Christmas Family Gift Exchange

My son is moving in deeper now. Stretching. Pushing. I am beginning to think that he is being overly pedantic.

I shudder. Then tremor. My knees, weak. I think my son senses the seismic current.

He is almost done. He pats down and smoothens the now reduced fabric surface. Takes out the creases.

My son gives me a light pat on my buttock to signal that he has finished.

I turn around to face my husband and my brother. My son joins them.

My husband admiringly, "Brilliant transformation! Looks like your Wicked Weasel bottom, except that it bears a pronounced cameltoe. Very sensual. Very sexy."

My brother, who has an entrepreneurial mind, "You know, this can be a concept for a range of convertible his-&-hers thongs."

My boys ask me to pose a little. Although still a little dizzy, I oblige. When I move, I can feel the textile in me. I shudder again remembering how it got there.

My husband and my brother ask for their thongs to be similarly 'christened' by me too.

I say no. But, they can sense the lack of conviction in my demeanor. I insist that after my 'christening', they must wear back their thongs, to receive my blessings.

***

My son and I go to the bedroom. He turns his back to me to give me the privacy.

I turn my back to my son. I shimmy out of my son's thong. But, I encounter some difficulty. A snag or something. Folds getting caught in folds.

"David, I'm having a problem here. Since you did this, you know best. Can you help?"

My son hesitates. I turn to face him. He is emboldened. He kneels before me. He struggles a bit. He is unsure how to go about it because the garment is not very yielding.

I will myself to relax a little. Part my legs a bit.

"Just reverse the earlier process."

He is making progress now.

It is a quarter way out. I suggest, "Now, you can just pull the thong down, and the rest should loosen and emerge on its own."

"But, that means..."

"It's OK."

He stares me down for the longest minute. Time resumes. I cover my crotch with my hand.

My son is turning away from me with his thong in his hand.

"You helped me earlier. It's only right that I help you put yours back on."

He hands the thong to me.

I pull down his briefs. His penis is full of cock. Youthful exuberance animates in my face. My son. I have raised him well. This is only the second manhood in the flesh I have seen in my life.

I pull up his thong in its saturated glory. The initial damp contact of fabric on flesh gives him a shudder. He quivers, and flourishes a little more. He wears an odd, tense look on his face. The garment has a particular endearing quality to it now, than when he last wore it. It has a rousing effect on him. I wonder what he is thinking as the damp encases him? I wonder what he will think the next time he wears it on the beach?

My son looks at me longingly. I sense a rising inner ache. I feel I have explosives strapped to my loins. I am conflicted. As is my son, I think.

I have to stop. My husband and my brother are in the next room. A mere wall away. Like now'ish. Like right this minute.

I give my son a playful consolation unmotherly squeeze. I look at him with affection, and an uncertain determination, "We're done!"

I instinctively bring my hand to my nose. Hmmm... I know me well enough, this is a blend. The scent can be described as heavenly, 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. I wish I can bottle this scent. And lock it away.

So finished, I return my hand to my mound to resume my modesty.

"Would you mind getting your uncle to come in?"

***

I am still in my Wicked Weasel bikini top. But, my bottom is bare. I am about to slip on my Wicked Weasel bottom. But, why bother? Shortly, I will be putting on my brother's thong anyway.

A polite double tap on the bedroom door.

I turn away from the door. I cover my lady parts with my right hand.

"Come in."

"Do you want me to close the door?"

I am about to answer the customary yes. But, for some reason, I say, "Don't bother. It'll only take a minute."

But, he closes it anyway, short of clicking it shut. Hmm... a compromise. But why?

My back still turned, I command playfully in my sternest dominatrix tone, "Let's get this over with. Lil' bro, lose your textile, and offer it to your Big Sis."

He chuckles.

"Yeah right! This is sooo hilarious! The things the menfolk in my clan make me do."

"Pray tell, who gave these cock socks to the menfolk? Tis the season. Rather unchristian gifts at that."

