I Came Out of the Coma Thanks to My Mother’s Hands

My name is Mateo and, until I was twenty-four, my life revolved around two things: motorcycles and my mother. I had been racing competitively since I was seventeen, and in October of last year, during a training session at the Estoril circuit, I lost the front wheel at the Tobogán corner and hit a safety barrier headfirst. The helmet didn’t save me from the stroke. I was admitted into a deep coma, and my family prepared for the worst.

The three of us lived together in my grandparents’ house: them, my mother, and me. She had divorced my father when I was four and never dated anyone again. At forty-six she still retained a discreet beauty, barely wearing makeup, with that air of a woman who had always been affectionate before vain. My grandparents always said I was the living image of my grandfather: tall, broad-shouldered, and, as they repeated with laughter, generously equipped. The latter was confirmed by the girls who had passed through my bed since I was eighteen: none had managed to swallow my cock all the way without gagging, and more than one had opened her eyes wide the first time it went in.

I spent the first month in the hospital on the edge of life and death. When the critical phase passed, I still hadn’t regained consciousness. Then came the first confused awakenings, without memories, without names, without anything. When I opened my eyes, I saw a woman speaking to me with overwhelming tenderness, crying and stroking my face, and an elderly couple beside her. I didn’t recognize them. I didn’t recognize anything.

Among all the hospital staff, there was one blonde nurse who treated me as if I were her only patient. Her name was Daniela, and she devoted more time to my washing than was reasonable. Every time she ran the sponge over my sex, she did it with a different slowness, as if that part of the body had its own protocol. She wrapped my limp cock with the sponge, squeezed very gently, slid it from the base to the glans, and back down again, dragging warm water over my balls. Each pass was a caress disguised as hygiene. I felt it all from far away, muffled, but something in me registered those hands.

One night, Daniela convinced the woman who lived glued to my bedside to go home and rest. She told her she would stay, that there was no problem. That same night, in the early hours, I half-opened my eyes and found her sitting on the edge of the mattress, one hand under my sheet. She had taken my cock out of my pajamas and was working it patiently, closing her fingers around the shaft, sliding the skin up and down with a slow, obscene rhythm. With her other hand she had unbuttoned her uniform and pulled out one breast, white, round, with a dark, erect nipple that she pinched between thumb and forefinger. Then she lowered that same hand and buried it between her thighs, parting her underwear, rubbing her cunt while still masturbating me. I could hear her breathing, getting harsher and harsher, and the wet swish of her fingers between her legs. I still didn’t feel desire, but the caresses reached me warm, pleasant.

She came back the next night. And the next. She started exploring me with her mouth. The first time she licked me, she ran her tongue flat along the entire length, from my balls to the tip, and stopped at the glans to suck it like a piece of candy. Then she parted her lips and took my whole cock into her mouth, until I felt her throat closing around it. She sucked hungrily, salivating, pulling it out with a thick thread hanging from the corner of her mouth. Something in my head exploded in tiny sparks; I felt shocks running down my spine and, without realizing it, my body responded for the first time since the accident. My cock got hard between her lips. Daniela lifted her head, her chin shiny with saliva, and smiled when she saw what was happening. I closed my eyes so she’d keep going.

“At last,” I heard her whisper.

She yanked off her underwear, climbed onto the bed, and straddled me. She took my cock in one hand, parted her cunt lips with the other, and lowered herself onto me with surgical care. I felt her scorching hot, tight, soaked. She was biting her lips to keep from crying out as she sank down centimeter by centimeter. When she had me inside her all the way, she began to rock: up and down slowly, then faster, with her thighs trembling and her breasts bouncing in front of my face. She pressed her cunt with two fingers while she fucked herself on my cock, setting a rhythm that grew more brutal by the second, until a long gasp escaped her and I felt her clench around me. I came too, shooting into her in waves, and I felt something I couldn’t name: as if a valve had opened somewhere deep in my brain. Daniela stood up with my semen running down the inside of her thigh, wiped herself with a gauze pad, dressed at speed, and left the room without looking at me.

***

I never saw her again. Later I found out why. She had been caught another night with another patient, masturbating him. She was dismissed without ceremony.

From that moment something had changed in me. I started waking with painful erections, so rigid I couldn’t think. My cock would rise on its own, pushing the sheet up, throbbing with every heartbeat. The woman who stayed with me —a pleasant woman who insisted with infinite patience that she was my mother— began staying every night. She spoke to me softly, stroked my forehead, told me stories I didn’t understand. She said, “Mateo, I’m your mom,” and I didn’t remember what that word meant.

