Waking to a Burn

How, I wondered, did I feel about it?

Then, I froze stock-still. I was mortified. My penis engorged my shorts. I hadn't even noticed it. Sitting in class, I blushed deeply. I kept trying to convince myself it was just one of hundreds--thousands, really--of unprompted erections. They happened all the time, right?

I quickly shook my head, and I focused my eyes on the open textbook on my desk. I forced myself to read the words and think about them. All morning I struggled.

After lunch, I called Mom to check in. "You doing okay?"

"Not really."

"What is it?"

"Everywhere's starting to itch like mad," she explained. "How's school?"

"Normal."

"Don't make too many big plans for tonight--or this weekend as a whole. I think I'm going to be relying upon you, sugar."

"Okay."

"Thank you, and I'm so very sorry to inconvenience you this way. It isn't fair of me."

"It's okay."

"Hurry home after school."

"I will."

It was not a particularly attentive day at school for me. I thought about Mom's fanny, and I watched the clock slowly move towards 3:00 pm. I spent the time in an internal battle. A part of me grew excited at the prospect of helping Mom again. Another part of me rejected this as disgusting. In moments where I was able to be more honest with myself, I wondered what I would feel when I saw her lying in bed again, naked from head to toe.

I wasn't sure, but I pinched my eyes shut and promised myself that I wouldn't get aroused. I must not grow erect. I felt my face flush with blood at the shameful prospect--my mother, shocked and disappointed, seeing a tent in my shorts when she was so helplessly exposed.

I didn't hear the dismissal bell. Someone nudged my shoulder, and I saw the classroom emptying. I gathered my things and drove home, but I didn't race.

"Sugar?" she called down. "That you?"

"Yeah!"

"Hurry upstairs!"

I jogged up. When I opened her door, there she was, almost the same as I left her--on her tummy, utterly nude and exposed. The cream appeared to have been absorbed by her skin. It had only a faint luster over that raw redness.

My eyes targeted her fanny. Something about seeing it again, exposed, relaxed me. I cursed myself and pried my gaze away.

"More gel," she huffed. "Quickly."

I grabbed the container and went to work on her back, coating it.

"Rub it in this time," she urged. "You can press harder. Rub it in." Mom's entire body shivered for a moment, and she weakly moaned, "It itches. Oh, dearie, it itches."

I kneaded the lotion into her skin.

"Bigger circles," she encouraged. "Wider. Rub a bigger area with your hands each time. Get lots of the cream and go faster."

I scooped a dollop, spread it to both hands, and began rubbing it into the skin of her entire back.

"Yes," she moaned. "Oh, sugar. Like that."

Her body rocked upon the bed as my hands drove the lotion into her skin. Mom's soft flesh rolled in front of my hands like a little wave. With the severity of her burn, I was surprised it wasn't more painful to her.

"My fanny and my legs now," she urged, her forehead buried in the pillow.

I swept more cream into my hands, and I hesitated. My eyes feasted on her bottom, and with a jolt of fear, I realized I wanted to touch it.

Her bottom was big and bulbous--beautifully feminine. Rising steeply from her lower back on one side and from her thighs on the other, it looked a bit like a sunrise. In my guts, I had the sudden impulse to abuse it--to spank it sharply. It seemed vulnerable--not just because of the sunburn, but because it was so big, tender, and unprotected.

"Hurry," she cried.

I put one hand on her bottom and one on her thigh, and I began kneading in large circles. The first time my hand crossed from one globe to the next, my heart skipped; I had exposed the inside of the cleft.

Nerves suddenly firing, stomach trembling, I avoided that dark line for a time. When my heart could not deny it any longer, I sent my palm across her fanny, low and deep. I watched with aching excitement as my palm crossed over the cleft, pushed aside the other supple mound, and exposed her anus to me.

I glimpsed a tiny thing--like a pink wad of bubblegum that had been crinkled up, shaped into a circular star, and then punctured in the center by a needle. It vanished instantly, and my head suddenly felt hot. My eyes darted toward Mom's face.

Surely, the super-sensitive skin there had felt her bottom spread apart and clap back together, and not before the cool air of her bedroom streamed over that tender pink ring. Mom breathed deeply, but she didn't show any sign of having had her privacy violated.

My hands made wide circles, avoiding the cleft for a time. I scooped more gel cream, and I began again. This time, I worked the entire length of her lower body, from her ankles to her fanny. I kneaded and swept around.

