Chapter Two
Zoë’s Therapy
My wife Zoë suffered a miscarriage about six weeks ago, and has been quite understandably devastated ever since.
Exacerbating her distress is the fact that we’d already set up a baby room adjacent to our bedroom, complete with appropriately cheerful wallpaper, posters and other decorations like hanging mobiles. We also installed a stereo, a crib and a six foot-square by five foot-high wooden playpen. Without even a door between these two connecting rooms Zoë now has to pass by its heartbreaking emptiness every morning, noon and night, and she can’t stop tearing up when she does. Making this all so much worse is the additional tragedy that the nature of the miscarriage has left her unable to conceive again. She’s so upset by all this that I’m becoming seriously worried about her. However when I timidly suggested we remodel the place again, she absolutely screamed at me.
Well that was the end of that. I don’t dare cross my wife in anything. Zoë is considerably bigger than me for one thing. At six foot-four and two hundred pounds she overtops me by nine inches and outweighs me by a third. While not actually fat she has a very hefty build, and could slap me silly if she ever so chose. Of course that’s never been the least bit necessary. Being short and slight, prematurely bald and terribly reticent by nature, I consider myself damn lucky to have found a wife at all, to say nothing of such an imposing beauty as Zoë. Despite her great size there is nothing masculine about her — unless unlike me you consider her aggressively domineering personality to be somehow unfeminine. She has whopping big breasts the size of small watermelons for one thing, an undeniably attractive face sparsely speckled with freckles and an amazing mane of thick, naturally wavy light brown hair raddled with streaks of purest honey that reaches halfway down her broad strong back. Combined with her size and that overbearing arrogance this beauty makes her so intimidating that there’s simply no question whatsoever who rules this roost. Thus when she calls me on Friday afternoon and orders me to leave work early and come straight home I do just that. Given a choice between angering my wife or my boss this is no contest at all. Making up some lame excuse on the spot I hurry out the door, a hopeful curiosity eagerly stirring me.
Zoë sounded strangely excited on the phone. In fact her voice had that particular timbre it gets on those infrequent occasions when she wants to have s*x with me — occasions that have been particularly infrequent (indeed non-existent) over the past seven months of first her pregnancy and then her bereavement. What could have possibly happened to shake her out of her doldrums?
How amazingly dismayed I would be upon finding out!
Zoë meets me at the front door, truly more excited than I’ve ever seen her before. Her huge bosom is absolutely heaving and her big face flushed, elevating her from mere beauty to downright breathtaking in my eyes. Indeed her own bright blue orbs are blazing with an uncontained zeal that actually seems slightly unbalanced, and when she seizes my arm and yanks me inside she nearly pulls me off my feet.
“Come on, Percy, come on! I’ve just had the most wonderful idea!
“Ever since you talked about redecorating the baby room I’ve just been furious with you. And now I’ve determined why we’ll never need to change it in the least. I’ve decided that since I can’t have babies, I’ll just make you into my cute little baby, on the weekends at least. What a great therapy for me! I won’t be able to enjoy this during the week unfortunately, with you out earning our living. But every Friday evening through Monday morning I’ll have my very own baby to mother, and one that can’t ever grow up and stop being adorable to boot. Come on!”
Right away she drags me absolutely flabbergasted into our bedroom, where I see that she’s buried the bedside table under a heap of unsettling stuff. She literally tears my clothes off down to the last stitch and flings me onto the bed. I know this to be as useless as always, nevertheless I make one brief effort to question her.
“Zoë,” I begin, but right away she silences me.
“Shush baby! Babies don’t use language! The only word I ever want to hear you use on the weekends now is ‘mama’. Otherwise you stick to baby talk. You know, ‘goo-goo, gaa-gaa’, all that kind of stuff. And what the hell is this?” She points at my p***s, which for some bizarre reason is pointing up erect. “Babies don’t get hard-ons! I need to beat that out of you, you naughty little brat!” Zoë sits on the edge of the bed. “Get over here and lay across your mommy’s lap right now!”
Appalled and profoundly humiliated and yet knowing protesting to be worse than pointless, I tremblingly comply. Right away she starts spanking my bare ass.
“Bad little baby!” she cries, her big hard hand smacking painfully against me. “Aroused by your own mother! What kind of pervert are you?”
Good question.
Despite the outlandish circumstances, and quickly mounting stinging in my buttocks, my erection just throbs harder than ever where it’s squashed against Zoë’s firm upper thigh. Indeed the more she berates and whales away at me, the more strangely aroused I become. Even when the pain of that beating has me whimpering, then sobbing and finally bawling like a baby for real, my traitor c**k shows no sign of softening. At last she’s too exhausted to go on spanking me, and so Zoë resorts to an even crueler — and finally effective — punishment.
