The butterflies were going crazy in my stomach. I sat quietly, resisting the urge to fidget with the lacy white tie front slip I’d carefully selected for the occasion, ready to fall open with just one little pull at the cute bowstring; held taut between my full breasts, themselves obscured by the opaque fabric at the chest of the otherwise semi transparent garment while my generous nipples extruded prominently at the peak of each cotton orb. The spaghetti straps tugged lightly on my shoulders as my thick, straight chestnut hair snaked and danced about them with every little movement of my head. Everything was neatly set up around me; soft music playing, candles all around the room flickering gently and faint notes of incense completing the warm, entrancing ambience.
I sat against the foot of the bed in a pose I’d practised dozens of times, had decided on against a host of other options. My arms out from my sides and behind me a little, holding me up as I leaned back against them; my behind perched on the edge of the bed with my legs slightly apart, hanging loosely to where my toes traced little circles on the floor, adorned in the thinnest white hold ups, each capped with a few inches of white floral patterned lace, finally ending to leave just a couple more inches of flesh exposed at the tops of my thighs; and between them my pussy, in quiet anticipation, hidden beneath the white triangle of a set of tie side bikini thong panties. I felt the rear triangle outlined delicately against the inner curve of my cheeks, the shift of the slip against my stomach and sides as I breathed deeply in, and out. I moved my lips back and forth against one another, feeling the gloss I’d recently applied before finishing with a few puffs of perfume, the final touches after long preparation.
The clothing, I’d had that picked out for a while. I’d turned my choices over several times, but once I’d settled I knew I was happy. Simplicity was the thing. All white, it had to be all white I felt. The aim wasn’t an act of seduction but of proffer. I was presenting myself to another human being as a piece of property. I’m not sure specifically why that should mean white but I was certain it conveyed the right message. Indeed, the purpose of wearing anything at all was effectively gift wrap, a mixture of the simple pageantry of the removal of that layer, and yet combined with… something more. The symbolism of accepting the gift, of becoming the owner of that which was unwrapped. Of formally accepting possession of and responsibility for it. For me. A particular moment I’d conceived, at least in some general form, a very long time ago.
The room had also been artfully prepared, along the same lines that called for feminine surroundings that emphasised me, the gift, as the centrepiece; to form the backdrop for an act of utter submission. Everything presented in soft shades that suggest themselves as easily overpowered and overwritten according to the dominant desire of their new master. Nothing loud or bold, even the bedsheets with their recessive floral pastels that I would, in my white lingerie, almost sink into. Emphasising that along with the house that was changing ownership, and along with it all of its contents, that no more or less than everything around me, I was part of those contents.
“The house is your property now,” I murmured to myself, words I’d practised over and over. “The house is your property now and so is everything in it.”
The house, a beautiful three bedroom detached period style property in a quiet, friendly neighbourhood on the edge of town. Friendly but anonymous, the neighbours gave each other a smile and a wave but save for necessity that was the limit of social interaction and that was perfect. Somewhere to be with my son, somewhere to raise him in peace and be free to focus solely on that purpose, my only purpose. Everything was done to that end, the selection of the house, keeping myself well groomed and in peak physical shape. Furthering my career as a freelance designer, investing in the future, in his future, both financially and in terms of education, health and overall development. Nurturing my prince.
I thought back to those early days, him swinging in the back garden, sitting nicely at the table asking may he please have another sandwich or lying in my arms on the sofa watching cartoons. Taking him to his swimming classes, martial arts, sports, clubs, every activity he participated in. Or watching him sulk because he wasn’t allowed some video game he wanted or some clothing fad that was all the rage for five minutes. Crying with him as I soothed him when he was so sick with the flu. Even then, when I was his nanny, his maid, his nurse and even sometimes his scourge when he couldn’t have his way, I knew that in my heart and soul I was his and that I always would be, even if I didn’t realise then what implications that would ultimately lead to.
When I spoke those final yalova escort words to him I would push off from the edge of the bed to stand up before him. He’d be a couple of steps in front of me as directed. I’d take his hands and draw them in towards my chest. I’d show him where to take the two bow ends in the finger and thumb of each hand before dropping my arms to my sides and nodding my assent. Just the slightest tug would bring the bow apart. The knot that had just barely kept my breasts from his eyes would relent its hold. Turning my arms outwards slightly and dipping my shoulders would result in the straps, already resting precariously on the outer slope of each shoulder by design, would lose their grip and the material covering my breasts would part and glide away to each side. The straps would slip unobstructed down and off my arms, and the garment would at last fall and land helplessly in a puddle on the ground.
Without hesitation I’d take his hands again and this time lead them to my hips, where the bow on each side awaited his reiterated confirmation that this gift was accepted, that this item of property – me – would now formally be possessed by him. I’d taken care to ensure that a single tug on each bow would be sufficient, that no unexpected hitch would interrupt this moment of finality. I’d put a bow end in the finger and thumb of each of his hands and hold each in place with my own finger and thumb, demonstrating that this was mutual. Consensual. Confirmation of the full participation of us both. I wouldn’t initiate the movement though – that was his prerogative. It would be the first action he would take as my owner. My King. Master of this house, master of my life. Thereafter all the actions would be his to determine. This would be the last one that required my participation, or even my assent.
