toned fingers working at my shorts. My mother rudely shoved me forward which forced me to bend over the edge of the bed and, before I knew it, my shorts and underwear were around my ankles. Naked and exposed in front of the only person in the world I should have been able to trust, I felt a terrible sinking feeling in my stomach before sensing that my bottom lip was trembling slightly.

"Turn around," my mother said and, knowing that she would become even madder if I disobeyed, I slowly turned while hugging my bare torso with my right arm and my left hand over my exposed little package whose stiff member was hidden behind my cupped palm. A shark-like grin spread over my insane mother's face as she hungrily eyed me up and down as a predator might do to its prey.

"Shoes and socks off. Now!" my mother snapped after a few seconds of looking at me in that helpless state. I felt so utterly vulnerable as I bent over to slip off my shoes, socks, and step out of my shorts. Completely naked in front of my mother now, I watched with teary eyes and waited for what was going to happen next.

"Mm, it's a shame I have to put these clothes on you. But, we'll have some fun later that won't involve any clothes on either of us. Well, I might be wearing something naughty, but you'll enjoy it. I promise," my mother said as she took the baby-blue blouse off of the hanger and held it out to me. Her words really scared me quite a bit and caused an airy gasp to escape me as I turned around and put my arms out behind me. Pulling the sleeves up my arms and then buttoning the blouse, my mother bent slightly and planted a very soft kiss on the right side of my neck which caused a shiver to run down my spine. She inhaled deeply, taking in the fear no doubt emanating from every pore, before standing up straight and commanding me to turn around.

Turning around, my mother quickly opened, reached into, and closed the top drawer of the armoire before chucking a piece of cloth at me. "Put these on. I almost forgot," she said as the piece of cloth landed in front of me. I looked down and, as I stooped to pick it up, I noticed it was a pair of white panties that consisted of a thick lace pattern raised up from a very soft material. I felt so degraded and humiliated as I slid on the girly panties and felt the sensation of its fabric along with the feminine fabric of the blouse.

"Last but certainly not least," my mother said coming toward me with the white skirt that did indeed come down to my knees once it was put on. The blouse's bottom edge was tucked into the skirt before the two buttons and zipper were secured at the left side.

"Oh my God, you look adorable! Wait 'till Dita gets an eyeful of you, little lady," my mother cheerfully said as she stood back for a moment to take in the sight of me in that outfit. "But, wait. You can't go out of the house barefoot, now can you?" she continued as she retrieved something from the shelf below the hanging clothes and turned back to me with a pair of black-and-white, wing-tipped flats and socks with a frilly upper edge. I looked at the things clutched in my mother's big, gloved hands with despair.

"B-but, Mommy, I-I don't-mmmphhhh 3; hmmphhh," I began to stutter then before my mother dropped the shoes and socks onto the floor and quickly grabbed my mouth in a very rough manner. Putting her left hand on the back of my head, she slammed her inverted strong, gloved right hand super-tight over my mouth and lower face, her thumb locking under my chin.

"Shut up! Who gave you permission to speak?! Huh?" my mother snapped, "No one, that's who! You stay quiet, little lady, like you were told. Also, it's 'Mistress', not 'Mommy'. I know who I am; what's more important is what I am! I am your mistress, and you are to address me as such!"

Quivering, gargled moans leaked out of my heavily-oppressed mouth as I took slight, snuffling breaths through nostrils obscured by mucus and the upper edge of my mother's thick right hand. My face was really aching then for the grip was just way too tight.

"Besides, what you want or don't want is not important, do you understand? All that matters is what your mistresses want. And, for now, your mistresses want you quiet and helpless until told otherwise. Got it?" my mother finished, giving my head a curt shake for emphasis. Giving my mouth an extra-extra firm squeeze then, she released my mouth and left me greedily sucking in air in sobbing gasps while she quickly put the clothes hangers back in the closet.

"Now, put on your socks and shoes. We have places to be," my mother said from the closet. I pulled my hands away from my face, for I had been petting my tender lips in order to reduce the irritation and aching that I felt there, and sat on the edge of the bed so that I could pull on the frilly socks. Stepping into the flats then, I tried to bring my nervous sobs under control. They sounded so pathetic and more like mewls than actual sobs.

"Aw, good girl! See? That's not so bad, is it? And just look how pretty you are!" my mother said with gleeful giddiness. The expression on her face and her tone of voice were completely, utterly different from those not a minute ago. It was so weird how quickly she changed like that. That fact only made me more nervous, for I realized just how unpredictable she was. That being said, it was stupid of me to try to protest; I didn't know that at the time, though.

