Mum Helps Out

Katy takes care of her 14yo son while he's incapacitated...

In an odd way, Katy sort of liked Stan being dependent upon her again—like when he was a little boy—though she'd never admit it aloud. Especially not when she was kneeling between his legs right now, carefully maneuvering the waistband of his pajama pants into place. The heavy plaster casts encasing both arms making it impossible for him to do much of anything himself.

She was trying to ignore his erection poking against her arm as she tugged his pajama pants up—trying and failing. She had discovered—over the past few days—that fourteen year old boys were hard almost all the time. But she had decided just to pretend it wasn’t happening. That was easier. Less embarrassing for both of them.

The only thing was—he was big. Surprisingly big. Katy's breath caught in her throat as she accidentally brushed against him again while adjusting the waistband. She hadn't expected that Not from her gangly, still-growing son. She'd seen him as a child for so long—knobby knees and scraped elbows—that the reality of him now, flushed and straining against thin cotton, sent an entirely inappropriate pulse of heat between her own thighs.

She swallowed hard, focusing on the mundane task of straightening the fabric. But her mind betrayed her. Christ, he's bigger than his Dad and Tom wasn't exactly small. The comparison sent a guilty jolt through her, her fingers lingering a second too long near her teenage son's hips.

Stan shifted uncomfortably, the narrow bunk creaking beneath him. "Mum, I'm sorry, I can't —"

"Sorry for what, darling?" Katy murmured, deliberately keeping her voice light, her fingers still hovering near the waistband. The tent in his pajamas was only becoming more pronounced—inches from her face. She could smell the musky heat of him, something primal and unexpected stirring low in her stomach.

Stan swallowed audibly, his throat bobbing. "Nothing," he muttered, shifting again—but the bunk was too narrow, the space between them too close. "Okay, sweetheart," Katy murmured. "Sweet dreams. Just shout if you need anything in the night."
----
That night, when Tom fucked her on all fours, she kept thinking about Stan. Tom gripped her hips, thrusting deep into her from behind, his groans muffled against her neck. Her eyes were squeezed shut, as she imagined it was her son's hands gripping her hips—his lean body pressed against her back—his breath hot on her skin. Her fingers circling her clit as Tom pounded into her, her stomach twisting with shame and arousal, as she imagined Stan’s thicker cock filling her instead of Tom’s.
----
The next morning, Tom was already shrugging into his work jacket, pressing a distracted kiss to her forehead before heading out. Katy leaned against the galley counter, watching May tug on her school shoes by the door—the girl scowling as she wrestled with the laces. “Say goodbye to your brother,” Katy reminded her. May rolled her eyes but trudged back toward the sleeping area where Stan lay sprawled in his bunk.

Katy followed her daughter, pausing in the doorway. May leaned over Stan’s bunk to peck him on the cheek. “Ugh, stop,” he grumbled, voice thick with sleep. May giggled, 'so grumpy in the morning' she teased before skipping out.

Katy exhaled, lingering. She was still in her nightie—the thin cotton clinging to her hips, the hem riding up just enough to tease the tops of her thighs. She should change. She would change. Just—after. After she got Stan up.

He was still half-asleep, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks, his lips parted slightly. His pajama pants had ridden down his hips in the night, the fabric loose and twisted. Katy's pulse stuttered. His cock was hard again—a thick outline pressing against the thin fabric, the head dampening the cotton slightly.

"Stan," she murmured, softly. "Time to wake up, darling."

He groaned, shifting against the mattress, arms useless in their plaster prisons.

"I'm going to give you a proper wash today," she said, voice carefully neutral. "It's been days—you smell like a goat."

Stan groaned, pressing his flushed face into the pillow. "Do we have to?"

Katy tugged the blanket off him entirely, leaving him exposed in nothing but pajama bottoms. "Yes," she said, sharper than she meant to. The sight of him—sprawled, helpless, morning-hardness unmistakable—made her fingers twitch. "Unless you want to stink up the entire boat."

She turned abruptly, crossing the narrow space to the galley—returning moments later with a chipped ceramic bowl filled with steaming water, a folded flannel cloth balanced on the rim. Her fingers trembled slightly as she set it down on the edge of Stan’s bunk, the water sloshing dangerously close to the edge.

