#275) The Opposite of a Sugar-Daddy Is a Sour Mother-Figure

We all know what sugar daddies are, and the way that this world works by rewarding older, wealthy men with the arm-candy of younger, beautiful wives and girlfriends. I’ve always generalized to think that this phenomenon happens more on the two coasts of American, the East and the Left, and doesn’t hold true for the more rooted Midwest, but I don’t think that’s true. It does seem to happen more in big cities, as opposed to the small towns, like the one I live in outside St. Paul, Wisconsin.
I never knew my real mother; she was out of the domestic picture by the time I developed memory. I can’t really specify anything exactly that cemented the relationship I have with my next door neighbor, Mary, as a kind of mother-figure. She actually isn’t old enough to be my mother; I’m twenty-seven and Mary’s thirty-five. But I’ve always been rather flighty and unsettled, and Mary is an old soul, solid and reliable, giving me good life advice. I think I just started stopping by her front porch to talk with Mary on my way home from school weekdays regularly, and that expanded to spending some hours every weekend over there, and it just developed from there. For the past fifteen years or so, I’ve considered Mary a surrogate mom. This relationship became all the more important when my dad passed-away five years ago. I inherited the house, but none of the acumen for how to successfully make my way in the world.
I just keep fucking-up, making mistakes that I should know not to, whether that’s dating the wrong guys, or not being frugal financially, or whatever. Sometimes I think Mary is living vicariously through me, jealous that I have several boyfriends, have a good paying job that affords me financial leeway. I think life has treated Mary harshly, that this has made her cynical and sour. But she can also be caring and considerate.
So I was talking to Mary on a Sunday afternoon a week ago, and the Saturday night before was on my mind. We were sharing a bottle of wine in her kitchen (it was too chilly on her porch for over half the year in Wisconsin).
I gestured to my wine glass and stated, “This is probably the culprit for my blunder last night!”
“You were drinking last night on your date?” asked Mary disapprovingly.
“Only moderately,” I lied.
“The wine wouldn’t be to blame regardless. It’s your good or bad choices that…”
“Yeah, I know,” I interrupted, “but you have to agree that sexual chemistry can get in the way.”
“You are letting other factors get in the way of seeing that wise choices will keep you on the straight and narrow path, whereas poor choices…”
“I shouldn’t have slept with him…” I mumbled aloud, not realizing it was coming out. It had been on my mind all day and just seemed to escape.
“You slept with Harry last night? Just to be clear, when you say ‘slept with’, you mean more than sleep, don’t you?”
Yes, I’m referring to fucking, but no, I didn’t sleep with Harry. I slept with Ray..”
Mary was taken-aback. She clearly didn’t know what to say.
“But things were going so well with Har… Ray’s married, what were you doing with him? How could that happen?”
I raised my wine glass once more. “This,” I said, “this and chemistry. Ray is just so hot…”
“You shouldn’t have!” Mary whispered, like her words were escaping on her, too.
“Tell me about it,” I responded, realizing that I was more drunk than I thought, and that I was last night, as well.
“No! I mean that you really shouldn’t have done that, Jennie! You’re breaking up a marriage, that’s so wrong…!”
“I thought I felt bad about it already, thanks a lot!”
“I’m glad that you feel bad! It shows that you still have some conscience! I’m so… disappointed in you, Jennie!”
Her words hurt me deeply. I started to cry.
“If you were my daughter, you’d really be crying right now. I’d blister your butt for you for acting like a whore!”
“I’ve never felt corporal punishment,” I reflected, “I guess with my mom being gone…”
“Oh quit using that excuse for all your troubles! Take responsibility for your actions! It’s not the fault of that, or the wine, or chemistry! You sinned! It’s just that simple! God, if I’d done that, my mother would have taken my pants down and…”
“Do it…” escaped my mouth, unfiltered, my heavy heart speaking. “You’ve always been a surrogate mom to be… Do me this favor…”
No more words were shared between us. Mary stood up from the table and I did, too. She knelt before me, unzipped my skirt and pulled it down to my shoes. I stepped out of it. She pulled my black pantyhose down to mid-thigh. I was scared, but never felt more sure that I wanted this, needed this. Mary pulled my lace panties down to where my pantyhose rested. I’d been thinking about Ray, I knew that my pussy smelled of arousal. Mary’s face was inches from my engorged sex; I knew that she could tell that I was excited. I think she used that fact as more evidence that I needed “a blistering.” I’d acted like a common whore…
Mary stood, led me by the arm to her kitchen table. I had to take small, shuffling steps with my clothes around my knees. She bent me over the table where we’d shared so much small talk, where she’d given me so much good, motherly advice.
