Waking Up to Ellen

Author's Notes

This is a long story about discovery, desire, seduction and love between two consenting adults who happen to be related to one another. If that does not suit your tastes, or if you prefer a quick story where everyone is out of their clothes by the second paragraph, you likely won't appreciate this one. I'd love for you to read it just the same.

I am considering writing additional chapters to this story so constructive criticism is most welcome, but please don't waste my time or yours with unhelpful comments.

***

"Hey dad." Michael jogged down the last few steps and into the rec room and dropped his backpack to the floor.

"Hey Mike, you're just in time! The Packers are in Minnesota tonight. Grab a seat!" his father said, hopping into his recliner and nearly losing the handful of remotes he carried.

"Where's mom?"

"She's got dance class tonight, so it's just us."

"Dance class?"

"Yeah, she talked about it all last week, remember?" Michael's dad looked over his shoulder at him with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

"Oh yeah, I thought it was on Tuesdays," Michael lied.

"Nope! Mondays and Wednesdays, so we've got at least one uninterrupted game a week for the next eight weeks." Michael wouldn't have been surprised if his dad had burst into song, he looked so gleeful.

"Nice," he replied half-heartedly. Sports had never been his thing, despite his dad's best efforts. "I'm going to grab some dinner, you want anything?"

"Don't bother, I've ordered pizza, it should be here in...," he studied his watch, "...twenty-two minutes!" He was practically bouncing with excitement. Michael just winced. Football and pizza were not his idea of a great evening, but it was nice to see his dad this animated. A more typical evening would have had him falling asleep in his recliner while Law & Order played out in the background.

Michael walked past his dad to the couch, kicked off his shoes and stretched out. His dad was scrolling through channels. "Isn't Monday Night Football on ESPN?" Michael suggested.

"Is it? I thought it was ABC."

"Not since like Favre was QB," Michael laughed. Sports weren't his thing, but some details had stuck with him.

"Wow, it has been a while," his dad said quietly, then, loudly, "Here it is!" With a flourish he clicked the remote and, on cue, the opening theme started. "Perfect!" Michael's dad flipped the leg rest up on his chair, leaned back, and sank deeper into his seat, ready for his perfect night in.

***

By the start of the third quarter, Michael was done with football. Looking around the room he noted the leftover pizza sitting neglected on the coffee table. It wasn't often he could get out of something he didn't want to do and score points at the same time. "I'm going to take the pizza up to the fridge in case mom wants some when she gets home. You want any more before I go?"

Eyes fixed to the game, his dad waved one arm in a general way. "I'm good, thanks Mike."

Michael grabbed the pizza boxes, and his shoes and backpack for good measure, and made his way upstairs to the kitchen. With the pizza safely stowed away, he hefted his backpack onto his shoulder and considered his options: Another hour and a half of football would melt his brain but classes didn't start until 10:30 tomorrow, so he could stay up late. A couple papers were due Friday, but Friday was still four days away, so, yeah, that wasn't happening tonight. His friends would probably be online...

Michael had tentatively decided on video gaming when he heard the rumble of the garage door opening. His mom was home. She would want to talk about her class with someone, and his dad wouldn't listen if there was a game to watch, so she would seek out Michael. It was no use getting into a game with his friends now. He pulled a book at random from his backpack and sat at the kitchen table.

The jingle of keys and a stilted tapping of high heels on the mudroom floor announced his mom's arrival. She must have shut the door to the garage softly, Michael noted; given the freedom to do so, it normally slammed with a vengeance and caused the whole house to shudder. A moment later, she had crossed to the kitchen counter and began pulling items from her purse when he greeted her.

"Hey mom."

"Oh, god!" Ellen grabbed at the counter with one hand to keep herself from falling, while her other hand clutched at her chest. Keys and lipstick skittered off the counter and across the floor in opposite directions. "Michael! Give me some warning!"

Laughing, Michael jumped up from his chair and put his arms out to steady his mom. Ellen swatted him away. "Don't laugh at your poor old mother!"

"I didn't do it on purpose!" he pleaded, still laughing as he dodged her perfunctory blows.

"Humph!" she grumped, biting her lower lip and giving one last swing which landed with a satisfactory 'smack' on his forearm, causing her to grin.

