The Hands

"The fools, the stupid uncaring fools. " I was beside myself with rage. The manager of Ironside Castings, the foundry my son had just started working for, had arrived on my doorstep to announce that my son had had an accident and that both his hands were crushed.

He was full of apologies that in no way placated me. His father and I hadn't wanted Stephen to work in the filthy place, but he had been determined. He had ambitions of becoming a metallurgist, and saw working on the foundry floor for a while as a good starting point before undertaking formal academic studies. And now, just a few days into the job, a casting he was working with fell and crushed his hands, and they had carted Stephen off to the Royal City Hospital.

I listened to what the manager had to say, and then gave expression to my thoughts. I think my words and manner left him in no doubt about how I felt. He departed, still mumbling apologies. I rang my husband who was away on business. They had to call him out of a meeting. I tried to break it to him carefully. "Darling, Stephen has had a bit of an accident at work." My approach didn't help. George knew quite well that I wouldn't have rung him at that time of day on a minor matter.

"What? What is it? What's happened?" I had to give such details as I knew.

"I haven't seen him yet," I explained, "but I'll go to the hospital as soon as I put the phone down.

"Should I come home?" George asked anxiously.

"No," I answered, "wait until I've been to the hospital and found out how bad he is, then I'll give you another call and we can decide then."

I rang off, changed my dress, and drove to the hospital.

Stephen, when I saw him, was very pale and sorry for himself. I kissed him, and asked how he felt. "Not good, mum. They hurt like hell." I had been trained as a nurse, and so I had some idea about the meaning of his injuries. They would immobilise his hands for some time to come.

A nurse entered and loaded a syringe. "This will probably make you sleepy," she said, as the contents of the syringe went in. She turned to me, "If you would like to see Doctor Anderson when you're leaving, I can take you to him." I thanked her and she departed.

The effects of the injection were beginning to show by now as Stephen's eyes drooped and his speech slurred. "I'll leave you now, darling," I said, "I need to phone your father to let him know how things are. Would you like him to come home?" Not a really good time to ask any questions, but Stephen mumbled, "No, he'll be home in a couple of weeks, it's okay."

The nurse took me to Dr.Anderson. We shook hands and he invited me to sit. Coming straight to the point he said, "His hands are badly injured, but they're not quite as bad as they look. I need to have some further x-rays taken, but I think I can safely say that given time, his hands will be fully mobile. There'll be some scars, but I'm fairly sure that will be all." I let out a long sigh of relief.

He went on, "After the initial treatment, there's no reason why Stephen shouldn't go home, providing there's someone there most of the time. You see, he won't be able to use his hands for some time, so he'll need help." I explained my nursing background and he smiled and said, "Excellent. We'll keep Stephen here for a few days and see how he goes. Then make a decision."

Arriving home I rang George and explained the situation, and suggested that he complete his business before coming home, as there was nothing he could do at the moment.

I paid daily visits to Stephen, doing my motherly comforting thing. We had always been very close, even to the point that I had to be careful not to arouse George's jealousy. I tried to imagine how it would be not being able to use your hands, and made tentative adjustments to the household.

On my fifth visit, it was announced that Stephen could come home next day. When I went to pick him up his hands were plastered. When we got home, I began to discover just how immobile he was. He couldn't feed or dress himself, although after a couple of days he did devise ways around some of these problems and all I had to do was zip or button him up.

One embarrassment for him was my having to get his penis out when he wanted to urinate, and getting his trousers down and cleaning him up after he defecated. My nurse training meant that I had no problems about these tasks, but one job in particular proved initially awkward. It was showering him. We needed to keep his casts dry, and me too for that matter. We tried with his hands outside the shower and covered with waterproof plastic, and this worked to some extent, but I got soaked.

After a couple of tries, it was finally decided he should have a bath instead. This worked well except for one embarrassing matter for Stephen. On reaching puberty, he had gone into shy mode, and it was only now I again saw his penis. I recognized that it had grown since my last sighting of it, but Stephen was very self-conscious. It was made even more disconcerting for him when, every time I washed his manhood, it began to stiffen. He apologised profusely and I made noises about being a nurse and all that.

