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 2 - 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.
I woke up the next morning with my head bouncing on my pillow as Mom bounced on my bed on her hands and knees, chanting, "Brek-fuss, brek-fuss, brek-fuss." She was still wearing her scoop neck sleep shirt, and as she bounced, so did her boobs—every which way. I turned my face to the pillow to shut out the sight and didn't look up again until she'd stopped bouncing. Then her breasts just hung there like tempting, delicious fruit and didn't help one bit with my morning wood.
Looking at the wall, I said, "You're raring to go early this morning."
"Yep," she said, "and I'm hungry. C'mon, let's go get brekfuss."
"Okay," I said. "You go on ahead to the kitchen, and I'll be there in just a minute. I have to go to the bathroom and get dressed." I wasn't about to get out of bed with her here while my pecker was sticking out of my boxers.
"No," she said, tugging on my hand. "Now."
"Samantha," I said sternly, "a man who's responsible for a little girl doesn't walk around in front of her in his underwear."
"Oh, poo," she said. "All right."
As soon as she was out of the room, I got up and slipped into a pair of shorts and zipped across the hall to the bathroom.
"Now, what do you want for breakfast?" I asked, as I walked into the kitchen.
"Cocoa Puffs," she said.
"Cocoa Puffs? We don't have any Cocoa Puffs. We haven't had any Cocoa Puffs around here for years."
"Do too," she said.
I looked in the cupboard where we kept the cereal, and sure enough, there was an unopened box of Cocoa Puffs. So we had cereal for breakfast. I opted for Wheaties, though. I couldn't understand how Mom could stomach Cocoa Puffs. It sure isn't my idea of a grown-up cereal.
And I sent Samantha off to get dressed. I wondered for a moment how it was that she was able to dress herself but needed help getting undressed for her bath. It seemed to me that putting clothes on was a more complicated task than taking them off. But I also saw immediately that it would be pure stupidity for me to challenge Mom about that. It would almost certainly backfire on me, and I didn't want to add getting her dressed to my responsibilities.
Presently, she returned wearing the same baggy pink shorts but a tee-shirt on top—this one so tight and thin that her breasts were outlined in every detail. I didn't say a word about the shirt or her lack of bra. Not one word.
"So," I said, "what are you going to do today?"
"Play," she said.
"Hmmm," I said, "If you're going to play, maybe I'll go hang out with Mike for a while."
"Can't," she said. "You can't leave me alone. You have to be responsible for me."
"How about if I get a babysitter?"
"And how are you going to pay for a babysitter?" Mom's voice said from Samantha's mouth.
"How about if Mike comes over here, then?" I asked. "Then you'd have two people being responsible for you."
I almost laughed out loud at the look of panic that flitted across Mom's face.
"Um," she said. "No, I mean, I don't think that would be a good idea, ah, Mike's too big to play with me. Yeah, that's it. Mike's too big to play with me."
"I see," I said. My bet was that she didn't want Mike to see her boobs in that shirt. Or try to explain why she was acting like a little girl. I probably could have milked this one quite a bit more, but I decided to save it for when I really needed it. "Well, then, what let's you and me do?"
"Play hopscotch," she said, running off toward the back of the house. She returned a minute later and, holding a stick of chalk in one hand, zoomed right on by me on her way to the door to the garage.
"Hopscoooooooooooooooootch," she said, zooming right on by me again and heading for the front door.
Out on the sidewalk in front of the house, Mom bent over and started drawing a hopscotch court. We live in a housing tract that's pretty much like housing tracts all over the United States—three bedroom, 1-1/2 bath single-family homes side-by-side on 60' x 100' lots. We had neighbors on either side of us as well as neighbors across the street. On this clear, sunny Saturday morning, it was likely that the neighbors would be out mowing lawns and washing cars, or just coming and going with weekend errands—and they would have a marvelous opportunity to see 37-year-old Mrs. Whitfield playing hopscotch like a little girl while wearing a tee-shirt that made it clear that she was by no means a little girl. I could just see old Mr. Perkins from next door coming out to watch Mom bounce. I also thought that jumping up and down without a bra was painful for women with large breasts. But I was just along for the ride. If Mom was up for it, so was I.
Mom had fished a couple of stomped-flat Coke cans out of the recycle bin to use for markers. We pounded out rock, scissors, paper to decide who would go first. Mom's scissors cut my paper, so she dropped her marker in square number 1, and we were off. For the first round, Mom easily hopped and stepped down the court, turned around at the end, hopped and stepped back, and gracefully bent in a ballet-like pose and picked up her marker.
