Mummy’s Punishment Chair

He broke a rule. Just one.

But with Mummy, even one was too many.

He’d promised obedience. Promised control. Promised that he wouldn’t touch himself unless she gave permission. That his cock, his release, his pleasure—all of it—belonged to her.

And yet, two nights ago, in the shower, his self-control had cracked. The moment the hot water hit his skin, steam curling around him like the ghost of her breath, the memory of Mummy consumed him.

He closed his eyes and there she was—behind him, lips brushing his ear, voice like silk and sin: “You’re mine. Always mine. "He could almost feel her nails scraping down his back, catching just enough to sting. Her full, curvy body pressed up against his. The scent of her—jasmine and something darker—lingered in his memory, thick as the steam wrapping around him.

His breathing quickened. One hand braced against the slick tiled wall. The other crept lower, trembling, then wrapped around the base of his cock.

He knew it was wrong. Knew what Mummy had told him: “You don’t touch unless I say so. You don’t come unless it’s for me.”

But he was already leaking. Already aching. Her voice was everywhere—wrapping around every nerve. With a low, desperate moan, he started to stroke—slow, indulgent, shameful. Each pump fed the need, fed the guilt, fed the image of her watching him break her rule.

He lasted less than a minute.

His orgasm ripped through him with a groan of her name, hips bucking, cum spilling across his hand, his thigh, the shower floor. He leaned into the wall, panting, ashamed, the water washing it away but not cleansing him.

He looked down at the mess he’d made—at the cock that didn’t even feel like his anymore—and whispered, “I’m sorry, Mummy.”

Too late.

She already knew.

She always knew.

And now, two nights later, he sat trembling and exposed, strapped into her punishment chair.

His thighs were spread wide in padded leather stirrups, every inch of his skin vulnerable and offered. Thick cuffs locked his ankles and knees in place, his arms drawn back and restrained, chest forced forward in surrender. His cock stood hard and helpless, twitching as if begging to be punished.

His skin tingled, flushed with guilt and raw anticipation. The cool leather beneath him only heightened the heat building inside his body. He was displayed. Owned. Reduced to the need she stirred in him.

And then she entered.

Mummy.

Curvy, commanding, and cruelly composed. She stood like a goddess shaped from indulgence—voluptuous and powerful, wrapped in a black satin corset that hugged her waist and pushed her breasts high and proud. A sheer lace bodysuit—crotchless, of course—peeked through the corset, exposing her soft belly and the promise of what he’d never touch without permission. Her thighs, thick and flawless, disappeared into thigh-high leather boots that glinted under the dimmed light. Each slow, heavy step across the floor echoed like thunder in his ears.

Her full lips were painted deep red—plush, wicked, unforgiving. When they curled into a smile, it was the kind that made him feel small. Owned. Devoted.

She stopped in front of him, gaze roaming his body. “Look at you,” she murmured, eyes landing on his cock, “already hard. Already leaking. You really don’t learn, do you?”

He tried to speak, but his mouth was dry. All he could do was nod. Barely.

She stepped between his legs and dragged one finger up the inside of his thigh, circling just shy of his aching cock. His body jerked, desperate for more. She slapped his thigh—firm, unrelenting.

“You know why you’re here.”

He swallowed. “Yes, Mummy.”

“Say it.”

“I came without permission. I touched myself. I broke your rule.”

Her gaze darkened. “And whose cock is that?”

“Yours, Mummy.”

She stepped behind the chair, her fingers trailing across his chest as she passed.

“This chair was built for boys like you,” she said, low and deliberate. “Boys who think they can get away with secrets.”

She stepped between his legs with slow, deliberate elegance, hips swaying, her thigh brushing against the edge of the chair as she stopped in front of him. The low lighting caught the curve of her full body—the black satin corset cinched tight around her waist, her sheer lace bodysuit framing the soft swell of her stomach and thighs, her curves a living embodiment of indulgence. Her nails were painted a deep crimson, glossy and perfect, like her lips—soft, full, and unreadable as they curled into a quiet smirk.

She didn’t speak.

Instead, she reached down, her fingers light as air as they traced the inside of his thigh. He shivered beneath the touch, his skin warm, sensitive, covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Her fingertip danced upward, slow and unhurried, never quite touching his cock—just gliding beside it, letting the heat of her hand make him ache harder.

His cock twitched, swollen and flushed, the head already wet and glistening. It stood straight, helpless and exposed, twitching under her gaze. She circled her fingertip around the base but never touched. Just close enough to make him burn.

He whimpered.

“Mummy hasn’t even laid a hand on you,” she whispered, her voice a low, velvety hum that ran straight to the centre of him. “And you’re already dripping for me.”

He nodded, breath catching in his throat, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. His whole body trembled—not from pain, but from the slow, exquisite torture of not being touched.

She leaned forward, her full breasts brushing against his chest, her lips close to his but not quite kissing. “This is punishment, baby. Not through pain... but through denial.”

Her fingers brushed his inner thighs again—higher, closer—then retreated.

