by MarciaRH 02/14/13
Note to the reader: I wanted to write a realistic, romantic mother/son incest story with a strictly PG-13 rating. I'm happy with the results but readers not interested in a story without an explicit sex scene might want to avoid this one and move on to the next offering. I just wanted to be upfront about it and save readers grief.
It started the day Rachel Fleming almost blinded herself with drain cleaner. This was just after Michael's 18trh birthday, a Saturday afternoon, and he happened to be in the kitchen only by chance. A minute earlier or later, and Rachel would have suffered serious chemical burns, if not been disfigured. She was a klutz, almost painfully uncoordinated, and Michael had spent a good deal of his teenage years watching out for her. Especially over the last 14 months when there was nobody to perform that chore but him, and to a lesser degree, his 9 year old sister, Effie. Rachel was legally separated, pending a divorce.
"Be careful of that," Michael cautioned. Taking a break from lawn mowing and edge trimming, he was standing at the refrigerator contemplating a can of Coke or a glass of Mom's homemade lemonade. He disliked anything dangerous as Liquid Drano anywhere near his mother's grasp, or within spill range. "Why not let me do that," he scolded. "I didn't even know the drain was running slow. Which one is it?"
She hesitated, looking uncertainly into the side with the disposal and then at Michael, and then at the instructions on back.
Great, he thought caustically, about to pour acid down the drain and you haven't even read the directions. He tightened when she placed the open bottle at the edge of the counter and squat to look at the disposer, as if that would tell her anything. He'd just started forward, saying, "Mom, what are you looking for?" when she raised her head and banged it sharply on the opening, yelping and grabbing her head with one hand and the open door with the other. It was just enough vibration to upset the bottle and send it toppling over. "Mom!" he shouted, too late.
Two things happened: Rachel instinctively reached up and hunkered down, her head tilting forward reflexively. One act threatened to cause her terrible injury where the other probably saved her eyesight. Had the bottle simply fallen it would have been far less dangerous a situation. But Rachel's up thrust hand caught the bottle and instead of falling and hitting her back, the bottle lay on its side, gurgling the bulk of its contents onto the back of her head before Michael arrived and batted it into the sink. Rachel was screaming by then, on the verge of panic.
Michael slapped up the faucet and grabbed the sprayer and yanked it out to the full extent of the braided steel hose and forced Rachel's head back, shouting at her: "Eyes shut, Mom! Keep your eyes shut! Squeeze them as tight as you can!" He triggered the sprayer and blasted the Drano seeping onto her forehead back into her hair. "Keep your eyes closed!" he commanded, grabbing the bottle of Palmolive liquid and squirting a stream across her forehead.
"Scrub your face," he ordered. "Keep your head back while I get this out of your hair." Caring less about his hand, he concentrated the spray on her scalp and ran his fingers through her hair, forcing the Drano out and down her back. He realized what was happening even as she began to squirm from the chemical burning her skin. She was turned away from him and Michael instinctively reached down and grabbed the front of her shirt, spraying water sidewise across the kitchen. Apologizing, he ripped it open and yanked it back over her shoulders, buttons ricocheting off the front of the cabinet and out across the floor.
"Michael!" she cried in panic.
"Sorry, but you got to get out of this shirt!" He wrenched it down her arms, and flung it away and then sprayed her back and shoulders and then squirted detergent from one side to the other and worked it across her already reddening skin with his bare hand. He directed the spray into her hair sideways, making it run down her front rather than down her injured back. He made sure plenty of water followed the Drano and diluted it into near harmlessness. But he had another worry.
"You gotta get out of your jeans, Mom!"
Her jeans were sodden and Michael knew exactly what Drano soaked into the material would do to her down there. Squirting the rest of the Palmolive onto her hair, he hit it with the spray and then lathered it until her hair turned white with bubbles. Then he ran his hand down under her bra strap and side to side while directing the spray against her back. He could see where the straps had concentrated the liquid and burned welts into her skin. He ran his hand far enough around both sides to encounter her breasts. She reacted as any mother would.
