I'm a 50 year old mum. I've an 18 year old son, Christian, our only child. Now, don't read us wrong. We named him Christian because my mum wanted a continental nuanced name for her only grandchild, not because of our religiosity. We are raving atheists. We fundamentally worship Richard Dawkins. The old girl wanted to spell her grandchild Christien. That was when we put our Anglo foot down.
My husband, Christopher or Chris, is 52. Christian lives with us. We live in a remote quintessential English cottage, perched on a cliff, on the south coast.
Christopher and Christian. Chris and Chris. Big Chris and Small Chris. How do we differentiate dad and son? We don't. We kind of just know when we communicate. But, I wonder a bit about this sometimes as it will become apparent later...
***
I'm still active in ballet, something carried forward from my young days, more as a sort of home recreation and exercise routine to continue to remain toned and supple. My dear late mum was a professional ballerina in an august ballet company. There is a sort of ebbing lineage to this.
I practise my ballet routines in my living room, the only sizable space in the cottage. No glorious gravity-defying prancing and leaping moves. Just simple slow, placid movements, culminating in leg, hand, torso stretching and pointing postures. Not a race, just grace is all I can muster. Flex my old sinews a little.
I observe a sort of pattern in Christian when I am practising my ballet. Inevitably, he will be in the living room doing this and that. Reading, working on his laptop, gaming and such. The kind of things young people do which seem frivolous and critical simultaneously. I didn't think anything of this. He usually does these things in his room. Maybe he just wants a bit of diversification in his environment every now and again. And our living room overlooks the patio, and then beyond, the sea. Easy on the eyes. Gentle on the mind. Breaking surf waving in the distance. It is all quite pleasant on the soul.
***
Christopher spends 3 days a week working in his home office upstairs, and 2 days at his office 8 miles away, down the giddy winding coast road.
Christopher is in Tech. He designs the AI software for a popular drone brand. Our countryside home affords him space and range to test-fly his prototypes.
Ah, tech! You may judge that Christopher is yet another one of those techie automatons locked in algorithm. But, if I may say so even though I'm his wife, he is, uncharacteristically, quite a humanist, attuned to the profundity of the human condition. I guess he must be so to program drones. He once told me, as his test drone was ranging the sky in quest of something, that it is not the person flying the drone, but that the drone is the flying person. Something hopelessly profound like that. Flight of imagination. Rocket science humanised.
I try to execute my ballet routines, as best as I can, when Christopher is at his office, to not get into each other's hair in our small cottage.
***
Chapter 2
Banter
One day, when Christopher was coming down the stairs from his home office to get a drink, he inadvertently observed my son and me without our awareness. It was my so-called "ballet day", and he had swapped his office day to work-from-home because of some work logistical change.
***
Later, that night in our usual bedtime banter...
"You know, when you were preoccupied with your ballet exercise this morning, I was coming down the stairs. I noticed that our son was checking you out."
"How do you know that?"
"You appeared to be in a world of your own, listening to the ballet symphony through your wireless ear buds, preoccupied with your dance moves."
"Yes, I'm like that. I was swimming in Swan Lake. Something I learned from my mum. Total immersion. The music dances me."
"Chris kind of realised that you were in the zone. Zoned out to care that he was there. He appeared emboldened to check you out in earnest."
"In earnest?"
"He was transfixed on your figure. His eyes were tracing your body like they were drawing pictures in the air."
"Oh? That explains it..."
"Explains what?"
"That he would always busy himself doing this or that in the living room whenever I did my ballet. Reading, laptop, gaming and so on. He always seemed so focused on whatever he was doing. I had no idea..."
"The lad seems enamoured of you."
"Is this weird? It's not like I'm a sweet young nubile ballerina, and my ballet is not particularly exquisite. Just a venerable old matriarch dame limbering up."
"It's your dressing..."
"My dressing? It's just an old dance rag that has seen better days."
"Your leotard is sleeveless high-cut, high-waisted. The slim transparent spaghetti straps give the strapless impression that your leotard top is melded on your body. The nude colour, an uncanny exact match to your skin complexion, makes you look like you're naked."
"Oh? I had no idea I look like that. I never gave it any thought about how I looked in it. I bought this leotard years ago when I thought I'll be doing my exercise alone at home. So, I picked something comfy, brief and sheer, so that I don't perspire so much, especially in summer."
"Well, I don't blame the lad for checking you out. He must have been trying awfully hard to check you out while pretending to be engrossed on his laptop or whatever."
"Hmmm... I feel a little weirded out about this. A son checking out his mum. My son checking me out."
"Freudian..."
"Did you ever check out your mum? She was quite a lush eyeful."
He looks away, he doesn't answer. His mum, that is, my mum-in-law was my ballet mistress in another lifetime when I was a teen. I got to know Christopher through her. Christopher would hang around the ballet studio waiting for his mum to finish her last class of the day, afterwhich they would go home together.
I run my hand over his boxer briefs.
"Is all this talk doing this to you?"
He sighs, "Go put on your ballet leotard..."
"What? Now? We're about to go to bed."
He gives me a longing look. A certain little boy hunger in his eyes. I remember that innocent, yet possibly menacing, look from somewhere sometime. Oh yes, my young days at the ballet school studio. The boy waiting for his mum, looking at his mum, to be done with her last class.
I go to the wardrobe, then to the washroom. When I return, he is naked, sitting on the end of the bed, like he has just woken up, taking pause for the remaining stupor of sleep to wear off, before he gets on with the day.
Patting his bare thigh, he beckons, "Sit here."
I get it. I can't help but feel a little annoyed. Why make me put on my leotard when we are going to fuck?
"No. Leave it on."
"Huh?"
I straddle his thighs. He locks me in a savage embrace. I can hardly breathe. Then, a longing look, culminating in a passionate wet kiss.
I move on him. His cockhead grazes then rubs the slim gusset of my leotard. The gusset hardly covers my pussy. This heightens his flourish. He apparently relishes the sensation of sheer fabric, tender smooth mound skin and the stray wisps of thicket. Each render a different traction on his tender pink head.
He is beside himself now. Me too. I raise myself, hovering above his thighs, resting my breasts over his male shoulders. He pulls my gusset to one side. Runs his finger down my slit.
I lower my opening to his head. I take pause, just letting his tender head flesh graze my petals. Hot flesh searing hot flesh.
Then, I let it slide in. He watches this process with a look of wonder on his face like this is all new. Maybe it is the kinky first time novelty of fucking me in my leotard with my gusset pushed aside. Fucking a ballerina.
I lower myself onto his full length. I stay still as I let myself get used to his unseasonally larger size, and for him to simply enjoy being inside me.
Then I begin to move, sliding his cock to my opening, then thrusting down again to his full length. He grabs my hips, seeking to thrust deeper into me. I feel his hard hot shaft fitting tight to the walls of my vagina. I cannot hold back a sobbing cry of inner joy.
I have been penetrated many times before by my husband, but somehow this is different. Something else is going on.
His length is completely inserted into me. I let him rest there for a moment, clamping my vaginal walls round him. He moans, "You're lovely in your leotard."
A strange complimentary observation on apparel at a time like this.
I clench his cock again, "Do you like that, Chris?"
I almost never call my husband Chris when I'm alone with him, least of all, in the giddy tumult of lovemaking. This stuns him a little.
Slurring, "Oh God, mmmm... yes, do it again."
Am I hearing what I think I am hearing? I flex again and hold him in my grip for a few moments, then releasing him.
Clench, release. Clench, release. Clench, release.
We are fucking up a storm. We are buoyed senseless.
I begin to move, then bounce on him, "Put it all in me, Chris, just let it all go."
"Oh yes, mmm..."
"Oh yes, Chris. You're so hard. You're so good. Did I do that to my boy?"
I raise myself till his head touches my petals. I drop on him, dramatically, bearing my full weight on his groin. He wasn't expecting this.
We cum. The roof flies off. The walls collapse. And when I look out, I see the nearby stand of oak trees has uprooted and is making its way up the garden to the cottage. It is that powerful.
***
We cuddle in the afterglow.
I don't quite know what to say. I think Christopher feels the same. Or maybe, he is just spent tired. We have let all our secrets out in one massive revelation. We have inducted each other into our secret societies. And like good secret society members, we know the secrets and don't talk about them.
If there is anyone looking at us now, it would be a curious sight. A mature couple bathed in perspiration after some hard fucking. The man naked, the woman in a leotard, but looks glisteningly nude.
A little squeamishly, "We should do this again..."
"As in in this sheer rag?"