Smack! She’d hit me. Hard, with her bare hand across my bared right butt cheek. It stung more than I would’ve believed. So this was a spanking! Another slap stung my left cheek. I widened my stance to be able to receive the onslaught. I felt Mary’s left hand on my lower back, pinning me in place. Then the slaps really rained down, poured down on my poor butt, a spanking storm, a disciplinary deluge, washing my sin away, at least a little bit.
“Stay there…” she said and crossed the room to where her purse sat on a chair. Mary was rubbing her hand. I guessed that my hard butt had hurt her hand. She withdrew her hairbrush from her purse and returned to the position of punishing parent behind mine of chastised child.
Whap! The hairbrush hurt a hell of a lot more than her hand! Mary set the same demanding cadence, belaboring my sore bottom soundly. I started to cry.
“That’s it… Let it all out… Think about what you’ve done… Think about how badly you need this…”
Mary paddled every square inch of my round rump over and over again. She parted my cheeks and spanked the tender inner curves and my butt hole. She paddled the backs of my thighs. It was agonizing, but I made sure I held still and arched my ass up and took it, knowing that I deserved it.
“I think you’re getting numb back here,” she muttered as she patted my tush. “We’ll take a little break before I continue with your punishment. You can sit down if you want.”
I sat my bare, abused butt down on the chair I’d occupied during our colloquy, where I’d sat so many times in the past. It hurt like hell and I shifted about.
“That was just a little test!” Mary said, “and you failed. If you can still sit, we’re not as far along as I thought we were. Get back over the table, young lady!”
Mary unplugged the toaster on the countertop while I struggled to my feet and proffered my bottom once again. She unplugged the extension electrical cord and doubled it in her hand as she assumed her dominant posture over my submissive one.
If her hand spanking was a seven on a scale, and the hairbrush paddling was a nine, the whipping with this thin, plastic-coated cord from Hell hurt so much, it was off the charts, it was a twelve. Mary lectured as she whipped.
“You sinned!” Whitt! “In the eyes of God and mankind!” Whitt! “It’ll take a lot of punishment to expunge that!” Whitt!
I howled, but not at the injustice of the thrashing because it was entirely justified. I howled at the misery that my misdeeds had caused Ray’s innocent wife. I wished that she was giving me the beating. I howled at the misery of being a sinner in God’s eye. Mary was a righteous surrogate for Him as she flogged my backside, again covering my curves, as well as all the way down the backs of my legs to the knee joint, where my clothes offered protection from the pain. I thought it was appropriate justice that Mary was whipping the Hell out of my buttocks because it was my ass that was constantly getting me in trouble. Ray was an ass-man, told me that he thought my ass was golden, that he coveted it, needed it, had to possess it. Then she surprised me.
Mary seized me by the arm, turned me so that I sat on the table top. It hurt to sit on the welts covering my backside, but because she had positioned me in this way, I tried to be a good girl and hold still. Mary raised the cord and brought a lash down across my pudendum and the front of my thighs. After another four strokes there, she even aimed a lash between my legs, across my pussy lips.
“This is where you need to be whipped! This is the root of your sin!” she invoked.
Pussy whipping was at least a fifteen on that chart of severity I mentioned before, if not a twenty. I shrieked in pain. I gasped in shock. But I opened my thighs and thrust my crotch out and took the flailing.
“Thank you, God!” I implored. Whitt! “Thank you for making Mary the instrument of your retribution.” Whitt! “Please give her the strength and patience to punish me as often as she sees fit.” Whitt! “I am a lowly sinner, but I am seeking your forgiveness.” Whitt! Whitt! Whitt!
A half an hour later, Mary was holding a wet, warm washcloth on my pussy stripes, and another on my bottom as I leaned over the sink in her bathroom. I’d cried-out all my tears and was shuddering with each breath. I had never felt so exhausted in my life, not after a game of field hockey, not after sex, not after a marathon masturbation session. I felt empty but also fully alive, my naughty lady parts throbbing, purified.
“I think you were right…” Mary whispered in my ear, “when you said that we should do this regularly…” I must have looked at her with a puzzled expression. “You know, you prayed that I have the strength and patience to punish you again, as often as needed. You don’t have a sense of self-discipline, Jennie. I think corporal discipline on a regular basis will help you develop that, and will maintain good behavior choices until you do…” Mary ran warm water over the two washrags, wrung them out, then replaced them on my welts. “We’ll see how you heal, and how you behave… I think another come-to-Jesus session would serve you well in a week or so. Next Sunday afternoon at this same time, perhaps…”
“Yes, ma’am,” I answered, resisting the impulse to call her the other M word.

6 responses to “#275) The Opposite of a Sugar-Daddy Is a Sour Mother-Figure”

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