Mama Badass

The young man known to his friends as "Baron Badass" was, at least in most people's minds, the top prospect in the nation when it came to highschool wrestling. The very small media world that approached it had taken a liking to him, charmed by his smile, his easy nature, and of course his left-over-from-middleschool nickname. He tried to ignore it. He didn't like to think too much about things like that, although the number of recruitment letters, offers, and even personal visits from college coaches made the fact in and of itself hard to ignore. Not that he hadn't earned it, of course. Throughout his school career, from 6th grade to 12th, he had lost perhaps six or seven matches, and those were typically either close results, flukes, or had occurred on days when he had some illness or another issue that prevented him from performing at his best. Put quite simply, he may not have liked to think about the fact that he was the best| in the country, but that was just because he didn't like to get distracted from his training. Think about it or not, he WAS the best highschool wrestler in the country.

Of course, the key thing about being a highschool wrestler, even a very GOOD highschool wrestler, is that it didn't change the fact that you were, nevertheless, a HIGHSCHOOL wrestler. There were certain things that came from being in highschool, wrestler or not, and the most notable one was the fact that you still lived at home. And, unless you were very lucky or very wealthy, you had to share the car with your parents.

Which is why Zigismund "Ziggy" Baron, the greatest highschool wrestler in the country, was pacing impatiently back and forth in his wrestling coach's office, listening to his mother drone on and on in conversation with the coach. For the last couple years, ever since the pair had started talking, his mother had taken to 'accidentally' buying track pants that were a little too small for her, and then having 'busy days' on days her had wrestling practice, which meant she had 'no choice' but to show up in an outfit that hugged her thighs like bodypaint.

It annoyed him, and not only because as a young man with raging hormones the sight of a woman, any woman, in pants that tight was exciting in ways that were not appropriate when it came to one's own mother. It also annoyed him because it meant that half the time when he had a meet or a practice or even just a bit of personal coaching after school, he was stuck like this, waiting to be able to just get on with the day, go home, maybe review some tape and then SLEEP, but instead his mother had to continue to talk to the coach, crossing and uncrossing her legs and laughing at the non-jokes that adults liked to tell each-other wh-

"Ziggy. Cut it out. I'm trying to talk to Michael, and all your pacing is distracting me," his mother instructed him.

He sighed, "Mom, I just want to go home."

"I just don't want to sit here listening to you and Coach go on all day."

"I'm not making you, you can go sit in the car, we'll only be a few minutes."

He sighed and took a seat on a bench, watching his mother and the coach continue their pretend non-flirting conversation. A few minutes was fine, perhaps, but even one minute was hours too long when it came to having to sit through - Or even think about - Your mother trying to get in the singlet of your wrestling coach. He just sat and watched, glaring at the pair, as they continued their conversation about... Whatever the hell it was they were talking about, he consciously tried to avoid thinking about the content of their conversations. Who would want to think about that?

To his relief, his mom finally started to stand up, "Okay, Michael, it's been wonderful, but I really have to take Ziggy h-" and then she stopped, "Oh, wait! I completely forgot, I was going to show you those photos I took from his last meet!" She exclaimed, reaching into her purse and pulling out her phone, "here we are. So I took th-"

"Dangit, Mom!" He yelled, "Can you PLEASE just GO?"

"ZIGGY!" She glared at him, "I'm showing Michael the photos, just a MINUTE!"

"It's been an hour! It's enough minutes, can we please just GO?" He asked.

"Come on, Baron," the coach said, "Just a few."

"Please, coach, I just want to go home."

"Just give us a few more minutes, Baron, I asked your mother to do this for me, and she was nice enough to do it."

"Come on, Coach, can't she just email them?" He asked, growing exhasperated.

"She's here right now, there's no need to wait around. So just wait, unless you want to solve things the way we normally do around here."

"What, you want me to wrestle you?"

"Of course not, Ziggy. I don't wrestle anymore. And this is between you and your mom."

"Oh, you told me about this!" His mother laughed, then raised an eyebrow and looked back at her son, "How about it, Ziggy, do you want to wrestle with your old mom~?" She teased.

He rolled his eyes, "Come on, Mom, no, I don't want to wrestle you."

