NUDIST MUM VISITS SON

My cellphone chimes. A message from my son, Seb. Almost conspiratorially, he confides that he has a special gift for me. I wonder what special gift that might be, that he couldn't give me during our Christmas gathering at home. He says it is too intimate to bring home. Intimate? Sons don't give mums intimate things. I naturally assume it might be something sexy to wear. Hmm... all very uncharacteristic of my son. What's brewing?

***

I visit Seb at his apartment in the city. I do that periodically every 3 to 4 weekends. This visit, I am staying longer than usual, for a week.

He is a little sheepish in handing the gift to me, which I think is really cute.

***

I guess I should reveal at this point that I am a practising home nudist when I am at home with my husband. I don't belong to any nudist club or enlightened organised movement sister or brotherhood sworn to the cause.

No, my husband doesn't partake in this celebration of the body temple. He regards my nudism with a degree of fascinated hilarity, in the vein of women obsessing over yoga, pilates, organic food, keto diet, eastern religions and philosophies, and the like in mindless faddish cycles. In other words, fluff.

I have intimated in passing to my son about my home nudism. He is supportive. But, I have never been naked in his presence before, be it in my home, his apartment or anywhere.

We are not prudes cowering under a watchful God's metaverse omnipresence and omniscience. But, not particularly liberal either. My son has never seen me in anything more revealing than a matronly 1-piece swimsuit. The last time I saw my son's genitals was when I was nursing him through a bout of high fever when he was fourteen.

***

To my knowledge, my son is not a nudist. But, he has encouraged me to practise my usual nudism in his apartment. No reason not to, he says. His home is my home.

His studio apartment is on the top floor of a high rise block, a massive erection on the wooded slope of a hillock at the edge of the city. It is a cosy nest of a place.

Modern without being clinical and impersonal. Kitchenette. Bathroom. A kind of main room, which is subdivided into a living room cum office area, and a bed area. Its nicest feature is an open roof patio.

The view, a blend of sprawling cityscape and nature, is inspiring. Seen from the patio, the city skyline seems as flimsy as a hallucination. A mist envelopes the building tops. The apartment, particularly the open patio, has that rare combination feel of expansiveness and coziness. The kind of experience train travel provides.

The entire apartment has 360 degree privacy, looming over the neighbourhood. Quite ideal for home nudism, chirps my son. I can sunbathe on the patio, commune with the elements.

My son hasn't said anything about whether he will join me nude, to accompany me, if I do decide to bare myself to the elements. I guess he feels awkward about saying it. And if he does say it, and be nude with me, how will we handle his dad?

Do I need to get his permission? The word "permission" sounds so dated in today's world. Husbands don't own their wives. Like, oh, by the way, darling, when I next visit Seb at his apartment, are you cool if I continue my nudism practice there? Will Seb be nude too, he'll ask. Well, I don't know about that. I guess it will be up to the lad.

Do we even need to tell my husband at all? If we do, how will he react? If we don't tell him, is it right? Am I, kind of, cheating on him? And this is a mum and son situation. It is not exactly broad social custom for a mum and her adult son to be naked in a confined small apartment over a weekend. Maybe seasoned nudists may think nothing of this. But, we are not a nudist family by any measure.

And, I guess males have the added anxiety of sporting a rise at the most inconvenient of moments. I wonder how Seb and I would react in such an eventuality? Probably nonchalantly crack some bawdy joke. A glorious son rise. Rising to the occasion. A pointed reaction.

Ah, but this is frivolous wishful thinking, that a young vital lad would have any interest at all in his mature, venerable matriarch, let alone be mildly aroused.

And God forbid, it is not just my son. What if a dribble of arousal runs down my thighs? Most women at my age get drier, especially around menopause. I am fortunate. I still get fairly wet down there. That is not a problem for me. Which is also my problem in this situation. What if my son sees my copious arousal? Probably nonchalantly crack some bawdy joke. Mum, chill, just go with the flow...

As I'm overthinking this, I sense a dampness in motion. A run. Ebb is now flow. I feel that deviant creeping emotion. A rising tide. Mother nature has her own sweet way of carrying on. Why am I like this? People say the biggest sexual organ in a human is the brain. Is that a single violin in the shadows playing one long note of longing?

Hmmm... it's complicated, to say the least. I can well understand why my son doesn't want to traipse into this moral minefield.

***

Chapter 2

Gift

I unbox the gift there and then.

Surprise, surprise! I see sheer lace. I uncover the lace.

In the past, unbox means exactly that. Unbox the gift. Unwrap it. Today, in social media lingo, there is an implicit expectation that you do a whole lot more.

It turns out to be a bullet vibrator. Not the most original or outlandish of intimate gifts on the Richter scale of playthings. But hey, this is a son's considered gift for his mum. Rather forward of him. Bold of him.

He is keen that I should have more gratification time than I currently have with his dad, who is not getting any younger, faithful to the immovable laws of nature. I recall Seb and I had discussed in passing, in one of our less guarded moments after a bit of festive imbibing cheer, that I do have a less-animated toy that I enjoy using regularly, although it isn't a vibrator. Maybe he wants me to just enjoy something different. Something more compelling.

Anyway, I am very pleased with it. It looks a lovely little thing that I can easily stash away in my bag amongst my myriad lady things, and can bring with me wherever I go.

It has a battery in already. Batteries included. How conveniently empowering. And enabling.

After the initial surprise, a little awkwardness sets in. Maybe Seb must be thinking that he has overdone it this time, crossed a maternal red line. We are both a little too squeamish to say anything to each other, other than the usual thank-you pleasantries, as if he just gifted me a box of the finest truffle chocolate that a son's money can buy. To soothe his agony some, I flash him a fiendish grin just short of a smirk. His tension lightens a notch. Maybe mum is shocked but mutedly pleased?

***

We spend the rest of the day shooting the breeze, catching up on this and that. In the evening, Seb sets up a pull-out single bed which he uses when stray friends sleep over, and whenever I visit. I setup the bedsheet and quilt.

Seb sleeps on his usual king-size bed as he needs the cushiony real estate more than I do given his larger body build.

We stay up well past midnight. I go to the bathroom. I change into a t-shirt and a modest panty. At home, I sleep nude. But, this is not my home even if Seb insists it is.

Seb is already in his bed. He has a sheet over his lower torso with both his legs angled, sticking out from under the sheet. I try to piece his legs to his upper torso, but curiously I can't. They don't align and connect. It is as if they belong to another person of a similar build. Why is that?

Is he sleeping nude? The open patio doors let the cool night air in. I switch off the light. We say our goodnights.

***

Chapter 3

Morning

The sun wakes me up by shining right into my eyes. I get up. I go to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. Heading back to my bed, I stop dead in my tracks. Lying on his back with the morning sunshine on his body, is my beautiful naked son. The sheet he uses to cover himself with is completely off.

The lad is no longer a lad but a formidable man. Muscular chest. Light chest hair. A thicket of dark pubic hair. His uncut morning wood, loud and proud, pointed toward the ceiling. His right leg straight down. His left thigh ninety degrees to his right thigh. His maleness in full glory.

Two lovely egg-shaped testicles hang down between his open legs. Not so taut as to be herculean. Not so loose as to be fragile. Sweet child o' mine.

I spend 10 minutes just looking. Just looking in a way a mother should not look. I study this lovely gamey English meat. I wonder why the whole world is not made of English.

How do we judge good architecture. Like the Sagrada Família. Like a massive erection of post-industrial glass and steel construction in the financial district. That sensation of being diminished and enlarged at the same time.

You can only fall in love for the first time once. I have fallen in love with a cock for the first time. This cock. I feel it in such a deep and fundamental way. The heart has its reasons which reason cannot know. A strange space has formed inside me, a kind of pure hollow. This space signifies a simple lack, a nothingness.

I so long to scratch an itch that hasn't come yet. I think... Then, I immediately try to unthink it.

As though by instinct, I squeeze my legs closer, trying to hide traces of shameful need and desire, even though no one is watching me. But, is this shame or guilt? Much sexual fluids have been spilled on this question by humanity over eons. In any case, it is not like I have done anything.

This image before me. Is it art or pornography? Art, good art, is not an expression of emotion. The artist is not conveying a sentiment, but rather a form of knowledge. A window into the true nature of reality. Good art also transcends the passions. Anything that increases desire increases suffering. Anything that reduces desire reduces willing, alleviates suffering. When we behold a work of art, we are not craving anything. This is why pornography is not art. It is the exact opposite of art. The sole purpose of pornography is to stir desire. If it fails to do so, it is considered a failure. Art aims for something higher. If the only reaction we have to a still-life of a bowl of cherries is hunger, the artist has missed the mark.

I am viewing live pornography. Shame watches me like a dog. I hear in my mind: boner, boner, erection, hardon, woody, boner,

boner, boner. What is the matter with me?

Maybe I am too harsh on myself? I don't have a thing for him, for my son. But, that doesn't mean I can't see him for what he is. A gorgeous young man. Sweet yet manly face. Hot, tight body. I guess, in that way, it is like appreciating a voluptuous sculpture at the art gallery. I can admit that something is beautiful without needing to break in and take it home with me.

It must be the warmth of the sun on his body. Seb wakes. I am kind of glad he wakes. Lays to rest my awful dilemma. Him asleep, me covetous, I bear the full moral burden. Him awake with me, my moral burden is halved. Oh, what a heterogeneous maze of nonsense am I overthinking!

He stretches and arches his back causing his cock to be even more pronounced than before.

I am wet and tingling. You know me. How I am that way. I already told you so earlier. I cannot bear the scent of my own arousal. It arouses me more.

I sit on the sofa and watch Seb. He sits up, rubs his eyes in a kind of happy daze, and looks at me. Every available inch on his face bursts into a smile. Mums live, and some die many times over, for moments like this.

"Good morning, mum."

I almost climax when he stands up and stretches, his erection bouncing up and down. I can be easily aroused that way. Seeing the look on my face, he realises he is not only naked, but has a massive morning wood.

"Oh mum, I didn't realise... I'm so sorry."

Cupping his balls in his hands and trying his best to cover his hardon, he makes a beeline to the bathroom. His cute butts, they march him along.