Looking away from my mother's face, I caught a glimpse of something in her right hand which she must have gotten after putting the hangers back, perhaps from a small cardboard box on the top shelf. "Give me your hands," the dominant woman said and, after I held my hands out, she slid lacey white gloves onto them, the fabric extending to just past my wrists. I stared at my hands dumbly for a minute with tear-streaked eyes and marveled at just how creeped-out these female clothes made me feel. It just felt so wrong being forced to wear those clothes. Every fiber of my being was screaming that I was wearing the wrong thing. But, could I voice such things? Of course not!

I continued to stare at my hands until my mother stepped forward and grabbed my mouth with her big, strong, gloved right hand and began forcefully escorting me, by her handgag only, toward the master (or mistress, rather) bathroom. Once inside, I was forced to stand in front of the sink, on the right side of the room, with my back turned to the mirror. Wetting a fine-toothed comb under the faucet, my mother reestablished the side-part in my hair before securing it with three things unbeknownst to me at the time. After I was forced to turn around, my mother got a nice long look at me in the mirror above the sink.

I looked on in horror as I noticed my hair, which had gone uncut for a few weeks, was secured in its part by two normal berets and a thicker one between them, just past my temple, with a large yellow flower on it with several petals and a small dark center ringed in more yellow petals that were quite tiny. Feeling more humiliated than I had ever felt before, I marveled at the fact that the only thing distinguishing me from the girl my evil mother was trying to turn me into was the absence of makeup on me. Considering that a large, female hand would probably be kept clamped over my mouth almost constantly, any passerby might mistake me for a girl, since all that would be seen would be my wide, nervous eyes, my outfit, and my parted hair. Since there were several women in the town who wore their hair short, the short-cut style was certainly not foreign.

"Mm, look how beautiful you are," my mother said in a low voice behind me which caused me to divert my attention to her reflection in the mirror, "I bet Dita can't wait to see you like this." The thought of going outside in the state that I was in was terrifying, but I knew that I didn't have any choice whatsoever and would just have to deal with whoever saw me. At least no one would recognize me, except whoever was in the know.

"Hold these," said my mother then as she handed me her fingerless leather gloves she must have removed when I was looking at myself in a daze, "And come with me." She then clamped her strong, soft left hand tight over my mouth and began to force me out of the bathroom and bedroom. To better steer me, I felt my mother take an unkind, pinching grip of my upper right arm as we left the bedroom. I gripped the leather gloves in my lace-covered hands and tried to keep my pace of breathing steady as the warm, leather-tainted scent of my mother's hand overwhelmed me. A couple of disheartened whimpers escaped me as we neared the front door, and a few more followed once we were outside and the front door was locked.

Dita immediately looked over and gave me a broad smile that radiated with absolute delight. I hadn't seen her smile like that since I was first introduced to her when I was younger. The smile she wore as my mother walked me over the driveway and bit of grass to Dita's seat conveyed similar glee as when I first saw it, but it also appeared predatory in nature.

"Oh, Marion, she's gorgeous! Aw, she looks so lovely!" Dita exclaimed, rising from her lounge chair as we approached.

"I know! The outfit couldn't have turned out better!" exclaimed my mother before addressing me with a warning tone, "Now, Jamie, I'm going to take my hand off of your mouth so Mistress Dita can see your precious little face. You make sure you're on your best behavior, or else you might not get to have lunch today." Dita looked on at this display of dominance with a slight, satisfied smile on her lips and eyebrows that visibly arched behind her shades which she then removed.

My mother moved her hand from my mouth and rested it on my left shoulder while Dita bent a little and touched my face, lightly stroking my left cheek with her long, lean-toned fingers. The feel of her red-painted nails caused a nervous shiver to run down my spine.

"Mm, what a lovely face you have, little lady. And such soft lips," Dita said as she placed her fingertips under my chin and ran the pad of her thumb lightly over my thin, naturally-red lips. Straightening, and inhaling briefly as if coming out of a daze, Dita asked my mother if she still wanted to put makeup on me. I looked up at her, while she spoke to my mother, with nervous eyes for being dressed like that was horrifying enough. The prospect of wearing makeup too filled me with a heavy weight of dread. I still couldn't believe all of that was happening.

"Yes, but I was going to do it after lunch so nothing is smeared," replied my mother.

"Oh, well, just take her to my salon. You know none of that stuff can come off without remover!" Dita responded in a chipper manner which, apparently, brightened up my mother too.

"Oh, are you sure? I really couldn't impose," my mother said giving a brief wave toward her dear neighbor.

"Nonsense! I'll even come with you, and we can pick out some things for her together. It'll be fun!" Dita responded, "What do you think?"

My mother let out a gleeful giggle and smacked a brief kiss onto my left cheek which startled me. "That sounds great! Are you coming dressed like that?" teased my mother which caused our neighbor to blush a little.