“Damn you baby Percy,” she pants, picking me bodily up and depositing me on my back and flaming ass in the center of the bed. “Don’t you move a single muscle! You just mind your mommy now. I’ll be right back.”
She exits the room, leaving me more appalled and confused than ever as I stare down at my straining, visibly pulsing prick. Then she returns, climbing back onto the bed with me and clutching a fistful of wooden clothespins.
“Maybe this will convince your naughty little p***s to behave!” Zoë announces grimly. Then she begins pinching those clothespins all over the rigid shaft and tender head of my erection.
The pain of this is intimate and exquisite, rapidly building to a cumulative excruciation that is next to unbearable. My perverted arousal quickly recedes, until by the time she’s fastened the fifteenth one to the very tip I’m whimpering and sniffling and properly flaccid again. Zoë smiles lovingly down at me in response.
“Good boy, Percy. That’s much better. We’ll just leave those on there as long as we can, shall we? You just wait here obediently without touching them then. Mommy will be back in just a jiffy.”
This time she disappears into the bathroom, where I hear water running and some clunking around. Squirming uncontrollably with agony, I nevertheless don’t even dream of removing those punishing pins while I wait. And then Zoë returns, naked except for her panties and with a towel draped over her shoulder and a plastic basin in her hands. Unable to help myself I stare hungrily at her mammoth breasts as she approaches. And although she usually rebukes me for this, on this occasion she only smiles indulgently. Setting the basin on the bed next to me, she withdraws a dripping washcloth and a bar of jasmine-scented soap.
“Hold still now while your mommy bathes you, baby,” she lovingly croons down at me. And so I do.
This first ever sponge bath is surprisingly pleasurable. Seeking to mollify my ‘mommy’ (and finally, reluctantly getting into the spirit of this weird game) I coo and gurgle up at her like a newborn as she finishes with my front by gently but thoroughly scrubbing and rinsing my crotch and balls.
This earns me a benevolent beaming that warms me all the way through, and I eagerly draw my legs up and splay them out wide as Mama Zoë towels me dry. I even gladly submit as she heavily shakes baby powder all over me and lovingly rubs it in. Then she rolls me over and repeats this process with my backside.
Despite the pinching pain of the clothespins my naughty little p***s again begins to swell against the soft down comforter underneath me. But then Mommy’s long, sturdy index finger, wrapped in warm, soapy wet terrycloth, pushes all the way into my anus and begins to rotate slowly back and forth. This is uncomfortable and humiliating enough to make me go limp again, and I hear myself groaning at the unaccustomed sensation. Then she withdraws, only to push back in again a moment later for the rinsing. This time though I find that intrusion unaccountably arousing and I shamelessly lift my ass to it, and sigh with unfeigned disappointment when it withdraws.
Once again I’m toweled dry and liberally powdered all over. But then I feel a heavy weight of thick, folded cloth laid across my badly bruised buttocks, tucked around my hips and pushed up between my legs, and involuntarily I stiffen. She can’t be doing what I think she’s doing…
Oh yes she can. Mama Zoë caresses my inner thigh soothingly.
“Relax, baby Percy. I’m just diapering you. Every baby needs a diaper. We can’t have you pooping and peeing all over the place now, can we?”
This is more humiliation than I bargained for! And then of course follows the dreadful realization that she probably expects me to overcome a lifetime of toilet training and the deeply ingrained habits of eliminatory cleanliness by relieving myself into this cloth, and then enduring the subsequent foulness against my skin until she gets around to changing me. Helplessly I sob in shame and revulsion at this, and all the perverse arousal I’ve been nurturing immediately abandons me. Still I know better than to resist as she rolls me back over, considerately removes all the clothespins from my p***s (each release bringing a renewed stab of excruciation to that naughty organ) and finishes the job. Humming softly to herself around a mouthful of large safety pins, she removes these one at a time as she uses them to secure that big soft diaper about my waist and crotch.
After that comes the further mortification of being properly costumed. Mommy slips little tasseled booties over my feet, pulls a thin, frilly cotton frock over my upper body, and lastly fits a lace-trimmed bonnet over my head, tying it underneath my chin. She takes my hand, forms it into a fist with the thumb sticking out, lifts my arm and then directs this thumb into my mouth.
Without needing to be told I start sucking, lying on my back and gazing up at my monstrous ‘mother’ with a carefully contrived wide-eyed wonder and love. In return she shivers with uncontainable excitement, clasping her hands between her breasts and gazing adoringly down at me. Clearly more than a bit unbalanced, she seems downright rapturous as she takes in the results of my involuntary transformation.
“Oh Percy, you lovely little baby! I don’t know how I’m going to bear giving you up on Monday! You are just the cutest, sweetest, most precious little thing! Let Mommy nurse you now, as all good mommies do. No nasty bottle feeding for my little Percy!”