He was in fact already master of my life and he always had been. Now he would be taking the position formally, effectively, that he had always held in principle. Until now I had been required to be the decision maker, have the final say in his affairs as well as in everything to do with the house and other concerns. Now this would change. I’d still be there to provide advice, support, guidance even. Whatever was required of me. I’d still continue to manage finances to whatever degree he instructed, look after the house and everything else I’d been doing up to this point until directed otherwise by him. The preparations had been made to sign the house over to his name. Accounts for savings, investments and so on were poised to be transferred to him. The bills would be in his name, even my car would be registered as his.
It would take time for him to make all the decisions needed as to how life would be administrated, including with regard to me: whether I would keep my job for example, whether I would keep a bank account or credit card. Whether I would be allowed to go out at all, in fact. Until he decided I would maintain the status quo. I’d already put together various materials and worked through them with him so he had a full understanding of the detail of our assets and would be ready to form strategies and make choices over practical concerns. Soon this would expand to making decisions in respect of my status and comportment.
My heart fluttered at the prospect of this new way of life. I focussed ahead at the full door mirrors of the built in wardrobe that stretched across the whole wall opposite the end of the bed and surveyed the room around me. I lifted my left hand and coyly traced a finger through a lock of my hair, pulling a few more strands forward over my shoulder. The hours spent at the salon this afternoon had been wonderfully therapeutic after a busy day first preparing the room and then going for a vigorous workout followed by a relaxing soak in the bath. They had done a wonderful job styling my hair into feathered layers, giving the ideal mix of volume and bounce. Yesterday had been spent in preparation too, getting waxed in the morning so that not a scrap of body hair remained save for my finely plucked eyebrows, while the afternoon at the spa included skin treatments that had my skin glowing from head to toe. And today all that remained after arriving home from the salon then was my make up, I had applied subtle hints of shadow over a light foundation and soft blush and, of course, the matte lip gloss in understated red completing the look.
So much planning, so much preparation, and it all came down to this. Soon he’d be home. He’d walk through the front door in the suit he’d picked out last week. I pictured him as he was when I saw him come out of the fitting room, the pure… excitement at seeing him look so manly and grown up. With his eighteenth birthday approaching he seemed to have grown into a kind of definition, and this outfit felt as if it were made specifically for him. The blazer single breasted, a medium dark grey with charcoal texture, three yalova escort bayan buttons and four on each cuff. A pale blue shirt contrasting a navy blue tie. So handsome, a mother’s dream. The thought of him walking in like this today brought a sense of immediacy that sent a rush coursing through me starting at my neck and cheeks, then quickly through my stomach and ending with a gasping quiver between my legs. I thought back to the self control I had exercised at the store, when I had given him a loving smile, looked into his eyes as he looked back into mine, his smile telling me that he liked this one and mine telling him the same.
He was aware now that something was happening. Something. This wouldn’t have worked if it had come at him cold. He was far too considerate and self aware to make that adjustment just in one go. Too shy? No, with others perhaps, not with me. He had total confidence with his mother. He’d had friends at school growing up, been to their houses and had them visit here, but always to a limit. There wasn’t anyone from his school that lived in our area anyway, the school was in another town and that had been intentional on my part. I had no desire to build ties of that particular sort; I wanted to be with my son and I wanted him to be with me. All the time. Sharing him as little as possible.
At least insofar as it didn’t interfere with his development. Organised groups and classes, all through his childhood years he could indulge in as much as he liked and I’d drop him here or there for whatever activity and pick him up again afterward. Often waiting nearby in my car. Not wanting to be further from him than was necessary. If possible, such as when he was playing sports, I’d park where I could see him, watch him. Admire him. Need him. Being away from him was simply not to my taste; I accepted it where I had to for his own sake but as a matter of course I manoeuvred everything to arrange for us to be together.
From a young age we cooked together, we worked on household chores together, we shopped together. I’m not pretending he was always happy about everything all of the time. But just as I didn’t just indulge him in whatever he wanted every time, still I did indulge him in healthy things he wanted to do and worked hard to ensure he came to accept contrary decisions with good grace. Sometimes he could be difficult, even defiant when he wasn’t allowed his way, especially when he was younger; but as he grew he assumed many of the kind of traits I’d hoped for him. My son is kind, generous, thoughtful, polite and insightful, as well as strong and assertive, and I’m delighted to add that when he sees fit he can be forceful and dominant, without overshadowing those other qualities. I’ve never found him to be arrogant, other than with me at least, and then it’s a part of our dynamic and I love it, it makes me feel submissive to him. And I’m not suggesting he never gets anything wrong – but when he does he’s gracious in recognising it and dealing with the situation for the best. Yes, I could gush all day long about him but then, what mother wouldn’t, right?
As he reached his teen years, I found he began to spend more time than usual in his bedroom and although I understood that this was natural and even important, I had no intention of encouraging it. Once he took his place as my owner, well then if he should desire distance then it’s my duty and obligation to obey in whatever fashion he specifies. For my young prince though, in those times, it was my responsibility to ensure that the special closeness we’d nurtured wasn’t lost. In truth it wasn’t so much that it was a huge change, enough that I noticed it however. He’d always clamoured to be around me just as I’d taught him to be, so I did feel a difference and couldn’t help but want to do something.
