To Wash Sadness Away

Submitted by: Bowzer

Nobody wants that call in the night, especially if it is a double whammy, such as the one I got.

I had just put the boys to bed. Grandma and grandpa - my mother and father - had departed for home an hour previous, and I was tired.

I felt the good tired, the tired of a long day spent enjoying family. The satisfied tired that promises a good sleep.

Ring a ding a doodle. Damn cell phones always have those fancy rings. Either Beethoven's fifth, or some kind of Van Halen riff, or - -

"You want to get that, hon?" Lizzie's voice was muffled from behind the bathroom door. I knew she was drying that gorgeous, long, blonde hair of hers.

"Sure," I answered. I trotted down the hallway, and grabbed Lizzie's iPhone off the little table we keep next to the entryway.


"Miss Lizzie Peters?" there was no mistaking the officialdom behind that voice.

"She's busy right now. I'm her husband, is there something I can do for you?"

"Mr. Peters, I'm sorry, there's been an accident."

The mind just sort of goes numb, numb with a roaring in the background, but you hear every word as clear as day, and wish you hadn't.

"Highway 80... snow... drunk driver... hospital."

When someone gets psychic kicked like that, there is a feeling that goes out from them. The numbness in my mind translated into a sweeping, cold sensation, a muffled bad feeling, that washed through the house.

"Hon?" Lizzie stood next to me. How had she appeared there? The worried look crossing her fresh-faced, beautiful features.

I knew tears were coursing down my cheeks; she must have seen the tears.

"Wait," I said into the phone. I turned to Lizzie. "Accident. Mom and Pop."

Her eyes widened and I knew that she had just received the same punch in the gut that I had. "But they just le..."

"I've got to go to the hospital."

I spoke into the phone. "We'll be there in a half an hour. Thank you." I touched the face of the phone and hung up.

Lizzie and I just stood there for a long minute. Staring at each other. Then we hugged. Only in hugs is there relief from pain. Then we separated.

"I'll get the car out."

"I'll call the sitter"

Tragedy happens, it is done, then life becomes the process of picking up the pieces. It was done. My life was changed irrevocably.


The accident happened on a lonely sweep of the 80. There had been light snowfall, and some redneck asshole wasted on Rum and Coke lost control. His battered, old pick up managed to sail over the divider and land on Pop's Lexus.

As I was to find out at the hospital, Pop was dead, never knew what hit him.

Airbags saved Mom, but she had two badly broken arms. One arm was broken just below the elbow. The other arm was broken in two places just above the elbow.

I watched the drunk being rolled past me in a corridor of the hospital. Red eyes, a grin minus some teeth, the miasma of rotgut so thick it was gagging.


Mom spent a week in the hospital. I was by her side day and night. I have always loved my parents, I hadn't been one of those bratty kid types, and it fair broke my heart to see her suffer.

That week all she did was wake up and cry. The doctors fed her a drip of morphin, the kind that the patient can administer themselves through a little push button, and if she wasn't pressing that damned thing then I was.

Drugged, she cried, and it eventually became clear that drugs were not going to stop her pain. Maybe you have heard me mention that... only in hugs is there relief from pain.

When the sobs became too much, I just laid down on the bed and hugged her. She would sob some more, eventually stop, and fall asleep in my arms.

Lizzie would enter the hospital room about ten at night, after work, after kids, after a long drive, and find us thus. When we would catch a quick snack, just before she left for home at midnight, she would compliment me.

"When my father died... I never saw my mother so sad. I wish I could have hugged her like you are doing."

I would nod, and she would place a hand on my forearm. "She's your mother. Help her."

Then I would walk her out to the car, kiss her deep, and return to my mother's room.

And the week passed.


We brought Mom home on a Monday. She sat in the front seat with me, and Lizzie and the kids were the back seat.

I helped Mom out of the car, and then half carried her up the walk and into the house. She rested for a moment on the couch, then I carried her up the stairs and into the bedroom.

I could hear Lizzie making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the twins in the kitchen below us.

"I want to get out of this hospital gown," Mom said.

"I'll get Lizzie - - "

"Nonsense, she's got the twins. You can help me."

So I got out her comfortable bathrobe and came over to the bed.

"Get me a fresh bra, too."

I started to say something, but she was just staring at the floor, dejected, drugged, and I didn't want to argue with her. I got a bra from the dresser, and a fresh pair of panties, and returned to the bed.