"Ow, that one hurt!" Michael said, dancing back and shaking his arm.

"Serves you right!" Ellen tried to hold him in what she thought was her most stern gaze, but she quickly softened. "Oh, bring it here," she said smiling and shaking her head. Michael approached cautiously with his arm held out before him. Ellen gently took it in her hands and studied the reddening, palm-sized spot before bringing it to her lips and briefly kissing it. "Better?" she asked.

"Always," Michael replied happily.

Ellen beamed.

"So, how were your classes today?" she asked as he stooped to retrieve her keys. "Let's see, you had Written Communication, Introduction to American Politics..."

"Mom, you don't need to recite my schedule." Michael lay on the floor to find her lipstick under the plant stand.

"Come on, Michael, details."

"Classes were fine, and, no, you aren't going to get anything more from me until you tell me about your class!"

"My class? You really want to hear about that?"

'More than I want to talk about PoliSci,' thought Michael. "Sure!" he said aloud.

"Really?" she asked brightening, "Oh, it was wonderful! The music just makes you want to move, and being out with everyone, and just having a good time on a work night; I loved it!"

"C'mon mom, details."

Ellen smiled. "Well, let me get something to eat first, I'm starving."

"Dad ordered pizza, I put the leftovers in the fridge if you want."

"Pizza?" Ellen wrinkled her nose, then sighed. "I guess it's better than nothing." Keeping one hand on the counter to steady herself, she delicately walked towards the refrigerator, wincing with every step.

"What'd you do to your foot?"

"I'm fine, it's just been a while since I've danced so my feet are a little tender."

Michael looked at his mom's feet. They were clad in bright red pumps with high heels and dramatically pointed toes. "Those look painful to wear just sitting around the house, how could you possibly dance in them?"

"It's Salsa dance, Michael, this is what women wear," she replied emphatically.

"Well, you're not dancing now, why are you still wearing them?" he asked, still staring at her feet.

Michael was shocked to hear his mom choke back a sob. Her head and shoulders drooped, and she lifted her free hand to cover her eyes.

"Mom?"

He stepped closer, reaching out to her. Her arms went around his neck, her face against his shoulder, while he held her steady. After a few ragged breaths, he heard her quietly say, "Don't tell your father."

***

"He'll just say, 'I told you so!'"

It had taken some time and patience on Michael's part to get her to the kitchen table and off her feet. The tears had stopped for now but were clearly on the verge of resuming.

"Cold, nuked, or oven baked?" Michael asked, pulling the leftovers out. "And why would he say that?"

"Because he did tell me. He told me I was too old and out of shape to start dancing again." She paused. "Cold, please, I can't wait for the oven and microwaved pizza is awful."

"Dad can be oblivious sometimes, but he wouldn't say that!" He grabbed a plate from the cupboard and a couple paper towels for napkins.

"Maybe not in those exact words, but it was strongly implied." Ellen's sadness was giving way to anger.

Michael set the plate and napkins down in front of her then held the pizza boxes open for her to choose from. She took a slice of supreme and dropped it offhandedly onto her plate. Setting the boxes aside he started to sit down across from her.

"Don't get too comfortable, I'm going to need something to drink."

"Right, sorry. What sounds good?"

"Wine sounds great but I'm going to be taking some major pain killers later so better make it water."

"Coming up."

Michael brought two tall glasses of ice water to the table and pulled out his phone as he sat down again.

"Important text?" his mom asked wryly.

"No, I'm Googling 'blistered feet', but I can multitask. So, you loved the music and the people and being out, what else?"

"My instructor is incredible! He actually had a part in a musical in New York. It was off Broadway but still, that takes some talent."

"Is he cute?"

To Michael's surprise, his mom started to blush. "No, he's gorgeous, but he's gay," she said smiling. "And I'm married!" she added belatedly. "Michael, I had more fun this evening than I've had in years. I can't quit, and not just because of what your dad would say. I need this."

Michael set down his phone and looked at his mom. Her eyes were red, and her mascara was smudged from crying, but beneath the pain and anxiety there was a lightness about her that was new and unfamiliar but welcome. She looked younger, more alive if such a change were possible in the fifteen hours it had been since he had last seen her. There was something more as well, he couldn't put his finger on it, but he liked it.

