Induct Son and Bro To Nudism

My husband does. His eyes drift from my face, neck, to my breasts, past my belly, and finally to my crotch.

My husband is a son all over again. Is he playing the part of our son, or reliving the son he was? I make a mental note to explore this with him further on another day.

I angle my hips toward my husband, until the full vertical slit of my vagina is in his view. Top to bottom.

The mounds of my outer lips framing and pressing against the thin folds of my inner lips. Brown well-trimmed hair lie about my lips. My inner lips are parted. Just a crack. A faint fleeting glistening sheen inside, from the reflected light of the video screen.

I spread my legs wider still.

Me: Son, we are going to put this mystique to rest.

My husband whimpers and sighs.

I touch my clitoral hood. I trace its length with my finger. It is long. It conceals my nub of skin underneath. I pull the skin of my hood up and back.

Me (purring): Son, see your mum's most intimate.

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

The curve, shape and colour of my vagina is like a flower. I spread my petals apart with my fingers.

Me (in a secretive conspiratorial tone): Son, you see a sheen of glisten. I will let you in on a little secret about your old mum. Most women at my age get drier. Dryness can make sex uncomfortable. I am fortunate. I stay fairly wet down there. That's not a problem for me.

My husband emits another whimper. This time, a prolonged one. He is slowly but surely turning to pulp.

Me: Son, see here. This is where your mum's pee comes out. And then, down here, you can see my vaginal opening.

I peel my vagina open still farther. I angle nearer to the camera. Bright pink gives way to a dusky rose, that fades away into shadow. A wondrous rabbit hole.

I close my legs.

A rude impatient buzz breaks our spell. My husband has an incoming call on his cellphone. An urgent work-related call. He climbs down from son, to husband, to corporate serf.

We terminate our chat.

***

Chapter 11

Another Chat

It is three days later before my husband has the time to engage in another video chat with me. The time zone difference makes it difficult for us to synchronise our video chat time.

By this time, my sunbathing with my son and my brother has settled down to a pleasant placid routine. We have gotten comfortable with our nudity, and thus can focus on enjoying the sun.

Like before, my husband and I exchange news, and banter about this and that. I can discern that my husband is doing this perfunctorily. There are things on his mind. He slyly steers the conversation to the weather.

Husband: How did your brother adjust to the sunbathing routine?

Me: An au naturel natural.

Husband: How did your initial moment pan out?

Me: I turned away from him to undress. By social conditioning. He surprised me. He asked me to face him. He said he wanted to enjoy the moment.

Husband: And?

Me: It really made no difference whether I faced him or not. He will be seeing me nude all summer in any case. So I did. I faced him.

Husband: Show me.

Me: Show what?

Husband: The moment.

Me: Hmmm... if I have to do this, let me do it properly. Start from first principles. Excuse me a couple of minutes, love.

I take more than two minutes even though all it takes is that. Five minutes. I want to wind up my husband. If he has to be fed his rationed jollies, as a good wife, I want to see that my husband eats well.

I reappear before my husband, facing away from the webcam. So, I can't tell his reaction. He must be surprised though. I don't think he expects this rendition of me. I am in the same ensemble of textile when my brother picked me up from my home the first time we went to the dunes. Skimpy black strapless bandeau top. Matching black high-cut thong bikini. Slinky t-shirt with hemline extending an inch below the vee tip of my thong.

I pivot to face the webcam. To face my husband. He looks spellbound. He has seen me naked before on more than a few occasions. So, there is more operating here than my mere skimpy dressing.

I pull off my t-shirt while holding my gaze unwaveringly at him.

I reach my hands behind my back. I thrust my chest out, to help my access to the bandeau bikini top fastener. I unwrap my bandeau, as one unwraps treasured objects. My breasts are now exposed.

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.

I hook my thumbs on the sides of my bikini thong. 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.

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

I am now naked.

Husband: You are a merciless tease. Your brother's reaction?

Me: He enjoyed the moment.

Husband: He said so?

Me: He demonstrated pointedly so. I feel validated that my august body elicited that reaction.

Husband: What next?

