Katherine, Female, 34
- Mother of Michael
- 5’7, 140lbs, beige skin, mahogany hair to her neck
Michael, Male, 15
- Son of Katherine, suffers from Coffin-Lowry syndrome
- 5’3, 105lbs, beige skin, cropped medium-brown hair
There are few situations in life which are harder to deal with than caring for a child with very special needs. I should know. I’m Katherine. My son Michael was born when I was nineteen, a pregnancy I almost terminated but decided, after weeks of weighing things, to see through. I was unmarried and in college. To say the least, it changed my life immediately. I had to miss classes towards the end of my pregnancy, and, as it would turn out, I never got the chance to finish my degree.
I was a happy mom, though. I loved Michael with all my heart and though I had to work a couple of dead-end, low-wage jobs to support us, I found a way to do it.
Things got hard within a few months of his birth. He wasn’t thriving the way our pediatrician thought was normal, Michael not growing as fast as expected, so tests were performed. I was devastated to learn that my son had Coffin-Lowry syndrome (CLS.) It meant he would have moderate-to-severe learning disabilities, physical challenges, and would never have what I thought of as a normal life.
CLS is a genetic disorder that affects about one in fifty-thousand births. There was a range of affectation in mental and physical abilities and it was far too soon to know where Michael might fall in that range. There was no cure, and nothing but supportive therapy as he got older. I was heartbroken.
My Mom and Dad helped out in those early days, supporting me both financially and emotionally, and my sister Kristen helped, as well. Michael grew slowly. Like most kids with CLS, his coordination, physical growth, and learning were slow to develop. By the time he should have been walking easily on his own, he was barely crawling. His words were not discernible as words until he was almost six, and his sentences were not intelligible until he was eight.
There were countless physical and behavioral therapy sessions. He went to special classes for school. I was dedicated to my son and I ensured that he got to every class, every appointment, thanks, often, to my parents and sister. Michael was a beautiful boy, though he had many of the characteristics of a CLS child. Wide-set eyes and a large forehead. A broad nose. Large ears. Short fingers.
Even once he could walk it was often with the assistance of me or a therapist or someone in my family. He had a wheelchair which was used regularly. The physical therapists worked with him for years to try to help him use it less, but it was an uphill battle and proceeded very slowly.
It was a burden on me and those close to me. Such is the case for everyone with a special needs child. I joined support groups and met many parents in similar situations. It helped me to talk to people who understood about the challenges Michael and I faced. I did the best I could given how difficult life could be with Michael.
He was a surprisingly happy boy, though. That seems to be a theme with CLS kids. They can often be cheerful, content in each moment regardless of what was going on. That was a big help. Many of the parents in my support group dealt with children with autism or other disorders where mood swings and anger and despondency were regularly displayed by their kids. Rarely was Michael angry or emotionally down. That was something I was extremely thankful for.
He could mostly care for himself once he was about ten. He’d gotten pretty good with the wheelchair or using walls and furniture to get where he needed in our home. Michael used the toilet on his own. He could bathe reasonably well. Though his coordination wasn’t great, he did alright most of the time.
Sometimes, Michael was having a tough day and I’d have to help him wipe or to wash him in the tub. I never minded. It was a joy to be around Michael even with the deep-set sadness his condition had brought me.
Puberty hit around his fourteenth birthday. He started to grow a bit faster and there were suddenly hairs over his lip. His ability to move about regressed, though, and Michael needed the wheelchair more often. He needed more assistance bathing and on the toilet. I knew this was not unusual for CLS kids. I hoped the backward slide didn’t last long or grow worse.
Over that period, from my pregnancy with Michael to the summer he was fifteen, I never seriously dated anyone. I went out with my sister or a couple of close friends I’d made in the parents groups, but the idea of romance with anyone felt alien. I didn’t have time, or energy, for that sort of thing. I was asked out a time or two but I always declined.
I think I was rather pretty, though I knew the years caring for Michael had added lines to my face. I was fairly average height and weight, dark mahogany hair that I usually kept trimmed around my neck, beige skin which bordered on pale if I didn’t get enough sun. My breasts were motherly, moderately weighted, areolae dark red with small nipples. The curve of my hips looked really good in a pair of tight slacks or jeans. I expected I had been referred to as a MILF at some point behind my back.
