A Bespoke Gift for Mum Ch. 01

Preamble:

There is incestuous titillation and teasing in this chapter, but no sex, at least not yet in this story. If you're looking for bruising, caterwauling and torrenting action by sex triathletes, this is not for you, skip along.

***

Am I into sex toys?

No. Honestly, I found them impersonal and vulgar. But, something happened which moved me to think differently. Now, I have my very own. But, only one.

There is a bit of a backstory to it...

***

I'm Tessa. I'm in my early forties. I was vacationing with my only child, my eighteen year old, Marc, in a faraway exotic locale a continent away. My husband was supposed to be with us, but he had to cancel at late notice because of an unforeseen work contingency.

So, there we were, in a place we knew nobody, blissfully anonymous. Liberating, though I couldn't really say for what.

Maybe put on my wickedest Wicked Weasel bikini? My swells of ripe fruit near spilling out. What would my son think? Just how would he react? Maybe even let myself out a bit in my alone time?

***

It was a small cottage with a veranda facing the sea. White walls. Retiled roof. Door painted a deep green. A riot of bougainvilleas overgrew the low stone wall that surrounded the house. The cottage was pleasantly cool. A living room. A medium-sized dining room and kitchen. The walls were white stucco, with a couple of abstract paintings. In the living room, there was a sofa and a bookshelf. Two bedrooms and a small tiled bathroom. The furniture was cosy and lived in.

***

We got up early every morning. The sky was a blast of light. Packed a bag with towels, water, sunscreen. Walked to the beach on the other side of the mountain. The shore was so beautiful. It took our breath away. The sand was pure white. There were hardly any waves. It was a little out of the way, though. Few people went there, particularly in the morning. Everyone swam nude. We didn't. Not that we were prudes. It just would be a little awkward. I sensed that my connection with Marc was growing day by day. Maybe toward the end of our vacation? Let's see...

After the swim, we'd go for a natural fresh water bath. The trail was half a mile.

The fall was not a single majestic fall. A succession of small ones. First, there were a number of foaming little torrents. They burst through the rocks about twenty yards above from where we usually were. Then came two beautiful rolls of white water, dashing into a pool. The pool was full of the clearest water. To birds on the wing, its glassy surface reflected the light sky. There was a swirl of water round its corner into another pool below. Black as death, seemingly of great depth.

Then a rush through a narrow outlet into yet another pool, from which the water clamoured away, down the narrow valley. I loved little brooks. Wherever I found a little running water, I was happy. A ridiculous happiness. It seemed to make me run and sing in spirit along with it.

We felt like we were in another world. I felt the urge of the seasons. The kiss of sun. The lash of weather. Even when it rained, the rain gave a gloomy grandeur to the scenery. The energy of the place was working on us. It made us feel truly free.

We'd walk back home over the mountain. Relished a simple meal. Then set off down the stone steps to the village. We'd have tea in the harbour cafe. Read the newspaper. Bought some food in a shop, then went home.

Some afternoons, I'd take a short nap on the veranda. No dreams. If anything, the nap itself seemed like a dream.

We then spent our time as we pleased until evening. In the woods, a distant bird would call, another would answer.

I was reading a book on the veranda, and listening to Brahms' Second Piano Concerto on the media player. There was something wonderful about Brahms playing at the edge of an ocean without a sign of anyone as far as the eye could see. Now, the cello passage that began the third movement. I was listening intently, sucking the music right out of the player.

In the evening, we'd go out to the harbour to watch the ferryboat come in. We'd have a cool drink. Watched the people getting off the boat.

A traveler saw what she saw. The tourist saw what she had come to see. Experience was not what happened to you. It was what you did with what happened to you.

There were still many things I had not done. Like planting a tree, to begin with.

***

Some evenings, Marc and I would traipse to the quaint seafront tavern for a drink. There was this local girl, likely a gypsy, who could really dance.

She danced like nobody else. She could draw feelings out of her audience. Feelings they hardly ever used. Or didn't even know they had. She'd bare these feelings to the light of day, the way you'd rip out a fish's guts.

She danced to the music. It was as if she was letting her body absorb the music. The music was dancing her.

One time, I was feeling particularly gay after imbibing more than my custom tipple. It was squarely Marc's fault. He pushed one too many toward me.