"The works."
"That powerful, huh?"
He doesn't answer. It is said that the biggest human sex organ is the brain. The mind fucks long before the fucking begins, and long after the fucking is done. It's all in the software.
"Can you do some modifications to your leotard?"
"What?"
"Remove the breast padding. Remove the gusset lining."
"Why?"
"To feel you better. And you'll be cooler when you do your ballet exercises in the living room, with summer around the corner. We don't have air-conditioning in the living room, and the window air circulation there is normally not particularly good."
"The leotard will outline my free form with clarity. Pokies. Cameltoe. You know me. I'm natural down there. My bush will show through. You don't mind?"
Christopher doesn't answer. I see a rise. He sees that I see the rise. His answer is in the affirmative.
My gusset had slipped back into its functional place. I roll it into a pencil-like strip, and slip it into my slit. The feel of the rolled-up gusset grazing my petals gives me a charge. I rip the breast pads off.
I dance for my husband. But, not for long. We are rabid bunnies all over again.
***
Chapter 3
Preen
Christopher is away on a 3-day business trip. I am in my bedroom. I examine myself in the full-length mirror. I am not unhappy. I execute a few dance poses. I moisten myself a little. I wipe myself. I don't want to mess up my garment. At least, not just yet.
I slip on my leotard. I haven't had the opportunity to wear it since I made the two modifications requested by my husband. I writhe into it. So hugging, almost suffocating my torso. So sheer. I'm quite afraid I may tear it.
I inspect the effects of my modifications...
The form of my top shows clearly. A naughty hint of pokies. Only just so. I wonder how it will show if I get a little aroused. I tweak my right nipple between my thumb and forefinger. Give it a little workout. I inspect the effect. I can feel the straining hardness of my nipples even though I am not touching them. Hmmm... I think I can live with that.
I see the gentle rise of my mons pubis pushing out what remains of the gusset fabric after the lining has been removed. The slender line of indentation, my slit, concealed only by a single layer of sheer satin. I'm getting a little aroused by my self-examination. I imagine what another person will see of me, and the effect of that vision. Well, only one other person will see me. I shudder.
My nether lips are now a bit swollen. They puff out, pressing the fabric just that little more, further delineating my pussy. I shudder in fascinated repulsion at the thought of what I will look like there if fully aroused. Will it look lewd? It's a fine line between sensual and lusty.
A faint dark showing through the material. My pubic hair. But, not a lot. No renegade strands peeking from the sides. I would have thought there would be some. I look at the rest of my lower body. I am pleased that my thighs are still slender, smoother than I would expect for a woman my age.
Feeling a little wicked, just for a lark, I roll up the gusset into a pencil strand and slip it into my slit. I've duly transformed my leotard bottom into an outrageous g-string. Oh my god! Oh my god! A little wetness creeping through the fabric. I had better stop before I lose myself completely.
I go downstairs.
***
Chapter 4
Exercise
I sit on the sofa in the living room. Christian drifts in from the patio with his laptop. He sits on the armchair opposite me. He has seen me in my leotard before, but appears more invested than usual in looking at me. Like he discerns that there is something different this time, but not quite sure what.
"Hi mum!"
"Hi. Don't mind me. Just carry on with your laptop work, whatever you're doing."
"Cool"
He rests the laptop on his lap. He appears to be focused on the screen, though he could well be checking me out from that viewing angle. As I uncross my legs, he adjusts the screen angle, lowering it slightly, as if inclining it to a comfortable viewing position.
"I'm going to put on my wireless ear buds and play the ballet symphony music to prime myself into the dance mood. And also do my pre-dance prep ritual. So, we'll chat later. Feel free to go away if my prancing around is distracting you from your work."
"Cool. Don't worry, I'll be fine."
I spread the lotion in lingering slow strokes along my legs. My fingers and palms work their way up from my feet to ankle. To my calves and knees. Then, all the way to my thighs. I smoothen the lotion up to the lower edges of my leotard. My legs are open to my son. I am absorbed in the lotioning.
I hike up my leotard to better access my upper thigh and pelvis area. In doing so, my gusset narrows and slips between my slit, devoured by my outer labia. For a minute, it looks like I am in an impossibly minimalist g-string. My lips are showing. Can't really tell if any pink is showing. I lotion my mound, brushing aside my soft pubic curls to reach some parts.
I steal a surreptitious glance at my son. He has a glazed look. The gleam in his eyes is way too bright. I pull back the gusset to its rightful place. I cross my legs again.
***
I begin my ballet exercise. I'm a little conscious of my movements. I steal a glance at Christian. He appears to be gazing at his screen intently. But, he may well be watching me as well. I decide not to be distracted and carry on my usual way.
Christian appears to have completed whatever he was doing. His laptop is closed, on the coffee table. He slumps languidly on the armchair watching my ballet exercise. When I happen to look in his direction, he flashes a sweet smile, and makes a gesture of light clapping. Sweet child o' mine.
I execute a classic arabesque, the most iconic of ballet positions. I stand on my right leg, tippy-toed en pointe. My left leg extended out straight behind my body. Both arms extended out straight.
In this position, I am facing Christian. I search his face. He appears to be contemplating my top. And he knows I know because he smirks.
I straighten my body upright, lower my raised left leg to touch the knee of my supporting right leg. I execute a pirouette. Christian claps lightly again, shouts a bravo.
I normally end my exercise routine here. But, I'm feeling good, and a little cheeky.
I make a show of adjusting my leotard. I hike it up. The gusset narrows to a sharp V. I stand with my back to Christian. Legs apart. Body bent impossibly low. Right hand grasping left ankle, locking down my pose. I look back and up at Christian. I detect a glazed look on his face. Then, he manages a smile. Did he see anything of consequence?
I flop on the sofa opposite Christian in exhaustion.
"Mum, you're doing good."
"It gets harder each time. I don't think I can keep this going for much longer."
"Mum, you're in good shape too."
"This old machinery?"
"Mum, you look great."
"Really?"
"I'm going to say it. You look alluring."
"Alluring?"
"Sexy. Wicked sexy. You're hot."
"I'm 50. Soon, all this will be history. I sometimes wish I can freeze it all."
"You can. You should too."
"How?"
"I can video you for posterity."
"Let me think about it. Not today though. I'm exhausted."
***
Chapter 5
Chill
It is evening. I am with Christian at the cliff edge of our garden, overlooking the sea.
Living the present moment. I know only one thing, and that's the present, present, present. I watch out for the big, huge, giant wave. Colossal, bright and beautiful. Full of life and death. Climbing into the sky. Standing in the sea. There it is!
There is a sense of fun, of warmth and love, of a pleasurable tingle of sexual anticipation in young people at that wonderful time of life when every night out is a potentially life-changing experience. I am not a young person. But, I am feeling that. I hope Christian is feeling that together with me right now.
"Do you've a girlfriend you particularly like?"
"No"
"Tell me something about your first love."
"Hmm... not sure I want to go back there..."
"Please..."
"There was this boy. There was a time in my life when I thought I was close to him. Growing up with a boy by my side as a partner-in-crime. What a time! And we both didn't know that one day we'd be saying goodbye. Nothing ever lasts forever. But, my oh my, I remember the times that we played in the neighbourhood close to him. And that promise he gave me that warm summer night in July."
"Time went by. And they were saying that he had been growing up much more than I. Nothing ever lasts forever. My oh my, tell me why did this make me feel so sad and lonely? When I never thought he could be the one and only. Goodbye past. Is it true that the good things don't last?"
Then, he told me there was somebody else in his life who was close to him. And I desperately tried to find something that I could reply. I could cry. But there was one thing I had to keep telling myself to get by. Nothing ever lasts forever, my oh my."
"As the shadows grew longer, my heartache got stronger. And maybe it was time to move on. But it was hard to ignore what had happened before. And I couldn't forget all the times I was close to him."
"Goodbye past. Is it true that the good things don't last? Is it true that the good times have passed?"
"Poetic. Poignant. It all sounds like a song."
"That's because it is."
"Huh?"
"It is a song."
"So, it's just a story in song? That wasn't you?"
"No"
"Huh?"
"Isn't every first love like that?"
"I don't know. I've never had one. Never had a one and only, even for a day."
"Oh?"
"What's the name of the song?"
"It's in the story. Close To You."
"But, it doesn't sound anything like Close To You?"
"The Monalisa Twins."
"Actually mum, I do have a first love."
"Who?"
"You"
"Every child's first love is his mum. That doesn't count."
"I'm not a child."
"Oh?"
