Broken Shoulders

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Broken Shoulders – A mum’s view of events.

This story contains fictional characters engaging in sexual relationships or activities and are 18 years old or older. Please feel free to leave constructive feedback. All rights reserved.

Written in 1st person. A Mum tells of her son’s bike accident, how his broken shoulder bones are heavily plastered and that he can’t use hands for anything. She brings him home and has to do everything for him, including feeding and washing him as well as helping him in the toilet. As the days pass by, his mum’s feelings become more and more sexual.

Just so we’re clear, I am writing this story because I’ve seen enough incest porn videos and read enough incest stories to know that — in the main, they don’t deal too well with the process that leads up to the incestuous relationship. Please be aware, this story is a slow burner — it does involve sex, but it predominantly deals with my own feelings and emotions leading up to the inevitable sex act with my son. So let me start at the beginning.

My name is Jayne, and I’m 39 years old. I have a son called Ben, and he’s 19. That is not his, nor my real name. I’m actually a bit younger than 39, but unfortunately for legal purposes I cannot refer to things about anyone under 18 years old. So let’s just say I was a very young mum.

I don’t consider myself ugly by any means, but I’m no gorgeous model either. I have longish black hair, blue eyes, and a sort of rounded mouth. I’m 5ft 3″ and 130Lbs, my breast size is a nice 36C. I like to dress casually most of the time, with loose fitting clothes. Occasionally I do wear make up and when I go out to parties, I am usually given a few compliments.

I’m no longer married, and I haven’t had a boyfriend in around 2 years. I do like to flirt, yes. Although unfortunately these days I seem to end up talking to dead beats or perverts. I very seldom find a guy that is genuinely interested in me, and sometimes I want to go into a bar and ask if anyone wants to fuck me. Of course, I wouldn’t do that in real life.

It wasn’t easy bringing up a kid, worse still when I fell pregnant again a year later and had a daughter. Most people would say it was my own fault, and they’d be right. But the 2 kids were my responsibility and I vowed to look after them no matter what. I have no regrets about that.

When Ben got to 18, he quit school and got a job as builder’s mate. It paid quite well since he was working all hours and all over the country. It didn’t leave him much time for girlfriends and in truth, I noticed he was a little shy and awkward around them.

Ben bought a motorcycle — much to my dismay — a few months after his 18th birthday and he would then spend Sunday morning riding his bike then returning home around 2 pm for Sunday Lunch. Until the day, he didn’t come home.

Ben never missed Sunday lunch, so I knew whatever had happened couldn’t be good. I had tried ringing his mobile and on the fifth attempt a female answered and identified herself as a WPC.

Of course, my heart sank. She asked me who I was, and I told her and then she told me about the accident. The rest of the conversation was a bit of a blur to be honest, my heart was beating so fast, and I knew I just had to see my son. She told me the hospital he was in, and I hung up — grabbing the car keys and roared off to the hospital.

When I got to the hospital, Ben was already in theatre and I felt like my whole world was crashing down — fearing the worst, as is human nature to do. I know I began sobbing inconsolably and I know I shouted at some of the nurses. I really should have apologised for that but at the time I was so distraught, I really wasn’t thinking straight.

A very nice nurse came up to me and explained that Ben would be in theatre for quite a while and suggested I go home, and they would call me. No need to tell you my reaction to that comment, and I told the nurse in no uncertain terms that I was staying until my son came out of surgery.

Finally, about 7 hours later – a rather young, and I have to say quite cute looking Doctor came out and asked for me by name. I replied that I was Ben’s mum, and he took me to a side room. Naturally, I feared the worst, but the Doctor’s first words were such a relief.

“Mrs Edwards. You son is fine, he’s not in any critical danger.”

Of course, I looked at him and I must have looked a little bemused because he added “He’s got some broken bones — nothing more, he’s a very lucky lad.”

I must admit my heart leapt with relief, and then the realisation — broken bones? So why did he need surgery? I was about to ask the Doctor that, when he told me.

“Ben took the impact on his shoulders and arms, some of his shoulder bones have cracked and some are broken …that is why he needed emergency surgery, we had to use pins and plates to keep his bones in place. We’ve put him in plaster so he will need constant care.”