But the last guy I’d had sex with was over fifteen years in my past. Michael’s father was the last, and I hadn’t seen him since I’d told him I was pregnant all those years earlier. Michael never asked about him, and I tried my best to forget the man existed. He didn’t matter, anyway. Michael and I did just fine together without him.
I did masturbate. How could I not? My life was full of worry and tight deadlines and stressful appointments. Playing with myself gave me a few minutes of pleasure and release. I did it in the bathroom, usually, and sometimes at night in my bed. I fantasized about having sex again one day, but it was an idle thing, not a serious hope that I would work towards. With Michael being the focus of my energy, I couldn’t see ever having the time or stamina to entertain a lover.
The summer Michael was fifteen changed many things for me and for him. As his ability to walk and care for himself were diminished, I had to take on more of a caretaker role than before. More like when he was a toddler, in some ways. Michael’s communication skills abruptly became toddler-like, too. He’d been doing well with words and making his thoughts understood, but that summer he started to regress to mumbled nonsensical phrases, only sometimes being lucid and clearly understood. Again, it was heartbreaking.
My father had died the previous year and while most of his estate went to my Mom, he’d set aside almost $150,000 for me and Michael that he wanted us to have when he passed. It made a huge difference the next year during Michael’s regression. I was able to work only part-time and the rest of my hours each day were spent with Michael.
I wheeled him on long walks through the parks in the area. We went to see an outdoor concert or two, which Michael always seemed to enjoy. We went out to eat on the days when Michael was able to use his fork effectively. I loved my son so much, and while it was difficult seeing him lose the gains he’d made over the previous years, I never regretted the moments I spent with him.
It all started to move in a new direction that summer. He was having a day where coordination was difficult, and so I’d helped him to the bathroom in his wheelchair. I turned on the water in the tub and began to undress him. When I pulled off his sweatpants and underwear, I saw something I’d never seen on Michael before.
He had an erection.
I’d seen my son naked many times out of necessity. I’d noticed the way his genitals had grown, slowly perhaps, but they had matured over the past few years. I’d immediately seen the small dark hairs which finally showed up between his thighs when he was fourteen. Since his birth, I’d probably touched Michael’s penis ten-thousand times or more. And it was nothing any loving mother would have done differently.
But in all that time, not once had his penis been erect. I stood staring at it a moment. I’d not seen an erect penis in person in over fifteen years, and for a minute or so, it didn’t even matter that it was my son’s.
His cock was beautiful. Six or so inches long and moderately thick, it, along with his testicles, were the only parts of him to have developed fairly normally. His flesh was reddish and light brown, a few freckles dotting the shaft. It throbbed lightly with his heartbeat.
There was nothing sexual in my awareness of my son’s erection. I didn’t even think beyond that moment, soon helping Michael into the bath where together we washed him clean. His penis softened for a while but grew again when I wiped a soapy cloth around his groin. He smiled when I did that. But then, he regularly smiled. It wasn’t really that unusual.
At one of the parent support group meetings, I was talking with a woman who had become a close friend. Marsha was a mother of a child with CLS. Her daughter, Jessica, then in her twenties, was better able to care for herself, and though they still lived together with Marsha’s husband, the girl was able to work part-time at a grocery store and was largely independent.
“And just last week, Jessica said she liked a boy!” Marsha told me, bubbling with pride.
“Seriously?” I asked. “That’s a big step forward for her.”
“Huge.” Marsha replied. “She’s mentioned boys a few times in her life, but never really seemed to care about relationships. I’ve met this boy a few times, and though he’s a bit slow himself, he’s a cutie. He works at the same grocery store, bagging and whatnot.”
“Do you think,” I asked gently, “they’ll get to the point of, you know, sex?”
Marsha shrugged, “Probably. If he likes her back. Why not? She’s perfectly capable of making that decision.”
“Even with the challenges?”
“Even with the challenges. Jessica is aware of her body and mature enough. If she wants to have sex with him, she’ll have my blessing. I worried that she’d never have a chance to so much as fall in love, let alone be intimate. There were years where I wondered if she’d be able to hold a job. If she would like to have sex, who am I to try to stop her?”
I nodded, silent.
“Michael,” Marsha said gently, “not likely he’ll get there, is there?”
