“Any that can cover me will do,” she said.
I pretended to tie my shoe, kneeling beside the bed and adjusting my penis and shirt. When I rose, I casually flicked my shirt out.
Mom noticed my actions; I could read a question in her eyes.
“That it?” I asked.
She blinked and said, “Y–yes, go ahead.”
I left, and by the time I returned with crackers, cheese, and iced tea, my erection had diminished. Though she was still naked on the bed, I didn’t dare look for fear of reawakening my penis. I didn’t look when I took off her sheet, either. But knowing how I would be gone before my penis could betray me, I perused her bottom when I brought the new sheet, knelt, and tucked it in under her mattress.
I liked the new angle, seeing her fanny from the level point-of-view. I liked how the halves rose like two circular hilltops. I liked how, even when Mom appeared relaxed, the two hills seemed both independent and drawn to one another.
Mom had me raise the free end of the sheet so she could reach it without moving too much, and then I left.
Downstairs, I berated myself for the excitement I was feeling. I wanted girls, I told myself, for what was between their legs, not for what was inside their fannies. I didn’t want to be a–a “butt guy.” And that was my mom up there, I scolded myself, not some cute girl from school.
Later, I ate supper with her. She had me cover her bottom with the sheet, said it would be “wholly inappropriate” for us to eat a family meal while her fanny was exposed. More frozen food–we had mini-tacos with tortilla chips, salsa, and sour cream on the side. We talked about school and graduation.
When I rose to clear the plates, Mom said, “Just so you know, sugar, in a few minutes I’m planning on getting up and using the bathroom. When I’m finished, I’m going to climb into the shower and see how much heat my back can tolerate.”
“Okay.”
“I’m letting you know in case you hear some moans or cries coming out of this bedroom, you’ll know not to come running.”
I nodded.
“If I need you, I’ll holler for you. Will that be satisfactory?”
“Sure, Mom.”
“Okay, thank you for supper.”
I closed the door behind me, but after finishing the dishes, I sneaked back upstairs. Guilt tore at me, but I wanted this. Beside her bedroom door, I listened.
I wanted to be close by if something bad happened, of course, but that didn’t explain all of my reasoning. I liked the idea of hearing her move and imagining her body, totally naked. I wanted to listen to the sounds she made. I wanted to know if, in her suffering, she said things to herself that she wouldn’t dare say in front of me.
The second I heard the swish of her body on that bed, followed by a groan, I put my ear to the door.
“Oh, dearie-dearie-dearie,” she murmured. “Ah! Ow! Oh, Maureen, you silly, foolish girl.”
I smiled because Mom sometimes talked to herself in the third person; other times she used her own name as a kind of interjection.
“Yes, dearie, yes. Now, here we go–ah! Ouch! Ouchie!” she cried. “My tushy. My fanny. Oh, my little buns–that hurts.”
“Let’s get these gams moving, Maureen. Oh, sweet potato pie, that’s ouchie!”
It may sound cruel. I don’t mean it to be; I couldn’t help myself. I started laughing, listening to Mom. She sounded like such a little girl saying those things. I had to cover my mouth to stop from making too much noise.
Later downstairs, I heard the water running, but Mom didn’t call for me. The water shut off after about thirty-five minutes. I listened at the bottom of the stairs for any calls, but none came. In fact, it wasn’t until around nine in the evening that she called for me. I jogged up to her.
About a second after I walked into the room, I said, “Oh, gosh. Mom, are you okay?”
Shaking her head, she groaned, “You have no idea how much this itches. It’s enough to drive a person mad.”
“Will more cream–?”
“Yes. Right now. Get the cream. Like before–rub it in hard, everywhere.”
I pulled the sheet down, noticing the earliest stages of blisters forming. Then, I began. The new technique didn’t require quite as much of the cream. I guessed I wouldn’t need more for several days.
As I started out, I made a selfish decision, one that could have easily given away the awful desires I was trying so hard to hide from her: I decided to do Mom’s fanny last. So, I coated and kneaded her back and her legs, leaving her bottom untouched.
For her part, Mom didn’t seem to notice. It was the places I put my hands that seemed to suddenly become the itchiest. In the same way, my touches almost instantly provided some relief to those places. She never urged me to put the cream on her bottom until, having finished with her back and legs, she felt my hands begin to relax on her thighs.
“Now my fanny. Now my fanny. Now my fanny,” she repeated anxiously.
“Easier,” I said nervously, “if I climb over you.”
“Fine. Yes. Carefully, but hurry.”
Quickly, I took the container and straddled Mom’s bare legs, cautious not to touch her. Dipping my fingers into the goop, I spread it between my hands and clutched the two fleshy buns, kneading and watching her anus appear and vanish.
It isn’t easy to describe what I felt. Maybe I was like a gambler stepping onto the pristine game floor of a brand new casino with a thick wad of twenties in his pocket. Maybe I was a drugger with a fresh bag of weed or cocaine or whatever. What I felt in my heart was not just that I wanted and needed to see and touch her fanny, but that it somehow filled an emptiness in me. I was helping her, yes, but I was helping myself, too
Mom encouraged these feelings with deep gasps and draw out moans.
A recklessly brazen idea seized me. Using one hand to massage her bottom, I quietly unzipped my shorts. Then, I snaked a few fingers into the fly of my briefs and drew free my surging penis.
Resuming with both hands, I squeezed the cream into my mom’s fanny, and I watched my erection grow to completion. It hovered there, mere inches from her.
Another, even crazier idea sprang into my mind–to touch her fanny with my penis. The second the thought formed, I knew I needed to do it. I hated myself for it, but the craving felt relentless.
I began to press my thumbs into the flesh of her bottom, one at a time. It was a bit like poking, although I wasn’t using the pointy end of my thumb, rather the pad–the fingerprint. Continuing to press one thumb into her, I placed my other hand on the mattress, shifting some of my weight onto that limb. Then, as swiftly as I could, I grabbed my erection, bent it down, and began pressing it into the hemisphere of soft flesh. I tried to imbue the pokes with the same pressure as my thumb. Yet, I quickly realized that the feeling didn’t satisfy me. I needed something else.
Tweaking the angle of my body, I pushed the underside of the tip onto her bottom. Then, I dragged it around there. The flesh-on-flesh contact with her downy, feminine skin was bliss. I could do this, I realized, until I ejaculated. Adding to the physical sensation was the illicit thrill of it. The risk was astonishing to consider.