Mom moaned and affirmed my actions.

I leaned over her bottom, staring straight down at it, and I glided my hand over the cleft--back and forth--twice. Four times the little pink star peeked out at me. I hated myself for liking it, for the thrill I felt when I saw her anus. On the last pass, Mom issued a tiny squeak. My hands moved on to other places.

The hole there was so small, I realized. How can something this thick and full, I said to myself as I drank in her entire bottom with my eyes, be there to hide and protect something so very tiny?

I finished on her legs. Mom felt me stop. Her head rose from the pillow, and she said, "I dread asking this of you, sugar, but I must. Can you get the inside again--in between?"

I looked from her to her fanny and back again.

"I wouldn't ask," she explained, "if I could do it myself."

I nodded.

She plowed her forehead into the pillow and added, "And--and you may exert a bit more force this time. It itches there, too. Mightily."

I greased up the side of my hand, and I began to saw it through the cleft.

Mom sighed.

Back and forth, I went, never pushing hard, but savoring the gentle hug the two globes gave my hand and the sight of her bottom undulating to the rhythm of my sawing motion.

"Deeper, please," she huffed.

I added force, and I knew I was right over the spot, maybe a quarter of an inch above it as it slid past.

"Like that, yes, but more. I'm so sorry."

I pushed all the way, and I slowed down.

Mom moaned.

I felt her anus travel the length of my hand one way and then the other. The knuckle at the base of my pinky finger--a tiny knot of bone there on the side of my hand--dipped against it as it dragged past.

Mom's breathing halted for an instant.

I slid the knuckle back through, and as my pinky finger dragged along, I gave it the teensiest bit of extra pressure. It, too, felt the little puncture yield slightly and just hint at the allowance of passage inside.

I swore at myself for doing it. Why? I demanded, why did I do that? That isn't me. I lightened my pressure and sawed my way out of the cleft until my hand was free.

Mom sighed deeply. She said, "Oh, that is so much better. Please don't be upset that I asked you to do that for me."

"It's okay."

"Thank you for being a gentleman about it."

Mom's face turned to me. I saw her movement in time to cross my legs, hiding an erection that might have shattered glass.

"Two things," she began with a sigh. "I'm getting really hungry. Could you bring me up something to eat and drink? Some cheese and crackers, maybe. And refreshen my tea. Second, the sheet--the one I've been using to cover up--is soiled from all of this lotion. Might you be willing to swap it out with a fresh one? Maybe throw it in the washer?"

"Sure," I said. Before I left, I said, "Mom, can I ask you something--something maybe you won't like?"

"What is it?"

"How are you--I mean, have you been able to use the bathroom?"

Momentarily, she pursed her lips and furrowed her brow at my bringing up the subject. She said, "Under normal circumstances, I'm not sure I would approve of that question."

I nodded, hanging my head a touch.

Then, relaxing her expression, she sighed and said, "But things have changed a bit, haven't they?" She thought about her response and answered, "I think I understand why you are asking. Yes, I have been able to, but let me assure you that it is an awfully trying experience. Thank goodness I had that new toilet put in before this happened."

Mom was referencing the combination toilet-bidet-air dryer that she had purchased for our home after a model friend of hers raved about it. I could see why it might be helpful; after finishing, the bidet cleaned her up down there with warm water and then the blower dried her off. She didn't have to reach back or under and drag tissue over herself.

"Okay," I said. "I was just a little worried about you for that."

"Thank you, sugar, for thinking of me," she offered. "Now, how about that food and my new sheet?"

My erection remained a problem. So, first I asked her to repeat her food order. Then, I asked her if she had any specific sheet in mind--one that might be more comfortable.

"Any that can cover me will do," she said.

I pretended to tie my shoe, kneeling beside the bed and adjusting my penis and shirt. When I rose, I casually flicked my shirt out.

Mom noticed my actions; I could read a question in her eyes.

"That it?" I asked.

She blinked and said, "Y--yes, go ahead."

I left, and by the time I returned with crackers, cheese, and iced tea, my erection had diminished. Though she was still naked on the bed, I didn't dare look for fear of reawakening my penis. I didn't look when I took off her sheet, either. But knowing how I would be gone before my penis could betray me, I perused her bottom when I brought the new sheet, knelt, and tucked it in under her mattress.

I liked the new angle, seeing her fanny from the level point-of-view. I liked how the halves rose like two circular hilltops. I liked how, even when Mom appeared relaxed, the two hills seemed both independent and drawn to one another.

