Ballerina Mum Performs For Son

"Hmmm..."

"Mum, please..."

"Mum, a little variation..."

"Hmm... a visual animal, like your dad."

I pivot slowly. My back is to him.

I bend over to pick up something that the patio wind had blown to the floor earlier. Thanks to my ballet, I am still nimble. I can still bend over with my knees locked, my legs straight. I also take this opportunity to undo the straps of my sandals to take them off.

What can he see? I can only guess.

My hair hanging free and loose, skimming the air. So, this is what people mean when they say let your hair down.

My long bare legs. The pale, slightly glowing translucence of my skin of my back torso. The faint shading of mole dots on the back of my right thigh. I hope he sees them as features that spell character rather than blemishes.

At the top of my legs, the cheeks of a mature woman, longish and curving. I jiggle them a little for motherly effect. Can he see my dark little butthole? And maybe my soft little labia, just barely protruding through my curls? Flashes of glistening pink?

He must be taking in everything in good order. Taking inventory in a private art gallery. The work cut out on the walls. Not an unpleasant occupation.

Is that a silent male sigh? Like one with a reverence reserved for compelling opera moments, or privately held Monets. I flatter myself. I am being a silly old woman with visions of grandeur.

I wait a full half minute before straightening back up. He must know I am doing this on purpose. Not even accidentally on purpose. I am utterly shameless. What mother would show herself this way to her son?

I spy that his erection is waving in the air, thrusting forward, right at me. His balls are swaying slightly. I like that. He is making a powerful statement about his mother. I like that assertiveness in a son.

I don't know what has come over me. A devious stupor, if that makes any sense at all. I decide to up the ante some. My son has already seen me. No harm letting him relish some visual variations. Get to know his mum better.

I raise my right leg to place my foot on the edge of the sofa seat, parting my legs, looking down at myself. I think my son is having a perfect view of my opening to the rest of my interior secrets. I think he may even glean a little pink. I am, once again, shamelessly inviting him to look. I am inducting my son into a secret society. Membership is by invitation. I am inviting.

The inductee's cock is straining. It looks like if I were to just lightly touch the head, I think he will explode all over me. The induction ritual is in progress.

Christian grows harder. Somewhat unchristian to nurse an agonising boner for one's mother. But, the human condition is that way sometimes. I sense that he may lose control anytime now.

I gently and slowly sift my fingers through my pubic hair. Then, I run my middle finger around my opening, caressing my outer lips, pulling them back a little to open myself up. I slide a finger up and down my slit, then repeatedly touching my clitoris, rubbing my finger back and forth. I am feeling myself without even being conscious of it. My opening is moist. My fingers, wet and slippery. What kind of mother would masturbate in front of her son?

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

My son's cock is leaking, waving back and forth. He grips it with one hand as if to restrain himself from ejaculating. He must be thinking how erotic and nasty his mother looks. His mother showing herself to him like this. My legs open wide for both of us to see. My puffy lips and all that piquant fluid right at my opening.

This is a moment of precious intimacy between Christian and me. To him, I must be a magnet of raw sexual desire.

I sense from his facial expression that a deep warm feeling is welling and rising in his loins. I think he is close. In the zone.

"Oh mum, oh mum. I'm losing it."

And then, the dam breaks. Sperms start shooting out, hitting me in my thighs, stomach and chest.

I freeze. I have never seen another man ejaculate other than my husband. And most times, he ejaculates inside me, so I don't get to see the fireworks. And in recent years, he is not that festive.

My son is convulsing as more semen spews out, hitting my arm, my thigh, and the arm of the sofa.

"I'm sorry, mum."

The last drops fall off. Oh! Yet a little more. A dribble. Like pre-cum. Except that it is post-cum, if there is such a thing. Mother nature comes full circle.

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

Christian is in another world. He doesn't answer. But, words are superfluous.

The member is inducted.

***

Chapter 10

Dance

I start up the music player.

We sway to the slow beat. I move closer to him. My head on his shoulder like a high school sweetheart on a Friday night. His hands on my waist.

We sway such that my leg brushes lightly against his groin. We carry on this way for awhile. My legs bending just enough to brush against his cock every time we sway.

