Burning Issue

This is the first story I have posted since July 2019. I lost my beloved wife, very suddenly, in November 2019, and writing fiction suddenly seemed trivial and unimportant. However, I have always enjoyed the creative process and I think my wife would be pleased that I'm writing again, especially since she was a writer herself, although not on Literotica. That said, here's my effort, and I hope at least some of you enjoy it.

* * * * *

The flames were fiercer now, the heat blistering, and my mother's terrified face stared at me from the burning car. I couldn't hear her voice but I knew what she was saying -- 'Help me! Please, help me!' But the flames were driving me back, back, ba...

"Gary! Gary, honey, wake up!" My mother's voice, but

how

? Then memory hit me, the other car, the impact driving us into the wall, the car bursting into flames...

"Gary, sweetheart, you're having that nightmare again. It's okay, sweetie, we're safe."

My eyes flew open, to see my mother's concerned face gazing worriedly at me, the dressing on her face starkly white against her fading tan, a scarf tied pirate-style on her head, another dressing on her left arm, from her palm to her elbow.

"It was that nightmare again, wasn't it? Me, trapped in the burning car? But you got me out, honey, remember? Yes, I had burns, yes, I lost most of my hair, but the burns are healing, and my hair will grow back. We need to concentrate on you, on getting your hands healed, okay?

Ah, yes, my hands. My burned hands. I'd rescued my mother from the car, yes, but my hands were quite badly burned and were currently swathed in thick dressings so that I looked as if I was wearing thickly-padded white mitts, only my thumbs recognizable.

I nodded wearily. "Yeah, mum, it was the nightmare again. Not fun."

"I know, sweetie, I know." She gave me a wry smile. "Doctor Evans says they'll probably stop once we're at home again, and your subconscious realises you got me out of the car in time. And, talking of Doctor Evans, here she is. Good morning, Doctor Evans."

"Good morning, Ms Welch. Good morning, Gary."

I laughed, short, a little bitter. "We'll agree on morning, but I think the 'good' is arguable."

The doctor gave me a slight smile. "It could improve, Gary. We're going to change the dressings on your hands, see if we can't give you something lighter."

"And then can I take him home?" My mother's voice echoed the strain she must be feeling.

"If his hands are healing, perhaps. I'll repeat what I've already told you, Ms Welch. Until his hands are healed, you'll have to do everything for him. Wash him, dress him, feed him, clean him after he's used the toilet. Everything, in fact."

"Doctor Evans, Gary is my son. Not only that, he saved my life and was burned because he couldn't, wouldn't, let me die. If I have to tend to him as I did when he was a baby, then I'll do it gladly!"

"So be it, Ms Welch. But first, we need to change the dressings and see how he's healing. If you'd care to wait in the annex, I'll let you know the outcome as soon as possible." Doctor Evans held up her hand to stop Mum leaving. "On your way out, stop at the dressing station, the nurse is expecting you. We'll check your dressings as well, okay?"

"Oh, yes, please! Gary, honey, I'll be back as soon as I can, okay?"

"Okay, Mum, but get yourself something to eat from the cafeteria, okay, because I'll bet you didn't have breakfast?"

Mum gave me a wry smile. "Guilty! Okay, honey, I'll get something to eat. See you soon, sweetie." She bent and gave me a swift kiss on the cheek, then went out.

The next hour was a bit of a blur, but when the hour was up, the dressings had been removed, the burns carefully examined, and my hands assessed as 'healing nicely, but dressings still needed,' and lighter dressings applied. I still looked as if I was wearing mitts, but lighter ones, with my finger ends showing.

When Mum came back, she smiled when I held my hands up, then went off in search of Doctor Evans, and came back with a broad smile on her face.

"I can take you home! I have to bring you back every Tuesday and Friday to get the dressings changed, but I can take you home, today. Are you okay travelling in pyjamas and your dressing gown? You'll have to wait near the door while I fetch the car."

"Not a problem, Mum, and PJs and my dressing gown are fine. I just want to be out of here as soon as possible."

"Me too, honey. Just a minute while I pack your things." And not much to pack, the clothes I was wearing when we crashed spoiled beyond salvaging. Not that I was concerned, my mother's life being far more important than mere material -- if you'll pardon the pun -- possessions. Something had been nagging me, and I suddenly realised. I had been so concerned about myself, I hadn't noticed at first.

"Mum! Your dressings are gone!"

