Doting mother tends to her high-school son

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My mom accidentally kissed my dick. She was in her mothering groove, I think, and it just happened. There was no lewd intent; of that, I’m sure.

An hour earlier, I was taking our Chesapeake, Barney, for a run through the woods behind our house. It was an unusually dark, early December night, and I lost track of where I was.

I had lost sight of Barney, too. Had he turned or gone ahead?

Gone ahead, I decided, squinting to see through the brush and trees ahead of me.

Abruptly, three taut wires checked my forward momentum from the waist down. My upper body flopped over the neighbor’s barbed-wire fence, and my lower half followed. During the tumble, I knew something was wrong.

Landing in a pile, I seized my cock through my jeans with both hands, wincing and cursing.

Barney ran up to the fence. Barking softly, he darted back and forth on the other side. I gutted the pain for long enough to address my dog’s alarm. “Easy, boy,” I groaned. He sat and whimpered while he waited for me to climb back to our side.

The faint starlight revealed a small, darkened patch forming against the crotch of my jeans. Blood. I cursed again before I found a good spot to cross back to our property between the middle and top wires, being extremely careful to avoid the barbs. Barney came and started licking my face during the transit.

Safely across, I led us toward home. After only a few steps, I winced again. I swore darkly. The pain on my cock had a twisting bite to it, and I knew from experience that it meant there was a risk of infection. So, Barney trotted, and I limped.

That was the fall of my eighteenth year, and all my life I was a kid who loved the outdoors. That meant injuries–tons of them. My three younger sisters–didn’t have any brothers–were homebodies; they got sick. I didn’t, not much; it was scrapes, nicks, cuts, bruises, and breaks for me.

Mom was almost always my nurse–had to be because we lived twenty-two miles from the nearest doctor’s office and seventy-nine from the nearest emergency room.

I didn’t plan on seeking Mom’s help for this injury. I’d watched her mend me hundreds of times, so I basically knew what to do. First, I needed to avoid her; I needed to go in the front door and stay away from where I knew she would be–the kitchen.

Arriving on the front porch, I snapped and pointed at the long cushion on the bench beside our bay window. Barney jumped up there. Fighting off the pain, I told him he was a good boy and scratched him behind the ears. He smiled up at me, and I dug into my pocket and pulled out a half strip of bacon from a plastic bag for him.

When I turned toward the front door, Mom was already there. She held the door open for me. Once I’d entered, forcing myself to act casually and hide the blood stain on the crotch of my jeans, she asked what had happened. My youngest sister, Isabelle, was there, standing beside Mom, pinching a wad of Mom’s jeans in her little fingers.

“Nothing. I’m okay,” I said.

Closing the door behind me, Mom leaned down to Izzy, kissed her forehead, and said, “Run along, my sweetheart. I need to have a private talk with your brother.”

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