A Small Matter of Inconvenience (Part Two)

A SMALL MATTER OF INCONVENIENCE
Part Two

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’ troubled her greatly. On the one hand there was an understandable fear of the unknown - as far as being intimate with her son was concerned – and if it went badly, might their ‘normal’ mother/son relationship be damaged… perhaps forever?
On the other hand if things went well and a favourable outcome was achieved without any sexual intent by either party (pretty damned impossible when she thought about it, when an essential component like arousal was a basic requirement), was there a danger of either mother or son, and quite possibly both of them, enjoying the process enough to want to do it again… perhaps even try some embellishments to spice it the next time? 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.

Holding her son’s 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-fisting a young buck all the way to orgasm. A totally different level of intimacy would surely be experienced. This put a rather unsavoury slant on the exercise, even though it was vital to Jason’s well-being.

There was a flurry of butterflies in Mrs Jackson’s stomach and as she filled the teapot with boiling water, she noticed that her hands were trembling badly. She could not deny 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.

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 were times when she had been able to observe him without him being aware - of him polishing his beloved Yamaha motorcycle out by the back door, his long corn-coloured hair falling lazily over one eye that so reminded her of his late 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. On a number of recent occasions he had tried in vain to ‘will’ himself to an orgasm 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.

A couple of times he nearly made it, but that final effort, that final erotic image that would have helped him cross the finish line always in the end eluded him and his failure would result in tears of frustration.

The fearful prospect of being made to ejaculate by his own mother had a sobering effect on him and for once his penis lay flaccid against his leg. 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 always 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 and intensify his agony.

And then the ignominy of bathing him, of her seeing all the intimate and private details of his person that would normally be hidden from a mother’s eyes at that 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.

Sometimes his cock would come alive in her hand, like a baby bird, finding its wings, ready to take flight. She could almost feel his shame as he tried in vain to remain detached from her attentions.

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. A moral question clawed at her heart. 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?”

“No.”

“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, Jason. I guess the thought of your own mother 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. His mother had nice legs, shapely if a little on the short side Many of Jason’s mates would comment about her, some openly admitting they fancied her. When she scrubbed up she was indeed very attractive - a yummy-mummy – and she was still turning heads and attracting building site wolf whistles whenever she went out. Not bad for 40.

Since Cliff’s death two years ago she’d had a succession of men wanting to take her out. There’d been a couple of blokes that really appealed to her in the ways that mattered, but things hadn’t worked out. 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 nervous, but a sheepish grin began to play along his lips, as if in anticipation of something especially naughty in prospect, a detail that did not escape his mother.

(…continued in Part Three – Willy does the hand-jive..!)