About the fourth time, this happened I realised that it was not only embarrassing for him, but also distressing. I knew he usually masturbated regularly to give himself sexual relief and I could see that this was now impossible with those hands. I had also noticed when I made his bed in the mornings, a sticky patch where he must have discharged during his sleep.

I am not afraid of the male organ but have always been careful not to overstep the bounds of propriety, especially where my son is concerned, so I approached the subject very carefully. "Darling, that must be very uncomfortable for you."

"Oh God, yes," he moaned. I touched his penis and said, "Would you like mother to fix it for you?"

"He looked at me unbelieving for a moment, then seeing I was serious said, "Oh, would you mum, would you?"

"Of course," I replied.

I took his organ in my hand and began to stroke it. I had of course done this with George many times during our love making, so I knew how to chime into the rhythm of the approaching male orgasm. I felt Stephen's orgasm drawing near and speeded up my stroking, and as I did he started to groan, "Oh mum, mum, mum, don't stop, don't…Aaah."

His sperm shot out and cascaded down onto the bath water and my hand. When he finished, he leaned over the edge of the bath to lay his head on my breast as I knelt beside him, and said, "Thank you mum, that was wonderful."

After that, relieving him in the bath became a daily ritual and his gratitude were very touching.

Things changed when one day, instead of masturbating him in the bath I waited until I was drying him. As he started to come, he suddenly pressed himself against me, the sperm pouring out against the lower part of my belly. As he moved away, I could see his sperm on my dress slowly running down it.

His apologies were profuse, but I shushed him, telling him it was all right and not to worry as the dress would wash, but I had not missed the significance of what had happened. I had thought that while I masturbated him he was fantasising about some girl or girls. Until this moment, it had not occurred to me that I was becoming the object of his desires.

I was now in quandary. Should I cease relieving him, or carry on as if I didn't know what was happening? The other side of the matter I was still to some extent hiding from myself. Now, with the safety of time, I can confess that I was starting to become involved.

While George was away on his trips, I used a vibrator or dildo to give myself relief, and as I had my orgasm, I fantasised that it was George in me. Over the last couple of nights, the fantasy had become Stephen. I conjectured that despite the belly pressing of this morning, Stephen would not make any bigger moves, so it was up to me.

Again, I approached it carefully. Next morning I waited until I was drying Stephen after his bath, and said, "Darling, let's go somewhere more comfortable to relieve you." He made no discussion about this, and simply said, "Okay." I took him to my bedroom with the big double bed, and getting him to lay on his back, I began to use my hand on him.

As I felt him starting to move towards his orgasm, I took the big chance. I had chosen my clothing carefully that morning. I had on a full skirt and no pants. This was to make it easier to execute my plan. I took my hand from his penis and moving quickly I sat astride him and inserted his organ into me. Stephen stared in unbelief for a moment, and then, as I began to move up and down on him he started crying out, "Oh God, mum, mother, oh God… yes… oh yes…yes." He came with what sounded like a shout of triumph, shooting great bursts of sperm into me.

I had not come myself, but was content to wait. I had seen the pleasure he had experience with me, and I thought, "He'll want more and more of me now, plenty of time for my gratification."

I waited until I was sure he had slackened in me, and lifted myself from him. He lay still, saying over and over, "Oh, thank you mum, thank you, I've wanted you so badly." It was intensely moving and I found myself with tears in my eyes. My feelings were of gratitude that I had been able to give my son the beauty of a woman's body, and understanding that there was sure to be more to come.

I was not wrong about more to come. That afternoon Stephen came up behind me and put his encased arms round me. "Come to bed with me again, mum," he whispered. We went together to the bedroom.

His hands being as they were, he could not do much to me. I deep kissed him and then lowered my breasts to his mouth so he could suck my nipples. I took his penis into my mouth and sucked and licked until I thought his orgasm was near then, denying him fulfillment at that moment, I sat across his face and lowered my vagina to his mouth saying, "Lick me there, my love." Not being able to use his hands, he tried to use his arms to drag me tighter and tighter against his mouth and flickering tongue. I could feel he had all the makings of a wonderful lover, and I was now determined I would be his teacher.