"Only if you asked me to," Dita teased back, "No, let me throw on something, and I'll be back in a jiffy."

With that, Dita took her drinking glass and went inside her off-white house to change, leaving her front door open while the screen door warded off insects. Tilting my head back with both hands under my lower jaw so that I was forced to look up at her, my mother said, "What a lovely woman, Dita is." She gazed into my scared eyes with a loving look that a mother was not supposed to give to her child. Patting my right cheek, my mother then allowed me to put my head in a normal position before leading me by the shoulders over to the passenger side of our car. I was commanded to put my mother's gloves back into the small box from which they came before the car door was closed and locked. I wondered why my mother locked the car since I presumed we were about to leave anyway.

The question was answered when Dita returned outside a few minutes later and told my mother that her car was already unlocked. Hearing the clopping of my new shoes filled me with an indescribable hopelessness, and I wished for freedom with all of my heart. As I was escorted by the shoulders to Dita's car, I noticed her outfit was not too much different from mine. She wore a black v-neck top that was made of a soft-looking, thin material and whose sleeves were pulled up to just below the crooks of her arms. Her skirt was billowy and white and on her feet were yellow pumps with white polka dots. How can she wear an outfit like that with those shoes? I thought to myself. Oh, no 3; if that wasn't a thought a girl would have, I didn't know what was. What in the world was happening to me?

"I was going to let you sit in the back, but I know you're a bad little girl and need to be kept quiet so you're going to sit on the floor in front of me," said my mother after she opened the passenger door of Dita's four-door, hard-topped lavender Cadillac. I looked up and back at her with a somewhat quizzical expression on my face for I didn't understand how I was supposed to comply with her demand. A serious look on her face, my mother grabbed my face with her big, bare left hand, squeezing my cheeks until my lips pursed together completely.

"What are you waiting for? I told you to sit on the floor in front of my seat. How hard is that to understand?" snapped my mother, visibly irritated, "Now, get on the floor, cross your legs, and lean back against the seat." She released my face and allowed my quivering, puckered lips to fall back into their normal positions before putting her hands on her hips while she watched me comply. Dita had already gotten in the car and had started it up before watching that charade with satisfied smile on her lips that could have been mistaken for sweet complacency. My mother followed me into the car and positioned herself so that I was between her toned thighs.

As soon as the car started moving out of the driveway, my mother clamped both of her strong, cruel hands tight over my mouth with her left hand over her right hand, thereby creating a hopelessly-effective mask of silence. Breathing instantly became a chore for right nostril was closed off because it was caught in the crook between the thumb and index finger of my mother's right hand. My left nostril was free, even though it felt blocked, so I was forced to take slow, deliberate breaths that rasped audibly between my mother's crossed thumbs that were situated on the bridge of my nose and obscured my vision. The warm scent of my mother's hands pervaded my sense of smell and reminded me of the position that I was in.

"There we go. Nice and quiet, just the way I like you," said my mother from somewhere above and behind me as the car continued toward our neighbor's salon. A couple of barely-audible 'mmphs' eeked out of me and made me sound so pathetic and helpless. Upon hearing me whimper, both women giggled while relishing my plight.

"So, Jamie, how do you like being your mom's plaything?" Dita asked from somewhere up and to my left. I paused for a moment, not knowing what to do since I couldn't answer. "Well? Answer me. Go on. What are you waiting for?" Dita pressed, really wanting me to respond.

"Yeah, Jamie, answer Mistress Dita when she asks you a question," followed my mother with a slight scolding tone. She gave my head a brief shake by using her handgag as leverage. That motion caused my nose to momentarily slide against her hand which forced a new wave of warm hand-scent to waft into my nostrils.

"Mphh..ghmphhh 3;" was the best I could do for my mother was seemingly an expert at keeping me quiet. The women dominating me outright laughed that time, the sound of which depressed me a little for my position in life seemed to be sinking in. I was merely a thing to be played with and enjoyed which included being laughed at if my "mistresses" saw fit.

"Oh, Marion, this is just wonderful! I'm so glad you decided to bring me in on this idea of yours," Dita said as she came down off of her high streak of laughter.

"I know! I feel the same way. You know, I was thinking that, since Jamie obviously isn't going to school, or even college for that matter, we can use that money to keep playing with him like this until he's eighteen or even twenty years old. Then, maybe we can marry him off to 3; say, Darlene's daughter. She'd probably be willing to let us play with Jamie even though she would be hers," my mother proposed.

"Oh, yeah, I agree! Ha! This is so exciting," Dita responded, obviously loving what my mother was saying. When I heard those words, every part of me seemed to become still for a moment. It was as if I was in shock for a few seconds given the impact of what I had just heard.

