Freediving Mum

Preamble:

This is a banter-style teasing, titillating story, written in literature nuanced prose.

The action is light, the culminating lovemaking savage, but poetic. If you are aching for bruising, caterwauling, torrenting action by rippling triathletes, this is not for you.

***

Chapter 1: Hen Party

Chapter 2: Bedroom Banter 1

Chapter 3: Shop

Chapter 4: Bedroom Banter 2

Chapter 5: Vacation

Chapter 6: Café

Chapter 7: Rick's

Chapter 8: Prep

Chapter 9: Hirsute

Chapter 10: Freediving

Chapter 11: Couple

Chapter 12: Fire

Chapter 13: Nocturne

Chapter 14: Playback

Chapter 15: Singularity

***

Chapter 1

Hen Party

I am Sophie, or Soph for short, an early fifties UK mum of an eighteen year old strapping lad, Sebastian or Seb. My only child.

I was a champion swimmer in my schooldays. Now, Seb is faithfully following my footsteps. Seb and I share a deep bond in swimming, and all things in the swimming universe.

One of my prized possessions is a picture of Seb and I in racing swimsuits. A heartwarming mum-and-son shot. It so encapsulates everything about us. Our life passion. Our bond. Who we are. As a proud mum, I wait for my friends to inevitably enquire about how Seb is doing, and I will whip up my cellphone, and show them the picture.

I am at an afternoon tea hen party. We get to talking about our kids. A cheeky girlfriend observes from my prized picture that Seb is well-endowed. She shamelessly pinches open the screen to enlarge the image at Seb's crotch. The outline of Seb's endowment, tucked up north, is very clear. My cellphone is passed round amid a rising chorus of ooohs and aaaahs, and girlish shrieks. We are all close friends. Cabal. There is no awkwardness. Just between us girls...

When my cellphone rounds back to me, one of the girls teases mercilessly, "So, what do you think of your son's stash, mommie dearest?"

I play along coyly. I study the picture like I am looking at it for the first time, with scholarly intent, arch my eyebrows sagely, and quip: "Hmmm... not quite the full bloom I know."

A cacophony of riotous giggles and squeals. The café manager glances over in amused alarm. Oh dear, the sisterhood is out of control.

***

Chapter 2

Bedroom Banter 1

That night, when I have a quiet moment at bedtime, after clearing my emails and messages of the day, I instinctively pull up my favourite picture to revisit. My fingers auto-pilot to pinch expand my son's crotch. Yes, the lad has grown up, and out, in all the places that matter. I feel a sensation which I cannot quite place. Is it motherly pride, or womanly tingle? The mother-woman dualism. Charming ambivalence.

My husband, Ethan, who is reading by my side, happens to peer over just then. He knows about my fave picture because we have it enlarged and framed on hardcopy photo.

Winking, "Checking out our son before going to bed, huh?"

I have an open and trusting relationship with my husband. We tease each other mercilessly.

I flash a wicked grin.

Quipping kittenishly, "A mum has to monitor her son's measure, to figure when to shop for the next speedo size for her growing son. This is what mums do."

My husband counters, "Such devotion to detail! Well, sleep tight!"

He always has the last word.

***

Chapter 3

Shop

We are planning a family vacation to the Mediterranean. While we are talking about the trip, Seb who has been researching on our holiday destination, asks if he needs to wear one of those "euro-bikinis" there.

I tell him that I am sure it will be fine for him to wear his regular trunks. I do not think about it again until a couple of weeks later. We are in a sports goods store. I traipse off to do my shopping while Seb wanders around. When I am done, I find him looking at a rack of skimpy swim briefs with cautious fascination. I ask if he needs a new swimsuit. He says no, and looks away, a bit embarrassed.

A couple of nights later, I am online. I type an "s" to search for something, and the address bar suggests a swimsuit outlet. I check the browsing history. It seems like Seb has been looking at swim briefs on the site. I then realise that he wants to try wearing a euro-bikini. I am happy to buy him one, but unsure how to bring up the subject.

***

After breakfast, I need to run a few errands. I ask Seb if he would like to tag along. He has nothing else planned, so decides to come. My workout bathing suit is getting a bit worn and weary, so I stop by the swim shop to get a replacement. Seb wanders around while I try on a few swimsuits. After deciding on one, I find Seb in the men's section at the swimsuits rack. I suggest he try one on. I expect him to decline. But, instead he says, OK. He takes a plain blue male thong off the rack.

