Fiction: Under Lock and Key (Part 4) (F/M)

  [Continued from Part 3]

After a week went by, Lori introduced Peter to his new humiliating routine, and the intensity of his embarrassment was almost overwhelming. He had known about the new rules she’d set for him, but nothing could have prepared him for how personal and mortifying this would feel. Standing in the bathroom with her, he fidgeted nervously, his face already flushed as she looked at him with that calm, composed authority.

“Peter,” she began, her voice steady but firm, “you’ve been a good boy this past week so you’ve earned a release.” She paused, waiting for his full attention, then continued, her tone leaving no room for hesitation. “But from now on, every week, you’ll come to me and ask permission for your release. You’ll have to earn it.”

He swallowed, nodding wordlessly, but she shook her head, her expression unyielding. “No, I need to hear you say it,” she instructed, crossing her arms. “And I want you to address me properly, as ‘Mommy.’ Understand?”

His cheeks burned at her demand, and he looked away, feeling a surge of shame. “Yes… Mommy,” he managed to mumble, barely able to meet her eyes.

“Good,” she said, a hint of satisfaction in her tone. “Now, ask me properly. Tell me what you need, and make sure you say it like you mean it.”

Peter hesitated, the words feeling foreign and embarrassing in his mouth. But under her expectant gaze, he took a shaky breath and forced himself to comply. “Please, Mommy… may I… may I have permission to cum?”

As Peter stammered out his request, his cheeks burning with embarrassment, Lori’s expression shifted to one of mild disapproval. She held up a hand, silencing him before he could continue. “Peter,” she said firmly, her voice steady and unyielding, “that’s not the word I expect you to use. We don’t use language like that here. Say it properly.”

Peter’s face grew even redder, and he swallowed, feeling a fresh wave of humiliation wash over him. He knew exactly what she wanted him to say, and somehow, it felt even more infantilizing, more humbling, to have to use her chosen words.

He took a shaky breath, forcing himself to meet her gaze, though he felt as though every inch of him wanted to shrink away. “Please, Mommy,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “may I… may I have permission to… to ejaculate?” The word felt softer, gentler, and somehow all the more embarrassing, like he was a young child asking for something simple, underlining her authority and his submissive role in this routine.

Lori nodded, satisfied with his correction. “That’s better,” she replied, her tone approving but cool. “If you’re going to ask for privileges, you’ll do so with respect, using proper language. Understood?”

“Yes, Mommy,” Peter whispered, feeling the weight of her words and the steady, unyielding control she held over him. The correction, though subtle, had reminded him once again of her expectations, her boundaries, and his place firmly within them.

Lori looked at him steadily, her calm, expectant gaze making it clear that she wasn’t finished with her questions. “And where does your ejaculate go, Peter?” she asked, pointing at the toilet bowl, her tone even, almost instructional, as if she were guiding him through a lesson.

Peter’s face flushed an even deeper shade of red, and he fidgeted under her unwavering gaze. The question, though simple, was designed to reinforce his humility, a constant reminder of the boundaries she had set around his every action. He swallowed, feeling his voice tremble slightly as he answered.

“In… in the toilet, Mommy,” he murmured, barely able to look her in the eyes. Saying it out loud felt so degrading, as if each word emphasized the controlled, clinical nature of his “privilege.” He was reminded, again, that even this moment was managed, monitored, and designed not for his comfort, but for his discipline.

Lori nodded, her expression unchanging. “That’s right,” she confirmed, her voice calm but carrying an air of authority that left no room for doubt. “It goes in the toilet, where it belongs. And you’ll remember that this isn’t for your pleasure. This is something you earn, and it’s done by me and under my supervision. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mommy,” he replied softly, feeling the full weight of her words settle over him. The ritualistic questions, her firm tone, the expectation of precise answers—all of it reinforced the control she had over him, leaving him acutely aware of his place in her structured, disciplined world.

She waited a beat, then nodded, as if granting him a favor.

“Very well,” she said, her voice calm and composed. She stepped forward, her hands moving with an unhurried purpose, and began by unbuttoning his shirt, slipping it from his shoulders with a practiced, almost maternal ease.