For some reason, my mind flitted back to my happy daze in Amsterdam when I was twenty. Maybe because I was in an atmospheric foreign F&B joint much like the coffee shops of Amsterdam. Maybe because I was with Marc and he was around my age then. Curiously, I had smoke on my mind. I could feel it in my mouth, drawn down into my lungs, filling me in a long rich dirty cinnamon sigh. And then, the rush as the nicotine hits the bloodstream. A rolling anticipation in my mouth. But, this was no time to restart. Thinking about it would suffice. Perversely, it gave me a mild hit.

I didn't know what moved me next. I joined the gypsy hussey on the floor. Just swaying to begin with. I started dancing, following her rhythm. Slowly at first. But gradually faster and faster until I was dancing like a whirlwind. My body no longer belonged to me. My arms, my legs, my feet, all moved wildly over the dance floor unconnected to my thoughts. I gave myself to the dance. And all the while, I could hear distinctly the transit of the stars, the shifting of the tides, the racing of the wind. This was truly what it meant to dance. I stamped my feet, swung my arms, tossed my head, and whirled. I was happy. I had never been so unaccountably happy.

When I rejoined Marc, he studied me with Jungian interest, "What happened there?"

"I was really happy," I said with a sad smile. Sad that I would never be that happy again.

Marc flashed a wise sweet smile as if he understood it all. I loved him for that because I understood nothing. A smile is a curve that sets everything straight. His did just that.

***

We were window shopping. There was a sex shop which advertised that they could fabricate a 100% lifelike, life-sized 3D silicone replica dildo, by using hi-tech equipment to scan the particular male organ to capture every detail.

The advertisement suggested that the product could be a cute replica collectible for the owner of the organ, or could be an intimate gift for a lover partner.

I teased Marc that he should check it out. Although we were a modern liberal family, I had never discussed anything remotely sexual with Marc before. Marc was a little surprised at my forwardness, but not anywhere near shocked.

Marc chuckled. He said that he was game, if anything, just for a lark.

Think sex shop and what comes to mind? Dark creepy caverns, garishly illuminated in parts. A creepy male shop assistant lurking in some half lit corner watching you finger the merchandise. This shop was the exact opposite. Bright, glassy, cheery, open. An adult candy store.

The shop assistant was a young man of twenty-one or twenty-two. This was probably his uni vacation job. He spoke lilting English in a charming musical accent that only a human instrument could emit. His name was João, which I understood to be the equivalent of John. A common local first name, pronounced "shoo ow" or exotic sounds to that effect. He had dark, curly hair swept back like he'd just finished trekking down some Nepalese moutaintop, and was starting his shift in the shop. He had an easy way about him.

We enquired about the dildo.

We could sense in João's momentary hesitation that he was trying to figure us out. Were we a May/December relationship pair? A MILF and her toy boy? Mum/son? Maybe doting aunt and nephew? And why would a mum/son or aunt/nephew pair visit a sex shop together?

I don't know what came over us. Marc and I looked at each other as if searching for ourselves. We could see a certain sparkle of recognition in each other's eyes. Maybe we should tease João a bit, just for a lark? Nobody knew us in this country. João appeared like he was a nice wholesome young man, not some sex shop shadowy creep. And this dildo service thing was the perfect teasing vehicle.

I smirked at Marc.

Marc inspected the sample dildo. Pressed into its pliancy. He couldn't help set it against himself, playfully jutted out somewhat lustily, and moaned hoarsely, "What do you think?"

João slid into a polite chuckle. Some ice was broken.

I extended my hand tentatively to hold, then press the contraption, check out its suppleness, as if making a serious determination.

"Nice. But nicer if this is made of you."

I pivoted to João, coyly, "Is this you?"

João emitted a hearty laugh, fingered the length of the product sample, and replied in a sad tone, "I wish..."

He added, "Just so you know, I started work here only yesterday."

Laughs.

The price was not unreasonable. We could collect the fabricated product the next day, or optionally, have it delivered to our accommodation. Marc decided to go for it. There wouldn't be another opportunity like this. If this service was available back home, he would have to deal with a local shop assistant, and that could be a little awkward.

João asked Marc to follow him to the backroom where the scanning equipment was.

Marc was surprised that I tagged along, but he said nothing. What was mum up to?