"Mmphhh 3; mhmphhh 3; nnmphhh 3;" I moaned in an attempt to protest what was going on behind me; all that horrible, vicious plotting.

"Ooh, she didn't like that very much, did she?" Dita heartily mused as she turned the car leftward.

"No. No she didn't," said my mother under her breath while squeezing my mouth shut with much more force than was necessary to do the job of keeping me quiet, "Stop struggling! I don't care of you don't like what the future holds, do you understand? All that matters is what we want, and what we want is a pretty little toy to play with. So just sit there and accept it, because you aren't going anywhere."

A few tears flowing out of the corners of my squinted eyes, I ceased my attempted protests and simply leaned back against the edge of the car seat as feelings of defeat coursed through me. I still wanted to struggle and protest, but what good would it do? I certainly couldn't escape, what with the car still moving, and, even if I managed to escape later, my mother's lady-cop friend would probably find me anyway.

"See? That's not so hard. Just sit back and be quiet. That's all you have to do!" said Dita as my mother relaxed a little but didn't lessen the pressure exerted onto my mouth and lower face one bit. "You know," Dita then said to my mother, "Instead of trying to resist you, she should be trying to please you in every way possible so that her punishment won't be so severe." Even though she was talking to my mother, I could tell her message was meant for me. I felt the long fingers of my mother's right hand flex momentarily as she briefly gave my mouth and extra-extra-extra tight squeeze.

"Mm, you're right. I couldn't have put it better myself," replied my mother, reinforcing the message to me, "We still have a few minutes until we get to the salon, so, Jamie, why don't you feel my hands like you did in the park. Those gloves of yours would feel awfully nice." I sighed as heavily as I could through my one free nostril as I slowly moved my lace-covered hands up to the thick mask of female flesh piled over my mouth and lower face.

"Ooh, that sounds scandalous! Did you two lovebirds have a nice time at the park?" Dita teased my mother when she heard her talking about my adoration of her hands earlier in the morning. "Oh, yes, we had quite the time. This little lady here really enjoyed herself too even though she wouldn't dare admit it," my mother returned.

As my gloved hands slowly wandered over the back of my mother's large left hand, I thought that her reply was absurd. Of course I didn't admit that I enjoyed myself. For one thing, I did not enjoy myself and, for another thing, I couldn't admit anything since I had large female hands clamped over my mouth almost constantly. Feeling my mother's hand for the second time, I admitted to myself how marvelously dominant it felt what with the broadness of the back of the palm, the length and strength of the fingers, and the sharp edges of the nails way over toward my right ear. I also noted how warm my lower face was getting seeing as how it had been completely deprived of fresh air for several minutes and how, with each passing minute, the smell of my mother's hands seemed to become more noticeable since warmth enhanced the scent.

"Oh, well that's understandable. I was a little nervous too on my first date, and I didn't get the nerve up to tell anyone how wonderful of a time I had until my next night out," Dita said to my mother with only a touch of reproach in her tone. Only silence came from my mother then, and I supposed she might have been simply watching my small, thin gloved hands slowly move over her much larger gloved ones.

Feeling my mother's hands gave me an eerie feeling for it seemed to make me more aware of how thick, tight, and broad that two-handed handgag over my mouth and lower face felt. What was most eerie of all, and quite sickening, was the fact that the more I felt my mother's hands locked over my mouth, the harder my little cock seemed to become. It silently throbbed and begged for attention that it might, sadly, receive later on in the day if my mother's creepy comment in the bedroom was at all truthful. The thought of what my mother meant by that statement, and what she would do to me, made my stomach turn over and small member throb achingly.

"Oh, did you hear Celia's little girl was found?" my mother asked Dita after what seemed like a few long minutes of silence in the car.

"Yes, I heard about that!" Dita started with a tone suggesting she was talking about an inside secret, "Is she back in her house now? I know she'd been gone for a little while." I thought Celia mentioned that she had a son, not a daughter, but I then realized that these two crazy women might be referring to Celia's son the way my mother referred to me: as a little girl and not a boy.

"Mhm, she managed to hide in a few backyard sheds in some neighborhoods east of where Celia lives. Too bad for her the last shed she hid in was in the backyard of a house that was not unoccupied and was owned by a very nice lady who reported to the police that there was what appeared to be a little girl in her shed. Well, don't you know, Miranda was there in a jiffy and took that little brat back to her house and is still keeping him there safe and sound," replied my mother in an excited clamor. Talking about the kidnapping of a young boy by a mean, handgagging lady cop was clearly enjoyable to my mother.

"Right, she's still there, I think; for another couple weeks," Dita added in a somewhat unsure tone.

"A whole month, actually!" my mother chirped back.