Each layer she removed only heightened his sense of vulnerability. The shirt came away first, leaving him standing in just his undershirt and pants. Her expression remained calm, focused, as if this were no different than undressing a toddler. She guided his arms out of the undershirt, her hands gentle but firm, until he was bare-chested, his cheeks burning as he tried not to meet her gaze.

With a soft but insistent nudge, Lori directed him to lift one foot, then the other, as she slid his socks off, folding them neatly and setting them aside. The routine, her calm, methodical movements, only amplified his discomfort, each moment reminding him of how helpless and exposed he was under her care. There was no sense of rush or urgency; she took her time, her hands moving with quiet, deliberate authority.

Then she reached for the waistband of his pants, her fingers unhooking his belt, zipper, and clasp. She looked up, catching his eyes with a silent expectation, and he nodded, his face flushed as he resigned himself to what came next. She guided the pants down his legs, the fabric pooling at his ankles before she had him step out of them. Now he stood there in just his last remaining layer—his panties, a soft pastel blue pair she had chosen for him, meant as another reminder of his need for discipline.

With Peter now standing in just his panties, his cheeks flushed and gaze cast downward, Lori took a step back, her expression remaining calm but firm. She allowed a moment of silence to hang between them, reinforcing his vulnerability and the authority she wielded. Then, in a measured, ritualistic tone she used every week, she looked him squarely in the eye and asked, “Peter, why are you in panties and a cage?”

Peter’s throat tightened, and he shifted uncomfortably, the weight of her question pressing down on him. He forced himself to look up, catching her steady, expectant gaze, and took a shaky breath before answering, his voice small and filled with shame.

“Because… because I violated your privacy, Mommy,” he murmured, stumbling over the words.

Lori’s expression didn’t waver, and she arched an eyebrow, prompting him silently to continue. She wasn’t going to let him avoid full accountability.

Peter swallowed, his face burning as he pushed the words out. “And I… I was naughty with Mommy’s panties,” he managed, barely above a whisper, the words heavy with humiliation. Saying it out loud, with her standing there, unflinching, drove home the full extent of his position under her control.

Lori nodded, her expression composed and almost businesslike, as though his confession were simply part of the routine. “That’s right,” she affirmed. “You made a choice to act inappropriately with something that belongs to me. And that’s why the panties and cage are necessary—to help you remember boundaries, respect, and self-control.”

Peter’s heart raced, his entire body tense as Lori’s fingers lightly brushed the waistband of his panties. She hesitated just long enough for him to feel the full weight of his exposure, then, with a calm and steady motion, she slipped them down, guiding them over his hips and down his legs, and made him step out of them. The final layer gone, Peter’s hands instinctively moved to cover himself, but she gave him a look—a silent but firm reminder to stay still. He lowered his hands, the mortification in his eyes clear as he stood fully bare but for his cock cage before her.

With the panties now removed, Lori’s eyes fell on the small chastity cage secured around him, its presence a stark symbol of his restrained state. She didn’t react, her face remaining impassive, though her authority was felt in every steady, unflinching movement. She set the panties aside, folding them carefully before placing them with the rest of his clothes, reinforcing the ritualistic nature of this weekly routine.

Peter’s face burned, his gaze fixed downward, the weight of her gaze and her steady, methodical approach leaving him feeling as though he were no more than a child, undressed piece by piece by a mother who knew every inch of him and held complete control over his every action.

As Lori removed the key from around her neck and unlocked the chastity cage with practiced precision, Peter felt his heart racing, a mix of desperation and deep embarrassment churning within him. The familiar, small click of the lock seemed to reverberate through the room, marking the start of his full humiliation. She removed the cage piece by piece, her hands moving with steady, methodical detachment.

The instant he was freed, his body responded automatically, springing to full attention with a need that had built up over the days in chastity. He felt his cheeks burn with shame, knowing he was fully exposed, his reaction so blatant under her unflinching gaze. Despite his best efforts, his body betrayed him, eager and unrestrained in its response, making the moment even more mortifying.

