Author’s Note: This story takes place during Season 1 Episode 6 ‘All Souls and Sadists’. Some of the lines are taken directly from the show. Written for the Holiday Challenge over on the LJ group spanking_world December 2019. Filling this prompt from Dino76:
I enjoy this show very much! And I definitely love Gil and Malcolm, but can someone please give me Mom in action? I think she is a force to be reckoned with and she genuinely cares about her son. She could intervene when she sees that Malcolm cannot sleep at all. Maybe he gets snippy with her or she just knows that he would at least get a few hours of sleep if he's had a good cry or something.
Also fills this prompt from nothfan:
Malcolm/Gil or Malcolm/Mom (she is pretty domineering in the show lol) parental type spanking please.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters, and I’m not making any money from this story.
Warning: Non-consensual spanking of an adult. I don’t advocate this behavior in real life – only fiction.

Malcolm sat down at the dinner table with his mother and sister, hoping to enjoy the food and the company before bringing up the old photo he had stashed in his jacket pocket.

“We’ve missed you of late, Ainsley. Where have you been?” Jessica asked her daughter.

“Working,” Ainsley answered. “Researching a new subject. A lot of late nights.”

“I hope you’re getting enough sleep,” Jessica said.

“In other words, don’t turn out like your brother,” Malcolm said with a smirk. His mother acknowledged his comment with a little smile. Turning back to his sister, he asked, “What are you working on?”

“I’ve decided to interview Dad. The Surgeon twenty years later.” Ainsley continued to cut up her food as if she hadn’t dropped a bombshell.

“You must be joking,” Jessica gasped.

Ainsley glared at her mother. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

Shaking his head Malcolm tried to calmly reason with his sister. “This is a bad idea Ains. Your putting yourself in his crosshairs.”

Ainsley dropped her fork and knife onto her plate and raised her voice. “Why do you both do that? You treat me like some delicate flower, and based on billing hours alone, you guys are the basket cases. I’m fine.”

Clearly unhappy, Jessica said, “Yes, because you are the only one not seeing him.”

With a little shrug Ainsley said, “I have seen him. I went last week.”

“What?” Malcolm couldn’t believe his little sister had not only seen their father, but that she didn’t seem to be affected. “Are you okay?” he asked with genuine concern.

“I just told you I’m fine.” Ainsley was clearly becoming more agitated by their reactions.

“None of this is fine,” Jessica said. “It’s insane. An interview?” She pinned her daughter with a look and stated firmly, “I forbid it. You will not see your father again.”

“Oh, what is that? A royal decree? Mother hath spoken?” Ainsley mocked. She tossed her napkin on the table and stood up. “I hoped we could have a calm conversation about this, but obviously not. I’ll see myself out.”

When his sister turned to leave Malcolm stood to follow her. “Ainsley, wait, we need-”

His mother cut him off with a directive. “Let her go.”

Her words gave him pause, and he stopped. They both watched as Ainsley stormed out.

Jessica said, “That interview will never happen. I will make sure of it.”

Malcolm slowly nodded. Of course his mother already had a plan of action to protect Ainsley. She always had a plan. Usually her plans were aimed at him, not his sister, but he was sure it would be effective either way. “Right.” He nodded again and sat down. He knew for sure that Ainsley should not be visiting their father, and if he didn’t have faith in his mother’s abilities to subvert his sister’s interview, he’d be chasing after Ainsley. But he knew from experience that his mother was a force to be reckoned with when protecting her children, especially when she was protecting them from themselves.

“Okay.” He nodded again. “Finally, we…”

“We agree,” Jessica said with a small smile. “Well I never.”

They both smiled, and he picked up his fork again.

“Enough about your sister. Tell me how you’ve been doing. You look… surprisingly refreshed. Have you been sleeping?”

Malcolm shrugged. “No more than usual… although last week I did get a solid five hours. Maybe I’m still running off that.”