Giggling, "I had originally bought it for Julian for our Mediterranean holiday. But, there was a buy-3-for-2 promotion."

"Hmm... You just wanted to see your son's and your brother's cocks."

"Don't flatter yourself, lil' bro."

"That being the case, you wanted to see your son's cock."

Quipping, "And what makes you think I've not seen it before? I raised the boy with my own hands."

"You did."

We laugh.

A soft rustling, then a snappy elastic sound. Respecting my modesty, my brother nudges my shoulder. He passes his thong to me.

My back still to my brother, I shimmy on his thong. It has a moist feel. A rising damp.

I turn around to face him for the first time since he came into the bedroom. He is in his briefs. Tented. Our eyes meet. He senses my flush. There follows one of those pauses where people tacitly agree not to discuss something.

I begin to stuff the surplus fabric into me. I cannot see myself properly. Struggle a little. I feel a rising arousal. My lips are engorged. Their pout strain the fabric. This makes it all the more difficult.

I look up. My brother is watching intently.

I whisper, "Help me..."

He kneels before me. He tucks in the fabric. He does not make much headway. Unyielding. Actually, his ministrations make it worse. I am even more engorged now. I feel the tension of fabric on flesh.

Quite some time has passed since my brother entered the bedroom. I wonder what my husband and my son might be thinking? Perhaps I should just tuck the finger of fabric under the gusset hemline, then, rejoin my husband and son.

He gazes up at me. He rises up to face me. I see his competitive spirit, the same will of fire from his young days. And his rising excitement. A potent combination.

Softly in my ear, "Trust your brother... close your eyes."

Is this a question? Or, an instruction? Maybe even a polite command?

I close my eyes only because I am utterly piqued by the mystique. I think of our young days together. The thoughts, they play gentle on my mind.

"Don't open your eyes until I open them for you..."

Is this a parlour game? Is my brother going to undress me? Ogle me? Fondle me? Ravage me even? I shudder. I give myself over to uncertainty as one might lie back and float over a wave.

I think back to the blindfold game he once played with me on our treehouse, at the bottom of our garden. I was twelve, and he, ten. All the while, I was fearful of falling off the treehouse. And yet, I did not wish the game to end. And when at last I thought I fell, I did not.

I feel something pressed against me. Little mounting movements of pressing, probing, easing.

Pressing.

Probing.

Easing.

Pressing.

Probing.

Easing.

The movements grow on me. They seem to be tracking to a centre somewhere. I speculate as to what all this might be. But, rising arousal edges out all thoughts. I am wet. Oozing now.

The movements are more intense. I feel a curious grating of forceful fabric on tender flesh. A demented beast has seemingly entered me. Stampeding, flailing, raging.

I groan and whimper softly. I continue with my accumulation of new joys. I suck all the air in the room. A male gasp. A tribal cry.

The beast is no more. I see butterflies. All my butterflies line up, spread their wings, and take flight with excitement in a rising cloud of every hue.

My body shudders and shivers. I make tiny noises in my throat.

It is so good. I have never climbed this high a pinnacle. I am in a state of grace. Depleted and full all at once.

I emerge from a dark tunnel and find myself in the middle of a Rio carnival.

The stampeding beast, the one inside me a moment ago, has reappeared, and come to a standstill. It is now watching everything around with new wonder.

I feel fingers gently pinching open my eye lids.

"Join us when you are ready."

My brother kisses my forehead. A brotherly kiss, as if to thank me for making the moment possible. He leaves the bedroom.

I am pensive for awhile, contemplating the arc of this thing that has just happened.

I stand up. I look at the mirror. Straighten my Wicked Weasel top a little. I see the perfect cameltoe, if there is such a thing.

I feel a cold and clammy sensation on my upper thigh. I pluck a tissue from the tissue box. But, for some inexplicable reason, I throw the unused tissue in the bin. I am going to shower soon anyway.

I make my way to rejoin the boys. It feels wrong walking around with traces of my brother on my leg. I feel deviant. But, it is a pleasantly good feeling. A merry Christmas.

The End