We got as far as the first double square without too much trouble. Then the going got a lot tougher. Mom had made a poor choice of markers. The Coke cans tended to skitter and slide on the pavement, and there were a lot of missed turns. Hopping was more work for a big person than a little person, and I think Mom discovered that her center of gravity was not now in the same place it had been when she was a girl. As she started to tire, she had increasing difficulty maintaining her balance. More than once, I saw her wince and cup her breasts. The neighbors didn't exactly stand and stare, but the guys across the street seemed to have a lot of excuses to be in their front yard and look our way. The neighbor directly across from us, who was washing his car, hosed down his wife when he turned to check Mom out.
It took us an embarrassing two hours to make one full round. By that time, our legs were sore, our feet hurt, and we were sweating like pigs. By silent mutual consent, we decided that one round of hopscotch was enough.
As soon as we got back in the house, Mom peeled off her tee-shirt and used it to wipe sweat off her chest.
"Mom!" I exploded.
"Samantha," she reminded me.
"Samantha, little girls shouldn't be running around without their shirts on."
"It's perfectly all right for little girls to run around without their shirts on when they're in their own houses," Mom said.
"I dunno about little girls with big tits" jumped out of my mouth before I could catch it.
Mom had to clap her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Okay, she got me. Score a point for Mom.
As we finished up our lunch of toasted cheese sandwiches, I asked Samantha what she wanted to do during the afternoon.
Mom cupped her still-bare breasts and moved them around gently. "Um," she said, reverting to her little girl voice, "I think I'd like to just rest this afternoon."
"That would be fine with me," I said. "You go ahead and do what you want to do then. Maybe you should have a nap."
When I got done cleaning up our lunch dishes, I tip-toed down the hall for another peek at Mom. She was sitting at her desk with her back to me, doing something with her laptop. Great, I thought, an afternoon off. I went to my room and spent some time with my computer, too.
Because I'd given Samantha such a hard time about last night's casserole—little girls don't like sautéed onions and bulgur wheat—I served grilled hamburgers on buns with french fries for dinner, and let her have a soft drink with it. I was an old meanie responsible person and told her to put a shirt on before she came to the dinner table. I didn't get one complaint about the food, though. She chugged down the last of her orange soda and bracked out a most un-little-girl-like belch.
"Oh, that sounded just lovely," I said. "So refined."
Mom stuck her tongue out at me and giggled.
"What shall we do now?" I asked.
"Go Fish!" she said.
"Okay, go get the cards."
I noticed that Mom walked down the hall rather than running. I didn't want to make her sore, but maybe there was a way to wear her out.
We sat down on the living room rug and played four games of Go Fish. Mom really got into it again, bouncing up and down when a fishing expedition was successful and saying "Aww" with a pout when I put down a book. We broke even at two games each, and I convinced Samantha that we'd both be happier if there wasn't a loser. Go Fish is marginally more interesting for an adult than Chutes and Ladders. I wondered whether these kid games were part of the psych war Mom seemed to be waging.
"Okay," I said, "bath time. You got all sweaty and dirty playing hopscotch this morning, Samantha. You need to take a good bath and get all clean."
Off we went to the bathroom. I started the water, then, without even bothering to object, told Mom to put her arms up and lifted her shirt off. I went to my knees and tugged her pants down, expecting to get the end of my nose tickled by her bush. When her underpants came down, she gave a hip snap, and my nose got bumped not with hair but with skin. I cracked one eye and found myself looking at Mom's bare slit.
"What?" she said, looking at the ceiling.
"What happened to your hair?" I asked, looking at her ankles and tapping my index finger lightly where her bush should have been.
"Little girls don't have hair on their cookies," she said.
"Samantha, you used a razor to do this, didn't you?"
I stood up and looked Mom directly in the eye. "You know that little girls shouldn't be playing with razors. They're very sharp, and you could hurt yourself."
Mom gave me a look that I interpreted as "Uh-oh, I think I've been hoist with my own petard," turned her toes in, and began to study her feet.
"You've been very naughty, Samantha, and I'm going to have to punish you for it."
"Are you going to spank me?" she said.
"I'll have to think about what's the right punishment. I'll tell you when we're through with your bath."
Mom tested the bath water with her toes, then settled down on her bottom. "It's shampoo night," she said. "You have to wash my hair."
"Okay," I said, rounding up the shampoo.
"And you have to be in the bathtub with me to do it."
"I do? And why is that?"
"Because it's the rules!" she said, as if that would explain it all.
I think she must have spent a couple of weeks watching old Sesame Streets or video clips of kids on YouTube, or something. She had some of the little kid inflections down pat.