Again, my mind was racing and all I really heard bursa escort was ‘Shoulders … pins and plates … plaster’.

The doctor took my hand, I remember and patted it lightly. “Mrs Edwards … he’ll be in plaster for 6 weeks so you … you will have to care for him. Do you understand?”

Of course, I didn’t — I had not yet even begun to consider the implications, all I knew was that I wanted to see my son.

I remember the Doctor stood up and said “I’ll get the nurse practitioner to come in and see you, to help you with the details.” and I recall being somewhat confused about why I needed to speak to a nurse practitioner.

When she came in, I asked her immediately whether my son was going to be OK. I remember she smiled at me, in response but didn’t say anything.

The nurse was about 50 I suppose, rather rotund and about 5ft tall with bright ginger or dyed red hair. She certainly gave me the impression she knew what she was talking about.

“Your son is in plaster.” Were her opening words and I really wanted to shout at her and ask when I’d be able to see him.

“In plaster from here to here.” she had continued, and I remember she used her hands to indicate that Ben’s upper torso, arms, elbows and wrists were all in plaster.

I know that I nodded in response, unsure really of why I was nodding. I don’t know whether the nurse saw my confusion or whether she was naturally brusque, but her next comment really drove the situation home.

“You’re going to have to help him, feed him, wash him and help him go to the toilet.”

I know the words resounded around my head and I think I replied with some ridiculous statement, which I can’t remember now but it did cause her to pause and look me directly in the eyes.

“Mrs Edwards, this is VERY important — he won’t be able to go to the toilet without your help. Now … I know it’s awkward and embarrassing, but you will both need to get over that very quickly or you’re not going to get anywhere.”

I know my jaw dropped as I finally understood the implications, and I know I yelled that I wanted to see my son. I got up and I think the nurse went to stop me then thought better of it.

As I got back to the cubicle — Ben was there, and oh my god he looked a sight. He was laid on his back, encased in plaster down to his rib cage, along his arms and down to his hands so that only his fingers were visible. I remember that he was asleep, or sedated at least and that reassured me that he wasn’t in immediate pain. On his face there were a few scrapes and cuts, and on his stomach a couple of grazes.

I brushed his hair back, then stroked his cheek softly and whispered that it would be OK, that I would look after him and that he would soon be better. But in truth, at that very time — I really had no idea what ‘taking care of him’ was going to involve.

The nurse tapped me on the shoulder “Mrs Edwards. Here’s a leaflet to explain things and there is a number there if you feel you need someone to talk to or if you need support. The district nurse will visit once a week and you can talk to her if you need to. Also, it’s important for you to know that you are not the first person to have had to do this. If you really are struggling, give me a call …” and she handed me a piece of paper with a mobile number on it.

Two days later, Ben was discharged and by then the full implications of what my motherly duties for the next 6 weeks would be, became glaringly obvious. I had skimmed through the leaflet and in truth, felt a bit affronted that the nurse had thought I’d need support in looking after my own son. But now, as the reality set in — I began to wonder if I would be able to do it.

I told myself that I had to do it somehow, I recall. I reiterated it over and over in my mind that he was my son, my responsibility and I had to do whatever needed to be done for the next 6 weeks to get him better. But as the ambulance dropped him off, and I watched Ben make his way slowly and gingerly into the house, I knew it was not going to be easy or straight forward.

I remember thinking that eating and drinking would not be a problem, I had plenty of straws and Ben didn’t really have hot drinks. For food, Ben had said his throat was a bit sore, so we planned to keep him on soups for the first few days.

For sleeping, Ben had his own bedroom of course as he lived with me. We gathered a load of pillows up and arranged them on the bed so that he was partially upright. It wasn’t the most comfortable of positions but better than letting him sleep flat on his back. By the time Ben was in the house and sat down on the sofa, some of the nurses words came back to me and I recall she said he should not stay in bed but should actively walk around — being careful not to bang the plaster or twist his torso too much.

The Elephant in the room, of course — was the toileting, and within 2 hours of being home, we had our first challenge when Ben announced bursa escort bayan that he needed to pee. Like I said, Ben was a sweet gentle son, and he didn’t use words like ‘piss’ and ‘shit’ — not around me leastways. Now me, I like to call things as they are, so I had no qualms about using the terminology.

I recall the whole event vividly, as you would expect. I walked up the stairs to the bathroom, my mind racing about how exactly I was going to do this. My saviour, believe it or not — was a video I had seen on Facebook some weeks previous. In the video, a guy had crept up behind this other guy and pulled his shorts down from behind.

As I got to the bathroom, I remember having that ‘eureka’ moment and I knew straight away how to deal with it. So, I instructed Ben to stand toward the toilet seat, facing away from me. Then I would pull his shorts down, and leave the room. He would then turn and sit on the seat — making sure his dick was pointing inside the pan — and then he could piss.

Once finished, he would stand and turn back round — I would come in and lift his shorts back up. I do remember a flush of pride as I congratulated myself on the solution. I was so pleased that there would be very little embarrassment or awkwardness.

And you know what? The plan worked. He needed the toilet twice more that day, and each time our process worked.

By 10pm I was feeling quite tired, and I remember thinking Ben must be even more tired, so I suggested we retire. I recall helping him into his bedroom, then into his bed before realising almost as an afterthought — that the bedroom door, and bathroom door would need to be left open in case he needed to go in the middle of the night. Of course, now I realise — I really hadn’t thought any of it through properly.

That night was uneventful, mainly due to Ben not needing a piss. But then, around 2pm the next day we had our next challenge, and it doesn’t take a genius to work out what it was. We had decided Ben should stay in bed for the first few days and initially all seemed well. Then Ben announced that he needed a crap, and blushed in the process I recall. Maybe it was the thought that his mum would be wiping his backside once again or maybe it was part of a deeper overarching awkwardness regarding the situation, I really don’t know.

As I walked up the stairs, I was as I recall, surprisingly calm. I had worked out that the first part was the same, I would pull his shorts down and leave the room, he’d sit down and do it and then when he’d finished would stand up again and face away from me. I told him to bend over when I came into the room — and of course, what I had not taken into account is what would be ‘on display’ when he bent over.

I was certainly not prepared for the sight that met me once I heard him call me back into the bathroom. As I opened the door, he was bent over — facing away from me, his legs spread slightly, and this of course meant that his cock and his balls were now dangling down in full view. I think I gasped, and if I did — thankfully I managed to keep it a quiet one.

His cock was HUGE. I’m sorry, there is no other way to say it. I’ve been with plenty of ‘big’ men believe me, but I’d never seen one this size. It wasn’t just long, about 7.5 inches flaccid but its girth was also impressive — about the size of my wrist.

I remember staring, and thank goodness he couldn’t see my face. I know I took my time to slowly take in the rest of what I could see. His arse, oh god his arse was so pert and so cute. I felt like I desperately wanted to sink my fingers into the soft flesh, then I immediately felt so guilt and ashamed.

Shit has never bothered me. Don’t get me wrong — I’m not into all that scat thing. But wiping bums, not really a problem for me.

Throughout all this, Ben stood there not saying a word and I imagine his face was purple with embarrassment.

Now I know there is a right and wrong way to wipe a person’s arse but quite frankly, I was that mortified (and shocked) by what I had seen that I really just wanted to get it done and get out of there. I finished wiping, threw the toilet paper in the pan and flushed then pulled Ben’s shorts back up before washing my hands, all without saying a single word.

At least we were over it now, I told myself — not really believing that anything could be more embarrassing than what I had just done. How wrong I was.

The thing was, I just couldn’t un-see it. Every time I took him to the toilet, and pulled his shorts down, I knew his huge cock was just inches away from my hand. I cursed myself of course, each time – berated myself that I was being disgusting and depraved, that what I was thinking was sick and appalling. And the thoughts went away, for a while.

That night I tucked him into bed, my gaze fixed on the cock just under the bedsheet as I pulled it tight, causing the outline of his cock to show against his thigh. My mind whirled briefly, before escort bursa once again I reminded myself that he was my son.

But that night, something happened which was to cause me to re-evaluate everything. I didn’t actually realise what had happened until the next morning when I had gone into Ben’s room at 8am to wake him. As I entered, he was sat on the bed — sobbing.