Mom had me raise the free end of the sheet so she could reach it without moving too much, and then I left.

Downstairs, I berated myself for the excitement I was feeling. I wanted girls, I told myself, for what was between their legs, not for what was inside their fannies. I didn't want to be a--a "butt guy." And that was my mom up there, I scolded myself, not some cute girl from school.

Later, I ate supper with her. She had me cover her bottom with the sheet, said it would be "wholly inappropriate" for us to eat a family meal while her fanny was exposed. More frozen food--we had mini-tacos with tortilla chips, salsa, and sour cream on the side. We talked about school and graduation.

When I rose to clear the plates, Mom said, "Just so you know, sugar, in a few minutes I'm planning on getting up and using the bathroom. When I'm finished, I'm going to climb into the shower and see how much heat my back can tolerate."

"Okay."

"I'm letting you know in case you hear some moans or cries coming out of this bedroom, you'll know not to come running."

I nodded.

"If I need you, I'll holler for you. Will that be satisfactory?"

"Sure, Mom."

"Okay, thank you for supper."

I closed the door behind me, but after finishing the dishes, I sneaked back upstairs. Guilt tore at me, but I wanted this. Beside her bedroom door, I listened.

I wanted to be close by if something bad happened, of course, but that didn't explain all of my reasoning. I liked the idea of hearing her move and imagining her body, totally naked. I wanted to listen to the sounds she made. I wanted to know if, in her suffering, she said things to herself that she wouldn't dare say in front of me.

The second I heard the swish of her body on that bed, followed by a groan, I put my ear to the door.

"Oh, dearie-dearie-dearie," she murmured. "Ah! Ow! Oh, Maureen, you silly, foolish girl."

I smiled because Mom sometimes talked to herself in the third person; other times she used her own name as a kind of interjection.

"Yes, dearie, yes. Now, here we go--ah! Ouch! Ouchie!" she cried. "My tushy. My fanny. Oh, my little buns--that hurts."

"Let's get these gams moving, Maureen. Oh, sweet potato pie, that's ouchie!"

It may sound cruel. I don't mean it to be; I couldn't help myself. I started laughing, listening to Mom. She sounded like such a little girl saying those things. I had to cover my mouth to stop from making too much noise.

Later downstairs, I heard the water running, but Mom didn't call for me. The water shut off after about thirty-five minutes. I listened at the bottom of the stairs for any calls, but none came. In fact, it wasn't until around nine in the evening that she called for me. I jogged up to her.

About a second after I walked into the room, I said, "Oh, gosh. Mom, are you okay?"

Shaking her head, she groaned, "You have no idea how much this itches. It's enough to drive a person mad."

"Will more cream--?"

"Yes. Right now. Get the cream. Like before--rub it in hard, everywhere."

I pulled the sheet down, noticing the earliest stages of blisters forming. Then, I began. The new technique didn't require quite as much of the cream. I guessed I wouldn't need more for several days.

As I started out, I made a selfish decision, one that could have easily given away the awful desires I was trying so hard to hide from her: I decided to do Mom's fanny last. So, I coated and kneaded her back and her legs, leaving her bottom untouched.

For her part, Mom didn't seem to notice. It was the places I put my hands that seemed to suddenly become the itchiest. In the same way, my touches almost instantly provided some relief to those places. She never urged me to put the cream on her bottom until, having finished with her back and legs, she felt my hands begin to relax on her thighs.

"Now my fanny. Now my fanny. Now my fanny," she repeated anxiously.

"Easier," I said nervously, "if I climb over you."

"Fine. Yes. Carefully, but hurry."

Quickly, I took the container and straddled Mom's bare legs, cautious not to touch her. Dipping my fingers into the goop, I spread it between my hands and clutched the two fleshy buns, kneading and watching her anus appear and vanish.

It isn't easy to describe what I felt. Maybe I was like a gambler stepping onto the pristine game floor of a brand new casino with a thick wad of twenties in his pocket. Maybe I was a drugger with a fresh bag of weed or cocaine or whatever. What I felt in my heart was not just that I wanted and needed to see and touch her fanny, but that it somehow filled an emptiness in me. I was helping her, yes, but I was helping myself, too

Mom encouraged these feelings with deep gasps and draw out moans.

A recklessly brazen idea seized me. Using one hand to massage her bottom, I quietly unzipped my shorts. Then, I snaked a few fingers into the fly of my briefs and drew free my surging penis.