"Oh, I understand that," she smiled, "I wouldn't want my mom beat me up either, if I was a big time top seed recruit~"

He gave an amused smile, "Mom, come on, you can't beat me."

"You sure~? I have before."

He blinked, trying to figure out what she meant. Then it dawned on him, and he sighed. "Mom, you beat me like ten years ago. I'm not 8 anymore."

"8, 18... Still not too old to lose to your mom~" She laughed. He glared at her, trying to avoid losing his cool, but quite frankly, his mother had been bugging him for far too long, between her flirting with his coach and her still treating him like a kid... Yeah, sure, he didn't want to wrestle his mom, what guy would? She was attractive for her age, she kept herself in shape, sure, but she was still his mom. On the other hand, what other chance was he going to get to finally shut her up somehow? Sure, no highschool guy would want to grapple their mother, but at the same time, no highschool guy could turn down a challenge from their mom either. And what teenager HASN'T thought about strangling their mom now and then?

"You know what, mom?" He finally asked, "Fine. Let's do it. Let's get on the mat."

"Oooh, this'll be fun!"

A few minutes later, they were on the mat. She had taken off the light black leather jacket she had worn, leavin her only in the clinging excercise pants and a white tank-top that was made of far-too-thin material. He tried to not look at her breasts, but averting his eyes from them meant looking down at her beautiful thighs. At first glance, it would have been easy to think that the pants were baggy, or at least a little loose. He knew from how she talked about how tight they were and showed off her body for the coach that they had to be tight, but he never thought about the implications of that before now. He especially never realized that the way they were pressed to her body meant they weren't serving the same purpose as an old woman's silk hose. They didn't hold flab inside them, but pure muscle that strained against the heavy fabric.

"Come on, Zigzag," she teased him using his old pet name, "You gonna lock up with your old mom, or are you going to just forfeit and let your coach see how scared you are~?"

The young man shook his head, clearing the bit of embarrassment and nervousness out, and stepped forward. He didn't have any need to try to circle around, feel her out, try to get ready. After all, he was in damn good shape, he was a state champion, and he was wrestling a forty-something in a tank top and sweats.

Which is why he found it so surprising when he started to push on the older woman, and found it was like trying to outmuscle pure iron. He looked down her body, trying to make sure he had a good grip and his hands were on the right place, and saw that her legs were bulging and stretching out against the fabric. Her body was svelte and feminine for the most part, but her thighs... They were incredible, like no set of thighs he'd ever seen. They were like tree trunks. He growled, trying to push harder, but by just repositioning her mighty pillars of power, she made it so that he might as well have been trying to outmuscle pure iron. He grunted and repositioned, but so did she, and once again those mighty legs were planted and she stopped his attack.

"F-fuck..." He grunted.

"Don't use that word in front of your mother!" She responded immediately, stepped to the side and threw him down. He hadn't been powered down like that since... Honestly since ever. It wasn't a twist, it wasn't a trip, it was just her using pure muscular force to send him careening to the ground. He didn't even have time to throw his arms out and try to catch his fall, she just propelled him to the ground like she was spiking a football, and left him flat and crushed against the mat.

He didn't have time to react, but she was already reacting. With a smoothness and agility that would have been impressive on a woman half her age, hell, a THIRD of her age, his mother quickly took his back. He was still trying to deal with the fact that his mother had his back, especially considering NOBODY had been able take his back in his entire highschool career, when he felt her mighty legs slip in under his shoulders. Somehow she had transitioned to lying flat back against him as she eased her arms in under him. Then she twisted and rolled to her back, wrenching him around with her thighs and managing to lock her ankles and heels around the back of his head.

Then she tensed her legs and stretched them, pulling together and pushing his head down. His arms got yanked behind him, his head forced down, and worst of all, he got to find out the pure power of his mother's leg muscles. Hard as rock barely did her powerful thighs and calves justice, they were hard as diamond. As she crushed and squeezed down on the back of his head, he found himself struggling to comprehend how this was a product of human power. Only the striations of muscle, somehow felt even through the fabric of her pants, reminded him that he was being crushed by a human body and not some sort of twisted steel-cable torture device.