João was even more surprised. I sensed he was figuring whether Marc wanted a replica of his genitals as a gimmicky collectible, or was it a gift of utility for someone warm and dear?

In the equipment room, João asked Marc to lose his shorts and briefs.

João cast an interested side glance at me to see whether I would turn away. I did not.

Marc glanced at me as if enquiring if it was alright to bare himself in front of me. The last time I saw his male characteristics was when he was thirteen, when he had high fever and I had to nurse him.

I grinned. And then, using my index finger, I measured the length of an imaginary object in the air.

João studied Marc. He told him to take off his longish t-shirt as well, as its overhang was in the way. Marc was completely naked.

João told Marc that he had to trim his pubes as it would obscure the proper scanning of his details. The technology was capable of capturing every fine contour, line and vein to produce a truly lifelike replica. He handed an electric trimmer, a small comb sealed in plastic, a box of disinfectant wet wipes and a small trash bin to Marc.

I expected João to leave the room to give Marc the privacy for his hirsute maintenance. Instead, he went to one side of the room six feet away, and busied himself with the equipment setup, pottering over this and that.

Marc began trimming himself. After awhile, he turned to me, "I've difficulty getting to all my areas. Can you help?"

I wasn't sure if João heard Marc. I looked at João. He smiled knowingly.

I combed my son's mangled pubes to work them into some obedient form. I sampled his pubic hair at different parts of his groin. I stood-up his rip curls of pubic strands here and there to ascertain their length.

I couldn't help but pause and stare awhile. Such beauty, and me there to see it. Such beauty, and me alive to feel it.

I trimmed starting with the accessible bits first.

I too had difficulty getting to some parts. I could see why Marc had his problems earlier. He was hanging flaccid. His sac was inconveniently hung low and loose. Low hanging fruits were enticing in and of themselves, but they were in the way of our little project here.

"I want to do a good job of this so that the replica will be perfect. If you just bear with me, I'll work you a little to get your male bits taut, so that I can get to your nooks and crannies easier."

I looked to João as if inviting him to look.

I worked my son. He wasn't responding well at first. I suspected it was the anxiety of this happening in front of a stranger, and in unfamiliar environs. Nature had its own sweet way. It knew no schedule. After awhile, he rose to the occasion. Not quite full pomp and pageantry, but suffice for the purpose at hand. He let out a slight, maybe thirty percent sigh.

I gave Marc a close trim. When done, I glanced at João, and then refocused on Marc. I ran my hand all over my work to verify that his lawn was mown to perfection.

Marc told João that he was good to go.

We moved over to the scanning equipment. João looked at Marc there. He said in a sheepish tone, "I'd like to capture you at your most compelling. Would you like to prime yourself a little?"

It took us a minute to process the suggestion. I looked at Marc. He had indeed simmered down some.

Marc started priming himself.

A buzzer sound emanated from the front of the shop. João disappeared for a minute and then returned, "A customer who wants this same service. But no worries, I told him to come back later."

Marc appeared a bit stressed by this. He gazed at the clock on the wall and seemed almost to be examining the flow of time.

He tried more earnestly, which didn't make it better.

"I'll do it", I offered kindly.

João gulped as if he inadvertently swallowed himself.

I worked my son again. João went back to adjusting his equipment, tuning this and that.

Again, Marc was not particularly responsive. Anxiety pangs. The pressure of time. Marc was like that.

I offered, "Perhaps a little visual stimulation?"

Marc was wild-eyed. He had never seen me in anything less than a one-piece sensible swimsuit. No childhood accidental bathroom ooops nudity flashes. No bathroom to bedroom three yard nude sprints. No teenhood inadvertent fleeting lingerie exposés. No spectacular wardrobe malfunctions.

In an act of socially conditioned modesty, I turned away from the lads. I peeled off my blouse, and then lowered my skirt.

I had an untrimmed bush that was a full strip in the middle, with thinning hair to the sides. A bush that was visible underneath a caesarean cut filament line, and small, soft belly, and between two toned legs.

A white see-through high-cut panty exposed my fluffiness. My luxuriant undergrowth peeked out of the panty gusset edges. Feline and maybe a tad obscene.

My matching sheer bra cupped the bottom of my breasts, rising to just over my tips, revealing the rest of my swells in their ripe glory. My swells had an inviting weight to them. They were the colour of cream with hints of the fine aqua veins below the surface.

