Induct Son and Bro To Nudism

I pull the skin of my hood up and back.

Me: Now, you can see my clitoris. My clit. It is small and not easy to see. But, it is right there.

I touch my finger to the round pink bit of flesh under the folds of skin. I draw my finger back.

Me: Ahhh, sensitive! Go ahead and get a good look of me.

My son leans closer. He appears mesmerised. His mum, me, just feet away, exposing herself to him as she is, and encouraging him to look at her.

I sense some part of my son appreciates that my vagina is appealing in a way that is more than sexual. That its curve and shape and colour is beautiful. Like a flower. But, at the same time, my son is aroused. It is his mum's vagina. And, sitting here, looking at me, his penis standing straight up in salute from his lap, he cannot imagine ever being so "habituated" to it that he won't be turned on by the sight of it. My son must be wondering if, even just a little bit, if I am turned on too.

I allow him no time to think about it more because I impulsively spread my lips apart with my fingers.

Me: Now, you can see my vagina.

It must be embarrassing for him to listen to me talk this way. But, his eyes are glued to the pink gash that I have opened to him.

He is a healthy, libidinous eighteen year old male. He must have seen a few young vaginas in his time. Maybe even entered a few willing ones. But, it appears that he has never seen one presented to him quite so brazenly. I sense that he is trying to fight the feeling, because he is looking at me, but he can't help but acknowledge how arousing it is to see me this way.

I continue with my personalised anatomy lesson as though he hasn't said anything.

Me: The vulva is the proper name for the exterior, although some people call it a vagina. But, the vagina is only the interior part. You can see from the light reflecting off it that it is a little wet. Some women at my age get drier, especially around menopause, and dryness can make sex uncomfortable. I am fortunate. I stay fairly wet down there. That's not a problem for me.

If I am unconscious that I am talking to my son about my body's ability to handle intercourse, my son isn't. Maybe in his mind he imagines a hard penis pushing into the wide open vagina in front of him.

Me: If you look down here, you can see the urethral opening. That's where pee comes out. A lot of men seem to find it a mystery where a woman's pee comes from. But there is no mystery to it.

My son's jaw drops open. He is spellbound at this point. He can't say anything. Whether it is because it is his mum or not, he has never seen anything as arousing in his life as what I am showing him. The detached, clinical manner of my presentation somehow makes it even more arousing, not less.

Me: Down here, just below my urethra, you can see my vaginal opening.

I peel my vagina open still farther, so that my son can look deep inside my channel. Where he emerged from 18 years ago. I hold myself open, so that he can look for as long as he wants. How long, he doesn't know. He loses track of the time he spends looking deep into me, as far as he can see, where bright pink gives way to a dusky rose, that fades away into shadow. He sits transfixed, staring into my nether depths. He can't tear his eyes away. I am willing to let him look as long as he wants. When he breaks his gaze from it, and looks up at my face, he notices that I am staring at his penis, which remains as hard and straight as ever. This gives him a twitch. I notice him noticing me. I look instinctively away. Do I look embarrassed? He must think so.

This is getting stranger and stranger. And he is getting more excited.

I close my legs.

Me: We are good for now. I don't know how much you are paying attention. But, it looks like your penis was.

I point to it. His shaft stands straight away from his lap. Hard and vertical. Directed toward the heavens.

Son: Sorry about that.

Me: There is no need to be sorry. If you don't feel what you are feeling now, you are not alive.

I hop off the rock and return to the groundsheet. My son watches my arse sway exaggeratedly as I pivot away from him. I think he realises right then, if he hasn't fully realised it before, that he will never look at me the same way again. My anatomy lesson has the opposite effect of the one I intended. Instead of desexualizing my nudity, it has aroused him. He shows no sign of abating.

Just when my son is thinking that our habituation is complete, I surprise him. I turn the tables on him.

Me: Your turn now.

Son: Huh?

Me: Just as you got comfortable with me, I want to get comfortable with you. Come over...

My son is in my face.

Son (cheekily): Am I bigger than dad?

Me: Hmmm... I am an honourable woman, a lady. And ladies don't tell on their man. But, know this. You're what every mum will wish on her son. You know, you are only the second manhood I have seen.

I run my fingernails experimentally up and down his penis slowly, softly. My first touch. Then again. On one side. Then the other. I trace an imaginary axis line up to his bulbous head.