His mother sighed. “Five hours last week? Malcolm-”

“I know,” he agreed, cutting her off before she could start. They’d had this conversation so many times that they were blending together. “I need five hours every night, but it’s not something I can just replicate.”

“Of course you can. What happened?”

“Remember I told you about the night a bag of drugs exploded in my face?”

“Difficult to forget.”

“Well, Dani, the cop who works for Gil, took me home. When I was tripping, she punched me in the jaw, and knocked me out. So… while I could replicate that, I don’t think it’s advisable.”

Jessica shook her head. “I don’t know why you insist on working at that... place. Being around murder all the time and putting yourself in danger can’t be good for your mental health.” She reached out and put her hand over his. “Why don’t you come work for me? Help me decide who to give my money to?”

“Mother.” He was certain his chiding tone let her know exactly what he thought of that idea.

“Fine.” She let go of his hand, and waved at the air. “If you don’t want to work for me, then pick something else. Go back to school. Write a book. Travel the world. Just do something other than investigating murders to keep your mind off your father.”

“Solving murders does help me keep my mind off my father.”

She raised an eyebrow, and he knew she was calling bullshit on that comment.

“Okay,” he agreed. “It doesn’t keep my mind off him, but it keeps my mind focused, and that helps me function.”

“So would eight hours of sleep,” she countered.

“I haven’t had eight hours of sleep in one stretch since I was a child.”

She pressed her lips together, and didn’t comment.

After a short pause, he tried to extend an olive branch. He wanted her to be in a good mood later when he asked her about the picture in his pocket. “Dinner is fantastic.”

With a sigh, she accepted the change in topic. “Yes. It’s a new recipe.”

The rest of the meal was filled with talk of his mother’s cooks over the years, and the favorite meals they’d each made.

After dinner had been cleared, and Malcolm had listened to his mother talking about her new charitable venture to stop human trafficking for an hour or so, he yawned.

His mom put a hand on his arm and said, “Time for you to go home and get some sleep.”

Nodding in agreement, he stood. It was only nine o’clock, but he couldn’t stay awake much longer. He might only be able to sleep for two or three hours, but even that amount of sleep would help.

He knew it was time to show her the picture, but he was overwhelmed by anxiety over what she might say, or worse, what she might purposely keep to herself. He let her walk him to the door, as he tried to get up the courage to pull the picture out of his pocket.

Near the door she must have noticed his anxiety, because she said, “Still worrying about your sister? Don’t. I’m friends with the chairman of her network it will only take a phone call.”

“It’s not that.” His anxiety shot up. She was either going to help him, or more likely, she was going to try shutting him down like she always did when it came to his father.

“What then? Still lost in your past?” she asked with sympathy.

“You know what they say.” He smiled. “Those who can’t remember their past are condemned.”

Jessica smirked and raised an eyebrow. “That’s not quite the expression, dear.”

“Close enough.” Forcing his hand into his jacket, he pulled out the picture that was taken when Malcolm was nine. “Does this photo mean anything to you?”

Jessica’s eyebrows furrowed as she looked at the picture of her husband and son standing in the woods in front of a station wagon. “What is that hideous car, and where are you both?”

“This was taken a week before Dad was arrested.” Malcolm said, watching his mother closely for any telltale signs of lying, but she seemed genuinely confused.

After a small pause, she said, “If I recall, I had gone to the Hamptons with Ainsley. You were still in school, and Martin was busy at work. Or so he said,” she added, since they all knew now that her ex-husband’s long work hours weren’t always what they seemed to be. His mother’s voice took on a wistful tone, as if she were remembering better days. “Makes sense though. He loved to camp. All the special clothes and equipment made him giddy as a school boy.”

Shaking her head as if trying to get the memories to go away, she handed the photo back. Her forehead creased with concern, and she put a hand on his arm. “Let me call Adolfo to take you home.”

