Part Three (Willy does the hand-jive)
"I'm going to fetch a towel," Mrs Jackson suddenly announced.
"Don't take all the romance out of it, Mum."
Mrs Jackson smiled inwardly at her son's unexpected wit. "I think we just ought to get on with it," she said as she turned to go out to the airing cupboard. She regretted her matter-of-fact tone, but it wasn't easy to strike the right note for what was about happen. She could hardly say, "Right, my lovely rutty boy... Mummy's going to give you a jolly good wank, so you must be good and shoot all your warm creamy spunk for her," could she? Well, not quite yet anyway. She could be accused of being provocative, of deliberately inciting her son to participate in an indecent sexual act with her. Yet being too cool about it, too mechanical, might be just as bad. If he stayed limp and non-aroused, it would be almost impossible to achieve the intended goal. She would have to strike the right balance. It was a delicate situation.
In her mind she could hear the doctor's voice, see him tapping the side of his nose: "Needs must, Mrs Jackson. A woman's intuition... It always comes to the fore in times of adversity..."
Her heart was pounding as she reached for an old clean towel from the top shelf. She brought it to her nose and sniffed. Slightly musty, but it would have to do. There was an equal mix of fear and devilment inside her. For a moment she considered smartening herself up... but why, for heaven's sake? Would that be respectful... or just plain provocative?
She went to the bathroom to check her face. She found it difficult to look herself in the eye, but she had to. Face to face with the evil witch, the siren, the harlot. She fussed with her hair, using her fingers to tidy the straggled strands of blonde hair. She went to her bedroom and brushed it out in front of the dressing table mirror. She put red lipstick on. "Oh this is ridiculous," she thought. "Trying to make myself attractive for my son? Whatever will he think? He'll laugh at me, that's what he'll do."
But she continued to make herself nice, bringing a shine to her hair with some vigorous brushing, despite her doubts. "Oh well, blow it! In for a penny, in for a pound!" And she changed her clothes as well.
She undressed, sprayed some underarm anti-perspirant, and then a tiny puff of eau de toilette on her neck. She didn't want to appear too obvious, or smell like a tart, that was just silly and corny. But then, most men never noticed if you'd had your hair done anyway, or wore some new clothes, so chances were, Jason wouldn't notice either. But deep down, if she was totally honest with herself, she wanted her son to fancy her as a woman, but to love her also as a mum, and even afterwards when it was done, she wanted him to still love her, but as a mum most of all. She knew she would always love him, whatever the outcome of this little episode and the future. She was worried only for him, how he would handle it. Was it possible for a son to see his mother as a sex object one minute, and a loving mum the next? She would soon find out.
Carol changed into a black, light-cotton summer skirt and a nicely-fitting, white cheesecloth shirt that clearly showed the form of her breasts, but in a tasteful way. She stood up, in front of the full-length mirror to make some final adjustments. "You'll have to do, Carol. Good luck, girl!"
The fact was - she looked very appealing, sexy, but in a 'mumsy' nice kind of way, an irresistible combination to a lot of men. She had a last smile at her reflection, gathered up the towel and went back into Jason's bedroom with her new brave face and freshened resolve.
He was sitting upright still, but his eyes were closed. Was he asleep; or just resting his eyes? Perhaps he was running through the awful scene in his mind.
What made her do it, she wasn't sure, but she looked directly at his crotch. She felt cheap, as if taking advantage while her son's eyes were shut. She kind of stared, unable to take her eyes away. What state was he in inside those shorts? Nothing was obvious. Judging by what she could see, he didn't appear to have an erection at that moment. That was a change. So many times she had had to handle Jason's cock in its naughty state, inflexible and wilful, pointing it the direction of the toilet bowl and hoping he would hit the target.
She laid the towel, still folded, on the bed and reached out her hand to feel him, blatantly and unashamedly. She was surprised at herself, at her boldness. It felt soft and warm, like a little bird trapped in a cloth bag. His body shot forward in surprise, his eyes coming wide open.
