***
Before Mom inspected the injury to my dick, I wanted to survey the damage first. I carefully ascended the stairs and went to the bathroom I shared with my sisters. Closing and locking the door, I gingerly dropped my jeans and underwear to my thighs.
I swore again.
There was a puncture wound on the tip, and it was wide enough on the surface of the skin that I suspected the barb sank home completely. The wound continued to leak blood, and it stung like nasty, lingering insect venom. The knob, completely coated in blood, looked like a clown’s rubber nose.
I started when Mom knocked and asked to come in.
Sighing and swearing to myself, I pulled up my trousers and unlocked the door. Mom came in with her first aid basket, brimming with bottles, bandages, tools, tape–you name it. She closed and locked the door behind her. Setting the basket on the vanity, she asked me to show her.
“I will show you–I promise–but will you just let me clean it first?” I didn’t want her to freak out.
She considered the proposal for a second before shaking her head and saying, “Just show me quickly. Drop them and pull them up. One second. Let me see it.”
Swallowing and turning to her, I hooked my thumbs under my pants, sighed, closed my eyes, and carefully pulled them down. Counting to one and trying to ignore her gasp, I pulled them back up.
“Oh, my goodness, baby!” She had covered her mouth with a hand. Blinking at me in astonishment, she dropped to her knees in front of me and lowered my pants over everything.
I didn’t even try to stop her. What was the point?
“Oh! You poor thing!” she said, surveying the wound. Then, she looked up at me. “Does it hurt?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s get this cleaned in the sink.”
“I’ve got it,” I said, turning toward the faucet and bowl.
“Fine,” she said, “but lean well over it, so we don’t make the floor all wet.”
I did, putting my hand on the mirror to balance myself. My cock and balls dangled over the front of the bowl.
Mom turned on the water and began to rifle through her supplies. Once the water was warm enough, she asked me if I wanted her to rinse me.
This was a tough moment. It’s not that I wanted her to do it. I didn’t. The problem was that I knew, no matter how comfortably warm that water was, when it hit my dick, it was going to hurt like a bastard.
I shook my head, took two deep breaths, and splashed the water over my cock. Snatching a sharp breath, I growled through the anguish. Mom caressed my back. The next scoop of water wasn’t as bad, and after seven or eight more, I blew out a long breath and turned to Mom.
She looked at me like I was a dying puppy, and she said, “Ready for the disinfectant soap?”
I laughed miserably.
She took my hand and pumped a dollop into it, asking if I was sure I didn’t want her to do it.
I shook my head.
She told me it would definitely sting.
I nodded, swallowed, and began applying the soap to the tip of my cock. Pinching my eyes shut, I gasped, tilted my head back, and let out a long, angry growl.
“Get it sudsy,” she advised. “Don’t rinse yet.”
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