He nodded in acceptance. Having a ride home in his mother’s car sounded far more relaxing than a cab ride, and he was too tired to argue anyway.

Jessica walked back into the main part of the house while Malcolm stood by the door. The instant he was alone, a vision of his father appeared where his mother had been seconds ago. But it wasn’t current day Martin, it was his father from the photo. His father from twenty years ago.

“Come on, what’s with the long face?” his vision asked.

“Dad?” Malcolm whispered. “What is this?” He shook his head and blinked to get rid of the vision, but his father stubbornly refused to dissipate.

“Don’t be so worried,” Martin said. “We’re going to have a guy’s weekend. I got us a car. The perfect camp. Your mother doesn’t have to know. It will be our little secret.”

Malcolm felt sick to his stomach at the implications, and the insidious way his father had said it would be their secret. Needing the vision to go away, he muttered quietly, “This isn’t real.” When that didn’t work, he noticed a burning candle on the table by the front door, and immediately held his hand over the burning flame. “This isn’t real,” he said again, letting the pain build, and curiously watching the vision of his father as it fluctuated. By the time the pain became too overwhelming to handle, the vision of his father was completely gone.

His relief was short lived, because as he pulled his hand away, he very suddenly realized that his suit jacket had caught fire. Gasping with shock, he reacted instinctually; he tore the jacket off, flung it to the ground, and stomped out the fire.

“Malcolm!” Jessica yelled, running towards him as he was putting out the fire. “Oh my god! Are you all right?”

“It’s good!” He yelled automatically, putting a hand up to ward her off as he stomped out the last few flames. “It’s uh…” He looked her way and saw her panic. “You don’t have to worry. I’m good.” He tried assuring her along with himself, while holding his hands up in a placating gesture this time. “I’m good.”

To his surprise, instead of answering, she grabbed his hand. As she examined it, he realized his mistake.

“You got burned-” She stopped mid-sentence, glanced at the candle, and then glared at him. While holding his wrist in one hand, she jabbed her finger towards the small red mark in center of his hand. “This didn’t happen when you took your jacket off!”

“It’s fine,” he said, trying to pull his hand back.

“This is far from fine, Malcolm. You did this to yourself. Why? Because of some old picture of a camping trip?”

“Dad was in my head, and this was the quickest way to get him out. It’s not something I do regularly, I swear.”

“I never should have given you that box,” she mumbled to herself.

“Could I please have my hand back?”

Reluctantly, she let go and crossed her arms.

“I’m going to be fine. I promise.” He picked up his burned jacket, and put his hand on the door knob. “Adolfo is going to drive me home, and I’m going to get some sleep. Don’t spend the night worrying about me, okay?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Malcolm. All I do is worry about you.”

 Sighing, he opened the door. “Good night, Mother.” He shut the door, and went to find the family chauffer.

# # #

Exhaustion settled into Malcolm’s entire being as he walked through the door to his loft and heard his parakeet. He poured himself a double, and slowly got ready for bed. He threw away the suit jacket, and the pants as well. No one would be able to fix the fire damage. By the time the alcohol was gone, he was in sweats, and sitting on the edge of his bed with his empty glass on one hand, and the picture of his father in the other.

He doubted he’d get any decent sleep tonight, but he had to try. Just as he was starting to put on one of his restraints, someone knocked on his door. Frowning with confusion, he went to see who it was.

He opened his door to reveal a tall blond woman in a tailored grey pants suit. Her blond hair was tied back in a bun, she was wearing glasses, and holding a briefcase.

“Can I help you?” He looked her up and down, and noticed the black high heels that completed her business outfit.

“Malcolm Bright?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She held out her free hand to shake. “Someone named Mrs. Whitly sent me over. Said you needed a session to help you sleep.”

“A session?” he asked, automatically shaking the offered hand.

“That’s right. May I come in?”

Still confused, he stepped aside, and shut the door behind her as she went in. “Are you a lawyer?” he asked.