He leaves the bathroom door open. I suppose this is a hardwired habit from living alone. I hear him urinating. Then, he showers.

I am still wet. I get up and go to the kitchen to check if the coffee is ready. I pour myself one. Walk out to the patio. Sipping my coffee, I cannot take my thoughts off my naked son. Body so muscular. Lovely body hair. A definitive maleness about it, but not a crass caveman.

His cock is huge, a lot bigger than his dad's. I have never seen one so long and thick. Formidable, and yet, a certain aesthetic tender quality to it. A regal demeanour.

Not that I am particularly worldly about these things. This is only the second adult male I have seen in the flesh. Oh, what a humdrum sexual résumé I have. But still, I know this is premium meat. Premium mum-fed red meat.

Now, what did Freud say? The unconscious. Nothing comes out of the blue. There are no accidents and no coincidences. So, everything is coming to the fore for me.

I am getting wetter just thinking about Seb's huge erection. Sipping my coffee, I can't help but fondle my wet self there. My puffy lips parting as my finger sinks in.

"Mum..."

Taking my hand away, I stand up.

"The patio."

He is standing in the doorway still wet from his shower. His towel around his waist. He looks at me sheepishly.

"I'm really sorry. I just wasn't thinking."

"Don't worry. I know it's an accident. Anyway, I quite enjoyed seeing how... adult you've become."

"Thank you, mum. I'm so glad you're not upset."

"You know, you're only the second adult male I've seen in rippling flesh."

Continuing, "You already know I'm a home nudist. Nudity doesn't make me feel uncomfortable or turn me off."

A pause.

"It's just that... I kind of, not expected seeing you ...err. Well, you know what I mean. The last time I saw you was when you were fourteen, hot and bothered with high fever."

"LOL! I guess I was just as surprised. I'm glad we're both good."

"Sit down. Make yourself comfy. I will get more coffee."

From the kitchen, I see Seb naked in the patio, toweling himself. Returning with the coffee pot, I pour the coffee. Seb has thrown his towel on the lounger. He is standing naked enjoying the glorious combination of cool morning air and warm sun. I hand him his coffee. I sit down.

I sit there for a long time, sipping my coffee, looking at him. This is all very strange. I'm supposed to be the seasoned nudist. I don't even know if Seb is a nudist. And here I am, he starkers, me dressed.

I can't help but think that my son has upstaged me. Did he engineer this whole thing?

Seb sensing me, "Mum, if you're uncomfy with me, I can put on something."

"Oh no! It's just that I can't get over how grown up and manly you've become."

A pause.

Continuing, "Turn around. Let me look at you properly."

I can't help but admire how his muscular back tapers down to a narrow waist, and then, a round bubble butt. His legs are muscular from his distance running routine.

"Your assessment, mum?"

"I am suitably awed."

A pause.

"You're really handsome. You know, when you were six years old, your dad and I thought of selling

you?"

He sits on the lounger facing me. His legs well apart giving me an unobstructed view of his large soft uncut penis and large sac. An artwork in search of an artist. I am that artist. I instinctively open my legs a little wider for no particular reason.

We talk all morning about this and that.

"Seb, are you a nudist?"

"Truthfully, I don't really know. If one is living alone in an apartment with absolute privacy, including in the open patio, and is careless about one's state of dress or undress simply because it doesn't matter one way or the other, because there is no one else at home, is that really nudism? Or, just being practical?"

"I see what you mean. I guess I've a different perspective at home because I'm nude but your dad isn't. Always the consideration for another person, even though your dad is used to my nudity."

"Why doesn't dad just join you?"

"A nudist finds putting on clothes bothersome. Your dad, the reverse. Taking off clothes is a bother. I guess his mindset is that if he takes them off, he'll have to put them on again eventually. Double bother. If dressed, he stays dressed all day."

"Hmmm... that sounds like classic dad alright."

A bit nervously, "Mum, would you like to get comfy and join me?"

"Oh, I don't know... Yes, I'm a practising home nudist. That is just me alone. But, I don't think I'm ready for that just yet here. Maybe later..."

"I understand, mum."

"Any plans for today?"

"I'd like to take you out to my fave Thai for lunch. Chef Khun Kittibun was a classmate of mine. His fiery Tom Yum will singe your insides."

"Sounds good!"

"And, I've Georgia on my mind."

"Do I know her?"

"We visit an art gallery where there is an exhibition on Georgia O'Keeffe's works."

"Is she the one who paints close-up and large-scale flower paintings?"

"Yes. There is a sensual quality to her floral depictions. Roses flowering vulgarly. Petals opening up more than they should on dainty stalks. Some even menacing."

"Hmmm... Are you over-interpreting her works?"

"Do you know that petals are the genital organs of flowers?"

"No. Thank you for this pertinent horticultural insight."

Chortles.

"Maybe we watch an online movie when we get home to round off the day?"

"Great! I'll get cleaned up and dressed then. Ready in 45 minutes."

In the bathroom, I lose my clothes. I review my bare self in the mirror. My lips, wet and puffy. My nipples, erect. They can cut glass if put to the task. I wonder if Seb noticed my steely studs.

Reaching down, I cup my pussy. I finger myself to a high as images of Seb's erection playback in my mind. Bouncing. I think of the metronome at the top of my piano during my music lessons when I was twelve. A musicality to it all.

After showering, I put on a white transparent, tiny G-string. My trimmed bush shows through the fabric. Renegade wisps peek out of the economical gusset edges. No bra. Light cotton summer dress. I bottom-out with sandals.

I step out of the bathroom. Seb is waiting for me. Shorts, chill shirt over a white singlet, soft baseball cap, sandals.

We have a great day. Indeed, Khun Kittibun's Tom Yum burns off thirty percent of my entrails by my raw estimate. I just love it.

After that, Seb brings me to a cavernous Middle Eastern coffee joint, decidedly modern and quaint all at once. He makes me drink a murderously black, concentrated, and above all, thick-brewed coffee, which is made in a big coffeepot, to be sipped lightly. The sludge roasts the rest of my insides.

This is what I love about my son. He torments me with these things, and I love them.

A sensitive humanist attuned to the fluff of art, lit, music and philosophy. He can cite Marcus Aurelius, refute Nietzsche, demolish Sartre, and burn rubber hot-rodding Saturday nights through the town with his band of bros.

He likes to think about everything. He holds up an idea aloft, and looks at it from various perspectives.

He wonders if he playing with his cat? Or is his cat playing with him? If he is making love, he will likely ponder does he fuck in order to have pleasure, or does he have pleasure fucking? All so very profound. Perhaps simply raising the question is some kind of end in itself.

He takes something everyone knows, everyone thinks they know, and tests it. Plays with it.Seb has a bit of my dad in him. Other fathers told their children war stories. My dad told anti-war stories. How he got penned in and pepper sprayed in this and that anti-war demonstration. How he was riddled with rubber bullets during the anti-Vietnam War rally, the mother of all rallies.

Dad held the idea that the whole world is one big school. You can learn biology from looking at frogs and worms. Sex education from a horny stallion at a stud farm. Fractions from making pies. History from talking to old people. And he loves the countryside, where the bullshit is for real. Great beauty of small things can save us.

My dad was largely influenced and shaped by his dad, that is, my grandad. But, perversely, in reverse. Grandad was convinced that if you played Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" backward, you'd hear some evil incantation. Enough said about the old boy.

Seb is like dad in a refreshed version of that unwavering idealism.

Seb makes me feel better about humanity's prospects in the furnace face of today's polarised political and social fractures.

This is what life is about. Finding out.

And I wonder what else will I find out this weekend with Seb. Not about him. About me.

***

We are home.

Seb is in the bathroom. As usual, he leaves the door open. Drops his shorts. Kicks them off. He holds himself peeing.

I get a glass of water from the kitchen. I walk out to the living room. Seb is naked, his back to me, standing by his bed looking out the window.

We sit facing each other on the sofa. We recall the day's outing. Charming Khun Kittibun. His musical English. Thai cuisine. Georgia O'Keeffe's art.

Seb moves a little, lays his head on my lap. I place my hand on his light haired chest. My fingers drift to play innocently with his nipples as we continue our conversation. His cock lying on his belly in a kind of indeterminate semi flourish. His testicles, limp nest eggs at rest.

Getting dark now. I get up and switch on the desk lamp. A warm yellow.

"After the Thai feast, let's have a light dinner. Beer or wine to go with?"

"Whatever you're having."

"A Sauvignon Blanc. More precisely, a Sancerre."

I come back with the sandwiches and wine. He is flipping through the movie catalogue on the widescreen.

***

Chapter 4

Movie

"Mum, how about a whodunnit-styled erotic drama thriller. But, nobody dies."

"What's the title?"

"La mère."

"Huh?"

"French. The mother. I've chosen French in deference to your Sancerre. And the movie title in deference to you."

"What about the mother?"

"I've no idea. I choose it because the movie poster looks enthralling. Let's just watch it. Let the movie tell and show. The charm is in not knowing."

***

Marie, in her mid-20s, lived in her remote coastal ancestral home in Brittany where she grew up. She jogged routinely along the beach in the quiet of the night, just after midnight, relishing the solitude, the wind beneath her wings.

One night, Marie was accosted, blindfolded and raped by an unknown assailant who loomed from the shadows. The silent assailant had a unique, particular way of sex, mixing the tender and the savage in giddy cycles, confounding her senses, leaving her in a cloud of enthralled repulsion.

The experience seared her mind. Even though blindfolded throughout, she could vividly recall every movement, twitch, surge, every breath, sensation, emotion, like it happened yesterday.

The perpetrator pulled blindfolded Marie up. He pushed then pressesd her back against the cool damp cliff wall. He grabbed her wrists. Extended her arms out so that she was in the position of a crucifixion. This made her ripe breasts stick out lewdly. He pinned her down. She was effectively nailed. Strangely, he used his knees to force her thighs to close tight.

She looked violated. And yet divine. Was this some sort of subconscious deep, dark, religious symbolism of the perpetrator animating itself out?

Still holding her wrists, he pressed his hard against her confluence of upper thighs and mound.

Stab.

Marie whimpered.

