Power Shift

Author's note:

The premise of this story is that pent-up sexual release can turn a dominant mother into a submissive lover.

I hope you enjoy it and I welcome any feedback on content and style.

This story is based upon real characters, although the storyline is fiction.

Sylviafan

*****

What do you do if fate sentences you to be the only child of a domineering mother and a father that runs off, leaving you alone to bear the brunt of her controlling personality, further exacerbated by loneliness? Well, you can stay and support her through her difficult time, or you can do what I did and leave her to get on with it.

This probably sounds more heartless than it actually was. My mother is a good person; she just has to control everything and everyone around her, and this makes living with her a challenging experience. To his credit, my father bore it for twenty years, up to the time I was eighteen and able to fend for myself, before deciding that enough was enough. I stuck it for another twelve months before leaving to join the merchant navy. I could have gone to University, but getting right out of the country seemed a safer option especially as my mother had been trying to direct my career so that I should stay in the neighbourhood, which would inevitably mean living at home for an indefinite period.

I softened the blow by saying that I would only sign on for a couple of years and that I'd be back before she knew it. This turned out to be truer than I thought, but at the time she was upset and couldn't understand why I wanted to go.

"You've got everything you need right here at home!" she kept saying. And in truth she was right; she looked after me very well, required little from me, other than obedience, and, if you ignored the control freak behaviour, she was good to be around. A brief pen portrait would be useful context here:

My mother, Diane, is now forty five, five-foot six and shapely, with wide hips, a flat stomach, moderate sized bosom and good legs, with slim ankles. Overall you wouldn't call her slim; there's a slight heaviness about her, so typical of mature Mediterranean women, from which ancestry she inherited her lustrous black hair and eyebrows. I don't think you'd call her pretty either but there is something about her full lips and dark eyes that is attractive. She dresses well, even around the house, and is rarely seen without make-up. Personality wise she is reserved and even a bit remote, although when she smiles, and her dark eyes sparkle, she lights up the room. Those same eyes are also effective in getting her way; a ten-second burst, accompanied by pursed lips, was always enough to ensure my compliance and I don't think my father offered much greater resistance.

I'm David; Dave to everybody but my mother. I didn't get many of the Mediterranean genes; I'm six-foot one, slim build and sandy haired, like my father. I'll probably have lost the hair by the time I'm thirty, like my father. At the time of writing I'm twenty-one and living back at home with my mother in a town in the North West of England. This story is about how I came to return to the nest and what happened when I did.

For two years after leaving home I served as an apprentice engineer, first on oil tankers, running between Bahrain and Milford Haven, and, later, on container ships, plying between just about anywhere and our home port of Southampton. It's a great life for a young, unattached male; little to do at sea, unless there's a breakdown, and visiting a dizzying variety of countries and ports. I certainly didn't have a girl in every port but I didn't do too badly. It is a crude truth that I was considerably helped by the size of my penis, about the only vaguely remarkable thing about me. I don't know who donated those genes but thanks, mate! Fully erect it's about ten inches long and almost six inches around the shaft, with a head the size of a small nectarine; even flaccid it's over eight inches. Inevitably, in the close confines of a merchant ship there are few secrets and I rapidly acquired the nick-name 'tripod'. Furthermore, my mess-mates delighted in explaining this soubriquet to young ladies that we met in city-centre or dockside bars and their interest was piqued sufficiently often to give me an enviable sex life. All in all, life couldn't get much better. Unfortunately that was all to change, brutally fast.

I've never been a big drinker, but I did tie one on to celebrate my promotion to Engineer Third Class. We were in Southampton at the time, in a graving dock having the hull re-painted and we celebrated in a seedy bar outside the dockyard gates. As all the talent in the bar was on a strictly pay as you go basis I returned on board when the bar closed; I didn't fancy going clubbing like most of my companions.