Ellen began to feel self-conscious under his gaze. "What?" she asked glancing to either side.

"Do you have any Epsom salts?" he asked, avoiding her question.

"Epsom salts?"

"Yeah, and tea tree oil, and a basin. And we'll probably need a sewing needle, antibiotic ointment, gauze bandages and moleskin, depending on how bad it is."

"The salts would be in the linen closet in my bathroom, the tea tree oil would be there too if we have any. The bandages and other stuff would be in the hall closet with the Band Aids. I've never even heard of moleskin. And you aren't coming anywhere near my feet with a needle, mister."

"Mom, it's better to drain the blisters than let them tear."

"Nope. Not going to happen. Besides, they feel like they're all shredded anyway."

***

"Ooh, Michael! Gentle!"

"Mom, we've gotta get your shoes off."

Michael had brought everything he could find from his list into the living room and set it up next to the couch where she would be more comfortable. He had even concealed a needle and matches on the side table just in case. The shoes were next. Unbuckling the straps had been the easy part. Sliding them off her swollen and torn feet was proving more difficult.

"Oh! OW! Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, OW! Michael!" Her fingernails dug into his shoulder.

"That's one," he said grimly and started in on the other. Knowing what to expect somehow made the second shoe even more difficult for them both.

With her shoes off, Michael gingerly lifted her feet one at a time, touching well above where her shoes had been so as not to hurt her further, and inspected them. As she had suspected, none of the blisters appeared to be intact. Her feet were swollen and raw and streaked with blood.

"Do you think you can walk to the couch?" he asked, "You can lean on me."

"Yeah, it's actually much better now without the shoes. But put your arm around me just the same."

Together they hobbled into the next room. Ellen sat down and lifted her feet into the basin to soak in the warm water, salt and oil. "Ah, that feels soooo good. Thank you for helping me, sweetie."

Michael sat down by her feet and watched her wriggle her toes in the water. "You're welcome, mom. Payback for all the times you nursed me back to health."

Sighing contentedly, she leaned back for a moment, then sat upright. "One more favor, Michael, would you go check on your father?"

"Sure." Michael cut back through the kitchen to the stairs and down to the basement, not fully sure why he was being so quiet as he went. He was back at his mom's feet in short order. "He's asleep in his chair. The game's in the fourth quarter with twelve minutes to go. Even if he wakes up, he'll watch the analysis for another half hour or so after the game."

Ellen lay back again and closed her eyes. "So, what else did you read about sore feet?"

"Well, we let them soak for a few more minutes, dry them thoroughly and apply the ointment, then wrap 'em up so they don't get infected." Michael paused for a moment, thinking how best to broach the next subject. "Mom, you know you can't wear those shoes to dance class again, right? I mean, they're sexy and everything, but another class like this and you won't have any feet to soak."

She moaned and covered her face with one arm. "Oh, I know, it's vain but I just really liked how they looked with my dress." Then it registered with her what else her son had said. "Wait," she peeked at Michael from under her arm, "Did you say my shoes were sexy?"

Michael, who had not really paid any attention to his mom's dress until she mentioned it, had been regarding it with fresh eyes. Feeling caught out, he cleared his throat to buy a bit of time, and to clear her form-fitting dress from his mind. "Well, yeah, they're sexy. I mean, what guy doesn't like a pair of red high heels on an attractive woman." Michael began mentally kicking himself for digging the hole deeper.

His mom smiled behind her arm, feeling simultaneously flattered and flustered by the compliment. This was not the man she had hoped would notice her, but it was nice to be noticed just the same. "Well, thank you, sweetie, that's nice of you to say." Then, just as eager to change the subject as he was, she added, "Sooo, is it time to dry off?"

Michael glanced at the clock, glad to be let off the hook so easily. "Not yet, let's give them a couple more minutes."

Two minutes later, she lifted her right foot from the basin and let Michael gently wrap it in a towel and begin patting it dry. Her leg was also partly wet, and, since there were no blisters beyond her feet, he could be more vigorous in his drying efforts there. Without intention, the careful patting became a firm massage of her calf, drawing a low, contented moan from Ellen.

