Through clenched teeth, I grumbled, “I know.”
“My poor baby,” she moaned, leaning her head on my shoulder and rubbing my back.
I checked my work. The head of my cock was a miniature Santa Claus beard of suds, but the pain of the soapy disinfectant began to subside. I scooped handfuls of water and doused my cock, sighing with relief.
“Good,” Mom murmured.
With every scoop of water, a small bit of blood washed away, only to be replaced by a fresh, rising droplet. Beside me, Mom grabbed a gauze pad and said, “Now let me get a closer look.”
She leaned across me.
“Mom–,” I began, flinching. This was too close of a look.
“I need to see it,” she replied, cutting me off and steadying me with her hands on my hips. Sighing, I rolled my eyes and caught our reflection in the mirror.
I almost flinched again. The image in the mirror was the back of Mom’s head in front of my crotch with my pants down at my thighs and her hands on my hips. It looked in the mirror like she was giving me a–.
“Okay,” I hastily said, shutting my eyes.
“Wait.” She dabbed the tip with the gauze.
“Mom, that’s enough,” I said, urging her back.
“Just wait!”
“Mom!”
She drew back, clearly annoyed. “This is your penis, baby! You get one of them in life. One. You do not want to lose it to infection. Now, will you swallow your pride and let me help you care for it?”
I stared at her for a beat, and then, resigned, I muttered, “Okay.”
“Thank you.”
I didn’t interfere with her again. When her inspection ended, she spun me toward her, knelt in front of me, and went to work. First, she dabbed it dry with the gauze, occasionally wiping away the leaking blood. Then, she applied an antibiotic ointment to the puncture wound. After that, she spent a minute or two creating a little square bandage made of gauze and medical tape.
She worked without talking, and she lost herself in the job. I didn’t say a word when her fingers raised the limp shaft and inspected it. She did it no differently than if it were a four-year-old’s arm and not an eighteen-year-old’s cock. Mom ran a finger around the tip in circles to make sure the two strips of white tape held.
Finishing, she looked up at me and said, “I’m going to leave some tape with you in case this bandage comes off for–for any reason.”
Her eyes told me what she meant–if a hard-on stretched the tape to the point where it no longer held. “Okay,” I said, thinking, my gosh, please! Do not–do not–get hard tonight.
“What do you think?” she asked.
I surveyed her work. “Looks okay.”
“Feeling any better?”
“Yeah.”
She smiled. “No more ouchie?”
I smirked, recalling her little routine.
Then, she kissed the limp, bare shaft–just behind the bandage–saying, “All better.”
I did not know what to do. I froze.
Mom shifted on her knees to stand, but she hesitated. It was as if she just then realized what she’d done. Hundreds of times, Mom had kissed me on or near my injuries after tending to them. It was her thing, but I’d never had a wound to my dick before.
In a near panic, I prayed she would not say anything or mention the cock kiss ever, ever, ever. I silently begged that she would just go.
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