Ships in dock can be even more hazardous than ships at sea; snaking cables and hoses are there to trip the unwary and temporary lighting is often inadequate in revealing these dangers. To cut a long story short I tripped over a welding cable that had been left following a repair to a stanchion and plunged neatly through an adjacent hatch and down a ladder. Apparently I was quite lucky. My arms, thrust out instinctively, bore the brunt of the impact and where I could have fractured my skull or broken my neck, I 'got away with' two broken wrists and some cuts and bruises, including a spectacular egg-sized lump on my forehead. I also knocked myself out.

I came to early the next morning in Southampton General Hospital and looked groggily around. As the events of the previous night filtered through, I recognised the ship's doctor seated next to my bed.

"Ah, welcome back!"

"How long have I been here?"

"We brought you in just before midnight. You've been out for almost five hours." He saw me looking down at my plastered arms and hands. "Clean fracture of both ulnas close to the wrist, some damage to the carpel bones and one or two fingers broken. You'll be in plaster for about eight weeks. I've spoken to your next of kin and she's driving down today to collect you. I gather she'll be here at midday."

"My mother's coming to collect me?"

"Yes, the hospital won't discharge you unless you've got somewhere to go and we can't take you back to the ship. I've checked with the purser, you'll be on medical leave until you get a doctor's certificate to say you're fit to return to shipboard duties. There'll also be a health and safety investigation; you'll have to make a statement at some stage." We talked a bit more about how I would cope and what help I would need over the next few weeks.

"I hope your mother's not squeamish - she'll have to take you to the toilet and bath you until the plasters come off." He seemed quite cheerful about the whole thing.

"Oh don't worry about my mother; she hasn't been in this much control of me since I was in nappies, she'll love it!" He sympathised but seemed restless to go and after some desultory conversation about the forthcoming voyage I suggested that I would be ok waiting for my mother and he departed gratefully.

I'd called my mother regularly over the past two years, even via the shipboard link, when we were at sea. I hadn't taken much leave but I'd spent the odd long weekend at home. A weekend was enough to satisfy filial duty but not long enough to give her a chance to get into her stride. This broken-wrist thing was a whole new ballgame. I would be entirely at mother's mercy for at least eight long weeks, and with the humiliation of having to be washed, dressed, fed and, ultimate humiliation, taken to the toilet. At least we had a bidet! I spent the rest of the morning glooming over the prospect and guessing which of her favourite lines she would use when she saw me.

My mother arrived just after 1pm. She came straight over and kissed me on the cheek.

"David, darling, sorry I'm a bit late; the traffic around the M25 was foul." Then, brightly, "well, look at you! What are we going to do with you?" Yep, that was one of my guesses.

"Thanks for coming down, mum. It's good to see you."

"Well I'm afraid I'm all you've got, so you're stuck with me." She smiled to take the sting out of this and her eyes sparkled. "At least I'll get to see you for a few weeks. I was thinking about it on the way down, I'll move you into the room next to mine so I can hear if you call me in the night and I'll adjust some of your old clothes so that they're easier for me to get on and off you." She talked on but I was tired and slightly woozy from the painkillers and my mind wandered. I found myself studying her as she sat next to me; smart, black trouser suit and heels and a white lacy blouse. Make-up expertly applied and hair gleaming. Yes, she'd have to look good to collect her son from hospital. I felt a bit uncharitable for thinking this, a feeling that increased when I noticed the fine network of lines around her eyes; I didn't think they'd been there the last time I saw her.

"When do we leave, mum?"

"Well I spoke to the matron and they'll be keeping you in overnight under observation, as you've been unconscious, so I'll stay in a hotel and we'll drive back in the morning. I've booked you in to see my doctor on Friday." I fell asleep soon after that and when I awoke in the early evening she was gone.

That night in hospital seemed endless. My wrists hurt, I itched all over and I couldn't get comfortable in any of the limited number of positions I could adopt. Sleep finally came in the cool of the early morning but was shattered by the usual hospital insistence on giving the patients breakfast at 6am. Not that you could be annoyed with the nursing staff, they were fantastic. A couple of them were absolute babes, too, and under other circumstances I might have tried my hand but my libido was at a low point. Mother arrived at eight o'clock and promptly drew the curtains around my bed:

"Right, let's get you dressed. Can you get out of bed by yourself?" I'd somehow thought the nursing staff would do this but mum had other ideas. Kicking off the covers I swung my legs and stood, feeling a bit weak. "Ok, let's get that shift off." Before I could protest she'd untied the laces at the back and pulled the garment over my plastered arms; there wasn't much I could do to resist, so I stood there helplessly, stark naked.

