Tending to My Fat Mom

18

Chapter One

It had been a long three days, but I had finally made it home. Well, at least to the airport. I didn’t do anything stupid like kiss the ground or any of that crap, but it DID feel good to not be in a minority after three years in Japan.

I took that walk down the jetway, just the light carryon in my hand, and looked around, kind of dazzled as you do after a few hours in a silver tube six miles up in the air.

I walked over to the carousel where the checked luggage would come and in a few minutes it started up. My olive duffel bag was easy to spot among the fancy leather and plastic suitcases and I slung it over my shoulder and headed for the main hall of the airport.

And there she was, my mother, come to meet me.

It was the first time I had seen her in three years and, if we’re being honest here, my first reaction was, “Jesus, she’s SO big.”

Mom was always a big woman, no question about that. But it looked like she had spent the last three years on one long eating binge. And not being careful to eat good stuff either. Her complexion was a mess.

But she was also still mom, redheaded, round-faced, pretty.

And I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face as she wrapped me in those big soft arms, kissed me a little mother-son peck on the lips, and buried her face in my chest. I reached as far around her as I could, my hands ending up a little short of her shoulder blades, and hugged her back.

I was surprised with my reaction, well, my body’s reaction.

Well, that’s not really true.

As she had since I hit puberty, the feeling of her against me brought me erect.

And she felt it.

She pushed me to arm’s length, giggled a little, and said, “watch it buster,” just as she had about a bazillion times between puberty and my getting on the plane to head off to the Air Force four years before.

She took my hand and led me through the exit to short-term parking.

I laughed and said, “Really, you kept it.”

The 1965 Chevrolet Impala in a pale green color, the actual name is Willow Green, was the car I had purchased, used of course, with my lawn mowing and pool cleaning money, saved over the course of four years. It was freshly washed, the “spinner” style hubcaps, stock for that model, glistening like mirrors, the acres of chrome shining, the tires were fresh.

“Happy three birthdays,” she said, smiling, and holding out the keys.

I opened the door for her, held her hand while she climbed in, and then went around and settled into the driver’s seat. I moved the manual seat back for legroom, started it, and just sat back, suddenly 16 again for a couple of minutes, my driver’s license fresh and my new car my pride and joy.

The big 396 engine ran smoothly, as it always did, and the big aftermarket Holley carburetor a friend of mine and I had installed made that soft hissing sound it did at idle, the air sucking through the unsilenced air cleaner feeding the engine.

She giggled.

“Still a gearhead, aren’t you?” she asked, with a smile on her face.

I just grinned.

Then I turned on the radio, surprised not at all that it was still tuned to my favorite oldies station.

I didn’t say anything else, just backed up, turned, and headed for the exit.

After three years of driving tiny cars powered by 360cc engines, I felt like I was driving some superyacht. I was also aware of driving on the “wrong” side of the road. But I made it, alive and unwrecked.

I was still in my khaki uniform and ANXIOUS to get changed. I had done my trick for my country but now I was ready to get back to real life.

So I headed home, smiling as I passed still-familiar street names. At the house, I ran around the car, opened her door, and helped her out before grabbing the duffel bag and carry-on.

Inside she smiled and said, “Your room is still ready and there are clean towels in the bathroom. Clean up and I’m taking you to dinner.”

I had to laugh.

When she said my room was “still ready” she hadn’t been kidding a bit. It was unchanged. Even my Star Wars poster and my poster of Carrie Fisher as Princess Leia in her slave girl livery still hung on the walls. Hell, there were still clothes in the closet and the drawers.

I dumped the duffel on the bed, hung what needed hanging, put things in drawers, stripped and threw my uniform into the clothes hamper that still sat on the floor of the closet and padded naked across the hall into the shared bathroom. It’s a small house, far too small for a bathroom for each bedroom.

It was nice, not limited to a Japanese-sized water heater, being able to take a LONG hot shower. So I did.

Clean and dry I went into my bedroom to change for dinner.

I laughed as I tried to put on the jeans that I found in the drawer. I had worn Levi’s sized 30-30 when I went in the Air Force. Now, 15 pounds heavier with even less body fat than I used to have, they needed to be donated. So I got out the dark blue slacks I had brought with me, found one of my dozen logo T-shirts, güvenilir bahis pulled on white socks, the tennis shoes from my duffel, loaded my pockets, and headed for the front room.