She gave me a beaming smile. "Yes, honey, they are. I'll need to use a bit more make-up than I usually use at first, to hide this," and she touched the still-red patch on her cheek where she'd been burned, "but that's only if I'm going out anywhere dressy. For the moment, my only concern is getting you home, so let's go!"

The drive took a while, because we live in rural Northumberland, on the edge of the Cheviots, and the hospital was in Newcastle, because that had been the nearest A&E to the crash site. At first I hadn't really taken notice of what Mum was driving, but eventually realised our transport was new to me.

"New car, Mum?"

"A lease, for the moment, but I'll need to get a new one, since my car was destroyed in that crash. Any thoughts on what I should get? And don't say Land-Rover, that beast of yours is enough."

"I think you've hurt my feelings, Mum. You know I love that monster."

Mum turned to me and smiled. "I know, sweetie, and it certainly proved its worth when we had all that snow. Perhaps I should get something four-wheel-drive, but something a little more feminine? Any suggestions?"

"There is plenty of choice, but how about an Audi? One of the Quattro models?"

Mum grinned. "Now, that idea I like! Good thinking, son!"

"I do actually have good ideas sometimes, you know?"

"I do, sweetie, I do. Another ten minutes and we'll be home"

And then the problems would start. Mum had said she'd take care of me, and I didn't doubt it for a moment, but there would be intimacy involved, and I wasn't sure how I would handle it. But no point in worrying unnecessarily, we'd take things as they came. No alternative, really.

Home was a welcome sight. Mum and I live in a converted farmhouse, modernised and well insulated internally but still maintaining the hill-farm look, stone-built and solid. We'd converted the old barn, removing -- and moving -- internal walls, strengthening -- and lowering -- the roof and we actually had an indoor swimming pool. Only long enough for six or seven strokes, but fun to use. Stone from the conversion, and from some unused outbuildings had gone to make a covered connection from the house and even in the depths of a Northumberland winter we could swim in a heated pool.

You're probably wondering how we could afford all this, yes? Simple answer. A substantial income from the fact that Mum is a very successful writer, having written seven best-selling romantic detective novels, which had caught the reading public's attention and sold very well indeed. And of course, writing was something which could be combined easily with looking after me. Unless, of course, her muse led her astray and caused her to write almost non-stop for five days. Again.

"Home again, sweetie, and it's really good to have

you

home again. This last month has been hell, for both of us, and I'm sick of living out of a suitcase to be close to the hospital."

"I'm rather fed up with being

in

the hospital, you know?"

"I know, honey, I know, but you're home again, so what do you want to do first? Eat, or rest?"

I didn't say anything for a moment, and Mum's brows arched in query, but I knew what I wanted. I just didn't know how I'd get it.

"Honey?"

"What I want more than anything at the moment, Mum, is a shower."

"Oh."

"Yes, I know, impossible."

Mum smiled and shook her head. "Nothing is impossible, sweetie, but this one is tricky. Let's get you unpacked and we'll do some thinking."

Well, as far as unpacking went, it was Mum do, Gary watch. That only took a few minutes, but Mum seemed distracted as she put my few things away. When she'd finished, she turned to me, a thoughtful look on her face. She smiled.

"I think I may have solved the shower problem, honey."

"How? What? Tell me!"

"Well, you can't wash yourself, so I'll have to get in the shower with you, which means using the shower in my bathroom, because yours is too small for two people."

No, it's not, Mum. Jenny Talbot and I fitted into it very well last year, after our skinny-dip in the pool. But I didn't say that out loud.

"The problem, of course, is your hands," Mum went on, "but I think I've solved that. If we put a couple of freezer bags over your hands, and use adhesive tape to seal them above your wrists, the dressings should stay dry and safe. What do you think?"

"I think my mother is a genius!"

"Well, excuse the genius while she goes to put her bikini on, and gets the bags and the tape. Back in a mo, sweetie." And she was away, re-appearing five minutes later carrying two freezer bags and a roll of adhesive tape, wearing her red and white bikini. I gave her a wolf whistle and she grinned. No doubt about it, my mother is a beautiful woman, slender and shapely.

"Okay, sweetie, hold out your hand, and let's get one of these bags on."

Fitting the bags over my hands, and taping them, took only a few minutes. Mum studied them carefully, then nodded.