There was a silence for a second or two as my mum took in the size of what was hanging between her son's legs and it fleetingly occurred to me that she hadn't seen me in this condition since I was about five years old. Was it my imagination or was she blushing? She became very business-like:

"Right, sit on the bed and lift your legs." She slid on my underpants and I stood to let her pull them up, keeping her hands well away from my genitals and seeming to avert her gaze. Trousers followed and then a short-sleeved shirt which she'd had the foresight to pack. We hung around until the doctor came to formally discharge me and, with a warm thank-you to the nursing staff, we left the hospital for the journey home.

We had a five-hour journey and mum was a confident and competent driver so I could relax in the passenger seat with my thoughts. I had dreaded being dressed by mum, and it had been pretty embarrassing, but her reaction to my nakedness was more unexpected; it just never occurred to me at the time that she'd never seen a penis anything like that big before.

Back at home, further and worse humiliation was to follow. Shortly after arriving I said I needed the toilet:

"Well, I'm not surprised after a five-hour journey. We'll use the one upstairs; the downstairs cloakroom's a bit cramped." In the bathroom mum unbuckled my belt and unzipped my trousers, pulling these and my underpants down to my ankles, and again averting her gaze as her head passed close to my genitals. I sat back down on toilet seat, my penis hanging in the pan, and managed to pee successfully:

"Ok, I'm done." Mum pulled up my underpants and trousers and washed her hands, remaining silent. Downstairs in the kitchen I felt I needed to say something:

"Look mum I'm really sorry to be a burden like this; I think it's pretty awkward for both of us. Would it make sense to get in some professional help?"

"Don't be silly, they cost a fortune and besides there's nothing awkward about a mother helping her son." So that was that. I surrendered myself to enduring this embarrassment and hoped it would get easier with time.

That night I had trouble sleeping again. It was a hot night, one of the first of the summer, and my arms ached abominably; after thumping around the bedroom for an hour or so my mother appeared in the doorway in her dressing gown, a black silk kimono with a golden dragon embroidered on the back. "Lie back down, love." She'd brought a cold flannel and used this to cool my brow. It felt wonderful and relaxing. She went to the bathroom to refresh the flannel but by the time she came back I'd fallen into a deep sleep.

The morning brought another sultry day and my first bath. Alongside taking a shit, this was the one I'd been dreading. Having taken off my pyjamas mum helped me into the bath to make sure I didn't wet the plasters on my arms. She kept up a dialogue as she washed my hair and face, dabbing tenderly at my various cuts and bruises. Helping me to stand she soaped my torso. As she moved lower I was in a state of acute emotional discomfort, almost fearing the touch of her hands on my penis and scrotum and, irrationally, averting my head too. She soaped me quickly and thoroughly, pulling back my foreskin to wash around my glans. One crumb of comfort was that I was so embarrassed that I didn't get an erection at her touch; that really would have been excruciating. A final dunk in the bath and the job was done, except that she now had to towel me dry and dress me and feed me. And then guess what? I needed to take a crap. The day was just getting better and better.

That first week was the worst. With repetition, even the bizarre becomes commonplace and I think we both started feeling a bit more comfortable with the situation; we even started joking about it. At the same time the pain from my wrists was receding and I was able to help myself to a limited extent, for example by feeding myself (although proper meals still needed to be cut up).

By the end of the second week things were definitely looking up, but there was another problem. It was dawning on me that mum was spending more time washing my penis than she had in the early days. At first I dismissed this as a fancy but one morning in the bath she held me halfway up the shaft and stroked her soapy hand two or three times over the head of my cock, where once would have sufficed. Having noticed this, I began to feel some stirrings in my groin. Oh god, I thought, I must not get an erection. In desperation I willed myself to remain detached and think about anything other than my mother's hand on my cock. Nothing doing! I had begun to feel myself swelling when mum abruptly stopped and helped me to sit down and rinse off.