He pressed his tongue passionately into her mouth as he dry humped her standing up. Marie instinctively tightened her clenched thighs to stop his advance. But, this only egged him to piston harder, to breach her seal of thighs. His pace intensified as if goaded by her resistance.

Marie felt fatigue setting in. She loosened her clenched thighs a little to ease the tension off her sinews. The perpetrator sensed the slack. He humped harder. This cycle went on for awhile.

Clench, release.

She sensed the perpetrator welling up. She read the signs. She knew the male vulnerability that went with these signs. His hold on her wrists loosened some. She abruptly disentagled from him.

What happened next was unclear. Did the perpetrator force Marie to drop down to a classic woman lying down missionary position? Or, did she move to the position on her own volition?

At his first stroke, she bucked, instinctively raising her lower torso farther up. His hands gripped her knees, pushing and grinding, his penis making movements inside her. His first ten measured strokes resulted in another of her contractions. She kept pressing herself harder against his strokes.

The perpetrator started pushing into Marie harder and deeper, grinding faster, trying to initiate long strokes, while cryptically warning her by his tightening grip on her knees that he was close.

She pressed into him, clamping her legs around him, swiveling and grinding her lower torso to lockdown his rampage, as if attempting to limit his range of movement.

She could not help it. It was just too much. She climaxed.

He felt a joyous jolt of semen lava. He was wedged. He could not pull out. He shot again and again deep inside as he tried to pull out. But she slammed him, as if to milk his every drop. He was somewhat astounded by his victim's reserve of strength and counter aggression. When she at last sensed that he had fired his last salvo, she released her vice clamp of legs.

He exited. A gentle touch on her mound.

Her blindfold still on, Marie somehow knew she was alone again. Left to her own psychological devices.

For some inexplicable reason, Marie did not report the rape. It was as if she wanted to preserve the experience of the violation in an ampoule, stow it away in an unlabeled shoebox under a loose floorboard in her attic. She never told anyone. Not her family. Not her pink diary. Not her eventual husband. No one.

It would not have been difficult for the police to nail the perpetrator given that this was a small population district with low people traffic movement. Was Marie afraid that the perpetrator might be somebody she knew?

A year after the incident, Marie resumed her running regimen. Every run was more exhilarating than the previous. She was racing away from danger in the first half of the run. Toward danger in the second half. She would be drenched in sweat and more after each run, as if she had powered herself through a monsoon raging in the opposite direction.

She won an Olympic gold in the 1,500 metres in record time.

Fast forward...

Marie married. Bore a son, Jules. She inherited the ancestral home. They lived in it.

Busy, busy, busy husband had scant interest in sharing her life interests such as recreational running. Marie, now 55, grew close to her 25 year old son. They enjoyed running. The same coastline run.

There were places well-traveled Marie remembered all her life. Though some had changed. Some forever, not for better. Some had gone, some remained. All these places had their moments. For Marie, this coast was timeless.

Jules became increasingly invested in his mother. They messed around, innocently at first, progressively more and more intimate. Their night runs were their private quality time. They had their nook of the universe to themselves.

One night, Jules messaged his mother. He was held up in his work. She was to start her run. He, a mean runner, would catch up with her at the rock they have christened, La Bosse, the hump in English because it looked starkly so.

A tingling shiver crept up Marie's spine. This was where it happened 30 years ago to the day.

Marie felt the same lurking sensation stalking her again. Something she missed when running with Jules. Anxiety, fear, expectation, vulnerability, excitement. A confused stew. It defied identification. Assuming her rapist was her age, at 55, he could still be a clear and present risk.

She slowed down, approaching La Bosse. Dead quiet. She called out to Jules. Nothing.

And then, it happened all over again. Every movement, twitch, surge, breath, sensation, emotion. The exact experience.

Lying spent and a little sore, Marie felt polite fingers closing her petals just like 30 years ago, then removing her blindfold.

Jules! Wtf? How could that be? Not a soul knew. Jules wasn't even born yet. Was this her fertile imagination? Was this a cruel dream?

She closed her eyes and reopened them again as if to reboot reality. Jules.

She looked questioningly at Jules. The movie ended.

***

"Whoa, Seb! I didn't expect this."

"Me too."

"You're a high-brow film buff. What do you make of it?"

Seb sagefully, "The Frenchies are adept at leaving us hanging there. Something deliciously repulsive in the balance. A semi untied knot here. An unresolved longing there. A touch of ennui. That sort of charmingly annoying thing. The French make art sport of us sombre Anglos, and chuckle at us."

"Hmmm... yes. They play on our Anglo psyche. We're binary-minded, first past the post, win/lose. They, a continuum. We, material, objective, analytical, unity, singularity, the Theory of Everything. They relish abstraction, diversity, complexity, emotion. Hence, Analytic Philosophy versus Continental Philosophy."

"On movies. We're an entertainment-seeking people, which is not necessarily the same as pleasure-seeking. Europeans are the true pleasure seekers."

"I'm not a particular fan of Margaret Thatcher. But, here's what the old girl said about Europe which kind of resonates with what we have just discussed. I think we over-romanticise the abstraction of Europe."

"Maggie said: Europe in anything other than the geographical sense is a wholly artificial construct. It makes no sense at all to lump together Beethoven and Debussy, Voltaire and Burke, Vermeer and Picasso, Notre Dame and St. Paul's, boiled beef and bouillabaisse, and portray them as elements of a European musical, philosophical, artistic, architectural or gastronomic reality. If Europe charms us, as it has so often charmed me, it is precisely because of its contrasts and contradictions, not its coherence and continuity."

Seb gets up to get more European wine. I can't help but notice his state. While not erect, it is engorged and thick. His foreskin has crept back some to reveal at least half his head. What were we discussing? Oh yes, pleasure.

He returns with the wine. He sits next to me, cross-legged. His engorged cock prominent.

"So Mr Film Connoisseur, pray tell, what is your take on the unresolved movie ending?"

"As in, if assuming Marie wasn't hallucinating or dreaming, how did Jules know?"

"Yes. What's your theory?"

"Who else knew besides Marie?"

"No one."

"Not true. Think harder. Think wider."

"The rapist?"

"Yes!"

"How would that link to Jules?"

"Let's let our imagination take flight a little."

Continuing, "After the rape, the rapist monitored Marie's life. He knew who Marie was, so this wasn't difficult to do."

"Some years before Jules was 25 years old, the age that Marie was raped, he deviously cultivated Jules on the internet, anonymously, without disclosing his identity. The rapist presented himself as an erotica writer. He won Jules's trust over time with his charm. Bit by bit, he nudged Jules in the taboo erotic direction. This moved Jules to be closer to his mum, animating his fantasies."

"The rapist deviously planted a compelling erotic story in Jules's mind. The story described a highly charged rape-like scene. Jules was enthralled by the scene, particularly the mash of tender and savage action, that drove the woman to the edge."

"With the appropriate nudge and trigger from the rapist, Jules acted out the scene."

"Yes, plausible. You've quite an imagination."

"Your turn, mum. What do you think of the lovemaking scene?"

"Lovemaking? It was rape!"

"OK. Forget the rapist. What do you think of the son dry humping his mum, then subsequently entering her?"

I start laughing. I look at Seb's face. I laugh harder. Infected, he starts laughing too. We are both laughing hard. No doubt, the alcohol has a hand in shaping our hilarity. After we pipe down some, he asks me what is so funny.

Suppressing further mirth, "Do you find it hilarious, us discussing in earnest, like a pair of high-brow film critics seated on a TV channel studio sofa, on the son character dry humping his mum, while I'm sitting here next to my naked son?"

I playfully pat his cock. It twitches.

We erupt again at the absurdity of the situation.

"But seriously, mum, what do you think of Jules dry humping his mum?"

"Hmmm... what do I think of a son dry humping his mum? What am I supposed to think? Is this a trick question?"

A pause.

I lower to a conspiratorial tone even though there is only Seb with me, "I don't know if I should say this... But seriously, if Jules desired intimacy with his mum short of actual incest, that would be a nice way to achieve a sort of gratification. A very tenuous line though."

The minute the words come out of my mouth, I feel my face go hot with shame. It's a bad day for morality. It's taking a beating.

A pause.

"Now, fair's fair. Your turn. What do you think?"

Seb does not reply.

I slip a playful motherly hand around his hard cock as if milking a reply out of him. This surprises him a little. But, he still says nothing.

A pearly drop of excitement emerges. His sac tightens up. I must say I enjoy teasing apart the man from the son. But, I'd better stop.

"Hmmm... it looks like we are in agreement," I hear my voice say.

It is said that human beings have three lives. Public, private, secret. This is the moment my third life began.

***

We stay up awhile longer. Finally, I tell Seb that it has been a long day and I am tired and need to get my beauty sleep. He leans over, touches my left cheek, kisses me gently on the lips. He whispers goodnight, softer than necessary.

I stand up. My legs are weak. They don't feel like legs at all.

I fall asleep quickly. I dream of a clock without hands. But, ticking in earnest. Is this considered time then?

Seb and I are swigging out of a wine bottle, eating cheese and a baguette. I'm finally in France with Seb, I think, and it makes me smile to myself. I resolve to get delightfully drunk and run into a wall. He tips the bottle, takes a sip, passes it to me. It's like our souls are talking, having a conversation of their own, oblivious to us.

"I'm in love. I've never felt like this before. This is it."

"How do you know?"

"I just know. I'm a mum. I know things."

"How?"

"My toes. They tell me. They know. See... they are permanently curled."

***

Chapter 5

Next Morning

The next morning, I again wake up early. I look toward Seb to see if he is still sleeping. He is, and uncovered. A huge morning erection. Foreskin rolled way back exposing his swollen head.

Because it was late when we went to bed, I slept almost nude wearing only my G-string.

Getting up quietly, I go to the bathroom to pee. When I return, Seb is sitting on the edge of his bed. He sees me standing naked except for my G-string, which barely covers me there.

I watch open-mouthed as Seb stands up and walks to the bathroom, not bothering to cover or hide his huge thick erection.

Before I have a chance to make myself decent, he emerges from the bathroom. His penis, now soft, but still very engorged. I make a feeble attempt to cover my breasts. Only the second male ever, privileged to see my top.

