The Accident That Forced Me to Bathe My Mother

At fifty-four, I was widowed. Cancer took my wife from us in a matter of months, without giving us time for much of anything. Fortunately, within that enormous loss for our family, my only son was already a grown man. He had not lived with me for some time: work had moved him to a nearby city, and although his mother’s death hit both of us hard, we managed to get by, each on our own.

I never remade my life. I preferred to stay alone. If anything, I had the occasional encounter here and there, but very rarely, and without it meaning anything. Time passed, I lost my job, and since I could no longer keep paying the rent on my apartment, with considerable shame, I ended up moving into my mother’s house, where she also lived alone.

She had no problem taking me in for a few months, until I found another job. A few months later I did, but I already felt so comfortable in her house that I decided to stay and live with her.

My mother had been alone for many years. My father had passed away long before, so we kept each other company. Besides, at seventy-three she was no longer at an age to live with no one nearby, no matter how cheerful and independent she was. At that age, a woman takes care of herself.

We complemented each other well. I brought in the money for the house and she took care of cooking, ironing, and keeping everything in order. We had our routine: we’d go out for a bite now and then, watch afternoon shows, talk for hours. Until, from one day to the next, everything changed.

It was a neighbor’s phone call to my job. My mother had fallen in the bathroom and, apparently, broken her arm. I dropped everything and ran out. At the hospital they confirmed what I feared: a fracture in her right arm. From then on I had to take care of the entire house—cooking, ironing, cleaning—because she could not manage anything. Just rest, painkillers, and the cast.

A new routine began. I carried the load, with the help of Doña Rosa, a neighbor and friend of hers who kept her company while I was away. It worked well, until the following week the neighbor fell ill and could no longer come. That was when the real problem arose.

My mother could be left alone without much risk: go to the bathroom, warm up something to eat, move around the house. What she could not do was shower without help. She couldn’t stay steady on her feet under the water, and Doña Rosa was no longer there to hold her.

We were very close. Good relationship, a lot of trust, laughter and jokes all day long. But we did not have that kind of trust. I had never seen my mother naked. At best, once in underwear, and she had seen me the same way. Now, because of the accident, I was going to have to bathe her. At her age it was a difficult issue for both of us, but there was no other option.

I tried to make her feel comfortable, to make her believe it was the most natural thing in the world, even though I was uncomfortable with the situation too. It was impossible for her to shower alone. My mother is a big woman, with a sturdy body, no longer steady on her feet, and after the fall in the shower she had developed a terrible fear of falling again, even more so with one arm out of commission. She had no choice but to accept my help.

***

The first time was quite an event. I wrapped her arm in a plastic bag so the cast wouldn’t get wet and helped her undress. It was obvious she was embarrassed to take off her clothes in front of me, but there was no other way. With the water already running, naked, I held her so she could step in carefully, both of us making sure the cast stayed dry despite the bag.

It was the first time I had seen her with nothing on. At first she covered her chest with her healthy arm, but once she got into the shower she had to grab the bar and leave it exposed. So I wouldn’t see anything, she turned her back, and there, fully visible, were her broad buttocks, which I soaped without any trouble. Then she had to turn around so I could wash her front, and there were her sagging breasts, while on her face you could read the shame of showing herself like that in front of her son.

I tried to ease the moment by talking about anything at all, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world for her son to soap her breasts. I admit that, despite everything, what I was seeing excited me.

Her white skin, the hot water running over it, sliding down her breasts, resting on a belly also worn down by the years. I noticed she wanted to cover her sex, but just letting go of the bar frightened her and she didn’t dare. I told her not to worry, that I had already seen it, that we’d have to do it like this until the neighbor got better.

Soaping her breasts was very exciting. It was impossible not to get hard having them in my hands. I didn’t touch her intimacy the first time, since it was already too much for her. I helped her out, dried her off, put on her pajamas, and left her in bed in her room.

I felt sorry seeing her like that, aged, fragile. But the image of her naked body had awakened in me a desire that had been asleep far too long.

***

The next day was similar, still awkward, not only for her. Even though I liked what I saw, I struggled to accept it. I felt a little indecent getting aroused by my own mother. But as the days went by, the two of us began to relax.

She stopped feeling so exposed and I put the guilt aside and started enjoying that filthy routine. Her body aroused me more and more, and I became bolder and bolder.

I helped her undress, eased her slowly under the water, and began to run my hands over her everywhere. I always started with her back, soaping her broad, soft arms, then her back with its folds, and slowly down to her ass, which I left thoroughly clean, over and over, my fingers sliding between her buttocks under the pretense of not leaving any spot unwashed.

