The Bath

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This story is pure fiction.

I hadn’t had sex since my husband Ray had left more than four years ago. Strange as it sounds, the thing that finally brought my celibacy to an end was my son breaking his leg. Since no one else lived with him, so I decided to move him back home where I could take better care of him. Mike was 20 and a natural athlete. whatever sport was in season, he played. He was good at all of them and great at some. It was at a baseball game where an inexperienced player slid into second base, spiking Mike’s left leg and breaking it. There was knee damage as well, so Mike was now laid up with a cast almost hip to heel. And I was forced to care for him, enjoying being needed by my increasingly independent son.

Mike and I had always been close. He wasn’t a mama’s boy by any means, but was sweet and very sensitive, especially after his dad moved out. Mike was sixteen at the time and the two of us gave each other much needed comfort and support then. I remember the first night when Ray left, Mike heard me crying in bed and crawled in with me, talking to me, stroking my hair and finally falling asleep beside me.

After that, without either of us saying anything about it, he would sleep in my bed every night. Sometimes we’d talk, sometimes not–but I was happy to have another person in the bed next to me. I slept naked–had done so since I was a teenager–but Mike didn’t think much about it.

Mike saw me naked often when he was growing up but seemed to not even notice. Ray and I were very casual about covering up around him then. But one morning, she awoke to find him sitting cross-legged on the bed near her shoulder, touching her nipple gently with one tentative finger, his face wearing that serious, inquisitive look he often saw.

That night, she had him start sleeping in his own bed again. It made me sad to sleep alone, but I didn’t think he should be in my bed anymore. From that day, she made a better effort to cover up, too. Although the flea market vintage kimonos she favored for around the house had a knack for gapping open at the top or falling away from her thighs, so she knew Mike still saw things from time to time.

Now it was Saturday afternoon, a week after the accident that had him mostly confined to bed. He could hobble to

the bathroom on his own–and refused my help to bath him, thankfully–but it still hurt to stand up for any time at all, so the rest of the time he was in bed. I had to go back to work the next Monday, guilt-ridden, but had I no choice.

I left the phone by his bed and made sure there were snacks, beverages, books and the TV remote all within reach. And I came home at lunch, bringing take-out food and stories to break up his day. With time off work, things around the house were having little effect to occupy him, I was glad to be off today, to spend some time with him–I knew how bored he was. We had watched old movies together till the wee hours the night before; I sat beside him on the bed, so I could let him sleep.

One afternoon, I heard the TV and brought him some lunch on a tray. As I opened his door and walked in, a wall of funk hit her. Gasping a little, I sat the tray on the bed and crossed the room and threw open the window. Mike was not the neatest kid when it came to his room, but this was different–this was body funk.

“Mike, you stink, son. Bad. You need a bath.” I said to him,

He tapped his cast with his knuckles. “Yeah, right.”

“Well, you need to wash up or something.” I protested,

“I can barely stand up to pee, Mom. How can I stand up long enough to wash up?” he explained to me,

“Well, I can’t stand to smell you like this. If you can’t wash yourself, I’ll do it.”

“Mom…” he protested.

“Right after you eat lunch, I mean it. Jeez!” And I waved my hand in front of my face as I walked out. Mike knew that tone–not bahis firmaları bossy, but dead serious. There was no way around it.

Sure enough, twenty minutes later I walked in carrying a basin of warm water, towels, soap and a washcloth.

“Mom…” Mike tried once more, weakly.

“Michael, I’ve bathed you many times before. I know you’re an adult, and it’s been a while, but you’re still my little boy. Now let’s just get this done. You’ll feel a lot better when you’re all nice and clean.” I said as I placed the basin on a chair beside the bed and surveyed the scene. He was wearing only some old cotton pajama pants– I had cut off the legs to make it easier to get them over the cast. I had Mike roll on his side and spread towels on the bed–the sheets would need changing anyway, this was just to not soak the mattress too much.

Then I began. I started with his face and neck, looking at his hair for a moment, but not being ready to deal with it now. Mike had to admit–to himself, not to his mother–that the warm soapy cloth felt good. And the whole experience — the smells, his mother’s touch, even the quiet, tuneless humming I was doing now as I’d always done before — made him remember those bath times long ago and feel very protected right now. I rinsed the cloth, wrung it out and wiped the soap from his face. Then I washed each arm in turn, holding his hand up to get all sides. He laughed a bit when she got to each armpit.

