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This is the first story I have posted since July 2019. I lost my beloved wife, very suddenly, in November 2019, and writing fiction suddenly seemed trivial and unimportant. However, I have always enjoyed the creative process and I think my wife would be pleased that I’m writing again, especially since she was a writer herself, although not on Literotica. That said, here’s my effort, and I hope at least some of you enjoy it.
* * * * *
The flames were fiercer now, the heat blistering, and my mother’s terrified face stared at me from the burning car. I couldn’t hear her voice but I knew what she was saying — ‘Help me! Please, help me!’ But the flames were driving me back, back, ba…
“Gary! Gary, honey, wake up!” My mother’s voice, but how? Then memory hit me, the other car, the impact driving us into the wall, the car bursting into flames…
“Gary, sweetheart, you’re having that nightmare again. It’s okay, sweetie, we’re safe.”
My eyes flew open, to see my mother’s concerned face gazing worriedly at me, the dressing on her face starkly white against her fading tan, a scarf tied pirate-style on her head, another dressing on her left arm, from her palm to her elbow.
“It was that nightmare again, wasn’t it? Me, trapped in the burning car? But you got me out, honey, remember? Yes, I had burns, yes, I lost most of my hair, but the burns are healing, and my hair will grow back. We need to concentrate on you, on getting your hands healed, okay?
Ah, yes, my hands. My burned hands. I’d rescued my mother from the car, yes, but my hands were quite badly burned and were currently swathed in thick dressings so that I looked as if I was wearing thickly-padded white mitts, only my thumbs recognizable.
I nodded wearily. “Yeah, mum, it was the nightmare again. Not fun.”
“I know, sweetie, I know.” She gave me a wry smile. “Doctor Evans says they’ll probably stop once we’re at home again, and your subconscious realises you got me out of the car in time. And, talking of Doctor Evans, here she is. Good morning, Doctor Evans.”
“Good morning, Ms Welch. Good morning, Gary.”
I laughed, short, a little bitter. “We’ll agree on morning, but I think the ‘good’ is arguable.”
The doctor gave me a slight smile. “It could improve, Gary. We’re going to change the dressings on your hands, see if we can’t give you something lighter.”
“And then can I take him home?” My mother’s voice echoed the strain she must be feeling.
“If his hands are healing, perhaps. I’ll repeat what I’ve already told you, Ms Welch. Until his hands are healed, you’ll have to do everything for him. Wash him, dress him, feed him, clean Lefkoşa Escort him after he’s used the toilet. Everything, in fact.”
“Doctor Evans, Gary is my son. Not only that, he saved my life and was burned because he couldn’t, wouldn’t, let me die. If I have to tend to him as I did when he was a baby, then I’ll do it gladly!”
“So be it, Ms Welch. But first, we need to change the dressings and see how he’s healing. If you’d care to wait in the annex, I’ll let you know the outcome as soon as possible.” Doctor Evans held up her hand to stop Mum leaving. “On your way out, stop at the dressing station, the nurse is expecting you. We’ll check your dressings as well, okay?”
“Oh, yes, please! Gary, honey, I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay?”
“Okay, Mum, but get yourself something to eat from the cafeteria, okay, because I’ll bet you didn’t have breakfast?”
Mum gave me a wry smile. “Guilty! Okay, honey, I’ll get something to eat. See you soon, sweetie.” She bent and gave me a swift kiss on the cheek, then went out.
The next hour was a bit of a blur, but when the hour was up, the dressings had been removed, the burns carefully examined, and my hands assessed as ‘healing nicely, but dressings still needed,’ and lighter dressings applied. I still looked as if I was wearing mitts, but lighter ones, with my finger ends showing.
When Mum came back, she smiled when I held my hands up, then went off in search of Doctor Evans, and came back with a broad smile on her face.
“I can take you home! I have to bring you back every Tuesday and Friday to get the dressings changed, but I can take you home, today. Are you okay travelling in pyjamas and your dressing gown? You’ll have to wait near the door while I fetch the car.”
“Not a problem, Mum, and PJs and my dressing gown are fine. I just want to be out of here as soon as possible.”
“Me too, honey. Just a minute while I pack your things.” And not much to pack, the clothes I was wearing when we crashed spoiled beyond salvaging. Not that I was concerned, my mother’s life being far more important than mere material — if you’ll pardon the pun — possessions. Something had been nagging me, and I suddenly realised. I had been so concerned about myself, I hadn’t noticed at first.
“Mum! Your dressings are gone!”
She gave me a beaming smile. “Yes, honey, they are. I’ll need to use a bit more make-up than I usually use at first, to hide this,” and she touched the still-red patch on her cheek where she’d been burned, “but that’s only if I’m going out anywhere dressy. For the moment, my only concern is getting you home, so let’s go!”
