Sighing, she told me to sit with her, keep her company. I put the drink on her nightstand and sat beside her on the bed.
“Want me to get the gel cream?”
“Not just yet,” she said, her eyes fixed upon the drink. Then, she turned toward me. “You don’t mind helping me, don’t you?”
“No, I like it.”
“My goodness, look at you,” she said. “The spitting image of my Buck.”
Buckland–“Buck”–was my pop.
After saying this, she looked over my body.
I came to her straight from sleep, so the only thing I had on was a pair of thigh-length gym shorts. I liked to sleep in them because they were soft and tight around my legs and bottom, but they had a stretchy, roomy pouch in the front that helped keep nighttime erections comfortable.
Mom asked for another drink.
I took the tumbler to her, and she drew another large pull. Swallowing with a sigh, she said, “That helps quite a bit except for–.” She didn’t complete the thought.
“What is it, Mom?”
“I suppose there’s no point in fibbing to you,” she said, “because you’ve probably already surmised it. I’ve got a sunburn on my–my anus.”
She waited for a reaction.
I didn’t give her one.
“Thank you for not laughing at me,” she said. “Models, we sometimes have to wear tiny clothes–thongs and g-strings and such, and my next shoot being the spring collection–.”
I interrupted her. “I know about the tanning assist, Mom. I–uh–I couldn’t help but notice it when you were asleep on the lounger after I got home from school Thursday. Looked up what it was.”
“See? Aren’t you a clever boy,” she said. “Well, I’m glad you figured out what it was without making any hasty assumptions.”
“What assumptions?”
“I don’t know, sugar. I suppose a person might see something like that and assume it was some kind of–pardon me–but some kind of adult toy.” I felt my eyes widen at her meaning. Before I could say anything, Mom added, “And good girls don’t play that way. And good boys don’t even ask.”
I nodded in agreement, feeling a pang of guilt about my urges.
“Anyways,” she went on, “the point is that what I’ve done to myself down there is terribly distressing.”
“Painful?”
“Yes and no?” she responded as if it were a question. “You see it–it chafes to a maddening degree.”
“Like itchy?”
“Yes!” she replied heartily. “Fiercely. Terribly.”
“Doesn’t the ointment help any?”
“Some. On the surface it helps, but–.”
I waited for her to finish. When she didn’t, I asked, “But what?”
Mom sighed. Then she signaled for me to let her have another drink.
I did, and when I drew back and settled, she said, “I don’t understand it myself, but I wonder if the tanning assist opened me up a bit too much. You see it itches most on the inside–just inside.”
I blinked.
She quickly added, “I’m so sorry to put that picture in your mind. I just wanted to be truthful with you. I’m hoping that by getting a little bit buzzed on whiskey, the itch might go away.”
“You can’t scratch it yourself?”
“It sounds so horrible, but I’ve tried, sugar, and when I reach back there, it aggravates the burn on my back and shoulder so much that–.”
“That it hurts as much as the itch?” I finished for her.
“Yes.”
My heart began to thud in my chest, and I asked, “Do you want me to rub some of that gel cream on it again? On your–?”
“No, I can’t ask that of you again. Surely, you find it disgusting.”
I said, “Mom, you’re not gross. Being honest and all, I think it’s actually kind of cute–.” I went too far and stopped myself.
Her eyes grew wide with surprise and she turned to me. “My anus is ‘cute’?”
I felt my face flush with embarrassment. I said, “Not–. I’m just saying–. I want to help you feel better, and I don’t mind doing it is all.”
“Don’t–don’t be ashamed, sugar. I’m sorry I said it that way. You just want to be helpful, don’t you?”
I shrugged.
“You wouldn’t mind it? Really?” she asked.
“No.”
“Okay. Then, you may pull the sheet down and–and you can climb over me like before if that helps.”
I grabbed the jar and drew the sheet from Mom’s body.
“How does it look?” she asked.
Staring at the sweeping arc of her bottom and lost in it, I said, “It’s just beautiful, Mom.”
Her face turned to the side, and she said, “My sunburn, sugar, not my fanny.”
“Oh.” I scanned her back. “There’s more blisters coming up on your shoulders and shoulder blades. Your lower back, too.”
“Any on my bottom?”
“No. Not yet.”
“My legs?”
“A few. Mostly on your calves so far. You want me to put this stuff on your whole back?”
“No,” she said. “The only thing I care about right now is my fanny. How it chafes! Go ahead, if you’re still willing.”
I straddled the back of her thighs.
“Do my whole bottom, if you can, sugar. That way when you–you spread me open back there it won’t hurt so much.”
“Okay.”
I quickly put a fresh helping of the gel cream over her rear, and my penis grew erect in that short time. Then, using two fingers I applied another light coat to the insides of the cleft, all around her anus but never on it.
The proximity seemed to agitate Mom’s condition. Her fanny wiggled. She whimpered. She uttered, “Hurry, hurry, hurry.”
I gathered a dollop on my middle finger, and I spread her apart with my other hand.
When she felt my finger begin to dress her anus with the ointment, her head rose from the pillow. Looking straight forward, she began to suck and blow air through pursed lips in long drafts. She raised her bottom up a fraction, making a stunning new curve that caused my erection to convulse.
I drew little circles with my finger. When the white cream finally turned clear, that thieving feeling grew upon me again when another idea gripped me. I carefully scooted backward. Reaching out, I drew the halves apart with both hands and, very cautiously, bent down. With my face just inches away, I gently blew on her anus.
She gasped.
I continued covering the little spot with a cool breeze.
“Oh, sugar, don’t! You don’t have to–” she pleaded.
I blew again.
“But it feels exquisite,” she sighed.
I drew closer–perhaps an inch away–and continued, making a counter-clockwise stream of cool air cascade over her.
“So soothing and wonderful,” she huffed, and her head sank into the pillow
I blew on her anus for another minute or so, listening to her coos and moans. Then, rising over her, I glanced down at the obscenely prominent erection jutting into my shorts.
Returning my gaze to Mom’s rear, I inched forward on my knees. I opened her with the index finger and thumb of my left hand, got a small dollop of ointment, and then I placed the middle finger of my right hand–fully flexed and extended–dead center against Mom’s anus.
“I’ll try to help where you said it chafes now,” I muttered.
Mom held her breath.
I pushed, and her body admitted it. Mom squeaked. When the fingertip was inside, her muscle there gripped me.
I rotated the digit clockwise and back again. The sound that issued from Mom thrilled me. It was as if she had just dipped herself into a steaming jacuzzi on a frosty day. I changed motions with my finger. Instead of rotating the tip, I began very incrementally to rock it inside of her–in and out, but never completely out.