I observe his growing cock bulging out. Ooo, the restorative capacity of youth. Just where do they tap this life force from? We maintain this for a long time relishing the intimacy. Time stands still.

He is now very hard. Too hard for his own good. He pulls me tight to him. The warmth between his legs pushed against me. His hips thrust forward, grinding himself straight into my mound. So bold. This really startles me. I immediately stop and push away from him.

"We can't..."

For the first time in my life, my son looks menacing. Charm and harm. Even dangerous. He looks evil and interesting. I would never have thought this possible of this sweet child o' mine. You think you know your son, but you don't. Is he going to ravage me? Ravage his mum?

I decide to meet him half way. After all, I am not inculpable for his inconvenient heightened state.

I get back to our dance position. He has since softened some. I press close to him. He lodges himself at the junction of my mound and upper thighs. He stiffens a notch. But, it is not at his granite hardest. Not yet. I can detect the desire in his eyes, like a faint light deep in a mineshaft.

For some of us, there comes a moment, one special moment, in our lives when the one person we want in all the world to be with us, to touch us, actually begins to do so. For me, that moment is now.

I feel a wave of confused lust shoot through me as he softly kisses and tongues my naked shoulders with a vigour like they are my extended erogenous zones. I feel as if I am dancing on ground that is floating on water.

My son is nestling between my thighs. Effectively dry humping his mum. What kind of mum would allow her son to insert himself between her thighs while dancing?

His male hands feel rough on my bare back. He holds me for a long time, peering deep into the back of my eyes. And me, his. Me looking at the man behind my son's eyes. Maybe he looking at the woman behind his mother's eyes. We have an identity crisis going. But, I don't mind so much. It is through identity crises that we find ourselves.

We dance this way, his warm hand running up and down my naked back, till the end of the song, and then, into the next one.

It is awfully quiet despite the music. Almost too quiet. It is like rail tracks without trains passing on them have a mysterious silence all their own.

We are doing good. I will heighten my experience with my son a little, since we have come this far.

I tighten my upper thighs grip on him, and then ease off. I feel a sweet ache.

Clench, relax. Clench, relax. Clench, relax.

Christian must be feeling the motherly pulsing pressure on him. It is not strong. But, it is even and steady. Once cause and effect link up, there is no escape.

Christian is in a state. He starts a slow sawing motion. A burrowing motion. I cannot allow this. I will end up flailing like a demented soul. What will my son think of me then? I suspect Christian will react the same too. It will be awkward for us both.

On his out-stroke, I clench my thighs tight. We have to stop.

He is too aroused to think straight. He instinctively presses his engorged head at the juncture crack of my crotch and upper thighs. With one hard roll of his hips, he enters my wet heat, breaking through my defences. Only the second person to enter me.

I don't know what has come over me. I instinctively clamp around him so that he can't move. Entering me but not moving, does that count as my son fucking his mother? He looks like he is being burned alive with the sweetest heat.

Alarmed, whimpering, "No, no. Stop!"

Just then, as if the music system heard me, the song ends. The dancing stops.

Although Christian has disengaged, I can still feel the sensation of his stiff pubic hair on my upper thighs. His presence remains on my flesh. I instinctively clench my junction, only to find that I am clamping myself. Oh god, my pussy loves being stretched by his hard cock. I now have a holy void of uncreated emptiness. A strange space has formed inside me, a kind of pure hollow. This space signifies a simple lack, a nothingness.

I see his glistening erection. Maybe Christian can see the glistening excitement on my thatch? Soft and silent as a new moon, a smile drifts across his face.

I realise that a small streamlet has dribbled down me. My first instinct is to fake an innocent body movement to scratch an imaginary itch, to wipe off the trail of excitement. But, something in me cries to leave it be. It feels so wrong walking around naked with illicit fluids on my leg, in the presence of my son. I feel pleasantly deviant.

"We can't."

I add, "Not tonight."

Now, why did I say that? I really need to digest this in solitude. My son has actually entered me. How far we have traveled, and yet, how little we have moved.

He comes along and makes everything rhyme. Turns my world on its head. It is funny how life works that way.

I go to bed.

