Quicie: a Booboo

Note: This is my second "Quickie" story, denoting not a series but a shorter work than usual for me. Thanks for checking it out. FS

*****

My mom accidentally kissed my dick. She was in her mothering groove, I think, and it just happened. There was no lewd intent; of that, I'm sure.

An hour earlier, I was taking our Chesapeake, Barney, for a run through the woods behind our house. It was an unusually dark, early December night, and I lost track of where I was.

I had lost sight of Barney, too. Had he turned or gone ahead?

Gone ahead, I decided, squinting to see through the brush and trees ahead of me.

Abruptly, three taut wires checked my forward momentum from the waist down. My upper body flopped over the neighbor's barbed-wire fence, and my lower half followed. During the tumble, I knew something was wrong.

Landing in a pile, I seized my cock through my jeans with both hands, wincing and cursing.

Barney ran up to the fence. Barking softly, he darted back and forth on the other side. I gutted the pain for long enough to address my dog's alarm. "Easy, boy," I groaned. He sat and whimpered while he waited for me to climb back to our side.

The faint starlight revealed a small, darkened patch forming against the crotch of my jeans. Blood. I cursed again before I found a good spot to cross back to our property between the middle and top wires, being extremely careful to avoid the barbs. Barney came and started licking my face during the transit.

Safely across, I led us toward home. After only a few steps, I winced again. I swore darkly. The pain on my cock had a twisting bite to it, and I knew from experience that it meant there was a risk of infection. So, Barney trotted, and I limped.

That was the fall of my eighteenth year, and all my life I was a kid who loved the outdoors. That meant injuries--tons of them. My three younger sisters--didn't have any brothers--were homebodies; they got sick. I didn't, not much; it was scrapes, nicks, cuts, bruises, and breaks for me.

Mom was almost always my nurse--had to be because we lived twenty-two miles from the nearest doctor's office and seventy-nine from the nearest emergency room.

I didn't plan on seeking Mom's help for this injury. I'd watched her mend me hundreds of times, so I basically knew what to do. First, I needed to avoid her; I needed to go in the front door and stay away from where I knew she would be--the kitchen.

Arriving on the front porch, I snapped and pointed at the long cushion on the bench beside our bay window. Barney jumped up there. Fighting off the pain, I told him he was a good boy and scratched him behind the ears. He smiled up at me, and I dug into my pocket and pulled out a half strip of bacon from a plastic bag for him.

When I turned toward the front door, Mom was already there. She held the door open for me. Once I'd entered, forcing myself to act casually and hide the blood stain on the crotch of my jeans, she asked what had happened. My youngest sister, Isabelle, was there, standing beside Mom, pinching a wad of Mom's jeans in her little fingers.

"Nothing. I'm okay," I said.

Closing the door behind me, Mom leaned down to Izzy, kissed her forehead, and said, "Run along, my sweetheart. I need to have a private talk with your brother."

Izzy let go of Mom's jeans and left us.

Mom turned to me and raised a single eyebrow.

"I'm serious," I assured her. "I'm okay."

She came up to me, cradled my face in her hands, and kissed my cheek. "You forget," she said as she drew back, "how many times I've seen my baby boy hurt. I know the look. Come to the kitchen and let's--."

"Mom?" I interrupted.

She grew still.

"No kidding," I said, "this is probably one I should handle myself."

She glanced at the hand over my crotch. "Tell me what happened."

I sighed and did.

She very carefully hugged me when I finished my tale of woe, and then she kissed my cheek again. "I'm so very sorry, baby. That's just awful luck."

"So," I said, "you see what I mean about--about wanting to take care of this myself?"

"I do, and I'm sorry, but I still need to--Hannah! Are you eavesdropping on my conversation with your brother?" I followed Mom's icy glare and found my middle sister at the top of the stairs, spinning and darting back to her room.

When Hannah's door shut, Mom turned to me.

I said, "Mom--."

"It's decided, baby. Your eyes don't have the experience of mine--mending a thousand injuries. To spot infection in time, I need to see it."

"But--," I started.

Mom's brown eyes grew wider, her swooping eyebrows rose, and she tilted her head just slightly to the side. She didn't say a word. Didn't need to.

"Okay," I muttered, growing embarrassed at the mere prospect of what was to come.

"I'll fetch my things," she said, rubbing my shoulder and pouting sympathetically.