The Girne Escort drive took a while, because we live in rural Northumberland, on the edge of the Cheviots, and the hospital was in Newcastle, because that had been the nearest A his friends, in the rear seats, survived, although they were both injured.
A month after that, still grieving, Mum found herself pregnant with me, at nineteen. There was no way she would let me go for adoption, and her mother, my Gran, had stood by her. Gran took care of me by day, while Mum worked her socks off to provide for us, and when I was put to bed in the evenings, Mum decided to find out if she could write, because she’d always wanted to try. In longhand at first, in lined school notebooks, paying to have the manuscript typed up for submission.
I don’t know what it was, some innate talent, because although that first effort was rejected, the agent, Betty Anderson, had recognised something in Mum’s efforts and encouraged her to continue. Now, seven successful novels later Betty was still my Mum’s agent, and a good friend to both of us, even though we only saw her occasionally, seeing that she was based in London, but she and Mum spoke often on the phone.
Mum broke our embrace, gently, and pushed me away, holding me at arms’ length.
“He would have been proud of you, as proud as I am,” she said, then took my arm, leading me into her bathroom. She drew me to a halt. “Just stand there, sweetie, while I get the shower started and the water warmed up ready for us.”
I watched her as she moved around, enjoying the curve of her hip into her thigh, the still saucy jut of her bottom, the sway of her breasts, everything about her. I’d read my share of girlie mags and Mum could hold her own in that company easily, I reckoned. I think I was in a bit of a reverie, because Mum had to speak twice before it registered.
“Earth to Gary? Come in, Gary.” She grinned as I started in surprise. “When you’re quite finished admiring my arse, your shower awaits, sir.”
“I’ll never stop admiring it, Mum, sorry.” I took a deep breath, trying to regain my equilibrium, then gave Mum a mock salute. “Ready for shower, ma’am.”
“Get yourself in, then. Don’t forget to leave room for me as well.”
Mum’s shower had a safety-glass cubicle about five feet square, so there was plenty of room for both of us, with dual shower-heads angling in from adjacent sides, and I stepped into the spray, delighting in the feel of the water against my skin. After a month without my regular daily shower I was ready for it. Mum squeezed some shower gel onto a shower mitt and turned to me.
“Back Magosa Escort first, or front?”
“Back please, Mum,” I said, reeling mentally as I realised that when I turned around again, Mum would be washing my cock. Could I keep it down? Unlikely, but as she’d said, ‘we’ll take care of it.’ No point in worrying. If it happened, it happened.
Mum was efficient and it seemed no time at all until she’d done my back — including my arse, and that was pleasant. John Thomas thought so as well, because he came up to look around. The moment I was half dreading, half anticipating had arrived as Mum spoke.
“Okay, sweetie, turn around,” she said, then gasped as I turned. “Oh, my, you’re really like your father!” She shook her head. “Sorry, honey, maybe us showering together wasn’t such a good idea.”
“Don’t say that, Mum! You’re as beautiful as I could ever imagine, and just being able to see you like this is a dream come true!”
She stared at me, and when she spoke her voice was hesitant. “You fantasise about me? About us?”
My face must have been scarlet, because I could feel it burning, but I knew — somehow — that this was one question I had to answer honestly. I nodded. “Yes, Mum, I do. I know I shouldn’t, I guess I can’t help it. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, honey, I understand. Come on, let’s get you clean.” Mum’s face was red as well, and there was a strange look on her face that I’d never seen before, almost as if she was hungry, but denying herself a treat.
She started with my head and shoulders, washing my face, my hair, down my arms, my chest, my hips, thighs, legs and feet, carefully avoiding my erection. When she’d washed everything else, she touched my cheek.
“I left your erection until last, honey, because I have a feeling that when I wash it, there might, um, be a — problem.”
“You mean your touch might make me come? Ejaculate?” I could feel the heat in my face.
Mum nodded, a wry smile on her face, a face almost as red as my own.
“Yeah, honey that’s what I meant.” She took a deep breath. “Awkward question time, sweetie, but I need to ask. When did you last masturbate?”
I could feel my flush deepen, but I knew I had to answer, and answer honestly.
“The night before the crash, I think. It might have been the same morning. I’m not sure. That day is a bit of a blur.”
“Sorry, honey, another awkward question. How often do — did — you masturbate?”
“Pretty much every day, Mum, sometimes twice a day.”
“So it’s been a while.” She studied me for a long moment, then smiled, a sweet, almost sad smile. “Gary, honey, I think that I — that we — need to stop pretending. I think you need the relief, so what we’ll do is this. I’ll masturbate you, jack you off, give you a hand job, whatever you want to call it, then, when you’ve come, I’ll finish washing you. Okay?” I don’t think it was easy for Mum to say that, her face was red and she’d been very hesitant.
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