Coaxing, "Oh mum, why bother. Come on. Enjoy yourself. See how great it feels to be naked. But then, you know this already. You're the nudist. Whereas I'm just the one carelessly without clothes."

"Well, OK. I suppose it just doesn't make sense that me the supposed nudist is clothed, and you're not."

I still have my G-string on. I am covered there. Well, yes and no. I've been slack in my hirsute maintenance. I've the classic thicker-in-the-middle, then, thinning, fading to the edges pubic hair. Goes well with high-cut gusset designs. But right now, renegade wisps are peeking out of the edges.

So what if my breasts, arse and pubic wisps are exposed. He is my son. He knows I'm a practising nudist. There is no reason to feel embarrassed nor inhibited.

We go into the kitchen to brew coffee. Seb hugs me from behind. I can feel his engorged cock slip in between my arse crack. His pubic hair grazing my cheeks. His arms push against the bottom of my breasts, lifting them a little, as he hugs me. I sense it. Something is going to happen soon that will change everything after it.

At the patio, we drink our coffee. We spend the morning naked talking. Well, not quite. I keep my G-string on. But I feel wicked. My nipples are hard and erect the whole time.

We listen to Mahler. I glance over at Seb. I see on his creased face an expression of rapture. Eyes closed. Breath stilled. He appears elevated to a higher realm, spirit soaring. Yearnings made sublime. I have no doubt in some meaningful sense Seb has left the patio.

Noon. I fix a salad. We sit in the living room to eat.

***

"Mum, another movie?"

"Title?"

"Amore a cavallo"

"Ooo, continental. I like the sound of it already. What's it mean? Love... something?"

"Love On A Horse"

"An erotic film?"

"Err... yes."

"What? Is this some kind of howling and growling, flailing and wailing bestial menagerie sexual barbarism?"

"Mum, my moral conscience has not deserted me. Not just yet. My moral fibres remain stout. You will like this film. I hand-curated it just for you. The Aegean. Idyllic Greek island. Hippie era languid charm. Love triangle. High passion. Culminating in theatric Latin tumult."

***

A 1973 Greek production by Vangelis Serdaris.

Love On A Horse.

A painter lives by the sea in a beautiful Greek island with his younger wife, his muse. Of late, he is running perilously low on inspiration.

Their hippie son motorbikes in, guitar in tow, to visit. He is fascinated by the many nudes of his mother in his father's studio. This detail does not escape his discerning mother.

Son and mother develop a relationship. The tension builds. Beach frolics. Lolling in the vineyard. Stealthy nocturnal adventures.

The painter spies on them. Strangely, his inspiration seems to be returning.

He sees, or thinks he sees, his wife and son riding on his wife's white stallion. Son seated back. Mother in front, sitting on her son, as she gallops the horse. They are flailing in ecstasy riding through the wind.

The painter locks himself in his room. He is moved to paint an imaginary picture on canvas with the two lovers on horseback. He hides his work.

When the mother and son discover his new work, they suspect that he is spying on them.

The mother and son lovers decide to leave. It gets combustive when the painter lays down his paintbrush and picks up his shotgun.

***

I am sitting back on the sofa with Seb's head resting on my on lower stomach just above my mound. I cannot help but notice his penis grow and thicken as we watch the movie. My pussy getting wet and puffy as I watch him. Every once in a while he inhales deeply, greedily, like a diver coming up for air.When the movie ends, he pushes his face toward my G-string and inhales deeply one last time. Sitting up facing me, we discuss the movie. After awhile, our chat meanders onto the subject of nudity. How continental and our anglo attitudes differ on the subject.

"I can't help but notice that you shave your testicles. Pristine. Not a wisp."

"Mum, you may recall, when I was a teenager, we vacationed on a Thai island. The chalet had cardboard partitions. It was way past midnight. I was supposed to be asleep. Dad and you were indulging in a little tropical paradise intimacy. I overheard dad ordering you to suck his shaved balls while he licked you. The next day, while bathing with dad in the resort's communal showers, I couldn't help but stole a glance at dad. Since then, I don't know why, I've this compulsion to keep my balls shaved."

I can't believe what I just heard. Looking down at his testicles, they look like two large eggs in a dark smooth pink sac. Is my son telling me something? I am so tempted to reach out and feel them. Close my eyes, run my finger over the dusky red flesh to feel the ornate texture and imagine its sublime pattern.

I have a thing for testicles, particularly ornately crafted nest egg shaped ones. They are the supreme biological and symbolic personification of manliness. And yet, representing the most tender of male fragility and vulnerability.

But, before I can reach out, he stands up holding his sac for me to look at.

"Mum, you seem enamoured of me there. Here, look at it properly."

I feel a little embarrassed with him standing there holding his testicles in my face. But, I also feel very aroused. My G-string is plastered to my wet, puffy lips. Seb's cock, though not fully erect, is more than just engorged. His foreskin is rolled back exposing his pink head. A glistening drop of arousal on his tip. His cock raises up now like the flag of a proud nation, and I am cheering.

I am so very tempted to cup one hand on his swollen testicles, and grip the thick base of his penis with my other hand. But, I resist this call to action with a superhuman strength that I do not know I possess.

"Let's move to the patio and soak up some afternoon rays."

We get up. He points the way forward. We sit on the double lounger next to each other.

We chat some more. The conversation veers back to the movie. The son character seeing his mum nude in his dad's paintings. The mum/son/dad tension arising.

"I know that until today, until I dropped my top, you've never seen me partially or fully nude. But, tell me, have you ever seen my body, even if fleeting? Bathroom ooops nudity flashes. Wardrobe malfunctions. That kind of thing."

Seb appears to be processing something.

"Well?"

"Yes and no."

"Huh?"

"You remember that time when you, dad and I went hiking in the mountains. I think I was about eighteen then."

"I remember, but only vaguely."

"You remember it rained buckets when we reached the summit. It was already dark. We were the only people there. We were dead tired."

"Dad and I hastily setup the tent. The hard rain soaked us to the bone. We were all cold, wet and miserable. We needed to get out of the wet things quickly, or we were going to catch our death of cold."

"Dad put up the fabric divider across the middle of the tent interior. We separated your backpack from ours, to place them on each side of the divider, for us to change out of our wet clothes. You were shivering, dripping a puddle on the floor near the door of the tent."

A pause.

"I couldn't help but notice how your nipples stuck out underneath your wet T-shirt and bra. Despite my teeth chattering from the biting cold, I was still a little turned on."

"Oh?"

"If I can identify the first time I was ever sexually aroused by your body, it would have been the moment."

I try to reimagine the t-shirt and bra I wore on that hike. All so long ago. It was the old technology type fabric, cottony and soft, unlike the synthetic, plasticky sweat-whisking variety material. Yes, I am old fashioned that way. Even when I am at my most sporting self. Indeed, the wet fabric would have hugged my contours.

"You ducked underneath the divider to your side and started to change. You asked to have the lantern on your side as you couldn't see the contents of your backpack properly. I passed it over."

"It looked like you placed the lantern against the far wall of the tent because your shadow fell on the divider. I didn't really notice at first, my teeth still chattering."

"Dad and I started to change out of our wet clothes. We were both naked."

"Then, I noticed the shadow on the divider. I saw the outline of you naked. It was all very sensuous. Like a soft porn movie. A living and breathing silhouette just two feet from me."

"Well, I don't know if I should say this..."

"I'm piqued. Don't you dare stop now."

Sheepishly, "As I stared, I felt myself starting to get a stiffy. I instinctively turned my back to dad, which wasn't helpful. I think my sudden movement attracted dad's attention to me, and then, to your silhouette. Counter-productive. The tent was too small for me to turn away from dad completely. I also didn't want to make it too obvious that I was hiding from him. He could still see me."

A pause.

"Dad looked at your silhouette, then, his eyes drifted to my erection. He said nothing."

A long pause.

"Go on, please..."

"I looked back at dad. He had a massive hardon. Bigger than mine. My first thought was that dad was bisexual, turned on by my hardon. But, he appeared preoccupied with watching your silhouette as if he had never seen you naked before, and then, taking momentary glances at my hardon. Like some kind of cause-&-effect empirical study."

"After awhile, as if we had an unstated understanding, we both just focused on watching your silhouette."

"We saw your image bent over your backpack, your naked breasts hanging down a little, swaying, even shaking, as you searched for your clothing. You looked nice. Neither huge nor small, just beautifully rounded and firm. Ripe fruit that had just burst through their skins. I could feel your weight with my eyes."

"Finally, you found what you wanted. I and maybe dad too, anticipated that this was the end of it. That you would put on your dry clothes, and that would be it."

"Imagine our delight when, still naked, you proceeded to repack your backpack, stuffing clothing down toward the bottom. Your swaying breasts were a sight to behold."

"That was when dad whispered: Quite a show, huh? I couldn't believe my ears. I gave a muted self-conscious half-laugh and said: You don't say!"

"We continued watching. You stuck out your chest and arching your back, you pulled your nightgown over your head."

"Dad surprised me again. He patted my cock, then his, and said: Your mum, she's really something. Now, let's get dressed."

"The spell ended. The dry clothing made me feel instantly warmer. But a chill was still deep in my bones."

"Sorry mum, if I've been overly forward in my account. I got a little carried away."

I say nothing. This is all alot to process... For the wife. For the mother. For the woman.

***

"Mum, the sun is getting stronger. If you turn over, I'll lotion your back."

I turn over onto my stomach. I feel my naked son straddle me. I feel his shaved testicles rubbing against the bottom of my buttocks. I instinctively shift my legs apart. His testicles fall between my thighs. Closing my legs slightly causes his testicles to push up against my pussy. His shaft nestles between my arse crack. I get a massive charge from this lewd contact.

I am leaking onto his testicles. He must feel this. What is he thinking? I feel so deviant permitting my son such intimate contact with my body.

Seb rubs lotion on my back, from my neck to my buttocks.