Casts on her arms, she slowly shrugged out of the hospital gown. "Unhook me." She half turned.

I unhooked her brassiere and untangled it from her casts and slings. It was a job, and I was embarrassed when the back of my hand brushed against her nipples. She seemed not to notice. I helped her get the new bra on, then exchanged her panties - God help me, I was aware of her bush - and then draped her in her bathrobe and propped her up on the bed.

When Lizzie came up I could tell that she noticed the change of wardrobe, but she didn't say anything. And when she kissed me that night, before going home with the twins, it seemed that she kissed me extra long, and her lips were so moist and passionate. And she whispered to me, "You are a good son. Do whatever you have to."

I knew she was talking about my embarrassment, and how I had overcome it, when changing my mother's underwear and robe.

Then she was in the car - I noticed that I had a hard on - and gone.


The routine was simple: Lizzie took care of the kids at home, and I took care of mom, a hundred miles away. Lizzie would bring the kids over on the weekend, and I would get no nookie.

I was taking care of mom, she was taking care of the twins, and we just never seemed to find time to get together.

Even on Saturday night, the peak of her visit to mom's house, we were too tired. The long hours, the pressure, the sadness...we went to sleep.

Though, I do admit, I usually made Lizzie cum. I don't care if she said she was too tired, I knew what a woman needed, I knew she would sleep ten times better after a good orgasm.

And that left me, weekend after weekend, hard and horny.

I think that sometimes Lizzie liked that. I think her passionate good by kisses, her hands in my pants at odd times, were nothing more than her quirky perverseness. Suffer, hubby, I know you'll just love me all the more for it.

In the meantime, to augment the issue, there was Mom.


The crying slowly stopped, but there was a deep sadness within, and night after night she called me to her room, made me lie there, and fell asleep in my arms.

Of course, it wouldn't have been so bad if she hadn't made me wash her every day.

"I can't abide feeling dirty," she would say. "Wash me, Jimmy."

I would get out a bowl of warm soap and water, and another bowl of warm rinse water. I would help her out of her bathrobe and her bra and panties, and then I would wash her.

I would take a soft cloth and soap her neck, her shoulders, down her arms.

"Do my breasts Jimmy."

Her breasts were large, definitely double Ds, and I would soap them. I would smooth the cloth over her white flesh, scoop under the heft of them where the wire bra left its mark, and she would sigh for the pleasure.

"Do my nipples, Jimmy."

I would circle the nipples, working soap into the juncture of nipple and areola.

"Harder," she would say, and she would lean back against me.

I would end up slithering them between the folds of the washcloth, feeling them with my thumb and fingers.

"Better rinse them, Jimmy."

I would rinse them, and she never seemed to notice the raging hard on in my pants.

"Now my... my vagina."

Vagina, such a lovely word, and I would help her lean back on the bed and begin work on her vagina.

It was lightly tufted with hair, and the labs were large. The man in the boat was always standing up, looking for waves, feeling the breeze, poking into my hand.

I would soap her... apparatus. I would sooth it delicately with the cloth, making sure every fold was paid attention to.

Mom would lay back and moan. Her breathing would quicken. And she would finally ask me to rinse her off.

By the end of the week, by the time Lizzie came for her first visit, I was a wreck.

Hornier than a sailor on a ship loaded with cuntless virgins.

Yet, I didn't say anything. And I enjoyed it when Lizzie complimented me for the job I was doing.

"It must be rough, having to bath your own mother," she whispered to me.

"No, no."

Yet, she was stroking my penis under the covers. She was almost ready for her cum, and she always enjoyed playing with me before taking her pleasure.

"Well, you're a good son. Just do whatever you need to to keep her happy."

Yet, Mom wasn't happy. How could she be? She had lost the love of her life, and the only solace she got was crying herself to sleep in my arms. That and a little petting.

And, it was petting. On Thursday of the second week, while I was washing her vagina, she had a visible orgasm.

I think she was trying to hide it, but the way her breath caught, the way her eyes widened, the amount of juices I was washing from her cunt - dammit, I will call it what it is - it was obvious that she had had a good, sound, knee weakening orgasm.

The third week.


By the third week she was up and walking. She would come downstairs, watch a little TV. Turn off the TV and go sit in the couch facing the picture window, and watch the great outdoors.

Sometimes I would see moisture on her cheeks. Sometimes I would sit next to her, put my arm around her, and she would snuggle down and find what comfort she could. I would feel her small hands, poking out of casts and touching me on my side and on my thigh. High on my thigh, as if unaware of the raging hard on there. And I would feel the press of her breasts.