I dream that I am trying to eat myself. Why would anyone want to eat herself, whether dreaming or awake? This is some serious weird shit of unquantifiable proportions. What is eating me? Who is eating me?

***

Chapter 11

Figs

The next day...

Christian and I are at the cliff edge of our garden overlooking the moor of sea. We have just finished lunch. We are sipping wine, eating figs, passing the bottle back and forth taking liberal swigs.

"Tell me a good lie."

"Huh?"

"Something which is not uncharacteristic of you to do, but you didn't do."

"Is that the same as something I wish to do, but never did?"

"Not quite."

"In my uni lit class, there was this vivacious lush lecturer, Miss Cumley. She was in her fifties, and looked exactly that to the day."

"She was heartbreakingly beautiful. She had massive sexual capital to deploy, but I never saw her do. Well, it wasn't like she had to do anything. It was all just there. The stuff of childhood dreams and fairytales."

"She lived big. You could see it in her eyes. You just kind of knew, when she sprung out of bed each morning, she would tell herself to live. Live. Live. Live. She pushed each day to the max because tomorrow may not get scheduled. And that took courage. She was the kind of woman who people stopped what they were doing to listen to. She was the kind of woman who should be banned from being an educator because it was not altogether clear what she was teaching."

"My young soul was like a quivering violin string. She wore a simple Christian crucifix necklace. Was she religious? I never did find out. The Jesus figure nestled deep into her cleavage, the slightly twisted chain pressing Him against her left breast in a sort of figurative suffocation."

I interjected, "Is Miss Cumley inspired by Muriel Sparks's teacher character, Miss Jean Brodie, in the classic, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie?"

"Yes in the genre of the compelling influential teacher. But no, in the character."

Continuing, "We did a close reading of Sons and Lovers by DH Lawrence. After the review, she read a poem on figs, also by him, as a kind of closing."

"It went something like this..."

"The proper way to eat a fig, in society

Is to split it in four, holding it by the stump,

And open it, so that it is a glittering, rosy, moist, honied, heavy-petalled four-petalled flower."

"Then you throw away the skin

Which is just like a four-sepalled calyx,

After you have taken off the blossom, with your lips."

"But the vulgar way

Is just to put your mouth to the crack and take out the flesh in one bite.

Every fruit has its secret."

"And the poem meandered on for awhile..."

"After the class, I waited for all the students to leave the classroom. Miss Cumley saw me. She asked if I needed any help in my class assignment. No, all good. I told her I brought her a little something. Is it a shiny apple, she teased? No. I passed a small brown paper bag to her. She opened it. Oh, figs! But, how did I know she would be reading DH Lawrence's Figs today? I said I didn't know I knew."

"And?"

"We ate out."

"Hmm..."

***

Chapter 12

Love

I say this as if it means something, "Your dad will be coming home tomorrow. Let's go inside."

We talk, lying side by side on the rug. This is the first time we are both naked since we danced nude last night.

I lay my arm over his thighs. I play with his balls and cock like one would play with a kitten. He is soft. Slowly, languidly, casually in a world time of our own, a timezone of our own.

I roll his balls around. Ornate articles. I run my finger along his tender cock. One way, then the other way. One way, then the other way.

Now, my right hand grips his base. I wonder how savagely hard I can grip him before he passes out. He grimaces. I think I get it.

My left hand shunts his male length back and forth, back and forth. One way, then the other way.

For some inexplicable reason, my mind flits back to my junior high physics class of Mr John Steele. How weird is this, at a time like this?

Simple harmonic motion is a special type of motion of a body resulting from a dynamic equilibrium between an inertial force, proportional to the acceleration of the body away from the static equilibrium position, and a restoring force on the moving object that is directly proportional to the magnitude of the object's displacement and acts towards the object's equilibrium position. It results in an oscillation described by a sine curve which continues indefinitely, if uninhibited by friction or any other dissipation of energy.

I'm not sure if I am rendering SHM on my son. There is a body, and there is pleasant motion, and a delightful pattern to it all. And he appears to be enjoying this physics.

My finger picks up male droplets. I taste them on my lips. When he shows the first signs of getting hard, I stop my ministrations. He calms down. Then, I begin again.

