“Sugar?” she called down. “That you?”
“Yeah!”
“Hurry upstairs!”
I jogged up. When I opened her door, there she was, almost the same as I left her–on her tummy, utterly nude and exposed. The cream appeared to have been absorbed by her skin. It had only a faint luster over that raw redness.
My eyes targeted her fanny. Something about seeing it again, exposed, relaxed me. I cursed myself and pried my gaze away.
“More gel,” she huffed. “Quickly.”
I grabbed the container and went to work on her back, coating it.
“Rub it in this time,” she urged. “You can press harder. Rub it in.” Mom’s entire body shivered for a moment, and she weakly moaned, “It itches. Oh, dearie, it itches.”
I kneaded the lotion into her skin.
“Bigger circles,” she encouraged. “Wider. Rub a bigger area with your hands each time. Get lots of the cream and go faster.”
I scooped a dollop, spread it to both hands, and began rubbing it into the skin of her entire back.
“Yes,” she moaned. “Oh, sugar. Like that.”
Her body rocked upon the bed as my hands drove the lotion into her skin. Mom’s soft flesh rolled in front of my hands like a little wave. With the severity of her burn, I was surprised it wasn’t more painful to her.
“My fanny and my legs now,” she urged, her forehead buried in the pillow.
I swept more cream into my hands, and I hesitated. My eyes feasted on her bottom, and with a jolt of fear, I realized I wanted to touch it.
Her bottom was big and bulbous–beautifully feminine. Rising steeply from her lower back on one side and from her thighs on the other, it looked a bit like a sunrise. In my guts, I had the sudden impulse to abuse it–to spank it sharply. It seemed vulnerable–not just because of the sunburn, but because it was so big, tender, and unprotected.
“Hurry,” she cried.
I put one hand on her bottom and one on her thigh, and I began kneading in large circles. The first time my hand crossed from one globe to the next, my heart skipped; I had exposed the inside of the cleft.
Nerves suddenly firing, stomach trembling, I avoided that dark line for a time. When my heart could not deny it any longer, I sent my palm across her fanny, low and deep. I watched with aching excitement as my palm crossed over the cleft, pushed aside the other supple mound, and exposed her anus to me.
I glimpsed a tiny thing–like a pink wad of bubblegum that had been crinkled up, shaped into a circular star, and then punctured in the center by a needle. It vanished instantly, and my head suddenly felt hot. My eyes darted toward Mom’s face.
Surely, the super-sensitive skin there had felt her bottom spread apart and clap back together, and not before the cool air of her bedroom streamed over that tender pink ring. Mom breathed deeply, but she didn’t show any sign of having had her privacy violated.
My hands made wide circles, avoiding the cleft for a time. I scooped more gel cream, and I began again. This time, I worked the entire length of her lower body, from her ankles to her fanny. I kneaded and swept around.
Mom moaned and affirmed my actions.
I leaned over her bottom, staring straight down at it, and I glided my hand over the cleft–back and forth–twice. Four times the little pink star peeked out at me. I hated myself for liking it, for the thrill I felt when I saw her anus. On the last pass, Mom issued a tiny squeak. My hands moved on to other places.
The hole there was so small, I realized. How can something this thick and full, I said to myself as I drank in her entire bottom with my eyes, be there to hide and protect something so very tiny?
I finished on her legs. Mom felt me stop. Her head rose from the pillow, and she said, “I dread asking this of you, sugar, but I must. Can you get the inside again–in between?”
I looked from her to her fanny and back again.
“I wouldn’t ask,” she explained, “if I could do it myself.”
I nodded.
She plowed her forehead into the pillow and added, “And–and you may exert a bit more force this time. It itches there, too. Mightily.”
I greased up the side of my hand, and I began to saw it through the cleft.
Mom sighed.
Back and forth, I went, never pushing hard, but savoring the gentle hug the two globes gave my hand and the sight of her bottom undulating to the rhythm of my sawing motion.
“Deeper, please,” she huffed.
I added force, and I knew I was right over the spot, maybe a quarter of an inch above it as it slid past.
“Like that, yes, but more. I’m so sorry.”
I pushed all the way, and I slowed down.
Mom moaned.
I felt her anus travel the length of my hand one way and then the other. The knuckle at the base of my pinky finger–a tiny knot of bone there on the side of my hand–dipped against it as it dragged past.
Mom’s breathing halted for an instant.
I slid the knuckle back through, and as my pinky finger dragged along, I gave it the teensiest bit of extra pressure. It, too, felt the little puncture yield slightly and just hint at the allowance of passage inside.
I swore at myself for doing it. Why? I demanded, why did I do that? That isn’t me. I lightened my pressure and sawed my way out of the cleft until my hand was free.
Mom sighed deeply. She said, “Oh, that is so much better. Please don’t be upset that I asked you to do that for me.”
“It’s okay.”
“Thank you for being a gentleman about it.”
Mom’s face turned to me. I saw her movement in time to cross my legs, hiding an erection that might have shattered glass.
“Two things,” she began with a sigh. “I’m getting really hungry. Could you bring me up something to eat and drink? Some cheese and crackers, maybe. And refreshen my tea. Second, the sheet–the one I’ve been using to cover up–is soiled from all of this lotion. Might you be willing to swap it out with a fresh one? Maybe throw it in the washer?”
“Sure,” I said. Before I left, I said, “Mom, can I ask you something–something maybe you won’t like?”
“What is it?”
“How are you–I mean, have you been able to use the bathroom?”
Momentarily, she pursed her lips and furrowed her brow at my bringing up the subject. She said, “Under normal circumstances, I’m not sure I would approve of that question.”
I nodded, hanging my head a touch.
Then, relaxing her expression, she sighed and said, “But things have changed a bit, haven’t they?” She thought about her response and answered, “I think I understand why you are asking. Yes, I have been able to, but let me assure you that it is an awfully trying experience. Thank goodness I had that new toilet put in before this happened.”
Mom was referencing the combination toilet-bidet-air dryer that she had purchased for our home after a model friend of hers raved about it. I could see why it might be helpful; after finishing, the bidet cleaned her up down there with warm water and then the blower dried her off. She didn’t have to reach back or under and drag tissue over herself.
“Okay,” I said. “I was just a little worried about you for that.”
“Thank you, sugar, for thinking of me,” she offered. “Now, how about that food and my new sheet?”
My erection remained a problem. So, first I asked her to repeat her food order. Then, I asked her if she had any specific sheet in mind–one that might be more comfortable.