Comma
What I had to do to bring my son back to life.
If you want 10" cocks, women who orgasm in 10 seconds flat, simultaneous orgasms or gallons of cum then I'm sorry, but this is not the right story for you. I like to write about ordinary people with ordinary sexual appetites in slightly out of the ordinary situations. I try to keep the plot lines as near to reality as I can.
I try to keep the sex as true to my own experience as possible. I love to write about kissing, stroking, how sex feels and sex as an encounter which involves all the senses. I do like to 'get dirty' but only in the height of my character's arousal. All my stories have my own experience in them, but generally they are not autobiographical.
This story is slightly different to my normal loving mum-son plot. Maddy remains reluctant throughout. It is pure sex with no sex-emotion bond.
Everyone in this story is over 18.
Constructive feedback welcome. I am from UK, so UK spelling applies. Thank you for reading my story.
Act 1 -- Knock at the door
I remember like it was yesterday. That knock on the door. Official and insistent, a demand to be answered. My heart sank when I saw a policeman standing in my doorway. Through the fog that invaded my mind, he informed me that my son, Harry, had been in a motorcycle accident. He was alive but seriously injured. That's all I remember of the conversation. It was hardly a conversation. I didn't say a word and I wasn't taking in anything the policeman was saying. All I could see (in my head) was my son lying at the side of a road like a rag doll, all I could feel was blind panic.
Three months later and Harry's body had made a complete recovery. His muscles had wasted a bit, but he was unmarked by his ordeal. Unmarked apart from his brain, which stubbornly refused to come out of its coma.
"Mrs Smith, would you like me to repeat any of that?" I shook my head to signify 'no'. The consultant, Mrs Gillespie, had just finished bringing Bob and I up to speed with this week's progress or more like lack of progress. The hospital had tried the normal drugs they use to bring patients out of comas, but Harry had stubbornly resisted all their best efforts. Of all the highs and lows of the past three months this seemed like 'the end of the road' and I was staring out of the window.
"There must be something else we can try." Bob's voice, full of emotion, was cracking up.
"Oh yes, I didn't mean to sound so fatal. We have found that many patients respond to stimulus. In Harry's case he responds quite well to sound and touch."
"Great, so do more of that then."
"Indeed, but it must be targeted and effective. You see all stimuli lose their effectiveness over time. Its' like patients gets bored with the same stimuli. We have to find something intense and deliverable over a relatively short period of time. For example, we had a musician last week in a very similar state to Harry. We moved him to rehearsal studios and his band went through their repertoire. We measured his brain activity throughout and concentrated on building it up. When we got to his favourite song, we put a microphone in his hand and had someone sing the lyrics badly. It was the final push he needed. He woke up.
"Harry's not a musician." I said glumly.
"I understand that Mrs Smith, we just have to find the thing that most stimulates Harry. We have some ideas, but they are a little delicate."
I looked at her and frowned. "Delicate?" I repeated
"Yes," she cleared her throat, "the nurses have found that he always gets an erection when they give him a bed bath." Bob spluttered I carried on frowning. She continued "Not surprising really, most young people react this way. We could with your approval continue with this therapy but would need to intensify it."
I was still frowning. "Intensify it?" I became self-aware. I must have looked really unco-operative. I tried to smile. "Can you be a bit more specific? What does this therapy entail?" I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice as I said 'therapy', but I was aware I had probably failed.
"Well, to put it bluntly we need to find out what turns him on."
Bob said "He's an 18-year-old boy, sex probably"
"Indeed, but we need to be more targeted. Does he masturbate?"
Bob spluttered again. I decided to stop being so detached. "Yes, he does...... a lot." Bob looked at me quizzically; a sort of 'how do you know' look. I returned his look. "A mum knows.....His room smells for a start. His socks are usually damp or even wet and he sometimes misses tidying up used tissues under his bed."
"Does he have a girlfriend?"
"No, and I think he is still a virgin." I replied.
"Does he watch porn?"
I was on a roll now, eager to prove how well I knew my son, but I hadn't spotted the tiger trap ahead. "Yes, on his laptop."
"What sort?"
Oh, fuck there was the danger. "Just porn," I prevaricated.
"Can you be more specific, please, Mrs Smith?"
"Not really, just porn."
Bob chipped in, slightly frustrated, "If you have looked on his laptop you must know what sites he visits or what videos he watches."