Me: You are pleasing to the eye.

I examine him closely. I bend down to look. I touch it.

Me: This is so hard.

Son (jocularly): What is this? Biology lab?

Me: You had your anatomy class. I have mine now.

I take it all in for a moment. I squeeze his penis a little. Stroke it. Feeling all around.

Me: I love the way your skin stretches as you grow. The way your head gets bigger and bigger. Those first little drops of excitement. And the way your balls tighten up.

I cup them like treasured objects with one hand.

Me: Then, they loosen again, hanging down and swinging. Then tightening up.

Son: I didn't know you can be so poetic. On the subject of balls.

I deftly use a finger to move them back and forth, fondling them, just slightly swinging them as if they are bells. All in slow motion. No hurry.

I grasp his penis with my whole hand. I hold it. Feel its thickness and hardness. Take its measure. I squeeze it ever so slightly every few seconds.

I am driving my son closer to the edge. But, I am just getting a sense of his physicality. My feeling is indescribable.

With my thumb and index finger, I encircle his penis. Grab it right below his head, ascertaining its circumference.

Me: Marvelous. A work of art. Visual art.

Son: Now, you are making fun of me.

Me: No. No. It is so beautiful. A life all its own. You can will it, and yet, it has a stubborn persistent will force of its own. Kind of like our free will. We have it for all intents and purposes, and yet, do we really? It is so you, and yet, not you. Spasming. Swaying. A poetic beast. It takes my breath away to watch how fabulous your body is.

I touch the tip of his penis with my index finger, teasing more drops to seep out. I roll my finger in the liquid. I lightly spread the moistness over the head of his penis. Coating it. I lean over for a closer look.

My son loves watching my breasts with my every move. My undulating arcs. My nipples. Hard and pointed. Like my son's penis, they too seem to have a life of their own.

I hold his erection straight up, at a ninety degree angle to his stomach. I am beside myself. I wrap my fingers around it. I begin stroking. Then, slowly pumping up and down. He is slippery from his own fluids, and is in such a state. I bend over closer, my face hovering above the head of his penis. A saliva drop. My finger smooths my saliva around his head. Not that he needs extra lubrication. I am just having fun.

I pump more. Up and down. Then, with my hand firmly at his base, I hold it there, strangle it a little. His shaft sticks straight up, like some spire. His penis wavers a little, leaks even more, the drops dribbling down his shaft. This will not take long. More pumping. His body jerks. He groans. I freeze. I stare at it. He spurts, straight up. Then, a second, even higher, falling down and landing on my knee. One or two more follow, falling back on my hand. He stops at last.

A wave of unease sweeps over me. It is not supposed to be like this. This is supposed to ease our tension, not heighten it. And certainly not bring it to boil.

Me (climbing down to earth): Son, I am so sorry. Yours is my second manhood. I got carried away. I crossed a line.

Son: Mum, it's OK. Chill! We just moved a notch from habituation to bonding.

Me (guiltily, conspiratorially): This is just about us. No one else needs to know. Let's relax awhile.

I pour the wine from our picnic basket. For the first time this morning we enjoy the serenity of the dunes and the cove in silence. I gather my thoughts. My son must be doing the same. Is he thinking my thoughts? And me, his? There is a telepathic peace between us.

I don't know about my son, but I am getting emotional now. Beside myself. My eyes water. He sees my glistening eyes. He skims his finger lightly across my eyelids like a windshield wiper.

We sit side by side for awhile reflecting on what has just transpired.

Quietly, I draw my legs up, turn sideways on the groundsheet, and stretch them across his lap. I place my head on his shoulder. We nuzzle.

He puts his hand on my bare legs. Tentatively. He begins caressing my skin. With just the tips of his fingers, he brushes experimentally, ever so slightly, down to my knees, then back up my thighs, higher, just short of my mound.

I slowly open my legs wider on his lap. He reads my nuanced movement. He strokes my thighs again, desiring to feel all the way to the silkiness of my mound. His fingers touch my soft hair, even softer puffed lips, and my moist opening. But, he goes no further. He is content to doodle cryptic text messages on my mound. We remain this way till it is time for us to leave.

***

Chapter 7

Aftermath

The next three days are simply glorious. Record scorchers. Each day outdoing the previous.

But, I have no inclination to go to the beach. I am just content soaking up the rays at the bottom of my garden, catching up on my reading.

