tagIncest/TabooHamstrung Mom

Hamstrung Mom


Over the past months I've read several stories, including (no offense intended to the excellent stories I've left out) HeyAll's Bed Sharing with Mom, fasthand's Mother Examining Son, and Cockhole's Mom's Penis Treatment, where medical treatment administered by a mother to a son leads to a more intimate connection. Those stores inspired this one, in which it is the son who tends to the mother.

I expect to post Chapter 2 of Luckiest Guy I Know within the fortnight.

As always, all story characters engaged in sexual activities are eighteen years of age or older.

* * * * *

I was doing squats with Jo Anne and Cheryl, two of my three closest friends - my son had dubbed the four of us the "posse," a name we and most of our friends had adopted - when I felt a wicked pain in the back of my leg. Jo Anne and Cheryl must have seen it on my face, for they immediately grabbed the barbell and put it back in place, then helped me back to my small office where we were joined by my son, who knelt, held my leg by the ankle, and said, "Hamstring?"


Running his hand up the back of my leg he said,"Tell me when I hit the spot."

I winced. "Right there."

"It's warm, but I don't feel any swelling. How big is it, can I cover it with just a finger?"

Blowing out a long breath, concentrating on the sensation, I said, "Yeah, I think so, but just."

"Now straighten it, good, try standing."

Holding on to Jo Anne and Cheryl for support I stood, took a step. It hurt. Sitting back down I said, "What's the prognosis doc?"

My son looked up at me, smiled, and said, "Well, at least you didn't strain your sense of humor. You pulled it, not severely, but enough. You should stay off it, but..."

He'd anticipated the pained expression on my, Cheryl, and Jo Anne's faces.

"... you have that NPC competition in three weeks, for which you've been busting your butt, and aren't going to. It'd be best to ice it, stay off it tonight, and we'll check in the morning."

"I've got a date with Karl tonight."

My son made his "I don't care how cute he is, Karl is a self-centered narcissistic butt-head" face, but said nothing. Cheryl said it for him: "Call him and cancel."

I said, "Well, you know how he gets, but yeah, I'll do it."

* * * * *

Karl whined, said it was a big deal, that he'd busted his ass to get these reservations, that it was the "it" place and he wanted to be seen there with his hot girlfriend. I objected, told him about the injury, agreed to go on the date.

At dinner, when I talked about my leg, Karl'd interrupt, tell me I'd be fine, that it wasn't the biggest thing in the world, injuries happen, can't be helped, there'd be other competitions, then we talked about Karl.

* * * * *

As Karl dropped me off and I limped up the walkway to our small rented house, full of anger and pain and frustration, I was glad he wasn't walking me to the door. If I heard one more empty assurance that I'd be fine I might have bitten his fricking head off. My plan was to crawl into bed and cry myself to sleep, but my son had left the living room light on. When I went to turn it off I found him sleeping on the couch, his tablet and several open textbooks on the table before him. I sat down and ran a hand through his short brown hair.

"Hey sleepy head."

He opened his eyes. "I must have dozed off."

"Up late studying?"

He shook his head, regained his focus, and said, "No, I was reading about hamstrings. How are you feeling?"

"It tightened up. You were right, I should have stayed home and put ice on it. Heck, the meal wasn't even that good."

"I put some ice packs in the freezer, we can do it now. Then, after you get ready for bed, I'll take a look at it. I do have some good news."

"I could use some. What is it?"

"You have an appointment, first thing in the morning at Proteus."

Proteus was the best, and most expensive, sports medicine clinic in the city. I worked as an attendant at a twenty-four fitness place, child support had ended when Ryan turned eighteen, and while his father paid the community college's minimal tuition, that didn't help with household expenses.

"Honey, that's sweet, but there's no insurance. I can't afford Proteus."

"No problem. I texted Dean Johnson about what happened. She contacted Proteus, called in a favor, got you an appointment first thing in the morning, no charge. I'll go with you, they'll show me how I can help. I mean, if that's okay."

My pain and frustration temporarily forgotten, I hugged my son in unrestrained joy.

* * * * *

Ryan, the product of an ill-advised liaison with a married older man, was the one constant in my life. Preternaturally mature, he declined to follow his friends to the de rigeur four year college life of parties, beer, and girls, and instead spent his senior year in high school at a local community college studying to be a physical therapist assistant. Now, finishing his second year, he was about to get his degree. Soon he'd be making more money than me.