Lori’s reaction was subtle but unmistakable. She paused, her gaze traveling over him with an air of restrained disappointment, and then she gave a quiet, disapproving tsk, a small sound that held so much weight. It was a simple, wordless reprimand, but it pierced through his defenses, making him feel both foolish and juvenile.

The quiet tsk, paired with her steady, impassive gaze, deepened his shame tenfold. He struggled to hold still, every fiber of him wanting to shrink away, to somehow hide his reaction, but he knew there was no escape from her judgment. Her silent disapproval hung in the air, a reminder of her authority over him, making him feel both exposed and entirely helpless under her disciplined control.

Standing there, her arms folded, she simply watched him, letting him stand there under her gaze, fully aware of his uncontrollable response. His pulse quickened, and despite his best efforts, he could feel his erect penis throbbing under her calm, steady scrutiny. A small tear formed at the tip, a humiliating testament to his need, and his cheeks flushed even deeper, the shame flooding over him.

“Please… Mommy…”

Lori didn’t move, didn’t hurry him along or offer any comfort. She remained silent, her expression unchanged, allowing him to feel the full weight of the moment, his reaction laid bare in front of her. Her disapproval was palpable, leaving him feeling helpless, acutely aware of his own lack of control in contrast to her unyielding, quiet authority.

“Now, Mommy is going to help you with this,” she finally said, her tone cool and dispassionate. “This isn’t something you get to do on your own anymore. You’ll wait until I say it’s allowed, and you’ll follow my guidance. No more acting on impulse.”

Her gaze lingering on Peter with a faint hint of distaste, her expression cool and unflinching. She reached over to the cabinet without a word, pulling out a latex glove, her movements deliberate, almost clinical. She slid the glove onto her hand, the snap of the latex breaking the silence in the room, making Peter flinch slightly. Her composure was unwavering, her expression one of detached duty, as though she were preparing for nothing more personal than cleaning a spill.

With the same quiet, efficient manner, she reached for a small bottle of lubricant, applying a modest amount to her gloved fingers. Her face remained impassive, betraying no emotion as she stepped closer and gestured toward the toilet. Peter, flushed and humiliated, positioned himself as she directed, his face burning with the overwhelming sense of exposure and shame.

Standing behind him, Lori placed her ungloved hand firmly on his bare bottom, her grip steady and authoritative. The touch was both grounding and deeply humiliating, a physical reminder of her control over him. The gesture wasn’t comforting; it was simply practical, reinforcing his submission to her guidance. Her other hand, gloved and clinical, moved to the front, taking his hard penis in her hand with a detached efficiency that left no room for indulgence or softness.

With her steady, impassive hold on his bare bottom, she began the process, her movements controlled and precise. Peter’s breaths quickened, a mixture of relief and humiliation flooding through him as her gloved hand maintained its dispassionate rhythm. Each pulse and involuntary reaction only deepened his awareness of her authority, and he felt his cheeks burn, the weight of his mortification building with every stroke.

Lori’s touch was firm but devoid of any tenderness or sympathy. She held him steady, her gloved hand moving with a steady, controlled rhythm, her gaze averted slightly as if to distance herself from the task at hand. There was no hesitation, no lingering; her actions were efficient, each movement deliberate, her focus solely on completing the process.

As the tension within him built, Peter’s cheeks flushed deeper, his breaths coming in shallow, mortified gasps. Lori’s grip never faltered, her expression one of mild, almost dispassionate annoyance as she continued her work. She showed no reaction as he finally reached release, his body shuddering as he ejaculated into the toilet bowl, the culmination of his need arriving with no sense of relief or satisfaction—only the cold, clinical reality of her controlled touch.

As Peter stood there, his cheeks flushed with a deep, lingering embarrassment, Lori maintained her firm, impassive grip on him, ensuring the process was completed to her satisfaction. With practiced, methodical precision, she alternated between gently milking and shaking his now rapidly diminishing, sensitive length, her movements efficient and entirely unyielding. The clinical nature of her touch only intensified his discomfort, each motion serving as a reminder of the control she held over even this most private aspect of his life.