Something is gnawing deep inside me. Eating my innards.

I crossed a line with my son. I was the initiator. The instigator. A predator. He is a lad of eighteen, for goodness sake. What have I done? I keep turning this over and over in my mind. Has this to do with my husband being my only man, and my dormant tinder passions being ignited by another manhood?

A perfect storm. My first time nudity with anyone other than my husband. Only my second manhood encounter. A strapping young lad in my face. The tingle of the taboo. The seclusion of the dunes. What have we here? A confluence of, one, two, three, four, five forces in concert, bearing on me.

And what about from my son's perspective? I hazard a guess. The lad has been orbiting around the block somewhat. I have met his carousel spin of girlfriends. His would have been a perfect storm of a mature buxomly woman in his face, the tingle of the taboo, the seclusion of the dunes. A perfect storm confluence of, one, two, three forces.

I out count him. The lad is actually more a man of the world, than me a woman of the world. So, maybe it is not so unexpected that I am the over-enthused novice, and hence, the overheated one in the engagement. I wasn't predatorial. I was an eager novice overwhelmed by the moment. I have the advantage of age, but not a great variety of experience. I try to over-leverage my age to compensate. My lad is youthful, but has diversified field experience, so he was happy to defer to his mum, and play it cool.

I feel much better. In fact, I feel validated, though I cannot pin down why precisely.

My cellphone pings.

A message.

My brother.

"Glorious morning! Beach?"

Did I understand it right from my husband? Isn't it the arrangement that if I need my brother's bodyguard services, I will activate him. Well, here he is, activating me instead. My, my, is he an eager beaver. Somehow, I feel very good about his enthusiasm.

If this message had arrived just a tick earlier, my response will have been different.

"Sounds like a plan. Come over whenever."

I pack my beach togs in a tote bag. Towel, groundsheet, suntan lotion, oils, sunshades. A book.

And a picnic basket. A ploughman's lunch. Fruits. Bottle of wine. Water. Snacks.

On impulse, I toss in my camera. My husband did request for beach pictures to be emailed to him. He is a visual animal. I have to feed him his rations.

Now, what shall I put on? Well, it doesn't really matter much because I will be naked when we get there. But, for some inexplicable reason, I spend an inordinate amount of time pondering, if not agonising, over my choice of textile ensemble.

I wrap around a skimpy strapless black bandeau top. It barely reins in my restive hush puppies. They are spilling out. My nipples duck below the top edge, only just so.

I put on the matching high-cut black thong. An aggressive southerly arrow of vee. Enchanting, but not lewd, nothing like the plasticky sculpted nubiles trussed up in stringy bits of crass textile. My pubes peek out curiously, like pencilled art shadow shadings, faint, from the left and right edges.

I put on a comfortable t-shirt, and a pair of hugging shorts. I twirl in front of my full-length mirror.

Hmmm... I can do better. I lose both my t-shirt and my shorts. They won't do. They don't do me social justice.

I choose another t-shirt from my wardrobe stash. White. It will overlay nicely on the black. It fits me to a tee, snug, but not so very snug as to suffocate. And better, it extends deliciously to exactly the arrow tip of my thong vee, and then an inch south, for modesty.

I bottom out with casual high-heeled summery sandals. They will go off when I start to walk the trail. I will change into sneakers.

I twirl again. I almost totter over my heels. But, I recover.

Perfect! Just perfect! Is there a dewy scent of moist in the air?

The doorbell chimes.

***

Chapter 8

Sister and Brother

My brother did not expect to see me in this state of dress. Or more aptly, undress. His eyes linger questioningly at the hemline of my t-shirt. He appears to be about to say something, and then, pauses, as if biting his lips, knowing better.

We clamber onto his jeep, a red hot chili hunk of mean machine. My

t-shirt rides up waywardly to just below the vee tip of my thong, obscuring it only just so. Like a slinky skirt. Even though this spectacle is of my willful devious design, I feel awkward and squeamish. I overcalibrated. I cross my legs coquettishly in instinctive modesty to obscure my thong. An incongruent posture to assume in a hee-haw jeep. My brother can read this in one of two ways. One, that I am concealing my thong. Or two, I am bottomless, so I have to cross my legs to conceal my nether charms. Whichever the case, it has its allure. My brother steals surreptitious glances at my legs. The jeep weaves, either from the meandering cliffside road, or from laboured driving. I hope he doesn't plunge us down the cliffside. I don't mind dying in a spectacular grand finale hurrah. But, not this spectacular.