I don't want him to sound too nerdy, he liked to go out, had friends, had girlfriends, although none at the moment, and while he did not share my love of body-building, he ran, especially mountain trails, rock climbed, swam, and was a regular at the gym, where he moved his share of kettle bells.

* * * * *

I showered, put on panties and a short robe, and checked the clock. Well past Ryan's usual bed-time, I called down the hall, "Honey, I'm ready, but are you sure? It's late."

Ryan, still in his bedroom, said, "Of course I am. It's important you get treatment as soon as possible, you've got a championship to win. Go ahead and lie down I'll be there in a minute."

I did, and when he came into the room he stopped, looked me, and said, "Mom, what you've done with your body is amazing."

After my miserable day, that was nice to hear, even from my son.

"You don't think it's too much? Some guys don't like all these muscles on a girl."

"Well, you can't account for taste, but I think you're beautiful."

Studying my leg he got onto the bed and said, "It's definitely strained, there's some bruising and swelling but I don't think you tore anything," then ran his fingers along the front of my leg and said, "There's some tightness in your quadriceps. After this is over I'll show you some new ways to stretch."

Then he placed his hands on my butt.

I jerked; his hands flew off my rear.

"Sorry Mom, shoulda asked, my mistake, it's just that weak glutes can contribute to a hamstring pull. I wanted to check, but..."

"No, sorry I overreacted, I was surprised. Go ahead."

He placed his hands on my butt and I, at his request, tightened my rump.

"Not an issue for you, you're real strong here."

Returning to my thigh, he massaged every knot and fiber; then, when done, he stood and excused himself, said he'd be right back. When I reached down to straighten my robe I found that its hem lay across my waist; I hadn't realized how far it had crept up my body during the massage. Pulling my robe back in place I sat up as Ryan returned, handed me a glass of water and two pills, and said, "NPC rules allow non-prescription anti-inflammatories. I did some research, these are the best for your injury."

After I swallowed them I said, "I appreciate your taking such good care of me. Do you have any idea whether I can, I mean...," then started crying. Ryan lay down, held me until I was cried out, when, in a voice still blubbery, I said, "I'm sorry, you must think I'm a big baby."

"No, I think you're spectacular. We'll know more tomorrow, but it could have been far worse and you're in incredible shape. We'll find a way."

* * * * *

Dr. Melissa Brown, something of a local legend, she'd been an All-American soccer player at the state university, was examining my leg.

"How long after the injury did you get ice on it?"

Ryan said, "Not til late that night, maybe six hours, then again this morning."

"Why the delay?"

Jumping in I said, "That's on me. Ryan wanted to ice it right away, but my boyfriend and I had a date planned. Ryan suggested I cancel, but he insisted we go out."

She said, "My stern wise medical advice: if it happens again, listen to your son," then turned to Ryan and said, "What else did you do?"

"I massaged it last night."

"That explains why the knotting isn't as bad as anticipated. You did a good job."

"Thank you ma'am."

"Would you go ahead and wrap it."

He did and, unconsciously nodding her head, Dr. Brown asked a couple of questions, then said, "Good job."

"Thank you ma'am."

"Ryan, you've done good work here, I'll mention it to Dr. Johnson. Leeann, stay off it, ice it every three to four hours, stay off it, keep it elevated, ice it, stay off it. Take the anti-inflammatory per instructions only, if you start gulping them it may disqualify you from the competition."

"You mean I'll be ready for the competition?"

"It we do this right, I can give you a definite maybe. If you feel up to it and your son says it's okay you can return to careful limited, very careful, very limited, work-outs. The best we can realistically hope for is maintenance intensity. Listen to Ryan, and Ryan, keep me advised, I'll see you in a week."

Then, discarding her authoritative manner, she said, "Both of you, call me Melissa. Leeann what you've done with your body is remarkable, you should be proud. You can win this thing, but be careful. There'll be other competitions."

* * * * *

At the gym I sat behind my desk, leg elevated, icing it per instructions. If someone had to be shown something there was a volunteer ready to help. My son began his work-out at 5:00; the posse filtered in between 5:15 and 5:30, gathered in my small office, and although we'd exchanged texts all day, I filled them in again on my status and prognosis.

It was Sandra, a striking woman most noticeable for her long highlighted blonde hair, who said, "Well, we better get our work-outs in, you can tell us the rest over margaritas."