***

There are people in the world who are naturally gentle--not a violent impulse in their bodies. Mom is that way. Her every touch is charged with tenderness. Her hands and fingers always moved slowly, and her caresses were so supple that it was like her touch was designed to soothe. When she kissed my cheek--and occasionally my lips--the softness there was like a murmured lullaby.

If it isn't already clear, my mother expresses her affection physically. She hugs. She kisses. She rubs. Sometimes she just needs to hold hands. More than once I've heard her lament the passing of those days when I didn't mind nuzzles and snuggles. I can remember as a little boy being playfully chased around the house by her, and when caught, laughing hysterically as she planted kisses upon me by the hundreds. I still see her do it to my two youngest sisters.

Even at 39, Mom is still pretty agile. She and Dad stay fit. They turned our basement storage room into a small gym and worked out together all the time. Those two go on long walks a few times each week, as well, leaving me in charge of my sisters. I'm proud that Mom takes care of herself, and I know my friends say things about her behind my back.

There are a few grey wisps in her long, brown hair. Her eyes are big and dark, capped with distinct and expressive eyebrows. She can convey her emotions easily with those swooping things. Shorter than me by about six inches, she stands at five-four on long legs and a shorter torso capped by fat, jutting Mom-breasts that were challenging for even her own son to ignore, but suited her nurturing temperament to perfection.

***

Before Mom inspected the injury to my dick, I wanted to survey the damage first. I carefully ascended the stairs and went to the bathroom I shared with my sisters. Closing and locking the door, I gingerly dropped my jeans and underwear to my thighs.

I swore again.

There was a puncture wound on the tip, and it was wide enough on the surface of the skin that I suspected the barb sank home completely. The wound continued to leak blood, and it stung like nasty, lingering insect venom. The knob, completely coated in blood, looked like a clown's rubber nose.

I started when Mom knocked and asked to come in.

Sighing and swearing to myself, I pulled up my trousers and unlocked the door. Mom came in with her first aid basket, brimming with bottles, bandages, tools, tape--you name it. She closed and locked the door behind her. Setting the basket on the vanity, she asked me to show her.

"I will show you--I promise--but will you just let me clean it first?" I didn't want her to freak out.

She considered the proposal for a second before shaking her head and saying, "Just show me quickly. Drop them and pull them up. One second. Let me see it."

Swallowing and turning to her, I hooked my thumbs under my pants, sighed, closed my eyes, and carefully pulled them down. Counting to one and trying to ignore her gasp, I pulled them back up.

"Oh, my goodness, baby!" She had covered her mouth with a hand. Blinking at me in astonishment, she dropped to her knees in front of me and lowered my pants over everything.

I didn't even try to stop her. What was the point?

"Oh! You poor thing!" she said, surveying the wound. Then, she looked up at me. "Does it hurt?"

"Yeah."

"Let's get this cleaned in the sink."

"I've got it," I said, turning toward the faucet and bowl.

"Fine," she said, "but lean well over it, so we don't make the floor all wet."

I did, putting my hand on the mirror to balance myself. My cock and balls dangled over the front of the bowl.

Mom turned on the water and began to rifle through her supplies. Once the water was warm enough, she asked me if I wanted her to rinse me.

This was a tough moment. It's not that I wanted her to do it. I didn't. The problem was that I knew, no matter how comfortably warm that water was, when it hit my dick, it was going to hurt like a bastard.

I shook my head, took two deep breaths, and splashed the water over my cock. Snatching a sharp breath, I growled through the anguish. Mom caressed my back. The next scoop of water wasn't as bad, and after seven or eight more, I blew out a long breath and turned to Mom.

She looked at me like I was a dying puppy, and she said, "Ready for the disinfectant soap?"

I laughed miserably.

She took my hand and pumped a dollop into it, asking if I was sure I didn't want her to do it.

I shook my head.

She told me it would definitely sting.

I nodded, swallowed, and began applying the soap to the tip of my cock. Pinching my eyes shut, I gasped, tilted my head back, and let out a long, angry growl.

"Get it sudsy," she advised. "Don't rinse yet."

Through clenched teeth, I grumbled, "I know."

"My poor baby," she moaned, leaning her head on my shoulder and rubbing my back.

I checked my work. The head of my cock was a miniature Santa Claus beard of suds, but the pain of the soapy disinfectant began to subside. I scooped handfuls of water and doused my cock, sighing with relief.

"Good," Mom murmured.