I wait outside the changing room while he tries on the swimsuit. I have no intention of checking on him as I respect his privacy.

After a few minutes, I knock on the door, "How're you doing?"

"It fits, and yet, it doesn't."

"Huh?"

"Mum, come in and have a look..."

He opens the door just wide enough so that I can slip through.

I am momentarily conflicted. This is my eighteen year old son. People in the shop may see me go in. I look around. Mercifully, no one is near the changing room.

"Sorry mum, for putting you through this."

"No worries. This is what mums are for."

It is the first time I have seen a euro-bikini on flesh. My years of staring down speedos poolside as a competitive swimmer, and then as a mum of a swimmer, in all their worldly variations has not prepared me for this spectacle.

Confused, "I can't decide if it fits. I feel a wee vulnerable. I can't imagine it any more snug. On the other hand, it feels a tad loose."

Jocularly, "Hmm... It is economical! Effectively a man sheath. A cock sock masquerading devilishly as a swimming costume."

Pointedly, "See here..."

Giggling, "This serpent?"

"Mum!"

"I see what you mean."

There is silence for a minute.

I look wise, "Just so you know, I feel the same way when I try a skimpy bikini. This euro-bikini is a new experience for you. Your sense of sizing is a little messed up. If euro-bikini is what you want, accept the sense of vulnerability that goes with it. Having made this decision, you then fit it right, even if it heightens the feeling of exposure."

"Now that you frame it that way, yes."

"It's obvious to me that this size isn't optimal. Stay here. I'll go find a smaller size for this design. What's this size?"

Seb instinctively lowers and flips the top of the hemline to look inside for the size label. He is pristine. I can just see the junction of the base of his penis and his balls. This is the first time I see the privates of a grown male other than my husband's. I get a tingle.

As Seb looks up meeting my gaze, he realises what he has inadvertently revealed. Sheepishly, "Size 11."

The store carries the smaller size, but not in blue. I return to the outside of the changing room with the available colours in hand.

Knocking gently, "No blue. But, yellow and green."

"Cool! I'll try them."

Seb opens the door a crack. I pass the garments.

He surprises me, "Mum, why don't you just come in, because I really value your opinion. It's not practical to flit the door back and forth."

I instinctively scan the shop surreptitiously, then, enter.

The room is small. Seb attempts to turn away, to lend a modicum of modesty, to change from the blue to yellow. There is insufficient swing space. He is struggling.

"Seb, this room is small. It's OK, don't bother. Just do it."

It didn't occur to me then that whilst I may be cool, Seb may not be. I am insensitive.

Seb slips off the blue. This is the first time I see a grown male other than my husband in full native glory. The first time I see my son's privates, up close and personal, since he was ten.

I relish the first time sight of my son's naked adult body. I know I will never see it the same again, if I see it a thousand times again. It is like once I see through an optical illusion, I can never see it again.

He is what every mother would wish on her son. For a young man, he has a dignified formality, and a regal charm.

Pensively, "You're so well formed. Pleasing."

Seb puts on the yellow thong. For some inexplicable reason, I feel a tingle course to my loins, and then a contracting sensation, as he slips his arc of manhood into the sheath.

The yellow fits well. We assess the colour. It looks fine, but we agree it should be compared against the green, to be sure.

It is surreal seeing my son in effectively a cock sock. In fact, more strange than if he is just plain naked. I feel a motherly itch, then, a womanly ache.

"Now, this maybe a little awkward and intrusive, but pertinent..."

Curiously, "What?"

"You're a young man, a sack of hormones. You'll get flourishes when you eye the biodiversity on the beach."

"What are you getting at, mum?"

"You've wiggle room in a speedo. You can kind of coil yourself, obfuscate it away into a stash. In this stark costume, you don't have that convenience."

"You're suggesting I fit to a stiffy?"

"Perhaps you should, for good measure. You don't want to get into a fit on the beach when you get hot and bothered by the flora and fauna around you."

Seb appears to process this suggestion.

"I'll leave you to it. Let me know when you're done."

Seb pragmatically, "Mum, stay. You've already seen me."

I feel a surge of motherly bond warmth, "You sure about this?"

"I'm cool."

Jocularly, "Hmm... cool is not what you need now."

A chuckle.

Seb pulls down the yellow thong. His penis quivers a little from its release, but is flaccid. He puts his hand on his penis, pauses, and in an act of socially conditioned modesty, turns away. He begins his ministrations.

He carries on for a good three minutes, becoming increasingly flustered.