"AAGHHH! FUUUUUUCK!" He cried out as she tensed her thighs and squeezed his head down, pulled his arms back.

"I TOLD YOU NOT TO SAY THAT!" She responded immediately, and tightened the hold even harder, cranking up the torture to destructive levels. He'd never felt anything like this, not on a wrestling mat, and only pride stopped him from submitting to pure pain.

He had to find an answer, a way out, since she was simply crushing him with her mighty leg muscles and he couldn't allow that. The ability to think under pressure was a key skill of any grappler, the ability to separate the mental calculations from the physical sensation of the match, and he strained but it did occur to him that the legs didn't have the ability to finely maneuver and manipulate that the arms did. That would work to his advantage. He leaned forward, and let her stretching legs pass over his head. With her calves in front of him, now he had gone from a psuedo-full-nelson to a body scissors, a hold it would be a lot easier for him to-

"AAGGHHHHH!!" He screamed in pure agony as she squeezed down with her thighs, forcing them into his sides. He had thought her legs felt strong before, but he had only been experiencing the very beginning of his struggles against the might of her muscular legs. He felt like a modern-day Giles Corey (thanks, Senior US History class, great time to think about that) as he was being slowly crushed to a helpless pulp between the great boulders of her thighs. As mighty as he was, he had never felt such pure power, such incredible force, as she was bringing to bare against him here.

It was sheer agony, and on a level he had neither experienced nor even imagined before. He'd never been submitted by a bodyscissors (hell, since starting highschool, he'd never been submitted by anything, period,) and the idea of being forced to give in to a hold that was so basic, so untechnical, just sheer brute force and coming from his MOTHER, of all people? He would be shivering at the thought if he weren't already shuddering from the pure unadulterated agony of her squeezing thighs bending his ribs, crushing and bruising his muscle.

It was all he could do to avoid tapping out, to keep the last little bit of pride that came from at least not submitting. Skilled as he was, though, at keeping the mental and physical aspects of the match separate, the sheer torment of her mighty legs, her thighs, her crushing calves all coming together around his midsection and shattering his pride. Of course, not tapping out didn't mean the same thing as not losing. As she crushed, he realized his lungs weren't fully expanding, he wasn't getting the complete breath... His world was starting to spin, and soon, it would fade out.

"Come on, Ziggy, I know enough about wrestling to know you shouldn't lose to a bodyscissors. You having trouble?"

She was right. On the other hand, she was also crushing his chest, turning his face purple and bringing tears to his eyes. The fading of the blood from his face meant the whole world was turning cold, and he couldn't even come up with a thing to say in response. He simply, slowly faded out in her grasp, broken down by her might.

He awoke with his head pounding, as if from some sort of foggy and unwanted dream. Every inch of his body ached, his muscles felt weak and sore, his vision a little blurred. He felt sick, covered in a beading, burning sweat, like waking up in the middle of a blazing, humid night after only three hours of sleep, too tired and weak to stand up and get to training, but unwilling and unable to go back to sleep either. His mouth was dry, like he had been sucking on cotton balls the entire time. There was a ringing in his ears, slowly lowering in pitch to a low rumble, and his whole world was unsteady as if it was consistently subjected to a moderate vibration, like a purring cat. He was sat in a plush if not overly pleasant leather seat, and something was pushing him backwards as well, some sort of long, flat rope holding his slumping body as he raised his head and tried to clear his eyes.

It took him a few seconds to put the clues together and figure out where exactly he was and how he got there. The rumbling, the strap, the small vibration, the seat that was somehow too firm and too soft at the same time. He was in the passenger seat of his mother's car. It took him a few more seconds to realize how he got there, what had happened to him before, and he acknowledged it with a low groan, leaning forward just slightly and grabbing his still pounding head.

"Good morning, Zigzag~" His mother said, her voice high and teasing, and musical the way it had been when she talked to him as a small child, "Did you sleep well~?"

"Ughhh, Mom..." He groaned, still holding his head, "Don't call me that."

"I think I've earned the right to call you whatever I want at this point," she laughed, "That was fun, earlier, knocking you out like that. It's good to know that your old ma still has what it takes to keep her little boy disciplined."