And here is where it all becomes worth it! In four years of marriage Zoë has yet to let me touch her breasts. Even brushing them inadvertently during s*x would unfailingly bring a sharp word or slap. But now she lies down beside me and takes me into her arms, cradling my small body to her much larger one. She pulls the thumb from my mouth and draws my head to her breast, which is easily the larger. The n****e itself is enormous, contracted up and pebbled with ducts, and with a sigh of supreme satisfaction she places it between my lips.
I need no encouragement here! Madly ravenous I fasten myself to that succulent stub and suckle it like crazy. This is the first time in my life I’ve been granted such a sublime opportunity, and I moan with purely blessed joy as I batten on her. This small sound though is easily drowned out by Mommy’s own urgent cry of ecstasy as I greedily begin to simulate feeding off her. She begins to gently rock me in her arms as she gives me to suck, and we stay this way for a blissful two hours or more, pausing only briefly to switch back and forth between those rubbery, turgid, wonderfully stiff n*****s.
Within its diaper my c**k quickly hardens again, straining mightily against that thick soft cloth despite the obvious impossibility of any release. For the entire time I urgently suckle at my loving Mommy’s incredibly generous breasts it throbs so hard that it actually hurts. Despite the obvious bulge this creates I believe this sin manages to pass unnoticed in her heavenly rapture. But then I learn better when Mommy at last gently disengages me, pulls away and climbs off the bed.
“You’re being naughty again baby Percy,” she scolds me as she rolls me back over onto my belly. With my hard-hard hard-on now pressing deliciously against the bed she proceeds to appallingly shock me yet again — and not for the last time by any means. “Clearly you can’t be trusted. Before I put you down for the night, I’ll have to make sure that you’ll stay out of mischief. Put your hands together behind your back.”
Mystified, I comply. And right away Mommy takes a stout length of soft cotton cord and wraps it around and around, binding my wrists this way at the small of my back. She uses another cord to bind my legs together at the knees, and another at the ankles. Then she bends my legs back until my heels meet my diaper, and threads yet another rope through the lashings binding my ankles and wrists. This she pulls tight, and then tighter and tighter still, until my chest comes off the bed, my back is painfully bowed and my wrists and ankles overlap. With that she knots everything up, leaving me uncomfortably hogtied. At last she picks up a pacifier, and a roll of clear plastic strapping tape.
“Open your mouth,” she orders. When I do, she pushes the pacifier all the way in and secures it in place with a pair of crisscrossing strips of that tape, effectively gagging me. “There!” she finally declares. “Babies cry and whine, I know. But I don’t want to have to put up with any of that while I’m relaxing bathing and m**********g in the tub, or enjoying having the entire evening all to myself for once.”
With that Mommy lifts me effortlessly in her big strong arms, and carries me into the baby room — now my room! She deposits me on my belly in the bottom of the playpen, and then sets the stereo to endlessly play classical music softly. Then she turns back to me. Meeting my disbelieving, bug-eyed gaze through the closely set bars of the playpen, she smiles at me with maternal sternness.
“Okay, baby Percy. Since you won’t fit in the crib, this is how and where you’ll be spending your weekends from now on — at least when I’m not changing you, letting you nurse at my breasts or spoon-feeding you your pureed lima beans, peas, and whatever else is in baby food these days. During the week you can go back to being my husband I guess, although with one big difference.
“You see, as you could probably tell, I never really cared for letting you stick your thing in me. I just let you do it in the hope of getting pregnant. Well now that I’m barren, and have you for a baby anyways, those days are unquestionably over. You won’t be sticking me with that naughty little thing ever again. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have s*x. Watching the way you moaned and lifted your butt to me while I cleaned you out earlier gave me another wonderful idea. I’m going to buy me a great big strap-on p***s. Then whenever I want s*x we can enjoy some more exciting role-playing.
“I’ll cross dress you up as a cheerleader, a girl scout, a hooker or a juvenile offender or something, and myself as a big bad football coach or scoutmaster; an evil corrupt cop or sadistic prison warden. Then I’ll tie you up in particularly painful and demeaning ways and f**k your little ass to exhaustion with my gigantic hard-on.
“You should really be on the bottom when it comes to s*x anyway, a shy, timid, skinny little wimp like you. In fact I can’t believe I never thought of this before. So anyway, look forward to that on Monday night, and for now sleep tight, my precious little baby boy Percy. I know it’s only just turned six o’clock, but babies need all the rest they can get. We don’t want you getting all cranky now, do we? I’ll be in to change your diaper and feed you sometime tomorrow morning. Goodnight then, baby.”
Mommy steps up, kisses two fingers and presses them briefly to my cheek. She reaches out, gives the Winnie the Pooh mobile above me a spin, and then saunters out of the room, flipping off the lights behind her. Straining futilely at my bonds, I fall over onto my side and watch those cartoon figures dance about, trying to somehow come to terms with the appalling costs to me of Zoë’s therapy.
Aksara