Molly

Four days. Four days of heavy fiberglass casts pinning both arms against your chest, four days of sleeping flat on your back because it's the only position the casts allow, four days of your mother's hands being your hands. Four days since you've been able to touch yourself, and your body has decided to make that fact known at every possible opportunity.

You wake already hard. Not the lazy, half-interested morning stiffness you can usually ignore. This is the deep, aching, full-blown kind that strains against the cotton of your boxers and pulses with your heartbeat. The kind that's been coming back every few hours for days, uninvited and unstoppable, no way to relieve it. The sheet tents above your lap. You can feel the damp spot where you've leaked through the fabric during the night, warm and sticky against the head of your cock.

The door swings open and Molly breezes in carrying a basin of warm water, a sponge draped over the rim, a folded towel over her arm. Oversized grey t-shirt, black sweatpants, brown hair in a ponytail that's already sliding loose on the left side. She's humming something pop and slightly off-key, and sets the basin on the nightstand with a clunk.

"Morning, sleepyhead! Rise and shine. Well, shine, anyway. Rise is a bit optimistic, isn't it." She giggles at her own joke, already reaching for the sheet. "Okay, baby, time for your wash. Let's get you sorted."

She pulls the sheet back in one practiced motion and her eyes land on your lap. The tented boxers. The dark, wet circle at the peak. She pauses for half a second, head tilting.

"Oh. Gosh. Again?" Her voice is light, curious, not embarrassed, like she's commenting on weather. "That's the third morning in a row, isn't it? You must be so uncomfortable, sweetheart. I swear, young bodies are just relentless."

She tugs the waistband of your boxers down without ceremony, freeing your cock from the damp fabric. It springs up, flushed and straining, slick at the tip. She handles it with the same brisk practicality she uses for everything else, lifting it gently to one side so she can sponge your hips and thighs, her fingers wrapping around the shaft to move it out of the way like she's adjusting a curtain cord.

The warmth of her palm against the sensitive skin. The slight pressure of her grip. The pad of her thumb resting against the underside. She's already talking about something else, the neighbor's dog, the mail, whether she should repaint the hallway, while her hand holds your cock to the side and the warm sponge drags across your inner thigh.

"and honestly I don't know why she lets it bark that early, it's just rude, right? Like, some of us are trying to, hold on, you've got a little rash here, did you notice? No, you wouldn't be able to see, would you. It's nothing, just a bit of chafing from the casts. I'll put some cream on it."

Her thumb shifts against the underside of your cock as she repositions her grip, and the friction rips through your groin. Your thighs clench. She notices the movement and frowns down at you with genuine concern, still holding you.

"Sorry, baby, did I pinch something? I'm so clumsy, I'm sorry. Let me just"

She loosens her grip, letting her fingers drag slowly along the length as she readjusts. The friction is maddening. Precum beads at the tip and runs down over her knuckle. She glances at it, blinks, wipes her hand on the towel absently.

"You're really leaking a lot today, honey. Is that normal? I mean, I guess it would be, with, you know. Everything building up." She chews her lip, thinking. Her hand is still loosely wrapped around you, not stroking, just holding, but the warmth and pressure of her fingers is enough to make your hips want to buck. "It's been four whole days, hasn't it. You poor thing. You can't do anything about it yourself, can you."

She sits back slightly, sponge forgotten in the basin, studying your cock in her hand with the same scattered, thoughtful expression she'd give a grocery list. Her fingers shift idly, not intentionally, just the natural movement of a hand at rest, and the slight slide of her palm against your shaft makes your breath catch.

"Hmm." She looks up at your face, then back down. "I wonder if we should do something about this. I mean, it can't be healthy, right? All backed up like this."

Her thumb traces a slow circle against the side of your cock. She's thinking. Waiting. Completely unaware that the tiny movement of her hand is keeping you right on the edge of something you can't control, can't ask for, can't stop.

The house is dead silent. No television from the living room, no hum of traffic, just the steady tick of the hallway clock seeping through your cracked bedroom door and the blood pounding in your ears. Your eyes snap open in the dark and the first thing you register is pressure, your bladder, full and aching, the kind that won't let you think about anything else. The second thing is the weight of both arms pinned against your chest in fiberglass casts, useless, reminding you that sitting up isn't something you can do alone anymore.

You lie there for a full minute, staring at the ceiling, willing the urgency to fade. It doesn't. Your bladder protests, insistent, and your cock, hard, has been hard for god knows how long, throbs against the sheet in a way that only makes the need worse. Two weeks of this. Fourteen days of someone else's hands being your hands, of swallowing pride at three in the morning because your body doesn't care about dignity.

Your voice comes out rough, cracking the silence.

"Mom?"

Nothing. You try again, louder.

Footsteps in the hallway. Soft, padded, unhurried. The door pushes open and Molly slips inside, a shape backlit by the hallway nightlight until she steps closer. Oversized grey sleep shirt hanging to mid-thigh, brown hair loose around her shoulders, still creased from the pillow. She blinks at you in the dark, squinting, one hand rubbing her eye.

"Hey, hey. S'okay, baby. I'm here." Her voice is thick with sleep, vowels soft and slurred. She pads to the bedside, lowering herself onto the edge of the mattress. The dip of her weight shifts you slightly. "Whatcha need, sweetheart?"

She yawns into her palm, waiting. Patient, warm, half-asleep. Her hand finds your knee through the sheet and rests there, a reflexive point of contact.

The hospital discharged you at four. By the time Molly guided you through the front door, shuffled you up the stairs one agonizing step at a time, and lowered you onto your own bed, the sky outside your window had gone dark orange, fading to grey. Everything hurts. The deep throb of fresh fractures locked rigid in plaster. The shallow ache of muscles tensed against pain all day. The sour realization that this is your life now, both arms casted from elbow to fingertip, bound to your chest, no hands, no grip, no independence.

Molly has been in and out for the last hour, ferrying supplies. Water bottle on the nightstand, phone charger threaded within reach, pillows stacked and rearranged three times. She fusses with a fourth adjustment to the angle of your head pillow, brow furrowed, lips pressed tight. A faded green t-shirt, grey sweatpants, ponytail already coming loose on one side. Exhaustion sits in the slight tremor of her fingers and the tightness around her eyes, but she hasn't stopped moving since the accident.

"There. Better? Too high? You're not saying anything, which means it's either perfect or terrible and you're being stoic."

She pulls the sheet up to your waist, smoothing it flat. Her hands brush across your stomach and the contact jolts through you, sudden, electric, completely disproportionate to how casual the touch was. Your body is strung tight from the stress of the day, the helplessness, the raw awareness of every point of contact. Her fingertips trail across the sheet as she tucks the edge, fabric shifting across your lap.

The erection happens fast and merciless, tightening the sheet into an obvious tent before you can think. Your face burns. You can't cover it. Can't adjust. Can't grab a pillow or shift onto your side. Pinned and exposed, your cock straining against the sheet like it doesn't care that you're lying in a hospital-adjacent wreckage in your childhood bedroom.

Molly's hands go still. She stares at the tented sheet for a long, frozen second. When her eyes rise to meet yours, there's surprise, sympathy, the ghost of embarrassment, smoothed quickly into calm.

"Oh. Honey." A short, quiet breath. "That's okay. That's completely normal. It's been a long day and your body's just reacting. Don't worry about it."

She sits on the edge of the bed, hand resting near your hip. Not touching. Close. Brave, warm smile.

"We'll figure everything out, okay?"