Then turning around, facing my feet now, he straddles my back, sitting gently on me. I feel his arse and his shaved testicles pressed against my lower torso back. He rubs lotion from my ankles to my buttocks. He parts my cheeks. Can he see past my G-string to my butthole? Can he see past my G-string to my pink? He rubs lotion from my arse crack to my now very wet G-string covered crotch.

Getting off me, he asks me to turn over for him to rub lotion on my front. Turning over toward him I look up. There, just inches from my eyes, is the underside of his erect cock. Embedded in his wood is his intention, suggesting that it be used for a certain purpose and in a certain way.

"Sorry mum, it just happens. I've no control over it."

"It's OK, honey, I understand."

I exercise almost inhuman impulse control to keep from taking him into my mouth.

Again straddling me over my hips, his cock just inches from my crotch, he unties my G-string. In one quick movement, he pulls it off. This is rather bold of him.

We are now both naked. Putting the garment to his nose, I watch as he inhales deeply, savouring my most secret scent. He twitches and leaks as I watch.

Spreading my legs apart, he sits on top of me. His shaved sac rubs against my pussy.

He slathers lotion on his hand and rubs the lotion in, cupping my breasts. His palms are warm and comforting as they cup, very gently, the underside of each of my breasts. The way he allows my breasts to rest upon the soft warmth of his hands, it feels as if he is merely touching me to see if I am indeed real.

Making a pertinent observation, "Mum, they're heavier than they look."

He rolls my nipples between his fingers. He pinches and squeezes my breasts, sending waves of pleasure down my spine. My fluids leak all over his testicles giving them a sheen.

With one hand on my breast, he moves his other hand to my pussy. He cups my pussy, squeezing my puffy wet lips between his fingers before inserting his middle finger into me momentarily, diligently lotioning me there where the sun don't shine.

Oh my God! That first searing contact. A line is crossed. He is enjoying his mum way too much. Our social contract changed forever in that moment.

Sliding down my legs till his testicles are between my feet, he rubs lotion on my feet. I can't resist. I just can't. Offerings laid at my feet. I use my feet to fondle him. They begin to tighten up.

He gets up. He straddles my head with a knee on each side of my head. I look up. I see adorable nest eggs with the finest of texture motif hanging above me.

I put my hands on his legs. I feel my way up to his butt cheeks, pushing them open. A lovely oily o-ring comes into view. A strapping young brawny jock. And yet, such an exquisite butthole. Nature surprises us with hidden wonders when we least expect it.

I feel Seb pull my legs up and back. He puts his mouth to my lips. Nibbling, licking. I feel his tongue poised to invade me.

All the barriers are down. I am nothing but a feeling animal. An animal in rut that has to be fucked.

I don't know why, but suddenly, my senses snap. Oh my God! What have I allowed to happen. Seb is supposed to apply lotion on me.

"Seb, Seb, we've to stop. I can't... We can't..."

I disentangle from my son before it gets too far gone.

"I'm going to the kitchen to make tea."

The spell is broken. Seb is speechless.

***

Chapter 6

Vibe

When I return to the patio with the tea, I feel bad about the abrupt turn of events. I kind of implicitly encouraged Seb along without any demonstration of resistance. I even egged him on during particular moments. And then, I cut him off. Have I been overly harsh?

Even as I think this through now, we are still naked. I have not covered up. What does this say? I hope he reads it as we having broken the nudism barrier, reached a kind of comfortable social equilibrium, and nothing more.

Trying to navigate in another direction, "Seb, drink your tea. Then, I want to try out your Christmas gift."

Seb normalising somewhat, "OK mum. Sorry about all that earlier. I got carried away."

"Don't worry about it. We both did."

Continuing, "You're a healthy red blooded lad. If you didn't react the way you did, notwithstanding that I'm your mum, you're not alive. So, chill."

***

Maybe I should make it up to Seb a bit?

"Seb, this is your bullet vibrator gift. Now is as good a time as any to test it. I'll try it on my nipple, just for a lark."

Soft whirring sound.

"Seb, it's a lovely sensation. Thank you."

It is an agreeable experience, made more so, by the gifter viewing his gift bearing on the giftee. A mum can only receive so many intimate gifts from her son, before it transcends to a woman receiving gifts from a man.

"Mum, can I do it on you?"

"Yes, please. Put it against me here, like so."

"Hmmm... mum, you do have a sensitive tip here. Look at it now."

"Yes. Now, do the other one."

"Oh yesss!"

"Do you want to try it on your nipple to experience what it is like. Just for a lark."

"Why not? You do it for me, mum."

I playfully apply it on Seb's right nipple.

"Hmm... not much reaction. Underwhelming huh? I guess you and I are engineered differently."

"I guess..."

"Can you let me try something else? A little bold. Up the ante a bit."

"Please. It's your gift. Do what you wish with it, mum."

I place the vibrator against his shaft. He reacts within a minute. As he stiffens, I put the vibe under his head, against his frenulum. That is wonderful, apparently. I also hold it against his testicles, and then, underneath them. I nurse him with a motherly devotion not seen since he was ten.

I can't help but hold his testicles. They are so ripe for my cupping. They are made for my palms by some divine intelligent design. I just love the way the skin stretches as he grows. The way the head gets bigger and bigger. Those first little drops of excitement. And the way his testicles tighten up.

I gather the liquid arousal with my fingers, bringing the homemade family confection to my lips. Seb observes me savour his evidence of arousal, but says nothing.

I hold his male flourish. He feels the pressure of my hand. Not strong. But, even and steady.

I'm trying to compose a poem in my mind to keep calm. Trying to curb the excitement that hurls around inside my body like a trapped comet.

Eminently a better class of hardon than my hubby. My hubby just doesn't have that straining energy anymore.

Mine to have and to hold until...

He moans that he is sensitive there. He cautions me to be careful how much I tease him there as he may leak on my legs.

I run my fingers around him. His sensitive little eye-slit is in my face. I can't help but squeeze him gently. Another pearly drop of arousal bubbles out of the tip. I just love this cause and effect.

I play with the gathering granules, doodling them over his tender male pink in a sort of finger painting art that my kindly school art teacher, Mr Arthuro, taught me in another lifetime.

I run my finger along a thick vein that runs a good length of him. I christen it Mister Stringy, even though what I'm doing here is not so Christian.

Such prominent veins are quite uncharacteristic of young people. It lends a sense of vulnerability. Will it burst asunder if I work it too vigorously? Rawness like unconcealed plumbing, but in a gentrified place. All that juxtaposed against phallic gamey male meat.

I must admit I like this thick vein.

Pointing at it, "Does Mr Stringy here have a pulse?"

"Find out for yourself, mum."

"Oh yes! I can actually feel it. A life force of its own."

I decide to hold it longer. This time, the sensation, whether real, or I imagined it, is especially vivid. It is speaking to me in the way it knows how, just as pulses speak to physicians of inner vibes.

"Seb, come meet Mrs Stringy."

"Huh?"

"I've a feminine counterpart, Mrs Stringy, on my person in the form of a singular thin, pale blue vein that threads to my left nipple. Here..."

"Ah, I see it now."

"I've mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, blue veins are not exactly what women aspire to have. On the other hand, your dad says that he likes it because it gives my fruits a certain authentic texture and character."

"Dad is right! The man knows his aesthetics."

"Mum, we haven't really tested the bullet vibe properly yet."

"What do you mean?"

"Good that we tested on your nipples. But, it's designed for more compelling sensation."

"You mean..."

"Yes"

"Perhaps I should test it when I'm alone..."

"Well, mum, you tested the vibe on me on my most intimate."

"That's true. But, we're built differently. Your privates are not hidden away. Mine are. I've to reveal my most intimate. You know what I mean."

"Yes, but my aroused reaction is starkly visible, whereas yours is more subtle."

A pause.

"Mum, it's OK... We've come this far. You're not the first, and won't be the last woman to use a vibe."

"It's not using the vibe per se. It's us together here. What mother would use her vibe in front of her son?"

"Mum, you're overthinking this. This is just for a lark. And I do want to share this gift experience with you."

"Hmmm... I'm beginning to wonder who exactly is doing the giving, and who the receiving."

"Was it Saint Francis of Assisi who said, for it is in giving that we receive."

"This is so reassuring. I'm glad this saint approves of our little gift exchange here."

"Mum..."

I whisper as if there are interlopers lurking in every shadow, "OK".

I part myself just a little. I struggle somewhat to place, by feel, the vibe at the optimal position. My clitoris is not the most accessible of anatomy parts.

"Mum, let me do it..."

Before I can say anything, he takes the vibe from me. It is wet. I am a little embarrassed. He kneels before me, at eye level to my mound. Like a devotee worshipper before a high deity.

He combs my pubes with his fingers to some obedient form. Some semblance of order.

He touches my opening. I look at him solemnly like I am inducting him to some secret society. He draws my lips a little farther apart, laying the moist, hair-lined flesh a little too open to his lustful eyes.

He explores the minutiae of my womanhood like he is ascertaining and deciding which are the optimal positions for the vibe. He does some delicate arrangement of my lips and folds. He murmurs into my pubic hair.

He is touching my femininity with such passionate attention, I almost feel like I should look away. But, I can't. I'm full on gawking. At myself.

Oh my God, he must be looking deep into me, as far as he can see, where bright pink gives way to a dusky rose, that fades away into shadow. He is transfixed, staring into my nether depths. He cannot tear his eyes away. The combination of hints and details excites him. There is a strange compulsion bearing on me to let him look as long as he wants.

I feel the units of shame multiplying in me. This has gone beyond testing a gift appliance. My son is way too interested in the private details of his mum. Is it healthy for a young man to be so invested in his mother? Should I allow this? What will my son think of me after this? I shake my head and return to myself as my emotions reorder themselves.

"Seb, Seb, this is enough. Let's test the vibe."

I close my eyes. Sensations dancing on my outer labia. This goes on for awhile. Now, my inners. My canal now.

Seb is quite skillful at this. It is as if he designed my pussy, and knows exactly where the secret nerve wires are inlaid.

I feel his finger unhood me. A rubbing sensation. Is that his finger or the turned off vibe? Again.

Now, the vibration resumes. I sense an outpouring of my arousal. My secret scent is no secret anymore. It is in the air.

Should I be feeling this good? Like slipping into cool river water.

