Red-handed

Just as you are about to pull out of the driveway, a large figure looms in front of you. Your mother stands dressed in a 1950's housewife attire with her hands on her hips. "Now, John, where do you think you're going with that?"

You turn the ignition off. "Nowhere."

"That's right, young man," she says, stomping over to you, the red polka dot dress swaying around her oversized thighs. With one hand she picks you up by the scruff of your shirt and holds your face inches from hers. "Perhaps I've been too lenient with you. You obviously need some discipline if you would disobey your mother like that."

You gulp, but feel a tightening in your pants. The way she says it is so... predatory. You don't doubt she could break you with merely a thought. But there is one thing that she can't break, something that you've never told anyone else about.

Your kink.

You have a massive weakness for dominant women. The more grotesquely strong, the better. Even monstergirls make you hard, so long as they strike fear into your heart with their power.

But your mother was never one to be feared. She always treated you with kindness, over-indulging your every want and smothering you in love. You've never felt anything towards her before. But now, as you feel her hot breath on your face, the strength rippling through her muscles as she keeps you aloft, the dangerous, monstrous glint in her eye, you can feel a tent rising in your pants just thinking about her 'punishments'.

"Yes mommy," you gasp. "I need punishment."