Changing Room Conversations

Me: Let's try this. My height is close to Emma's. Our body shapes are not dissimilar, except that my august body is fuller. We're both C-cups. And I dare say, of quite similar form.

Alden: What are you suggesting?

Me: If you're not awkward about this, and I'm not, I'm happy to model the garments.

Alden: I can't impose that on you, mum. It's too massive an ask.

Me: No problem at all. It's just routine modelling. Let's get started. We'll do the black string bikini, then the bustier.

I draw the curtain and disappear behind it with the garments.

***


I kick off my high heels, and undress. I wrap the skimpy black top around me and tie it.

I cram my broad thighs into the matching thong. Maybe I am old fashioned. I have never felt inclined or compelled to mow my lawn. My urbane husband loves the wilderness too. So here I am, my thicket peeking out of the thong. Erotic or crass? The jury is out on the other side of the curtain. I consider changing out of the bikini, and get the shaving implements from the table drawer on the other side of the curtain. But, it is really bothersome, and the shaving will take some time, and a messy operation too. Maybe I can ask Alden to pass the shaving implements to me across the curtain. Again, a bothersome prospect as I still have to execute the deforestation of what is a lush tropical rainforest. I console myself that the colour of my thicket matches the jet black of the bikini bottom, so maybe, it will not be a prominent display. It may even enhance the imagery. The harsh sharp edge of the vee gusset is softened by pencil shading. Kind of like photo editing artful softening of edges.

I take stock of myself in the three-sided mirror. I pivot round. I cannot help but smile at the sight of my sixty year old body scrunched into swimwear meant for a much younger and less voluptuous woman. My breasts virtually pour out of the bikini top. My cups runneth over. The French-cut thong reveals my every bulge and age line. And yes, my peeking thicket does add an interesting edge to the thong.

I step into my heels. It raises my person, physical, sensual and mental, to another level.

I pose this way and that for the mirror, forgetting that my son is just across the curtain. It has been sometime since I last wore a bikini, let alone a minimalist one like this.

I hear throat clearing. Alden is prompting me politely to get on with this. I survey myself one last time. I draw open the curtain.

Alden is seated on the armchair looking expectantly. This time, he is truly engaged in the method and the process. He studies my body with an almost anthropological sense of wonder. I do not know whether to be pleased or awkward.

"I'm a little regretful that I offered to model. I underestimated my venerable body."

"Mum, you look fine. Gorgeous!"

"I feel so exposed, so vulnerable, in this swimsuit that is meant for a much younger person. I'm in the rag trade, I'm supposed to know these things."

"Oh come on, mum! It's just the two of us here. Nobody knows we're here. Besides, you look so sexy," he intimates, moving in an ever decreasing circle around me.

I cannot tell if he is admirer or predator.

I turn slightly at an angle to offer a more traditional pose. I lean against the mirror, proudly sticking out my chest. I am enjoying myself.

"Mum, I can't be sure. Are those lacy frills at the edge of the thong? Or, is that something else?"

"Why don't you find out for yourself."

"Hmm... Now, I know."

I wink. "I like me in a state of nature. Your dad too."

"Classic!"

"You're truly your father's son. The family is in happy concord!"

I spy a bulge congealing in Alden's trousers, becoming increasingly obvious.

I insert my thumbs inside the thin edge of my thong. I slide my thumbs as if I'm slowly peeling the fabric down over my broad hips. I have to stop. I must stop. I stop. I don't know what has gotten into me. An inexplicable force has appropriated my being, turning me into a mindless merciless tease. Perhaps this is the subconscious release of tension accumulated over many hours of listening in to the changing room banter of my clients?

Now, I slide my thumbs in the reverse direction. I hike up my high-waist thong to even farther up my hip bones. The gusset is taut against my mound. My lips are bulging out of the side of the thong. The thong is reduced to covering half of my labia lips. I have never felt so aroused and decadent in my life.

"They say that if you want to make people pay attention to what you're saying, you lower, not raise, your voice. This is what really commands attention. And so it is too for intimate wear."