Shaking my head, I replied, “No ... no, unfortunately, this past year or two has been a big step back, as you know. No, he’ll never be able to fall in love or have sex...”
“Shame...” she said with sadness.
“Not like he isn’t physically able, I assume.” I added. I told Marsha about my son’s erection before and during the bath. “But mentally, I don’t think he’ll ever be there.”
“Wish there was something we could do to fix all this. CLS sucks.”
It got me thinking about Michael and sexuality and what he might be feeling. Was he like other boys his age? Thinking sexual thoughts? Frustrated by not finding release? Michael’s coordination wasn’t great that summer, at least most of the time, and I doubted he could even masturbate if he wanted to. I was around him enough that I should have noticed if he was playing with himself. I never saw him so much as notice that he had a penis, not even when it was erect in the tub.
How hard that must be, I thought, to never be able to get that release. Even if mentally he didn’t understand and held no context for what that might mean, his body was mature enough for sexual release. The hair on his privates and the size and hardness of his penis made that clear. Would my son go though his life with perpetual blue balls?
It made me speak to a physical therapist I trusted one afternoon while another therapist was working with Michael.
“I have a ... weird ... question for you,” I told the woman.
“Ask away,” she said.
“The other day, I noticed my son had an erection. Do you ... do you know if that might be a source of frustration for him?”
The therapist eyed me seriously. “Not sure I understand.”
“You know ... other fifteen year olds can ... take care of themselves. There’s no way Michael can do that. It just seems like ... I dunno. I don’t want him frustrated if there’s something we could do to help. Some drug that makes it better. Some therapy. I dunno.”
The therapist shrugged. “Nothing comes to mind. It sounds like he’s a very normal teen boy in that aspect.”
“Except he’ll never have sex or even the prospect of some relief...”
“True,” she replied. “Sorry, I can’t think of anything to do for him.”
I couldn’t put the image of my son’s erect penis aside. I grew frustrated on his behalf. The next few weeks, when I bathed him or helped with the toilet, Michael was often erect. He talked rarely over those days, but he was still a happy lad, and despite his surely-frustrating erections, he seemed not to notice it too much.
But I certainly did. I became somewhat fixated on it. It wasn’t even really sexual to me. I wanted my son to know that relief. I was heartbroken to think he would never be able to masturbate, never ejaculating unless his body forced it out in the night, which I never found in his underwear. I wanted him to feel that release. To orgasm.
That’s why I found myself laying on my bed with him late one evening not long after my conversation with the therapist, an idea growing in my mind. Michael slept in my bed often, though he had his own in my room where he slept at times. It wasn’t unusual for him to be naked. I changed his clothes or bathed him daily, so his nudity was nothing new. He was on his back, and his beautiful penis was erect and bobbing slightly. Michael never pulled the sheets over himself before we turned off the lights to sleep. This night, I had something to do before I covered his naked body.
Yes, Michael was my son, but in many ways, our emotional relationship was much different than mother-and-child. He depended on me, but I depended on him, too. He brightened my day with his smile. He was always happy to see me. We spent more time together in a single year than many married couples do in a lifetime. We’d been through much hell together and so far we were still alive.
It was with great love and greater intentions that I slid my hand over his body and took hold of Michael’s penis. “Michael,” I asked him, “would you like to try something new tonight?”
He gave no responses and I didn’t expect any. I don’t know why I bothered asking, really. But I often spoke to my son without expecting a response. That’s just how it went some days.
“I want you to feel something you’ll like a lot. This is going to feel good, okay?”
My son just grinned and moved his arms a bit on the bed. I cocked myself onto my elbow and watched his cock twitch in my hand.
A shiver of fear and doubt and shame ran through me but I didn’t release Michael’s penis.
I’m his mother! But I was also his caregiver. I was doing him a kindness, I hoped. It wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about how we were related. I wanted Michael to feel good for a few minutes. I hoped he could understand.
I slowly moved my fingers up and down his shaft, drawing the skin along with my motions. Michael’s cock pulsed and remained rigid. I gripped a bit tighter and I could feel the heat of his flesh much better in my hand. It felt really nice to hold a hard cock again after so many years. Michael’s was about perfect, I thought, and I didn’t care in that moment that it was my son’s penis I was stroking.