"Is that how you feel?"
"Yes"
Christian's eyes trace the curve of my bosom, and then southerly to my juncture, and lingers there. I move my legs a little.
"Say no more..."
I smile inwardly and let the matter rest in my mind, to be digested later. I feel stoked. A happiness, but it's a mystical happiness. A joy. It surprises me like a sudden kiss.
I look at my son. He looks interesting.
***
Chapter 6
Videoshoot
The next day.
"Mum, shall we do the video shoot today?"
He adds, "Dad will be back the day after tomorrow. I thought it'll look better if you don't wear your wireless ear buds. More natural. You can play your ballet symphony music aloud, and the video can record the music too as you dance."
"Let me check if my leotard is dry from the laundry wash."
I go to the laundry room. The leotard is mostly dry but has a dampish feel. That's the way it is with satin fabric, sensitive to even the slightest moisture.
"Sorry, it's still dampish. We don't have a dryer. I don't fancy writhing into a dank clingy garment."
"Do you've another dance leotard?"
"No. This is my only. I guess we'll have to do it tomorrow."
"Oh!"
"You look disappointed."
"Well, I thought if we do the shoot today, I can review it with you tonight, and if we find it unsatisfactory in parts, we can do a re-shoot tomorrow. You want this for posterity, so let's do it properly."
"Hmmm..."
"I hope you don't mind my suggesting this. It's rather radical and bold. You mentioned that you would like a visual record of your dance and your body for posterity. Fifty year old is a milestone in life. Would you consider dancing nude?"
"What?"
Mortified, "Mum, forget I said this. I'm sorry for being insensitive."
We look at each other in silence. I look round the living room inclined to test its silence with a Hi! or Woohoo! or something. But, I don't. The eerie absolute silence of the place redefines silence.
I want to play. To be little. To turn time back. To be drunk and sober at the same time. All this seems to chime with some longing in me.
"OK"
In utter disbelief, "What?"
"Yes"
It seems like Christian thinks that this is some great cosmic trick. Is it really this easy? He asked for his mother to be naked and she said matter-of-factly, yes, ok. Could he really manifest his most outlandish dreams just like that? Well, apparently yes.
I move to the middle of the living room. I want to get that silly smile on his face.
"I want this to be perfect. Check me out before we start."
I am equal parts excitement and trepidation. The scale of the undertaking is only just beginning to sink in. The plan is simple. But daring.
The beginning is always a delicate time.
I feel that I'm embarking on a compelling journey. A trip, a safari, an exploration is an entity different from other journeys. It has personality, temperament, individuality, uniqueness. A journey is a person in itself. No two are alike.
I turn my back to my son. I slip off my sandals and reach behind, fingers clutching the zipper of my dress. I'm going to take it off right here. My fingers, long and slender, red nails, slowly pull the zipper down, inch by inch. All the way to my white panty. My eyes look sheepishly at the floor. My dress parts. I hear fabric being coaxed past my hips. The faint sound of it slipping to my feet. I raise my eyes.
My hands neatly smooth out the dress. With my back still to my son, I drape it over a chair.
I try to collect my thoughts. Maybe I should act busy with something. Or maybe say I need to use the bathroom. I'm only deceiving myself. I know I've to continue.
I reach behind again. This time to unfasten my bra. But then, I stop. My fingers still lingering at the clasp.
I look at Christian. He senses my uncertainty.
I turn my face to the side. My eyes looking over my shoulder, back at my son, holding my gaze. I know he would be watching.
Then, I turn my face away. Another few seconds of hesitation. I unclasp and draw in my shoulders. The bra slips down my arms. But, I do not turn around.
I think only the outside edge of my right breast is in his view. A thin curved sliver of linen white flesh. A first glimpse for my son. It jiggles a little.
He must be looking at the long nape of my neck, my pronounced line of backbone, my waist slender, even after all these years if I may say so myself.
My white panty. He must be looking at my derrière. Contoured and soft. Not a young girl's butt for sure. But, a woman's tail, longish and curving.
I stand, feet together, back straight and tall. I hope my body speaks of poise and grace. That of a ballerina. Not a commonplace woman, I would like to think.
My back still to my son, I slip my fingers under the waistband. I push my panty slowly down. Not a striptease, but no hesitation either. I lift one foot, then, the other, to free the garment. I am now fully naked with my back to my son.
Perhaps I am a little too full of social graces for the present circumstances?
Picking up my panty, I look at my crotch. I hold the panty to my nose.
I say without looking at my son, "I'm afraid I'm a little aroused there. I'm that way."
What must my son be thinking? His mum telling him matter-of-factly about her arousal.
I don't know what came over me, but I add, "Most women my age get drier, especially around menopause. I'm fortunate. I still get fairly wet down there. That is not a problem for me."
What must my son be thinking? His mum telling him matter-of-factly about her most intimate physiology. Her most personal biology.
He must be staring at the dark divide between my buttocks.
I lift my knee to the sofa to rub some lotion on my legs. My legs parting a little as I do, the lips of my pussy must be coming into view, from behind.
I turn around. My feminine goods are now on full display. Christian sees something that sons aren't supposed to see. Must never see. He sparks up as if he has discovered a new angle of me.
There is no will left in me to fight the dark angel in me. I let the queasiness take over as I watch my son look at me. What does he think of my little patch of pubic hair? My soft triangle. Can he see past my curls? Is my pink showing?
We have crossed a barrier that almost no mother and son must ever cross.
Outside, black rain clouds, very low and fast moving, are rolling in from the sea.
He appears to admire the colour and the quality of my skin. I glance down at myself between my legs and see my small clitoris protruding ever so slightly. I've never seen it showing this way. My lips are wet and slick. What must Christian be thinking?
I ask without turning my head to look at him, "Do you like seeing my body, Christian?"
He nods weakly. Though there isn't much of an expression on his face, his eyes smiled. And in those eyes, I can see that he is thinking. Always thinking.
I see him looking at me there. I keep looking at him, as he keeps looking at my most intimate, staring, somewhat in pleasant disbelief.
"Not much, huh?"
"Yes, a small, soft-looking bit of pubic hair."
He adds, "But enough to be magical."
Hard rain is pelting on the garden outside.
"Shoot me now..."
I lose myself to Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. Dance of the Little Swans. I feel little all over again. When I dance, I just fall into the music. I forget myself.
My animal-like breasts are tipping and weaving as I move, even with every breath I take.
The quality of my attention determines the quality of my life. I am what I choose to pay attention to and, crucially, how I pay attention. Looking back at my life, which memories bubble to the surface? Maybe it's something big, like my wedding day, the day I gave birth to Christian, or maybe something small, that unexpectedly kind exchange with the person standing behind me on the ridiculously long post office line. Chances are, though, it is moments when I'm most attentive. My life is no less and no more than the sum of my most rapt moments. The highest ecstasy is the attention at its fullest. During these rare moments, I enter a state of mind, a state of being, that extreme attention. Flow. When in a state of flow, I shed any semblance of self-consciousness, and experience an altered perception of time and a heightened sense of reality. Everything seems more real than real. I am not self-absorbed, for there is no self to be absorbed. No musician, only music. No dancer, only dancing.
This is what I am feeling.
***
Chapter 7
Playback
It is night. The rainstorm has blown over. The Good Lord is done raging.
It is so pleasant sitting in the living room with the patio doors flung open. The living room, the patio, the garden, then the drop to the sea. The remnant scent of the rain.
"Mum, let's review the video shoot."
"OK"
"Let me get a bottle of wine. Meanwhile, you can set up your cellphone to playback the video on the widescreen TV."
When I return, the video is already setup, ready to play. I set the wine bottle on the coffee table. I didn't bother with glasses. We'll just swig from the bottle. A bonding quality to the sharing.
"The sea air is a bit chilly. But, I like it. Can I sit back on you like you're a lounge chair, to get your warmth?"
"Sure"
I sit on the rug. He sits behind me like he is the back of a chair. Both his legs extend down each side of my body.
I snuggle into his male form. A bakery warmth. I can't express how much I like this. Our bodies fit perfectly into each other by some intelligent design.
I take a lusty swig of the wine, and pass the bottle to Christian. He does the same.
The video starts.
"How do you feel seeing your mum starkers in widescreen cinematic splendour?"
"Not so very different from when you're in your nude-coloured leotard. And this is art. A performing art."
"Hmmm... you're quite a diplomat. You'll have a successful career in the diplomatic corps."
A chuckle. Some ice is broken.