One early morning I woke with aching sex and let out a groan. She switched on the lamp, saw the bulge under the sheet, and brought her hands to her mouth.

“My God, does it hurt, sweetheart?”

I nodded. It was all my body could manage to coordinate. She hesitated, reached out, touched me over my pajamas, and pulled back frightened. I groaned again, pleading with my eyes. Something made her decide: she went to the bathroom, came back with a towel, uncovered me, and when she saw my cock hard and dripping pre-cum from the tip, a small “Oh” escaped her. She took it in her right hand, closed her fingers around it, and started moving it up and down, just as Daniela had done the first few times. At first clumsily, stopping on the glans, squeezing too hard and then not enough. Then she found the rhythm. The skin moved up and down beneath her fist, and I began to breathe through my nose in gasps. With her thumb she spread the moisture at the tip over the whole head, making it slip more easily. Her breathing quickened at the same pace as mine. When I came, splattering the back of her hand and wrist, she looked at her stained fingers with an expression I couldn’t read. She kissed my forehead and said, her voice broken:

“Sleep, my love. Mom will always be with you.”

***

The doctors decided to continue rehabilitation at home. They set up a room on the ground floor, near the kitchen, and my mother moved in with me. She slept on a folding bed pushed up against mine. My grandparents hovered around the house, hopeful for any improvement.

The second night at home I woke again with an erection. This time she didn’t even question anything: she took me in one hand and began working me patiently. But I noticed something new: her other hand was between her legs, hidden under her nightgown. They were moving at the same time, both of them, in the same rhythm. I could hear the wet clicking of her fingers sinking into her own cunt, and her breath catching each time she brushed her clit. The hand wrapped around my cock squeezed harder with every stroke and went down to massage my balls, cupping them gently before going back up. When I finished over the towel, shooting four, five thick spurts that stained her fingers and forearm, she let her head fall onto my chest and let out a small, muffled groan, looking at what was in her hand. She brought one finger to her mouth, almost without realizing it, and sucked it slowly.

I still wasn’t talking, but something inside me was reconnecting. I began coordinating movements, anticipating reactions. My body rose just from seeing her cross the room. In the afternoons, while she read sitting in the armchair beside the bed, I learned to watch her. One afternoon I saw her open her robe and let one hand rise very slowly up her thigh. Her fingers reached her underwear, moved it aside for a second, and covered it again, as if she had been frightened by herself. I didn’t know whether she wanted me to see or not. Probably both.

That same afternoon I lifted the sheet without meaning to, and she looked up from her book, saw the tent, and went very still. She closed the book slowly, uncovered me, stroked the tip with her fingers, and hesitated. I held her gaze. For the first time there was no doubt in mine.

She undressed without saying anything. She did it with the dignity of someone who no longer wanted to lie to herself. She had firm, round breasts, with nipples that had hardened before she even removed her bra, and an almost hairless cunt, with slightly swollen, shiny lips. She climbed onto the bed, bent down first, and took my cock into her mouth. I felt her tongue travel the whole length, felt her suck the tip with slow pulls, felt her choke a little as she tried to swallow it whole. She pulled it out with a thread of saliva, licked my balls one by one, took them into her mouth. Then she climbed up, straddled me, and slowly guided me into her. She went down a little, stopped, went down again, biting her lower lip. When she took me all the way and felt my cock hitting her deepest point, she stayed still for a few seconds, eyes closed, as if she needed to forgive herself.

I could hardly move, but I managed to raise my hands to her breasts. I squeezed them, rolled her nipples between my fingers. That seemed to break something inside her. She opened her eyes wide, smiled with a mixture of surprise and relief, and started moving on top of me with a rhythm that grew more and more steady. She flattened herself against my pelvis and rose almost enough to pull me out completely, only to drive herself down again in a sudden plunge. I could see her tits bouncing in front of me, her thighs taut, her belly tightening. Her cunt was so wet that every downward motion made an obscene sucking sound. She started gasping, calling me “my love” very softly. She brought one hand to her clit and rubbed it in circles while still riding me. We both came at the same time: I felt her clench around my cock in spasms, and I unloaded into her everything I had been building up for weeks. She collapsed on my chest, breathless, her face wet, and my semen began to run between her thighs, staining the sheet.

“My son,” she whispered. “This is irrational, it’s forbidden… but today you made me the happiest woman in the world.”