Michael’s small movements relaxed and stopped. His grin remained and he mumbled something that I couldn’t understand.
“Does this feel good?” I asked.
His response was, “Mm-go,” which in recent Michael-speak probably mean it felt good.
I saw drops of moisture appear in the small hole at the tip of my son’s cock. It began to shimmer as it gained volume, then slid down the side of his penis and over my hand. More flowed out of his slit. My son was releasing precum, and soon, it was coating his shaft and my fingers. He became slippery, and the precum started to froth into a whitish foam as I continued to slowly stroke him.
Michael’s body rose slightly, his hips up from the bed. “Mm-go,” he said again. “Mm-go.”
I shuffled my hand along his length, only a little faster than before. I drew out my motions, wrapping around the head of his penis before sliding back down his shaft. He seemed to like that, letting out a small giggle each time my hand swept up and down.
His flesh became more slick and sticky as precum continued to flow freely from the tip. My son’s body then convulsed, his abdomen sucked in, his legs flattened stiffly. “Nng-nng-nng-nnnnnnnng,” he groaned. I knew what was about to happen and I watched my son in amazement.
A thick rope of white cum shot up into the air several feet and a second was airborne before the first had fully landed. “Nnnnnnnng.” The sticky fluids landed on his stomach and thighs, on my arm and hand. A third, fourth, fifth shot of sperm flew out, my son’s ejaculation more forceful than any I’d seen, rivaling anything I’d seen in a porn video. “Nnnnnnng.” Six, seven, eight times. I lost count after that.
Cum covered his midsection and much of my arm, the warm semen quickly cooling on my skin. Sperm continued to bubble out of my son’s penis after his forceful jets stopped. I slowed my strokes and held still, suddenly unable to make my fingers open from Michael’s cock.
My son giggled and turned his head towards me. He didn’t say a word, but his eyes said, ‘Thank you.’ I kissed his forehead and told him, “I love you, Michael.”
Slowly, reluctantly even, I let go of my son’s penis and slid off the bed, grabbing a towel and a canister of wet wipes, then spent several good minutes cleaning up the both of us. Michael’s penis throbbed a few times but largely remained flaccid throughout.
I kissed his forehead again after pulling the sheets over us and told him again that I loved him. There really was nothing terribly sexual in what I’d done. My son needed release. I did what I thought was best for him. At least he’d have that moment, I thought, to know the touch of a woman. Even if that woman was his mother. He wouldn’t go his entire life without knowing that.
The next morning was one of the most confusing in my life. I felt ashamed. I’d jerked off my own son! Incest was never in my thoughts when I’d stroked Michael to orgasm and then cleaned the cum from his body and mine. It wasn’t sexual to me. And yet, I knew I could never talk to anyone about those moments. What we’d done was illegal in several ways. He was my son. He was fifteen. He couldn’t really consent, legally or emotionally.
I felt numb for a while even as I went through the day, feeding us both and doing some cleaning around the house. Incest. I never thought that word would describe something I’d done in my life. I told myself I’d never touch my son that way again. I told myself it was a one-time kindness, nothing more. I loved my son. I didn’t want to add incest to his troubles.
And yet, I’d enjoyed what we’d shared. Despite my shame, I didn’t actually regret jerking off my son. He needed it, I told myself. He enjoyed it. While I was certain of that, Michael couldn’t make clear to me that it was true. That part was very difficult to wrestle with.
I might have partially intended that night to be a singular event, but a few days later I found myself showing my son the same kindness. I jerked him off in the bathtub this time. Michael was leaning against one end of the tub and his penis was above the water, erect, pleading with me to bring it comfort. Michael smiled, oblivious, I thought, to his erection or my conflicted emotions.
But I soon wrapped my fingers around his cock and stroked it slowly until Michael ejaculated a large volume of cum again, some of it flying forwards and splashing on my face. For just a second, our intimacy became sexual for me. The warm cum which was slowly sliding down my cheek was arousing, and even as I let go my son’s penis as it softened, I felt horny.
I cleaned Michael quickly and helped him to dress and get back in his wheelchair, then parked him in front of the television where I put on a silly movie that he had always liked.