Next, I helped him sit up and gave his back a good long scrub, turning the skin red with my vigorous rubbing. This felt especially good since he was spending so much time lying on his back now. While I still had him sitting up, I moved to his chest and shoulders. The muscles surprised her. I knew he played sports–a lot–and worked out with weights in the basement, but I hadn’t touched him like this in a while. He really felt more like a man than a boy, or at least what I could remember a man feeling like.

Suddenly I was feeling stirrings she hadn’t felt in a long time, and I sternly reminded myself this was my little boy. Mike was struggling with feelings of his own now. As I washed him, my kimono gapped open, giving him an unobstructed view of my right breast,

smallish and firm, the ruddy nipple hard from my own excitement (this last fact Mike didn’t know). He looked away–at the TV remote on the bed, at the wooden clip clothespin holding my kimono shut (the sash was probably in the laundry somewhere)… but his eyes came back to this lovely breast before him. His mother’s breast. As the washcloth brushed across his own nipples, he remembered one morning when he was nine that he’d touched that very breast–that very nipple.

Finally, I laid him back down and gave his muscled but still mostly hairless torso a final wipe down. I had stopped humming some time ago now and the room was silent except for the occasional splashing of water, the rustle of my kimono against the bed.

In spite of myself, I was absolutely aware of every sensation–the roughness of the cloth and Mike’s muscled body through it, the slippery feel of the soap, my own hard nipples brushing against the inside of the kimono. I washed his left foot up to the cast, being careful to not get it wet. Then I started on his right leg, picking it up as I had his arms. Only it was much heavier. I rested his ankle on my shoulder and began washing, soaping first his lower leg, then his knee, then his thigh.

I washed up to his cutoff pajama leg, then a little further. His toes lightly brushed against her ear. God, I was beginning to feel lightheaded. Moving his foot to the bed so his knee remained bent to keep the soap off the bed, she rinsed the cloth. Then I wiped the soap from his leg slowly, methodically, knowing what came next and not sure how I’d get through it. Still, it was what had to come next, wasn’t it.

Finally I lowered his leg kaçak iddaa to the bed and reached for the snap on his elastic waistband. Mike made no protest now. It all seemed so natural to him. The snap popped open in my fingers and he shifted his weight the best he could, letting me wrestle the pajama pants off him. I held them up gingerly between forefinger and thumb, saying, “I should probably just burn these.”

I meant it to come out like a lighthearted joke, but my voice sounded thick and a little wavery. I could feel my heart pounding in my throat. I rinsed the cloth thoroughly, then soaped it again, still not looking at him–at it. At last, there was nothing else to do, no other way to stall. I could hand him the washcloth and tell him to wash himself, but that would be admitting to him (and to myself) that there were things going on besides a mother bathing her boy. Besides, some part deep within her wanted to see it, touch it.

So now I turned and looked. Looking at my son’s penis. God. He really was becoming a man. There was sparse reddish hair at the base. And the penis itself was surprisingly long and, at the moment, somewhat swollen. As I looked at it, it suddenly twitched and rolled to one side, sending a shockwave through me. Was he getting excited? My god, I’d better get this done and get out of there. With my cloth-covered hand, I first washed around the base, darkening the curly pale hair with soap and water. Then I reached around under his penis, cupping his testicles gently in the warm, damp cloth. Mike’s cock twitched again, bumping against my bare wrist. Another shockwave, right down to my very core.

I stopped once more, rinsing and soaping the washcloth. It felt warm and wet and slippery in my hand. I imagined what it would feel like against my own inflamed pussy right now–imagined how it would feel on my son’s cock (at what point, I wondered, did I start thinking of it as a cock, not a penis). I looked down to find him definitely more swollen than before. Not quite erect, but starting to stand up.

At this point, there was no turning back. I wrapped the warm cloth around him and began to wash. Immediately, he grew in my hand, becoming long, hard, and erect. I turned to look at him, but his face was turned to the wall. I knew he felt humiliated now. Still stroking him (my hand seemed to move of its own accord), I spoke softly, soothingly. “I’m sorry; baby… its okay, Mikey. It’s really okay.”

He said nothing. I rinsed the cloth one last time, then wiped the soap from his fur, his balls and finally from his still hard shaft. I couldn’t help but marvel at it, stare at it. It was as long as Ray’s, not as thick yet, but much harder than Ray ever was toward the end with all his drinking and other excesses.