My heart dropped, unable to fathom what on earth could have happened that could cause him to be this upset. As I approached him, his words hit me “I’m … oh god … I’m so sorry Mum.” He lamented.

I know that at first, I could see nothing wrong until he told me that he had needed the toilet that night — but his bedroom door had been closed.

Immediately I screamed at myself for being so stupid, for being such a terrible mother that I didn’t realise he couldn’t open the door. I’m normally quite tough on myself anyway and this just made me curse myself even more. ‘You idiot. You closed the fucking door last night — it’s your fault he’s upset’ I remember thinking.

“I pissed myself Mum, I’m … oh god I’m so sorry!” his words burn even now, knowing that it was my fault.

I pulled the bedsheet back and sure enough his shorts were soaking, as were the bedsheets. I went straight into ‘Mum’ mode of course, getting him out of his bed, removing his shorts and then drying him off. Thankfully, not a single thought about Ben’s cock came into my head and I was so relieved about that. The other thing we then decided on; well OK I guess it was my idea, but I swear it was a genuine suggestion – not borne of sexual desire — was that he needed to sleep naked, so that at night he could just come and go to the toilet.

Once Ben was sorted, I went back downstairs and reflected on my bad parenting. More importantly, it occurred to me that my daughter, Melanie — who also lived with me, had a terrible habit of closing the bathroom door. Actually, that is unfair. I always taught the 2 of them to close the bathroom door when they left it — so I guess that’s down to me. Either way, I quickly realised that if we wanted to avoid another occurrence like last night with Ben — we needed to find a solution.

I’m not really sure if this point could be classed as the definitive turning point but it probably was an important one. I knew I couldn’t take the chance of my son being unable to get out of his bedroom or get into the bathroom — whereas in my bedroom, I had an on suite.

On reflection it was a no-brainer, and I really don’t know why we didn’t put Ben in there from the start. So, that afternoon — that’s what we did. But of course, this in turn developed yet another hurdle that we had not yet considered.

That night I had put Ben to bed as normal, and was gratified that thoughts about his large cock were no longer intruding my daily thoughts — not quite so much anyway. My bedtime thoughts however, were a totally different ball game.

It had been some 6 days now, since Ben’s accident — and it had been a good 10 prior to that since I had pleasured myself. It was something I did regularly, and something I enjoyed very much. There was no ‘man’ on the scene — and thinking about that now, explains a lot about my thoughts, feelings and actions of the time.

I settled down on Ben’s bed — naked. I always slept naked, always have done, and this night I was feeling particularly horny to the point here I felt I owed it to myself to rub myself off to a nice orgasm. The first problem I had was that all my toys were in my bedroom, and I knew I could hardly walk in there, pick up my favourite vibe (yes, I have a favourite) and then walk out. I knew I had to improvise.

Hell, I was used to improvising, and I was good at it. I once brought myself off using my brother’s Xbox controller — you know, the ones that rumble and vibrate. Fuck, that was so good. What was better still, was watching him use it afterwards, him totally unaware of where it had been.

I found an unused toothbrush, the ones that have a battery in them. It wasn’t ideal but I knew then, any port in a storm. I lay on the bed, closed my eyes and filled my mind with my favourite fantasy. I’m not going to go into detail, suffice to say it’s a quite well know singer and I might get sued.

The toothbrush turned out to be quite an exciting choice. The bottom part vibrated quite a bit, and the bristles, well they felt absolutely terrific on my nipples, getting them hard in no time at all. On my phone, I had this singer’s songs playing and so I closed my eyes and began my fantasy.

In the fantasy, basically — the singer is singing to me in this huge stadium, but I’m the only other person in there. In between songs, he’s telling me what he’s going to do to me — but, through the medium of his songs. So, for example — one of his songs says “…gonna lay you down softly …” and of course I took that to mean he was going to fuck me.

I remember moving the toothbrush down to my clit and being quite excited and turned on about how good it felt. I used the bristles on my clit, then slowly inserted the handle into my cunt. These toothbrushes are quite thin, so it slid in easily, of course — but it was the vibration that I was most interested in.

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