A Mother’s Helping Hand Ch. 3

“I’m going to fetch a towel,” Mrs Jackson suddenly announced.

“Don’t take all the romance out of it, Mum.”

Mrs Jackson smiled inwardly at her son’s unexpected wit. “I think we just ought to get on with it,” she said as she turned to go out to the airing cupboard. She regretted her matter-of-fact tone, but it wasn’t easy to strike the right note for what was about happen. She could hardly say, “Right, my lovely rutty boy… Mummy’s going to give you a jolly good wank, so you must be good and shoot all your warm creamy spunk for her,” could she? Well, not quite yet anyway. She could be accused of being provocative, of deliberately inciting her son to participate in an indecent sexual act with her. Yet being too cool about it, too mechanical, might be just as bad. If he stayed limp and non-aroused, it would be almost impossible to achieve the intended goal. She would have to strike the right balance. It was a delicate situation.

In her mind she could hear the doctor’s voice, see him tapping the side of his nose: “Needs must, Mrs Jackson. A woman’s intuition… It always comes to the fore in times of adversity…”

Her heart was pounding as she reached for an old clean towel from the top shelf. She brought it to her nose and sniffed. Slightly musty, but it would have to do. There was an equal mix of fear and devilment inside her. For a moment she considered smartening herself up… but why, for heaven’s sake? Would that be respectful… or just plain provocative?

She went to the bathroom to check her face. She found it difficult to look herself in the eye, but she had to. Face to face with the evil witch, the siren, the harlot. She fussed with her hair, using her fingers to tidy the straggled strands of blonde hair. She went to her bedroom and brushed it out in front of the dressing table mirror. She put red lipstick on. “Oh this is ridiculous,” she thought. “Trying to make myself attractive for my son? Whatever will he think? He’ll laugh at me, that’s what he’ll do.”

But she continued to make herself nice, bringing a shine to her hair with some vigorous brushing, despite her doubts. “Oh well, blow it! In for a penny, in for a pound!” And she changed her clothes as well.

She undressed, sprayed some underarm anti-perspirant, and then a tiny puff of eau de toilette on her neck. She didn’t want to appear too obvious, or smell like a tart, that was just silly and corny. But then, most men never noticed if you’d had your hair done anyway, or wore some new clothes, so chances were, Jason wouldn’t notice either. But deep down, if she was totally honest with herself, she wanted her son to fancy her as a woman, but to love her also as a mum, and even afterwards when it was done, she wanted him to still love her, but as a mum most of all. She knew she would always love him, whatever the outcome of this little episode and the future. She was worried only for him, how he would handle it. Was it possible for a son to see his mother as a sex object one minute, and a loving mum the next? She would soon find out.

Carol changed into a black, light-cotton summer skirt and a nicely-fitting, white cheesecloth shirt that clearly showed the form of her breasts, but in a tasteful way. She stood up, in front of the full-length mirror to make some final adjustments. “You’ll have to do, Carol. Good luck, girl!”

The fact was – she looked very appealing, sexy, but in a ‘mumsy’ nice kind of way, an irresistible combination to a lot of men. She had a last smile at her reflection, gathered up the towel and went back into Jason’s bedroom with her new brave face and freshened resolve.

He was sitting upright still, but his eyes were closed. Was he asleep; or just resting his eyes? Perhaps he was running through the awful scene in his mind.

What made her do it, she wasn’t sure, but she looked directly at his crotch. She felt cheap, as if taking advantage while her son’s eyes were shut. She kind of stared, unable to take her eyes away. What state was he in inside those shorts? Nothing was obvious. Judging by what she could see, he didn’t appear to have an erection at that moment. That was a change. So many times she had had to handle Jason’s cock in its naughty state, inflexible and wilful, pointing it the direction of the toilet bowl and hoping he would hit the target.

She laid the towel, still folded, on the bed and reached out her hand to feel him, blatantly and unashamedly. She was surprised at herself, at her boldness. It felt soft and warm, like a little bird trapped in a cloth bag. His body shot forward in surprise, his eyes coming wide open.

“MUM! What do you-“

“Just wanted to see if you were really asleep.”

“I’m not now, am I? For Christ’s sake, Mother!” Jason nodded at the towel. “I see you’ve come prepared.”

“For the worst case scenario. I don’t know how much mess you’re going to make?” Oops, she thought. That was a little insensitive.

“Me? It won’t be my fault.” He took a deep breath. “Mum..? I’m not sure I can do this.”

“Yes you can, and you will. I’m going to make sure of it. So you needn’t think about copping out. I’m going to do this, whether you, or we like it or not. You can’t carry on as you are, building up more stuff inside you.”

He was looking at her now. For a moment it was as if they would both laugh at the absurdity of the situation. But they simply smiled at each other, in a half embarrassed, half-amused way. He hadn’t mentioned her change of clothing, which was something. If he had noticed anything different about her, he wasn’t saying, which was maybe his way of being discreetly polite and probably for the best.