"Do you mind if I soak for a bit, mum?" By this ploy I intended to wait until all was quiet below before emerging to be dried off.

"Well I'm a bit pushed for time this morning so I'd rather you didn't." With a supreme effort of will I stayed quiescent while she dried and dressed me, relieved at having avoided the absolute last word in awkward moments but aware that with my returning libido I would need to develop coping strategies. However, the next morning all was lost, mother had painted her nails red.

I was totally dumbfounded; I couldn't recall having seen her wear nail varnish before. The trouble is that it's a big turn-on for me; I've always liked a lady with painted nails and mother's fingernails were well shaped and carefully varnished a deep red. There was no way I was going to be able to suppress an erection with my mother's scarlet tipped fingers sliding over my shaft and the anticipation only made things worse. Pretty much as soon as I stood up in the bath and she took my penis in one of her hands it started to grow. As she pulled the foreskin back gently with her other hand it reached full erection status, a proud ten inches of rigid manhood. I was mortified.

"Christ, mum I'm really sorry!"

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about." She circled my helmet and lightly drew her hand back down the shaft, "particularly in your case. I thought this would happen sometime, it's perfectly ok." And it was. After that I got an erection every time mum bathed me and nothing more was said, except that she seemed increasingly fascinated by it and spent more time washing it as the days went by. It was a long way from a hand job but I have to say that after the first shock I started to enjoy it and looked forward to my morning bath. Mum for her part continued to wear nail varnish and I half suspected that it was just for my benefit.

That summer was unusual in England in that the sun shone in a cloudless sky for days on end and temperatures soared. Hosepipe bans were imposed and there was talk of rationing water through stand-pipes in the street, as had been done in 1976. It was hot at night too. My bedroom window was open fully and mum put a fan on my chest of draws, which helped, but my wrists under the plasters had started to itch insufferably and although I could move about more easily, and even clumsily pick things up, there was still a lot I couldn't do. One of the things I couldn't do was masturbate. I'd tried a few times but I couldn't grip my cock properly with the plaster on and if I tried to use both hands, my arms soon ached with the up and down motion. All this meant that I spent a lot of each night tossing and turning, my penis rigid and my balls full, or trying to settle my mind by reading.

I did a fair bit of thinking too in the small hours. There was no doubt that my relationship with my mother was different to how it had been in the past. Yes, she still dictated almost everything to me and had her own way in most things, but the physical closeness of the last three weeks seemed to have softened her, somehow brought out her femininity.

I have to say I liked the change; she was more approachable and our enforced intimacy allowed us to discuss things I wouldn't have dreamed of talking about with her a few months ago. She asked me about girlfriends and I got the impression she wanted to hear about the physical details. Gradually it began to dawn on me that my mother was developing a curious fascination with my penis. At first my reason said 'don't be daft', she's your mother. But when I started really thinking about it, I was surprised to find the idea was attractive rather than repulsive.

One night, when I'd been home about seven weeks, it was particularly humid and still, the curtains hanging open and limp at the window, the fan making scant difference to the temperature in my bedroom. I had thrown off the sheet covering me and was wearing only pyjama bottoms, which my mother insisted on putting on me regardless of the obvious unsuitability of night-wear in seventy degree heat and eighty per-cent humidity. It was 3:30am and I was reading a novel by the light of a bedside lamp when there was a gentle tap on my door.

"I saw your light was on under the door. You must be horribly uncomfortable in this heat. Is there anything I can get for you?" Mum came to sit next to me on the bed, she was wearing the black silk kimono again, wrapped tightly around her and giving silky definition to her curves.

"I'm fine, mum, thanks anyway." With some dismay I felt stirrings in my loins and my penis starting to engorge. I needed to get rid of my mother before she noticed. I did consider covering it with one of my plastered arms but decided that would probable just attract attention to it. Mum however wasn't ready to leave: