I felt such a fool. I had tripped in the back garden over a rake, of all things, and as I fell, there was an almighty crack. I realised that I had obviously broken the rake handle. Well, that was a blow. I would have to go and get either a new handle or a whole new rake. Tutting to myself, I stood up. 

Or, rather, I tried to stand up. The pain caused me to black out. When I came to, I couldn’t remember where I was or even who I was for a few moments. I was lying in the garden with an intact rake nearby and my broken leg even nearer. 

Slowly, my memory returned with a touch of panic. I had no idea what to do. I sat and thought for a moment. I could possibly drag myself into the house, but standing was out of the question; the pain was far too much. My phone was in my back pocket and not damaged, a small mercy. Luckily, I managed to twist and retrieve it, with much crying out in pain. I dialled emergency and lay back and waited for help.

I was in hospital for hours, some of the time under anaesthetic, whilst they set my leg and put it in a cast. The break was severe but not enough for surgery or rods and screws. Not plaster these days; oh no, these days they use fibre glass. “It shouldn’t itch,” the nurse said. I knew that it would.

“Do you have anyone at home to help you?” She asked as I was filling out the forms to allow me to be discharged. 

“Yes,” I lied. 

I don’t have anyone at home; my ex-husband left years ago, and my son K-Matt is away at university in Dundee, in Scotland. I shall just have to manage; what else can I do? I mean, I could probably hire a nurse to come and help, but really? I don’t think so.

With the last bits of charge in my mobile, I managed to call an Uber to pick me up. I had to walk a bit of a way from A&E; it is ambulance and emergency vehicles only by A&E, no taxis, so it was a bit of a walk for me; it gave me practice with my crutches. Dear Lord, I could tell that the painkillers were wearing off. Luckily, I had some codeine from the dispensary that would tide me over. 

“Get an appointment with your GP,” the discharge nurse had said. "They'll be able to prescribe you some painkillers. We are only allowed to give you enough for a few days.” 

I had to awkwardly lie across the back seat. The journey back was getting more and more painful as the street bumps seemed to grow in depth and the painkillers wore off.

The Uber driver helped me to my door and wished me luck. Into the house, and I collapsed onto my settee. After about thirty minutes, I was ready to move; I needed a cup of tea and something to eat. Probably toast. 

‘Oh,’ I realised, ‘not toast.’ I keep the toaster in a lower cupboard. I could not bend enough with an immobilised leg to get it, and then I doubted I could carry it over to the work surface. Bread it was then, and then, of course, the butter had been in the fridge for days and was rock-solid. It would have been okay on hot toast, but not on plain bread. It was at this moment that it all caught up with me, and I burst into tears, holding the work surface so as not to tumble to the floor.

My mobile was flashing; my son was on FaceTime. I pressed the answer button as I was drying my eyes. 

“Mum, what on Earth is wrong? Why are you crying?” His name is Keith Matthew, but I always called him K-Matt. No idea why; it seemed so odd now that he was twenty.

I didn’t say anything; I just panned the camera down and showed him my cast on my leg. 

“What the hell?”

I choked, unable to speak.

“I am on my way; I will be there in four hours. Do you need anything getting done? Milk, bread, anything?” 

I shook my head; I still couldn’t speak. I was just so upset. My phone battery finally died, and the call ended. The charger was upstairs. Damn…

I needed the loo, luckily, just to pee, but that was still going to be a matter of logistics just in itself. I hobbled to the downstairs loo, lifted the seat, raised my dress, and straddled the toilet. Luckily, I had no knickers on; they had cut them off to fit my cast. Oh, the relief. I flushed and gingerly crutched to the kitchen. I needed more painkillers and food to go with them. 

I was half lying on the settee when K-Matt arrived; he just burst into the house. “Where are you?” he called. He spotted me before I could answer and rushed over to hug me. I didn’t cry; I was all out of tears. I just lay there, my son draped over me, awkwardly hugging and trying to avoid my leg. 

He went to the kitchen and came back with fresh tea. “What happened?”

I shuddered out a choked sob. “I tripped over the rake. I mean, how stupid can you get? My leg just snapped. A clean break of the femur will take ages to heal. I am not supposed to put any weight on it.” 

“God, that must have hurt.” 

He sat on the chair looking at me. He blushed and looked away. I was confused.

My dress had ridden up, and he could see my everything. I pulled my dress down and looked across at him with a shrug. Oh, my, his trousers were tenting. My son was getting a stiffie looking at me. That shouldn’t happen; he is my son. I should not have that effect on him.

I said nothing. Just lifted my gaze away from his crotch and looked into his eyes. 

“I’m okay, baby," I said, “well, as okay as I can be.” 