Alden's erection sticks straight out and pokes me in the belly. He looks at me wordlessly, nervously, then removes his trousers and briefs. An inner remote voice tells me to stop him before we go too far. But, I do not. I stare down his convulsing manhood to satisfy some primitive, voyeuristic instinct in me.

Looking into his lusty eyes, I lower my encased breasts to rest on either side of his erect penis. I sway my breasts side to side until they slap hard against his manhood. He steps in close to rest his painfully erect shaft securely in my cleavage.

"You know we shouldn't be doing this."

"Just this once."

I press the sides of my ample breasts to surround his phallus. He pumps me with demented vigour. We engage in this mother-son dialectic for a while.

"I need you so bad, mum," he whimpers softly, as our perspiration blend to provide lubrication.

"We can't. You know that," I answer sadly, even as I start to leak.

"Mum, you can't tell me you don't want it."

He slithers his fingers experimentally between my maternal thighs. I instinctively clench my thighs.

"Oh, I want it... but..."

His magic finger slips below my thong. He runs it along the length of my labia, back and forth, back and forth, with the innocent curiosity of a child. Alternating slow and fast cycles. My body tenses. Perpetual motion, but maddeningly never arriving. The journey is the destination. Sheer bliss, but always a half impulse short of fulfilment.



As intense as we desire each other in this heat, I cannot get past the feeling of betrayal. The prick of guilt. I cannot bring myself to cheat my husband and my daughter-in-law, and our families for that matter.

This may sound counterintuitive for an intimate apparel businessperson. My husband comprises my entire sexual universe, for better or for worse.

I muster the resolve. I pull away.

"I've to model the bustier," I offer, as if we will continue the frisson in the next apparel instalment. Hold him in abeyance.

"And it wouldn't do if we mess up the garment. It's your anniversary gift to Emma."

This brings Alden back to earth. And soberly to the raison d'être of this whole changing room activity in the first place.

I draw the curtain and go behind it. This gives me a respite, and reclaim my motherly self a little.

***

Unlike the thong bikini, the bustier, panty and stockings require more effort to put on.

It has been some time since I last wore a bustier, at least one for a younger woman. The bustier is a curious piece of apparel. It is stark, severe and softly feminine all at once, confusing but delighting male senses.

The bustier put up a spirited fight to resist my advance. But finally, I prevail. A heroic effort. I have never felt more full in my life. In body. In mind.

We have to live with the choices we make. I chose a crotchless panty for my daughter-in-law. Now, I have to model it. This is one execution detail I overlooked when I offered to model for Alden. This will mean that my son will see mommie dearest's most intimate. He will only be the second male to do so. I agonise over this. If only the panty is black, the ornate lace embroidery will be indistinguishable from my thicket. Obfuscation. But, horror of horrors, the panty is virginal white, in sharp contrast to my dark luxuriance. Oh dear!

The consolation is that my rich thatch will obscure my most private lady charm.

I slip on my heels.

I look at the mirror. I pirouette. I see sensuality, a degree of erotica, class, and an implied social lifestyle. The hallmarks of my business. I am ready for only the second man on this planet to visit my most private charms.

***

The curtain draws. Alden has gotten back in his trousers.

I strut forward totteringly on my mile-high heels.

My son is stunned. He was sincere in saying earlier that a man cannot fully visualise and appreciate a garment unless it encases flesh.

Nervously, "This is a bustier." Not something which men routinely get to see.

"Oh my god! Is this really you, mum? I don't recall my having such a mother figure?"

"Hmmm! You sure know how to stroke a matriarch."

"You look incredible!"

The bustier is white. It has two lacy cups which enclose my bosom. Emanating from the cups, white lace with white backing, flow down to below my navel.

At the bottom of the bustier, two straps run down to impossibly sheer white stockings.

Behind the straps are narrow crotchless white cotton panties. The panties have lace trimmings at the top and bottom. The fabric narrows to an inch as it reaches my hips.

I see my son's roving eyes range down, admiring my legs in the white stockings. The stockings end in white, fuck-me heels.

Is it my imagination, or is my bustier tightening its clasp on my bosom?

I turn slowly, allowing my son to take me in on his own time.

