I was heartbroken the second the doctor said both wrists were sprained. My sweet twenty-four-year-old stepson, Alex, had slipped on the wet garage floor while trying to help me with the Christmas lights. Two bright blue casts from fingertips to elbows. No gripping, no lifting, nothing.
All I wanted to do was take really good care of him. He deserved it. I was ready to do anything for him, even handle his boners, since he was not going to be able to jerk off. Guys his age are trying to hump anything that moves. Besides, I know how to make anyone cum. My husband used to cum just by looking at me. I'll use any part of my body that he needs.
I tucked him into the guest room that night and kissed his forehead. "Mommy's got you, baby. Don't worry about a thing."
Richard was still in Tokyo for another month. Perfect. No one to question why I slept in the armchair beside Alex's bed, why I woke every time he shifted. At 3 a.m. he groaned in frustration, hips twitching under the sheet. I knew exactly what that sound meant.
I slipped my hand under the blanket, careful of the casts. "Shh, let me help." One gentle stroke and he was rock-hard in my palm. I didn't stop until he spilled over my fingers with a broken "Elena…" I cleaned him with a warm cloth, kissed his temple, and whispered, "Anytime you need it, sweetheart. Mommy's here."
The doctor said daily warm soaks would help the swelling. I ran the tub, stripped down to my skin, and helped him in. He tried to argue he could manage, but those casts made everything impossible. I lowered myself behind him, his back against my breasts, and reached around.
He was already half-hard. "Let's get you nice and clean." I pumped a handful of silky body wash and wrapped my fist around him. Slow, slippery strokes. The soap made the most obscene sounds. He leaned his head back on my shoulder and moaned like he'd never been touched before. When he came, it shot across the water in thick ropes. I kissed his neck and said, "We're doing this every night."
Third bath. The tile was slick, my foot slid, and I "accidentally" fell forward. His cock nudged right between my folds and slipped inside in one smooth glide. We both froze.
"Oh god, Alex… I'm so sorry."
He didn't pull out. He couldn't with the casts anyway. His voice cracked. "Don't… don't move yet."
I stayed right there, sitting on his lap in the warm water, full of him, rocking just enough to keep him happy. He lasted longer than I expected, pulsing inside me when he finally came. I told myself it was still caregiving. Just… deeper caregiving.
I started waking him with my mouth. No hands needed on his part. Just my tongue swirling, lips sliding, until he was groaning and filling my throat. Then I'd feed him breakfast, help him brush his teeth, and pretend my panties weren't soaked from the taste of him still on my tongue.
He started calling me "Mommy" without thinking. It made me wet every single time.
Richard texted he'd be gone two extra weeks. I cried in the laundry room. Alex found me, pressed his casted arms around me as best he could. "I'm ruining everything," I whispered.
"You're saving me," he said. "I've never felt so taken care of in my life."
That night I rode him on the couch for the first time — slow, deep, eyes locked — and told him I loved him while I came around his cock. The guilt tasted sweeter than it should have.
Bath time evolved. I bought special slick shower gel that foamed thick and white. I'd straddle his thighs facing him, lather his cock until it disappeared in bubbles, then sink down and ride him until the water went cold. He learned to thrust up with his hips even with both arms useless. The boy was a natural.
I stopped wearing clothes around the house. Why bother? He couldn't touch me anyway — I had to do everything. I'd sit on his lap during movies and let him stay inside me the whole time, just clenching around him while we watched. Sometimes I'd come just from the fullness and the way he whispered "thank you, Mommy" against my neck.
One night after I'd milked him dry for the third time that day, he looked up at me with those big desperate eyes. "I don't want the casts off. I never want to use my hands again if it means I lose this."
My heart cracked open. I kissed him so hard our teeth clicked. "Then we'll figure it out. Mommy will always take care of you."
Richard called while Alex was buried inside me on the kitchen counter. I answered on speaker, voice perfectly steady, while my boy thrust up into me in shallow little jerks. "Yes, honey, everything's fine. Alex is… being very good." I came silently, biting my lip, clenching around him as Richard talked about flight delays. When I hung up, Alex filled me so full it dripped down my thighs.
The day the casts were removed, he flexed his wrists for the first time in six weeks. I waited on the bed, naked, heart pounding. He crawled over me, hands finally free, and touched me everywhere at once — greedy, reverent, shaking. We made love for hours. No more excuses. Just us.
Richard came home to divorce papers and an empty house. We'd already moved into the lake cabin two hours away.
Alex's hands work perfectly now. He still lets me bathe him every night. Sometimes he pretends they're still useless just so I'll "help." I never mind.
He'll never want to use his hands alone again. Because Mommy knows exactly how to take care of her boy.
The End