As the video plays on, I am dancing more and more movements which show my intimate lady bits. I can vaguely feel Christian sporting a growing stiffy. But, I decide to say nothing. I press my back onto him. To let him know I know. I have a welling desire to take good care of this sprout that has sprung up. But, the best I can do now is to press against it. Acknowledge it. A connection of sorts.
***
Chapter 8
Relief
The video ends.
Christian appears quite moved by what he has viewed.
"You've seen me, including my most intimate, in revealing postures. Tell me honestly, as a man, not son, what do you find compelling?"
Sensing his hesitation, egging, "Candour appreciated."
"You look almost pubescent there. Pristine, dainty, like a measured fresh surgical incision, cut real low, in a small soft arc. Sparse fine pubes. Like a child. You look naturally that way in a curious sensual way. Like you grew into this pubescence."
"Oh?"
I think, here he is, my child, looking at another child. But, I do not say anything.
"Anything else?"
"I like your small clit, a tiny finger of flesh, showing ever so slightly out of your slit when you pose tippy toe en pointe. It is as if it is part of the ballet."
"Oh?"
I sense this intimate exchange seems to embolden him a little. He nuzzles my hair in a rare show of affection. He gives me a longing look, then reaches his hand to my upper thigh, feeling me up, then advancing tentatively to an even more forbidden zone.
"We can't. We mustn't..."
"I need to shift position."
He leans forward. He raises both his knees, his soles flat on the floor. I am now sitting between his legs. My back is resting on his chest. His hands are on my thighs. He clamps his strong thighs against the sides of my torso. He appears to relish giving me little crushes.
"I need to adjust a little..."
Hand on my shoulder, he inclines my upper torso forward, to make some space between us. He reaches between us, repositions what I think is his cock so that it lays flat on his chest.
My nipples are steely studs. My pussy, swollen. I lean back. I feel him better now through my thin cotton dress. He is quite big.
I make a sound as though I swallow some imaginary thing. Then, I lightly clear my throat.
I pay closer attention to the erection pressed to my back. He allows himself to become even more prominent, indeed so much, as to enable me to form a pretty accurate picture of his size and shape. Is he throbbing? Am I imagining this? Is he bigger than his dad? He feels so hard, so strained, pressed against my back. Is his skin covering hurting from the stretching? My poor boy. I can't have him hurt himself on my account.
He runs his hand down my thigh. Experimentally at first, then exploratorily.
He wraps his arms around my waist. Secures me to him like a seatbelt. He is rocking his hips, a slight motion, not enough for me to see. I am unsure if he is even conscious of it. But, I feel his cock moving against my back. I am about to say something but...
He murmurs, "Lean forward a little."
I do. He snatches my bottle of lotion from the coffee table.
"You can't. Not now."
Then, I feel it. The motion of the rug. He is fisting himself. He emits a low moan.
"You need to..."
A steady stream of fluid leaks from me. I begin humping my hips back and forth. Back and forth. Can he smell the sex building up from my pussy?
My eyes close to tiny slits. I yank up my dress. Dig my right hand into my panty. Drive a finger inside myself. Pleasure pulses through my loins. I slump back on his shoulder. He is furiously fisting. A savage fury to it. It frightens me a little. Will he inadvertently rip himself apart?
I find my clitoris. Rub it. Moan. I squeeze my braless breast with my free hand.
His hand is creeping up my body. Without the strength to say no, not willing to say yes, I offer no resistance when he covers my other breast and tweaks my stiffening nipple. I thumb my clitoris. I rock myself on my fingers.
It happens. My orgasm starts, grows, matures, rampages through my body, blowing my mind. An orgasm surprises me every time, even though I expect it.
In a low, guttural, hard tone, he cries, "Oh mum, yes".
Here comes the son. My son.
As I imagine the cum spewing from his cock, my pussy spasms. I feel my butthole clench. Nothing in the real world is as beautiful as the illusions of a person about to climax.
I come again.
An orgasm does things to you. It cleans out your soul, and duly refills it. It is the answer to hard drugs. Why does anyone do drugs? For the high. Drugs are fake mysticism. This is better.
I slump back onto his male form. His arms encircle me. He kisses the side of my head. His hand rises to my forehead to brush back an imaginary strand of trailing hair. I smell a raw scent like that of freshly turned earth.
I lay my head on his chest. It feels so good and right. We cuddle in a way a mother and son must never.
***
Chapter 9
Naked
"Let's dance."
I surprise Christian, "Nude..."
I remove my clothing. He doesn't expect this. He feels obliged to strip too. We are naked. Naked as the day naked me gave birth to naked Christian. The origin of species. Mother nature comes full circle.
My dress is still in a heap around my ankles. I decide to let it stay for awhile. A woman standing naked over her dress bunched at her ankles is the arch symbol of eroticism. It carries pleasant associations with the nicest promise of things to come. The stuff of movies. A mother standing naked over her dress at her ankles says a whole lot unspeakably more.
But, is this puddle of dress at my feet a sign or symbol? Sign, like a road sign, points the way to something. Symbol represents something, usually metaphorical. Am I pointing the way to something? Or, am I saying something about me?
For a full minute, we just look at each other in awed silence. Words are unnecessary, superfluous for this occasion. The words we need have not been invented yet.
I am looking at his adult naked body for the first time. Earlier, he was just grazing his body against my back. Titillating blind physical contact. I was drawing pictures in my mind on what his body might be like. Now, I get to verify my imagination.
Only the second naked adult male I have seen in rippling flesh, in my straight and narrow life besides my husband. Hard to believe this of a modern woman, but certifiably true.
But, I don't mind so much. It makes this moment all the more precious. My second is my son. It is so noble and forbidden all at once.
I look down, see his knobby cockhead. A granule of pre-cum leaks out. Then another emerges shyly to the light of day. The male sweat of arousal. All the more precious because he is not even labouring to produce it. It is like you are admiring a Ruben in an air-conditioned art gallery and you sweat from the vision. How hot is that?
I wish I can store this male essence in a tiny clear glass ampoule, seal it from the world, to remind myself forever that this is the first arousal of a son for his mother. More precisely, but mutedly, my son for me. I will string the ampoule into a pretty understated necklace and wear it on me forever. And when my girlfriends twitter, oh, what a lovely, dainty little glass thing, where did you get it? I'll look way too mysterious and say in my huskiest, my son.
As I admire his sensuality, I can't help but evaluate my immoral alternatives.
Christian is looking at me naked in the flesh for the second time after video shooting my nude ballet earlier. But, it appears like this visual experience is different from that one. That nakedness was dressed in a dance performance for the high-minded purpose of art. For cataloguing the art, my version of the performing art form, for posterity. Now, his mother is naked for the singular purpose of showing her goodself to him for his appreciation. Like wine tasting is work, while drinking wine with your partner is something else.
Suddenly, I feel a little shy and awkward. I don't know why. We have come this far. I should think we are beyond that line.
"Mum, you're a sight to behold."
"You're a fine specimen yourself. I raised you well. I claim full credit."
Looking down at himself a little sheepishly, "Yes"
His cock quivers as if nodding in happy mindful consensus.
"My God, Christian. It doesn't take much to get that little thing excited, does it?"
"Mum, turn around, please. I want to see all of you."
"I would've thought you've seen enough of your mother during the video shoot. All those ballet positions."
"I had to focus on the shoot then, attending to lighting, composition, angles and such. I was looking at a dancer. Now, I have my undivided attention on you, my mother."
"Hmmm..."
"Mum, please..."
"Mum, a little variation..."
"Hmm... a visual animal, like your dad."
I pivot slowly. My back is to him.
I bend over to pick up something that the patio wind had blown to the floor earlier. Thanks to my ballet, I am still nimble. I can still bend over with my knees locked, my legs straight. I also take this opportunity to undo the straps of my sandals to take them off.
What can he see? I can only guess.
My hair hanging free and loose, skimming the air. So, this is what people mean when they say let your hair down.
My long bare legs. The pale, slightly glowing translucence of my skin of my back torso. The faint shading of mole dots on the back of my right thigh. I hope he sees them as features that spell character rather than blemishes.
At the top of my legs, the cheeks of a mature woman, longish and curving. I jiggle them a little for motherly effect. Can he see my dark little butthole? And maybe my soft little labia, just barely protruding through my curls? Flashes of glistening pink?
He must be taking in everything in good order. Taking inventory in a private art gallery. The work cut out on the walls. Not an unpleasant occupation.
Is that a silent male sigh? Like one with a reverence reserved for compelling opera moments, or privately held Monets. I flatter myself. I am being a silly old woman with visions of grandeur.