I do this while idly discussing the Philosophy of Aesthetics with Christian. What happens in our simmering minds when we engage with art, music, nature, poetry, experiencing a play, movie, sports?

His cock, balls. My breasts, derrière, pubes, pussy, my tiny finger of protruding clitoris. They are nature. And those on my person, Mother Nature.

Why is a cock desirable? If we put aside our sexual perspective, if that is at all humanly possible, the cock is not exactly the most elegantly architected of body parts. Gnarly, veiny, stubby, floppy. What makes one cock more desirable than another? All things being equal, why do I prefer my son's cock to someone else's? All things being equal, why does Christian prefer my breasts to someone else's? Is there something else going on?

And then, the Philosophy of Art. How artists imagine, create and perform works of art, as well as how people use, enjoy and critique art. I gave birth to Christian. I raised him from newborn to adult. Am I the creator artist of his beautiful cock? If he is my work of art, can I use and enjoy my art as I please?

Curiously, I love seeing my son when he is not hard. I love his tender softness. The charm of his malleability, and my power to shape it. A moving art.

In popular culture, all we gush about are straining erections. We celebrate them like they are an end unto themselves.

We reverse our collaboration.

We reconfigure ourselves. Side by side. Talking.

I open up a little for my son. Wide enough to be accessible, but not so open as to be lewd.

He plays with my clitoris. When he stokes me up to the point where my tiny finger of tender flesh protrudes out of my slit, he just stops everything, content just to admire it for its own beauty. Here we go. The Philosophy of Aesthetics. It is not highfalutin scholarly conversational abstraction. It happens. It is real. My son is admiring my clitoris. My observing my son observe my clitoris is yet another level of the Philosophy of Aesthetics.

After the longest time, he puts his hand on my stomach. He slides a finger over my slit. Enough to make me moist, just short of wet.

The erotic is all about calibration. The sweet spot is where you don't quite know where you are precisely, but where it is all good.

He inserts his finger in my pussy, soaks up the fluid and uses it to caress my clitoris. He gets my juices ebbing then flowing.

He returns my favour. When he senses, with a little signaling help from me, that I am creeping to a high, he stops. I rest. I climb down some. But not so much as to have to restart from ground zero.

We do it again. Starting, stopping, resting, talking.

Oh my god! I can imagine living the rest of my life this way in a sort of Nietzschean eternal recurrence tizzy, stopping only for food, washroom and sleeping breaks! It is excitement and compatibility I have never imagined possible. A living dream. We hike to the top of things. Dive to the bottom of other things.

We reposition our bodies again. He is stretched out, lying on his side. His cock is pointing and pulsing. A life force apart, of its own.

I am lying on my side too, facing his groin. I slowly slide my face against his raging cock. My cheeks feel the hotness of his straining son meat. I glide my face up and down along one side of his cock, then moving to the other side. I turn the other cheek. I do this again and again pressing my motherly cheeks against his cock harder and harder each time. I can now feel the texture of the meat. I feel the engorged vein too. My son and me, we are so close.

Whispering, "Dad will be back tomorrow..."

He gets it.

He sits in the chair. His cock is pointing and gesturing in his lap. Does he like it this way?

I face him, kneeling in between his legs. I bend my head down. Putting my hands behind my back, handsfree, I begin to graze my face against his straining cock. I let my face, my cheeks feel his hotness. My face gliding up and down one side of his cock, then moving to the other side with my other cheek. My son is in my face.

I raise my head a little. I hover over the tip of his cock. Look down at it, lowering my face. I part my lips. I take my son in my mouth. Just the head of his erection. No more. I am not greedy. Gently sucking. Then just as quickly, I stop and stand up.

I straddle the chair. My soft pubic curls and the warmth of my pelvis are pressed against his chest. I look down at him. Reach down to grip his erection. Hold it straight up. Like a spire. I lower myself, sliding his cock back and forth, between my legs, until it finds the centre of my opening.

His head is swollen and sensitive. It is rubbing my warm, slippery, wrinkled flesh. I feel myself parting to let him in. I feel myself close up. My pussy envelopes his head. I hold it there for a second. Then, in one swift movement, I sit down on him, face to face, thrusting his cock farther in me. He doesn't expect this. A little shocked.