Better to stop now, while I am behind in the game.

"Seb, it works. Thank you."

I pull away from him. It is like breaking suction.

Ring, Ring

A little distraction, "Seb, I've a gift for you too."

Visibly surprised, "You do?"

"You see, on the day I arrived, on my way to your apartment, I saw an Ann Summers store. Just for a lark, I sauntered in for an educational tour, since I was early and had a little time to kill. I ended up getting you a little something. Just for fun."

"Oh?"

Sheepishly, "I had, on devilish impulse, decided to get you a cock ring. Well, here it is."

"A cock ring?"

"This one is made of pliant rubber for added comfort."

"Very thoughtful of you, mum. How does it work?"

"At the store, I asked the sales assistant the instructions. Would you like me to help you?"

"OK"

"Let's try it on your penis first. There's a second step to it. We'll try that later."

I help to fit the ring on my son amid my musical giggles and Miss Piggy squeals. It is a bit of a struggle to fit as he is stiffening as we do it.

"There, we've done it! How do you feel?"

"A tensioned pleasant agony. Like I'm aching to pee but I can't."

"Let me check that everything is in order. Fun as this may seem to be, there is a safety element to it. People have died doing it wrong."

"Mum, you're spooking me."

I check him out diligently. He has deflated some after I told him about the safety consideration. Which is exactly right for our next step.

"You're good! Now, the second step..."

Visibly intrigued, "What might that be?"

"You see, this ring is actually two interconnected rings. We've fitted you through the cock ring. The other ring encircles your testicles. There is an interplay of tension around your cock base and around your testicles."

"Oh?"

"I notice your cock has eased up a bit. This makes it easier to slip the ring around your testicles."

A pause. An anxious look on Seb's face. We struggle a little with the fitout.

"The shop assistant advised to start the fitout when the person is soft. Then, it works its tensioning magic as he gets harder."

A pause.

"But, you've stiffened since again."

"Mum, I can't help it. Looking at your naked body, and then your touching me, helping me with the fitout, is too much for me. Sensual overload."

"I've an idea. I'll blindfold you to shutout one of your senses. You can't see me. I'll fit you out. When you're fitted properly at both places, I'll remove your blindfold. You can then look at me, and that may help you grow into the rings, to relish the tension."

"OK mum. There is an airline-type eye-shade in my bedside drawer. Can you get it?"

"OK"

I go to the bedside drawer. I don't see any eye-shade.

I lift up a book, a novel titled "Mothersome". What an unusual title. Mothersome as in wholesome, fulsome, awesome and so on? Or, as in lonesome, twosome, threesome? I wonder what it is about.

Beneath it is a bible, presumably the bedside bible. King James Version, no less. Beautiful, ornate, cushiony-soft, feel-good leather-bound. Does he use it as a pillow sometimes, to make for a better sleep? I'm surprised he has one at all, let alone at his bedside. I don't have one, be it bedside or anywhere. The eye-shade is beneath it.

"Here. Put it on."

"I'll go to the kitchen to freshen our pot of tea. Why don't you take this time to chill, simmer down some, so that you can be ready when I return."

Seb puts on the eye-shade. See no evil.

I'm about to beetle to the kitchen. But, a strange impulse compels me to stay quietly and watch my naked son without his awareness. His cock is still through the cock ring, but not his testicles. Now, why do I desire to watch him. Maybe there is a particular thrill in studying him properly without him looking at me? It is one thing to want to watch him get and stay hard. But, why want to watch him turn flaccid?

Indeed, he is beginning to flag. Is it really so easy to turn on and off our senses just like that? And I am aroused by his change of state. My finger is rubbing my lips. Why is that? I think I'll psychoanalyse myself later.

I make some noise as if I've just returned.

"There, looks like you're ready to complete the fitout."

I complete fitting the remaining ring on his testicles. I do this quickly with minimal flesh contact, to avoid arousing Seb. Otherwise, we'll be back to square one. Or, more aptly, ring one.

"Seb, you're now properly fitted. I'm removing your blindfold. How do you feel?"

"Good. And a welling expectant sense that it'll get even better."

"It's working..."

Seb stiffens a notch.

"Mum, can you help heighten my visual stimulation a bit."

"Huh? Heighten? Aren't you... looking... at me... already?"

"A little more variation and detail?"

"Detail?"

A pause.

"I don't know. This is awkward..."

"Pose for me..."

"Oh?"

"Mum, you were a ballerina and gymnast when you were young. I know you do yoga nowadays. Can you do a couple of positions?"

"What?"

"I just thought if you do things familiar to your routine, it will be easier on you."

"Start with, what do you call it, arabesque?"

"Hmmm... I'm not so sure about this."

It has been years since I did this. I position on one leg. My other leg raised ninety degrees behind my body, extended in a straight line. My pussy is clearly exposed. Oh dear, I'm stretching quite a bit. Can he see my pink? Does this look lewd? But, lewd and ballet don't go together, right?

I hold the arabesque longer than I should.

"I'll execute a pirouette now. I'm sure you know what that is."

I rotate, a complete turn of my body on one foot, en pointe, that is, on tippy toe. Seb sees my pussy all round. Like a child watching a twirling ballerina figurine on a wind-up music machine in wonder.

"Oh mum, this is good!"

Smirking, "My ballet is good, or you're good?"

He doesn't answer. I look at him. He encircles his girth at his base with his thumb and forefinger over the cock ring, as if he is informing me something pertinent about the chain of cause and effect, gazing at me longingly. I can only give a tiny nod, like a contented cat, as if this is great collaborative teamwork, and we did it. The whole thing is too sensual for words.

Straining now. I can see the tension. The rings are painfully taut. He is indeed good.

"Mum, you've a nice behind..."

"Is this an observation or a request?"

He doesn't answer.

I lie on the floor facing down. I raise my head and shoulders. I prop myself up just enough. He can see my breasts, though my nipples are hidden, pressed against the floor. I suppose it is a sexy teasing view.

Gasping, "Oh, mum, this is so sensual! So erotic. Can I go round to look at you?"

I nod weakly.

He goes around checking me out. I close my eyes, letting him know that I am doing that. Perversely, I am giving him quality privacy to violate my privacy. Let him rove and range my secrets.

I don't know how long I stayed in this position. Time stopped. It is an utterly strange primal emotion. My son is studying a new breed of mother cat with scholarly anthropological interest. He is indeed a bum man.

After what seems like the longest time, my eyes still closed, I feel a little tired. I lower my bosom to the carpet, lying flat, my front totally obscured.

I slowly cross my legs, intersecting at my ankles. Coy. Coquettish. I don't know how long I am locked in this position. My eyes remain blissfully closed.

Can he see past my butt cheeks? Is my thatch showing? If it shows, is it adequate to obscure my lips? Are my lips engorged? I am deeply aroused.

I feel an emerging, welling moistness. The kind of prescient feeling you experience just before it rains full pelt. Oh dear, will it show? Would my pubes glisten? I hope it won't come to dribble. What will my son think of the mummy fluid? Maybe if he has his way, he will save it in tiny glass ampoules, stow them away in an unmarked shoebox deep in his cupboard, to relish it again, at his pleasure, in installments.

I decide to tighten up a bit. I move to cross my right thigh over my left thigh. My legs intersect at the back of my knees. This has to be the most prominent pear shape a woman can muster, barring circus contortionists.

I clench my buttocks. More compact now. This must have perked up my butt cheeks into pressed buns.

A gasp.

I relax, then clench my butt cheeks.

Relax, clench.

I relish the straining visceral tension in my body even though it is a little uncomfortable.

Again, I am unmoored from spacetime. I wonder what my son might be doing? There is a certain devilish charm in not knowing, not caring to know.

Perhaps he is surveying the curve of my hips? Perhaps he is studying my pressed butt orbs? I have been gaining a little weight in my backside of late. I hope he finds them still appealing. Maybe the extra weight might have added a little sensual sway mass to my mature tail?

Can he see any tuft peeking from my butt crack? I should really do regular hirsute maintenance like most women. But, how am I to know that I would be posturing like this for my son's private visual stimulation to test-drive an intimate gift I bought for him on impulse?

And horror of horrors, I hope my posture doesn't reveal my puckered oily o-ring? That will be vulgar and unmotherly. No, that can't be. My cheeks are clenched. But, at an angle, and all perked up like an offering. What sort of rump perspective will that present? Oh, what a worrywart I am!

Perhaps he likes the muscle lines of my toned thighs? And lower, the arc of my calves? Will he discern the faint shading of mole dots on the back of my right thigh as an alluring feature or as unlovely blemish?

Perhaps he likes my turn of ankles? I instinctively point my toes. A sort of strained ballet en pointe.

Is that my feverish imagination, or is it a stifled click of a cell phone?

Oh my god! Should I stop him? But, I don't know for sure. Maybe he is attending to an urgent cell phone message from work?

If he is indeed photographing me, will it matter, since my face is obscured by the floor?

Maybe it is more than still life? Maybe he is orbiting me like a silent spy drone, hovering high and low, videoing the finer texture and nuances of his mother's geographical features? Oh my god, he would have recorded my rhythmic arse clenching movements!

All this is quite erotic. Seen, but not really. If my son finds his mummy appealing enough to immortalise her in pixels for posterity, shouldn't I, a mature late fifties woman, be feeling good, if not be rejoicing mutedly?

I am more relaxed now. Almost becalmed in spite of the palpable taut erotic tension.

After what seems like the longest time, I turn over to my front, as if to complete the picture. I look up.

Seb has cultivated a lovely hardon that is worthy of his cock ring. His cock straining against the ring. His taut testicles pressing against the other ring like explosives strapped to his loins. He has a look of ecstatic excitement and hungry anticipation. It looks like the cock ring is working its magic.

"Mum, you've a lovely derrière. Can I get another perspective? Vertical this time. It brings up new nuances."

"This is the yoga Uttanasana position."

I stand with my back to Seb. I am proud of myself. I am still nimble enough to bend over with my knees still locked, my legs straight. Body bent impossibly low. Right hand grabs left ankle to lockdown pose. Face partially obscured by legs.