Looking up from his work, Michael noted that, with one of her feet still in the basin and the other resting on his knee, his mother's form-fitting, knee-length dress was riding up and parting in the middle to reveal a tantalizing bit of inner thigh. Suddenly he was very self-conscious.

Glancing up, he confirmed her arm was still draped across her eyes. Satisfied she couldn't see where he was looking, his gaze went back to her thighs, and higher. He would have needed a miner's lamp to have any hope of seeing through the darkness beyond the hem of her dress, but he couldn't keep from staring just the same. Michael knew what he was doing was wrong, and his heart raced from both the anxiety of getting caught, and the excitement of being so close to that which he had thus far only seen on salacious websites. His desire to see more overwhelmed his sensibility and the little shred of morality that plaintively whispered, 'This is your mom!'

Michael slid the towel up his mom's leg, closer to her knee, being careful not to drag the fabric across her blisters, then resumed his massage, now on her upper calf. This part of her leg hadn't been in the saltwater soak, so the towel wasn't necessary, but even in his current state he couldn't justify putting his hands directly on her bare skin. As he massaged, he noticed that when he pressed into her calf muscle with his right hand, her knee would reflexively move to the left, parting her legs a bit and ever so slightly pulling the hem of her dress higher. The hem would fall back again when he pressed with his left, but maybe, he thought, he could surreptitiously get her knees to part further by favoring his right hand as he massaged.

Michael began manipulating her calf in earnest, seeking out knots in the muscle and using the heel of his hand to work them out. His hands moved gently but firmly from just above her ankle to the back of her knee as he genuinely tried to give her a decent massage. And with each pass, her legs parted just a little further, letting his gaze delve deeper between her inviting thighs. He lost track of time as he stared, wondering what color her panties might be. Surely, they must be a dark color or he would have seen a hint of them by now. He leaned a little closer. Was that a bit of lace?

"Mmmm, I could let you do that all night," his mother cooed, causing Michael to jump, "but my other foot has become a prune."

"Crap, sorry mom!" Michael hastily released his mother's calf and moved to take her left foot from the basin. He couldn't help noting as he did so that her knees fell together, hiding her treasures from his prying eyes, much to his disappointment.

"Don't be! I loved it. I can't remember the last time someone gave my legs so much attention."

Her unwitting double entendre left Michael feeling twice as guilty about his leering. He resolved to give her left leg an even better massage without the lechery.

***

"I really don't think you needed to use the whole roll of gauze," Ellen said lifting her feet to look at them.

Michael had been proud of his handiwork, but now, sitting back on his heels, he could see her point. "Yeah, I might have overdone it. Want me to do it again?"

"No, the game has to be over by now, your father could come up any minute and I want to have my mummified feet under the covers before he can see them."

"You could tell him we're working on your Halloween costume," Michael offered.

Ellen rolled her eyes and smiled, then made to stand up.

"Wait!" said Michael, holding his hand up to stop her from rising.

"What now?" she asked, settling back into the couch.

Michael lifted both her feet from the floor and leaned in close as if to examine them one more time. Then, gently, he kissed each one just above the bandages. "Better?" he asked looking up at his mom with a smile.

"Always," she replied, beaming.

***

Tuesday evening found Michael sneaking through his parents' bedroom and into the master bath where his mom perched on the edge of the tub. He seldom came into their room, the prior night's excursion to access the linen closet being an odd exception, and he felt awkward being there with her, 'hiding' their activities from his dad.

She had changed from her work attire into a voluminous, white terrycloth robe that started at her chin and went to well below her knees, and oversized pink slippers shaped like kittens. Michael recognized this as her 'I'm-not-feeling-well' outfit. Under normal circumstances, he would give her plenty of space whenever he saw her dressed like this, as one would a lightly napping tiger. If there were an exact opposite to her cleavage-accentuating, hip-hugging, leg-exposing, come-hither dress from the night before, this was it. He hoped his guilty flush of disappointment didn't show.

"Where's your father?"

Michael's feeling of awkwardness deepened. "He's watching an old World War II movie on Netflix. Something about a bridge."

"Well, that should give us some time. Do you think I should soak my feet again?"

"I don't know, the website didn't say how often to do it, but I got the impression it was a one-time, immediately after, kind of thing. The salts are supposed to dry the blisters out, so I worry about them drying out your feet if we use them too much."