"A month! Wow, she's really in for it, now! Who knows what that Miranda is cooking up for her?" Dita said in true astonishment. "Probably some of those delightful cum sandwiches and warm mashed bananas as she's so famous for," said my mother which was obviously an inside joke for both her and Dita burst out laughing. The stroking motions of my hands had slowed considerably as I found myself captivated by this story I was hearing. What in the world were "cum sandwiches", and why was there such mischievous emphasis put on the word "warm" when my mother mentioned mashed bananas? Warm mashed bananas didn't sound great, but they didn't sound all that bad either.

Well, it didn't really matter how many questions I had, for there was absolutely no way that I would be answered by my two awful mistresses even if I managed to get one of my questions past the four-inch-thick layer of female hands piled over my mouth. The few tears that leaked from the corners of my eyes a few minutes past had dried and began to itch. Hoping neither Dita nor my mother would notice, I reached my right hand up to the top of the two-handed gloved handgag in order to reach my index finger into the area near the corner of my eye to relieve the itch. With my small, gloved left hand, I continued to stroke the broad expanse of the back of my mother's large left hand clamped over her right.

My mother did notice but didn't do anything harmful to me and didn't shout at me. Instead, I heard a cruel snicker from somewhere above and behind me as I struggled to put my thin index finger where I wanted.

"Oh, Dita, look at this. Is that not just adorable? Look at her struggle," said my mother to her fellow dominatrix.

"Aw, how perfectly pathetic!" replied Dita in a sort of sing-song chuckle. Both women giggled at my helpless plight as I struggled to relieve myself of something that I at least thought I could control. It didn't matter, for I then felt the car make a sharp turn while slowing drastically; we must have been at the salon.

"Well, here we are! Time to make Jamie look gorgeous," Dita said as she immediately hopped out of the car with evident excitement to be underway with humiliating me. Without a word, my mother released my mouth and opened the passenger door which was pulled out to its fullest extent by Dita who had come around the front of the car. My tender lips and aching lower face saw little reprieve from oppressive, female hands as the only time I wasn't handgagged was during the time that I was forced out of the car.

As soon as I was standing, Dita pulled me firmly back into her, wrapping her long, lean-toned left arm very snugly around my torso and clamping her big, lean, right hand tight over my mouth and lower face. Her broad, soft palm cruelly sealed my thin lips in a speechless hold while her long fingers wrapped around my face with a snake-like force of constriction. Her thumb hooked over the upper bridge of my nose and partially obscured my vision since my face was just so much smaller than the hand covering much of it.

"Mmphhh 3; mllhhh 3; mmmhh," I moaned as I was grabbed and mercilessly handgagged by that dominant woman while my mother got out of the car. She approached me, being held still and hopelessly quiet by her friend, and began to lecture me about the consequences of me acting in any way other than what her and Dita desired.

"Alright, little lady, you're going to be on your best behavior while we're here, or else you will be punished in a way that you will definitely not enjoy tolerating. Is that clear?" asked my mother as she essentially 'read me the riot act'.

I was being held so tightly and was being kept so effectively quiet by Dita's super-strong hands that I was unable to both nod and make any noise of affirmation that could be heard above the sound of distant traffic and the breeze making its way past us. Dita produced an evil, airy laugh as she watched me struggle to make my very-clear understanding of what I was told evident to my mother. She pulled my head back into her upper torso just below her right breast more firmly while giving my face a tighter squeeze, a thing that I didn't think could occur for her grip of my mouth and face was so tight already. A shark-like grin spread over my mother's face as she also watched me struggle to answer her in any way that I could.

"Hnh, that's right, Jamie," Dita said in a low, threatening tone of voice, "You're going to be as quiet as a church-mouse while you're in my salon. We'll be doing your makeup in the back, just to make sure that no one sees you and suspects what we're doing to you. That does not mean, however, that you can just make whatever noise you want. Don't think that, just because we're in my salon, you won't be punished right there and then if you start making a fuss. If you misbehave too much 3; well 3; see the trunk of my car?" Dita directed my face to the left a little by using her tight handgag as leverage. She pushed her butt out a bit so she could bend and put her mouth near my left ear. Lowering her voice to a low, throaty quality, her warm breath tickling my ear, she said, "You're going to be a guest of mine, bound and gagged with no food and only a little water, for three days."

As my stomach tightened in nervousness, a shiver ran down my spine due to fear and the soft silkiness of Dita's lips as she placed a sensuous kiss on my left ear before straightening and pulling me back into her. I could see through partially squinted eyes that my dominant mother had worn a smug, lips-only smile throughout Dita's assertion of her warning and that the smile didn't fade once the riot act ended. Dita's warm, soft, and quite large hand clamped very tightly over my mouth had grown even warmer during my warning which caused the fragrant, perfume-laced scent of that hand to waft steadily into my nostrils that were partially obscured by the upper edge of the hand.