Concerned soft tone, "Are you good?"

Seb doesn't answer, but increases the speed and intensity of his movements. I realise that the lad is a bundle of nerves. Claustrophobic room. A mum in waiting. Muffled sounds of people dithering in the shop. Mounting anxiety. Since I started this, it is only fair that I help Seb through.

I touch his shoulder, "Some visual stimulation..."

Seb turns around with an expectant look of anxious fascination.

His eyes lock with mine. I see a longing. I make some small adjustments, "Just a little more..."

Seb responds.

I offer a small invitation. He nuzzles me, a small politeness under the circumstances.

He struggles animatedly, almost valiantly, to get his apparently still flourishing self into the green thong. A palpable racing urgency. Is it because he wants to get in before he loses it? No, it appears more like he wants to get in before he can't. I can smell the testosterone in the room.

This is nice in a way. Reassuring. It reminds me that I am a woman, not just a mum and wife, and that I still have some titillating appeal in my fifties. I do not delude myself that Seb wouldn't be the same with any woman who is with him in this same situation, but in a sense, that is the point. It is incredible to share this with my son.

The green fits. But, Seb prefers the yellow, as I do.

I flash Seb a coy wink, "Your swimsuit is guaranteed to fit under all circumstances, going forward."

Then, I see a grimace on his face, and then a look of panic.

"Oh mum, I'm so sorry. I couldn't help it."

"Don't worry about this. These things happen to healthy lads. We'll purchase both the yellow and the green. I'll tell the shop assistant that you like the green so much that you've decided to wear it home."

I open the door slightly, peep gingerly through the crack. The coast is clear. I go out, and melt into the shop. I pay for our purchases. We leave the shop. Seb walks a bit funny, like he has sprained a groin muscle.

***

Chapter 4

Bedroom Banter 2

Ethan and I sleep nude. We enjoy our nude placid bedroom banter moments together.

"How did your day go?"

"Nothing tumultuous. In the morning I went shopping for my swimsuit for our vacation."

"Seb?"

"He tagged along."

"Did he get anything?"

"A euro-bikini for our vacation."

"A what?"

"Seb has been researching online on our holiday destination. The sights, cuisine, culture, what's hot. Apparently, euro-bikinis are all the rage there."

"Euro-bikinis? Aren't bikinis for women?"

"Male bikini bottom thongs."

"Oh?"

"Are they like racing speedos? Wouldn't Seb have plenty of them from his swim team stash?"

"Why don't I show you. I bought two for Seb. A yellow and a green. The green is in the laundry. I'll get the yellow."

"But, why would a newly purchased swimsuit be in the laundry?"

"Seb messed it up."

"Oh?"

"Long story..."

I get the yellow thong from my not yet unpacked shopping stash.

Ethan astounded, "But, this is a penis sheath! A gentrified penis sheath from what I used to see in the features on native jungle tribes in National Geographic."

"Yes, effectively a cock sock masquerading as a swimsuit."

"Is this even legal?"

"I understand it's de rigueur where we're going. It's outrageous not to wear one, so I'm told."

Ethan holds up and extends the full extent of the thong, "So, this is our son?"

Coyly, "Yes. He tried it on. We've to be cocksure about the fit because the shop has a no return policy. Hygiene regulations."

Quipping, "Hmmm... the lad has certainly grown up. And out. You're a wonderful mum. You've raised him well."

"Hmmm... He has. And I have."

"So, Seb tried it on and the fit-out went well. What happens when he sports a boner on the beach?"

"We got that covered too."

"We?"

I see that Ethan has a raging boner. But, he acts nonchalantly cool. He is getting his jollies in a curious, if not perverse way. I have never seen this side of him. Well, we learn something new everyday, don't we? I decide to play along out of curiosity, and to feed his jollies a little.

"After I was done with my swimsuit selection and fitting, I found Seb hanging around the male swimsuits section, in particular, the thongs rack. I asked if he had anything in mind that he would like to try out. I expected him to say no. Instead, he chose a thong, and went to the changing room."

"How was his fitting?"

"He was confused."

"Huh? Isn't this a, hmmm..., straightforward process?"

"Seb took an awfully long time. I knocked on the door to ask if he was doing ok."

A pause.

Matter-of-factly, "He asked me to join him to help him."

Incredulously, "Help him?"

