A Responsible Person
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/Fa, Consensual, Reluctant, Mother, Son, First,
Desc: Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - One Friday, Mom came home from work in a stew, announced that she was fed up with being responsible, and declared that for the next nine days she was going to be a little girl who had no responsibilities at all. That sounded fine to me; Mom worked hard and deserved some time off. The hitch was that I had to be responsible for her.
Friday night, I had just finished chopping the onions for my dinner recipe when Mom came home from work. I heard the front door slam, but she didn't call out to me as she usually does, and I didn't hear her walking to the back of the house as she usually does. Her habit is to make a bee-line for her bedroom to change out of her work clothes.
I went looking for her after I'd put the bulgur on to soak—and found her in the living room, looking like she'd crashed into the couch at high speed. She was slouching like a teen-ager, with her butt nearly on the edge of the cushion. Her shoes were off, her legs stuck out straight and splayed, and the loose toes of her nylons flopped disconsolately toward the floor. Her usually tidy bun hung loosely to one side and stray wisps of hair clung to her damp neck. The wrinkled tails of her blouse lay untucked on her skirt.
"Holy cow, Mom," I said. "Bad day at work?"
"I've had it. I've just plain had it up to here," she said, placing the side of her hand over her eyebrows.
She didn't offer to elaborate, so after a few seconds, I asked. "Anything in particular, or is this just a general purpose melt-down?"
"I'm tired of being responsible. For nearly as long as I can remember, I've been responsible. I was a responsible child for my parents: I minded my behavior, didn't get in trouble, and did what I was told. I was a responsible student for my teachers: I always got to class on time, I took careful notes, and turned in all my assignments. I was a responsible wife for my husband: I cooked his meals, ironed his shirts, and encouraged him when he was down—until he started screwing around with his secretary, anyway, the son of a bitch. I've been a responsible mother for my son: I bathed you, fed you, and dressed you when you were little. I packed your lunch, made sure you had a jacket when it was cold, and went to all your assemblies when you were in elementary school. Even now, I make sure you're up in time for —
"It's summer vacation, Ma," I said. "You don't have to get me up."
"When school's in session, I make sure you're up in time. I cook —
"Ma, I cook dinner most of the time now, remember?"
"Well, I cooked dinner for you before you got old enough to help out. And I launder your crusty—
"Mom! My sheets aren't—
Mom showed me a kittenish smile. I felt the tips of my ears start to heat up and didn't say anything.
"And I launder your crusty sheets," Mom repeated, just to rub it in.
"I'm a responsible employee for my boss," she continued. "I hardly ever miss a day of work, I don't do anything that might show my boss in a bad light, and I complete all my projects without complaint. I'm a responsible manager for my ten direct reports, eight women and two men: I balance the workload among them and try to make assignments suit their strengths. I put up with macho bullshit from the men to support them and keep their output up; I listen to the women bitch and whine about every goddam little thing in their miserable lives and pat them on the shoulder to support them and keep their output up. It's stressful. It's wearing me down and making me old before my time."
I was starting to get worried. Mom tended to be an optimist and didn't spend a whole lot of time complaining about the little adversities of life. "You're not going to quit your job and run away with the circus, or something, are you?"
"No, not that bad," she said, "not quite. But I am going to take a vacation from responsibility. I told my boss that I won't be in next week, and for the next nine days—from now until a week from Monday—I'm not going to be responsible for anything. I'm going to be a little girl who can just play all day long."
"Sounds good to me," I said. "You've certainly earned the time off. Enjoy it."
"I'm going to need your help, though."
Mom and I had helped each other through the rough times after Dad split and had become accustomed to supporting each other when one of us was down, so I didn't see a problem here. "Sure," I said.
"Thinking this all the way through," Mom said, turning her head to lock her gaze on me, "I came to the logical conclusion that if I'm going to be a little girl and not responsible for anything, you have to be responsible for me."
I scratched my head. "I already do most of the cooking and housework," I said. "I'll add the laundry to my list of chores, if you want."
"There's a lot more to being responsible for a little girl than just keeping up the house." Mom said.
I began to think that maybe there was a problem after all. "You've got to be kidding," I said. I could see Mom's taking a week off just to lie around the house and do nothing or even eat cookies before dinner, if she wanted to. But I couldn't imagine what taking care of her beyond cooking and cleaning up the house and maybe doing the laundry would entail.
"I'm not kidding," she said, folding her arms across her chest. "I've been responsible for you for seventeen years, and now I want you to be responsible for me for nine days. Just nine crummy days. Is that too much to ask?"
"I didn't sign up for this," I said, starting to pace around the living room. "It's all your idea. What on earth made you decide that I'd go along with it? It seems like the least you could have done was ask me first."
"Well," Mom said, "in nine days, I won't be an irresponsible little girl any more, and you're going to be wanting concessions from your mother."
She was, unfortunately, right about that. Isn't that how it always goes with parents and teen-agers? The dice are definitely loaded.
She apparently took my silence for ignorance and started ticking items off with her fingers. "Use of the car, allowance, help affording a tux and corsage for the senior ball..."
"Have you forgotten that I'm an only child, Mom? I don't know anything about taking care of kids, and I know absolutely nothing at all about little girls. I've never even been around little girls." No cousins, no neighbors, no nothing. Only what I had seen at school.
"Don't worry," Mom said. "I'll help you out if you get stuck. It'll be good practice for when you have a little girl of your own."
I folded my arms across my chest and tried staring her down. Mom put on a look of theatrical innocence. "All right," I said. "I'll give it a try. But there has to be an escape hatch somewhere. Maybe I'll run away and join the circus."
"Good," Mom said, with a real smile. "I am now a little girl, and you have to tell me what to do next."
This felt like jumping off the pier without water wings. I thought back to my elementary school days. "Okay," I said, "you'd better go change into your play clothes. Put anything that needs washing into the hamper and hang up your skirt so it doesn't get wrinkled."
Mom clapped her hands and said, brightly, "Okay," and skipped off down the hall.
I went back to the kitchen and started putting the casserole together. I'd browned the beef, sautéed the mushrooms, and was just starting to soften the onions when Mom came into the kitchen, wearing a pair of baggy, faded pink shorts and a sleeveless jersey so tight that about half her breasts were squeezing out the armholes. My face warmed, my mouth dried, and my balls began to tingle. I wanted to stare, but I looked away, both embarrassed and ashamed of myself.
"Mom, why aren't you wearing bra?" I choked out.
"Little girls don't wear bras," Mom said, "and you can't call me mom any more. My name is Samantha."
I guess that was all well and good, but Mom is not a little girl in the chest department. She wasn't a gross double-D or anything, but she had been quite adequately endowed. Substantially more than a handful. As I looked back at her, her nipples hardened into little tents in the cloth and the tingle in my balls started to spread into my cock.
I gave her a hard responsible person scowl and shook my head. "Why don't you go play or watch TV for a little while. It won't be long until dinner." And off she skipped to the family room.
When Mom's being Mom, we both participate in the after-dinner clean up in the kitchen, but Samantha said that she was too young to be allowed to handle the dishes and glassware and went back to the television. After I got the dishes taken care of, I went to the family room and found her industriously setting up a game of Chutes and Ladders.
"I want to play a game," she said, giving me her child eyes again.
So we played two games of Chutes and Ladders, with Mom apparently really getting into it. She screamed when she took a tumble backward and beat her fists on her thighs and squealed when she got ahead. She wanted to play a third game, but I couldn't take any more. Chutes and Ladders must be the most boring game in the world for anybody over the age of four.
After that, I didn't know what to do next, so I asked Mom for help.
"You have to tell me to go take a bath and get ready for bed," she said.
So I said, "Samantha, it's time for you to go take your bath and get ready for bed," and Mom happily ran off for the bathroom. And when I say she ran, I mean she ran, just like a little kid.
I rounded up the Chutes and Ladders pieces. As I was putting the game away, I realized that I hadn't heard the bath water running, so I went to the bathroom to check. I found Mom standing in front of the mirror, making faces at herself. She turned to me and said, "Ugugugugugugug" while she pulled the corners of her mouth wide with hooked little fingers and stuck out her tongue. I couldn't help but laugh. Mom was doing an excellent job of being a little girl.
"Okay, you got me with that one," I said. "Now, why aren't you in the bathtub?"
"You have to start the water and then undress me," she said.
"Undress you? Uh, Mo—
"Samantha!" she said.
"Samantha, I'll turn on the water, but I think you're a big enough girl to undress yourself."
"Am not," she said, with a pout.