A soft, amused chuckle escaped her as she continued, glancing down at him with a wry smirk. She remarked dryly, “it’s almost like milking a cow. Just have to be sure every drop is out, don’t we?”

Her comparison sent a fresh wave of humiliation through him, his face burning as he squirmed under her steady, detached hand. Lori’s grip didn’t falter as she continued her thorough work, alternating between firm squeezes and gentle shakes, each motion precise and deliberate.

Finally, once she was satisfied that no remnants remained, Lori released him, peeling off her glove with a practiced flick and disposing of it with the same subtle distaste she’d shown throughout.

“Now, Peter,” she said calmly, her voice leaving no room for resistance, “I want you to say ‘thank you, Mommy’. I want you to understand this is something I allow—not something you get to expect.”

With the sharp sting of shame, the words tumbled from his mouth almost involuntarily. “Thank you… Mommy,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper, his cheeks hot with mortification.

Without missing a beat, Lori reached for the chastity cage, preparing to lock him back in place. “Now,” she instructed, her tone as calm as ever, “you’re going to ask Mommy to put this back on. Tell me you want it locked, so you can be a good boy and not be naughty during the week.”

Peter’s face flushed even deeper, but he managed a small nod, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. “Please, Mommy… please lock it back on so I won’t… be naughty.”

She clicked the cage back into place, her expression satisfied as she locked it securely. “Good. That’s exactly how it will go every week,” she said, stepping back with a firm nod. “Now you know what I expect.”

As Lori finished securing the chastity cage, she stepped back, her expression as calm and unyielding as ever. She looked him over, her gaze steady, then spoke with quiet authority.

“Now, Peter,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument, “it’s time for your weekly spanking.”

Peter’s eyes filled with tears, and he felt a wave of desperation. “But… but Mommy,” he stammered, his voice breaking, “I’ve been good all week! I didn’t do anything wrong! It’s not fair!”

Lori’s gaze didn’t waver. “Peter,” she replied with a patient but firm tone, “this is still part of your punishment for being naughty with Mommy’s panties. This will continue weekly after your release until I decide otherwise. Just because you’ve behaved this past week doesn’t erase what you did.”

The weight of her words settled over him, and fresh tears began to spill down his cheeks. The thought of enduring another spanking, especially now, after having just cum, was overwhelming. But Lori’s unflinching demeanor left him with no choice; she was steadfast, and any further protest would only make matters worse. His shoulders slumped, and he began to cry softly as she took his arm and guided him out of the bathroom.

Bare except for the chastity cage, Peter walked beside her down the hall, his quiet, steady tears marking each step. The humiliation of being led like this, his vulnerability on full display, made the situation even more mortifying. Lori’s hand remained firm on his arm, her presence a reminder of the authority she held.

They reached the living room mantle, where Lori retrieved the paddle with a steady hand, holding it with the same composed authority she had displayed throughout. 

“mommy… no…” he whined quietly.

She took him to a straight-backed wooden chair that had already been positioned in the center of the room. Lori released his arm and gestured for him to stand beside it. His tears continued, his gaze cast downward, unable to look her in the eye as she took her seat on the chair, adjusting her posture.

“Over my knee,” she instructed, her voice calm, her expression unwavering.

Peter’s heart sank, but he knew better than to resist. As Lori guided Peter over her lap, he felt the cool firmness of her bare thighs against his skin, an intimate contact that heightened the overwhelming shame he was already feeling. The chastity cage pressed awkwardly against her legs, a constant reminder of his restrained state, of how little control he truly had. The small, spent cage felt almost pathetic now, a symbol of his helplessness, emphasizing the power she held over him even in this most vulnerable moment.

The humiliation was unbearable. Being positioned like this—exposed, humbled, his caged genitalia pressed against her thigh—left him feeling stripped of any remaining dignity. The sting of the earlier release still lingered, and now the reality of what was coming next, a bare-bottom paddling across her lap, made his heart race and his eyes well with tears before she’d even lifted the paddle.