Stan groaned again, shifting uncomfortably—but there was nowhere to go. Katy hesitated, then reached out to wash him, she started with his face, gently wiping away the sleep clinging to his lashes. The warm cloth traced his cheekbones, down the slope of his nose, over his parted lips—she lingered there, pressing just slightly before continuing. His breath hitched as she moved lower, scrubbing over the hollow of his throat, the sharp angles of his collarbones. Water trickled in thin rivulets down his chest, catching in the sparse trail of hair leading beneath the waistband of his pajama bottoms.

Katy swallowed hard, fingers tightening on the damp flannel. Trying to remind herself, it was just her son’s body. Nothing she hadn’t seen before. The warm cloth skated lower, following the lean planes of his stomach, the muscles fluttering beneath her touch. Stan was holding his breath now, his hips shifting subtly, helplessly.

"Let's take these off–they need a wash too," Katy murmured, her voice huskier than she intended. Her fingers grazed the waistband of Stan's pajama bottoms, her pulse hammering as she hooked her thumbs under the elastic. She slid them down his hips in one slow motion, the damp fabric catching slightly before giving way.

Stan closed his eyes and turned his head away—not fast enough to hide the flush creeping down his neck—as the cool morning air hit his exposed skin. Katy inhaled sharply, her grip tightening on the flannel.

There was no pretending now. His cock stood thick and flushed against his stomach, the tip glistening. Katy’s mouth went dry.

She dipped the flannel into the warm water again, squeezing it absently as her eyes traced the length of him. The silence stretched between them, then she exhaled—slow, deliberate—before pressing the damp cloth to his inner thigh. Stan jerked at the contact, his breath hitching audibly as she dragged the fabric upward in slow, deliberate strokes. The scent of him—musky, adolescent, unmistakably male—filled the cramped space between them. Katy swallowed hard, her fingers trembling slightly as she worked closer.

The flannel skimmed the crease of his hip, then circled the base of his cock with deliberate, clinical slowness. Or at least, she told herself it was clinical. But her pulse hammered wildly as she wrapped the damp cloth around his shaft, her thumb brushing the underside where the skin was impossibly soft. Stan made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, his hips twitching upward—instinctive, helpless—as she tightened her grip and dragged the cloth upward, twisting slightly over the swollen head.

She should stop. She would stop. Right after—just one more stroke. Katy exhaled shakily, watching the foreskin peel back under the pressure of the flannel, revealing the flushed, slick head beneath. The sound of Stan's ragged breathing filled the narrow cabin, his thighs trembling under her touch.

His balls were tight against his body, drawn up high with arousal—smooth and vulnerable. She traced the damp cloth over them carefully, the warmth of the water making him shudder. The thin skin tightened further under her fingers, and she couldn't help but press—just slightly—feeling the weight of him, the way his entire body tensed at the contact.

Her hand tightened around the damp flannel, sliding back to the shaft with deliberate focus. The heat of him pulsed against her palm through the thin fabric, his cock twitching as she dragged the cloth upward again—slow this time, savoring the way the veins stood out beneath her touch. Water trickled down his length, droplets catching in the sparse curls at the base before dripping onto the bunk sheets. Stan’s breath came in shallow gasps now, his head pressed back into the pillow, his lips parted around silent pleas. Katy’s own pulse throbbed between her thighs, a wet heat building.

She adjusted her grip, twisting the flannel just beneath the head—feeling him jerk beneath her—before sliding down again, her fingers brushing the sensitive underside. The rhythm was unmistakable now, her wrist flexing with each slow pump, her thumb circling the swollen tip every few strokes. Stan whimpered, his hips bucking weakly—his arms useless at his sides. She could see the tension coiling in his stomach, his muscles trembling as she worked him.

Then—suddenly—his breath hitched, his cock pulsing violently in her hand. Katy gasped as warmth spilled over her fingers, thick and sudden, streaking across his stomach. She barely had time to react before another spurt followed, the flannel doing little to catch the mess as his entire body arched off the bunk.

For a suspended second, she just stared—her own breath shallow, her fingers sticky—before instinct took over. She wiped it up with the flannel, pressing the damp fabric to his trembling stomach in slow, deliberate circles. Stan groaned weakly, his eyelashes fluttering, his cheeks scarlet as she cleaned him with motherly tenderness.

Except—he wasn’t softening. Not even slightly. His cock twitched against his stomach, still flushed and swollen, the veins standing out starkly beneath damp skin.