Me: To help break the ice further, I asked him to take some photos of me. You know he is good in photography, like you.

Husband: And how did that go?

Me: Why don't you decide for yourself?

Husband: Huh? I wasn't there.

Me: You will be now...

Husband: Huh?

Me: Here are some... Relive the shoot. Enjoy!

I send to my husband three pictures from the series taken on the rock ledge.

One sitting cross-legged kittenishly.

Another lying down on my back, with a leg drawn up, tastefully rendered. My bush is displayed. A hint of cleft.

Yet another, lying face down, displaying my arse orbs.

Husband: Nice! Artfully rendered. There must be more?

Me: My brother then made a special request to take some ballet dance position shots. Kind of a flashback to our young days when we were kids, and I was active in dance.

Husband: You brought your dance wear to the dunes?

Me: No, silly! Nude.

Husband: Errr... ballet dance positions in the nude? Isn't that kind of revealing?

Me: I thought so too. But, if that helps my brother in his adjustment to our larger common good of the summer, why not? We are already nude in any case. Plus, I am also quite keen to see how the photos will pan out. My brother is quite good in his craft.

Husband: Send me the pics.

Me: I can do better. I will recreate the five poses for you. First pose.

Classic ballerina arabesque. Right leg standing straight up, toes pointed, pivoted on ground. Left leg extended backwards straight out, ninety degrees to right leg. Right arm extended straight up. My bottom is stretched and exposed.

Me (announcing): Second pose.

A variation of the first. Left leg and left arm extended in parallel straight up. Left hand gripping left ankle, to lock in pose. Right and left legs are impossibly extended in a near straight vertical line. My crotch is completely extended and exposed to the max.

Husband: Oh my god!

Me: Third pose. Well, this is really more gymnastics than dance.

I begin in a crouched position facing the camera. I raise my left leg until it is in an impossibly near vertical position, toes pointed. My vagina is in the face of the webcam. My labia is parted.

Me: Fourth pose.

I face away from the webcam. My buttocks are on show. I maintain both legs together straight down. My body is bent down impossibly low. Left hand grips right ankle, to lockdown my pose. A teasing exposé of labia majorca, slightly agape.

Me: Final pose.

A variation of the previous pose.

I slide my legs apart while maintaining them straight. I nuzzle my face cheek against the side of my lower thigh, peering back and up, coquettishly at the webcam. My left hand continues to grip my right ankle to lockdown my pose.

I see my husband in an apparent flurry of motion, although I can't see what he is doing as his webcam image is up to his chest.

Husband: Does your brother have a copy of the photos?

Me: He is doing some photo editing. He mentioned some photography mumbo about enhancing vibrancy, saturation and such...

Me (teasingly): Do you still need the photos sent over?

Husband: All the more so now...

Again, we are interrupted by an incoming call on his cellphone. An urgent shrill. No rest for the wicked.

***

Chapter 12

Summer's End - Mum and Son

Today is my last dune day, as we have come to fondly call our sunbathing time, with my son. Summer is drawing to a close. My son is going on a trip abroad with his mates tomorrow. My husband will be back in a week's time.

Part of me wants to mark and celebrate this close of season by enjoying the routine that we have gotten used to. A restive part of me wants to make this day special and memorable. I am conflicted. I have a sense that my son is pondering these same thoughts, though I can't be sure.

Me: It's summer's end. Let's try something new today at the cove that we can only do at this time of the year.

Son (eyes lighting up expectantly): What is it?

Me: In another thirty minutes, the waves will crash on strong at the end of the cove. We can do some "Wave Slamming".

Son: Wave Slamming?

Me: This is a term that your dad and I coined. There is this natural phenomenon at the end of this cove, due to geographical or whatever cosmic reasons that I do not wholly fathom. Something to do with crossing wave paths, where at a particular time of summer's end, at a particular hour each day, at a specific beach point, waves crash on the beach. The waves are strong enough for fun and frolic, but not so wild as to be dangerous. The resultant wave undertow is strong enough to tip us over, but not so strong as to suck us out to sea. A poetic beast. Robust but predictable.

Son: Wow! Hard to imagine this in our placid cove.

