Ballerina Mum Performs For Son

"Then, he told me there was somebody else in his life who was close to him. And I desperately tried to find something that I could reply. I could cry. But there was one thing I had to keep telling myself to get by. Nothing ever lasts forever, my oh my."

"As the shadows grew longer, my heartache got stronger. And maybe it was time to move on. But it was hard to ignore what had happened before. And I couldn't forget all the times I was close to him."

"Goodbye past. Is it true that the good things don't last? Is it true that the good times have passed?"

"Poetic. Poignant. It all sounds like a song."

"That's because it is."

"Huh?"

"It is a song."

"So, it's just a story in song? That wasn't you?"

"No"

"Huh?"

"Isn't every first love like that?"

"I don't know. I've never had one. Never had a one and only, even for a day."

"Oh?"

"What's the name of the song?"

"It's in the story. Close To You."

"But, it doesn't sound anything like Close To You?"

"The Monalisa Twins."

"Actually mum, I do have a first love."

"Who?"

"You"

"Every child's first love is his mum. That doesn't count."

"I'm not a child."

"Oh?"

"Is that how you feel?"

"Yes"

Christian's eyes trace the curve of my bosom, and then southerly to my juncture, and lingers there. I move my legs a little.

"Say no more..."

I smile inwardly and let the matter rest in my mind, to be digested later. I feel stoked. A happiness, but it's a mystical happiness. A joy. It surprises me like a sudden kiss.

I look at my son. He looks interesting.

***

Chapter 6

Videoshoot

The next day.

"Mum, shall we do the video shoot today?"

He adds, "Dad will be back the day after tomorrow. I thought it'll look better if you don't wear your wireless ear buds. More natural. You can play your ballet symphony music aloud, and the video can record the music too as you dance."

"Let me check if my leotard is dry from the laundry wash."

I go to the laundry room. The leotard is mostly dry but has a dampish feel. That's the way it is with satin fabric, sensitive to even the slightest moisture.

"Sorry, it's still dampish. We don't have a dryer. I don't fancy writhing into a dank clingy garment."

"Do you've another dance leotard?"

"No. This is my only. I guess we'll have to do it tomorrow."

"Oh!"

"You look disappointed."

"Well, I thought if we do the shoot today, I can review it with you tonight, and if we find it unsatisfactory in parts, we can do a re-shoot tomorrow. You want this for posterity, so let's do it properly."

"Hmmm..."

"I hope you don't mind my suggesting this. It's rather radical and bold. You mentioned that you would like a visual record of your dance and your body for posterity. Fifty year old is a milestone in life. Would you consider dancing nude?"

"What?"

Mortified, "Mum, forget I said this. I'm sorry for being insensitive."

We look at each other in silence. I look round the living room inclined to test its silence with a Hi! or Woohoo! or something. But, I don't. The eerie absolute silence of the place redefines silence.

I want to play. To be little. To turn time back. To be drunk and sober at the same time. All this seems to chime with some longing in me.

"OK"

In utter disbelief, "What?"

"Yes"

It seems like Christian thinks that this is some great cosmic trick. Is it really this easy? He asked for his mother to be naked and she said matter-of-factly, yes, ok. Could he really manifest his most outlandish dreams just like that? Well, apparently yes.

I move to the middle of the living room. I want to get that silly smile on his face.

"I want this to be perfect. Check me out before we start."

I am equal parts excitement and trepidation. The scale of the undertaking is only just beginning to sink in. The plan is simple. But daring.

The beginning is always a delicate time.

I feel that I'm embarking on a compelling journey. A trip, a safari, an exploration is an entity different from other journeys. It has personality, temperament, individuality, uniqueness. A journey is a person in itself. No two are alike.

I turn my back to my son. I slip off my sandals and reach behind, fingers clutching the zipper of my dress. I'm going to take it off right here. My fingers, long and slender, red nails, slowly pull the zipper down, inch by inch. All the way to my white panty. My eyes look sheepishly at the floor. My dress parts. I hear fabric being coaxed past my hips. The faint sound of it slipping to my feet. I raise my eyes.

My hands neatly smooth out the dress. With my back still to my son, I drape it over a chair.

I try to collect my thoughts. Maybe I should act busy with something. Or maybe say I need to use the bathroom. I'm only deceiving myself. I know I've to continue.