Mom was nowhere to be seen so I assumed she was dressing too. I raided the refrigerator, found beer, said a soft “thank you, Lord,” and opened it. In the front room again I laughed. My xBox was still where I had left it. I managed to figure out how the new remote worked, found the directory, and started looking through the listings. The changes over three years were subtle, but a couple of programs I had always enjoyed seemed to be missing, replaced by others I didn’t recognize.

“Well,” I heard her say.

I turned and looked. And did a double-take.

She was in a very bright turquoise top with a black skirt that stopped slightly above her knees. A band of long fringe seemed to move constantly, hanging slightly below her knees.

Her auburn hair was up and her face had been done. Blue eyeshadow nearly matched the color of her top, a light blush gave her face a flushed look, and the eyeliner ended in small points at the corners of her eyes, giving her a slightly exotic look.

She was the very image of a big woman comfortable in her size and out for a night on the town.

“You are stunning, I said, “but I’m underdressed.”

I kissed her quickly on the way by and went into my room. The closest thing I had to anything approaching “formal” was the Oxford cloth button-down shirts that had been my chosen style as far back as high school. I grabbed one in a blue pencil stripe that I thought would sort of match her top and put it on.

For dinner, I took her to Al’s, a local steak house with the motto, prominently displayed over the door, “This is a steak house, if you would like seafood we can recommend several good restaurants.”

Dinner was fun. My mother is a bright, witty, well-educated woman. She knows a lot about a lot of things, and since the very favorable divorce settlement with my father, she was a casual, part-time student who took classes based on what she found interesting at any given time. Now, she told me, she made a little money writing papers for lazy college students. It wasn’t really a job, more a hobby. But she had learned even more about more things.

And the woman did know how to eat. No delicate lady’s filet for my mom. She had the Porterhouse, so big it looked like a small roast, baked potato fully loaded, Chef’s salad, the bread, and corn on the cob. She finished it with a chocolate lava cake for dessert.

She watched me watching her and smiled.

“I am what I am, honey,” she said, patting her belly.

I grinned and said, “and all of you is still lovely.”

She giggled, an oddly high-pitched sound coming from her big body.

We had a few more drinks, enjoying each other’s company. She liked hearing about what I had done in the Air Force. I enjoyed hearing about the various courses she had taken and the papers she had written. When the waitress started looking a little anxious we went to a neighborhood bar, just a couple of blocks from the house, a place we had gone to from time to time. We shared a pitcher of beer and then went home.

I slept fine, the bed an odd combination of familiar and strange.

The next morning I got up, my need to pee absolutely overwhelming.

I made it to the bathroom and sat, wanting to be quiet. I peed, washed my hands, rinsed my mouth with Listerine, and went back to my bedroom.

Well, I started back to my bedroom.

I heard this odd grunting and wheezing sound coming from mom’s bedroom. I listened for a moment and it got louder. “Oh Christ,” I thought, she’s having a damn heart attack.

When I opened the door she was standing, naked, in front of the mirror on her chest of drawers, twisted around, looking at her back, trying to reach something. I watched as she struggled, oblivious to my presence.

Christ, she was huge. The great roll of her belly hung almost to her thighs. Her breasts were small on her big body, almost just nipples, very pink, on another roll of fat. When she turned just a bit I noticed the tube of Desitin in her hand and realized that she was trying to reach a spot where a rash was itching.

I suppose I must have made a sound because she turned suddenly, her eyes meeting mine.

It was cute, actually, the way she tried to cover herself with her hands and arms.

“DAVEY!” she said, her eyes big.

I closed the distance between us in a half dozen strides, smiling at her deer-in-the-headlights big-eyed look.

I smiled and touched her cheek and held out my hand.

“I’ll take care of it,” I said.

Her shoulders sort of slumped and she said, very low, almost inaudible, “oh God.”

But she handed me the tube.

I took her hand, led her to the bed, and helped her climb on it after I pulled the blanket and sheets off.

“Davey,” she sort of whined as I straddled her body, sitting on her big soft ass, and started exploring her, my fingers beginning at her güvenilir bahis siteleri shoulders and working down, gently parting every little fold and roll.