That brought a smile to my face. It was Thursday, Margarita Night for the posse - don't worry, I'd been a good girl, limiting myself to one while in training - but, I couldn't see going out. My leg hurt.

"I can't."

Jo Anne, a brunette whose dragon tattoo covered her back, said, "We know that silly, but since it wouldn't be Margarita Night without you, we're doing it at your place. Cheryl's got everything in a cooler in her cruiser."

Cheryl, a sheriff's deputy with short dyed blonde hair and a tattoo of the moon on her shoulder, said, "Including a virgin margarita for you."

They were a force of nature. Who was I to say no?

* * * * *

When my son walked by the living room Jo Anne said, "Hey Ryan, come on in."

"Hey guys, I didn't mean to bother you."

"No bother, your Mom's been telling us what a hero you've been."

"Thanks, but Mom's the hero."

* * * * *

I was sitting on the toilet when my phone buzzed; it was another text from Karl. He wanted to go to a party Friday night, but I knew the place, a lot of standing, all of it on concrete. I wasn't up to it and had told him so. Now he was pushing, trying to get me to give in with texts alternating between pout and argument. That almost always worked, but my leg hurt and I was already mad at him - he hadn't called or texted all day - and I'd busted my ass for this competition and an evening with the posse always stiffened my spine. What I wanted was a massage and then go to sleep. I called him, stuck to my guns. Sulking, he said he get back to me.

Feeling good about telling Karl no, I stood, looked in the mirror, flexed, turned around, checked my back, thought about the shrink who noted my instinct for pretty men who talked about sharing and equality, but were just spoiled boys who wanted things their own way.

That was enough thinking about Karl, it was time for my massage. Not wanting a repeat of last night when my panties had been fully exposed, I put on my competition bikini, crawled onto my bed, and texted Ryan who entered my bedroom, took a long look, and said, "I pity your competition," then spent thirty minutes on my leg. His touch was wonderful.

* * * * *

In the morning Karl called, said he was going to the party with friends, apologized, asked for absolution. It was granted.

That night my son worked on my leg.

* * * * *

The following evening I was at Karl's - I'd insisted on a quiet night in - and although we were theoretically watching a movie he had that whole "What-I-really-want-is-sex-but-I-am-not-so-insensitive-as-to-ask-for-it" vibe going. My carefully wrapped (thank you Ryan) leg ached and the idea of sex did nothing for me, but it was best to be pro-active. I kissed him, removed his pants, took him in my mouth, he came. He said he'd do the same for me, but my fricking leg ached and I wasn't in the mood so I cited my leg and begged off. Karl protested, just enough so I'd know he cared, then said okay.

At home my son worked my leg.

* * * * *

On Margarita Thursday I lifted at maintenance level and to celebrate the posse headed for our favorite place, which had this very hunky waiter. Over margaritas (mine alcohol free) we talked about the competition, and the waiter, and work, and the waiter, and life, and the waiter. I must have been getting better, for the first time since my injury I was horny.

At home I crawled into bed, Ryan crawled on behind me, paused, and said, "Mom, is it okay if I touch your behind? I want to see if there's any tightening there. "

"Now you're asking? The other day you just grabbed."

"Yeah, I shouldn't have done that, but in my defense it's a nice butt."

Smiling I said, "You shouldn't talk to your mother like that, but go ahead."

He carefully traced the muscles of my backside with his fingers, then said, "Sometimes, when you injure one part of your body you unconsciously change how you do things to protect it and, in the process, stress other parts of your body. Athletes with foot problems sometimes the stress on their feet by using their knees in ways for which yhey weren't designed and end up with knee problems."

Familiar with the problem I said, "I understand."

"I think that's happening to you. To protect your hamstring you're stressing your gluteus maximus and gluteus medus."

"Is it a problem?"

"It could be. If it's okay, I'd like to massage you here also."

Turning my head, pushing some dark strands of hair out of the way, I said, "Okay, but we'll keep this to ourselves, the posse doesn't need to know."

Ryan worked up my thigh. When he reached the top, his fingers still on my leg, he drove his powerful thumbs into the bottom of my butt and I felt my pussy lips slide on each other. Surprised, I jerked and when Ryan said, "You okay?" I dissembled and said, "Yeah, I didn't know how tight I was back there."