I wait a full half minute before straightening back up. He must know I am doing this on purpose. Not even accidentally on purpose. I am utterly shameless. What mother would show herself this way to her son?
I spy that his erection is waving in the air, thrusting forward, right at me. His balls are swaying slightly. I like that. He is making a powerful statement about his mother. I like that assertiveness in a son.
I don't know what has come over me. A devious stupor, if that makes any sense at all. I decide to up the ante some. My son has already seen me. No harm letting him relish some visual variations. Get to know his mum better.
I raise my right leg to place my foot on the edge of the sofa seat, parting my legs, looking down at myself. I think my son is having a perfect view of my opening to the rest of my interior secrets. I think he may even glean a little pink. I am, once again, shamelessly inviting him to look. I am inducting my son into a secret society. Membership is by invitation. I am inviting.
The inductee's cock is straining. It looks like if I were to just lightly touch the head, I think he will explode all over me. The induction ritual is in progress.
Christian grows harder. Somewhat unchristian to nurse an agonising boner for one's mother. But, the human condition is that way sometimes. I sense that he may lose control anytime now.
I gently and slowly sift my fingers through my pubic hair. Then, I run my middle finger around my opening, caressing my outer lips, pulling them back a little to open myself up. I slide a finger up and down my slit, then repeatedly touching my clitoris, rubbing my finger back and forth. I am feeling myself without even being conscious of it. My opening is moist. My fingers, wet and slippery. What kind of mother would masturbate in front of her son?
The air around us is steeped in the smell of rain. And of sex.
My son's cock is leaking, waving back and forth. He grips it with one hand as if to restrain himself from ejaculating. He must be thinking how erotic and nasty his mother looks. His mother showing herself to him like this. My legs open wide for both of us to see. My puffy lips and all that piquant fluid right at my opening.
This is a moment of precious intimacy between Christian and me. To him, I must be a magnet of raw sexual desire.
I sense from his facial expression that a deep warm feeling is welling and rising in his loins. I think he is close. In the zone.
"Oh mum, oh mum. I'm losing it."
And then, the dam breaks. Sperms start shooting out, hitting me in my thighs, stomach and chest.
I freeze. I have never seen another man ejaculate other than my husband. And most times, he ejaculates inside me, so I don't get to see the fireworks. And in recent years, he is not that festive.
My son is convulsing as more semen spews out, hitting my arm, my thigh, and the arm of the sofa.
"I'm sorry, mum."
The last drops fall off. Oh! Yet a little more. A dribble. Like pre-cum. Except that it is post-cum, if there is such a thing. Mother nature comes full circle.
"Did I do that to you or have you just needed to do that all along?"
Christian is in another world. He doesn't answer. But, words are superfluous.
The member is inducted.
***
Chapter 10
Dance
I start up the music player.
We sway to the slow beat. I move closer to him. My head on his shoulder like a high school sweetheart on a Friday night. His hands on my waist.
We sway such that my leg brushes lightly against his groin. We carry on this way for awhile. My legs bending just enough to brush against his cock every time we sway.
I observe his growing cock bulging out. Ooo, the restorative capacity of youth. Just where do they tap this life force from? We maintain this for a long time relishing the intimacy. Time stands still.
He is now very hard. Too hard for his own good. He pulls me tight to him. The warmth between his legs pushed against me. His hips thrust forward, grinding himself straight into my mound. So bold. This really startles me. I immediately stop and push away from him.
"We can't..."
For the first time in my life, my son looks menacing. Charm and harm. Even dangerous. He looks evil and interesting. I would never have thought this possible of this sweet child o' mine. You think you know your son, but you don't. Is he going to ravage me? Ravage his mum?
I decide to meet him half way. After all, I am not inculpable for his inconvenient heightened state.
I get back to our dance position. He has since softened some. I press close to him. He lodges himself at the junction of my mound and upper thighs. He stiffens a notch. But, it is not at his granite hardest. Not yet. I can detect the desire in his eyes, like a faint light deep in a mineshaft.
For some of us, there comes a moment, one special moment, in our lives when the one person we want in all the world to be with us, to touch us, actually begins to do so. For me, that moment is now.
I feel a wave of confused lust shoot through me as he softly kisses and tongues my naked shoulders with a vigour like they are my extended erogenous zones. I feel as if I am dancing on ground that is floating on water.
My son is nestling between my thighs. Effectively dry humping his mum. What kind of mum would allow her son to insert himself between her thighs while dancing?
His male hands feel rough on my bare back. He holds me for a long time, peering deep into the back of my eyes. And me, his. Me looking at the man behind my son's eyes. Maybe he looking at the woman behind his mother's eyes. We have an identity crisis going. But, I don't mind so much. It is through identity crises that we find ourselves.
We dance this way, his warm hand running up and down my naked back, till the end of the song, and then, into the next one.
It is awfully quiet despite the music. Almost too quiet. It is like rail tracks without trains passing on them have a mysterious silence all their own.
We are doing good. I will heighten my experience with my son a little, since we have come this far.
I tighten my upper thighs grip on him, and then ease off. I feel a sweet ache.
Clench, relax. Clench, relax. Clench, relax.
Christian must be feeling the motherly pulsing pressure on him. It is not strong. But, it is even and steady. Once cause and effect link up, there is no escape.
Christian is in a state. He starts a slow sawing motion. A burrowing motion. I cannot allow this. I will end up flailing like a demented soul. What will my son think of me then? I suspect Christian will react the same too. It will be awkward for us both.
On his out-stroke, I clench my thighs tight. We have to stop.
He is too aroused to think straight. He instinctively presses his engorged head at the juncture crack of my crotch and upper thighs. With one hard roll of his hips, he enters my wet heat, breaking through my defences. Only the second person to enter me.
I don't know what has come over me. I instinctively clamp around him so that he can't move. Entering me but not moving, does that count as my son fucking his mother? He looks like he is being burned alive with the sweetest heat.
Alarmed, whimpering, "No, no. Stop!"
Just then, as if the music system heard me, the song ends. The dancing stops.
Although Christian has disengaged, I can still feel the sensation of his stiff pubic hair on my upper thighs. His presence remains on my flesh. I instinctively clench my junction, only to find that I am clamping myself. Oh god, my pussy loves being stretched by his hard cock. I now have a holy void of uncreated emptiness. A strange space has formed inside me, a kind of pure hollow. This space signifies a simple lack, a nothingness.
I see his glistening erection. Maybe Christian can see the glistening excitement on my thatch? Soft and silent as a new moon, a smile drifts across his face.
I realise that a small streamlet has dribbled down me. My first instinct is to fake an innocent body movement to scratch an imaginary itch, to wipe off the trail of excitement. But, something in me cries to leave it be. It feels so wrong walking around naked with illicit fluids on my leg, in the presence of my son. I feel pleasantly deviant.
"We can't."
I add, "Not tonight."
Now, why did I say that? I really need to digest this in solitude. My son has actually entered me. How far we have traveled, and yet, how little we have moved.
He comes along and makes everything rhyme. Turns my world on its head. It is funny how life works that way.
I go to bed.
I dream that I am trying to eat myself. Why would anyone want to eat herself, whether dreaming or awake? This is some serious weird shit of unquantifiable proportions. What is eating me? Who is eating me?
***
Chapter 11
Figs
The next day...
Christian and I are at the cliff edge of our garden overlooking the moor of sea. We have just finished lunch. We are sipping wine, eating figs, passing the bottle back and forth taking liberal swigs.
"Tell me a good lie."
"Huh?"
"Something which is not uncharacteristic of you to do, but you didn't do."
"Is that the same as something I wish to do, but never did?"
"Not quite."
"In my uni lit class, there was this vivacious lush lecturer, Miss Cumley. She was in her fifties, and looked exactly that to the day."
"She was heartbreakingly beautiful. She had massive sexual capital to deploy, but I never saw her do. Well, it wasn't like she had to do anything. It was all just there. The stuff of childhood dreams and fairytales."
"She lived big. You could see it in her eyes. You just kind of knew, when she sprung out of bed each morning, she would tell herself to live. Live. Live. Live. She pushed each day to the max because tomorrow may not get scheduled. And that took courage. She was the kind of woman who people stopped what they were doing to listen to. She was the kind of woman who should be banned from being an educator because it was not altogether clear what she was teaching."
"My young soul was like a quivering violin string. She wore a simple Christian crucifix necklace. Was she religious? I never did find out. The Jesus figure nestled deep into her cleavage, the slightly twisted chain pressing Him against her left breast in a sort of figurative suffocation."