I looked at her. Something had gone back into place in my head. My mouth moved before my mind decided it.

“Mom. You cured me.”

She sprang back, covering herself with the sheet, eyes full of tears.

“Mateo… Did you speak? Did you call me Mom?”

“I remember, Mom. I remember everything. As if someone had pulled a stopper out.”

It took me a while to explain it to her. I told her about Daniela in the hospital, about that night when something woke up for the first time. I also confessed that as a child I had spied on her coming out of the shower, that many nights I had fallen asleep thinking about her without daring to admit it even to myself. While I spoke, she listened beside me, one hand on my chest and the other slowly stroking what was still alive between my legs, sliding the foreskin back and forth with a new calm, the calm of someone who already knew she was in charge.

“That nurse was expelled from the hospital,” she told me quietly. “A colleague caught her in another room. But she woke something in you, Mateo. We’ll have to find her and thank her.”

Then she leaned over me and kissed my chest. She went down with her mouth, slowly, without hurry. She lingered on my nipples, nipped them, moved on down my abdomen and reached my cock again. She swallowed it whole, with a devotion Daniela had never shown. She sucked from tip to base, massaging my balls with her hand, and every so often she lifted her gaze to make sure I was watching. Her son was watching her, and she was swallowing him, and something in that look lit her up even more.

I asked her to turn around. I took off her panties and approached her for the first time in my life with my head, not my sex. I kissed her lower lips with a new tenderness. I opened her cunt with my thumbs, stuck out my tongue, and ran it flat from below up to the clit. She shuddered all over. I sucked her lips, one and then the other, and took them into my mouth. I pushed my tongue inside, moved it around, pulled it out to lick her hood and go back down. Thinking that I had come out through there so many years ago filled me with a mix of vertigo and desire I had never felt with any other girl. I sucked her clit with steady suction while sliding two fingers into her and curling them, searching for that spot inside. She writhed, bit the back of her hand to keep from screaming. When she came, I felt her clamp around my fingers and a hot spurt wet my chin.

I got on top of her as best I could, still a little clumsy. She guided me again, taking my cock and rubbing the tip against her soaked lips before letting me in. This time everything was calmer, longer, more ours. I drove into her slowly, pulling almost all the way out to thrust back in to the hilt, while she dug her heels into my ass and begged me in whispers not to stop. I lifted one leg over my shoulder to go deeper. I fucked her from the side, had her on all fours for a moment, then mounted her face to face again because I wanted to see her face. When I came inside her, in a long spasm that emptied me completely, I lost consciousness for a couple of seconds from the intensity. When I opened my eyes, she was kissing me with a tenderness that brought me back to childhood and to something new at the same time, and I could feel my semen leaking out of her cunt and wetting her thighs against mine.

***

From that afternoon on, my recovery was so fast that the doctors couldn’t explain it. I started talking, walking, eating on my own. My grandparents, euphoric, finally decided to take that trip they had been postponing for years. My mother and I were left alone in the house.

We slept together every night after that. We called each other “my love” behind closed doors and “mom” and “son” as soon as the doorbell rang. I took my grandparents to the supermarket on Saturdays, she cooked, I poured her wine, and at night we locked our bedroom door with a key no one questioned. We fucked in the kitchen before breakfast, with her bent over the counter and her nightgown hiked to her waist. I sat her in my lap while we watched television and took me out just enough to slide back in beneath her skirt. She knelt for me in the shower and sucked my cock until she filled her mouth with semen she swallowed whole.

Until one afternoon, in the middle of my recovery, I told her I was thinking about getting back on the bike.

She stayed silent through dinner. All night. After dinner she went into her old bedroom, not ours, and locked the door from the inside. I called to her from the hallway, two, three times. The fourth time she opened it.

“Listen carefully, Mateo,” she said, eyes red but voice steady. “If you get back on a motorcycle, you stop being my son. And, worse for both of us, you stop being my lover. I am not going through what I went through again. If you want to stay with me, you swear to me that motorcycles are over.”

I swore it that same night. And I’ve kept it. I loved her — I love her — too much to lose her over a corner. After the vow she lay down with me and made love to me with the calm of a woman in love, not a mother. She rode me slowly, looking into my eyes the whole time, riding me without hurry until we both came almost in silence, our foreheads pressed together. And I fell asleep against her breast, with her cunt still dripping onto my thigh, thinking that in reality that accident had been the best thing that had ever happened to me in my life.