"That should keep the water out. I'm ready, but we need to get you undressed. Sorry, honey, but that means your mother gets to see you naked for the first time in about thirteen or fourteen years, since you were seven or eight, and insisted you could wash and dress yourself."

I laughed, remembering the stubborn me of that time. "We knew this would happen if you brought me home, Mum. Just ignore my blushes." This was a matter I'd been giving some thought to, and I went on. "In fact, Mum, when I'm dry again, if you can live with it, why don't I just stay naked? After all, it's the middle of summer, it's warm, and it means I can use the toilet if I need to, at least take a leak without needing your help. I can lift a toilet seat somehow, even with these," and I brandished my bag-wrapped hands.

Mum held my eye for a long moment. "You sure? It could help, certainly." She took a deep breath, a hot spot of colour in her cheeks, and her voice was a little hesitant when she spoke. "Um, I only have three bikinis and a one piece, and I don't want to have to keep washing and drying them, so would it make you feel easier if I go naked as well? We have the radar announcer at the gate, if anyone comes, plenty of time to slip robes on."

My mother? Naked? Yes, please! I restrained my excitement, and chose my words carefully. "Mum? I'll ask you the same question you asked me -- are you sure? Yes, it could help, yes, it saves you having to keep on washing your bikini or whatever, but, Mum? You're a good-looking woman, I'm a horny young male. I might get excited, even if you are my mother," and I gestured vaguely towards my groin. I laughed inwardly -- reality check: more likely

because

you are my mother!

There was more than a touch of colour in Mum's face now, but she smiled, and reached to gently caress my cheek. "I know, honey, I know." She shrugged. "If it happens, we'll take care of it, so don't worry."

"Not worried, Mum, but I thought you ought to be warned, just in case." Take care of it? Just what did

that

mean?

"Thank you, honey. Now? Well, let's get naked!"

"Yes, mother! Who first?"

"Me, I suppose, as I'm the one with the working hands," said Mum, reaching up to pull off the bandanna on her head. Her hair had been mostly shaved to the scalp, at least, where it hadn't been burned off, but it was starting to grow in again, and seemed to be growing normally, no discolouration, although it was still only about a quarter or half of an inch long.

"Your hair seems to be growing in okay, Mum," I said, trying to mention something positive.

Mum glanced at herself in the bathroom mirror, then grinned at me. "Time to stop pretending to be a pirate?"

"Absolutely!"

"Maybe I will." She reached behind herself to loosen her bikini top. I tried not to stare, but I don't think I could have looked away to save my life. I think I forgot to breathe, too. Mum's not particularly big in the tits department, but they're beautifully shaped. Mum keeps herself fit -- we often go cycling together, and there are plenty of hills in Northumberland -- exercises regularly and watches what we eat, so her body is trim and toned, and if there was any particular droop when she discarded her top I didn't notice. I held my breath while she discarded her bikini bottoms, wondering, but her pubic hair was the same reddish-brown as the hair on her head, trimmed neatly to her bikini line. She dropped the bikini bottoms on the already discarded top and looked up at me, holding my eye.

"Well?" she said softly, "so how do I compare to your girlfriends?"

"Elizabeth Elaine Welch, pardon my French, but you are fucking gorgeous!"

"Watch your language!" she said, then smiled. "But thank you. Come on, your turn now."

She reached out and loosened the tie belt on my dressing-gown, and I turned my back so that I could shrug it off. Mum laid it on the bed, moving me so that she could unbutton my pyjama top, and push it back off my shoulders, her nipples, her erect nipples, almost brushing my chest.

She reached down and loosened the waistband on my pyjama bottoms, and they fell around my ankles. I swear she gasped as she saw me, because as I had feared, the sight of her naked had made me excited and my erection was well on its way to completion. She looked at it, almost staring, then her eyes came to mine, her face flushed. She smiled, soft, sad.

"You're the image of your father, Gary. I wish you could have known each other."

"Me, too, Mum, me too." I reached out and drew her into an awkward embrace, enjoying the feel of her nipples against my chest, thinking, wondering, wondering what life might have been like if he'd lived. He and Mum had been childhood sweethearts, from when she was fifteen and he seventeen. They'd been planning to get married, and Dad had gone out with some friends for his stag night. But he never got home. The taxi they took was hit head-on by a drunk driver. Dad was in the front and he and the taxi driver were killed; his friends, in the rear seats, survived, although they were both injured.