Unable to stop myself now, I had to touch it once more, without the intervening cloth–feel the flesh of my hand on the flesh of her son’s hard cock. Silently asking forgiveness (from whom?), I reached out and wrapped my fingers around it. My own sex was throbbing now, so wet. Mike’s cock felt so hard, yet so soft and alive in my hand. I glanced quickly his way.

He was still turned toward the wall, but somehow seemed to relax a little. My thumb moved slowly up and down the underside of the shaft, then up to the head, where it found a drop of pre-cum. God. Holding him so lightly now, I began to stroke him. I managed another sideways glance and found Mike now watching my hand on his cock. No embarrassment or revulsion in his eyes, just a sense of wonder. She continued to stroke him.

It had been so long, so damned long, since I had felt anything nearly this wonderful. Still, even moments ago, I couldn’t have imagined I’d be doing this now. Ever. And certainly not what I did next. Leaning forward, I kissed the head of my son’s cock–just a light brush of my lips, really, but enough to feel his pre-cum on my lips, kaçak bahis tasting it with my tongue. I kissed him again, this time a series of kisses on the underside of his shaft, from the tip down to the base, ending with my lips grazing his balls.

I dared not look at him now–clamped my eyes shut, in fact–but his soft moan urged me onward. Kissing my way back up his hard shaft, I slipped the head of his cock into my mouth. And I paused briefly, tasting it, savoring the clean, soapiness mingling with the taste of sex… running my tongue around its ridge, across the very tip…

Then I took more of him into my mouth. And more still. And I began to suck, using my lips, my tongue… Mike moaned again, so soft–a question almost. My fingers continued to stroke him near the base, his fine hair tickling my palm. I felt hot, from my scalp to the backs of my knees.

Then Mike touched me. His hand in my hair was so gentle–not like Ray’s, pushing my head down on his cock. Just touching my hair, caressing it. Now I chanced a look and found him looking at me, looking into my eyes with such love. The son’s love I’d seen so many times, but now something more, too.

I held his gaze now as I sucked him, even more excited to have him watching me do this, take his penis into my warm, wet mouth. Mike’s hand moved down the back of my neck, across my shoulder, resting there. Then his fingers reached inside the neck of the kimono, closing on the fabric, tugging at it.

Taking my hand from Mike’s hardness for a moment, but not my mouth, I shrugged my shoulder out of the garment, letting Mike pull it from me. The clothes pin popped loose, clattering to the floor. The kimono fell away. I was now naked. Watching him lie still, I saw his eyes move across my body, felt his eyes move over my breasts, down my back, along the curve of my hips…

Even at 38, I was still lean and firm, blessed with good genes, but also just plain fit. But my hips were generous, my ass rounded. Mike’s hand went to my shoulder again, and then slid slowly down her back. I swung my hips toward him, inviting his hand. It lingered on my ass, stroking the soft, smooth skin.

I watched his hand move over body, sucking him more urgently, stroking his cock a little faster as my own excitement welled up within me. Mike’s hand moved to the inside of my thigh now, gripping it, stroking it, moving up between my legs. He hesitated only a moment before touching my sex, cupping it in his hand. I gasped, the sound muffled by Mike’s hardness in her mouth.

Mike’s fingers were now rubbing my outer lips, I was so incredibly wet with my own juices… rubbing, exploring… then a finger slipped inside me. Then two. Mike matched the pace of my mouth on his cock with his fingers in my pussy.

Suddenly, I felt my son’s cock go more rigid, becoming even longer. I soon knew that he was about to come and this knowledge pushed me closer to the edge. “M-mom?” A question blurring into a moan.

And then he exploded into my mouth, filling me with hot, salty come. And I swallowed it hungrily, moaning, gasping, gulping, about to come myself. My ass moved more insistently now, pressing against Mike’s fingers. He turned his hand, the fingers now side by side, approximating the thickness of a cock.

I screamed as I came, his dick still in my mouth, muffling the sound. My hips rocked against his hand, and I came in waves, again and again, seemingly forever, until I finally slowed, then stopped moving. With a final long suck, I let Mike’s now softening cock slip from my mouth. And his fingers slipped from my pussy.

I turned to look at my son now in shy amazement. His expression mirrored mine. Then he smiled at me. I reached out to stroke his hair and smiled back.

“Well,” I said.

But neither of us could think of anything else to say right then and there, so we left it at that. Leaning forward, I kissed his forehead, a tender, motherly gesture. Then his cheek. Then his mouth, this kiss not so motherly–then suddenly not motherly at all, mouths open, tongues exploring…


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