“I am if you want me to be,” she said suggestively as she set the briefcase down on his kitchen counter, and turned to face him.

His eyes narrowed as his very tired mind put two and two together. “You’re a prostitute.”

Instantly glaring she said, “Absolutely not. There will be no penetration of any kind for our session.”

“A stripper?” he asked, less sure of himself now.

She opened her briefcase to reveal a set of cuffs and a flogger. “Guess again.”

His eyebrows went up in shock. “You’re a dominatrix.”

“You may call me Mistress Kristin.”

“Unbelievable,” he muttered to himself. He should have never told his mother that getting punched had helped him sleep. He could feel his face heating up as he looked the woman in the eyes. “I’m so sorry, but you’ve come all this way for nothing. I have no interest in a session.”

The woman frowned.

Malcolm immediately said, “But I’ll still pay you for your time, of course.” He went to grab his wallet off the nightstand. “How much do I owe you?”

She shook her head. “I’ve already been paid.”

“Oh.” He set the wallet down. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

She scrutinized him for a few moments, and then gestured to the restraints lying on the bed. “Those are some of the best on the market. Are you really going to try telling me that you’re not a submissive?”

He smiled in embarrassment. “Those are to keep me alive. I have night terrors. Without them I would have flung myself out the window in my sleep a few weeks ago.”

“So you’re not a submissive? Or at the very least a masochist?” she asked.

“It’s complicated. But this…” He waved his finger between them, “…isn’t happening, because my mother is the person that hired you.”

Her eyes opened wide with shock. “Your actual mother?” she asked, clearly disturbed.

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said with sincerity.

“She means well.” Why was he defending her when she’d done something so outlandish? His therapist was going to have a lot to say about this one. “Personal boundaries aren’t really her thing.” He muttered and shrugged.

Nodding, she snapped her briefcase closed, and dug a business card out of her pocket. She held it out to him. “If you ever want a session that your mother didn’t orchestrate, you can call me. I have friends in the business. Friends who cater to all kinds of kinks. We can get your needs taken care of discreetly if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Thanks,” he said as he took her card, though he had no intention of using it.

Once he’d shown her to the door, Malcolm thought about calling his mother and giving her a piece of his mind, but he was simply too tired. Instead he got in bed, put on his restraints, and tried to get comfortable.

For the next half an hour he tossed and turned. He’d be on the precipice of sleep, and then his father’s voice would jolt him fully awake. His eyes would dart around the room, to assure himself that he was alone, and then he’d flop back down to his pillow, close his eyes, and the cycle would start again.

“Damn it!” he cursed after jolting awake for what felt like the hundredth time, but was actually only the tenth. He angrily removed his restraints, got out of bed, and put some shoes on. He didn’t bother with a jacket as he went out the door. He was going to try to exhaust himself with a long walk, and if he was freezing by the time he came home, that would only help wear him out.

Before he’d even made it to the corner of his building, a car door opened, and his mother stepped onto the sidewalk in front of him. He blinked a few times, trying to figure out if this was reality, or yet another hallucination.

“Mother?” he asked. “What’s going on?”

With exasperation she shut the car door, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him towards the door to his loft.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, as she got out her key, only to realize the door was unlocked.

She pulled him in, shut the door behind them, and marched him through the loft. He didn’t put up any resistance, still more confused than anything else, and also still not entirely sure he wasn’t hallucinating the entire thing.

“Kristin called and said you turned her away.”

Her tone wasn’t just exasperated; it was bordering on pissed off. He tried to remember what he’d done recently that would aggravate her, but nothing came to mind. In fact, everything considered, he was the one who should be angry with her. But having been awake for over thirty-eight hours made rational thought difficult.

“It’s completely inappropriate for you to hire a domme for me, Mother,” he said with a scowl as she pulled him towards his bed.