The bustier is cut low in the back. It shows off my shoulder blades. The panties remain narrow in the back, showing off almost all my derrière.

"I don't think I've ever seen anything sexier. Or, more erotic!"

I continue to turn slowly until he is facing me again.

"Wow! Just wow! You look so beautiful, so sexy."

"Now, here is a tip. Know that it requires a lot of effort for a woman to put on a bustier, and the accompanying garments. Resist the urge to strip her quick time, like a marauding caveman, for lovemaking. Take your time to admire her, compliment her, stroke her. Play out the process for all it's worth. Know that the ritual is for her benefit, as much as for you. That way, you'll get the best mileage from the experience."

"Very sound advice. Now, I know why you're such a success in your business. Psychology, sociology, anthropology, philosophy all feeding into your business instincts."

"It's not necessarily all visual, as men are apt to be obsessed with. Appreciate the garment material too. We've five senses - sight, touch, hearing, taste, smell. Deploy them as appropriate."

My son is a fast learner. He steps next to me. I take his hand and guide it to my stockings. I guide his hand to stroke them. He gets the idea and keeps up the motion on his own volition.

"Soft?"

"Very. They feel great. What material are they?"

"Silk. I love the way silk feels. They're expensive. But, worth it. Most men can't tell them from nylons. You must learn the subtlety."

"They feel wonderful to me."

"Gratifying to know."

"I love feeling your muscled thigh."

Alden slowly strokes down from the top of the stockings to my knee, over and over again.

"I haven't felt this sexy in a while. I wish to capture this moment."

"I'll take some photos for you."

"Here, use my cell phone."

"Oh mum, you're out of storage space. You need to housekeep your cell phone."

"I'll use mine."

"Errr..."

"Mum, I know you're paranoid about privacy. I'll take the photos, immediately email them to you. I'll then let you delete and trash the photos and the sent email."

"Why is that light on your cell phone blinking?"

"It's just an annoying notification that needs attention. I usually ignore it."

"OK, let the shoot begin."

I pose this way and that. Standing. Stretching, my pelvic bones straining clear of my skin. Bending. Propped against the mirror and armchair. Lolling luxuriously on the chaise lounge. I am mindful of the open design of my panty. I close my thighs defensively but coyly.

The camera as an impersonal intermediary between my son and me emboldens me. I tease the camera. I can see the rising excitement in my son.

"Mum, I'll email the photos to you now."

"Thanks!"

"Here's my cell phone. Delete then trash the photos and the email. We make a clean breast of this."

"It's your cell phone. You do it. You're my son. I trust you implicitly, unconditionally."

The photo shoot has aroused Alden. He hugs and nuzzles me. He appears taut with tension, in a kind of not unpleasant agony. I can sense the restless yearning heat he is giving off.

He is beside himself. He strips naked. He presses into the fullness of my bustier to relish its pushback. He has to expend some of that volcanic energy. My son is putting into practice my earlier lessons on the respectful treatment of lingerie and its cult.

Alden bends his right leg a little. He rubs the knob of his knee against my crotch, grinds my loins mercilessly through the fabric, then slides it down in between my thighs. He repeats this again and again, grinding me to pulp.

"Mum..."

"We can't..."

This sweet agony grinds on for three or four minutes. Then, Alden raises his head for air, and turns me so that I am facing the table, my back to him.

He guides my hand, extended backward, to hold his shaft. He has one hand on my breast.

His penis is lodged in the crack of my buttocks. I am pressing back against it, while running my hand slowly up and down the top side of his penis.

He then whispers an instruction in my ear. I whisper something back. There is no one else in my boutique. But, we enjoy this clandestine conspiracy. Mirrors have ears, especially omnipresent, omniscient 360 degree ones.

I bend over with my hands on the back of the armchair. He backs up slightly. He lowers his penis to line up with my loins, and leans forward. His penis head gently rides the curve of my buttocks, and slides across my labia until his hips connect with my buttocks, and his head is sticking beyond my clitoris. He holds it there. I see and feel the beast pulsing. It is rock-grade hard. Coloured a dark purple.