“I’m going to make you need it so badly, you’ll beg me to stop teasing you. And I won’t. You’ll stay in this chair until I’m satisfied you’ve learned your lesson. You don’t cum without Mummy. You don’t touch what’s mine. Understood?”

“Yes, Mummy,” he whispered, his voice trembling with hunger and submission.

“Good boy.”

She sank to her knees between his spread legs, her face just inches from the tip of his cock. Her breath ghosted over the head, making it jump. Then she exhaled—warm, soft—and licked her lips.

But she didn’t touch him.

Not yet.

She watched him squirm—helpless, undone, gorgeous. His cock twitched violently with each stuttering breath, standing flushed and proud, a deep shade of pink that bordered on red. It pulsed with urgency, each heartbeat visible just beneath the skin. The head was slick, glistening with a thick sheen of pre-cum that shimmered under the dimmed light.

His entire body was vibrating—tight, restrained, wrapped in tension. The cuffs creaked faintly as he tried not to move, muscles twitching in frustration. He was trying so hard to behave. Trying to be her good boy.

She smiled. Slowly. Silently. The kind of smile that didn’t offer mercy—it promised more. And worse. And better.

Still kneeling between his open legs, she made no move to touch him. She didn’t need to. Her presence alone was a weight, a heat, a pressure against his skin. The scent of her—intoxicating and unmistakable—wrapped around his cock like a second mouth, teasing him with the closeness he couldn’t have.

Her breath washed over him—warm, humid, laced with jasmine and power.

Then, without warning, her tongue flicked out—just once.

A single, precise lick across the swollen head.

He jolted hard, a strained moan cracking from his throat like a prayer snapped in half. His wrists strained against the cuffs. His hips jerked against the chair. His body betrayed him.

She pulled back immediately.

And did nothing.

Just let him feel the absence of her.

The air kissed the wet trail her tongue had left behind. He shuddered beneath it, eyes wide and glassy, his mouth trembling with a moan he hadn’t even fully released yet.

She looked up at him from under thick lashes, eyes calm, unreadable. “So close already,” she murmured. “Pathetic.”

Her gaze dropped to his cock again. His balls were pulled tight against his body now, heavy and full, begging for permission he hadn’t earned. The veins along his shaft throbbed visibly. Every inch of him strained toward her—desperate, pulsing, soaked in need.

And she wasn’t even touching him yet.

She leaned in slowly, lips parting, her tongue wetting them just before she spoke. “You really don’t understand what it means to wait... do you?”

Then, finally, she took him into her mouth.

Just the head. No more.

Her lips closed around the tip in a slow, decadent seal. Her tongue circled—one excruciatingly slow rotation—teasing the ridge, dipping into the slit, pressing lightly against the underside.

He cried out—a high, broken noise that sounded like surrender.

She stayed like that, just holding him in her mouth, letting him feel the warmth, the weight, the power of her restraint. Her tongue moved in lazy, tormenting patterns. She sucked softly—not enough to satisfy, but just enough to keep him on fire.

Then she pulled off, inch by inch.

His cock slid from her lips with a slick sound, a thin strand of saliva trailing from his tip to her mouth as she sat back on her heels.

She didn’t wipe it away.

She just smiled again, slow and dark and merciless.

“Still think you’re going to cum tonight?” she asked softly.

His whole body shook.

“No, Mummy,” he whispered, voice thin, broken, soaked in shame.

She exhaled—pleased. Her nails dragged lightly along the inside of his thigh, not hurting, just reminding him how close she was. How in control she was.

She leaned in and began again. This time deeper. Her tongue pressed flat against the underside of his shaft as her lips sank down, swallowing more of him until he hit the back of her throat. She moaned around him—not for his pleasure, but to let him feel the vibrations.

He whimpered. Shook. His wrists twisted uselessly in the cuffs behind him.

She pulled back slowly, her saliva slicking his cock, and then blew gently on it—watching him twitch, watching his head fall back.

“Tell me what you did again.”

“I came without permission,” he panted.

She licked the tip.

“I touched what’s yours.”

She smiled, kissed the base of his cock.

“And I broke your rule.”

“Good boy.”

Her mouth wrapped around him again, and she worked him in slow, deliberate strokes, alternating between deep, sucking warmth and teasing flicks of her tongue that made his thighs shake. He was close. She could feel it in the way his body trembled, how his moans turned to strained, broken sounds.

She stopped. Completely.

He whimpered, loud, desperate.

“Please, Mummy. Please let me cum.”

She stood slowly, towering over him again. Her fingers slipped between her thighs and came away slick.

“You’re not coming tonight,” she said softly, dragging her wet fingers along his jaw. “You’re going to stay right there. Hard. Dripping. A reminder to yourself—and to me—that your cock isn’t yours.”

She leaned in close, lips brushing the edge of his ear.

“You’ll sit in this chair until your need turns into obedience. Until you know who you belong to.”

And with that, she stepped away.

Left the room.

Left him shaking.

Still bound.

Still throbbing.

Still hers.