I reach behind again. This time to unfasten my bra. But then, I stop. My fingers still lingering at the clasp.

I look at Christian. He senses my uncertainty.

I turn my face to the side. My eyes looking over my shoulder, back at my son, holding my gaze. I know he would be watching.

Then, I turn my face away. Another few seconds of hesitation. I unclasp and draw in my shoulders. The bra slips down my arms. But, I do not turn around.

I think only the outside edge of my right breast is in his view. A thin curved sliver of linen white flesh. A first glimpse for my son. It jiggles a little.

He must be looking at the long nape of my neck, my pronounced line of backbone, my waist slender, even after all these years if I may say so myself.

My white panty. He must be looking at my derrière. Contoured and soft. Not a young girl's butt for sure. But, a woman's tail, longish and curving.

I stand, feet together, back straight and tall. I hope my body speaks of poise and grace. That of a ballerina. Not a commonplace woman, I would like to think.

My back still to my son, I slip my fingers under the waistband. I push my panty slowly down. Not a striptease, but no hesitation either. I lift one foot, then, the other, to free the garment. I am now fully naked with my back to my son.

Perhaps I am a little too full of social graces for the present circumstances?

Picking up my panty, I look at my crotch. I hold the panty to my nose.

I say without looking at my son, "I'm afraid I'm a little aroused there. I'm that way."

What must my son be thinking? His mum telling him matter-of-factly about her arousal.

I don't know what came over me, but I add, "Most women my age get drier, especially around menopause. I'm fortunate. I still get fairly wet down there. That is not a problem for me."

What must my son be thinking? His mum telling him matter-of-factly about her most intimate physiology. Her most personal biology.

He must be staring at the dark divide between my buttocks.

I lift my knee to the sofa to rub some lotion on my legs. My legs parting a little as I do, the lips of my pussy must be coming into view, from behind.

I turn around. My feminine goods are now on full display. Christian sees something that sons aren't supposed to see. Must never see. He sparks up as if he has discovered a new angle of me.

There is no will left in me to fight the dark angel in me. I let the queasiness take over as I watch my son look at me. What does he think of my little patch of pubic hair? My soft triangle. Can he see past my curls? Is my pink showing?

We have crossed a barrier that almost no mother and son must ever cross.

Outside, black rain clouds, very low and fast moving, are rolling in from the sea.

He appears to admire the colour and the quality of my skin. I glance down at myself between my legs and see my small clitoris protruding ever so slightly. I've never seen it showing this way. My lips are wet and slick. What must Christian be thinking?

I ask without turning my head to look at him, "Do you like seeing my body, Christian?"

He nods weakly. Though there isn't much of an expression on his face, his eyes smiled. And in those eyes, I can see that he is thinking. Always thinking.

I see him looking at me there. I keep looking at him, as he keeps looking at my most intimate, staring, somewhat in pleasant disbelief.

"Not much, huh?"

"Yes, a small, soft-looking bit of pubic hair."

He adds, "But enough to be magical."

Hard rain is pelting on the garden outside.

"Shoot me now..."

I lose myself to Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. Dance of the Little Swans. I feel little all over again. When I dance, I just fall into the music. I forget myself.

My animal-like breasts are tipping and weaving as I move, even with every breath I take.

The quality of my attention determines the quality of my life. I am what I choose to pay attention to and, crucially, how I pay attention. Looking back at my life, which memories bubble to the surface? Maybe it's something big, like my wedding day, the day I gave birth to Christian, or maybe something small, that unexpectedly kind exchange with the person standing behind me on the ridiculously long post office line. Chances are, though, it is moments when I'm most attentive. My life is no less and no more than the sum of my most rapt moments. The highest ecstasy is the attention at its fullest. During these rare moments, I enter a state of mind, a state of being, that extreme attention. Flow. When in a state of flow, I shed any semblance of self-consciousness, and experience an altered perception of time and a heightened sense of reality. Everything seems more real than real. I am not self-absorbed, for there is no self to be absorbed. No musician, only music. No dancer, only dancing.

This is what I am feeling.

***

Chapter 7

Playback

It is night. The rainstorm has blown over. The Good Lord is done raging.

It is so pleasant sitting in the living room with the patio doors flung open. The living room, the patio, the garden, then the drop to the sea. The remnant scent of the rain.

