Waking to a Burn

"I would never," I responded, "say anything like that."

She said, "Thank you for being a gentleman."

Shaking my head, I clarified, "It isn't about manners. I mean, there isn't anything bad to say about your body, Mom. No guy my age or any age would have anything but good things to say about it, especially about your bottom."

Mom smiled in a fatigued way. She said, "What a lovely thing to say. Thank you." When I rose, Mom said, "Would you please bring me a big glass of water. I'm feeling comfortable enough to sleep."

"Sure."

Mom's eyes found my crotch. "Your zipper is down."

"Huh? Oh," I said, quickly reaching down to zip myself.

"Oh, and drape that sheet over my fanny, will you, sugar?"

I covered her, fetched the ice water, and shut off her light.

Downstairs, I chided myself for my secret desires. What did they make me? A freak? Something worse?

Almost in a panic, I jumped on our laptop and began asking questions. "Am I wrong if I like putting my finger in my girlfriend's bottom?" It didn't take me long to discover that I would improve the efficiency of my searches by using more crude terminology. "What does it mean if I like my girlfriend's b___hole?" "Am I gay if I like girls' a__holes?" "Does it feel good to girls to have a finger in their a__?" "Can a__-men still like p___y?"

These questions took me to a lot of places. Many of them were terribly disgusting, but a few seemed helpful. Opinions varied significantly, but to my relief what I learned helped me conclude that I was not abnormal.

It was girls I wanted, and girls alone. I knew it in my heart, but reading about it helped affirm everything I felt inside. Also, it was normal for some men to be turned on by bottoms and anuses. Equally, I discovered it was normal for some women to enjoy a variety of anal-based sexual activities. A man who liked the things I liked could also equally like a woman's special place.

I went to bed feeling much better, but there remained one problem. I had typed "girlfriend" or "girl" to my questions--not "mother." Probably because I already knew what the answers would be.

No, those feelings were not normal. Not at all.

***

It was half-past two in the morning when Mom called for me again. Her voice was weak and labored, almost like she wasn't sure if she wanted to wake me. When I opened the door, she said, "You can turn on the light."

She sounded different.

Switching on the light, I saw that she had covered her entire body with the sheet during the night. Mom's face was almost as red as her back, her eyes were glassy and bloodshot, and there was a wet spot under her eyes and nose on her pillowcase.

"Oh, no, Mom. What's wrong?"

"I'm very uncomfortable," she uttered on the verge of sobbing.

"What do you need? More ointment?"

"That'd help a bit, I'm sure, but--and please don't judge me about this--but I could use some liquor, something to dull the pain and the itchiness."

"I'll get you whatever you want."

"Thank you, sugar," she said, sniffing. "You know those short tumblers I keep in the cabinet next to the liquor?"

I nodded.

"I'd like you to fill one about this high with Jack Daniels." Her fingers indicated something like four shots' worth. "No ice. No water. Just Jack--and bring me a straw for it. Cut that straw in half so it doesn't fall out of the tumbler all the time."

"Okay."

I brought it back for her a few minutes later.

"Can you bring the straw to my lips for me?"

I did. Mom took a quick pull, coughed lightly, and groaned a "thank you." Then, she nodded for me to let her have another sip. She took a larger one, and it went down more smoothly than the first.

Sighing, she told me to sit with her, keep her company. I put the drink on her nightstand and sat beside her on the bed.

"Want me to get the gel cream?"

"Not just yet," she said, her eyes fixed upon the drink. Then, she turned toward me. "You don't mind helping me, don't you?"

"No, I like it."

"My goodness, look at you," she said. "The spitting image of my Buck."

Buckland--"Buck"--was my pop.

After saying this, she looked over my body.

I came to her straight from sleep, so the only thing I had on was a pair of thigh-length gym shorts. I liked to sleep in them because they were soft and tight around my legs and bottom, but they had a stretchy, roomy pouch in the front that helped keep nighttime erections comfortable.

Mom asked for another drink.

I took the tumbler to her, and she drew another large pull. Swallowing with a sigh, she said, "That helps quite a bit except for--." She didn't complete the thought.

"What is it, Mom?"

"I suppose there's no point in fibbing to you," she said, "because you've probably already surmised it. I've got a sunburn on my--my anus."

She waited for a reaction.

I didn't give her one.

"Thank you for not laughing at me," she said. "Models, we sometimes have to wear tiny clothes--thongs and g-strings and such, and my next shoot being the spring collection--."