She put her purse down on the foot of his bed, and turned to him with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. It was the type of smile that set off warning bells inside Malcolm’s head. “You don’t want to be an adult and take help when it’s offered? So be it. I am more than capable of taking care of you when you won’t take care of yourself.”

“What are you talking about?”

She dug into her purse, and pulled out a wooden hairbrush. She pointed it at his nose and said, “You are going to sleep, Malcolm.”

The warning bells were now loud sirens in his head, but before his slow brain had caught up enough to fight back, she’d sat on the edge of his bed, and yanked him down across her lap.

“Mom!” he yelled, utterly horrified by her intentions, which were now perfectly clear. He tried to push himself up.

She roughly shoved him back down with a hand in the middle of his back. Then her entire arm wrapped around his waist, and cinched him up tight against her torso before the hairbrush started a rapid staccato against his backside.  

“Ow!” Sharp bursts of pain popped alive on his flesh with every strike. His mouth got well ahead of his brain, and words started spilling out. “Hiring a mistress was completely inappropriate, Mother. This borders on psychotic! Between you and Dad, it’s no wonder I’m so messed up!”

“Oh, you did not just say that to me.” The barrage of smacks stopped for mere seconds as she yanked the back of his sweats down, taking the briefs down with them.

“Mom!” His voice had taken on a high pitched tone of panic. He immediately reached a hand back and pulled the sweats back up, holding them in place. “Have you gone completely insane?!”

In answer, she whacked the brush against the back of his hand. She didn’t hit it nearly as hard as she’d been hitting his rear end, but plenty hard enough to make him yank his hand away.

“Ow!” he yelped, cradling his hand against his chest as his sweats were pulled back down.   

The cracking sound of wood against naked flesh filled the loft as the brush hit its mark again and again.

“Mom! Stop! I’m a grown man for Christ sake!”

“I’m well aware of your age, Malcolm.” She spoke loudly to be heard over the cracking of the brush. “But I’m not sure I’d call you a grown man. You live in my building, you can’t seem to hold down a job, and even though you know what he does to your mental health, you’ve chosen to start visiting your father again!”

The words hurt as much, if not more than his ass, and it was very suddenly too much to take. Tears started to roll down his face, and his shoulders started shaking. “I’m sorry!” he cried out, not even sure what he was sorry for. The smacking kept going for several more seconds, until Malcolm’s crying was loud enough to be heard over the barrage of whacks.

Then it stopped as instantaneously as it had started. He put one hand over his face in shame, unable to stop the tears. He felt his mother shifting, and then his sweats were slid back up to cover his throbbing rear end, and her hand patted his back in comfort.

“All right, dear.” Her tone was now genuinely comforting. “Let’s get you back in bed.” She gently pulled on his arm, and his body went where she guided it. He stood, and covered his face with both hands, as the tears continued. He heard his mother moving around, and then he felt her hand on his arm.

“Into bed,” she said, and softly nudged him to sit down.

He sat, gasped once, and then just stayed where he was, accepting the pain.

She knelt down and took off his shoes for him. “Lie down.”

He wiped at his face with his sleeve before turning to look at the covers.

“Don’t use your sleeve,” she admonished, and walked to the bathroom to get him some tissues.

While she was out of the room, Malcolm stuck his feet under the covers, lay down, and situated himself in the middle of the bed, with a pillow under his head.

She came back with a box of tissues, and set it on the nightstand before pulling a couple out, and handing them to him. When he took them they made eye contact for about half a second, before he looked away. His face grimaced as more tears poured out.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said gently, straightening the covers on top of him. “You’re just overly tired right now. Things will look much better tomorrow.” She sat on the edge of the bed beside him. “Blow your nose, and then give me your left hand so I can put on your restraints.”

He seriously doubted anything that had happened tonight would ‘look better’ tomorrow. Hell, tonight wouldn’t even ‘look better’ thirty years from now. But he followed her instructions just the same, and handed her the used tissues when she held her hand out for them. He lay still while she buckled on both of his restraints, and by the time she was done his tears were mostly gone.