Me: One person, ideally the taller one, stands behind the other as a sort of backstop. The backstop wraps his or her arms around the person in front, lifts the person up. They face-off the onrush advancing wall of wave that comes crashing on them. And then, experience the undertow of the wave. You have to experience it, to describe it with poetic justice.

Son: Hmmm... sounds like good fun!

Me: There is a certain technique to engage the onrushing waves, which your dad and I have refined over time through earnest trial and error dunking. Almost an art form.

And then, it is time. We make our way to the end of the beach.

A big wave lifts and tosses us giving us a watery foretaste of what is to come. The waves get bigger as we move farther down the shore. We are at an area where the waves are crashing harder as the bottom shallows up.

We get to where the waves seem to crest the highest, the troughs of the waves expose us down to our thighs, exposing our genitals. Each wave that lifts and tosses us, sets us back down in time for a quick glimpse of our naked bodies, before the next wave covers us again.

My son shouts playfully as the waves lift him, body and spirit, working himself deeper into the surf after a few minutes.

I instruct my son to stand behind me, playing the role of the backstop. He is to grab my waist, and lift me at the onrush of each wave.

Wave one.

The wave lifts me till my feet hang in the air. I practically slide down the back side of the wave. The wave washes my back to my son, bumping my back into him, until I put my feet down again. This is a good start.

Wave two.

It lifts me up easily and practically over the wave, my naked ass completely exposed over the top of the wave, before my son guides me to slide down the back side of the wave, my back rubbing down his chest as he tries to hold his balance. We seem to be getting the hang of it. My son is a natural. His youthful athleticism makes this seems easy. I notice that my son has a raging erection. It must be from the tingle of our body contact. His shaft is pointing straight up. There is a fleeting moment when the wave is in recession, when both our eyes are on his hard-on, and then drifting up, our eyes lock. I wink at my son.

Wave three.

My kittenish knowing wink emboldens my son. He grazes his palms over my breasts, then drifts down to grip my waist. His shaft melts into our body tangle. His hard penis is lodged at the confluence of the recess of my arse orbs, my upper thighs, and the vee tip of my crotch. Our most intimate body contact so far. I instinctively clench my upper thighs together. I glance back at my son momentarily. I shudder. And then the wave, a big one, crashes on us. When the wave recedes, I am lying on my son in a tangled heap. His penis runs against the length of my slit.

Wave four.

We disentangle and get up. We brace for the next wave. Is it our imagination, or are the waves getting stronger and cresting higher with every onrush? My son gets increasingly comfortable with his backstop role. This time, he grips my waist firmly, and thrusts his penis into the recess of my arse orbs in one rapid movement. His penis head nudges against my slit. I clench my arse orbs. In the aftermath of the wave onrush, in our tangled mash, I feel his penis head lodged in my slit, as if peering in to check out the cave mouth. We disentangle.

Wave five.

I instinctively part my thighs a little. My son is perceptive. He reads my nuanced body language like an erotic manual. He pistons through, angling his penis, poised to ride on the momentum of the next onrush. Let the forces of nature do the work. The wave crashes. The biggest wave yet. My son is in me. I let this sink into me for a moment. Is this an accident? Have we crossed a line? Does this amount to copulation? Is this incest? We are both silent. Processing. There is no time though. We sense the build up of the next wave. An even bigger one. We disentangle. I feel his head glide past my labia. His helmut head rim nicks my lip in its hasty exit. I get a tingle from this searing contact.

My son and I are in the groove. We carry on enjoying our ride of ever escalating thrashing waves.

The euphoria overwhelms me. I surprise myself. And my son. We watch the mounting build up of a huge wave onrush. As my son grips my hips, I tell him that we will do it differently this time. He looks puzzled. How else different?

I turn around to face him. I reposition his hands on my hips. He grips my hips till they hurt. This time, it is my son who surprises me. He presses his shaft tip at my entrance, angled, just shy of entry. Poised. The wave crashes. We ride on wave power.

We carry on this way for awhile. We have been enjoying the waves for close to an hour. From my past experience, the waves will soon lose their high intensity, then peter down to ebb. Their climb down is dramatic.