“Davey,” she said again, after a sigh of relief as I smoothed a dab of the Desitin on the rash I found in a roll under her shoulder blade, “we can’t let anything happen.”

I chuckled, shushed with a soft “shhhhh,” and continued my inspection.

Her skin was a mess. She had little sores, pimples that had popped and not quite healed properly, all over her body.

I knew, right then, that I just had to tend to her.

I scooted down, sitting on her thighs then, and when I saw her big ass, liberally dimpled with cellulite I knew, down below the level of thinking, down at what I would later learn we called the “lizard brain,” that I was going to have her.

I found another rashy spot at her gluteal sulcus, that crease where ass meets thigh.

When I spread her cheeks, it was clear that she had trouble reaching to clean herself properly. She was badly stained and there was a bright red ring around the little rosebud of her anus.

“Hold that thought,” I said, “and don’t move,” and went into the bathroom, ran the water in the sink until it ran hot, soaked one of the oldest-looking washcloths, wrung it out, grabbed one of the older-looking towels, and went back.

She hadn’t moved. In fact, she looked relaxed.

I crawled back up on the bed, my knees outside of hers, and sat on the soft cushion of her calves.

I used my left hand to part her cheeks and then washed her carefully with the warm washcloth. There was a very darkly stained circle as well as a dark streak. She really DID have trouble reaching. The washcloth came away stained as well, but she was clean and red and I applied a liberal dose of the Desitin. She sighed deeply.

Moving down, now sitting almost on her heels I found one more spot, a fold at the bottom of her thigh in the back, that needed treatment.

I moved to be on my knees beside her and patted her ass.

“Back done,” I said, “roll over.”

“Davey,” she said into the pillow, “I can’t.”

So I slapped her ass hard enough to watch a ripple run quickly up to her shoulders and then back down.

“Roll over,” I said again, putting all the snap they had taught me in NCO school into my voice.

She turned her head to face me but didn’t move.

“Davey,” she said, “I can’t, you’re my son.”

So I laid down beside her, my hand on her back, kissed her cheek, and said, “mom, I just washed your asshole and applied Desitin to it. I think the time for modesty is passed, don’t you?”

I was holding her eyes.

She was holding mine.

For a long time.

“Davey,” she said, “if I roll over now, we both know where this is going to end.”

I grinned.

“You don’t know, do you?” I asked.

She frowned, cute little lines forming between her eyes. “Know what?” she asked.

“Mom,” I said, “you’ve always been the woman for me.”

“Davey,” she said, and took a deep breath, “you’re my son.”

“I know,” I said, and kissed her, on the lips this time.

“Davey,” she said, taking another deep breath, “I can’t.”

“Sure you can,” I said, my hand finding the roundness of her big ass, “just roll over, let me take care of you, and we’ll just see where this goes.”

She giggled, and I knew I had won.

Her hand reached down and brushed where I was VERY hard.

“Is there any doubt where, as you put it, ‘this goes’?” she asked.

She held my eyes for a long 10 count and the sighed and rolled onto her back.

On her back, her size was even more obvious.

Her breasts were mostly nipples on a fat roll. Her belly consisted of three distinct rolls, the lowest covering her mons veneris, her Mound of Venus, and running down to touch the tops of her thighs. Those red spots, untended pimples, were even more striking on the pale skin.

I liked it.

I swung my leg over her and sat on her thighs. I pushed her arms up and checked her armpits and the fold where that big pad of fat on the back of her arm hung below her elbow, but it was clear. There was one small red spot under the fold that was her breast. The second roll was clear but the third, the deep fold of flesh and fat that included the deep crease of her belly button, was a mess, the rash very red and the skin abraded badly where she had scratched.

The final roll of her belly, that big roll that gave her a fat girl’s modesty, covering her sex completely, was so heavy it required a serious output of energy to push out of the way. There were matched rashes right at the top of her thighs.

Her pussy was clear and absolutely hairless. My first thought was that she shaved or waxed and then I realized that it was the constant friction of that flesh that simply rubbed away all of the hair except, I discovered, a thin line on the inside of her labia.

While I was inspecting I couldn’t miss her clitoris, a very pink little button, visibly throbbing a bit and begging to be touched. iddaa siteleri So I touched it, drawing a sudden gasp from her.