I interjected, "Is Miss Cumley inspired by Muriel Sparks's teacher character, Miss Jean Brodie, in the classic, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie?"
"Yes in the genre of the compelling influential teacher. But no, in the character."
Continuing, "We did a close reading of Sons and Lovers by DH Lawrence. After the review, she read a poem on figs, also by him, as a kind of closing."
"It went something like this..."
"The proper way to eat a fig, in society
Is to split it in four, holding it by the stump,
And open it, so that it is a glittering, rosy, moist, honied, heavy-petalled four-petalled flower."
"Then you throw away the skin
Which is just like a four-sepalled calyx,
After you have taken off the blossom, with your lips."
"But the vulgar way
Is just to put your mouth to the crack and take out the flesh in one bite.
Every fruit has its secret."
"And the poem meandered on for awhile..."
"After the class, I waited for all the students to leave the classroom. Miss Cumley saw me. She asked if I needed any help in my class assignment. No, all good. I told her I brought her a little something. Is it a shiny apple, she teased? No. I passed a small brown paper bag to her. She opened it. Oh, figs! But, how did I know she would be reading DH Lawrence's Figs today? I said I didn't know I knew."
"And?"
"We ate out."
"Hmm..."
***
Chapter 12
Love
I say this as if it means something, "Your dad will be coming home tomorrow. Let's go inside."
We talk, lying side by side on the rug. This is the first time we are both naked since we danced nude last night.
I lay my arm over his thighs. I play with his balls and cock like one would play with a kitten. He is soft. Slowly, languidly, casually in a world time of our own, a timezone of our own.
I roll his balls around. Ornate articles. I run my finger along his tender cock. One way, then the other way. One way, then the other way.
Now, my right hand grips his base. I wonder how savagely hard I can grip him before he passes out. He grimaces. I think I get it.
My left hand shunts his male length back and forth, back and forth. One way, then the other way.
For some inexplicable reason, my mind flits back to my junior high physics class of Mr John Steele. How weird is this, at a time like this?
Simple harmonic motion is a special type of motion of a body resulting from a dynamic equilibrium between an inertial force, proportional to the acceleration of the body away from the static equilibrium position, and a restoring force on the moving object that is directly proportional to the magnitude of the object's displacement and acts towards the object's equilibrium position. It results in an oscillation described by a sine curve which continues indefinitely, if uninhibited by friction or any other dissipation of energy.
I'm not sure if I am rendering SHM on my son. There is a body, and there is pleasant motion, and a delightful pattern to it all. And he appears to be enjoying this physics.
My finger picks up male droplets. I taste them on my lips. When he shows the first signs of getting hard, I stop my ministrations. He calms down. Then, I begin again.
I do this while idly discussing the Philosophy of Aesthetics with Christian. What happens in our simmering minds when we engage with art, music, nature, poetry, experiencing a play, movie, sports?
His cock, balls. My breasts, derrière, pubes, pussy, my tiny finger of protruding clitoris. They are nature. And those on my person, Mother Nature.
Why is a cock desirable? If we put aside our sexual perspective, if that is at all humanly possible, the cock is not exactly the most elegantly architected of body parts. Gnarly, veiny, stubby, floppy. What makes one cock more desirable than another? All things being equal, why do I prefer my son's cock to someone else's? All things being equal, why does Christian prefer my breasts to someone else's? Is there something else going on?
And then, the Philosophy of Art. How artists imagine, create and perform works of art, as well as how people use, enjoy and critique art. I gave birth to Christian. I raised him from newborn to adult. Am I the creator artist of his beautiful cock? If he is my work of art, can I use and enjoy my art as I please?
Curiously, I love seeing my son when he is not hard. I love his tender softness. The charm of his malleability, and my power to shape it. A moving art.
In popular culture, all we gush about are straining erections. We celebrate them like they are an end unto themselves.
We reverse our collaboration.
We reconfigure ourselves. Side by side. Talking.
I open up a little for my son. Wide enough to be accessible, but not so open as to be lewd.
He plays with my clitoris. When he stokes me up to the point where my tiny finger of tender flesh protrudes out of my slit, he just stops everything, content just to admire it for its own beauty. Here we go. The Philosophy of Aesthetics. It is not highfalutin scholarly conversational abstraction. It happens. It is real. My son is admiring my clitoris. My observing my son observe my clitoris is yet another level of the Philosophy of Aesthetics.
After the longest time, he puts his hand on my stomach. He slides a finger over my slit. Enough to make me moist, just short of wet.
The erotic is all about calibration. The sweet spot is where you don't quite know where you are precisely, but where it is all good.
He inserts his finger in my pussy, soaks up the fluid and uses it to caress my clitoris. He gets my juices ebbing then flowing.
He returns my favour. When he senses, with a little signaling help from me, that I am creeping to a high, he stops. I rest. I climb down some. But not so much as to have to restart from ground zero.
We do it again. Starting, stopping, resting, talking.
Oh my god! I can imagine living the rest of my life this way in a sort of Nietzschean eternal recurrence tizzy, stopping only for food, washroom and sleeping breaks! It is excitement and compatibility I have never imagined possible. A living dream. We hike to the top of things. Dive to the bottom of other things.
We reposition our bodies again. He is stretched out, lying on his side. His cock is pointing and pulsing. A life force apart, of its own.
I am lying on my side too, facing his groin. I slowly slide my face against his raging cock. My cheeks feel the hotness of his straining son meat. I glide my face up and down along one side of his cock, then moving to the other side. I turn the other cheek. I do this again and again pressing my motherly cheeks against his cock harder and harder each time. I can now feel the texture of the meat. I feel the engorged vein too. My son and me, we are so close.
Whispering, "Dad will be back tomorrow..."
He gets it.
He sits in the chair. His cock is pointing and gesturing in his lap. Does he like it this way?
I face him, kneeling in between his legs. I bend my head down. Putting my hands behind my back, handsfree, I begin to graze my face against his straining cock. I let my face, my cheeks feel his hotness. My face gliding up and down one side of his cock, then moving to the other side with my other cheek. My son is in my face.
I raise my head a little. I hover over the tip of his cock. Look down at it, lowering my face. I part my lips. I take my son in my mouth. Just the head of his erection. No more. I am not greedy. Gently sucking. Then just as quickly, I stop and stand up.
I straddle the chair. My soft pubic curls and the warmth of my pelvis are pressed against his chest. I look down at him. Reach down to grip his erection. Hold it straight up. Like a spire. I lower myself, sliding his cock back and forth, between my legs, until it finds the centre of my opening.
His head is swollen and sensitive. It is rubbing my warm, slippery, wrinkled flesh. I feel myself parting to let him in. I feel myself close up. My pussy envelopes his head. I hold it there for a second. Then, in one swift movement, I sit down on him, face to face, thrusting his cock farther in me. He doesn't expect this. A little shocked. full, his cock sliding snugly against all sides of me. I moan, heat flowing from my body to his erection. The silken smoothness is overcoming, pushing all other thoughts of mine aside. Only this matters. Here. Now. Him. Like nothing I have known before. He grits his teeth as if to stave off ejaculating for a little longer. A delirious hunger in my heart. Bringing my mouth close to his ear, I speak barely above the rushing wind sounds from the patio.
"You're only my second. I'm so glad it is you."
"What?"
In a grievously hurt tone, "So, you think your mum is a slut?"
"No"
"Well, I am."
"Huh?"
"I am a slut. Just for you tonight. One night."
"Thank you, mum, for saving yourself for me."
In a tone more serious than I had intended, "This will be our only time, ever."
Feathery hidden muscles wrap around his cock, pulling him, taunting him farther in.
It appears like this cock is no longer his. It has taken a renegade life of its own. Heavy, ramrod hard, aching for relief. A heaving serpent. His body's energy, all of it in his arms, legs, chest, all of it gathered into his hard-on. My insides feel on fire. His cock is mine to play as I want. I try to draw him deeper into my softness. He seems to think he is in as far as I can take him. But no. With a final push, I devour him to the base. My arms are wrapped around his neck.
My face an inch from his, nose to nose, eyes on him, "Is this the way you want to fuck your mother?"
"Remember, you get to do it only once, so, decide wisely."
My nostrils are filled with the scent of our sweat and the aroma of wine on his breath.
I turn my head away. My voice low. Not meant for him.
In a soft mutter, "Please forgive me for this. I know how terrible I am."
To be that close to him. That is what I want. I know it in the instant it happened. My face, my breath up against his. My pussy encasing his sweet cock. Nothing can compare. Nothing comes close.