"My, Dita, I never expected you to say something so dominant to my son - I mean little girl. It really is a thrill to hear you speak in that way," said my mother to her good friend holding me still and quiet. I could tell, from the sound of her voice, that Dita wore a broad grin. "

I know! And it's a thrill to speak that way too, as I'm sure you know. It's also a thrill to see you acting superior to your little girl. I just love the way your hands look over her mouth," said Dita, practically squealing in delight. I marveled for a moment at just how dominant these women could sound in one minute but then act like giddy school girls the next.

"I really want to see it again! Besides, I need to unlock the back door to my place, so why don't you hold her again. She's your toy, after all," said Dita before forcing me closer to my mother so that there would be less of a chance of me doing anything foolish (like making noise).

"Well, if you insist," returned my mother as Dita finally released me and removed her hand from my mouth, "But, remember, he's just as much your toy as he is mine." My mother finished her sentence, and emphasized it, by reaching around my head and clapping her big right hand very firmly over my mouth before pulling me back into her and securing her equally-big left hand under my jaw so that I was completely unable to open my mouth or move my squashed lips behind the soft palm pressed over them.

"Oh, doll, you're too kind," said Dita playfully while beginning to cheerily sashay her way over to the back door of her salon.

The salon was located on a road bisecting the main street that my mother had driven down earlier in the morning. It was the last building on the street before a small park occurred followed by the road into our neighborhood and others. Separating the building from the park, which was little more than a spot of grass with a few wooden picnic tables placed here and there, was a short, paved road followed by a tall wooden fence with wide slats that prevented the trunks of the trees beyond it from being seen. The road led into a parking lot that was meant to be overflow for not only the salon but the other businesses next to it.

Dita's section of lot was partially obscured for the building to the right of her salon extended somewhat farther back, thereby making it easier for her and my mother to force me quiet and helpless over to the back door without risk of being seen. It wasn't as if there was any risk of that anyhow seeing as how the lot was empty of people regardless of it being packed with cars. T

he smell of my mother's warm palm plagued my nostrils while my poor, thin lips ached from being abused all morning. I was really getting sick of being handgagged, but I failed to make my protests known. I think part of the reason was because the entire experience of being treated so negatively had left me in shock. I also knew, deep down, that all I could do was take the punishment that was being dished out to me for these women were simply way too strong when compared to me and were far too willing to keep me as their prisoner.

The back door to the salon was actually somewhat pretty and a little different than what I had expected. It looked like a door to a house for it was white with a small, arched window at the top that consisted of three panes of glass arranged in a half-circle. The door led into what appeared to be Dita's private office for a dark-stained wooden desk sat to the right of the door and looked out over the rest of the large office. A long, black leather couch ran along much of the left wall while a beauty station ran along much of the right. The beauty station consisted of a typical salon chair, shelf-table in front of it with all sorts of combs and products, and a large mirror above it. A hair dryer, with a seat attached, was to the station's left, while a chalk board was to its right, between the station and the desk. Was it supposed to be some sort of class room? Did Dita reveal some of her tricks of the trade to promising pupils? I didn't know and didn't care; all I knew was that I was about to have makeup put on me, and I didn't want that at all.

"Mphhh 3; mhmmhhh," I moaned shakily in barely-audible protest as I locked eyes on the thickly-padded leather beauty chair that I was being led toward. I felt my mother's big right hand squeeze my mouth and lower face even more tightly as Dita wheeled around with a long, right index finger pointed in my direction. I momentarily fixated my gaze on the red-painted nail at the end of that finger and noticed how dominant of a gesture Dita was sending my way.

"Shut up!" Dita hissed which stopped me cold, "Remember what I said. I have plenty of things in that desk over there to punish you with, so just remember that the next time you feel the need to make any noise." Dita's warning was swift and cold, making my stomach turn over a time or two in nervousness. "Speaking of which, I have something to secure our little toy to the chair so that she doesn't squirm," Dita said before making her way to her desk. I heard the sound of heavy drawers opening and closing while my mother pulled me into the chair by my arms which forced me to climb into it.

Dita appeared at my right side and handed my mother two black, leather belts that had holes punched through their entire lengths. My wrists were individually secured to the chair's arms before my legs were forced together so that a belt could be secured about my ankles and just above my knees. Finding myself immobile, I gazed helplessly with wide eyes into my reflection in the grand mirror before me. I was horrified to see myself dressed as I was with my hair combed like that of a girl with a flower pinned in it. I stared in confusion at the cruel women on either side of me who stared back at me through the mirror.

Dita averted her gaze from me and looked at the shelf of beauty supplies before the chair, as if she forgot about something she meant to do. "Oh, damn, I forgot that I didn't have any of the special makeup back here. Come out to the floor with me and help me carry some. I only have two hands, you know," Dita said to my mother who agreed but looked at me with concern.