I tell my son that I want us to end our summer on a high. A tumult. This will be our last ride. The wave is building up in the distance. I face him. I grip his hard penis. Time is of the essence. I plunge him into me. I hump him once. He gets it. He pounds me, rapidfire by necessity, in anticipation of the advancing onrush of wave.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

The wave picks us up, tosses us in the air. Arse over head. I shudder, then tremor. A physical high. A bodily high. A mental high. A transcendent moment which I can never replicate ever. We eventually fall back to earth. Astoundingly, we are still a unified whole as we languish on the shore sand. My son is in me. I see white foam. Is it what I think it is?

***

Chapter 13

Summer's End - Sister and Brother

I am with my brother at the dunes. We started early. We have a whole day ahead. My husband returns from his overseas assignment tomorrow.

We have enjoyed the sun all summer. We will enjoy it one more time today as summer slides into recession. We have connected as brother and sister at a level that we have never before. There is an unstated weight of unfinished business in my mind. And I sense my brother's too in a sisterly, or maybe unsisterly, telepathic sort of way. Though I cannot define precisely what exactly that business is.

I tell my brother, in a soft conspiratorial tone, that there is something I want to show him. His forehead creases, as if pondering over what else is new and secret in these dunes and cove that he has inhabited all summer. And then an expectant look lights up his face. A rare facial event for this brooding man.

I pull his hand, hold it, as I lead him to the cove. After a few steps, I playfully drift my hand to grab his penis, towing him along. He emits a hoot of laughter. We are quite accustomed, or I should say habituated to each other's nudity to the point that we can goof around for a lark without awkwardness. Notwithstanding this, I feel his penis, with its usual dignified regal demeanor, stiffen some. I quicken my steps pulling slightly ahead of him. This necessitates my gripping and tugging him harder so that I don't lose him.

I pull him into the water. We swim languorously to the end of the cove, then round the protruding outcrop of rocks.

I ask my brother whether he can see a cave mouth ahead. He squints his eyes. He says no.

We swim on. We are closer to the cliff face now. He squints harder. This time, my brother says that he sees something like a rocky hollow, in between crashes of waves. It appears like a wall of rock had fallen into the sea some time ago. Many tons of fallen rock now lay on the sea floor. My brother stares at the now apparent cave mouth, mesmerised by the new cove that had been created, and the swell of the waves pounding it.

I don't know why, but I tell my brother that the cave cannot be seen from above. Only from the water. I tell him that the cave mouth does not do justice to what is within. The cave is deep.

I lead the way. I clamber up to the cave mouth. I kneel facing the inside of the cave. I peer down at myself. I can see the distinct outline of my engorged vagina lips. I pivot to face my brother, who is still in the water. He looks up at me, and then, into me. I tell him to clamber up before the next crash of wave. I extend a hand to him. I nudge him to move quickly inside before the wave crashes.

My brother looks surprised. He is expecting the cave to be pitch-black. But curiously, the cave is well-lit. He asks where the light is coming from. I tell him it is from below. I explain that the cave tunnel opens into a grotto of wave-worn rock. A sort of well in the floor. Peering down, we see the waves roiling, catching the light, sending it shimmering along the walls, ceiling and water sprays of the wave crashes of the tiny chamber.

My brother marvels at this watery rocky cocoon. A magical surreal theatre concert of water sprays, light and sound. A world unto itself. Just the kind of place which appeals to his finer senses.

My brother presses his body against mine as we peer into the well. He circles his arms around my waist protectively, restraining me from falling into the well. His hands clasp in front of my mound, grazing my bush. I arch my torso to peer more deeply down the sea well. He presses harder against me as he tightens his clasp to hold me back, lest I tip over. I giggle.

Me: Is that a rock formation jabbing my arse? Or a... cock formation?

Brother (deadpan): The latter.

I am feeling light headed in this hazy unity of fantasy and reality. Narcotic. Can it be the cave air? I giggle again. And to my brother's delight, I begin grinding my bottom against his hardness.

I turn around to face my brother. We kiss. We have kissed before. In play. For a lark. In affection. In experiment. Never in passion.