Then I turned her around. I’d linger on her neck, her arms, her belly, and from there I gave myself completely over to her breasts. I soaped them at length, inventing any conversation topic to cover my movements, moving from one to the other, lifting them with one hand and soaping underneath with the other. Always a little more than necessary.

I would crouch down to reach her legs, her knees, keeping my face very close to her sex, looking closely at the already graying hair. Then I’d rise again and clean her between the legs, my fingers on her, under the pretext of leaving that part perfectly clean.

The same routine repeated every day. When I got home from work we’d eat something, watch television, and at night I’d bathe her before putting her to bed. Each time with more caresses, more insistence on her intimate parts, perhaps even a little too obvious.

And it wasn’t only me who changed. I began to notice that she liked it too. She no longer objected when I touched those forbidden areas. She even spread her legs a little to give me more room. Until one day, while I was soaping her, I dared to touch her with a single finger, slipping it only barely between her lips, and managed to make her body contract sharply.

The next day I did it again. Not once, but three or four times, chatting naturally to cover it up. Every time my finger touched her inside, she would cut off her sentence, as if concentrating, but without saying a word about my boldness.

Bathing my mother left me very hot. After putting her to bed, I would go back to the shower and masturbate, remembering her body, thinking about where my hands and fingers had been, imagining that she was getting turned on and asking me to fuck her right then and there.

***

Every day it escalated. Longer showers, my finger going deeper, more soap on her breasts and her ass, and my mother more and more willing. One afternoon I went too far, or rather, my finger did. While I was “cleaning” her, I slipped it a little way inside her and moved it three or four times in a row, quickly. I felt her sex contract and squeeze me for a second, while she closed her eyes and bit her lip, also only for an instant.

Something changed a lot between us after that. Sometimes I noticed she wanted to say something to me and didn’t dare. In the water, when I lowered my hand to wash her, she opened her legs more. And now she was the one who talked too much, as if helping me hide what was happening, giving me more freedom and more time to do it.

I got to the point of slipping my finger a little deeper into her, moving it four or five quick times each time, until I brought on two or three successive contractions of her sex around my finger. A clear sign that she liked it, followed by a long sigh, but always without saying anything.

I didn’t wash her hair every day, and when I did we ended up soaking the whole bathroom. Then I came up with the idea of getting into the shower with her, in my underwear, with the curtain fully closed so no water would spill out.

With her back to me, while I lathered her hair with shampoo, I looked down at her enormous buttocks, almost brushing against my sex, which was starting to harden inside the fabric. I couldn’t hold back. I pressed myself against her just enough to brush against her a little. A minimal touch, almost imperceptible, which I repeated again and again.

That was the first time. The second time, with her back to me and me washing her hair, already fully erect, I dared to pull myself out through the side of my clothes, hoping her skin and mine would touch directly, with nothing in between.

It was so filthy to feel my skin against her buttocks that I lost my mind. Breaking every scruple, I stepped away a little and, while I washed her hair with my left hand, I masturbated quickly with my right. When I was about to finish, I put both hands on her head to disguise it and, without touching her or myself, I started to come over her lower back. I watched it all land on her buttocks and run down with the water toward her legs, without her noticing. It was a glorious moment. I tucked myself away again and kept rinsing her hair as if nothing had happened.

***

So far everything was going well. I even had the impression my mother liked being bathed by me, because she told the neighbor she no longer needed her help. But that week she went to the doctor and, to my misfortune, they took off her cast. That was the end of those encounters: she could bathe by herself again.

We went back to our old routine, though something had changed decisively between us. On my side, I missed those baths. I remembered her body, my groping hands, I looked at her even fully dressed and got aroused. On her side, her attitude was different too. I don’t know if it was all in my head, but she was more affectionate. She touched me all the time: the shoulders, the back, the legs when we sat down. She talked more and sometimes gave me a strange look, as if she wanted to tell me something she kept to herself.

Until one night—she had already gotten used to showering at that hour because, she said, she slept more peacefully—we were watching television when she announced she was going to take a shower before bed. And she gave me that strange look. We stayed looking at each other for a few seconds, saying nothing. It was an impossible moment to explain. She went into the bathroom and I was left thinking about that look, listening from outside to the water running.

Two weeks had passed since our last bath. I wanted to see her naked one more time. I went in under the pretext of peeing, after warning her. The curtain was closed and I saw nothing, but I stayed there, talking with her, my cock in my hand in case she moved the curtain and saw me. She didn’t. She turned off the water.