I interrupted her. "I know about the tanning assist, Mom. I--uh--I couldn't help but notice it when you were asleep on the lounger after I got home from school Thursday. Looked up what it was."

"See? Aren't you a clever boy," she said. "Well, I'm glad you figured out what it was without making any hasty assumptions."

"What assumptions?"

"I don't know, sugar. I suppose a person might see something like that and assume it was some kind of--pardon me--but some kind of adult toy." I felt my eyes widen at her meaning. Before I could say anything, Mom added, "And good girls don't play that way. And good boys don't even ask."

I nodded in agreement, feeling a pang of guilt about my urges.

"Anyways," she went on, "the point is that what I've done to myself down there is terribly distressing."

"Painful?"

"Yes and no?" she responded as if it were a question. "You see it--it chafes to a maddening degree."

"Like itchy?"

"Yes!" she replied heartily. "Fiercely. Terribly."

"Doesn't the ointment help any?"

"Some. On the surface it helps, but--."

I waited for her to finish. When she didn't, I asked, "But what?"

Mom sighed. Then she signaled for me to let her have another drink.

I did, and when I drew back and settled, she said, "I don't understand it myself, but I wonder if the tanning assist opened me up a bit too much. You see it itches most on the inside--just inside."

I blinked.

She quickly added, "I'm so sorry to put that picture in your mind. I just wanted to be truthful with you. I'm hoping that by getting a little bit buzzed on whiskey, the itch might go away."

"You can't scratch it yourself?"

"It sounds so horrible, but I've tried, sugar, and when I reach back there, it aggravates the burn on my back and shoulder so much that--."

"That it hurts as much as the itch?" I finished for her.

"Yes."

My heart began to thud in my chest, and I asked, "Do you want me to rub some of that gel cream on it again? On your--?"

"No, I can't ask that of you again. Surely, you find it disgusting."

I said, "Mom, you're not gross. Being honest and all, I think it's actually kind of cute--." I went too far and stopped myself.

Her eyes grew wide with surprise and she turned to me. "My anus is 'cute'?"

I felt my face flush with embarrassment. I said, "Not--. I'm just saying--. I want to help you feel better, and I don't mind doing it is all."

"Don't--don't be ashamed, sugar. I'm sorry I said it that way. You just want to be helpful, don't you?"

I shrugged.

"You wouldn't mind it? Really?" she asked.

"No."

"Okay. Then, you may pull the sheet down and--and you can climb over me like before if that helps."

I grabbed the jar and drew the sheet from Mom's body.

"How does it look?" she asked.

Staring at the sweeping arc of her bottom and lost in it, I said, "It's just beautiful, Mom."

Her face turned to the side, and she said, "My sunburn, sugar, not my fanny."

"Oh." I scanned her back. "There's more blisters coming up on your shoulders and shoulder blades. Your lower back, too."

"Any on my bottom?"

"No. Not yet."

"My legs?"

"A few. Mostly on your calves so far. You want me to put this stuff on your whole back?"

"No," she said. "The only thing I care about right now is my fanny. How it chafes! Go ahead, if you're still willing."

I straddled the back of her thighs.

"Do my whole bottom, if you can, sugar. That way when you--you spread me open back there it won't hurt so much."

"Okay."

I quickly put a fresh helping of the gel cream over her rear, and my penis grew erect in that short time. Then, using two fingers I applied another light coat to the insides of the cleft, all around her anus but never on it.

The proximity seemed to agitate Mom's condition. Her fanny wiggled. She whimpered. She uttered, "Hurry, hurry, hurry."

I gathered a dollop on my middle finger, and I spread her apart with my other hand.

When she felt my finger begin to dress her anus with the ointment, her head rose from the pillow. Looking straight forward, she began to suck and blow air through pursed lips in long drafts. She raised her bottom up a fraction, making a stunning new curve that caused my erection to convulse.

I drew little circles with my finger. When the white cream finally turned clear, that thieving feeling grew upon me again when another idea gripped me. I carefully scooted backward. Reaching out, I drew the halves apart with both hands and, very cautiously, bent down. With my face just inches away, I gently blew on her anus.

She gasped.

I continued covering the little spot with a cool breeze.

"Oh, sugar, don't! You don't have to--" she pleaded.

I blew again.

"But it feels exquisite," she sighed.

I drew closer--perhaps an inch away--and continued, making a counter-clockwise stream of cool air cascade over her.