With every scoop of water, a small bit of blood washed away, only to be replaced by a fresh, rising droplet. Beside me, Mom grabbed a gauze pad and said, "Now let me get a closer look."

She leaned across me.

"Mom--," I began, flinching. This was too close of a look.

"I need to see it," she replied, cutting me off and steadying me with her hands on my hips. Sighing, I rolled my eyes and caught our reflection in the mirror.

I almost flinched again. The image in the mirror was the back of Mom's head in front of my crotch with my pants down at my thighs and her hands on my hips. It looked in the mirror like she was giving me a--.

"Okay," I hastily said, shutting my eyes.

"Wait." She dabbed the tip with the gauze.

"Mom, that's enough," I said, urging her back.

"Just wait!"

"Mom!"

She drew back, clearly annoyed. "This is your penis, baby! You get one of them in life. One. You do not want to lose it to infection. Now, will you swallow your pride and let me help you care for it?"

I stared at her for a beat, and then, resigned, I muttered, "Okay."

"Thank you."

I didn't interfere with her again. When her inspection ended, she spun me toward her, knelt in front of me, and went to work. First, she dabbed it dry with the gauze, occasionally wiping away the leaking blood. Then, she applied an antibiotic ointment to the puncture wound. After that, she spent a minute or two creating a little square bandage made of gauze and medical tape.

She worked without talking, and she lost herself in the job. I didn't say a word when her fingers raised the limp shaft and inspected it. She did it no differently than if it were a four-year-old's arm and not an eighteen-year-old's cock. Mom ran a finger around the tip in circles to make sure the two strips of white tape held.

Finishing, she looked up at me and said, "I'm going to leave some tape with you in case this bandage comes off for--for any reason."

Her eyes told me what she meant--if a hard-on stretched the tape to the point where it no longer held. "Okay," I said, thinking, my gosh, please! Do not--do not--get hard tonight.

"What do you think?" she asked.

I surveyed her work. "Looks okay."

"Feeling any better?"

"Yeah."

She smiled. "No more ouchie?"

I smirked, recalling her little routine.

Then, she kissed the limp, bare shaft--just behind the bandage--saying, "All better."

I did not know what to do. I froze.

Mom shifted on her knees to stand, but she hesitated. It was as if she just then realized what she'd done. Hundreds of times, Mom had kissed me on or near my injuries after tending to them. It was her thing, but I'd never had a wound to my dick before.

In a near panic, I prayed she would not say anything or mention the cock kiss ever, ever, ever. I silently begged that she would just go.

She did. She rose, never looking at me. She packed her things and left without a word. A small roll of medical tape remained beside the sink.

Bizarre as it may seem, seeing Mom leave without a final word or sympathetic caress--without even a compassionate glance back at me--was almost as strange as her unintentionally kissing my dick.

I began to wonder if it would have been better if she'd simply apologized and found a way to laugh off that absent-minded kiss.

***

I took two painkillers before bed that night, and as I lay there in the darkness, staring at my ceiling fan and waiting for the medicine to kick in, I wondered how Mom felt.

Surely, it was mortifying when she realized she'd put her lips on her son's dick, right? Accidental, of course, but humiliating all the same.

Mom was a lot of things; one of them was honest. She'd tell us when she took a piece of our Halloween candy without permission. When she was in a foul mood, she explained why. Once on vacation, I remember her telling me she wasn't going swimming with the rest of us because she was having a heavy period.

So, I wondered if she would tell Dad. Oh, please, no.

Not that Dad would be upset--he wouldn't. More likely, he would find it uproariously funny. Dad loved to laugh, especially at his own or other people's embarrassments and foibles. The minute he knew I was going to be okay and no longer in terrible pain, he was going to rib me about getting my dick caught up in barbed wire.

Yeah, I thought, he would. I grinned a little bit despite the lingering soreness.

The smile vanished when I thought about Mom telling Dad about the kiss. Yes, he would tease her about kissing the booboo on her adult son's cock. Dad would get Mom laughing about it, too.

Something about that scenario--Mom and Dad laughing together about that kiss in their bedroom--unsettled me, and I couldn't or didn't want to name the reason.

***

After separating my shoulder a few years ago, when I climbed into bed that evening, I worried about rolling onto the shoulder because I usually slept on that side. Didn't happen. I fell asleep and woke up on my back without moving. I think our bodies are smarter than we give them credit for.