Thursday, and I was washing her.

I washed her breasts. Paid attention to her erect nipples. Rinsed her breasts and began soaping the folds of her pussy.

"Oh, hell." She blurted. She laid back on the bed and closed her eyes. "Get me off, Jimmy."

For a moment I was shocked. I was motionless. I didn't know what to do.

She opened her eyes and raised her head slightly. "Why keep up the pretense. I need get me off." She closed her eyes again and laid back.

The moment was long. I had been told by my mother, while my fingers were warmly ensconced in the flesh of her pussy, to get her off. And, in spite of myself, I began to work her pussy.

I rubbed it, played with the labs, stroked, and then inserted two fingers.

Mom stopped breathing, wiggled her hips, and fucked my fingers.

I finger fucked her back, rubbed the man in the boat with my thumb while I tickled up and into her canal with my fingers, searching for the G spot.

She moaned, writhed, gasped.

I bent my head down, licked her vagina. Her cunt. Her pussy. The smell was all embracing. this was where I had come from, and this was where I was going back to.

Going back to? The thought dazed me... it was so unexpected! Was I a pervert? Was I... Mom came, and she came like a tsunami from Japan. All the way across the ocean, over California and over the Rockies and right out to the Midwest.

I resumed washing as her breathing slowed and she returned to normal.


"But she wants me to make her have an orgasm!" My words seemed a bit stilted, I felt a traitor to myself, as Lizzie played with my cock.

Lizzie stopped, held me firm, held me trapped, and said, "She's you're mother. You do what you have to."

"But after I was done... she started crying!"

"That's okay," and then she began working me again.

I was hard as a rock in her hand. I was faint from her power over me. Blood rushed through my whole body and threatened to make an earthquake. "Can I... do you thinků"

She interrupted me, let go and laid back and said, "That's a great idea. I am so tired. Get me off good, big boy."

So I did.


The fourth week, and Mom asked me to put make up on her.

I had just finished washing her, and she was sitting on the side of her bed. I was sitting in the big chair to one side of the room.

"A girl feels naked without make up, Jimmy."

"But I've never - - "

"Oh shucks, it's easy. I'll talk you through it, explain everything. You'll make some mistakes, but nothing that can't be fixed."

I didn't want to, but she sat down in front of her mirror in the bathroom. Bottles and tubes and brushes and all sorts of things unmanly were placed on the table.

"Now," she was quite happy, awash with anticipation, "let's start with a foundation."

So I learned how to brush lotions and dust across her beautiful face. She held her face still, observed by holding a hand mirror and angling it to the bigger mirror.

"A little too much, Jimmy. Here, take it off, and use this brush. Brush it on fine, light, delicate strokes."

I did her eyes.

"Gently now, yes, that makes them thicker. Excellent."

I did her lips.

She chose a rich, red color, and I turned it out of the tube. Gently, I stroked her lips with the color.


She observed herself in the mirror. She turned to me.

"Is it okay, Jimmy?"

"Yes, mom."

She leaned closer. "Really?"

We were inches apart now, feeling each others breath, and I became so aware of her eyes, of her soft skin, of her lips, of her breasts bulging and visible in the folds of her bathrobe.

"Jimmy," she whispered. She leaned forward and touched her soft lips to mine.

I felt like the top of my head was coming off. This was my mother! What was she doing to me?

"I used to kiss your father like this." She kissed me again, harder, and I could feel her tongue slipping between my lips.

I didn't know what to do.

Her eyes were closed, and I could feel her passion, her need.

I kissed her back.

Maybe if I hadn't been so horny... maybe if I hadn't been so aware of her breasts and vagina... maybe if I had been able to rub up against my wife to a satisfying conclusion...

But, things were what they were, and I found myself kissing my own mother, feeling her breasts, and not just to wash them, and... and she suddenly broke the kiss.

"I loved your father," and she began to cry.

"No, mom. Don't..."

But she did.


"I kissed her."

Lizzie held my balls and stroked my dick. Her fingers played games with the head, and the hands cupping my balls gave little squeezes.

"It's okay. She's your mother." And Lizzie kissed me, and kissed me, and kissed me. And when I thought I could take no more, when I thought I was going to finally explode...she lay on her back and told me to get her off.


On the fifth week Mom got one cast removed, and the other one made smaller. And she started walking around the house with her robe open and with no underwear.