Ryan, taking my comment as approval, said, "Okay, we'll work on that," and massagedg my backside. Over the initial shock, I had to admit it felt good: my pussy lips slithered on each other, the walls of my sex undulated in long waves, my breathing flattened out. Thankfully, he kept going and as his hands moved away from my sex the butterflies in my stomach landed and tucked in their wings.

After he left I jammed my hand inside my bikini bottoms and fingered myself to orgasm.

* * * * *

On Friday night I suggested Karl and I watch a movie at his place. With the competition eight days away I wanted to get to bed early and get a fresh start tomorrow. Karl, however, stopped for beers with the guys on the way home and at his place he pulled two more from the fridge. I declined, he drank one, then the other, then discussed which movie to order, but that wasn't what he wanted. I knew that horn dog look, what he wanted was sex and while I wasn't interested in sex, I was interested in getting to bed early and didn't want this to take all night.

I peeled off his shirt, pushed his pants to his ankles, took him in my mouth. I give a good head - at least, no complaints yet - and he was soon moaning, jerking his hips, running his hands through my hair. I coddled his balls, felt them retract into his body, readied myself, swallowed it all.

And while I hadn't been horny when we'd started, I was now. Blow jobs can do that to me. He wasn't going to get hard again, but he could eat me.

First, however, I had to pee. I headed for the bathroom, slipped out of my sandals, undid my jeans, shimmied them down my legs (my thigh had tightened up), pulled my shirt and bra off, obeyed nature's call, considered unwrapping my leg, decided not to, it would take to long, returned to the bedroom. Karl was snoring.

Fuck, I knew better, I should have peed before we started.

Next question: spend the night, go home?

I fished my phone out of my jeans, sent Ryan a text. He responded: his fingers were looking for a leg to massage. Did I know any that were available?

"How would your fingers feel if I spent the night here?"

"They'd get through it, I mean after therapy."

I laughed. I wanted that massage and had no interest in sleeping next to my snoring boyfriend (he does that when he drinks), then listen to him bitch about his hangover in the morning. I sent Karl a text letting him know I'd gone home. He'd see it in the morning.

* * * * *

As happened last night, when my son worked my leg and backside my vaginal walls flexed, my pussy lips swelled and glissaded. I tried to focuson controlling my visible reaction, but when Ryan rotated my ass cheeks I murmured, "That's feels so good," with a bit more emotion than intended. Thankfully, Ryan didn't notice.

After he left I got in the shower and gave myself a frickin' amazing orgasm, then returned to the bedroom and the unmistakable odor of my arousal. Had Ryan smelled it? No, it would have been a gradual accretion, a change you wouldn't notice if you'd been in the room the entire time.

* * * * *

Each night my son worked my leg and fanny, setting off a brush fire in my sex. When he left, no longer caring that he'd ignited the fire, I masturbated.

* * * * *

Dr. Brown said, "Leeann, you've made a remarkable recovery. I think we can credit superior genes, luck, a patient in magnificent condition, and a talented future physical therapist assistant. After you win tomorrow, promise to stay off it until it's better."

"I promise. I don't know how to thank you for all you've done."

"It's been my pleasure, you're a wonderful patient, but since you ask, I have two suggestions."

"Which are?"

"When you win tomorrow, mention us, free publicity never hurts."

"Of course, and the second?"

"We're going to offer your son a job, make sure he accepts."

A bit surprised, I said, "Ryan told me you only hired experienced employees."

"We do, but I've seen your son's work, he's good. Plus the staff has been lobbying me to hire him, half the women in the place have a crush on him, they're lobbying me to hire him.. They think he's the perfect guy."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean his Mama raised him right. Not only is he smart, sweet, funny, and cute, but everyone's seen how he's taken care of you. He's not a man who just expects to be taken care of, he knows it's important to take care of a woman."

* * * * *

Favoring my leg I held up the three trophies, best overall figure, best figure class c, best thirty-five and up. During the competition I'd felt it strain again, but Ryan and Dr. Brown had warned me it might happen and when it did I employed the relaxation techniques they'd taught me and finished the competition.

Handed a microphone I said, "As many of you know, I pulled my hamstring several weeks back, wondered whether I could make it today. Several people got me through it. I want to thank Dr. Melissa Brown and the Proteus Clinic who took extraordinary care of me, my best friends, Sandra, Jo Anne, and Cheryl, the posse, you guys are incredible, and my son Ryan, my in-home medical man."

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