"Do you have anything back here to gag him wi-" began my mother before a female voice could be heard outside the main door of the office. Immediately, my mother's cruel left hand shot up to my face and clamped tight over my mouth while her big right hand grabbed the back of my head in an immobilizing hold. Dita's right hand also shot up to clamp very tightly over my mother's left hand over my mouth. My face was being held so tightly that I couldn't see very much for every part of my lower face was squinched from the pressure of the tight-gagging female hands over my mouth. I had my chance, then, to call for help, but it was rudely robbed from me by my two mistresses who were keeping me so hopelessly quiet.

"Shht! Don't you dare make a sound," my mother hissed angrily into my left ear as I pulled in vain against the belts securing me to the beauty chair. The female voice, muffled by the door, persisted for a few moments and briefly reached a crescendo in the form of a laugh.

"Ah! That might be Angie," Dita heartily whispered to my mother from above my head before removing her supporting hand from my severely-handgagged mouth.

"What? Are you sure? You can't just go out there, can you? What if it isn't her, and what if she gets a look in here? She might just be one of the few honest women left, you know," my mother protested, but I saw in the mirror Dita's reflection waving my mother off.

The grip over my mouth tightened even more, if that was even possible, as Dita opened the door enough to see out but not enough so that anyone past it could see in. "You make one sound and I swear it will be the last one you ever make," hissed my mother in my left ear as I struggled to get a few precious ounces of air through my nostrils that were squashed by the upper portion of my mother's soft palm.

"Oh, Angie, it is you! I thought I heard you out here," Dita said after I heard an audible click that sounded like a telephone being returned to its cradle.

"Dita! Why, it's nice to see you again," said the woman outside the door before, I imagined, a hug was exchanged between her and Dita. The voice was pleasant-sounding, but was somewhat low and sounded thoroughly matured, much like my mother's voice.

"Well, won't you come in? I can see Marcia already took care of that beautiful hair of yours," Dita said as she invited her acquaintance Angie into the office. My stomach turned cold at the thought of someone else, and a complete stranger at that, seeing me in the state I was in. I didn't imagine that I would see any help from this woman for Dita wouldn't have let her in if she knew that I would be seen.

"Aw, go on. It's all thanks to Marcia's magic, really. Marion! Hello, my dear, how are you-" Angie began as she addressed my mother before momentarily stopping when she saw me in my mother's clutches.

"I know, isn't she just precious?! I felt the same way when I first saw him like this," my mother, Marion, squealed as her friend made her way slowly over to us. I could see through squinted eyes the reflection of this Angie woman's face take on an expression of surprised adoration.

"Oh, Marion, she is simply adorable! Forgive my shock; I just never thought I'd see this day! You know, I had always thought what a pretty little lady your Jamie would make," Angie said while standing behind and to the left of my mother who was still holding my mouth and lower face with her way-too-forceful left hand.

"Mhm, things turned out wonderfully. I couldn't be happier! And, it's all for her benefit, you know," replied my mother.

"Well, of course. Be a dear and let me see the rest of her face. I'm simply dying to see how you've done her up," Angie said while piercing me with a wicked gaze while revealing pearl-white teeth in a grin that was outlined by full, red lips that seemed even fuller given her high cheekbones and firm-looking cheeks. That gaze was made all the more piercing by the fact that this woman's eyes were a stormy shade of pale, grey-blue. Such a look should not have come from a woman such as that one. She was quite tall with a thin, toned frame, long limbs, very long fingers, and strong-looking hands encased in soft, white, netted gloves with small, diamond-shaped holes where the thick, white threads of fabric crossed. Her hair was short, cropped at her jawline, and was slightly wavy before ending in a round, tan hat that ended past her ears. Her dress was a simple almond-green color with small brown paisley patterns here and there. Angie looked like a sweet, innocent housewife, much like my mother, and should not have been displaying such mannerisms toward me in that very odd circumstance I had been forced into.

Slowly, my mother loosened her horrifyingly-tight grip of my mouth and lower face and let her hand slide away from my face rather than pull away all at once. I supposed that she let her hand linger in case I had any notion of making noise. I felt stressed tears fall, unobscured by my mother's hand, down my cheeks leaving behind salty tracks on my skin. While my mother sighed in contentment while watching me warily to judge if I was about to make a fuss or not, Angie's eyebrows knitted in what appeared to be actual concern. She pulled a white handkerchief from the right pocket of her housedress and blotted my cheeks tenderly.

