“I am your mother, mister.”
Ignoring her and surveying the room, I said, “This place is a pigsty, and it smells like ointment and your fluids. I’m going to clean a bit while you’re washing up.” I waited a moment. Then, looking at her, I said, “You’re not moving. I told you to get in the shower. Do you need help? Why are you not moving?”
“I will shower,” she said icily, “when I am good and ready.”
I strode to her bed and ripped the sheet off. Mom gasped. A surge of joy swept through me when I saw her big bottom. Carefully avoiding any sunburned spots, I grabbed her feet and dragged her on her tummy to the side of the bed.
“And look at your fanny,” I declared. “There’s semen seeping out of your anus. You’re showering right now.”
She stammered out a few complaints, but I lifted her by her armpits, swung her around without peeking, and put her over my shoulder.
“Sugar!”
I carried her into the master bathroom and shut the door behind me. Still bearing her weight, I turned on the shower and set it to a lukewarm temperature. I put Mom down on her feet just outside the stream on the shower side of the threshold.
Peripherally, I noticed her covering her breasts and special place with her arms and hands, but I didn’t look. Fixedly gazing at the wall, I said, “If you come out of this shower dry or come out smelling like you haven’t thoroughly cleaned your entire body, I’ll put you right back in here and clean you myself.”
I left, shutting the door behind me. Back in the bedroom, I swapped out Mom’s sheets and made her bed. It looked fresh and ready. I gathered up her laundry and started a load, and then I organized and wiped down her vanity area. I finished with a few quick sprays of air freshener. It looked darn good–fresh and ready for her.
I got her a new glass of ice water and began thinking about supper, though neither of us was probably hungry. Downstairs, I heard the water shut off. I gave her fifteen minutes, and then I went up.
Knocking as I entered, I saw Mom belly-down on her bed. The comforter was pulled down and her sheet covered her bottom. As before, she had a towel wrapped around her hair.
She turned away from me when I came in. On her nightstand was a stack of books she intended to read. I grabbed the one on top–it was a popular mystery novel. Slipping out of my shoes and socks, I climbed into bed beside her, and I started reading it to her aloud.
She never spoke, but I knew she was listening. About fifteen minutes into the story, I read a shocking murder scene to her, and I saw her body tense and her head perk up attentively. More than thirty minutes in, Mom turned to face me. Though my tongue was dragging, I continued.
I lasted about five more minutes, and I was lucky: the chapter ended on a cliffhanger. When I closed the book decisively, she looked at me.
I said, “I can’t do anymore; my mouth is like putty.”
She said, “You’ve got a nice, deep reading voice.”
Maybe it was a peace offering. I was willing to accept it. I smiled. “Thanks. You picked a pretty good book, Mom.”
She nodded. “Thank you,” she said, “for the meal and for freshening up my room.”
“How is your back?”
“Uncomfortable.”
“Want me to take a look?”
“Yes, please.”
I perused her upper and lower back. “A lot of the blisters are broken and peeling,” I said. Then, turning to catch her eye, I said, “I’ll have a look at the rest.”
She nodded.
Swallowing a lump in my throat, I pulled the sheet down to her toes. “Some peeling here. No new blisters. Your thighs are peeling, too. Looks pretty raw.”
“It’s awfully sensitive where it’s peeling.”
“I’ll take care of you,” I said, pointing to the jar of gel cream.
“Thank you.”
When I finished coating almost everywhere, I laid beside her with an erection deforming the front of my khaki shorts. Mom saw it but didn’t say anything.
“How does it feel–inside?” I asked, glancing from her to her bottom.
She hesitated. Her voice was weak when she uttered, “It’s chafing.”
I nodded. “I’ll put some ointment on it.”
“That’d be real helpful.”
I worked from the side this time, not straddling her thighs. I put a coat in the cleft, and I rubbed some on her anus. I did not even try to penetrate her with a finger. Finishing, I leaned over her, drew her open, and blew gently upon it.
Mom sighed.
After I few minutes, I laid beside her and reached over, curling my middle finger inside the taut ring of her anus.
When she felt it work inside of her, her mouth opened slightly, and she closed her eyes. Sighing contentedly, she snuggled into her pillow.
I undulated my finger inside of her. Neither of us spoke during that time.
The silence was broken when Mom began lightly snoring. I went on, but not for much longer. We both dozed that way.
I woke, knowing that I hadn’t slept for very long. Mom was there, across from me, and a thrill coursed through me when I realized my finger was still ensconced in her anus. I closed my eyes and imagined my penis inside of her. I grew irresistibly hard at the thought. Carefully so as not to wake her, I stripped down naked.
Closing my eyes, I remembered how it felt to mate with her. About two minutes into my reverie and without warning, I heard Mom’s rhythmic breathing break as she sucked in a long, deep breath through her nose. I peeked.
She stretched her arms. She wiggled her fanny very slightly against my finger and sighed. Her body moved, and it felt like she was turning toward me a little. I closed my eyes. Stopping as if suddenly immobilized, Mom let out a faint gasp.
She’s looking at my erection, I thought.
I let her. Nothing happened for some time, so I peeked, swiftly, confirming her eyes were on my penis. A few seconds later, I glanced again. She was still looking at it. I closed my eyes and waited more than fifteen seconds, then I looked, and my eyes remained open.
Mom’s eyes fixated on my crotch, but the irises darted here and there upon it. She was taking in the whole thing–the testicles, then penis, everything. It was like watching someone study a painting.
Her eyes found mine. Fearful at first, her expression relaxed because I didn’t say or do anything. We stared into one another’s eyes that way for several seconds. Then, Mom’s gaze returned to my penis.
Maybe it was her signal to put it away. Maybe she just liked looking at it. I didn’t know. I grabbed my erection and whispered, “I’m going to help you again with–you know–the thickness.”
She swallowed a hard gulp before an airy whimper escaped her lips.
Beside my knee sat the jar of ointment. Mom watched me grab it and unscrew the lid. She saw me set the open jar between her hand and my penis.
She looked at me.
I nodded.
Mom reached for it. She extended a finger towards the cream inside, but she hesitated. She drew back her hand, and she turned away from me.
I didn’t understand. I wondered what to say or do. Was that a “no”?
I rolled onto my belly.
Mom must have felt the movement, she turned her face to watch me. Our eyes met, and I glanced down at the open jar.
Pushing my body up, I moved my pelvis over the jar, and then I lowered my erection towards it. Mom watched as my penis dipped into the gel cream and emerged with a thin coating. I did it again.