I closed myself in my bedroom and lay down. My son’s cum was still drying on my cheek. I unzipped my jeans and slid my hand into my panties. I was wet there. I knew I’d become aroused, but it had been some years since I’d soaked my panties and left a puddle of sticky juices in them. More girl cream was held inside my vagina and it trickled out when I slipped two fingers inside.
I came quickly, fingering myself and thinking about the cum on my face. Michael’s cum. My son’s cum. I was hyper-aroused and kept playing with myself until I’d had a second, soon a third orgasm. Only then did I feel again the shame and guilt and I rushed to clean myself up and quickly rubbed Michael’s semen from my skin.
A few more days later, I couldn’t resist giving Michael another release. He’d seemed to be in an exceptionally good mood, even for him, in the days after the first intimate night. Cheerful, often humming to himself a bright tune, my son’s mood kept mine lifted despite the shameful thoughts in my head. Everything felt different to me, perhaps negatively, and yet, Michael kept on going as if all was right with the world. It was yet another reminder that he may need me for a lot of things, I still needed my son’s help, as well.
This time, Michael and I had gone for a walk. His coordination was rather good that day so he pushed his wheelchair ahead of him, holding the handles for stability, and we slowly made our way deep into the natural forest of pines and oaks and elm. The day had been overcast when we’d arrived, but no rain was in the forecast. It was a surprise to hear thunder booming nearby. Rain began to fall immediately, and I led Michael quickly to the picnic area in the middle of the woods.
It was little more than a small, peaceful clearing with a modest covered gazebo made from treated wood, two uncovered picnic tables, and trash and recycling containers. We got under the gazebo roof and I sat Michael next to me on the built-in bench.
As was usual for us, I talked to him with little response. He’s said ‘yes’ or ‘no’ a couple of times that morning when I’d asked questions, which was a good sign those days.
The rain picked up and there was some lightning around. It scared me a lot, but we had no other place to seek shelter. The gazebo was exposed except directly overhead, and the driving rain soon soaked us completely. Thankfully, it was a warm summer.
Michael said two words together for the first time in weeks, “Go pee.”
“You need to pee?” I asked for clarity.
“Need to pee,” he responded flatly.
The lightning had moved away but the rain continued to pour down. There were few options. “Okay. Stand up, I’ll help you.”
He did and I moved us to the edge of the gazebo facing opposite the direction of the rain. I pulled his sweatpants down and took hold of his penis. It was flaccid, but because it was good size in general and also in relation to Michael’s underdeveloped body, it still looked large. “Alright, Michael. You can pee now.”
I held my son’s penis as I had many times before. Over the years, when Michael’s cognitive and motor skills were at their worst, if we found ourselves somewhere out and he needed to pee, it was often an urgent matter. There was no time to wait. I’d pull over the car and have him pee in a ditch, or I’d pull us off a path and have him do it out of sight of others. I usually had to hold his penis to ensure he didn’t pee on his shoes.
And so, as my son’s flow sprayed out the tip, I waited patiently with my soaking clothes sticking to my body. Michael urinated for a minute, then it trickled to a stop. Thanks to the rain, I didn’t need to wipe him off.
But before I released him completely, his penis began to harden. It became erect in my hand.
Michael said with a smile, “Feel Good.”
His words, repeating the ones I’d spoken to him that first night, compelled me to help my son again. I stroked him freely, not too worried about anyone coming by in the downpour. I had to carefully hold Michael upright with one arm while jerking him with the other. As he had twice before, when my son ejaculated, it was with volume and distance. Michael spurted thick ropes of cum out onto the grass several times before he finished.
He grinned the whole time, making small grunting noises as his body tensed and writhed. Once his penis softened again, I tucked it back in his underwear and pulled up his soaked sweatpants. I held my hand out in the rain to wash the small drops of Michael’s sperm which had drooled onto my fingers.
There was nothing left to do but sit back down and wait out the heaviest of the rain.
For several weeks, things went much the same. Every two or three days, I’d jerk off my son and make him feel good. The shame and guilt gave way to a new sense of contentment. It became normal. Just something I did to make my son’s life better. Other than that one time, when Michael had cum on my face, it was not sexual to me. Not really. I did what I did for my son, not for me. I didn’t even masturbate thinking about it other than that night with my son’s semen drying on my cheek.