Katy’s breath caught. She’d expected—well, she wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Relief, maybe. Shame. A hasty retreat into the blankets. But Stan just lay there, chest rising and falling rapidly, his erection stubbornly persistent despite the mess still glistening on his abdomen.

Her fingers twitched. She stared at his cock—still thick, still twitching—and before she could stop herself, her hand was on him again. No cloth this time. No pretense. Just skin on skin, her palm scraping roughly over his shaft in a way that made him gasp.

Stan's eyes stayed shut—still not looking at her—but his lips parted in a silent plea, his throat bobbing as she tightened her grip. Katy bit back a moan, her own pulse hammering between her thighs as she worked him in slow, deliberate strokes. He was hot, the skin impossibly smooth, the weight of him heavy against her fingers.

She'd never touched another man's cock besides Tom's. Not in twenty years. And yet here she was—her thumb circling the swollen head of her son's, smearing the fresh wetness beading there. The sounds were obscene—wet, slick, punctuated by Stan's ragged breathing. His hips jerked weakly, helplessly, and Katy exhaled shakily, her grip tightening.

She was soaked. The thin cotton of her nightie clung to her thighs, the dampness seeping through the fabric. Every stroke of her hand sent a fresh pulse of wet heat between her own legs—her clit throbbing in time with the twitch of Stan's cock in her palm. Her fingers found her own clit, pressing hard against the fleshly nub , a shuddering gasp escaping her lips as she circled herself in tight, frantic motions.

The sight of him—spread out, helpless, his cock slick and swollen in her grip—was too much. Katy leaned down before she could stop herself, her lips brushing the flushed head of his cock. Stan choked out a noise, his entire body jerking as her tongue flicked out, tasting the salt-slick of his previous release.

She didn't give him time to react—didn't let herself think—just swallowed as much of him as she could, her lips stretching around his girth. The taste of him flooded her senses, musky and adolescent, the salt of his earlier release still clinging to his skin. Her fingers worked furiously between her own thighs, the heel of her palm grinding against her clit as she bobbed her head, taking him deeper with each downward stroke. Stan's strangled moan vibrated through her, his hips bucking helplessly against the bunk as her tongue swirled around the throbbing vein beneath his shaft.

Her mouth was sloppy, eager—no finesse, just hunger. Saliva dripped down his length, pooling in the wiry curls at his base as she slurped him deeper, her hand working his teenage shaft in frantic, uneven strokes. She wasn’t thinking about technique—only the way his cock throbbed against her tongue, the choked-off whimpers escaping his lips every time her teeth grazed him just slightly. The bunk creaked violently beneath them, the boat rocking ever so slightly on its mooring, water lapping against the hull in a rhythm that matched the obscene wet sounds of her mouth devouring him.

She gagged when he hit the back of her throat—hard, involuntary—her nose pressing into his pelvis as her body convulsed around the intrusion. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, her throat fluttering wildly around him, but she didn’t pull back. Instead, she forced herself still, letting him feel the tight, spasming heat of her swallowing around him until her vision blurred. Stan’s hips jerked, his thighs trembling against her shoulders, his entire body taut as a bowstring.

She needed him inside her. Not like this—not just her mouth stretched obscenely around him—but buried deep where she ached, where her own wetness pooled thick between her thighs. The thought alone made her moan around his cock, the vibrations drawing a ragged cry from him. Her fingers dug into his hips, her nails leaving crescent moons in his skin as she dragged herself backward, gasping for air when his slick length finally slipped free. Her lips glistened, swollen and spit-slicked, her breath coming in uneven pants as she stared up at him through damp lashes.

The nightie had to go. Katy hooked her fingers into the hem, the thin cotton already clinging to her sweat-slicked skin. In one fluid motion, she yanked it up—over her head—the fabric catching briefly on her tousled blonde hair before she tossed it aside. The cool morning air prickled against her bare breasts, her nipples pebbling instantly, but she barely noticed. Not when Stan was spread beneath her like a feast, his cock twitching against his stomach, flushed and glistening with her spit.

She didn’t hesitate. Katy swung one leg over his hips, her thighs bracketing his narrow waist, her bare cunt hovering just inches above his erection. Stan’s breath hitched, his eyes flying open—finally looking at her—his pupils blown wide with shock and desperate arousal. She watched his throat work as he swallowed hard, his gaze darting from her swollen lips to the slick mess between her thighs, then back to her face.