"I entered the room. I sensed Seb's confusion. It was the first time he put on a skimpy costume. Akin to me trying out a wicked skimpy bikini. I know the visceral feeling of exposure and vulnerability. His thong was a tad loose. But counterintuitively, he can't imagine a smaller size because it'll heighten the vulnerability further."

I run my hand on Ethan's manhood. It feels strained. And warm.

"And?"

I emit an exaggerated yawn, "It's getting late. Shall we continue this account tomorrow?"

"Absolutely not."

"I told Seb that having decided that euro-bikini is what he wants, discomfitingly skimpy as it may be, he must get the right size. There should be no compromise on fit."

Ethan mulling, "I guess this is sensible, in a kind of perverse way. What next?"

"Seb remained in the changing room. I went to get a smaller size for him."

"And?"

"I returned with the smaller size. I passed the garment through the door crack to Seb. But, he asked me to go in, to help him confirm the fit."

"Did you?"

"I was reluctant to go in. What would the shop staff and customers think? A mature woman and a lad. But thankfully, no one was about then."

"Did it fit?"

"It did in that there were no creases in the material. But, it was not taut..."

I pause as if agonising over something. Ethan looks at me sensing my nervous hesitation. He appears intrigued and a little excited at what I am struggling with.

"Unlike speedos, there is no space in a thong to stow away a boner. So, I told Seb that he has to fit the thong to a stiffy. Better to ascertain now, than to feel discomfort at the beach."

I pause.

"And?"

"Seb worked himself in earnest. He fitted OK."

"You were with him?"

"He struggled a bit at first. I think it's the combination of the anxiety associated with the skimpy garment, the claustrophobic room, and not holding up the changing room for too long."

I paused.

"And?"

"I heard impatient waiting noises outside the changing room. We had to move on. This stressed Seb. I decided to help him."

"Oh? How?"

I study Ethan's flush face, "Are you OK with this?"

"I'm cool."

I touch him. A searing furnace heat, "You're hot!"

A chuckle.

Emboldened, "I offered our son a little visual stimulation."

"Oh?"

"And?"

"He fitted OK."

A male breath.

Smirking, "And for good measure, just to be sure, I helped him a little more. Seb and the thong went the distance. Just then, there was an angry knock on the door. We wrapped up."

***

Chapter 5

Vacation

Shit happens!

Three days before our departure, Ethan's company wins a megadeal. The biggest ever. He has to cancel his leave to get started on the project because time is of the essence. In a sense, it is a happy problem.

We can get a refund for one pax, but not for all three. Seb and I have to go without Ethan.

***

The island is ten square miles, though one will have difficulty to find a square anywhere as the lay of the island runs in strange directions. If I hold the map with east on top, it looks like a gangly teen about to break into a run.

There is no spot on the island where I cannot hear the ocean. It is the quietest place I have been, bar the sounds of the ocean. I sit and watch time. Watch my thoughts. My emotions. Listen to the whisper of the wind voices.

The cottage has fine architectural bones. It is built in the traditional local rustic style, poised at the head of a valley. The valley slopes down toward the sea. Wooded slopes surround the valley. The kind of beautiful countryside that poets like Yeats would forever try to do justice. Perfect! I want to be looking at flowers longer than I should.

The garden is a study of how one disciplines nature. Straighten it. Clip it. Smoothen it. Trees lined up as if in parade, or planted in symmetrical groups. In the corner stands a huge tree. The stem does not send off a wild branch here and there to take its own way. All the branches share in one great fountain-like impulse.

The only traces of disorder in the garden are human. There is the garden, gardening and the gardener. Is gardening for the garden or the gardener?

There is a swimming pool which we can use if we feel too idle to walk the mile down to the secluded beach.

It is a cottage, but in fact, it is quite a substantial house. More so a villa. Peaceful, quiet and private.

There is honesty in its design. Neat undecorated brick. Although rustic, it is mutedly modern in its sense of order, cleanliness and light.

I sleep in a white room with white sheets, in white silk nightie. It is the colour of fresh snow, chalk, milk. And weddings. It is the opposite of black. But, is white a colour, an absence of colour, or a mingle wash of colours? White is the hardest colour to preserve because it is so vulnerable to everything else it engages with.

Unfiltered light falls on my face in the morning to wake me up.

The interior, unfussy antique furniture. Wood-burning fireplace and stove. Wide-plank floors of honey-coloured wood. A meticulous attention to detail so that no detail is apparent to the eye. It looks beautiful without being precious. Comfortable good taste. It gives the feeling that you can actually live in it, which is not always the case with pretty photogenic houses.