If I pulled down the bra top edges a little, to tuck them just below my nipples, the bra would be duly transformed into a sort of quarter cup exposed bra. But, that would be too festive in my current situation.

But, there was a middle way. The top of the bra had concealed in-built transparent silicone loops that I could fasten and tighten over my nipples. I secured the loops. This was a pleasurable task in itself.

I turned around. I stood before Marc, facing him, tilted my casual hips for emphasis, pirouetted slowly. As I posed this way and that, straining and contracting my bra, there were teasing flash revelations of my nipples, exposed fleetingly, then, promptly drawn back to modesty under bra cover by the loops. Seen but not really. Flashes of pointed pink. And the chafing tension of the loops on my sensitive nipples added to my excitement. But, I could not allow myself to be distracted. My raison d'être was to stir my son's senses, not mine.

My son looked at my body with a kind of awed wonder, like landlocked people who see the ocean for the first time in their lives. A body of expanse. He could not tear himself from the spectacle. His eyes seemed to be straining as if looking deeper into me.

"Can I see your back again?"

I pivoted my back to Marc. I posed this way and that, cocking one hip, then the other, clenching and releasing my arse orbs.

A male breath. Was he studying my pressed orbs? I had been gaining a little weight in my backside of late. I hoped he found them still appealing. Maybe the extra weight might have added a little sensual sway mass to my mature tail? I released then clenched my buns again.

The ballet lessons of my teenhood came back to me. I maintained both legs together straight. Bent my torso down impossibly low as only a ballerina could. Left hand grabbed right ankle, to lockdown the pose. Had my panty slipped into my arse crack? Was my outer labia visible? Was my pink showing?

I looked coyly back and up at Marc. This pose seemed to have shaken him at a strange angle. He appeared to be in some transcendent state. Like a cherub in the throes of a lewd dream. He grew some. It was as if he was too small to hold so much joy, and had to expand his being.

I shifted my gaze a few eye-lengths to João. He looked like he had a tiny sliver of doubt playing in his mind. Was it really alright for one's dreams to come true so easily?

I worked my son again.

João had given up all pretence of whatever that he was zealously pretending to be busy with.

Not long after, Marc was a lovely constitution of flesh crushed with steel moulded into a whole.

I encircled my son's girth at his base with my thumb and forefinger as if I was emphasising something pertinent and of high import, gazing at João questioningly, "Is this good to go?"

He could only give a tiny nod, like a contented pup. It looked like it was all too much for the lad on only just his second day at the office. A baptism of fire.

Ever supportive of this project, I volunteered, "I'll stay as I am in case I'm needed."

The boys appeared more grateful than they needed to be. Marc looked at me for yet additional inspiration, while João handled the imaging.

João studied Marc, and placed his hand beneath his chin as if he was deliberating on something.

"Anything the matter?"

João didn't reply, or didn't know how to reply. Marc and I followed his gaze. There were granules of arousal on Marc's head.

João asked, "Would you like that captured in the scan?"

Marc looked at me questioningly as if to say, this is for you, so how do you want me? João appeared to observe our silent exchange with interest.

I asked João if he had any tissues. He said that he would have to go to the front of the shop to get it. I said, don't bother.

I bent a little before Marc. I set my bosom against his shaft. I held him, and grazed his head against the velvet of my bra to soak up his excitement. And just to be thorough and sure, I squeezed him. A pearly drop of arousal foamed then bubbled out of him. I rubbed his head against the crotch of my panty.

I stepped away. João continued with what he had to do.

All too soon, it was done.

João offered us espresso from the coffee machine in the room. Marc and I decided to remain as we were, Marc native, me semi, while we enjoyed our coffee.

Then, horror of horrors, I realised that a small streamlet had dribbled down me, collecting a little at the in-sole depression of my open shoe. My first instinct was to fake an innocent body movement to scratch an imaginary itch, to wipe off the trail of excitement. What would my son think if he saw his mum's arousal? What must João be thinking?

But, something implored me to let nature run its course. It felt so wrong walking around in lingerie with illicit fluids on my leg, in the presence of my son and a total stranger. But, I felt pleasantly deviant. Was I giving off a sexual scent too?