"Sorry!" he exclaimed, laughing despite the circumstances. "I wasn't copping a feel, I swear I wasn't. Stand up. Get those jeans off." He directed the spray across her chest and down across her stomach. She was experiencing this entire thing blind, her face covered with bubbles. It took a moment, but she got the button unhooked and the zipper down and worked the jeans off her hips and down her thighs while Michael followed her progress with the sprayer. The important thing was to keep as much water flowing over her as possible. She would not like what he planned to do next.
"Turn around," he told her.
"Why?" She was scared and utterly helpless.
"You have to take off your panties, Mom."
"What?" she cried.
"I swear to you, Mom, your modesty is less important right now that what might be happening to you down there. Please don't make this worse than it already is."
Frustrated and humiliated, she turned and squirmed out of her panties and let them dropped into her jeans, bunched around her ankles.
"I suppose my bra's next?" she spat angrily.
Michael laughed mirthlessly. "Please. You know I'm not doing this to embarrass you." He kept his eyes on the back of her head and sprayed water down her front and backside blindly.
"The floor," she moaned. "Oh, my God. This is such a mess. Is my face okay, Michael?"
Michael told her it was.
"Can I rinse the soap off it, at least?"
Michael released the trigger and slid the sprayer back into the sink.
"Wait," she said dispiritedly. He waited as she fumbled open her bra and clumsily peeled it away and let it drop on the floor. "You were right. My boobs are burning like crazy." She scooped lather from her hair and used it to scrub her chest. "This wouldn't be so bad if I could see, damn it." Michael said nothing, keeping his gaze safely averted. "I'm sorry to be such a horrible pain in the ass, Michael, I really am. Thank you so much."
She was near tears, and without thinking, Michael reached out and put his arms around her waist, drawing her tight up against him.
"You have no idea how absolutely fucking scared I was." His voice cracked with the strain. She gripped his arms with hers, and squeezed them tightly.
"You won't tell your father about this, right?"
Michael laughed bitterly. "How about the National Enquirer?"
"Oh, they would definitely love this," she retorted. "Psycho Mom in Shocking Drano Striptease!" They both laughed.
"I really need to rinse my face and get upstairs to the shower." She groped blindly for the sink and Michael leaned around and guided her hands to the faucet and eased it up. One at a time, she freed her feet from the jeans and then kicked them aside. "Can you put these in the washer for me? I don't know if they can be salvaged, but I'm sure the shirt's a write-off." She splashed water against her face.
"How are your eyes?" Michael asked.
"I don't think it got near my eyes. Thanks to you, Michael. Oh, God. I handled that so badly, didn't I? I would have run blindly for the shower if you hadn't been here and probably disfigured myself for life. I never even thought of the damned sprayer. I was so shocked when you pulled it out and shot me in the face. I honestly had no idea what it was at first. Did I scream? This could have been so, so much worse, Michael. It really could."
In the ease-down from his panic, Michael was beginning to think he'd way overreacted. His left hand showed no reaction to the caustic liquid and he saw no worse on his mother's back than the welts from her bra strap and a slight pinking on her upper back and shoulders. He imagined her scalp had taken the worse of it and he'd been very fast with the sprayer and Palmolive. Had he just stripped his mother naked for his own benefit, rather than hers? It took all his will power to keeps his eyed from straying below her shoulders. He was aware that he'd seen a good portion of her naked peripherally.
Michael, for God's sakes, she right here, completely naked! What are you doing? Quickly, he turned and squat to retrieve her discarded clothing, shirt included, and headed toward the laundry room. The faucet shut off and Rachel opened the cabinet over the sink, for a for a hand towel to wipe her face, Michael imagined. She would not be wrapping herself in it, he thought ironically.
"I'm so sorry about this mess, Michael. I'll help you clean it up when I come down."
Michael snorted. "Will you go shower, already? I'll take care of the mess. You take care of yourself." He opened the washer and dropped her clothes inside. "I'll start the washer until you get in the shower. Make sure you wash your hair really good, Mom. Three or four times at least. I didn't get it all out, I'm sure, and I don't know how long the soap will neutralize it. Thank God it was there."
"Thank God you were there," she argued with almost comic intensity. Michael snorted and grabbed the bucket out of the corner, a yellow contraption with wheels that he'd always looked at with a fair sense of disgust, but was now grateful to have. There was a lot of water on the kitchen floor. He listened to his mother pad through it on her way out of the kitchen and then wheeled the contraption out of the washroom.
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