As he lay there, waiting, the tension building, a soft, involuntary sob escaped his lips. He could feel the warmth of her skin against his, her steady presence a reminder that he was entirely under her guidance. The weight of it all—the chastity, the spanking, her control—pressed down on him, and his shoulders shook as the tears began to flow freely. He hadn’t even felt the first swat, but the overwhelming shame, the sheer vulnerability of the position, had already broken through his resolve.

As Peter’s quiet sobs turned into trembling, involuntary tears, Lori glanced down at him with a raised eyebrow, a faint smirk touching her lips. She let out a soft, almost amused sigh. “Oh, we’re already getting the waterworks, are we?” she murmured, her tone carrying a hint of teasing disapproval. “Well, if you’re so eager to cry, I’ll give you something to cry about.”

Her words made his stomach twist, the implication sending a fresh wave of dread through him. He lay there, tense and helpless over her lap, feeling her steady hand on his lower back, grounding him, holding him firmly in place. Her thighs were warm beneath him, the sensation both comforting and humiliating, and his caged, spent state only intensified the feeling of vulnerability as her presence pressed down on him, both literally and emotionally.

Without waiting for a response, Lori raised the paddle and brought it down with a sharp crack that sent a jolt through his entire body. He gasped, the sting immediate and searing, and his soft cries turned into a full, desperate sob as she settled into a relentless rhythm, each swat firm and unyielding.

“There,” she said, her tone cool and measured as she continued, her voice cutting through his cries. “Now you have a real reason to cry.” Her hand pressed down more firmly on his back, steadying him as he squirmed and kicked, trying in vain to escape the relentless punishment.

Peter’s tears flowed freely, his pleas almost incoherent as she delivered each swat with unwavering precision, each one reinforcing the lesson she intended him to absorb. She had promised to give him something to cry about, and as the sting deepened with every strike, he knew she was making good on that promise, leaving him acutely aware of his position, his obedience, and the unwavering authority she wielded over him.

“This,” she said evenly, punctuating each word with a firm smack, “is to remind you that actions have consequences.”

Peter’s tears fell freely, his quiet cries filling the room as the spanking continued. The firm, unyielding rhythm of the paddle against his skin reinforced her authority, leaving no doubt that this ritual would remain a part of his weekly life until she decided otherwise. Under her unwavering hand, Peter was left acutely aware of his position, bound by the structure and discipline she had established, and entirely under her care. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Lori paused, letting the paddle rest momentarily against his reddened skin.

She leaned forward slightly, her voice calm but resolute. “Now, Peter, I want you to apologize properly,” she instructed, her tone leaving no room for anything less than complete sincerity. “You’ve been given this punishment for a reason, and I expect you to show that you understand why.”

Through his tears, Peter took a shaky breath, his face flushed with both the lingering sting of the spanking and the shame of his words. “I’m… I’m sorry, Mommy,” he stammered, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry for being naughty with your things… for not respecting your privacy.” His voice broke, and he managed to look up at her, eyes red and wet with fresh tears. “Thank you for correcting me, Mommy.”

Lori gave a small nod, satisfied with his apology. “Good,” she said, her voice softening just a touch, though her expression remained composed and steady. “Now, I want you to go to the corner. Stand there and think about why this has to happen, and what it means to respect boundaries.”

Peter nodded, still sniffling, and rose from her lap. His body felt heavy, the weight of the spanking and the shame pressing down on him as he walked to the corner, his bare skin still stinging with the reminder of her discipline. He placed his nose against the wall, his hands at his sides, the chastity cage a constant, humbling presence as he stood there, feeling the full impact of her lesson settle over him.

The room was silent, save for his occasional sniffles, as Lori watched him quietly, her expression calm. This was the structured discipline she had promised, and as Peter stood there, his face against the wall, he knew he would return to this corner each week, a standing reminder of the respect and obedience she expected.