"Oh, you poor little thing, you. All trussed up, dressed up, and nowhere to go," Angie said in a mocking, teasing tone that made my stomach twist into a knot of nervous fear. I noticed that Dita had moved to be next to my mother's right shoulder, thereby joining this crowd of dominant women looking down at me. "Where's her makeup?" Angie asked Dita and my mother.

"Well, we were hoping you could help us with that," Dita began, "Marion and I need to get some things from the floor since I don't keep any of my special blends back here. Would you mind looking after Jamie here and making sure she behaves herself? I'm sure she's just been dying to feel your big hands over her mouth, haven't you, Jamie?"

Before I could even move my eyes to look in Dita's direction, Angie took three, quick steps around the right side of the chair I was bound to and clamped her large, bony, strong gloved hand tight over my mouth and lower face. She roughly grabbed my small mouth as she made her way past my right side before standing behind me. If I thought having my mother hold my mouth was bad enough, with how strong and big her hands seemed, I thought differently when Angie put her hand over my mouth. The size of her hand, that big right hand with its net-like glove, felt so gosh-darn huge. It felt as if that hand could have covered a lot more of my face if it wanted to. The broad palm was large enough so that it managed to seal the entirety of my mouth perfectly shut while a lower portion of it curled under my chin and kept my jaw closed. The thumb pressed firmly over my right eye, forcing it blind, and stretched across the upper bridge of my nose so that the pad hung above my left. Long, fabric-covered, lean fingers wrapped extra-snugly around my face and forced my left cheek to bulge. I could even feel the tips of those fingers tickling my left ear; that's how large Angie's hand was. The reflection in the mirror told me so.

I produced a startled, gargled groan in the back of my throat as my mouth was effortlessly ensnared within the endless folds of Angie's cruel hand. The wicked woman didn't bother to pull my head back against her body for the strength of her hand holding my mouth and face was enough to immobilize my head. I could hear my mother and Dita giggling delightedly as they observed how helpless I had been rendered by the ridiculously-large gloved hand that Angie wielded. The upper edge of Angie's hand was just below my nostrils and was dangerously close to sealing them. I felt the fine fibers of the gloves' thick threads tickling the bottom of my small nose as the scent of Angie's honeysuckle perfume pervaded my nostrils. Instinctively, I strained my arms and legs against my bonds in a futile attempt to struggle. The struggles only exhausted me, but I continued resisting for a few moments because I was even more tired of having female hands gagging my mouth. What in the world was happening here? Why, oh why, did my life take such a turn? And, how the heck were these women getting away with this? How were the men of this town so darn blind?

"Oh, I would be glad to watch Jamie for a few minutes. And, don't you worry. I'll make sure she doesn't make a sound. I can barely hear her sweet little moans," Angie said while first piercing me again with her wicked gaze through the mirror before looking at her friends with a gleeful, mischievous grin. Dita and my mother had their mouths agape in awe for a moment as they observed how completely quiet, helpless, and visually obscured I was by that absurdly-large hand over my mouth. Another thing that unsettled me was the fact that I didn't see a bit of remorse or sympathy in my mother's eyes or Dita's - only unbridled wanting; a wanting that consisted solely of dominating me. I heard a low, evil laugh behind me.

"Look at you two. Close those mouths, why don't you," Angie said amusedly before Dita and my mother burst out laughing.

"Oh, that is just too good! She looks so helpless in your hands," my mother began before Dita grabbed her shoulders and spun her to her right so that the two women faced each other.

"I know!" Dita began through fading laughter, "Let's find that makeup; the sooner we get back here, the sooner we can have more fun!" My mother, of course, agreed and the two women began walking toward the office door.

After Dita exited, my mother turned to me from a position unseen by me for my head was still immobile, and said, "Remember, don't you dare make a sound." She quickly closed the office door, hot on Dita's heels, and clopped her way to the main floor of the salon. My face was aching all over from being held so tightly. The fact that I couldn't move my head at all, or speak, or make any noise whatsoever, greatly stressed me.

I looked through my left eye, past the long, broad, gloved pad of Angie's right thumb, into the mirror where I noticed the cruel woman standing erect behind me and looking into my eyes with triumph. A satisfied smile touched her long, full red lips.

"Mphh 3; hmhhh," I said, producing barely-audible moans of helplessness behind the incredible gloved hand sealed over my mouth and lower face.

"Ah ah ahhh. Remember what your mother said: not a sound," Angie responded with slightly raised eyebrows. There I sat, strapped to the salon chair, quiet and immobile with an aching face encased in an evil stranger's big, gloved right hand while my mother and our neighbor were retrieving more instruments of domination: a makeup that could only be removed with a special remover. I was not looking forward to what was coming next. All I could do was try my best to move my head and make noise behind hopelessly-squashed lips so effectively mashed together by the broad palm over my mouth while the evil owner of that palm sneered down at me from behind.

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