A month after that, still grieving, Mum found herself pregnant with me, at nineteen. There was no way she would let me go for adoption, and her mother, my Gran, had stood by her. Gran took care of me by day, while Mum worked her socks off to provide for us, and when I was put to bed in the evenings, Mum decided to find out if she could write, because she'd always wanted to try. In longhand at first, in lined school notebooks, paying to have the manuscript typed up for submission.

I don't know what it was, some innate talent, because although that first effort was rejected, the agent, Betty Anderson, had recognised something in Mum's efforts and encouraged her to continue. Now, seven successful novels later Betty was still my Mum's agent, and a good friend to both of us, even though we only saw her occasionally, seeing that she was based in London, but she and Mum spoke often on the phone.

Mum broke our embrace, gently, and pushed me away, holding me at arms' length.

"He would have been proud of you, as proud as I am," she said, then took my arm, leading me into her bathroom. She drew me to a halt. "Just stand there, sweetie, while I get the shower started and the water warmed up ready for us."

I watched her as she moved around, enjoying the curve of her hip into her thigh, the still saucy jut of her bottom, the sway of her breasts, everything about her. I'd read my share of girlie mags and Mum could hold her own in that company easily, I reckoned. I think I was in a bit of a reverie, because Mum had to speak twice before it registered.

"Earth to Gary? Come in, Gary." She grinned as I started in surprise. "When you're quite finished admiring my arse, your shower awaits, sir."

"I'll never stop admiring it, Mum, sorry." I took a deep breath, trying to regain my equilibrium, then gave Mum a mock salute. "Ready for shower, ma'am."

"Get yourself in, then. Don't forget to leave room for me as well."

Mum's shower had a safety-glass cubicle about five feet square, so there was plenty of room for both of us, with dual shower-heads angling in from adjacent sides, and I stepped into the spray, delighting in the feel of the water against my skin. After a month without my regular daily shower I was ready for it. Mum squeezed some shower gel onto a shower mitt and turned to me.

"Back first, or front?"

"Back please, Mum," I said, reeling mentally as I realised that when I turned around again, Mum would be washing my cock. Could I keep it down? Unlikely, but as she'd said, 'we'll take care of it.' No point in worrying. If it happened, it happened.

Mum was efficient and it seemed no time at all until she'd done my back -- including my arse, and that was pleasant. John Thomas thought so as well, because he came up to look around. The moment I was half dreading, half anticipating had arrived as Mum spoke.

"Okay, sweetie, turn around," she said, then gasped as I turned. "Oh, my, you're really like your father!" She shook her head. "Sorry, honey, maybe us showering together wasn't such a good idea."

"Don't say that, Mum! You're as beautiful as I could ever imagine, and just being able to see you like this is a dream come true!"

She stared at me, and when she spoke her voice was hesitant. "You fantasise about me? About us?"

My face must have been scarlet, because I could feel it burning, but I knew -- somehow -- that this was one question I had to answer honestly. I nodded. "Yes, Mum, I do. I know I shouldn't, I guess I can't help it. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, honey, I understand. Come on, let's get you clean." Mum's face was red as well, and there was a strange look on her face that I'd never seen before, almost as if she was hungry, but denying herself a treat.

She started with my head and shoulders, washing my face, my hair, down my arms, my chest, my hips, thighs, legs and feet, carefully avoiding my erection. When she'd washed everything else, she touched my cheek.

"I left your erection until last, honey, because I have a feeling that when I wash it, there might, um, be a -- problem."

"You mean your touch might make me come? Ejaculate?" I could feel the heat in my face.

Mum nodded, a wry smile on her face, a face almost as red as my own.

"Yeah, honey that's what I meant." She took a deep breath. "Awkward question time, sweetie, but I need to ask. When did you last masturbate?"

I could feel my flush deepen, but I knew I had to answer, and answer honestly.

"The night before the crash, I think. It might have been the same morning. I'm not sure. That day is a bit of a blur."

"Sorry, honey, another awkward question. How often do -- did -- you masturbate?"

"Pretty much every day, Mum, sometimes twice a day."

"So it's been a while." She studied me for a long moment, then smiled, a sweet, almost sad smile. "Gary, honey, I think that I -- that we -- need to stop pretending. I think you need the relief, so what we'll do is this. I'll masturbate you, jack you off, give you a hand job, whatever you want to call it, then, when you've come, I'll finish washing you. Okay?" I don't think it was easy for Mum to say that, her face was red and she'd been very hesitant.