“How will you cope?” 

“I can do most things; I just can’t stoop down and get things out of the lower cupboards in the kitchen or the drawers in my bedroom. I desperately need a shower, but I can’t get the cast wet, and I don’t see how I can possibly wash my back. I suppose I will find a way to sort it all.” 

“I can help,” he said. “Where should I start?”

“Thank you, Love. You can help move the stuff I will need from the lower drawers or cupboards, yes, but the other stuff I will need to figure out for myself.” 

“Can you even get yourself upstairs?” 

“I don’t know, I guess so. If not, I will have to live downstairs for a while. Have a wash in the kitchen sink, sleep on the sofa, that sort of thing.” 

“That will age quickly. Let’s have you go upstairs as best you can, and I will follow behind just in case you fall back.” 

I thought about it. It was sensible and a good idea. “Okay, let’s have a go,” I said. 

I grabbed my crutches and got to my feet; my leg throbbed so much, and I slowly hobbled to the stairs. I managed to get up by going sideways, dragging my broken leg up one step at a time. The bannister and the crutches kept me upright. K-Matt stood below watching, ready to catch me if I fell. As I got to the top and grabbed a deep breath, I remembered girls with no knickers shouldn’t go up steps with boys below. K-Matt’s face was beetroot red, and his trousers were tenting again. Sod it; nothing I can do about it. 

I hobbled into my bedroom and managed to get onto the bed. He helped by lifting my leg up. I took deep breaths and then I realised I had to adjust my dress again. I just looked at K-Matt and said nothing. What could I say? I am a woman; I have a fanny. This is true for all women, including each of his girlfriends. It shouldn’t be that much of an issue for him, but his tent wasn’t going down.

He put my phone to charge on the nightstand. 

“Give me a moment,” I said, leaning on the pillows and sighing with some relief. He nodded and sat on the chair.

I was hoping that he would use his initiative and go to the bathroom and resolve his predicament. He didn't; he just sat on the bed next to me, making no sounds, an Eiffel Tower where his zip was. I looked at him; his eyes looked down, and then he seemed to shrug his shoulders and take a deep breath to gather himself. 

“Sorry, Mum…” he said quietly. 

“It’s ok, baby,” I replied. "Do you need to go and deal with it?” 

“Oh, shit, Mum, god, no. I can’t do that with you here, knowing what I am doing. God, no.” 

“Why not? You think I haven’t heard you since you were a teenager? It is normal, love.” 

"Well, talking about it is not.” 

We sat in silence, and I had a strange feeling creeping in to distract me from the pain in my legs. Yes, plural; the other was aching now too, I guess from taking the extra load from my useless leg.

Without looking at him, I cleared my throat. “Would it help if I… you know?” 

“What? Mum! No. Okay, I think I should go get – I’m going to run to the chippie and get us something; it's nearly teatime, and you are not cooking. And you know I am rubbish in the kitchen. Will you be alright whilst I go?”

“Will you?” I asked him, looking at his crotch.

“Mum!”

“Sorry, yes, I will be fine.” I took his hand. This was maternal and grateful. “Thank you for coming home. I don’t know what I would have done; I am so…well, I love you.”

“I love you too, Mum. Be back soon.”

And he was gone. I realised I should have given him my credit card for the shopping. He was only a student; he wouldn’t have any spare money. I closed my eyes and sleep soon claimed me.

I woke to the familiar scent of fresh chips and malt vinegar. The darling had moved the spare table out of my craft room to the bedside and had everything laid out.

“Oh, K-Matt. How lovely.”

“Tuck in, Mum. I am sure you are hungry for more than bread from earlier.”

I was able to easily reach everything, and it was surprisingly satisfying. I guess it was comfort after stress. He updated me on some coursework and assured me that a few days gone would not affect his marks. They had finished end-of-term exams, and apart from a few logistical things that he would have to go back for, he could be mostly here for me.

I was so relaxed despite the pain and didn’t see that my legs were exposed nearly up to my crotch. I decided not to adjust. Perhaps I was hoping he might get excited again. It had been a dry spell since my last lover went for the barmaid at the local pub and moved with her to Cornwall. I was glad to see the back of him, if truth be told. He was okay as a lover, but as a human being? Perhaps not so much so.

I was hungry for more than just fish and chips. I wondered if the painkillers were affecting my thoughts. I was having carnal thoughts about my son, someone I absolutely should not be thinking such things of.

He cleared the remains of tea away and even tidied the kitchen, or so he said. He had also gotten some odd snacks and easy-heat food for the next few days. He had also got me Cadbury chocolate, my favourite treat.