"MUM! What do you-"
"Just wanted to see if you were really asleep."
"I'm not now, am I? For Christ's sake, Mother!" Jason nodded at the towel. "I see you've come prepared."
"For the worst case scenario. I don't know how much mess you're going to make?" Oops, she thought. That was a little insensitive.
"Me? It won't be my fault." He took a deep breath. "Mum..? I'm not sure I can do this."
"Yes you can, and you will. I'm going to make sure of it. So you needn't think about copping out. I'm going to do this, whether you, or we like it or not. You can't carry on as you are, building up more stuff inside you."
He was looking at her now. For a moment it was as if they would both laugh at the absurdity of the situation. But they simply smiled at each other, in a half embarrassed, half-amused way. He hadn't mentioned her change of clothing, which was something. If he had noticed anything different about her, he wasn't saying, which was maybe his way of being discreetly polite and probably for the best.
Carol still felt nervous, but it was more a nervous excitement, a kind of sexual tension as much as anything. And that underlying feeling of naughtiness and devilment was still there, only now it was closer to the surface... much, much closer.
At the final moment she decided to play the part, ham it up, pull out all the stops. Go for it girl, opportunities like this didn't come along too often in a lifetime.
She stood by the bed, feeling strangely matronly and bossy.
"Right, my lad... Are you comfortable propped up like that? Or do you want to lie flat on your back?"
"What difference does it make?"
"Well," said 'matron', "if you stay propped up you can watch what's going on – that is, if you're interested. If you lie down you can just look at the ceiling and think of England."
"I think I'll stay where I am. I won't feel so bloody helpless."
"You're not going to surrender yourself to me completely then?"
"Mum..? Just get on with it."
"Are you being cheeky to your mummy?"
"What are you on about?"
"Are you?" Mrs Jackson felt Jason's crotch again. There seemed to be a change in mood. She squeezed him. "I said: are you being cheeky to your mother?"
"No!" That hurt just then, you know."
"That's just to remind you who's in charge."
"Okay, so you're in charge."
"Good, I'm glad we agree."
Mrs Jackson relaxed her grip, but continued to fondle her son through his pyjama shorts, gentle, probing caresses calculated to arouse. She watched his face, saw his expression change and his complexion redden with embarrassment. Through the light cotton material she could feel her son's cock responding to her insistent fondling. Her tummy did a little flip-flop inside, encouraged by what she felt. She could hear her heart beating in her ears and feel the warmth in her swelling breast, part maternal, part lustful.
Without taking her active hand away, she used the other to move the bedside chair down so that it was positioned adjacent to her son's pelvis. Then she sat down, side-on to the bed, so that her knees were pointing towards the bed-head. She slowly crossed her legs so that her skirt rode an inch or two above the knee - a calculated gesture. She continued to watch Jason's handsome features, looking for a sign that might reveal his inner thoughts. She played with his cock and balls in a distracted way, as if it was the hand of another woman doing the deed. She watched his eyes close, as if in denial at what was happening. He was hard now. How delicious to have him at her mercy, unable to resist her advances. She could do what she wanted with him and there would be nothing he could do about it. That thought strangely excited her.
When she looked away from his face to his crotch, she could see that when she brought her hand away, a nice wigwam remained - its centre-pole beating with a steady pulse that moved his shorts discernibly and told her he was ready.
She got up from the chair to pull his shorts down. She helped him lift his bottom up so she could slide his shorts out of the way. His prick suddenly sprang out like a rubber cosh, revelling in its newly found freedom. Jason was well-endowed for an eighteen year old. She estimated him to be, maybe seven inches erect, very respectable. Not that she was unfamiliar with his dimensions, it was just that at this moment his size seemed more significant than ever before. She slid his shorts down to his ankles, but instead of removing them completely, kept them where they were, thinking this would restrict the movement of his legs, should Jason have the sudden urge to kick out in the excitement of the moment. A foot in the stomach or boob could be a painful thing, if not just damned dangerous. Better safe than sorry.