I could see the hang of her breasts, I could see the juncture of her thighs. When I talked to her I fixated on her lips.

Sometimes I helped her with her make up, sometimes she did it herself.

And she began washing herself.

"You don't know how good it feels to be able to wash myself, Jimmy," and she would smile.

The sadness was going out of her smile now. She was becoming self sufficient.

"Of course, it felt pretty good when you washed me."

And, Thursday, I found myself saying, "I miss washing you."

She let me wash her on Friday. And she moaned and grunted and came hard. And she kissed me. And she played with my testicles and dick with her good hand.

"If I had two good hands I could get you off. Would you like to get off?"

I could hardly breath, I was gulping, and I nodded.


I moaned when my wife played with me. And then I got her off.


Sixth week.


"Wash me, Jimmy."

I did.

I soaped her magnificent breasts, took them in my mouth. Sucked and ran my tongue around the stiff nipples.

Then I ate her, slurping my tongue deep.

But, before I could make her cum, she stopped me.

"Jimmy," she said, her lips close to mine, her eyes locked on mine. "I need something more."

What she needed was obvious. And I was so hard, so horny, quite delirious with desire. There was no possible way on earth I could stop myself.

I poised over my mother, dragged my dick over the folds, searched for the one, warm crevice that would do it all.

She reached down and grabbed me, stroked me, gently guided me.

I felt the tip of my dick slither an inch in, just the head, and she held me back.

I moaned. I was dripping. And then she reached her hips up and took me.

She swallowed my penis with her moist warmth. I felt the sides of my penis rubbing against the sides of her canal. Then we were pubic to pubic, braced, ready, our eyes wide and holding desperately on to each other.

I withdrew, as did she, and then we came together again. And again. And again.

Then we moved together, her tilting her hips to better latch on to my dick.

And, somewhere in the mix, I don't know who came first, we were so tumbled over each other... I squirted.

That moment of bliss, of heaven, it seemed to stretch out, to go on forever. I could feel every atom of my soul

It was the single most beautiful, violent, loving, hard, cushy, squirt of my life.

I died the little death.


Lizzie knew something had happened as soon as she opened the door. The kids rushed past her, headed for the kitchen where grandma was making a cake.

"What?" she asked.

I just started crying.

I didn't want to betray my vows. I didn't want to hurt this wonderful woman who had taken me for husband.


I shook my head, couldn't meet her level gaze.

Then she got it.

"Jimmy," she said. "Take the kids out to McDonalds. Take your time."

"But... but..."

But she wouldn't put up with anything except my agreement. so I took the twins to MacDonalds, and Lizzie and Mom stayed at home and had a heart to heart.

That night I got in bed and laid back and looked at the ceiling. Lizzie and I hadn't talked since I had brought the kids home, and I didn't even know if I still had a marriage.

Then I felt her hand slither under the covers, grip me, and begin to work me. I began to cry again, but she told me, in the most gentle and soft tone, to hush, and she continued working me.

Finally, me close to exploding, she stopped her manipulations and just held me.

"You know, my mother was so sad when my father died, and I wish I could have helped her... the way you help your mother."

I tried to turn to her, to hug her, but she held me - by the dick - away.

Now eat me, do me the way you do your mother, let me feel you wash away sadness.

She laid back and spread her legs.


Week seven, I began sleeping in mom's bed. I held her, felt her breasts, made her orgasm, and felt the sadness wash away.

Oddly, whatever she and Lizzie had talked about, it didn't include me cumming.

But it did include plenty of stroking and kissing and even her using her mouth on my penis.

I just didn't... get... to... cum.


The next week end Lizzie brought me a present. It was a plastic thing, a contraption built of tube and rings.

"What's this?"

"You have broken your vows," she stated simply. "Now put it on."

So I did.

And then I got her off.


Week eight, Mom got her remaining cast off.

I still bath her and help her with her makeup, and I still sleep with her.

And I sometimes sleep with Lizzie.

I never know, until one of them calls me, which of my homes I will be going home to.

Will I go home to my mother? Where I will bath her and sleep with her, and feel her delicate hands massage my testicles?

Will I go home to my wife? Where she will let me out, play with me till I drip uncontrollably, and then lock me up again?

I never know, and I never know when I will be allowed to orgasm, or by who.

They each have keys, you see, but I don't know what agreement they have reached as to how to use me.

But I do know that I am a good son, and that I know how to wash sadness away.

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