On the one hand I’d always worked hard on my figure and had always dressed for my son in a way that was, if not provocative then certainly attractive. Anyway, who doesn’t like being around someone attractive? I enjoyed dressing up, clothing, hair, cosmetics and all, with the aim of looking good for the benefit of my prince, just as everything I did was for his benefit. I wanted him, and his little school friends, and their parents and his teachers and everyone in his life to see me as attractive, knowing that this should reflect well on him. And indeed if that then inspired protectiveness or even feelings jealousy in him, well those are healthy and positive things for him to feel about his mother.
At this time though I recognised that I was slowly beginning to shift my wardrobe further towards being more explicit. Slutty even, some might say, which wasn’t my thought or aim but then I definitely wouldn’t rule anything out in my outfits if I thought it would be for the ultimate good of my son. Revealing tops with miniskirts became my preferred everyday mode of dress, and I have no doubt that my son ultimately escort yalova benefitted from every inch of flesh I displayed, every curve I showed off through tight fitting, stretchy fabrics.
In the evenings, after the sun had gone down and the curtains were drawn, I exclusively wore lingerie around the house. Babydolls were a common choice, often over basques, suspender belts and stockings and thongs. I experimented with different hairstyles and started to wear my hair in pigtails or bunches with my raciest outfits. I reasoned that as in every area of my demeanour, it was best to set a healthy example to my son of how a woman in his life should be expected to conduct themselves.
My efforts couldn’t but have a positive effect. Possibly they had been a slight overreaction on my part; I had responded to really a very small change in my son’s behaviour emotionally and disproportionately. Reflecting on this didn’t mean that I then reined in those changes though, just I realised that I shouldn’t rely on only one dimension. So on the other hand I looked for different ways to engage, looking for new interests we could share that would help us to engage more on an adult footing.
We both loved to read and I suggested that we start reading the same book and discussing them, which I found to be very intimate. At first we’d have a copy each and read separately. Then there was one book we both really wanted to read and only had one copy, so at first we read it a chapter at a time. It was slower going than we were used to and one evening we decided sit together on the single seater and read the same chapter together. Finding that we enjoyed this, it became a regular thing. First with one or the other of us holding the book, then occasionally both of us holding hands as we held it together. That was just bliss.
We started to develop little signals that we were ready for a page turn, at first maybe just a little nod of the head, then it got to be a tap or scratch of the finger on each others’ hand or arm. Then it turned into a light stroke wherever our hand happened to be. When I felt his finger start to trace up and down the outside of my thigh I’d know he was ready. Then after a while it evolved into a little nudge with the nose on the shoulder or even the cheek. Then the nudge was followed by a little kiss. Sometimes it felt like a game to see who could finish first and get to give a little nuzzle to the other’s cheek, neck or ear, but we always kept focus on the topic of the pages as we read them, happy in each other. Our reading sessions would sometimes go on for hours and he was always enthusiastic for more. We never got separate books again after that, and while there were lots of other things that we did together, reading with my son was one of my favourite things, I felt like I belonged curled up there with him and I’m sure he felt the same.
I’d set things up precisely with him: once he finished his studies for the day he’d be off for a haircut and then a workout at the gym, after which he could shower there and freshen up. Then he would stop by the tailors to pick up his suit, now adjusted to fit, and the belt and shoes to go with it – brown, to pick out his luscious, thick hair – and would head home for about 7pm. I’d promised him his birthday present but insisted that he would have to closely follow the steps I set out. He’d park in the garage at the side of the house as usual, and enter through the side door into the kitchen.
Once inside I’d told him to look for an envelope with his name on it on the kitchen island; he was to take it into the living room and sit in the single seater in which we read our books together – there would be a drink there for him, a fine Scottish single malt whisky, I’d been preparing his taste buds over the last few months with some fine whisky selections – not a connoisseur myself, I researched enough to ensure he had had exposure to it. It’s one of those things a man benefits from having some experience of. He was then to relax and read through the contents of the envelope. The letter would conclude with instructions on how to proceed. He’d know then with what choices he was faced, and I was confident that he was armed with the capacity to make a good decision.
“You’re eighteen years old today,” I whispered, for what seemed like the hundredth time. Maybe it actually was the hundredth time. I’d committed the whole thing to memory and it was like reciting a speech or a scene from a play.
“You’re the man of the house. You’ve always been the man of the house, but now that position is formally yours to take.”
Yours to take. Something special about those words. Everything I was describing was his to take. To be given to him, presented to him, gifted, yes. But most importantly, to be taken by him.
“Everything is yours: title, possession, deed, money, assets. Everything. Without exception. All of it is your property. Including the house.”
I loved these words. I loved saying them, I had repeated them over and over in anticipation of this day, when I would finally say them to my son.
“The house is your property now.” My feet tingled. My eyelashes fluttered at me in the mirror.
“The house is your property now and so is everything in it.”