Resuming with both hands, I squeezed the cream into my mom's fanny, and I watched my erection grow to completion. It hovered there, mere inches from her.

Another, even crazier idea sprang into my mind--to touch her fanny with my penis. The second the thought formed, I knew I needed to do it. I hated myself for it, but the craving felt relentless.

I began to press my thumbs into the flesh of her bottom, one at a time. It was a bit like poking, although I wasn't using the pointy end of my thumb, rather the pad--the fingerprint. Continuing to press one thumb into her, I placed my other hand on the mattress, shifting some of my weight onto that limb. Then, as swiftly as I could, I grabbed my erection, bent it down, and began pressing it into the hemisphere of soft flesh. I tried to imbue the pokes with the same pressure as my thumb. Yet, I quickly realized that the feeling didn't satisfy me. I needed something else.

Tweaking the angle of my body, I pushed the underside of the tip onto her bottom. Then, I dragged it around there. The flesh-on-flesh contact with her downy, feminine skin was bliss. I could do this, I realized, until I ejaculated. Adding to the physical sensation was the illicit thrill of it. The risk was astonishing to consider.

"Do it like before, sugar," she murmured, "with both hands."

I froze like a guilty thing, but she wasn't looking back.

Pushing myself up, I let go of my erection, swiped some cream, and resumed the deep tissue massage of her bottom. My heart raced like a thief's.

I needed to put my penis away, but my hands were occupied. And even if I drew one hand back, my erection was impossibly rigid. I didn't think I could tuck it away with one hand. Beyond those concerns was the simple truth that it felt good to have it out and to see it near her big bottom.

"Oh, that's perfect," Mom sighed.

I squeezed her again, and she moaned. The sound made me feel reckless again. Grasping the two halves in each hand, I massaged her so as to spread her wide apart, to bare her little secret to me.

There it was.

Mom gasped.

Relaxing for a moment, I massaged and pried again.

Yeah.

Mom's breath caught in her throat.

And again.

"Oh!" she moaned.

Almost unable to speak, I couldn't recognize my own voice when I asked her if she needed me to put the ointment on the inside again.

"Please do, if--if you don't object."

"I don't," I wanted to say, but the words caught in my throat at the surge of exhilaration I felt.

I gathered a small amount and, rather than coating the side of my hand, I used the fingertips of my middle and index fingers to make little circles. Starting at her lower back, those fingers massaged deeply and crept downward. Down and into the gap. Further.

Mom's breath came in fits and starts. Sometimes, she held it. Others, she drew small rapid chuffs. In between, she gasped.

Gathering more, I resumed, now rubbing circles on the tender flesh all around her tiny star. When I finished the outer ring, I hesitated. Then, I decided not to ask permission. I depressed my fingertips onto the taut wrinkles in the center spot.

Mom sighed.

I made the circles, gathering the sensation and holding it in my mind. My middle finger passed over the entry point. The texture changed. Something tightened. And relaxed. The tip of my middle finger dipped--ever so slightly--into the passage.

I drew it back in astonishment.

The halves of Mom's fanny clenched together, and she said, "That--." She stopped and cleared her throat. "That will do, sugar."

Breathing as if having finished a face, I stared down at her bottom.

Mom said, "I'm sorry to have asked such a thing of you, but it helps a great deal. You may--you may dismount me now."

I had to clear my own throat before responding, "Yeah. Okay."

As rapidly as I could, I opened my briefs with one hand and, easing my hips back, drew my erection inside of my shorts. Sliding my hand between the shorts and my tummy, I realigned the rod to ride up my belly, pinned to it by the waistband and belt of my shorts.

The zipper, I decided, would be too noisy. I left it open.

I climbed off Mom and sat with my back to her on the side of the bed.

"Hey, Mom?"

"Yes?"

"Why do you keep telling me 'don't make fun' or 'save your comments' and stuff like that?"

I looked over my shoulder at her. She had just finished turning her face towards me. She curtly said, "I think you know how I can be quite sensitive about my appearance."

"What's wrong with your appearance?"

She blinked for a moment, surprised by the implied compliment, it seemed. "Well, I--I don't have the body of an eighteen-year-old girl anymore like the ones in your school. I'm a grown woman with a large fanny, and I know there's a touch of hail damage back there. Since I'm splayed out naked on this bed, I don't need to hear any wise remarks about such things."