Case in point, I did not get a hard-on in the night after my cock injury. I had fully expected to get one because it always happened. Always. But not that night.

The bandage was there in the morning, and my dick had stopped bleeding. A small maroon dot sat on the center of the gauze over the wound, and that's it--apart from some soreness.

And, I acknowledged as I scrutinized my dick, some swelling around the tip.

Mom stopped by, and the first thing she asked after kissing my forehead was if the bandage held through the night.

"Yeah."

"Oh, good," she sighed. Then, she asked if I had been able to get any sleep.

"Yeah."

"How's the bleeding?"

"Stopped."

"And the pain?"

"I can manage."

"Does the area around your injury feel particularly warm?"

"I don't think so. Bit of swelling, maybe."

"Swelling? Let me see."

I was done fighting her on the privacy thing. I rose and pulled down my boxers. Mom knelt and examined me.

"Okay," she said. "Bandage looks good. I think it'll make it through a school day, don't you?"

I nodded.

She resumed. "We can replace it tonight." Her index finger and thumb carefully felt around the tip and along the shaft. "It doesn't have that signature heat that would indicate the beginning of infection, but I do see some redness and swelling." Mom snaked two fingers between my dick and my nutsack, and she raised my cock to horizontal.

I looked away because my dick was pointed at her face, and she was just a few inches from it.

The tip of her thumb explored the tape of the bandage, and I was annoyed by how soothing her thumb felt. Suddenly, she stopped and let my cock down. Digging into the pocket of her fuzzy pajama bottoms, she pulled out a clear, medium-sized resealable bag and handed it to me. "For your shower," she said. "Keep this poor guy dry, okay?"

I nodded.

She smiled.

And she kissed it again. It was quick and light, but this time, she came at it from the side, not kissing near the tip, but the root--right where it emerged from my pubic hairs. She rose quickly and looked at me as if daring me to say something, as if she was ready for any challenge to her right as mother to kiss her baby's booboo.

I didn't say anything.

She hugged me and left, advising, "Take some painkillers with you and have a good day."

A few minutes later, I had my first post-puncture piss. When I finished, I was gasping. I was sweating profusely. It had been awful.

Don't mistake me. It's not like piss started spraying out of the new hole in my dick. It was the sensation of urine streaking so near the wound that ruined me. The tip hurt, but much worse was the hypersensitivity. The rushing flood was to my injured sex organ like fingernails on a chalkboard to my ears.

***

I grew to almost tolerate pissing as the day wore on, but that night brought on several new problems.

The first was my Dad. During dinner with the whole family gathered around, he spoke to me for the first time since the accident. Very seriously, he turned to me and said, "So, champ, tell me about this new young lady in your life."

Mom froze, eyeing him warily.

Little Izzy's eyes went wide. "You have a new girlfriend?" she asked me.

I stammered.

Dad interrupted, "Sure he does, kiddo. Barb, I think, is her name, isn't it?" Then, he winked at me.

Mom put down her utensils, saying, "Dear!"

Dad erupted in laughter.

Mom's face went pink. Watching Dad, her lips quivered. Quickly, she covered her face with her napkin, and her shoulders started shaking.

Izzy, sitting beside Mom, laughed because her parents were laughing. Hannah glanced back and forth between Dad and Mom, asking, "What? What?" My oldest sister, Lauren, sighed, shook her head, and continued eating.

Barely recovering from the fit, Dad added, "I hear she bites." Not a second passed before he lost it. Mom waved her napkin at him twice, struggling to control herself. She looked at me apologetically, but her face was so red that I smiled. When I did, she burst into hooting giggles.

I ate; they laughed and apologized and laughed some more. At one point, Mom rose, walked over, and kissed my head, saying, "Thank you for putting up with your father."

After dinner, since Lauren was showering in the bathroom I used, Mom met me in the master bathroom with her medical supply bin and a new, pre-made bit of gauze and tape. "Time to swap out this old bandage for a new one," she said.

I nodded.

"Let's have a look."

I unbuckled my belt and took down my jeans. She knelt in front of me. Without asking, her fingers took up my cock, and she scrutinized the tip. "About the same," she murmured. Then, glancing at me, she said, "I'm going to take this off."

I nodded.

"The tape is going to hold tight to your skin," she cautioned.

Sucking in a breath, I nodded again.

"Quickly," she asked, nodding at the old bandage, "or carefully?"