Mrs Jackson ponders the possibility of taking her son in hand
A MOTHER’S HELPING HAND
While Mrs Jackson made the tea she pondered the task ahead – that of taking her son sexually, albeit medically, in hand. The prospect of having to attend to Jason’s sexual ‘needs’ created a mixture of emotions inside her. On the one hand there was a certain sense of fear of the unknown… as far as being intimate with her son was concerned. If it went badly, might their ‘normal’ mother/son relationship be affected and compromised; and if it went well, in other words, a favourable outcome occurred without any sexual intent by either party (difficult to imagine when a woman is fisting her son’s cock with the sole intention of bringing it to orgasm), would their relationship then be enhanced? But here lay a danger also – what if the process of assisted ejaculation was enjoyable enough, would either of them then to want to try it again?
What if mother and son both enjoyed it equally, with no feelings of guilt and shame to spoil things? Was it possible that something like being tossed off by one’s loving mum could be so sexually charged with forbidden lust that the derived enjoyment then became an addiction? And what if then, this addiction evolved into a craving for ever stronger and more frequent ‘fixes’? After all, there was more than one way to skin a cat, and more than half-a-dozen ways of bringing a man to orgasm, it was just a matter of imagination and variation. A woman did not rely solely on her hands to stimulate a man.
Holding a penis tentatively between forefinger and thumb with the sole intention of directing pee into a toilet bowl, was an entirely different kettle of fish to full-handing a nice hard young cock all the way to orgasm. A totally different level of intimacy would surely be experienced. Somehow, this outcome seemed to put a rather unsavoury slant on the exercise, even though it was vital to Jason’s well-being.
All these thoughts caused a little flurry of butterflies in Mrs Jackson’s stomach, and as she filled the teapot with boiling water, she noticed that her hands were quite unsteady all of a sudden.
On the other hand, there was a peculiar and mounting excitement about it all, a sense of dare and adventure, and, if she was honest, a tantalising temptation to cross one of the great taboos.
Many mothers, at some point in their lives experience this temptation, the need for sexual intimacy with their offspring. It can happen at any age and sometimes even be ongoing. Jason was a very good-looking and athletic young man, tall and blond, with a well-honed, muscular body. She was rightly proud of him. There had been times when she was able to observe him without him being aware - of him polishing his beloved Yamaha out by the back door, his long corn-coloured hair falling lazily over one eye that so reminded her of his father; and of Jason fixing an item of electrical equipment in the home, a look of intense concentration that brought a deep furrow to his brow; and also of seeing him standing behind a steam clouded shower screen while a fresh towel was taken into to him because he’d forgotten. She could not help her gaze lingering on his fuzzy image for a moment before going out again – that had made her think things she perhaps shouldn’t… like… “If only I wasn’t his mother,” or equally, “If only he wasn’t my son.”
And now the possibility and temptation of crossing that great divide, of indulging in something that was considered utterly forbidden and unforgivable by society, loomed before her like the devil’s advocate, for right now she was holding a ticket, endorsed by the medical profession, that virtually legitimised sexual activity with her own son.
Jason was sitting up in bed, waiting for the return of his mother. His trepidation was mounting. He feared the worst about what this “little chat” would be about, because it wasn’t hard to put two-and-two together to see what his mother had been hinting at. Yet what could he do about it? He was a slave to his body’s needs and its desperate longing for fulfilment.
His stomach cramps were getting worse by the hour, his thoughts becoming ever more salacious. He had tried in vain to ‘will’ himself to cum, by imagining a sexual situation or adventure, a fantasy where intense mental concentration would transmute into something tangible. He’d long to put his hand on his cock, so that physical stimulation matched mental. But the casts on his arms prevented him from doing so, holding him prisoner, defying and denying him every time.
That last hurdle was so difficult to surmount. It was as if the finish line would be in sight, almost within reach, when something then hauled him back at the critical moment, like in a bad dream where your legs suddenly won’t work. They become heavy and slow and an unseen hand pulls you back, tantalisingly holding you just out of reach of the Holy Grail.
A couple of times he nearly made it, but that final effort, that final erotic image that would have helped him cross the sacred line, always in the end eluded him, and he would then curse and wallow in abject misery at his failure.
The looming prospect of being made to cum by his mum’s own tanned hand at first had a sobering effect on him and for once his penis lay flaccid against his leg, while the terrible thought pervaded his mind. He had only just about come to terms with the fact that his mother had already had to handle him to help him urinate. But then he had had no choice. There was embarrassment about her wiping his cock after peeing, his bottom after evacuating his bowels, and as if the act itself wasn’t enough to humiliate him, the after-care would prolong his agony. And then the ignominy of bathing him, of seeing all the intimate and private details of his person that would normally be hidden from her eyes at his stage of life. But what could he do? He had to submit to her touches, her accidental brushes and caresses of his genitals, and knowing all the time that her eyes were seeing his most private of possessions. They were mother and son, but at his age, a young adult, that sense of shame and helplessness seemed to devour him, consume him so completely he felt sometimes smothered by her. He would snap at her, take out his mounting frustration on her if she infringed his sensibilities with an indelicate movement, a misplaced finger; or if she accidentally hurt him by manoeuvring his sensitive testicles too readily, to facilitate their washing. Sometimes the cock would come alive in her hand, like a baby bird, finding its wings in one fleeting moment, ready to take flight. She would feel the heat coming off her son’s face as a consequence as he tried in vain to remain detached from the necessary ablution.
He was totally reliant on her - she his mistress, and he… her prisoner, at her complete mercy, yet obliged to be grateful that she was tending him also.
She came in and set the tray down. She wanted to smile in a friendly, relaxed way, but her jaw was set firm and grim by her troubled mind. A moral question clawed at her heart, and she waited for an answer from within. She sat down on the chair beside the bed.
“We’ll have to get you washed, dressed and moving around, young man. Now the doctor’s gone.”
“I know what you’re going to tell me, Mum,” he said.
“You do? I don’t suppose that makes it any easier for either of us, does it?”
“But you know something’s got to be done to relieve your tummy pains, don’t you?”
“I guess so.” Jason indicated the cup of tea with his eyes and his mother brought it to his lips for him to sip.
“I don’t know what to say to make it any better for you, son. I guess the thought of your old mum doing it doesn’t quite get your pulse racing.”
She put the cup back down on its saucer, and then started drinking hers. Jason looked at his mother, not her face, but her legs that were angled towards him, knees together, nearest his face. She was wearing an old pair of jeans, faded and threadbare at the knees. In fact the left one was split quite badly and he was able to see her tanned knee beneath it. He knew his mother had nice legs, shapely and long, a point his mates had often commented about. In fact apart from the slight overhang of her soft little tummy, she had a good figure overall, although, sitting there like she was it was difficult to tell, to appreciate her attributes. The normal shapeliness of her breasts was negated by a loose-fitting, light blue cardigan over a floral blouse – house clothes, as was normal when she wasn’t going out, or going to work. But Carol Jackson was the kind that ‘scrubbed up well’, and she could still turn a head or two, attract the odd building site wolf whistle. Not bad for 40. She looked great when she dressed smartly for her office job, either a nice fitting grey pin-stripe trouser suit or navy blue skirt type suit; that’s if she wanted to impress the boss with her legs.
Since her husband, Cliff had taken off with some floozy two years previous and never came back, she’d had a succession of men at work wanting to take her out. There’d been a couple of blokes that appealed to her, but things hadn’t worked out because of one thing or another. She found it hard to replace the void left by Cliff; in fact, if she was honest with herself… she still loved him in her heart of hearts. That’s why Jason was so important to her, part of her husband still with her. Jason looked so much like him, and his mannerisms, the way he came out with things sometimes, reminded Carol so much of Cliff.
Carol peered over the top of her cup at her son, lying there on the top of the covers in his ‘jim-jams’ – tee-shirt and shorts, legs nicely muscled and tanned from his holiday in Greece. Soft black hairs, like sable, gave his legs a virile look. He looked fed-up and resigned, yet a little grin played on his lips, as if in anticipation of something naughty. His lop-sided smile was so sexy. What a smashing-looking bloke, she thought… if only… if only…
(…continued in Part Three – Willy does the hand-jive..!)