"Mum, let's review the video shoot."

"OK"

"Let me get a bottle of wine. Meanwhile, you can set up your cellphone to playback the video on the widescreen TV."

When I return, the video is already setup, ready to play. I set the wine bottle on the coffee table. I didn't bother with glasses. We'll just swig from the bottle. A bonding quality to the sharing.

"The sea air is a bit chilly. But, I like it. Can I sit back on you like you're a lounge chair, to get your warmth?"

"Sure"

I sit on the rug. He sits behind me like he is the back of a chair. Both his legs extend down each side of my body.

I snuggle into his male form. A bakery warmth. I can't express how much I like this. Our bodies fit perfectly into each other by some intelligent design.

I take a lusty swig of the wine, and pass the bottle to Christian. He does the same.

The video starts.

"How do you feel seeing your mum starkers in widescreen cinematic splendour?"

"Not so very different from when you're in your nude-coloured leotard. And this is art. A performing art."

"Hmmm... you're quite a diplomat. You'll have a successful career in the diplomatic corps."

A chuckle. Some ice is broken.

As the video plays on, I am dancing more and more movements which show my intimate lady bits. I can vaguely feel Christian sporting a growing stiffy. But, I decide to say nothing. I press my back onto him. To let him know I know. I have a welling desire to take good care of this sprout that has sprung up. But, the best I can do now is to press against it. Acknowledge it. A connection of sorts.

***

Chapter 8

Relief

The video ends.

Christian appears quite moved by what he has viewed.

"You've seen me, including my most intimate, in revealing postures. Tell me honestly, as a man, not son, what do you find compelling?"

Sensing his hesitation, egging, "Candour appreciated."

"You look almost pubescent there. Pristine, dainty, like a measured fresh surgical incision, cut real low, in a small soft arc. Sparse fine pubes. Like a child. You look naturally that way in a curious sensual way. Like you grew into this pubescence."

"Oh?"

I think, here he is, my child, looking at another child. But, I do not say anything.

"Anything else?"

"I like your small clit, a tiny finger of flesh, showing ever so slightly out of your slit when you pose tippy toe en pointe. It is as if it is part of the ballet."

"Oh?"

I sense this intimate exchange seems to embolden him a little. He nuzzles my hair in a rare show of affection. He gives me a longing look, then reaches his hand to my upper thigh, feeling me up, then advancing tentatively to an even more forbidden zone.

"We can't. We mustn't..."

"I need to shift position."

He leans forward. He raises both his knees, his soles flat on the floor. I am now sitting between his legs. My back is resting on his chest. His hands are on my thighs. He clamps his strong thighs against the sides of my torso. He appears to relish giving me little crushes.

"I need to adjust a little..."

Hand on my shoulder, he inclines my upper torso forward, to make some space between us. He reaches between us, repositions what I think is his cock so that it lays flat on his chest.

My nipples are steely studs. My pussy, swollen. I lean back. I feel him better now through my thin cotton dress. He is quite big.

I make a sound as though I swallow some imaginary thing. Then, I lightly clear my throat.

I pay closer attention to the erection pressed to my back. He allows himself to become even more prominent, indeed so much, as to enable me to form a pretty accurate picture of his size and shape. Is he throbbing? Am I imagining this? Is he bigger than his dad? He feels so hard, so strained, pressed against my back. Is his skin covering hurting from the stretching? My poor boy. I can't have him hurt himself on my account.

He runs his hand down my thigh. Experimentally at first, then exploratorily.

He wraps his arms around my waist. Secures me to him like a seatbelt. He is rocking his hips, a slight motion, not enough for me to see. I am unsure if he is even conscious of it. But, I feel his cock moving against my back. I am about to say something but...

He murmurs, "Lean forward a little."

I do. He snatches my bottle of lotion from the coffee table.

"You can't. Not now."

Then, I feel it. The motion of the rug. He is fisting himself. He emits a low moan.

"You need to..."

A steady stream of fluid leaks from me. I begin humping my hips back and forth. Back and forth. Can he smell the sex building up from my pussy?

My eyes close to tiny slits. I yank up my dress. Dig my right hand into my panty. Drive a finger inside myself. Pleasure pulses through my loins. I slump back on his shoulder. He is furiously fisting. A savage fury to it. It frightens me a little. Will he inadvertently rip himself apart?