Seb looks visibly excited. I wonder how I am presented to him. My butt cheeks at the top of my legs. Maybe the cheeks jiggle a little if I make small movements? And those soft little labia, just barely protruding from below. Can he see my inners? Am I opened up? Can he see my pink? And my dark little butthole?

I have no way of knowing. I can only infer from his face. And he is enthralled, like he is seeing a new perspective of me.

I wait a few seconds more before straightening back up.

"Mum, I'm really feeling good from the cock ring. Can you do just one more pose. A sort of finale. Can it be a little bolder than the earlier ones?"

"Hmmm... You look like you're really close. Quite something, given that this is visual stimulation only."

I raise my right leg to put my foot on the edge of the chair seat, parting my legs, looking down at myself. Seb has a perfect view of the opening to my vagina. He can even see a little pink. I am inviting him to look.

Seb grows harder. He looks like he may lose control.

I slowly and gently sift my fingers through my pubic hair. As I am still talking to Seb, I run my middle finger around my opening, caressing my outer lips, pulling them back a little to open myself. I slide a finger up and down my slit, then touching my clitoris, rubbing my finger back and forth. Feeling myself, without really even thinking about it. My opening is moist. My fingers wet and slippery.

The air around us is steeped in the smell of rain. And of sex.

Seb's cock is leaking, waving back and forth, straining against the ring. He has to hold it with one hand to keep from ejaculating. He must be thinking how erotic and nasty I look, his mum showing herself to him like this. My legs open wide for him to see. Those puffy lips and all that motherly fluid gathering at my opening.

This is a moment of warm intimacy. I must have become a magnet of raw sexual desire.

I sense from Seb's face that a deep warm feeling is welling in his loins, charging to his erection. I think he is very close.

And then, it happens. Semen starts shooting out, hitting me on my stomach and bosom. I freeze. He is convulsing as more spews out, hitting my arm, then thigh. It is a little frightening. Yet exciting.

"Sorry, so sorry, mum."

"Did I do that to you, or you just needed to do that all along?"

He emits a quarter sigh, then, finger-combs my pubic hair, like caring for a small animal of a certain delicate but raw beauty.

Though his cock is now limp and moist, and the rings hang loose, I still can't help but look at it.

I walk to the bathroom to clean myself. My slit is caked shut by my now dried excitement. I am about to clean there, and then suddenly decided, what the hell, I'll leave it be. I wipe up a bit, but leave a little remnant trail on my right thigh running down to my calf. Abnormal pleasures kill the taste for normal ones.

I want to stay feeling a little deviant the rest of the day. Maybe Seb may see this too, and think my thoughts...

***

Chapter 8

Last Night

My last night with Seb. I will be leaving tomorrow.

"Mum, I've to attend to something unforeseen and urgent at the office tonight, from 7pm to 11pm. Can you watch some TV, chill, and I'll join you as soon as I'm done?"

"OK, I think I'll watch a movie, and finish up the chardonnay in the fridge."

"Sorry about this. This is your last night here. I should be with you the whole time."

"Don't worry about it."

"Any particular movie you've in mind to watch?"

"I'm thinking of watching that French movie, La mère, again. That mum, rapist, son erotic mystery thriller drama."

"Why are you so piqued and fascinated by it?"

"We discussed the movie at great length after we watched it the last time. I want to watch it again to parse the movie. Maybe I can discern something new. In particular, I want to parse the mum-rapist and mum-son sequences to see if I can discern any nuanced clues."

"Hmmm... you're really invested in the movie."

"Well, it is an intriguing movie..."

A pause.

I look into Seb's eye, "I like the way fantasy and reality are juxtaposed against each other, to form a new reality. Isn't real life like that?"

Seb's eyes seem to want to say yes. Instead, he philosophises, "Hegel's dialectic. Thesis plus antithesis yields synthesis. Reality plus counter reality gives a new reality."

"But, is this reality plus reality equals fantasy?"

"Hmmm... The rapist-mum sex is reality. As is the mum-son sex. The fantasy is what we make out of it."

"Mum, anything you want from me before I leave the apartment?"

I look at Seb again, smiling lightly, "I'd like to borrow your eye-shade in case I want to get some shuteye after the movie."

"It's in the same drawer you last took it from."

"Bye, mum!"

***

I go to Seb's bedside drawer to get the eye-shade. I have a cursory flip through of the novel, "Mothersome". It is what I secretly anticipated it to be. Oh Seb! Sweet child o' mine.

The evening is getting a little chilly. I have a choice of closing the patio door part way, and stay nude. Or, leaving the patio door open, continuing to enjoy the high view, and wearing some light clothing.

I go to my suitcase. My first instinct is to choose my jogging top and shorts.

I get the bottle of chardonnay from the fridge, and a glass from the cabinet.

I play the movie.

The chardonnay makes me feel like I am melting into nothing.

***

I hear a noise. A thud. I open my eyes. I see nothing. Oh, this is because I must have snoozed off unknowingly in my eye-shade. I can't see anything. No doubt, the chardonnay helped me to that state. I have lost all sense of time and space. Unmoored.

There is someone in the living room. I can sense it.

Before I can react, I am roughly hauled up. I am pushed, then pressed, my back against the wall. I can feel the raw brownstone-styled texture of the wall pressing against my flesh. Heavy male breaths. He grabs my wrists. I think it's a he. Extends my arms out so that I am in the position of a crucifixion. I feel my breasts stick out. I can't see myself. But, I can picture my breasts sticking out lewdly. He pins me down. I am effectively nailed. Curiously, he uses his knees to force my thighs to close tight. For an instant, I feel safe. He is not going to penetrate me.

Then, it hits me. Oh my God! Oh my God! Am I imagining this in my chardonnay stupor? Or is the movie replaying, starring me?

I feel violated. And yet...

Still holding my wrists, he presses his hard cock against my junction of upper thighs and mound.

Stab.

I whimper.

He presses his tongue hungrily into my mouth as he dry humps me standing up. I instinctively tighten my clenched thighs to stop his advance. But, this only eggs him to piston harder, to breach my seal of thighs. His pace intensifies as if goaded by my resistance. It is as if he is relishing my resistance. Challenging me, maybe even willing me to clench tighter so that he may stab more vigorously. Bizarre. So bizarre.

I feel fatigue creeping up on me. This is carrying on so long now that I begin to read his in/out movement cycle. I loosen my clenched thighs a little each time he pulls out, a fleeting respite, to ease the tension off my sinews. He is perceptive. He senses the slack. He humps harder and faster, as if endeavouring to deny me of that little respite. This cycle goes on for awhile.

Clench, release.

Ooo...

Clench, release.

Perhaps if this is all he wants to do, under the inconvenient circumstances, I should encourage and entice him to ejaculate strongly, completely spent, dry humping me this way, so that there won't be further penetrative violation of me.

I sense his welling up. I read the signs. I know all too well the male vulnerability that goes with these signs. His hold on my wrists slacken some. His movements are a little erratic now. His breathing, wild.

I loosen my thighs a little to encourage him. Not so loose that he can enter me. Not so tight as to stop him dead. A very delicate balance. Oh my God, am I enjoying this? Oh my God, am I enjoying finding this golden mean?

I feel he is very close... Anytime now... And that will be the end of it all. He will get his fulfillment, even though it is by way of a dry hump, which he seemed to relish going by my blinded senses, then, melt into the night. In turn, I will...

What happened next is unclear. It happened very fast. And since I am blindfolded, it is really hard to tell anything definitively.

Did he force me to drop down to a lying down position? Or, did I crumble to the floor like a rag doll, in hapless fatigue, on my own volition?

At his first stroke, I buck, instinctively raising my lower torso farther up. His hands grip my knees, pushing and grinding, his penis making stabbing movements inside me. His first ten strokes result in another of my contractions. I sense that he can feel my contraction in the way he twitches inside me. I am beside myself. I can't help myself. The world don't seem like the world. I keep pressing myself harder against his strokes. I tell myself that this will thwart his ability to move in me, if not limit his range of movement. Yes, I am putting up an earnest fight against this vile violation.

He starts pushing harder and deeper, rolling his hips more wildly now, grinding faster, trying to outdo me, to initiate long strokes, while cryptically warning me by his tightening grip on my knees that he is close.

I press into him, clamping my legs around him, swiveling and grinding my lower torso to lockdown his rampage, endeavouring to limit his range of movement, to deny him, to deny my violator.

I cannot help it. It is just too much. I climax. Violently. The violence, it is all me, not him.

I sense a jolt of semen lava. He is wedged. He cannot pull out. He shoots again and again deep inside as he tries to pull out. But I slam him, to deny his movement. He appears somewhat astounded by my reserve of strength and counter aggression. When I at last sense that he has fired his last salvo, I release my vice clamp of legs.

Yes, I have done my level best to deny this monster of his full pleasure at the end, when it counts most. I have done the best I can under the circumstances.

He exits. After all the savagery, a gentle lingering touch on my mound, like stroking an adorable furry pet, then, closing my lips as if to return me to modesty.

My blindfold still on, I somehow know I am alone again. Left to my own devices.

***

A puzzling sense of unreality. As sobering full consciousness returns, I know something is different, but isn't immediately sure of what. Then, I begin to sort through the events. I am thunderstruck at what I think had happened. But, I am still unsure. It all seems like a dream. In fact, it has kind of happened in a dream of sorts.

I just want to lie motionless for hours, let the mice, if any, crawl over me, eat cheese out of my hand. Weird. But, this is what I am feeling.

***

Two hours later.

Seb returns from office. He appears fatigued. Tough night at the office? He appears preoccupied with some whatever. We open a new bottle of chardonnay to chill some, and to take the edge off Seb a bit. We are nude.

We do not talk very much. Reaching between his legs, I rub his cock. He examines me in a way that sons must not.

"That's very nice, what you just did to me," I say looking at him, opening my legs wider now and gently pushing my hips forward in a gesture of offering myself to him, squeezing in closer to his body.

The warmth and softness of my tummy pressed in against the slippery hardness of his leaking cock triggers in me feelings I have never felt before.

We share a few tender moments. Things with Seb are intense, but are paced to savour. In our own ways, each of us want to learn the emotions we are inspiring in the other. I slip from unrest to rest.