His oral stimulation of me brought me to my climax. I screamed as I crushed my vagina against his face, rubbing it all over him. When the climax had passed a little I went astride him and inserted him into me. He spurted with the same gushing orgasm as earlier in the day.

As the days passed and the time for George's return home drew near, I began to realise I had unleashed a monster in him and a veritable sexual demon in myself. Stephen could not leave me alone. He wanted me in the morning, afternoon and at night. Where he got the energy and sperm was a mystery to me. Not that I objected to this situation, on the contrary, I was enjoying myself hugely.

George had always been a more or less adequate lover, just about, and only just about, keeping me satisfied, and there was one area of sexual penetration that we both delighted in, but I had not shared with Stephen. But more on that soon. Now, with Stephen, I had found the true dimensions of my carnal needs, and dreaded having to give up the satisfaction I was getting with my son.

A decision had to be arrived at, and in the end, I was probably the one who had to make that decision. Should I stop the sexual relationship with Stephen? Should I try to arrange things so that we could carry on in secret? Should I tell George in the hope he would understand my needs? Should I leave George in the hope that Stephen would remain with me as my lover?

Other questions arose; would Stephen always want me as he did now? Probably not. What would happen when he returned to work and had his days filled with activity? Suppose he met a girl? How long could I look forward to a sexual relationship with Stephen? Was I merely a fill-in while he was incapacitated?

These thoughts raced around in my head, and the time for a decision was very close. I determined to be open with Stephen about my questioning, so a couple of evenings before George was due home, I opened the discussion with him.

To my frankness, he responded with equal candor. "Mother," he began, "I want the sex with you to go on. I don't know how we could go on living in the same house without it. Knowing what we do about each other, and seeing each other every day without having sex would be hell for both of us."

"On the other hand," he went on. "I don't want you to leave dad, nor do I want you to tell him about us. In either case, I think it would just about destroy him. The thing is, could you cope with both of us? I don't know how often you and dad have sex, but let's just say, twice a week, "

"Three times usually," I interrupted. "All right then, three times, " he went on. "We've been having that amount and sometimes more every day. Could you handle that and dad as well."

Emotionally these were two men I loved, so from that perspective I felt confident in my power to cope. I pointed out that once he returned to work, Stephen would probably not want me so often, so I anticipated no problem on the grounds of my physical ability to survive. Any sensual woman can easily handle two men.

Stephen went on to point out his father frequently had to go away on business, and that would leave us free to indulge each other. At other times, we should have to take opportunities as they arose.

It seemed then, that from Stephen's point of view, we carried on, but with reduced frequency in actual intercourse. I admit that this is what I wanted to hear, and so I agreed. For the remaining time we were alone we took full advantage and made love even more frequently.

George arrived home in the afternoon a couple of days later. He wanted to take me immediately, but couldn't because Stephen was there, so we had to wait. Stephen and I had come together twice that morning, and George took me twice that night. The second time he used anal penetration and this is what I had not done with Stephen.

I don't know if you will think this odd, but I felt that something had to be reserved for George alone, and as a consequence, I have never had anal sex with Stephen. Actually, he has never attempted it with me, but I suppose I could have approached him and, given the way he hurled himself into all other aspects of sexual play with me, he probably would have taken to anal sex as well.

Eventually Stephen's hands healed, and as predicted by the doctor, there was little to show but a few scars. With the freeing of his hands, more delights were added to our love making, and now, as I write, it is three years since Stephen and I came together in sexual love.

Once he started work Stephen's desire for sex did diminish a little, but there are times when he comes home from work, arriving about an hour before George gets in, and almost rapes me on the living room couch. I love it.

As to my sexual stamina, well, I usually have sex about twice a day, and believe me, where the heart is; the body doesn't have too much difficulty following.

I some times wonder how George would take it if he knew. Given his predilection for anal intercourse and Stephen's satisfaction with vaginal penetration, it could be an interesting threesome. Well, we'll see…!