“Davey,” she said very softly, but by then we both knew we were well past any point of no return. Her womanscent, laden with pheromones, was heavy in the air, and when I parted her labia for inspection her natural lubricant, that thick mucus, made thick strings connecting each lip.

But I kept going, moving down to sit on the tops of her feet as I finished with her thighs, finding little rashy spots under the folds at her knees.

I moved onto my knees beside her and did her toes, not really expecting to find a rash, but playing with them. They were fat little sausages with ragged nails. I did piggies, making her squeal and giggle.

And then I stopped.

I laid down and used my hand on her waist to encourage her, she’s far too big to just move her, to roll up onto her side so we were face to face.

“Mom,” I said, using my hand to brush some stray hairs off of her cheek, “I am many things but I am not a rapist. If you want me to stop, all you have to do is say ‘no’.”

We lay like that, some measurable fraction of eternity it seemed, my hand on her waist, hers on mine, just looking into each other’s eyes. Not moving, not caressing, not kissing, just meeting each other’s gaze.

She spoke first.

“David, I love you,” she said.

“But?” I replied.

“David, you’re my son,” she said.

I smiled.

“And you’re my mother,” I said

“Oh, God,” she sort of moaned.

I said nothing. I just held her eyes and waited her out. I thought I knew what the outcome would be but I didn’t want to hurry anything.

She took a deep breath, held it, and blew it out in a sudden huff.

“David,” she said, her voice husky now, “are you certain?”

“More certain than anything in my life,” I said.

Another deep breath huffed out.

“Oh, God,” she said again, but this time with a sort of joyousness as she reached behind my head and pulled me to her.

Our first real man-woman kiss was the most intense, most loving, most perfect kiss of my life.

Her lips were soft and hungry, her tongue a warm wet probe, her hand, strong, pulling me to her.

And I matched her. My fingers were entwined in the mass of her auburn hair at the back of her head, my tongue met hers, my erection was pressed against her belly.

We broke the kiss long enough for a breath and were back at it, our mouths meeting, our tongues fencing, our fingers holding.

Time stopped.

We laid like that, kissing, our hands exploring, our bodies filling with our need, for minutes, or maybe hours. I have no idea.

Finally, she got a hand between us and pushed me away far enough to allow our eyes to focus on each other.

“Tell me this isn’t wrong,” she said.

I kissed her, lightly, and said, “this is NOT wrong.”

“Oh God,” she said for the third time, and rolled onto her back and pulled her legs up. She reached down and caught her legs behind the knees and pulled them back until her knees were touching the roll of fat that had her nipples on them.

The invitation was obvious.

In that position, her thighs allowed me to see her pussy and it was clearly ready. Her thick lubricant was flowing freely, making the crack of her ass, her gluteal cleft, slick and shiny. Her labia were full and smooth.

I just pushed my boxers down far enough to free my erection and scooted forward.

Oddly, there was no need to guide myself. In that position, as I moved forward, I was lined up perfectly with where she wanted me.

As I entered her I realized that this was like nothing I had ever experienced. I was no virgin and I had been with women who were so tight it felt like I was having a young virgin and women who were so stretched out and loose that the line from that old TV drama Nip/Tuck ran through my mind – “nobody wants to make love to a glass of warm water.”

But with mom, it was perfect. We didn’t just fit. We matched. It was like every cell had found its mate and embraced. We were merged like nothing I had ever imagined. We were forming a single perfect body where, before, there had been two halves.

She was having the same reaction.

“Oh God,” she was sort of moaning, “it’s perfect.” Her eyes were wide open and she was smiling up at me.

And the thing is, I felt no particular need to finish. This was too perfect to make it end. I slowly settled, relaxing, making her carry my weight.

And in the process, she was engulfing me. It was like I was sinking into her. The softness of her belly was absorbing me.

I liked it.

No, that is far too gentle a word.

I absolutely ADORED it. I wanted her to take me into her body. I wanted to merge with her.

I was laying still like that, slowly becoming one with her, when she came, suddenly, explosively.

I thought for a moment she had lost her bladder control the way the hot spray of her release soaked my belly. But the scent was pure womanneed, and womanrelease.

“OH JESUSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!” she cried and came again.

And again, great waves and great whoops of release.

And again, her body bucking under me, her nose running now in concert with what was happening between her legs.

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