Carol still felt nervous, but it was more a nervous excitement, a kind of sexual tension as much as anything. And that underlying feeling of naughtiness and devilment was still there, only now it was closer to the surface… much, much closer.

At the final moment she decided to play the part, ham it up, pull out all the stops. Go for it girl, opportunities like this didn’t come along too often in a lifetime.

She stood by the bed, feeling strangely matronly and bossy.

“Right, my lad… Are you comfortable propped up like that? Or do you want to lie flat on your back?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Well,” said ‘matron’, “if you stay propped up you can watch what’s going on – that is, if you’re interested. If you lie down you can just look at the ceiling and think of England.”

“I think I’ll stay where I am. I won’t feel so bloody helpless.”

“You’re not going to surrender yourself to me completely then?”

“Mum..? Just get on with it.”

“Are you being cheeky to your mummy?”

“What are you on about?”

“Are you?” Mrs Jackson felt Jason’s crotch again. There seemed to be a change in mood. She squeezed him. “I said: are you being cheeky to your mother?”

“No!” That hurt just then, you know.”

“That’s just to remind you who’s in charge.”

“Okay, so you’re in charge.”

“Good, I’m glad we agree.”

Mrs Jackson relaxed her grip, but continued to fondle her son through his pyjama shorts, gentle, probing caresses calculated to arouse. She watched his face, saw his expression change and his complexion redden with embarrassment. Through the light cotton material she could feel her son’s cock responding to her insistent fondling. Her tummy did a little flip-flop inside, encouraged by what she felt. She could hear her heart beating in her ears and feel the warmth in her swelling breast, part maternal, part lustful.

Without taking her active hand away, she used the other to move the bedside chair down so that it was positioned adjacent to her son’s pelvis. Then she sat down, side-on to the bed, so that her knees were pointing towards the bed-head. She slowly crossed her legs so that her skirt rode an inch or two above the knee – a calculated gesture. She continued to watch Jason’s handsome features, looking for a sign that might reveal his inner thoughts. She played with his cock and balls in a distracted way, as if it was the hand of another woman doing the deed. She watched his eyes close, as if in denial at what was happening. He was hard now. How delicious to have him at her mercy, unable to resist her advances. She could do what she wanted with him and there would be nothing he could do about it. That thought strangely excited her.

When she looked away from his face to his crotch, she could see that when she brought her hand away, a nice wigwam remained – its centre-pole beating with a steady pulse that moved his shorts discernibly and told her he was ready.

She got up from the chair to pull his shorts down. She helped him lift his bottom up so she could slide his shorts out of the way. His prick suddenly sprang out like a rubber cosh, revelling in its newly found freedom. Jason was well-endowed for an eighteen year old. She estimated him to be, maybe seven inches erect, very respectable. Not that she was unfamiliar with his dimensions, it was just that at this moment his size seemed more significant than ever before. She slid his shorts down to his ankles, but instead of removing them completely, kept them where they were, thinking this would restrict the movement of his legs, should Jason have the sudden urge to kick out in the excitement of the moment. A foot in the stomach or boob could be a painful thing, if not just damned dangerous. Better safe than sorry.

She then reached for the tub of cold cream that she used whenever the casts chafed Jason’s wrists. She scooped a blob on her fingertip and rubbed it between her palms until they were nice and greasy. Then she returned her attention to Jason’s cock. It had a lovely light-brown hue along the shaft, laced with purple veins. The head was beginning to look like a crowing cockerel.

She took him in hand, working the grease into his prick. She heard a small inward sigh, a soft moan. When it was done she got some more cream from the tub and used this to aid her in her masturbation of him, working her hand up and down, sliding along the length of it. It felt good and hot, slippery thick meat, and not for the first time since she began her tending of Jason, she had to admit to a familiar feeling between her legs, a tingling, an itch. She stopped for a moment to uncross them, squirming with the strange, but not unpleasant discomfort between her thighs. She then re-crossed her legs the other way. Jason had opened his eyes for a moment and found himself looking at his mother, her breasts, now prominent in the closer fitting cheesecloth shirt, appeared to beckon to him. Then down to her legs. Her skirt was higher, tauter than before. Whether this was deliberate or a misjudgement on Carol’s part hardly mattered. Jason was enjoying the view which was presented to him. He could see the long curve of her thigh disappearing under her skirt, smell her perfume, and her sex. His mother smiled and winked. She knew why he was looking.

“Do you like my legs?” she said.

Jason nodded. His breathing had become ragged.

“And my tits?”

“I wish I could see them for real.”

“And to you like what I’m doing to you?”

“Yes, Mum. I love it.”

“Good. Does my little boy love his mummy?”

Another nod, a fluttering and rolling of eyes.

