My mother, Kate, was a perky, lovely legal secretary who at the age of 51 still bustled with a fierce, aloof, cheerful presence that had intimidated me since I was a child. Her strong, independent nature had allowed her to raise me almost single-handedly while sharing a house with a successful but emotionally distant husband. I was a shy child, easily embarrassed and with a healthy sense of shame that Mommy happily exploited at every opportunity. When I reached puberty, her covertly sexual remarks mixed with her snapping at me unpredictably, made our constant contact very stressful for me. After giving me the cold shoulder for days following some perceived wrong, she would suddenly laugh and tell me to, “lighten up!” after watching me wallow in the misery she created. Despite how anxious or sickly guilty I felt sneaking around the house like a creep, my heart pounding as I stole pairs of Mommy’s socks or underwear to masturbate with, the daily memories of her contempt towards me filled and shaped my fantasies permanently.

I visited her on Mother’s Day weekend, and she insisted that we go to play tennis at the courts provided by the condominium complex. I came dressed in a polo shirt and Dockers, and stated that I couldn’t play because I didn’t have sportswear to put on. She pish-poshed that excuse, and went to retrieve a pair of my father’s white tennis shorts. Dejected, I went to the bathroom to change, knowing that my mother’s 8 years of playing high school and college tennis did not bode well for my barely present male ego.

“Oh hellooo…” Mommy called from outside in her usual, mocking, sing-song voice that was very sweet to others, but made my stomach drop after years of torment, “Can’t hide in there forever missy, I feel like kicking some butt today!”

“Yes Mom,” I replied in a voice that unexpectedly and sadly broke.

“Hmmm,” Mommy smirked as I exited the bathroom, “I overestimated how those would look on you.”

I looked down in shame, trying to think of a reply.

“Oh well,” she chirped, “Can’t do anything about it now,” and she grabbed her keys leading us outside.

I carried Mommy’s gym back filled with rackets and balls out to the tennis courts, following her like a condemned prisoner. I tried not to look at her soft but taught, 5’1, 120lb body as she walked confidently ahead. The tan, glowing skin on her arms and muscular legs shone seductively in the bright sun.

“Are you ready to become Mommy’s little bitch?” She laughed, yanking a towel out of the gym bag slung over my shoulder.

“Probably,” I replied, trying to sound humorous.

Mommy smirked as she carefully adjusted the white visor she wore on her highlighted hair which was pulled up in a high, loose ponytail and spilled down towards he lightly freckled shoulders.

“Don’t worry,” she finally said, “I promise I’ll make it quick. Unless you want me to make you suffer.”

I blushed awkwardly at that, and Mommy tossed her head back and laughed, her eyes twinkling in the morning sun.

I will spare the details of the match, but suffice it to say by the end I was red-faced, legs burning and stiff, and almost in tears from having tried so desperately to  preserve some dignity but was thoroughly trounced by my mother. The only times she didn’t score on me were 3 serves that she had sent into the net. The rest she launched expertly, and despite my pitiful attempts to predict where she would serve and react, Mommy happily scored one ace after another.

“What’s the score NOW?” She would ask me after each point, demanding I keep an accurate count.

The few serves I managed to return, Mommy would dash off and fire them back while letting out a short, determined grunt. I couldn’t keep up and eventually my minor successes turned out to cause me more pain as she demonstrated how easily she could handle any lucky returns and still overcome.

“Bend over bitch!” Mommy laughed after scoring one ace that I almost went head over heels trying to get.

By the final set I was physically and mentally defeated. The little bit of self-esteem Mommy had allowed me to grow up with was ultimately crushed under the heel of her pink and white tennis shoe as she bounced the ball with her hand and asked, “Do you want Mommy to end your suffering now?”

“I’m tired,” I blurted out, fighting back the tears of humiliation.

“Awww…” she cooed, “Better ask Mommy to finish you off then.”