In the apartment, there is the feeling that the rest of the world is a long way away, if it exists at all, and that none of it matters. The absolute silence of the place redefines silence.

***

Chapter 9

Goodbye

When I next open my eyes, I am surprised to find that dawn is breaking. The apartment is no longer dark at all. But, there is a kind of melancholy to this new dawn. Or maybe, an impending ennui.

I look over at Seb. Still fast asleep on his back. It looks like he has not changed position all night long. My eyes drift down. I take in the sight of his penis. Rock hard. Head extending all the way up past his navel. Another one of those early morning pee-charged hardons. He is big. Is this my wishful imagination on my last morning here, that he is bigger than usual this morning? Just for me?

I roll to my left side. I support my head on my hand as I stare down at his magnificent shaft. All the while looking at it, I can feel my insides churn from the residue of the previous night.

As I continue studying him, I reach out my hand to grasp his hardon, thinking that I will awaken him in the most delightful manner he has ever experienced. Every once a while, he will twitch. I look up at his eyes. I discern tiny movements behind the lids telling me that he is dreaming of something, hopefully sexy, and that I'm a part of it.

He opens his eyes partially only to be surprised by the sight of his mother lying beside him naked, watching him rub his hardon. This rubbing must be a waking up impulse. Out of some sense of propriety, he quickly jerks his hand away.

"It's OK. You can keep doing it if you want. It's a lovely sight. I love watching you do it. But, don't cum just yet, OK?"

He gives me a sweet knowing smile, as if on this morning, the last secret in the universe has been uncovered.

"It's so big, Seb. So big. Does it feel good to have your big penis sticking up like that while your mother looks at it?"

I just love listening to myself talk like that. I don't know what this does to Seb. But, this so excites me in a curious way. And later, when I'm alone and replay this conversation, I excite myself yet again.

"Yes. I love you looking at it. You looking at me like that, you're a sight to behold."

***

Seb leans forward to kiss my chest. Looking up, he kisses my lips. He gazes into my eyes. I caress his body with yearning affection.

My fingers close in around his cock. Gently at first. Now tighter. I am now the cock ring. My pliant fingers, superior to any cock ring carried by Ann Summers in their extensive range. I tighten the ring. He closes his eyes, humming from the pleasure of my tension. I am gentle and playful. I peel his foreskin open and close. Open and close. Open and close. The paintings of Georgia O'Keeffe at the art gallery flit to mind. Had Seb been deviously prepping me for this moment? All that suggestive floral talk about stalks, stigma, stamen and petals.

I gaze deep into his eyes while rubbing my stiffening clitoris against his cock base. I remember my biology lessons from another lifetime. My bio teacher, Mrs Pinky Flora, said matter-of-factly, that the clitoris is the penis of the female. Here I am, penis on penis.

Seb moans hoarsely, "In 30 minutes, we'll have to leave for the station."

I rise over him, supporting myself on my knees on the bed.

I pull back his foreskin and press his head just between my lips so that they are folded around it. The feeling is electrifying. He twitches at the contact. I sit down slowly, guiding the tip of his cock inside me.

He clasps his hands on the curve of my waist. He must be feeling my damp insides with his shaft.

He nods at me. I allow my weight to slowly grind down tightly around the thickness of his cock. I moan from pleasure as I sit down on him feeling his hard cock squeezing in and lodging deep inside my pussy. He seems to fit better this time. Maybe it is muscle memory. But whose? His or mine? It doesn't matter.

I move slowly, a twisting and flexing of my body from the effects of how full and perfect he feels inside me. It feels like something clicking into place. That satisfying yesss feeling, when something fits something. I feel like a log is inside me. In this position, he feels so much longer and thicker.

At first, slowly, almost imperceptibly, and then with only mildly increased vigour, Seb starts moving his hips, as though unable to help it, squeezing in and out of my depths.

Supporting my back with his arms around me, he kisses my collarbone, my chest. He nibbles my puffy nipples. I moan tenderly in his arms.

I move my hips, riding my son. I throw my arms up, clasping them in the air, while shamelessly twisting my naked body around his cock in a gesture of expressing motherly lust. My lovemaking is more assertive now. Less spa, more gym.

Raising me gently with his hands underneath my buttocks, Seb starts thrusting that much faster, penetrating me that much deeper, allowing his groin to nearly touch mine. He appears a little lost in the stampeding passion.

I let out low, intense growls. I lock my arms around his neck, dig my face into his shoulder and shudder in his embrace. I cannot believe there is anything in this uncertain world that can feel this right and real and true. You need a special kind of somebody in his element to do this job. And Seb is doing it.

A male shudder. He kisses me more intensely than ever before, as if to thank me for making his moment possible.

Orgasming together... Each doing our own thing. Each dancing to the music in our own head. But somehow together. It is a dance number. A kind of pre-established harmony. Why is it all so harmonious? What is the biological mathematical probability of this happening together? Is this Leibniz's best of all possible worlds? Hmmm... I'm beginning to think like Seb. I get back to me.

Nothing has made me feel the way I do right now. Like I have a window in my chest where the sunlight is pouring in.

His cock is still lodged inside my pussy. I clamp my legs around him, refusing to let go, mothering his cock, even though I should let him get on with his young life. He has great deeds to do. Great thoughts to think.

Seb regaining his power of speech, "Mum, you'll miss your train."

I allow my body to go limp. I collapse, head in my hands, hearing my body fight the air for air as if it is someone else's body, wishing it is someone else's body.

***

He sends me off at the train station before he goes to office.

He says he is really looking forward to my next visit. The low slow lull of his voice is soothing. Like waves lapping the shore at night. Is that a newly acquired hint of perversion in his eyes? I feel a tingle hearing this. But, a different tingle this time. The dial has moved. A different heat of fire. Do our bodies now think whenever they are together they get to touch? I feel a bit nervous about all this, like I am too alive for my own good.

We connected as never before in this visit, but nowhere near planning to jump off a cliff together. Am I overthinking this? I mustn't impose on Seb. He is a young man.

I will email him a poem. I want him to know all the inside things about me.

He gives me a tight hug. I feel his hardon pressed against me. I feel flowers blooming in my chest. So massive. So soon too. Searing. It is still early in the morning. Part remnant morning wood if that is possible, part arousal. A lovely aggregate. Mother Nature goes about her own sweet way. He knows I feel it.

He scans the immediate neighbourhood. Guiltily. Conspiratorially. Still early morning. Nobody near us.

He takes my hand to his crotch. I can tell, he is not wearing briefs. Oh my God, what happens when he sports a stiffy in the office? He presses my hand against his crotch. A sort of not unfamiliar feel. The cock ring. He is wearing it! Oh my God! A fiendish grin.

He peers questioningly into my eyes, "And you?"

I take his male hand to my crotch. I can tell. He now knows I am not wearing panties. His mum is a mean commando.

I extricate his middle finger from his clump of hand. I guide it to my most intimate. His finger, it vibrates a little.

Civilly, "Mum, have a good day."

"You... will... too..."

I am on the train. My life just got made.

***

Chapter 10

Bedroom Banter

I am home.

Bedroom banter with my husband that night.

I should say that despite my hubby not sharing alot of common interests with me, and being always busy, busy, busy, we do have an open and trusting relationship which I cherish. Lots of long-married couples have a pragmatic "situationship" rather than a relationship. Ours is for sure a relationship.

I tell my hubby about the belated naughty Christmas unchristian gift from our son. By the way, he really gets on well with our son, more like mates than dad/son.

He wants to see the appliance. Yes, he actually calls it an appliance. Like a juicer. I show him. He has never seen a bullet vibe before, even though he is aware of it from popular porn culture.

"Did you've the opportunity to try out the gift yet?"

Matter-of-factly, "We did."

Eyebrows arching above his hairline, "We?"

My being a nudist at home, my hubby kind of implicitly suspects that I may go nude in Seb's apartment as well. Although Seb going nude too with me is a bit of a stretch of wider imagination, which I am unsure if it has crossed his mind.

My hubby knows that the high-floor 360 degree privacy of Seb's apartment would be ideal for practising healthy nudism, particularly the open patio in the sunny months.

"We tried the vibe on my feminine parts."

"We?"

"Since Seb was the one who purchased the appliance, he had duly viewed the user guide videos. You know Seb is savvy with tech things. He felt obliged to show me the operations. He applied the appliance here and there, this way and that."

"Where?"

"My nipples. Then southerly... my most feminine bits."

"How was it?"

"I really enjoyed the experience. Then, I did it myself, just so that I could practise. While Seb watched to check out how I was doing."

"I think you know I continue my nudism practice in Seb's apartment. It's difficult to resist the glorious pull of the sun on the patio. Seb often joins me so that it's not awkward for me to be the only one naked. So coming back to the vibe, just for a lark, I tried it on his sac, and then, penis."

"Oh? I thought this was YOUR gift."

"As I've said, just for a lark. We were in that kind of a frivolous mood."

"How did Seb respond?"

"He enjoyed the experience too. There were anxious moments. He was on edge. But, he didn't."

"Oh! But why?"

"I saved him for other delights..."

"Oh? What would that be?"

"I actually brought him a gift too."

"I thought he already received his Christmas gift when he visited us?"

"Yes he did. A sort of additional gift. A visitor's gift. I was in a giving mood."

"What did you give him?"

"A little something from Ann Summers."

"As in Ann Summers the... intimate goods shop?"

"Yes"

"What was it?"

"A cock ring."

"Huh?"

"One of those contraptions for males. To heighten the tension."

"Aren't those dangerous? Like they can cutoff blood circulation, cause blackout, and kill."

"Not if there is parental motherly supervision."

"How did you supervise?"

"Why don't I show you..."

"Huh?"

I take out a cock ring from our bedside drawer.

"What? You bought one for me too?"

"Not really."

"Huh?"

บท 2766: NUDIST MUM VISITS SON

ป้ายปลดล็อกตอน

บท 2766: NUDIST MUM VISITS SON

ป้ายปลดล็อกตอน

สารบัญ

ตัวเลือกแสดง

ความคิดเห็นต่อตอน

ความคิดเห็นย่อหน้า