I sit up a little, straightening my back, moving back and forth with just the lower part of my body. Pushing my pelvis and clitoris against my son hard. I find a rhythm. I begin grinding. He gets it too. He pushes with me, meeting my clitoris each time. This is teamwork, collaboration of the highest order.
My face is still in front of his. Nose to nose. My breasts cushioning his chest. He must be feeling the hardness of my steely nipples.
As our rhythm continues, slow and steady, we sink into raw sensuality. I am so small that I feel a large beast is inside me, totally consuming me. I emit these inarticulate little cries as I come to a crisis, tightening my leg muscles, and squeezing my inner muscles around his cock, massaging him from my insides. I have never felt anything remotely like this before during lovemaking. We exist only in the now.
He appears overcome by it. He twists his face down, bites my nipples hard. He pulls them way too far with his lips. A painful bliss. I wince.
"So, is this the way you want it?" I ask rhetorically. "OK then."
In turn, I bite his neck with my teeth. Hard. A little blood. He gasps. Both of us trying to hurt the other a little. I dig my fingernails into his back, leaving marks. My heat all down his front. I feel a chill down my back from the patio wind.
As we rock, his hands find their way under me, searching for my buttocks.
Sitting astride him has caused my buttocks to pull apart, each side resting on his thighs. His middle finger finds the divide.
His breath grows heavier. I match mine with his until we are in unison and harmony, rocking and breathing together, like musicians who have played all their lives together.
His finger creeps downward, inch by inch, until meeting the small anus, already wet from my sweat. He rubs his finger around the opening. My heat building fast, the rocking grows harder, quicker, then with abandon. I raise my thighs, tightening around his waist. He slips his finger in my anus. Just a little. It goes in so easy.
"Oh," is all I can manage.
We rock. His finger moving in and out, deeper inside, up to his knuckle and back. I pant right at his ear, then biting my lip to stifle a groan. More panting. Stifling another groan, this one louder.
I turn my head. My breath is all over his face. Heavy breathing. He must be smelling the sex building up from my pussy, rising to his nose. Panting loud and quick, non-stop.
I freeze suddenly. Both of us still, in anticipation for several seconds. I am yielding to the sensations of his finger in my anus, and my pussy impaled on his hard cock.
Suddenly, quickly, I heave, squeeze my arms tight around his head. Will I crush his skull?
I grind my mound and vulva into him. Hot flesh on hot flesh. He groans. I am beginning to enjoy our steady lovemaking movement. Not as some mechanical repetition anymore, or some prescribed ceremony. He fucks with a spring in his movements and a song in his heart. My body feels a natural desire now to make each movement more enjoyable than the previous.
He moves my mouth onto his. Not a kiss. A scream. From my mouth into his throat, to muffle the noise. Holding my lips on his as I ride my orgasm, on and on, until I peak.
On my downslide, there is a quivering in my stomach. I feel his spasms against me. My limbs are shaking. Guttural sounds in my throat as his pulsations begin.
His cock is getting hotter. It looks like his sperms are moving up, pushing themselves toward the head of his cock.
I feel him letting go. Launching. A fountain erupting inside me. Three, maybe four bursts. Semen oozing. A seminal moment. The magic of passing it from him into me. All of it in the dark void we never see, only feel. Sweet seconds of ecstasy.
I have a second climax as he comes. Shudders and groans. My legs squeezing against him. Then, it is over.
We cling to each other in the chair. Beads of perspiration dribbling from skin to skin, like we are one being.
"Nothing can exceed this. Nothing."
An orgasm isn't just a high, but the unique, peculiar high that nothing but fucking can give. To say that the joy of fucking is simply one joy among many others is like saying that the earth is merely one planet among others.
I feel a wonderful lightness in my body. A ridiculous happiness. It seems to come from nowhere. And everywhere. I don't think I can ever be this happy again. It is just not possible. It is such a luminous day. I doubt that there will be another day like this.
Possibilities. I feel possibilities in my being.
I want to be a singer in the park. A violinist in the piazza. A dancer in the rain. A surfer philosopher. Roll in the grass with my dog. Oh, I don't have a dog, I'll get one. Run down the hill screaming. Pirouette till I fall over. Then, writhe a floor dance till my dress is rag.
I want to be in France with Christian. I want to ride a blue bicycle around a quaint Brittany village. Christian and I swig out of a wine bottle, eating cheese and a baguette. This thought makes me smile to myself. I resolve to get delightfully drunk and run into a wall.
We cuddle. I lay my head on his shoulder. It feels so good and right. I listen to him breathe. He entwines his fingers within mine. I love this time. So simple. Yet, will be so memorable.
***
Chapter 13
Afterglow
Later...
It is just before dark.
We are languishing naked on the bed. He sits cross-legged. I am stretched out on my back. My head in his lap.
He is playing with my nipples. He touches me there. Slips a teasing finger in to feel my wetness beginning.
"I'm a little frightened of where we are going," I whisper as if there is an interloper in the shadow.
"But then, I'm obsessed with this," turning my head in his lap just enough to kiss the shaft of his cock, which I am holding beside my ear like it may tell me something. The greatest of all works of art is before me.
I play with his balls and his cock. It is soft. I love the tenderness. I love the way it can transform itself into a multiplicity of personalities. Pinkish tender and sensitive. Darkly menacing and lethal.
I roll his balls around. Trace my forefinger along his shaft. Use my forefinger to absorb his male arousal. The finger painting I used to do in my art class under Mr Arturo flits to mind. I finger paint on Christian's head, doodling cryptic designs on his tender canvas of flesh.
"You've nice balls. So tender. And yet, so heavy," as I hold them.
I caress them lightly with my fingers. Cup them with my hand, as if taking their mass and weight with scientific precision. Then gently massaging them, soothing them some, as if my weighing them has traumatised them a bit.
"You feel so good, son."
Then back to his cock, stroking, brushing his head lightly, then stroking more. Like a precious pet. The kind who are seemingly docile and vulnerable, yet, may snarl at me, scratch at my eyes if I am too close, without warning.
"Mum, I'm way too close. You need to stop."
Is he telling me that he has some expectations going forward, so he has to conserve his capacity? I did say that the last time was to be our only time. Or, is he thinking that our only time is the time we have together before his dad returns tomorrow.
We look at each other in silence. His eyes are sad. And yet, they gleam. The gleam is a bit too bright. This longing teaches Christian and me humility and wisdom. The need to suffer a little to be happy alot. It should add a few new elements to our inventory in understanding who we are.
He smiles. His smiles are so slight. But, say so much.
***
Chapter 14
Rainstorm
I look out of the bedroom window, to the garden, and the sea beyond. Black rain clouds, low and fast moving. They are rolling in from the sea.
Whispering, "Do you smell the rain coming? I can. Another storm."
"It's moving fast. It'll be here in a few moments."
I nudge Christian, "Let's go out to the garden, up to the cliff edge."
"But, it's going to storm."
"That's the whole idea. To be at mother nature's heaving bosom."
He begins to put on his t-shirt.
"No. As we are. I want us to feel the lash and slash of the elements."
***
At the cliff edge.
I kiss back. Then we kiss again. We are still locked. Naked. My lips to his. A wave of rain sweeps over us. Torrential. Coming down in sheets. Startling cracks of thunder all of a sudden. Neither of us care. We keep kissing. The sweet taste of his tongue blending with the salt spray of the cold sea rain on our lips.
We pull our faces back. We are laughing. Thoroughly wet. We are alone in the garden, and seemingly, in the world. This garden is the world.
Christian pulls me to my feet. He holds me in his arms and starts to dance slowly. Right there at the cliff edge, with rain pouring, and crackling thunder above. The rain begins pelting my back and my legs, my face. The smell of the rain, fresh and salty, is overpowering.
What if we slip and fall off the cliff? The news headline screaming: Naked mother and son found dead at foot of cliff. What will Christopher think? What will the world think?
We turn slowly, small dancing movements, with unexpected brisk movements in between. I just love his spontaneity.
"I know you're like me," I say, as I wipe streams of water off my face.
We keep dancing.
We stand close. His arm around my waist. My arm around on his back. My hand holding on to his shoulder. Not a word between us. None needed. We listen as the storm runs its course over the coast, washing away the heat and humidity. Christian looks like he wants to take me right there and then, in the slashing rain.
"You don't think we're normal?"
"No. I think normal people can find happiness in their daily routines. But you and I, Christian, you and I are destined for a different kind of life. A normal life doesn't suit our kind. This is why we're dancing in the lashing rain at this cliff edge where we may slip and fall to death."