“Please,” I said, looking around nervously to see if anyone was watching us.

“Please what?” Mommy giggled.

“Please can we stop,” I said in almost a whisper, “Just beat me already.”

“Sure thing!” Mommy chuckled, “Since you asked so sweetly, Mommy will put you out of your misery. Okay?”

I nodded desperately, “Yes Mommy.”

Mommy rolled her eyes at me, getting ready to serve again.

The final serves she launched were fired almost directly at me, causing me to flinch and flail while trying to put up any kind of fight. I had all but stopped trying by then, and sensing this Mommy sent her balls rocketing towards me knowing I had no chance of returning anything. After the final point, she walked to the net and blew me a kiss.

“See?” Mommy said in her sugary voice, “That wasn’t so bad, was it? Mommy made it quick.”

“You’re really good Mommy,” I said, walking towards the net to shake her hand. She quickly picked up her towel, wiped her sweat, and dropped it into my outstretched hand.

“A souvenir,” she grinned.

On the way back to the condo, we passed an older couple in their 60s heading to play tennis that Mommy was friends with. She introduced me to them, and said, “My son thought he could take his ol’ Mom in a match, so I had to show him who’s boss!” The couple both chuckled at that while I looked away wishing to disappear. “Awww.. did Mom kick your butt?” The woman asked me. “Yes,” I replied sheepishly, and that elicited more laughter from the three of them. Mommy continued to chat with them for another 20 minutes while we stood in the parking lot and me holding her bag.

Once inside, Mommy went to go take a shower and I couldn’t help myself. I was a bundle of nerves and snuck into the master bedroom while she was showering. The door to the master bathroom was closed while Mommy showered, and I hunted down the tennis shoes and socks she had worn. They were on the floor next to the walk-in closet. Bringing up the toes of her socks to my nose, I inhaled and fireworks went off in my brain as I replayed her tennis court humiliation of me while grabbing and stroking myself through my father’s shorts. I jumped, thinking I heard the door open, but realized it was just a false alarm. Trying to hurry, I picked up each of Mommy’s shoes and stuck my face deep into each one, breathing the smell of her sweet lingering sweat. Even though it was still mostly soft, my penis reacted to the emotional self-torment I was reliving. I held one tennis shoe over my head, bringing it down licking and sucking the sole and imagined it was Mommy stepping on my face and making me clean them out on the tennis court after beating me in front of a crowd of people. Cum started dribbling out, not in a full ejaculating orgasm, but in a weak, desperate, resigning fashion and soaking into my cotton underwear.  I quickly dropped Mommy’s socks and shoes and ran out of the bedroom, the guilt and shame already flooding back and the worry about being caught. I yanked off my father’s shorts and threw them into the laundry room hamper, then ran to the bathroom and pulled my Dockers back on.

By the time Mommy came out I was in the kitchen drinking a glass of water. She was wearing a light summer top, jeans, and bare feet in her well-worn pink slippers.

“Dressed already?” Mommy asked, raising her eyebrow and looking down at my slightly trembling hand holding my glass.

“Y-yes, I had better get going,” I replied.

“Maybe you better,” Mommy nodded, peering at me coldly.

She walked me to the door giving me a brief hug.

“Off you go,” she said.

“Goodbye Mommy,” I said, trying to grin. “Thanks for kicking my butt today.”

Mommy let my half-hearted joke hang out there awkwardly, and didn’t reply.

“Oh one more thing,” she said, just as I had turned to leave.

Mommy picked up one foot and pulled off her slipper, holding it out towards my face with a stiff arm.

“Maybe NEXT time you want to try one of THESE,” She snorted.

I stared at the dirty, matted, discolored fabric of Mommy’s foot imprint in the slipper and felt light headed as I realized she had seen me after all.

Mommy nonchalantly tossed her slipper back on the ground and stamped her foot into it.

I knew my world had changed as Mommy stepped back inside, glared at me, and slammed the door closed.