It was my chance. Besides, I had already seen her naked for weeks; she wouldn’t mind. I took the towel and waited for her to open the curtain.

There was my mother, naked again before my eyes, her wet breasts looking exquisite. I took her hand to help her step out, under the pretense that she might fall. I started drying her the way I had before, just to feel her body through the towel, with the occasional direct brush over her skin, especially on her chest.

She let me dry her as if nothing were happening, but suddenly she took the towel away from me and, looking me in the eyes, asked what I thought I was doing. I froze, not knowing what to answer, when she threw me another question I also didn’t know how to answer.

—Do you like touching me?

I was petrified. How was I supposed to answer something so direct to my mother? I had been caught. Just as I was about to lie, I don’t know how, a “yes” came out of my mouth. The towel fell to the floor. She, naked, hugged me, buried her face in my shoulder, and told me, without looking at me, that she liked it when I touched her too.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I could only manage to hug her back. In silence, with my hands on her back, I felt her press more tightly against me, her breast crushed against mine. With some hesitation, I slid my hands down to her buttocks and stroked them slowly. She clung even closer, slipped her hands under my clothes, and lightly scratched my back. My sex hardened beyond any remedy and I dared pull her in so she could feel what she was doing to me. She let out a strong sigh and began to rub against me, again and again, until the friction of our bodies became undeniable.

She pulled at my T-shirt and yanked it over my head. Our bare chests pressed together. I began kissing her neck and, without realizing it, we ended up kissing on the mouth. No longer hiding anything, one of my hands grabbed a breast and squeezed it while I kissed her, until she broke the silence and asked me to go to her room.

***

She lay down on the bed, completely naked. I stripped quickly and lay down beside her. I found her breasts again and began kissing them tenderly, while she stroked my hair and kept telling me how much she loved me. It was a very tender moment for both of us, but minutes later the air began to heat up. My soft kisses became strong sucking, my caresses became squeezes, and her first moans began to escape, timid at first and then unrestrained. She liked feeling her son devour her breasts.

My hand slid down her hips, down her legs, caressing them until it reached her sex. I stroked the hair and, with one finger, now with her permission, I went inside her, masturbating her slowly while I heard her moan louder. Without stopping kissing her breasts, I continued, until I got on top of her, supporting my weight on my arms, letting our sexes barely brush against each other.

With her eyes closed and her mouth slightly open, just like her legs, she enjoyed that friction until she herself lowered her hand, placed me in the right spot, and with only a little pressure I was already inside her.

Our bodies came together slowly. My cock went in and out at a measured pace and she, her head tilted and her eyes closed, let her son take her. Her large breasts, drooping to the sides, swayed with every movement. I let my body’s weight drop, grabbed her generous buttocks, and plunged all the way in, while she hugged me and kept telling me in my ear that she loved me.

We kissed again. I felt her entire tongue in my mouth, and I only pulled away to return to her breasts, now with all my might, even pulling out of her, to quench the desire I had been holding inside for so long and that I finally had entirely at my disposal.

I sucked them greedily, holding one with both hands, while she whispered.

—Suck me, suck me.

After a good while, we settled on the bed, me behind her back, penetrating her again from behind, caressing her ass, her belly, her breasts, while I went in and out again and again.

It lasted little, because what I wanted was to have them in my mouth again.

—Get on top of me —I asked her.

She turned over and climbed on top of me, bringing her breast up to my face so I could suck it again. She held them with both hands and rubbed them against me, pushing my head between them, until she began to lower herself, kissing my chest, sliding down until she brushed against my sex. Supported on her arms, she moved it against me, until she leaned all the way in and trapped it between those two masses of flesh. I moved, in bliss, until she readjusted herself and I felt her mouth. I encouraged her with sounds so she’d notice how much I liked it, and my mother, already with my cock in her hand, licked and sucked it with complete devotion.

She didn’t do it very well, but she put real effort into it. She stayed like that for about ten minutes, until suddenly she let go and climbed back on top, sitting on me, sinking me into her. She let herself drop with all her weight and, without getting up, started moving back and forth very fast, giving me the sight of her breasts knocking against each other. In barely two minutes she started moaning with pleasure, mouth open, clutching her chest.

—I’m coming, my love, I’m coming! Oh, that’s so good, so good!

She reached a crushing orgasm that shook the whole bed, and I, without moving, as hard as possible, let her do as she pleased while she, utterly surrendered, kept moving hard and moaning without shame.

—So good, my love! That’s it, give it to me, give it all to me!

She collapsed onto my chest, panting, calming down little by little, while I squeezed her buttocks hard and kept thrusting until the last drop was inside her.