As the week wore on, Peter found himself caught in a confusing and excruciating mix of emotions. Each day that passed heightened his conflicting feelings. The chastity cage, which had felt merely uncomfortable at first, had now become a constant, throbbing reminder of his restraint. His teenage hormones only made things worse, amplifying every small urge, every fleeting thought into something urgent and insistent. By the fourth day, the ache in his body was undeniable, and by the sixth, it had become almost unbearable, a constant, gnawing need that made it difficult to think about anything else.

But with that craving for release came a mounting dread. The release he’d been allowed last week had come with an unbearable cost—the sting of the paddle, the weight of his mother’s authority pressing down on him as she wielded it with precision. Even if he were to refuse the release, he knew it wouldn’t spare him from the inevitable spanking. That, she’d made clear, was a non-negotiable part of his weekly routine.

The realization left him feeling trapped, yet paradoxically craving her approval, her permission. His mind would drift, despite himself, to the humiliating moment he’d be forced to beg her for release, knowing full well that the freedom it offered would be short-lived and bound up in a new kind of shame. And yet, as each day passed and his discomfort grew, he found himself wondering if he could endure another week without it, if he could face that gnawing need without surrendering to the discipline and the control she wielded over him.

The anticipation became a cycle of desperation and dread, each emotion feeding into the other. By the end of the sixth day, Peter felt caught in a strange limbo—a place where his body cried out for release, yet his heart sank at the thought of the humiliations and the punishment that awaited him. The ache was almost painful, an excruciating reminder that his body was no longer entirely his own, and as the next scheduled session approached, he realized with a sinking feeling that he would be standing before her once again, pleading for something he knew would only bring him closer to yet another humiliating spanking over her lap.

The night before his scheduled release, Peter lay in bed, unable to quiet the storm of thoughts racing through his mind. His body ached with a desperate, almost unbearable need, the chastity cage a relentless reminder of his denied state. Every small shift or movement intensified the dull, throbbing ache radiating from his restrained length and sensitive, sore testicles, and despite his attempts to focus on anything else, his mind kept circling back to what awaited him the following day.

He knew that if he wanted relief, he’d have to submit to the same humiliating ritual—standing there, bare and vulnerable before his mom, begging her for release with the words she insisted upon. The memory of the last time replayed in his mind in excruciating detail: the way she had watched him with that calm, dispassionate expression, the clinical efficiency with which she had removed the cage, the coolness of her latex-gloved hand as she worked him over the toilet bowl. Her control over every moment, every reaction, had made him feel small and exposed, and yet, the release itself, though brief, had brought immense relief.

He could feel his cheeks burning just thinking about the mortification of standing before her, begging for something his body craved desperately, knowing full well that his relief would be tempered by what came afterward. She’d made it clear that the weekly spanking was a fixed part of his punishment—a reminder of his transgression and of her authority. Even if he somehow resisted asking for release, the spanking would still come, unrelenting and thorough, leaving him sore and tearful over her lap.

The thought of lying across her knee again, the cage pressing awkwardly against her thigh as she held him firmly in place, filled him with dread. He could almost feel the sting of the paddle, the way each swat had seared into his skin, the rhythm of her discipline relentless as she delivered the lesson she’d promised. His stomach twisted as he remembered her quiet, stern voice, instructing him to apologize, reminding him that this routine would continue until further notice.

But alongside the dread was the undeniable, gnawing ache of his denied release. His body cried out for it, the need almost painful as it built up within him, each throb a reminder of how tightly his mother held his freedom in her hands. He tossed and turned, unable to escape the mounting tension in his body and the humbling reality of the ritual he’d have to endure.

The hours ticked by, and as morning drew closer, Peter realized with a sinking heart that he had no choice. He’d be standing before her soon enough, pleading for the release he needed, knowing full well that he’d pay for it with another humiliating, painful reminder of her control. And as he lay there, helpless to stop the cycle of anticipation and shame, he felt his heart race, bracing himself for the unavoidable reality that awaited him.

As they sat at the breakfast table, Peter’s stomach was already knotted with a mix of dread and desperate anticipation. He’d barely slept, his mind fixated on the impending ritual and the overwhelming need building within him. He picked at his food, barely tasting it, when Lori cleared her throat, drawing his attention.