“Does he love his mummy… lots and lots?”

There was a croak, from Jason’s throat which felt tight and dry to him. “Yes, he said.”

“Well, she loves you too!”

“Please make me cum, Mother… Force me to shoot off for you. I want you to watch me cum.”

“You naughty boy! I will have to smack you for that.” And she did, giving him a playful slap to the inside of his right thigh, and another to the left. His legs flexed in response to the little stings he felt. But they were held in place by the shorts around his ankles. She went back to rubbing his cock. “Any more crudeness from you, young man, and I will have to smack you hard. All I want is for you to enjoy your mummy’s hand rubbing your lovely cock.”

“Oh, Mother… I love you.”

Mrs Jackson’s worked smoothly along the length of her son’s cock, settling into a steady rhythm. In the silence of the room, she could hear the slippy-slicky sounds that resulted from her actions. She then brought her other hand to bear, and rubbed the slippery, muscular-looking penis between her palms, a technique she had used on certain men, including her ex. It felt wonderful and sexy to have her son thus, caressing him between her feminine, long-boned fingers. She had the sudden impulse, or at least the thought, of taking it in her mouth. It was almost irresistible. Would that be overtly obscene? What would her son think of her for doing something like that?

But before she could act on this impulse, there came a cry of release from Jason, a deep and long, almost strangled cry of anguish. To him, it was as if he felt a rushing of something, something crucial and significant inside of him, like something being set free after weeks of captivity. There was a surging from his balls. His body tensed and his head banged back against the bed-head, then fell forward on his chest. His legs tried to break free from their confinement so violently that the muscles stood out on his thighs. His pelvis bucked and squirmed.

Mrs Jackson knew this was the critical moment. She could feel the bubbling and pulsing of his poor, frustrated dick. One hand continued to bring it to the boil and with the other she prepared the towel. But it was too late.

A great stream of pearly white liquid cut the air in a long continuous arc, spewing and spitting from the eye of Jason’s pride-and-joy to splash down in sticky little puddles on his chest and belly, still clad in the grey tee-shirt. A couple of stray dollops landed on the tops of his mother’s knees as she struggled to contain the pulsing jets with the towel. His guts began to melt away from him, like quicksilver running through his loins as he emptied himself of the molten seed and along with it, the pain and frustrations of the last three weeks.

“Oh my goodness, Jason. What a lot you’ve got. Clever boy! Good boy!”

“Ugghh! Oh sweet Jesus. Ugghh!”

“Come on, get it all out. You’ll feel better for it,” said Mrs Jackson, squeezing the base of his spluttering dick, as if this would somehow eject every last drop.

And with one final grunt, Jason flopped back against the bed-head as a mixed feeling of elation and shame engulfed him. It was a violent ejaculation, the most intense he had ever experienced. The air in the room smelled strongly of fresh semen, and body sweat.

“Oh Mum, sorry! You must be disgusted with me. Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Jason covered his eyes with his hand.

“Why?”

“All the mess, the gooey muck, you know. I couldn’t help it… I’m so sorry. You must feel sick seeing it all.”

“Stop saying sorry… and I don’t feel sick. I’m pleased for you. You certainly blew, that’s for sure. I hadn’t bargained for Mount Etna. But you’ll be all the better for it.”

“Mount what?”

“Never mind, my handsome boy… never mind.” Just relax while I clean up. Why don’t you have a little sleep and get your strength back? You look dead beat.”

“I could sleep for a week, Mum. And guess what?

“Mmm?”

“That goddam awful pain in my guts seems to have gone, just like magic.”

“Well, Jason… in that case I do believe we’ve had a resounding success. Doctor Phillips was right in his diagnosis then, wasn’t he?”

Mrs Jackson mopped up as best she could. The little droplets of cum on her knees were already thinning to water and beginning to run down her shins. She wiped these also.

She had a sudden urgent need for the bathroom, but not to pee. She flopped down on the toilet, lifted her skirt and pulled her panties to the side. She moved her legs apart to facilitate the thing that for her was impossible to ignore a moment longer.

She had caressed herself no more than a dozen times when the most intense orgasm ripped through her. She tried desperately to hold in the shriek of joy and release that threatened to escape from her, as she ended up, face down against the tops of her gleaming, brown thighs. Her fingers glistened with her wetness. She felt weak and spent, and as the tears sprang to her eyes, so her whole body began to shake.

“Oh dear Father, please forgive me, for I have sinned terribly…”

Somewhere in the distance, she thought she could hear a voice calling back to her: “Then go ahead and sin more… You must demonstrate the love for your son in the ways that are right for you. Smother him; shape him; consume him – he is yours to use and cosset in whatever measures you so desire. He is your son… your son…yours forever…”

Had such a shattering orgasm left her in a state of feverish hallucination? It had certainly left its mark.

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