I find my clitoris. Rub it. Moan. I squeeze my braless breast with my free hand.

His hand is creeping up my body. Without the strength to say no, not willing to say yes, I offer no resistance when he covers my other breast and tweaks my stiffening nipple. I thumb my clitoris. I rock myself on my fingers.

It happens. My orgasm starts, grows, matures, rampages through my body, blowing my mind. An orgasm surprises me every time, even though I expect it.

In a low, guttural, hard tone, he cries, "Oh mum, yes".

Here comes the son. My son.

As I imagine the cum spewing from his cock, my pussy spasms. I feel my butthole clench. Nothing in the real world is as beautiful as the illusions of a person about to climax.

I come again.

An orgasm does things to you. It cleans out your soul, and duly refills it. It is the answer to hard drugs. Why does anyone do drugs? For the high. Drugs are fake mysticism. This is better.

I slump back onto his male form. His arms encircle me. He kisses the side of my head. His hand rises to my forehead to brush back an imaginary strand of trailing hair. I smell a raw scent like that of freshly turned earth.

I lay my head on his chest. It feels so good and right. We cuddle in a way a mother and son must never.

***

Chapter 9

Naked

"Let's dance."

I surprise Christian, "Nude..."

I remove my clothing. He doesn't expect this. He feels obliged to strip too. We are naked. Naked as the day naked me gave birth to naked Christian. The origin of species. Mother nature comes full circle.

My dress is still in a heap around my ankles. I decide to let it stay for awhile. A woman standing naked over her dress bunched at her ankles is the arch symbol of eroticism. It carries pleasant associations with the nicest promise of things to come. The stuff of movies. A mother standing naked over her dress at her ankles says a whole lot unspeakably more.

But, is this puddle of dress at my feet a sign or symbol? Sign, like a road sign, points the way to something. Symbol represents something, usually metaphorical. Am I pointing the way to something? Or, am I saying something about me?

For a full minute, we just look at each other in awed silence. Words are unnecessary, superfluous for this occasion. The words we need have not been invented yet.

I am looking at his adult naked body for the first time. Earlier, he was just grazing his body against my back. Titillating blind physical contact. I was drawing pictures in my mind on what his body might be like. Now, I get to verify my imagination.

Only the second naked adult male I have seen in rippling flesh, in my straight and narrow life besides my husband. Hard to believe this of a modern woman, but certifiably true.

But, I don't mind so much. It makes this moment all the more precious. My second is my son. It is so noble and forbidden all at once.

I look down, see his knobby cockhead. A granule of pre-cum leaks out. Then another emerges shyly to the light of day. The male sweat of arousal. All the more precious because he is not even labouring to produce it. It is like you are admiring a Ruben in an air-conditioned art gallery and you sweat from the vision. How hot is that?

I wish I can store this male essence in a tiny clear glass ampoule, seal it from the world, to remind myself forever that this is the first arousal of a son for his mother. More precisely, but mutedly, my son for me. I will string the ampoule into a pretty understated necklace and wear it on me forever. And when my girlfriends twitter, oh, what a lovely, dainty little glass thing, where did you get it? I'll look way too mysterious and say in my huskiest, my son.

As I admire his sensuality, I can't help but evaluate my immoral alternatives.

Christian is looking at me naked in the flesh for the second time after video shooting my nude ballet earlier. But, it appears like this visual experience is different from that one. That nakedness was dressed in a dance performance for the high-minded purpose of art. For cataloguing the art, my version of the performing art form, for posterity. Now, his mother is naked for the singular purpose of showing her goodself to him for his appreciation. Like wine tasting is work, while drinking wine with your partner is something else.

Suddenly, I feel a little shy and awkward. I don't know why. We have come this far. I should think we are beyond that line.

"Mum, you're a sight to behold."

"You're a fine specimen yourself. I raised you well. I claim full credit."

Looking down at himself a little sheepishly, "Yes"

His cock quivers as if nodding in happy mindful consensus.

"My God, Christian. It doesn't take much to get that little thing excited, does it?"

"Mum, turn around, please. I want to see all of you."

"I would've thought you've seen enough of your mother during the video shoot. All those ballet positions."

"I had to focus on the shoot then, attending to lighting, composition, angles and such. I was looking at a dancer. Now, I have my undivided attention on you, my mother."