“All settled?” she asked.

“I don’t have to live here,” he said, keeping his eyes on the bedspread instead of her. “I have my own money.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she chided.

Malcolm frowned. He opened his mouth to argue the point, but then he felt her fingers running through his hair, and heard her start to hum. The touch and sound brought back happy memories from early childhood, of which there were many, even if they weren’t the ones he obsessed over. He rolled onto his side towards her, and closed his eyes while she continued her ministrations.

# # #

Malcolm cracked one eye open, and saw daylight streaming into his windows. Momentarily disoriented, he glanced down at his restraints, and then around the loft. His eyes settled on his mother, who was sitting at the kitchen counter with a mug in front of her reading a book.

Last night came rushing back to him, and he cringed with humiliation. His mother had actually put him over her lap and spanked him until he cried. Was there any possible way to live that down? Any possible way to think of himself as a man again? Then he glanced at the digital clock beside his bed, and groaned in dismay. He had just slept for ten hours straight. Did his mother have to be right about everything?

“Good morning, dear,” his mother said. “Come join me for a cup of coffee.”

Scowling, he took off his restraints, and went straight to the bathroom without speaking to her. After peeing, brushing his teeth, and splashing some water on his face, he put his hands back to feel his butt. It was still sore, but he had a high tolerance for pain, which meant most of last night’s breakdown had been a mix of exhaustion and emotional turmoil. There was also a small bruise on the back of his right hand where she’d cracked the brush against it.

“Perfect,” he muttered as he combed his hair. Every time he saw the bruise he’d be reminded of what she’d done. Feeling somewhat put together, he bolstered his courage, and went out to face his mother.

She handed him a mug of freshly pressed coffee with a smile. He didn’t make eye contact or smile, but he did take the mug.

“What are you still doing here?” he grumbled before taking a sip.

“You’re awfully grumpy for someone who finally got a decent night’s sleep.”

“You’re awfully chipper for someone who didn’t.”

“I slept for a few hours on your sofa. Quite uncomfortably, I might add.”

“I hope you’re not expecting an apology. You could have gone home.”

“I wanted to see how long you’d sleep.” She looked at her gold watch, and then back at him pointedly. “Ten hours, Malcolm.”

He glared at her. “Yeah, because I’d been awake for thirty-eight hours before that.”

She sighed, set her cup down, and put her book in her purse. “Tell yourself whatever you like, but we both know the real reason you slept so long.”

“Probably because my brain short circuited when my mother attacked me without provocation!”

She raised one eyebrow and smirked, “Attacked? Is that what we’re calling a spanking now? Being attacked?”

He glared at his coffee. “You had no right, Mother.”

“Yes, dear, I know, but I don’t care.” She stood and put her purse on her arm. “I love you, and I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe, even if it hurts.”

He wasn’t sure if she’d meant that it had hurt him, or that it had hurt her, but he wouldn’t dignify either with a response.

She patted his arm, and then walked towards the door to let herself out. She stopped, sighed, and then turned to add, “I put your phone on silent last night. Gil called about an hour ago, and left you a message.”

Scowling, he went to get his phone. “You should have woken me up! There’s probably been a break in the case.”

“It’s police work, Malcolm,” she said with distain. “Whatever Gil wants can wait an hour.” She opened the door and said, “Next time let the mistress stay instead of forcing my hand.”

He was taking a deep breath before responding, when he heard the door to his loft shut. As he unlocked his screen to check his messages, he muttered, “Forcing her hand? Freud would have a field day with that one.”

He listened to the message Gil had sent asking where he was, and when the profile would be ready. Malcolm started getting dressed, and called his friend and mentor back to let him know he was on his way. On the cab ride to work, he realized he felt more refreshed and well rested than he had in years, and tried not to be excessively bitter about his mother being right.

The End

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