“By the way,” she said with a casual tone, reaching for her coffee, “I’ll be heading out right after breakfast for a business trip.”

Peter’s eyes widened, panic flashing across his face. “But… but what about my release?” he stammered, his voice edged with desperation.

Lori paused, regarding him with a subtle, amused glint in her eye. “Oh, that’s right,” she said, as if just now remembering. “Well, I’m in a bit of a rush, Peter, so I suppose you’ll just have to go without this week.” She took a sip of her coffee, watching his reaction, her tone almost playful. “I’m sure you can handle one more week, right?”

Peter’s heart sank, and he felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. “Mommy, please, that’s… that’s not fair! I’ve been good all week! I… I can’t go another week like this!” His voice cracked, and he could feel the frustration and desperation boiling over, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment even as he pleaded.

Lori chuckled softly, setting her coffee down and folding her hands, looking at him with an expression that was both amused and mildly chastising. “Oh, Peter, don’t be so dramatic,” she said, feigning exasperation. She let the silence linger for a moment before a small smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. “Don’t worry—I wouldn’t leave you high and dry.”

He blinked, confused and still upset, trying to process her words.

Lori leaned forward, her tone turning almost teasing. “I went ahead and made arrangements for someone to stay with you while I’m away,” she explained. “Remember that delightful young lady from the lingerie shop? The one who was so helpful when we went shopping together? I thought she’d be the perfect babysitter to make sure you stay in line.”

Peter’s heart skipped a beat, his face turning a deep shade of red as he stared at her in shock. “You… you hired her?” he whispered, barely able to believe what he was hearing.

Lori nodded, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Yes. I’ve made sure she understands your little… routine, so you’ll be able to ask her for your release when the time comes.” She leaned back in her chair, looking thoroughly pleased with herself. “So, you needn’t worry. I’m sure she’ll take care of everything just as I would.”

The reality of what she was saying began to sink in, and Peter felt his stomach twist with a new mixture of emotions. The thought of having to go through the same ritual for the young woman from the lingerie shop—someone who had already seen him at his most vulnerable—filled him with an overwhelming sense of embarrassment. He could already imagine her calm, detached manner, guiding him through the routine with the same professionalism she’d shown in the store, her eyes watching his every reaction.

Peter’s heart raced as the implications of his mother’s plan sank in, and desperation took hold. He leaned forward, his voice filled with pleading. “Mommy, please, I don’t need a babysitter. You can leave the key with me—I promise, I’ll only use it once and then I’ll lock it right back on. You can trust me!”

Lori raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a knowing smile as she watched him try to bargain. “Oh, Peter,” she replied, a faint hint of amusement in her tone, “I wasn’t born yesterday. You expect me to believe that you’d follow the rules, with no one here to keep an eye on you?”

He swallowed, his cheeks flushing as he realized how futile his argument sounded, but he couldn’t stop himself. “I would, I swear. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t break the rules.”

Lori shook her head, her smile unwavering. “Peter, we both know you’d be far too tempted, especially with your hormones running wild the way they are. I’m doing this for your own good.”

Her tone softened slightly, but her resolve was clear. “The young lady I’ve hired is fully informed of what’s expected, and she’ll make sure you stay on track. This is non-negotiable, Peter, so I expect you to be respectful and follow her instructions just as you would mine.”

Peter’s face turned scarlet, and he slumped back in his chair, defeated. The idea of being left alone with the young lady from the lingerie shop, under her watchful eye, knowing she’d be overseeing his most vulnerable moments, left him mortified. He couldn’t believe he’d have to endure the weekly ritual with her instead of his mother.

Lori’s gaze softened slightly, and she reached over to pat his hand. “I know it’s difficult, but this is part of your learning. You’ll thank me for it one day.” She smiled, the faintest glint of satisfaction in her eyes. “Now finish your breakfast, and make sure you’re ready when she arrives. You wouldn’t want to keep her waiting.”

[Continued in Part 5]