It's amazing what you can find on the Internet. As soon as Mom left I started research. I started with the obvious, entering the Google search term "rape fantasies." I discounted the first couple of articles, the ones that dealt with "rape fantasies" in terms of being little more than rough, or even "frisky" sex. It seemed to me that Mom, especially with the video she had shown me, was looking for something more than that.
A few things quickly became clear. In my mind, I almost composed a "How to Rape Properly" textbook. The outline ran something like this.
It must be unexpected.
It must be sudden.
It must be violent.
It must leave visible evidence.
I'm almost ashamed to admit it, but as read and pictured doing it to Mom I found that I liked the image.
That led me to a more serious search. Something she mentioned got to me so I started checking into "loss of sensitivity." It turns out, although I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised to learn this, that there's a clinical term for it. Hypoesthesia is, literally, a mashup of the Latin hypo (below, as in hypodermic for below the skin) and the Greek aisthΔsis, sensation.
Several specific diseases and conditions were identified as being associated with hypoesthesia. Mom's little problem in her head wasn't among them, but I figured it made sense. If we're being honest here, and why wouldn't I, it's not like you and I will ever meet now, is it Gentle Reader, I have always assumed that the tumor in her brain was a good part of her sexual disinhibition, another term I ran across while doing this research. I mean, hell, until a little over a year ago she had been June Cleaver, well, more Mary Tyler Moore. A good mom who dated a little. And then, one night, she crawled into my bed, all warm skin and soft boobs and wet pussy, and, well, here I was today, researching how to properly rape her
And that thought led me down yet another path.
The Google search term, "How to properly spank a woman," left me with a fresh set of guidelines to develop. Well, not "guidelines" as much as understanding a pretty basic concept. The trick, it turned out, to properly spank a woman was to remember the old story about how to boil a frog. You don't drop the frog into boiling water. Even a creature with a brain the size of a Number 8 buckshot will jump out if that happens. You drop the frog in a pan of cool water and turn on the heat. By the time Kermit figures out what's happening, he's too relaxed to move.
That's how you properly spank a woman. You warm her up, slow and easy, allowing her to accept a deeper, more painful, and, my favorite turn of phrase, more meaningful spanking. I made a mental note, feeling an anticipatory tingle in my hand as I pictured Mom across my knees, her panties around her knees, hobbling her, as her ass turned first pink and then red under my loving palm.
The thing that was so surprising, though, was how much formal academic research was available on the subject. Much of it focused on a growing movement among Christians to accept the need for what they tagged Domestic Discipline. I scanned through a dozen articles on why, in a "true Christian" family, the wife must be submissive to be proper. I got a little tingle in my belly when I encountered a few articles from an organization called Female Led Relationships on the need for a wife to "discipline" her husband.
But I focused on technique mostly, because, deep down, I knew I wouldn't be able to refuse Mom anything. And the more I read, well, the more I wanted it.
One of the things that help me maintain a 4.0 grade point average is my ability to focus. I don't think I'm smarter than the other folks in class, well, maybe a little smarter, but I focus and am prepared. That's why I'm at my desk until 5:00 p.m. and don't waste a lot of time in the student union. I was into a completely new topic, researching and following where the research led, and when I'm in that zone, well, time kind of loses meaning.
I was definitely in the zone right then. I had about a dozen tabs open on the computer screen and was bouncing back and forth, comparing what different articles said. I was fascinated by two articles I had found, one by a wife who claimed she "needed" the discipline or she just "got out of control," and the other by a woman who claimed she hated the discipline but loved her husband. And I found both of the arguments persuasive.
I jumped and spun on the desk chair, my hands coming up as I stood, all of those hours spent in a karate (well, a
Shaolin do
) dojo kicking in when I felt hands on my shoulders.
But she knew me too well and had stepped back and was giggling.
And I stared.
Not only had she gone blonde, she had done it properly. Her eyebrows were reduced to delicate arches, tweezed from her formerly heavy, very dark brows. The most obvious thing, though, the thing that took my breath away, was the way her hair, in that same honey blonde shade Sharon had, hung well down her back. I would later learn it was done with something called "weaves," and it felt so real that after the first shock, I didn't notice it. It looked natural.
And I recognized the outfit she had on. It was a shiny green blouse I hadn't seen before and a tight black skirt. I knew without seeing it, that under the clothes she would be wearing a nursing bra, black panties, and thigh-high nylons that fit so tight at the top hem that her thighs would bulge out above them. The black horn-rimmed glasses completed the transformation.
I had seen it before. The video she was imitating was called "Curvy Sharon 42HH Nursing in My Bare Butt Girdle," and she had the look down perfectly. She wore no jewelry, but I could see that besides the time spent changing her hair, she had her face done professionally. And she looked great.
And I was looking at Sharon, come to life. A fantasy had come into my life.
I covered the three steps between us while she stood still, an odd little smile on her face.
I held her eyes with mine, laid my palms on her cheeks, holding her so she couldn't look away, and said, "Hello, Sharon."
"Do you like it," she asked, looking up at me, eyes bright.
I slowly ran my fingers up the back of her head, letting that thick blonde hair run through them as I slowly pulled my hand away. Her eyes closed as I did that. I couldn't feel where her hair ended and the extensions began.
"I love it," I said.
Those shiny eyes overflowed then and tears started running down her cheeks.
It turns out, my Sharon is pretty when she cries. The tears just added to her natural beauty and when I bent to kiss them away the salty taste was addictive. Even the way her nose ran was pretty. The shiny sheen it gave her upper lip wasn't off-putting at all. The kiss was slick and salty and I liked it.