He parks the jeep. I get out of the jeep, unloading, organising this and that, perched totteringly on my high-heels. My brother watches me with interest. I bend low to change into my sneakers.

We begin the hike. I lead the way. Awfully quiet back there. I gaze back to check that he is in tow. My brother is mesmerised by my marching arse orbs in simple harmonic motion with my dancing peek-a-boo t-shirt hemline. The trail is challenging in some parts. I sense my arse orbs clench then release, clench then release, as I negotiate the terrain. I feel it because the graze of thong fabric against skin heightens my awareness and the sensation. In the video of my mind, I try to imagine how this animation plays out for my brother.

At the two mile point of the meandering bushy trail, marked by an abrupt climb rise in the trail, we squeeze and force our way, brusingly, through an unyielding thicket wall of tall bush. We have arrived. The metaphorical secret garden, finding new expression in dunes and a cove.

My brother asks how I know that this is the access point since there are no apparent landmarks or trail marks. I tell him that I do not depend on any visible marks. I show him my GPS watch trail tracker. It displays exactly 2 miles of distance covered.

My brother crashes dramatically on the fine dune sand. He spends a minute in silent awe, taking in the sweep of scenery. The wild. The desolation. The seclusion. The far horizon. I can see it affects him in a profound way that doesn't affect my son. Or my husband for that matter. My brother has a sensitive and humanistic dimension which I can relate to since our young days. Not the incessant hyper-expressive deep-talking but shallow New Age manicured garden variety. But, a brooding philosophical sensitivity to people, nature and aesthetics, that is comfortable in a genre of its own.

We rest awhile, to recover from the hike.

Me: I am going to get comfortable to sunbathe.

I turn away from him in instinctive customary modesty, and start removing my t-shirt.

Brother: No. Stop.

Me: Huh?

Brother (softly with conviction): Face me. I want to see you. We will eventually see each other anyway. I want to savour this moment.

These words endear him to me in a way never before. None of the squeamish pussyfooting dance charade. My brother wants to see me. His sister. And that is that. I shudder. He notices.

I pivot to face him. He stands frozen, wearing a dark brooding look, its intensity heightened under the glare of sunshine. Our eyes meet, then lock.

I pull off my t-shirt while holding my gaze unwaveringly at him, except for the moment when my t-shirt passes over my eyes. My brother does not blink.

I reach my hands behind my back. I thrust my chest out, to help my access to the bandeau bikini top fastener. I renew the intensity of my gaze into my brother's eyes. I unwrap my bandeau, as one unwraps treasured objects. My breasts are now exposed to my brother's gaze. Is that a blink I see? An impassionate regal riveting look, but never ogling.

I lift my right leg, to remove my sneaker. My breasts sway one way. I lift my left leg, to remove my other sneaker. My breasts sway more, the other way. They come to rest when I straighten up.

Our gaze is hypnotically unbroken. I hook my thumbs on the sides of my bikini thong. I do not wish to perform a strip tease. That is lewd. Crass. Not me. Unworthy of our moment. But, I want this to be a sensual visual moment for my brother. There can only be one instance of revelation moment. A singularity. It cannot be recreated. Our senses cannot be rolled back to renact the moment.

My thumbs and index fingers draw and roll down my thong from the sides. The textile rolls progressively into a thickening string, like a roller blind on a roll. All that is left of my thong is a string, now aligned to the bottom of the vee tip of my mound. My bottom is now exposed to my brother. He sees his big sister's most intimate lady charms.

I maintain both my legs straight, as I roll down my thong to my ankles. In that stance, I bend down impossibly low, as only a ballerina can. My breasts hang down pendulously. I lift first my right foot, then my left, to slip off my thong.

I am now in my full native glory. Before my beholding brother. After a few seconds, our spell breaks.

Me (coyly): What are your thoughts on your big sister?

Brother (patting his taut crotch suggestively): I am past thinking...

Me: I see your point. You now...

We relock our eyes.

He takes off his t-shirt. Glides his shorts down effortlessly. What I see next surprises me. A male thong bikini. And by curious cosmic alignment of our orbits, black, matching mine. No. More like a penis sheath. A cock sock. Taut. Straining at the seams.