I put my hand to my cheek and looked like I was thinking hard for a moment. "Okay," I said. "Don't you go away, and I'll be right back. And no splashing while I'm gone!"
Mom did a double-take at me. I think she didn't expect me to agree to getting in the tub with her with no argument at all.
I ran to my room and put on my bathing suit. When I walked back into the bathroom, Mom gave me such a glower that I thought her eyebrows were going to start smoking. But I got in the tub behind her, wet her hair with the rinser, and sudsed her up. I'd never washed a woman's hair before, and, as I gently massaged her scalp with my fingertips and worked the shampoo around, I was surprised by how intimate an act it was. Mom tipped her head back and leaned against my chest. I scooted my hips back a little and reached down to rearrange myself before Mom felt my boner. When I finished washing her hair, I washed her back, just as I had the night before, and went and changed out of my bathing suit while she took care of the rest.
Samantha had to explain to me how to towel the water out of her hair, comb out snarls from the bottom up, and use the dryer in conjunction with a brush to finish the job. That was another bit of intimacy I hadn't expected—and good information to file away for the future. Just in case I ever did get a girlfriend I could be that intimate with. When her hair was fully dry, I took her hand and led her to the bed and sat down beside her.
"Now, Samantha, we have to talk about your punishment for playing with a razor. What do you think would be appropriate? Should I just spank you?"
"Nooooooooo, don't spank me." Mom said.
"How about no television for a week?"
"Okay," Mom said.
Hmm. She went along with that too easily.
"How about no desserts for the rest of the week?"
"Okay," Mom said.
"Maybe I should put you to work and have you help me clean house."
"Okay," Mom said. "I'll do whatever you want, as long as you don't spank me."
"In that case, I think I'd better spank you," I said.
"Nooooooooo," Mom said. She started to stand up, and I grabbed her by the wrist.
"Just lie down across my lap and take your punishment like a big girl," I said.
"No, no, no, no," Mom said. "Don't want to do it."
"Samanthaaaa," I said in my most stern voice.
Mom sniffed, turned, and draped herself across my lap. Her hands and feet were on the floor, but no matter. Her bottom was ripe for spanking. I gave her a pretty good smack, not so hard that I was actually beating her, but hard enough to make it sting.
"Owwwwwwww," Mom screamed. "That was too hard. You're hurting me."
"Just remember, sweetie, this hurts me more than it hurts you," I said, taking a swat at the other cheek.
It made me severely uncomfortable, but I did have to look at Mom while I was spanking her. I gave her a dozen swats—and the way her cheeks jiggled with each swat had an unanticipated effect on me. Of course, I got a hard-on. Apparently that was going to be a given whenever I had to deal with her bare flesh, but my mouth filled with saliva, and I had a strange desire to taste where I was swatting. That, I was able to resist. She squirmed and wiggled all through the process, but her bottom was nicely pink when we were done. The position she was in put her on clear display, and I could see that her little cookie was swollen and wet. And that aroma was in the air again.
"Okay, honey," I said. "That's all. Don't you feel better now?"
"No," she said, reaching back to rub her bottom.
"Lie down on the bed. A little talcum powder should help take the sting away."
She got herself in position, and I started rubbing. I kind of lost track of time, but at some point, Mom started making little whoofs and clenching her bottom and trying to lift it up so that I'd be pressing harder against her. I was very careful to raise my hand with her so that I was just barely touching her.
"There, there, let's get rid of the hurt," I murmured. "I wouldn't punish you if I didn't love you so much and want to keep you safe. It's good for little girls to feel loved and safe. It's part of helping them to grow up into big girls, and your responsible person just loves you to pieces."
After a little more time, she was squeezing her hands into fists at her sides as well as clenching her bottom and thighs. When I decided that her bottom had had enough rubbing, I thoughtlessly bent down and planted one kiss in the middle of each cheek, then gave her one more gentle pat.
Mom's bottom and thighs tightened and her back went rigid. "Oooooh, shit," she hissed into her pillow. Her cookie was so wet that her the skin around it was shiny and the air was redolent with her special scent.
I didn't mean to kiss her butt. I'd really blown it. But I didn't say anything. I didn't have any idea what I might have said that wouldn't create discomfort for both Mom and me.
"Okay, time for jammies and into bed," I said.
Mom rolled over languidly, reached under her pillow, and drew out her sleep shirt. When she had it on, I stood her up, turned the covers back, and shooed her in. I held the covers down so that she couldn't rare up and put her arms around me, then gave her a 500-millisecond kiss on the lips and turned out the lights.
I went to my room and just barely got the Kleenex into position in time to avoid making a mess of my rug.