He blushed bright red, "Ugh, Mom! I'm not your little boy!"

"I've told you before, you'll always be my little boy. But it was nice to get a chance to remind you of that fact."

"Mom..." He grumbled.

"I haven't made a guy scream like that since your father."

"MOM!" He yelled out again, disgusted (and insistent to himself secretly that it was ONLY that) at the thought of her and his father.

"I don't mean like that, Ziggy!" She objected, "I just mean it was fun back in the day when I would get him between my thighs and just squeeze."

"MOM!" He yelled again.

"WITH THE THIGHS!" She continued, laughing, "I don't mean like that. I just mean we used to wrestle."

He didn't answer that, not wanting to think about the implications, or about his mother's beautiful, yet incredibly muscled legs wrapped around his father's midsection. Or around him, crushing the life out of him. No, no, he DIDN'T want to think about that. He'd just get home, and ride out the rest of the journey in silence.

"You know, you really take after him a lot," his mother observed after a few more seconds driving along the street.

"Yeah?"

"He could never handle me either."

He didn't answer, just trying to ignore her comments.

"I wonder if that's why he left me," she mused, and turned to him, "You wouldn't leave me, Ziggy, would you?"

"Mom, I-"

"Oh, of course not, I know you wouldn't," she answered quickly. He nodded.

"My legs wouldn't let you," she continued.

He didn't answer, folding his arms again, head down as she drove.

"I used to make him cry, too, you know," she said after a while.

"MOM!" He objected again, growing increasingly frustrated with her comments, "You didn't make me cry, I..." He felt the distinct sensation of dried tears under his eyes and on his cheeks, "Okay, I... Look, it's a natural physical reaction to not being able to breathe, okay? It wasn't me. We learned that in health class, you didn't make me cry."

She didn't answer, continuing to drive. The silence was, if anything, worse than if she'd answered back.

"You DIDN'T!" He said again, insistently.

"Okay, dear. I believe you," she answered simply.

"Good, I..." He trailed off, "Well, good."

She continued the ride, and after a while, chuckled, "Look at my little boy. Becoming a big strong man like his father."

She paused for a few seconds after that, "Well. Big anyway~"

At this point, he didn't even want to answer back. He lapsed into silence for the rest of the drive, letting her make whatever snide comments she wanted to, trying to tune her out. It wasn't easy to keep from rising to her taunts, even phrased as they were as idle musings or even compliments, but he did manage to keep his mouth mostly shut for the remainder of the ride, staring out the window and just making idle noises of acknowledgement whenever he recognized the tone of her voice was asking for that. He'd learned to do that as all people his age did, pretend to listen to the parents without actually doing so. He just stared at the window, trying to keep his thoughts on the next meet, or tomorrow's practice, or his morning run. On anything except his mother, her mean taunts, and the sensations he'd felt when she had her thighs wrapped tight around his midsection and squeezed. How every little striation and strand of muscle had been hard as a carbon-fiber cord. The agony and helplessness of being trapped by her, the humiliation of being held in her legs.

Damnit, he didn't want to think about it, but it was hard not to. How could he, a national-level highschool wrestling star, have been submitted between his own mother's thighs? How had he let her take so much control of him. How could he have been... Been beat. No, more than just beat, overpowered. Utterly overpowered and crushed by her muscles.

After what seemed like days of driving, the car finally pulled to a stop in the driveway of the large mixed-style home.

"Thanks mom," he said instinctively, reaching around his chest to unbuckle the seatbelt, "What's for dinner?"

"Oh, I didn't feel like cooking today, so I bought something from McDonalds while you were out."

"McDonalds?!" He asked, his frustration with her mockery and domination now replaced by frustration with her choice of dinner, "Mom, you know I can't eat that, I have to stay in shape to wrestle!"

She held a red cardboard box in her hand, waving it a little in his face "Come on, honey, I got your favorite, I even got a toy!"

"A HAPPY MEAL?!" He asked, "Mom, I'm 18! Not 8! And this stuff is TERRIBLE for you!"

"Is it?" She asked, "I eat it all the time, and I'm still in shape. Or do I have to remind you again~?"