“I think I need the loo and to get washed up. I’ll also need a fresh nightie. Bottom drawer of the wardrobe.”

He nodded and went for the item. I got into the loo without too much sweat and stood straddling it again. I was finishing when I saw that I hadn’t closed the door. I usually didn't, as I lived alone now. K-Matt was still around the corner, I supposed.

“I will strip off and get a wash at the sink. Come put the nightie on the toilet seat.”

He stepped in looking a little sheepish and pink. “I…uh, got you knickers as well.”

I thanked him, knowing I couldn’t put the knickers on, but the thought was there. I wondered why he was so taken aback. He had seen my knickers dozens of times on washing day. But he hadn’t seen what was also in the same drawer: My double-headed pink vibrator. I had to stifle a laugh as he slipped out of the bathroom, and I heard him go downstairs, leaving me to wash and tidy myself.

A good twenty minutes later I was in my nightgown and sitting back in the bed. I called him back upstairs, and he helped get a pillow under my leg. There was no way he didn’t see my freshly scrubbed love zone. I had fun washing it as I felt it was heading for full need; gosh, it had been so long since someone apart from me had tended to those little needs.

He didn’t look away and neither did I. It was a monumental moment that changed everything. He was my wonderful son, and he was quite an attractive man. I looked down, and sure enough there was our friend giving his best tribute.

I put my hand right on it and squeezed through his clothes. He started to withdraw, and I gripped it harder.

I could hear his breathing quicken along with the pulse in what appeared to be a shaft bigger than his father’s ever was.

“Mum,” he said quietly.

“Hush, K-Matt,” I said, “I have needs too. Stand up and take your clothes off. Let me see my boy in all his glory.”

I watched him gulp, his throat moving up and down. He pulled his polo shirt off, his chest chiselled, his stomach displaying his abs. I wondered if he worked out at university; I knew that they had a free gym for students. Perhaps he did; it was a cheap way to fill spare time.

He undid his trousers and pushed them down and stepped out of them. He reached down and pulled off his socks. He was standing in his boxers. I looked at them and then into his eyes and raised my eyebrows. He hesitated, and as if to encourage him, I raised my nightie up and pulled it over my head. I was sitting on my bed, wearing only a fibreglass cast.

I saw his boxers jerk, and he swallowed hastily again. A hand on each hip, he gripped the waistband and shoved them down; his dick reached for the ceiling. Uncut, neither his father nor I had any time for mutilating our boy. God gave him a foreskin for a reason; we saw no reason to cut it off. Instead, we had taught him to pull the skin back and clean himself properly.

His foreskin was tight, his dick so engorged that his glans was beginning to peak out. There was a large vein running up the side of his shaft, and below, a huge pair of balls hanging close to the base of his dick. He trimmed his hair but, unlike me, didn’t remove it all. Mine was gone; I hated hair around my fanny and so waxed it off regularly. It would need doing again soon, I realised as I looked down.

“Come to me,” I said, “sit where I can reach you.”

K-Matt sat on the bed next to me, his embarrassment gone, his desire taking over. As he sat, his dick seemed to throb; I reached over and wrapped my fingers around it. I could feel the blood pulsing in his dick, and I heard him sigh as I slowly pushed his foreskin down. There was a moment of resistance, and then it flowed over his rim. His glans was a reddish purple, the small hole in the end dark, with a crease going down to his foreskin.

I let go of his dick and moved my hand to my mouth and spit into my palm. I moved my hand back and smeared my spittle over his glans, my thumbnail just running along the edge of his glans.

“Oh fuck, Mum, Jesus,” he gasped, his back tightening and arching.

“Feel good?” I asked him.

“Shit, yes, Mum, my god, no one has ever…”

“I don’t care about anyone else, baby; I know what to do, and I will teach you what to do in return.”

It wasn’t easy, not with an immobilised leg, but I managed to twist, bend down, and wrap my lips around his dick. He gasped loudly and thrust his hips upwards, his dick brushing my tonsils. I sucked. I licked. I gently squeezed his balls with my hand, and I made love to my son’s dick with every ounce of my being. He was enjoying it, but I needed it.

He began to hump my mouth, his dick sawing in and out, sliding over my tongue, pushing through my throat, momentarily blocking my breath, and then back out. His foreskin managed to slide back over his rim, and I had that wonderful feeling of it sliding back and forth inside my mouth. My mouth effectively doubling up as my fanny.

“God, Mum, I can’t stop, Mum…”

I felt his balls twinge, I felt his dick pulse, and then my throat was coated with the spurts of his spunk, cool and thick. Three times I felt the ropes from his dick, and then I sucked, draining every last drop, before I let his dick fall from my mouth and I...