As time pass mother s “management” of my “little problem” took different forms. Some accomodating, some not. Sometimes she would let me lie my head in her lap as she was bare breasted while I shamed myself and her. Sometimes she would let me do it while in the hallway as she was in the bath or in her room fully naked. As time passed I eventually tried to touch her breasts or would beg for the opportunity to indulge when she had no willingness to do so. As time passed the events came less often as i started learning to self regulate and the absence of the hiding and guilt of my dirty secret at her expense but I was not always perfect. When those bad times came she would cut me off from viewing her entirely, and in a couple of instances when I would try to touch or kiss her in some way as she was giving me the gift of her presence and holding me, sometimes even in my own bed, I got a difficult and cruel form of discipline. She made me stop while unfulfilled and put a karge ice pack over my g*******. Or would make me lie on my stomach with my erection trapped between my stomach on an ice pack. That once made me try to resentfully hump against the ice pack to try to o***** before my c*** shriveled, and all that got me was additional ice packs in the small of my back, on my b*** cheeks, and even between my thighs against my testicles. And she would deny me entirely for a week or two at a time. Once during one of those longer periods of disciplinary isolation, she went against her huge hatred of p********** and bought me a p****** and penthouse magazine. She used the two to try to teach me that the more dignified portrayal of women in p****** vs penthouse demonstrated how i should see women with respect vs objects for lurid behavior. And even put me through occasional sessions of making me look at those magazines while ice packs were on my g******* and between my thighs. And each of those “training sessions” would be followed by cuddling without letting me indulge my body.