"Samantha, how old are you?"
"This many," Mom said, holding up four fingers.
It seemed to me that a four-year-old should be able to take her clothes off. I began to wonder where Mom was going to draw the line with my care of her. Was she going to ask me to wipe her bottom after she pooped? I thought that I'd have to draw a line somewhere this side of poopy bottoms, but I'd go ahead with the undressing and see what happened next.
I turned and started the bath water, making a show of testing to be sure it wasn't too hot. Then I turned to Mom and said, "Okay, arms up!"
Mom obediently raised her arms. I shut my eyes and grabbed the hem of her shirt, pulled it up and over her head in one swift move, and tossed it toward the door. Touching her waist gingerly for balance, I knelt down in front of her. I gave a quick pull on the legs of her shorts, and the elastic waistband easily slipped down over her hips.
"Panties too," Mom said.
My shaking fingertips floated up Mom's hips until they found the top of her panties. I gulped and pulled downward. When I lifted first one of her feet and then the other to get her shorts and panties off, she lost her balance a little and bumped her bush against my nose.
"Now, there's a surprise, " I said. "I didn't know that four-year-old girls had big fluffy bushes."
Mom remained silent. I smelled a faint scent of urine, a bit of the day's sour sweat, and another aroma that, if I interpreted what I'd read during evenings of web research correctly, was the sign of a sexually aroused woman. It both embarrassed me nearly to tears and scared me nearly to death to think that my mother might be getting turned on by my undressing her. My cock suddenly went hard and tried to fold itself in the fly of my shorts.
With my eyes still closed, I tried to stand up, turn away from Mom, and rearrange my cock all in one swift move. I did pretty well, I thought, except that I scraped my nose on one of Mom's nipples on the way by, and my cock gave a dangerous lurch.
"Okay, into the water now," I said. "You holler when you're all clean. Don't forget to wash behind your ears."
I heard Mom slosh the water with her hand and step into the tub. "You have to wash me," she said.
"No dice, Samantha," I said, talking to the wall. "I know you're a big enough girl to wash yourself."
"Am not," Mom pouted, slapping her hand down on the water and splashing my legs.
I resisted scolding Samantha for the splash and thought for a moment. "All right," I said, "I'll wash your back, but you can reach everything else. Lean forward."
I peeked over one shoulder and saw that Mom had pulled her knees up and bent at the waist so that her breasts were pressed against her thighs. After turning off the water, I lathered up the washcloth and carefully washed from the tops of Mom's collarbones to the dimples in the small of her back. "Your back's clean. Now you take care of the rest."
I picked up Mom's shirt and panties—the gusset of her cotton Winnie-the-Pooh panties was slimy wet—and tossed them in the hamper. The shorts, I shook out for another wearing. "Holler when you're done," I said.
I went straight to my room, grabbed a handful of Kleenex, pulled out my cock, and made a slimy wad of the tissues in about three strokes. I was highly disappointed with myself for having got to the point where I was about to bust a nut without touching myself because of my mother.
I tossed the Kleenex into the wastebasket and settled down at my computer to play a few games of solitaire while I waited for Mom to get done in the bathroom. It wasn't too long before I heard her call out, "Done."
There was water absolutely everywhere. On the floor. The mirror and the counter. The walls. "Samantha," I said, "what happened in here?" I was relieved to see that her breasts were still invisible against her legs.
"I splashed," she said, faux innocently.
"Good little girls don't splash all over the bathroom," I said.
"Maybe if you'd stayed to wash me it wouldn't have happened," she said, looking up at me through her eyelashes.
I resisted a sudden urge to blow my stack. Some kind of contest was shaping up here, and I wasn't about to lose. Not during the first few hours of battle, anyway. I tripped the drain lever and water started gurgling out. Mom looked a little disappointed. "Okay, out you get," I said, hiding behind a towel as I extended it to her.
"You have to dry me," she said.
"Nice try, Samantha," I said. "I'll dry your back." And I did, staying squarely behind her, patting carefully from the tops of her collarbones to the dimples above her butt, and being sure that the towel kept her butt covered. "I have to clean up your mess now. You get yourself dried off and go put your pajamas on."
I went to the garage and rounded up a mop and big sponge. By the time I got all the water sopped up, I was thinking strongly about wringing little Samantha's neck. The splashing was a dirty trick.