"So soothing and wonderful," she huffed, and her head sank into the pillow

I blew on her anus for another minute or so, listening to her coos and moans. Then, rising over her, I glanced down at the obscenely prominent erection jutting into my shorts.

Returning my gaze to Mom's rear, I inched forward on my knees. I opened her with the index finger and thumb of my left hand, got a small dollop of ointment, and then I placed the middle finger of my right hand--fully flexed and extended--dead center against Mom's anus.

"I'll try to help where you said it chafes now," I muttered.

Mom held her breath.

I pushed, and her body admitted it. Mom squeaked. When the fingertip was inside, her muscle there gripped me.

I rotated the digit clockwise and back again. The sound that issued from Mom thrilled me. It was as if she had just dipped herself into a steaming jacuzzi on a frosty day. I changed motions with my finger. Instead of rotating the tip, I began very incrementally to rock it inside of her--in and out, but never completely out.

Her head languidly rose from the pillow. With her eyes shut and head tilted back, she muttered, "Oh, sugar, I'm sorry, but that feels--so much better."

Hearing those words, I drew back my left hand, leaving my finger inside of her and feeling the two perfect globes hug the rest of my right hand. I tugged the waistband of my shorts down to my hips. Then, snaking my hand inside, I drew my erection free and instantly began stroking it.

My body responded immediately, rewarding each tug of the shaft with dizzying waves of pleasure.

Mom moaned again. The sound electrified me. I quit stroking, suddenly alarmed that a climax was unstoppably imminent. It was a horrifying prospect. My semen would splatter her bottom. She would find out. She would be furious.

Pinching my eyes shut, I grimaced and thought, "No. No. No!" Any further sensual utterance from her, I knew, would send jets of sperm rushing from me. Flexing my penis with my entire core, I felt the raging torrent of my climax slowly, achingly diminish until I once more had control. I silently let out the breath I had been damming up.

No more masturbating, I told myself. Not now.

Then, I caught a glimpse of the head of my erection. A dollop of semen was there at the slit. I quickly swiped it off with a finger. About to rub it off on my gym shorts, I stopped.

I returned my attention to Mom's anus and gently drew my middle finger out of it. Quickly, I transferred the bead of sperm onto that same finger. Then, grasping one meaty half, I softly massaged her bottom. Heart thudding, I gently urged my semen-tipped middle finger back inside of her until I felt the passage of the first knuckle.

Mom snuggled into the pillow and sighed.

My semen, I told myself, is inside Mom. Inside it. I knew I should have felt disgraced and ashamed at what I'd done, but I was feverish with excitement. I rocked the knuckle back and forth through the taut muscle a few times, and then I drew the finger out completely. The sperm was gone, all of it.

Then, I noticed something. Her muscle didn't briskly cinch closed. It throbbed for a moment--a little half-inch yawning hole. Then, a moment later, it closed tightly.

Mom opened her mouth to speak, but when she felt my finger dip into her again, no words came out, only a gasp. Her eyes pinched shut.

"Almost done," I said.

She nodded.

I drew the finger out again. This time, I put it back inside while her little star remained open. Back and forth, I went, feeding my finger into her anus to the first knuckle, and then taking it back.

I moved my body backward and bent down to watch it closely. With my face just a few inches above the action, I drew my finger free and watched.

I watched it throb open and pinch closed.

I fed the knuckle inside once more, and when I drew it out, a madness overcame me. Without thinking, I maneuvered a dollop of saliva behind my lips and gently pushed it free. It fell into the darkness, and I watched Mom's anus seal tightly shut, securing the deposit inside of her.

I drew back, stupefied by my own incautiousness. Could she feel that? Did she know? I asked myself with sudden alarm.

My eyes went to her face. She was looking back at me.

Oh, no. How, I wondered, does one have that conversation? How does a son explain to his mother that, yes, he did spit inside of her anus? Why had I done that? Why had I liked it?

My body remained bent at the waist, so there was little chance she could see my erection. Still, I closed my eyes, waiting for her to chastise me.

"Are you finished?" she asked gently.

I opened my eyes. She looked relaxed and appreciative.

"Oh," I said. "Yeah."

"That was so helpful. I'd hug you if I could."

I crawled off of her.

She rubbed my back and told me that she knew it was a sacrifice, but that it was very soothing. She finished, saying, "I suppose I should be grateful to have such a 'cute'--."

She quit speaking. I turned toward her.

Her smile had vanished. Her eyes were on my crotch; my erection was visible through my shorts. A wet spot lay where the tip stretched the cotton fabric to its limit.

