Lot of taking care of.

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It was the grandfather of all rugby tackles. I was running like hell, the ball tucked firmly under my arm – I glanced over my shoulder, to see a pursuer dangerously close, and then it happened. It was like the business about an irresistible f***e meeting an immovable object, except that it was more like one irresistible f***e meeting another.

He appeared from nowhere, head down, arms widespread, and we must have collided at a combined speed of about forty miles an hour. He bounced me into the bloke chasing me, who at that moment seemed to be made of concrete, and we all went down. I landed awkwardly, twisting my knee and spraining my left wrist, and at some point my head came into contact with someone's boot, or vice versa.

I blacked out for a moment, and then I was helped off the field and checked out for injuries. It seemed that there was no serious damage, although just about everything hurt, and I felt more than a little groggy. They strapped up my wrist and gave me a couple of aspirins, and then my mate Smithy drove me home.

He stopped the car and came round to the passenger door to help me get out, and then I saw my mother flying down the path towards us, her face registering her concern. She'd been doing some tidying up in the garden before the weather changed, and she was wearing cut-off jeans and one of my old shirts that was miles too big for her.

Not very glamorous, but the jeans were cut off practically at the crotch, and several buttons of the shirt were undone, and despite my condition I noticed her breasts jouncing as she ran, the shirt opening to provide a generous glimpse of them, and what there was of the jeans seemed to be painted on her.

Her dark shoulder-length hair swung as she ran, the sun picking out the auburn streaks, and her soft brown eyes were wide with anxiety, her full, sensuous lips parted as she panted slightly, her breasts heaving. 'What – what happened? What's the matter, darling?' she cried, taking me in her arms.

'It's all right, Mrs Foster – he's just had a bit of a bang, that's all. Nasty tackle, but nothing much wrong with him that a day in bed won't cure!' Smithy said cheerfully. My mother looked at me doubtfully, stroking my face, then together they helped me hobble into the house – my mother's arm was around my waist, trying to support me, and I found myself staring down at the ample cleavage she was u*********sly displaying.

I put my arm round her shoulders to let her think she was helping, although I was a good eight inches taller than her five feet six and twice her weight, and if I leaned on her fully she'd have collapsed (I had the advantage of another eight inches, but that's another story). They got me into the living room and deposited me on the sofa, and Smithy said goodbye and made me promise to buy him a pint when I was up and about again, and then my mother knelt on the sofa and hugged me to her.

Tears were running down her cheeks, and she stroked my hair. 'Oh, darling, when I saw you, I – I thought you'd been in an accident, or you'd been mugged or something! Don't worry, dearest, Mummy will look after you! You'll soon feel better!' Normally, I hated the way my mother fussed over me, but now she was pressing my face against her breasts – those breasts again – and I could smell the soap she used, and a hint of her perfume – did she dab it between her breasts, I wondered? Almost u*********sly, I ran my hand up and down the back of her bare thigh, aware of its incredibly smooth softness.

. . . .