I expected to find Mom in bed and ready for lights out, but no, she had yet another surprise for me: she was lying face down on top the covers, nude. I shut my eyes again. "Why aren't you wearing your pajamas?" I asked.
"You have to rub talcum powder on my bottom first."
"Samantha, talcum powder's for babies. You're much too big for that."
"Not," she said.
"Why should I rub talcum powder on a big girl like you?"
"'Cause I'm special," she said. "And it feels really good."
"Samantha," I said, "I really don't think it's right for a responsible person to rub the bottom of a four-year-old girl."
"It's all right," Mom's voice said. "Believe me, it's all right. Believe me."
I reluctantly opened my eyes so that I could get positioned to rub her bottom. At least she was lying face down. Her flawless skin flowed in smooth contours from her shoulders to her waist, then rose into two perfectly shaped buttocks and transitioned to legs that took a long time getting to her feet. A little tuft of her bush peeped out from the shadowy juncture where her legs came together.
This upped the ante from just seeing or touching through a washcloth or towel to touching bare skin—and moved the action from above the waist to below it. The sensible part of me said that I should say a firm responsible person "No" and leave the room. But it felt like doing that would be losing ground in the contest, whatever it was.
I picked up the bottle of baby powder that had magically appeared on the nightstand and shook a little of it onto Mom's butt. I sat down on the bed next to her and started to rub, as lightly as I could. I didn't want to appear as if I were groping her or manipulating her flesh. If she wanted her bottom rubbed, I'd rub it—but just rub, and nothing else.
I fixed my eyes on the nightstand clock, and for exactly five minutes, I moved my hand from the top of Mom's cheeks to the slight fold where they tucked into her legs; in soft circles around and around, just skimming the surface. I was surprised at how smooth Mom's skin felt and became annoyed with myself when I realized how much I was enjoying touching that warm flesh so slightly that I was barely touching it all. At some point, Mom started to make little whuffs as she breathed, and to flex and relax her butt. Strangely, even though Mom had just got out of her bath, I smelled that aroma of something else again, and my cock lurched.
And then the five minutes were up. I gave her a gentle swat and said, "Okay, there you go. Your bottom's been rubbed. Now get into your pajamas and hop under the covers."
"Noooooooooooooooooo," Mom whined. "You can't stop now."
"Sure I can," I said. "I did just exactly what you asked me to do, and now it's time for you to go to sleep."
Mom cast a furious glare over her right shoulder. I turned and looked at the closet door as she got dressed for sleep. When I turned back around, I saw that she was wearing a tee-shirt with a wide scoop neck and a pair of panties.
"Where are your jammies with the feet?" I asked.
Mom didn't answer. She just scowled at me as she got in bed and tucked the covers up to her chin.
I bent over and kissed her forehead. "Good-night, Samantha," I said. "Your responsible person loves you. Sleep tight."
"Lips," she said.
"Lips. You have to kiss me good-night on the lips."
"I do? Why?"
"Cause that's the way little girls like to be kissed good-night," she said.
My mother is relentless. With her, it wasn't exactly giving an inch and taking a mile. It was more like my giving an inch and then her taking an inch—and then another inch, and then another inch. I made a mental note to keep my guard up just a little higher.
I gave her a 4-nanosecond peck on the lips and drew my head back before she could get her arms out from under the covers and around my neck. That got me another glower.
"See you in the morning," I said, as I turned out the light and started for the door.
I took a shower and, before I settled down for the night, I tip-toed down the hall and peeked into Mom's room. She'd turned the light back on and was sitting up reading a novel. But apparently Samantha was down for the night.
Then I went to my room and scooted around the net for a while. I didn't stay up nearly as late as I thought I might—being responsible for a four-year-old burns up a lot of energy. Just as I switched my light out, I heard Mom's vibrator start up. That wasn't anything new. She's been using her vibrator pretty regularly for months. Its buzz must resonate with the wood in the house or something, because its sound cuts through doors and walls like they weren't even there. Apparently Mom isn't aware of that, and I couldn't see any benefit in saying anything to her about it. She deserves her pleasure as much as anybody else.
I did give fleet thought to asking her whether she thought that a little girl of four should be using a dildo. I'm sure the effect would have been entertaining, but that would be playing a little too dirty. I slimed up another wad of Kleenex, then rolled over and went to sleep.