Her fingers curled around his cock, guiding it upward, the head catching against her folds. She exhaled sharply at the contact—so much thicker than Tom’s—her hips canting forward instinctively, seeking more. Stan made a strangled noise beneath her, his entire body trembling as she sank down onto him inch by delicious inch.

Her cunt stretched around him obscenely—tight, wet heat swallowing him whole—until his hips met hers with a slick slap. He was so big he nudged her cervix, the pressure sharp enough to make her gasp, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. She rocked forward, her hands braced on his chest, as she lifted herself almost entirely off him—just to feel the delicious drag of his cock pulling out—before slamming back down.

Stan’s groan was ragged, his fingers twitching uselessly at his sides in their plaster prisons, his thighs trembling against hers. Katy couldn’t tear her eyes away from where they were joined—her swollen lips stretched around his shaft, the mess of their combined wetness glistening in the dim morning light. She rolled her hips experimentally, grinding down until his pubic bone pressed against her clit, and stars exploded behind her eyelids.

She didn’t need foreplay—didn’t need anything but the thick, teenage cock splitting her open. Her fingers found her clit anyway, pressing hard against the swollen nub, her hips jerking violently at the contact. She was already teetering on the edge, her body strung tight from sucking off her own son, from tasting him.

Her orgasm hit her like a slap—sudden, brutal—her walls clamping around Stan’s cock with a wet, shuddering pulse. Katy cried out, her back arching, her thighs trembling as pleasure ripped through her. The sound was obscene—high, desperate—but she couldn’t stop. Her fingers moved frantically, circling her clit in tight, punishing motions even as her cunt milked Stan’s cock, her hips stuttering through the aftershocks.

Then a second wave crashed over her—hotter, sharper—her muscles locking tight around him as pleasure coiled impossibly tighter. She gasped, her breath ragged, her vision blurring at the edges as she rode the crest of it, her body jerking uncontrollably. Stan groaned beneath her, his cock twitching inside her, his hips bucking weakly—helplessly—against hers. She could feel him pulsing, his breath coming in shallow pants, his entire body rigid beneath her.

"Cum for Mummy," Katy moaned, the words slipping out before she could stop them—raw, desperate, primal—her fingers pressing harder against her clit, circling furiously. "Please—oh god—cum inside me." The plea tore from her throat, half-sob, half-groan, her hips grinding down on him in frantic, uneven circles. She didn't care that she sounded broken, didn't care that the words were twisted and wrong—only that Stan's cock was thick and heavy inside her, his breath hitching with every roll of her hips.

Stan's entire body jerked beneath her, his back arching off the bunk, his cock twitching violently inside her. Katy cried out as warmth spilled deep, his release pulsing into her in hot, shuddering bursts—each spasm drawing another ragged moan from her lips. She didn’t stop moving—couldn’t—her fingers still working her swollen clit as she milked him dry, her cunt clenching greedily around his cock.

Then—with a wet, filthy schlup—she pulled off him, her swollen lips dragging along his oversensitive shaft until his softening cock slipped free with a slick pop. The sound was obscene, the mess between her thighs even worse—thick strands of his release already dribbling down her inner thighs, pooling on the rumpled sheets beneath them. Stan whimpered, his entire body trembling, his arms twitching uselessly as if he wanted to reach for her but couldn’t. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his skin flushed pink and sticky with sweat, his mouth slightly agape. Katy exhaled shakily, her own breath uneven, her thighs still trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure.

She climbed off the bed and knelt on the floor, taking his now soft cock into her mouth again, sucking gently to clean him. She felt so dirty for doing it, but she couldn't stop—his taste, the way his flesh twitched against her tongue—it sent another shudder through her. When she was done, she picked up the bowl of now lukewarm water, swirling the flannel absently before pressing it to his stomach again, wiping away the streaks of sweat and come with slow, methodical strokes.

Stan just lay there, breathing hard, his eyes locked on her naked body as she wiped him clean. He was speechless—his lips parted around words that wouldn’t come, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. Katy avoided his gaze, focusing on the damp cloth in her hands, the way it slid over his trembling stomach, the faint smears of their mingled fluids still glistening on his skin.

Once he was clean, she helped him into some fresh clothes—another pair of loose pajama bottoms, though she hesitated before pulling them up, letting her fingers brush along his thigh longer than necessary. Stan didn’t pull away. His breath hitched, but he didn’t protest. That was all the confirmation she needed that this wasn’t just some one-time thing.