Like lightning, I covered myself, but I knew it was too late. I sighed in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, Mom. It just--."

"Sugar?"

"--just happened. I didn't--."

"Sugar?"

"--mean to. I--."

"Raymond Joseph."

I closed my mouth when she said my name.

Having my full attention, Mom gently said, "We won't discuss it other than to say that I understand. These things can happen. I'll consider it a kind of compliment, and I won't mention it again."

I nodded, amazed and wondering if the whiskey or the massage had momentarily relaxed mom's strait-laced policies about sexuality.

"Will you fetch my drink and let me finish it?" she asked.

Curling at the waist to hide my shame, I brought the tumbler to her. She drew out the remainder with a slurp. "Okay," she sighed. "Let's get some sleep. I feel much better, so thank you."

I rose and went to the light.

Casually, Mom said, "Before you go, toss me the sheet and turn the ceiling fan on low."

Still covering myself and somewhat bent over, I took the sheet with one hand and tossed it over her body.

"Perfect," she said.

Then, I went to the fan. The chain was a bit too high for me. Behind her, I quit covering my erection, got on my tippy toes, and reached up. Grasping the string, I pulled three times to set her fan to its slowest pace. When I let go, I heard movement. Glancing at Mom, I saw her shift her body away from me and settle into her pillow.

Ten minutes later, I opened my eyes in the darkness of my bedroom. I whispered to the night air, asking, "Was Mom sneaking a peek at my erection when I turned on the fan?"

The question kept me up, as did memories of the things I had done to her bottom.

***

Even though Mom told me she would never mention my erection again, I still felt the need to do some kind of penance. So, when I woke at half-past seven, I went downstairs to the kitchen and tried to make her a hearty breakfast.

Scrambled eggs were easy. When I finished, I kept them on the warmer in the oven. Bacon was trickier--she liked hers just short of crunchy, but still crispy. I tended it on the frying pan very closely, pulling the slices off to rest and dry in intervals that I hoped would yield a few perfect ones. Then, I made pancakes from a mix.

When all was finished, I made her a plate, along with a fresh glass of iced tea, and brought it to her. My knocking woke her, and after a few seconds, she groggily told me I could come in.

Seeing me enter with a small platter, she looked at it curiously. Then, she smelled it and grinned. "Is that for me?"

I nodded. "If you can scoot closer to the edge, I'll put the tray up there and your glass here where you can reach them both--if you're willing to eat on your stomach and elbows, that is."

"I think I can do that," she said. "Oh, that smells just heavenly!"

Mom crawled to the side, but the tray couldn't quite fit. "What if," she asked, "I laid sideways across the bed?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, that's even better."

I helped swing her legs around. She crawled a bit and tugged the sheet so that she would remain covered. Finally settled, I put down the tray. Mom propped up on her elbows and dug in.

"Delicious!" she declared. "Thank you, sugar! To what do I owe the honor of this special breakfast?"

I shrugged. "Just wanted to lift your spirits, I guess. How are you this morning?"

"Not sure yet," she said, munching and covering her mouth. "Just woke up."

I nodded.

When she swallowed, she added, "Right now, I'm just sore all over. The itchiness will come soon--though goodness knows, I hope it doesn't."

"Want me to check your blisters?"

Mom poked a bite of eggs and, stopping, said, "I'd sure like to know. Thanks."

"Right now?"

She fed herself and nodded.

I climbed onto the bed beside her and drew down the sheet. "There's a few more. Not as many new ones as yesterday."

"Any popped?"

Scanning, I said, "No--nope. Oh, wait. On your right shoulder, one's busted, but that's all for your back. Want me to--?"

"You might as well check the rest," she sighed.

I pulled the sheet completely from her body. Something in me relaxed again when I saw her fanny, and it made me realize I had been uncomfortable and a bit stressed. The feeling reminded me of how a guest lecturer in Health class a few years back talked about his smoking addiction. He described how he felt when he didn't have any cigarettes to smoke and how he felt when he got a fresh pack in his hands.

Was I, I asked myself, growing addicted to my mom's bottom?

Surveying her fanny and legs, I called out a few more blisters, but none had broken. I grabbed the sheet and tossed it over her. As it parachuted over her body, I saw it cover something on the fitted sheet underneath.

Since Mom was laying sideways near the head of her bed, the central area when she had been laying was left bare for once. I reached out and pulled the sheet aside.