"Yes. But, what a beautiful place to die in."
The garden cliff edge. A dizzy precipitous drop.
I think of Kierkegaard's "fear of falling". Anxiety, dread and angst are unfocused fear. When the person looks over the edge, she experiences a focused fear of falling. But at the same time, she feels a terrifying impulse to throw herself intentionally off the edge. That experience is anxiety or dread because of her complete freedom to choose to either throw herself off, or to stay put. The mere fact that she has the possibility and freedom to do something, even the most terrifying of possibilities, triggers immense feelings of dread. The dizziness of freedom.
I feel compelled to peer down the edge just once more.
I think back to my blindfold game I once played with my older brother on our treehouse, at the bottom of our garden. I was twelve, and he, fourteen. We were a close pair. Sibling partners in juvenile crime. All the while, I was fearful of falling off the treehouse. And yet, I did not wish the game to end. And when at last I thought I fell, I did not. And here I am now, on a sort of overhang of treehouse, only higher, and me, older. And instead of my bro, my son.
I lead Christian by the hand to a low outcrop of smooth flat rock. The rock is alongside the garden cliff edge. When we sit at the cliff edge with our legs dangling down, the rock serves as a convenient coffee or wine mini table. Now, it will serve a new purpose.
I kneel in front of the rock, and rest my chest on it. Once I am so positioned, I spread my legs apart.
I peer to my side. The edge drop is a mere ejaculation spitting distance away. Perhaps a foot? Instinctively, I want to move away. But, I stay, relishing the anxiety. I am suspended in a place oscillating between fear and excitement. Live a little at the edge is how we should live every now and again.
Christian stops to study me for awhile. My crotch is totally exposed.
My son feels between my thighs. He slips two fingers into me. The sounds of my creamy, viscous wetness can be heard by both of us. I let out a long, low groan as his fingers explore deeper.
"What do I smell like?"
"I smell a raw feminine scent. It has a wonderful smell of the sea at night. Clean and pure. The faint scent of sea air."
"How do you know the smell is of me and not the sea?"
I feel his nose nudging at my lips in quest of feminine truffle.
"It is you."
He removes his fingers. Moves forward so that his cock is poised. Holds my lips apart. He moves the head of his cock between them, ready at the entrance.
He must be thinking it is seriously lusty to fuck his mother this way, "Are you alright with this, mum?"
"Yes", I reply in a low shy voice.
And then, nothing happens. I wait. And wait.
"Son, do it. Fuck your mother."
"If you want to be fucked, you must push your pussy back onto my cock."
I thrust back. He sinks the whole way into me. He cries out as I impale myself on him. I feel him in the depths of my belly. He grasps my thighs and pulls me tightly onto him, and holds me there.
He pulls back, almost to the point of leaving my body, before starting to take me with long, slow strokes. I moan the whole time as he slides in and out of me, the sound punctuated by shrill cries every time he sinks into me. He begins to increase the pace of his thrusts. My moans turn into wails.
He reaches round my thigh with one of his hands and explores with his fingers until he finds my swollen clitoris. He begins to caress the hardened nub as he pounds faster and faster.
I push myself up on my arms, throw my head back, and let out one long groan. My breathing is out of kilter, for the air seems thin, poorly oxygenated, second-hand.
It is around the hundredth stroke that I feel like I have passed through something. This is what it feels like. Pass through is the only way I can describe it. Like my body has passed clean through a stone wall. At what exact point I feel like I have made it through, I cannot tell for sure. But suddenly, I notice I am already on the other side. I am convinced I have made it through. I don't know about the logic or the process or the method involved. I am simply convinced of the reality that I passed through. After that, I don't have to think anymore. Or, more precisely, there isn't the need to try to consciously think about not thinking. All I have to do is go with the flow and I will get there automatically. If I give myself up to it, some sort of power will naturally push me forward.
I am in the midst of deep exhaustion that I have totally accepted, and the reality is that I am still able to continue fucking, and for me, there is nothing more I can ask of the world. Since I am on autopilot, if someone tells me to keep on fucking, I may well have fucked beyond a thousand strokes. It is weird. But at the end, I hardly know who I am, or what I am doing. This should be a very alarming feeling, but it doesn't feel that way. By then, fucking has entered the realm of the metaphysical. First, there comes the action of fucking, and accompanying it, there is this entity known as me. I fuck, therefore I am. And this feeling grows particularly strong as I enter my climax.
I see a rising cloud of butterflies of every hue. I see their spread of wings as they bask in the sun. All my butterflies line up and take flight with excitement.
I emerge from a dark tunnel and find myself in the middle of a Rio carnival. I collapse helplessly back onto the rock.
Christian has explosives strapped to his loins. He continues pounding into me for what seems like an age, but can actually have been no more than seconds, before I feel my son's orgasm surging, welling up.
I encourage, "Keep going. Push up on your mother and sweat. Don't stop until the angels sing."
An eruption of sexual self. One more spurt. His last. He is in an extravagant mood. One more. All spent now.
I am both depleted and full all at once. A strange feeling. After he climbs down, he nuzzles, then kisses me, to thank me for making the moment possible.
He pulls out of me, knowing that as I come down from my high, my muscles will contract pretty quickly, sigh back to where they came. To maintain the contact between us, he puts his hands on my shoulders and gently massages them. He lifts himself and kneels upright, enabling him to reach round me and cup my breasts. I let my head fall back against him. He kisses me tenderly on my neck.
It is a moment of love and perfect formal sexual resolution. Only our second together.
"Mum, you look pensive. What's playing in your mind?"
"I'm feeling curiously nostalgic. For a life I never had. For what could have been."
I loop my arms around his neck. Draws him to me. Kisses him.
***
In the aftermath of erotic bluster, I feel a double stab of guilt. I am now carnally acquainted with my son.
My husband returns tomorrow. Will this be the only time? The biggest issue of our relationship is the definition of our relationship.
It comes back to me. He buries his lovely hard cock inside me. When inside, it radiates heat and hardness, and strength and joy. When he pulls back, I burn with the desire to be filled again. I have never felt this alive. I have never been this alive. So many pleasures and moments of profound disquiet.
The inconvenient pangs of the taboo and infidelity needle me. I should be feeling properly shameful.
What did Schopenhaeur say? By Free Will, you can choose whatever you desire. But, you are not free to choose your desires. Your desires choose you.
I recall Nietzsche, who had asked what if one night, a demon steals into your bedroom in your loneliest loneliness, and says to you: This life as you now live and have lived, you'll have to live it again and again indefinitely. There'll be nothing new in it. Every pain and every joy, and every thought and sigh, and everything unspeakably small or great in your life must return to you, all in the same succession and sequence.
ask myself that if this is the case, this "eternal recurrence", will I cry out in despair over such a prospect? Or, will I think it is the most wonderful outlook ever? If indeed I experience despair, then, it logically follows that I am not happy with the way I live my life.
Still, I feel a bit uneasy. Has the dark shadow really disappeared? Or is it inside me, concealed, waiting for its chance to reappear? Like a clever thief hidden inside a
house, breathing quietly, waiting until everyone is asleep. I have looked deep inside myself, trying to detect something that might be there. But just as my consciousness is a maze, so too is my body. Everywhere I turn, there is darkness, and a blind spot. Everywhere I find silent hints, everywhere a surprise is waiting for me. All I have to go on are experience and instinct.
I look up at the sky, wondering if I'll catch a glimpse of kindness there. But I do not. All I see are indifferent summer clouds drifting over the sea. And they have nothing to say to me. Clouds are always taciturn.
We languish at the garden edge abyss, gazing into the far horizon, waiting for the future to show up.
***
Epilogue
Fast forward.
Some place on this lonely planet at the pointy interesting end of South America. Puerto Toro to be precise, the southernmost village in the world. This is how far we have journeyed, and how far we have moved. This is how far we have come. Tierra del Fuego. Land of fire.
Do you know, if you look at the map of South America, it looks like a lush ballerina on permanent en pointe. All that blustery fire at her slender pivot of toes, and yet the elegant comely thrusting poise. This explains why South Americans are South Americans. And why the rest of us are not. Am I a silly old woman romanticising things to mush? But, what is there to romanticise. South Americans are the very definition of romance.
Christian and I are hunkered over a small table at the Restaurante Flor de Carne, just across the street from the hotel. We sit outside in the open air cafe, right at streetside. We are leaning close in to each other. I have something to tell him...
The End