I extend a hand between my legs. I run my fingers along the underside of his shaft and head. My son begins a slow pumping motion as if he is doing me. But, he is only grazing his shaft tangentially along my vagina lips.

I can see from my angle that the top side of his penis is glistening with my juices. His tip has a drop of pre-cum.

On each thrust, his penis sticks out between my legs. If there is an observer in this room, the person will believe that we are in the throes of passionate lovemaking.

My fingers continue to gently scrape his manhood as it slides in and out from between my valley.

I hear nothing but the occasional moan, and the sound of his shaft rubbing my wet lips. I am in a trance seeing my son have his way with his mother.

I look up a little at the mirror. In the sense surround effect, I see many sons and mothers doing the same in surreal harmony and unison. A taboo fest. An incest orgy of two. This ratchets up the frisson many times over.

Although my son is not penetrating me, I am getting hotter by the minute. His penis poking through my legs and hand with each stroke. Once in a while, I do not see the tip of his penis coming through, even though he maintains his pattern of movement. Hmm...

This simulation goes on for three more minutes. My breathing increases, as does my son's.

Suddenly, Alden grabs my hips more firmly and begins driving hard into me with new vigour. My hand tightens around his penis.

I suck all the air in the room. Alden is gasping.

I climax.

The stampeding beast, the one inside me that had raged, has come to a standstill, and is now watching everything around with new wonder.

My son continues to slam into me until a minute after I climb down. He grunts as he pulls out from between my legs.

He draws a sharp inhalation creating perfect concavities of cheekbone. He erupts.

After a respite, Alden starts rubbing his penis in the crack of my buttocks, while squeezing my cheeks against his penis. I reach around and run my fingers over his manhood head as he strokes. He continues to stroke and covers much of my back with his release.

Like a good earth mother, I continue to milk my son as he begins to slow his thick flow. A puddle forms between his head, my buttocks, and my hand. The blend of scent can be described as pleasantly piquant, and yet, slightly suspect, like everything sexual that smells really good. A whiff is all I can handle. To inhale a more concentrated dose is too much, and can put me off.

I finally let go. He leans forward enough to help me straighten up.

He hugs me. Kisses my neck. I feel the bakery warmth of his chest as I luxuriate in his body. I shiver in that warmth.

Pensive, while nuzzling me, he fondles me one last time. Like an art connoisseur parting with his prized sculpture.

"You know, you're only the second man I have ever been intimate with."

"Thanks mum, for saving yourself for me."

I slap his penis in mock annoyance. It must have misunderstood my jocular intent because it reacts angrily. For one hallucinatory moment, I am tempted to pacify it.

Surveying the aftermath of Hurricane Gwyneth, "Oh my god! The garments are ruined! Mum, I'm so sorry!"

"Soiled, but not ruined. This set is a keeper. For me. There are lots more where that came from. I'll get you a new set. For Emma and you to soil." I wink.

***

Later

It is night. I have a quiet solitude moment. I reflect a little.

I see the latest issue of "Home and Garden" on my bedside table. I think of the garden, gardening and the gardener. Is gardening for the garden or the gardener?

What is sure is that I have changed. And now, I am here. I am a little more me. A little less too.

***

Epilogue

Alden and Emma en route to their resort for their wedding anniversary celebration, ensconced in First Class.

Sumptuous dinner. Krug to start. Margaux to sustain. Château d'Yquem to finish. The cabin lights dim.

"I'm going to get some shuteye. I'll leave you to your own devices to amuse yourself."

Alden leans close and whispers into her ear, "Sleep the sleep of the wicked".

Alden plugs the earphone to his cell phone. He searches for an audio file. A recording. Finds it. Play.

"I'm a little regretful that I offered to model. I underestimated my venerable body."

"Mum, you look fine. Gorgeous!"


"I feel so exposed, so vulnerable, in this swimsuit that is meant for a much younger person. I'm in the rag trade, I'm supposed to know these things." ...

And as Alden listens, he tilts his cell phone away from sleeping Emma, to cast the screen glare away from her placid face. He kisses her gently on the lips, lingering a little at the far edge, drawing a little of her sleep from her dream lit face.

Then, he reads, or rather, views his emails. As he listens.

The End