Lingerie Intimacy with My Son

"Well?"

"I thought I had some terrible disease or something. And when my skin drew back, straining, to expose my head, I thought a vile insect had stung me there, swelling me."

"Oh! You poor child! What a traumatising induction to male ecstasy."

I raised my right leg to place my foot on the edge of my seat. I parted my legs, looking down at myself. And affording Seb the perfect view of my most intimate, through the crotchless panty. I could even see little flashes of pink. I was inviting my son to look at his mummy dearest.

His desire appeared to rise. I think if he was to just lightly touch his head, he would explode all over me. He couldn't calm down.

Looking at my slit, then back at his penis, I philosophised in a hushed, husky voice, "Aren't penises and pussies just so strange and wonderful, they have a free will all of their own."

"Mum, I'm just astonished to hear you say pussy."

"Pussy, pussy, pussy...," I trilled in a rising intonation.

"Mum, I'm eternally grateful to you."

"Why?"

"You're responsible for half of my sexual vocabulary."

"What was the most influential book I gave you?"

"Oh, the Places You'll Go! by Dr Seuss. When I was fourteen."

"Hmmm..."

Chortles.

He grew harder. He had that look of determined unease. Like he might lose it.

"Yet, we don't like to talk about penises and pussies, don't we? Not in polite company anyway. We think of them as lewd. Ours is such a hypocritical culture."

"I suppose we don't."

"Without them, there would be no civilisation. No propagation of our species. Darwin would've to write about something other than Darwinism. Yet, we are squeamish to talk about it."

"Do you know Darwin married his cousin?"

"Hmmm... He made his natural selection to preserve the family wealth legacy. We English have some perverse estate inheritance laws to this day."

He appeared interested in what I was saying. Gradually he noticed what I was actually doing. Slowly and gently sifting my fingers through my pubic hair. Then, as I was still talking to him, I ran my middle finger around my opening, caressing my outer lips, pulling them back a little to open myself up. I slid my finger up and down, then repeatedly touching my clitoris, rubbing my finger back and forth. Feeling myself, really without even thinking about it. I was moist. Fingers wet and slippery.

He surprised me yet again. He approached me and lifted one of my bare legs by my dainty ankle. He let his hand glide along my sculpted form, from ankle to calf, to inner thigh, before reaching between my legs. He appeared surprised when his hand came back with tiny beads of moisture off the ends of my hairs. He put his fingers to his nose and showed me a wrinkled expression as if in fascinated repulsion.

The air around us was steeped in the smell of summer garden flowers, and of sex. All of mother nature.

In his chair, his penis was leaking, waving back and forth, strained and throbbing.

He held it with one hand as if to hold the tide back, keep it from an onrush to shore. Like someone holding a garden hose tight to control the water flow. He must be thinking how erotic and nasty his mother looked, showing herself to him like this. My legs opened wide for both of us to see. Those puffy lips and all that liquid right at the very opening, then seeping to the fabric of the crothless panty. Like a baby's bib soaking up the drool of hunger pangs. Seb looked a bit odd holding himself.

This was a moment of warm intimacy between us. It was gratifying that I was the magnet of raw sexual desire.

With little warning, I read from his facial expression that a deep warm feeling was welling in his loins, moving fast to his erection. It looked like he was realising that he was going to erupt.

"Sorry Mum. I may be on the verge of it."

And then, it came to pass. Male essence started shooting in determined spurts, hitting me in the stomach and chest. Extravagant. Almost festive like fireworks. Such joyous intensity in a pinhead singularity moment. I froze. He was convulsing as a second wave spewed, hitting my arm, then my thigh, and the arm of the chair. Prodigious output. Curiously, I remembered what my mum told me on rainy days when I couldn't go out. The best thing to do when it rains is to let it rain.

"Oh Mum! I don't know what to say."

"Did your mother do that to you? Or, have you just needed to do that all along?"

The word "mother" seemed to give him pause. He didn't answer.

"You want me to put my dress back on?"

"No. Do you want me to put my shorts back on?"

Though he was now limp and moist, my gaze was still fixed on him. As if willing another son rise.

"No"

I walked back to the cottage. Cleaned myself off with a towel. My lingerie was a mess.

My natural impulse was to take a bath after all the festivities. But, there was only Seb and me in the cottage. Who would be the wiser? It felt so pleasurably deviant to just be. Delicious, and that was just the thought of it.

But, won't I smell? How would Seb react to that for the rest of the day? The scent could be described as divine, and yet, slightly suspect, like everything sexual that smelled really good.

We enjoyed more tender moments later that day. Our relationship fleshed out fully over the day. There are some natures too noble to curb, too lofty to bend. And later, tender was the night.

***

After the ice of that first time initiation was broken, we often goofed around in lingerie.

Whenever I was in the exposed bra and crotchless panty ensemble, he liked to draw back his skin, he was uncut, to fully expose his head.

He would put on his cock ring, a new addition to our ensemble, which encircled his penis base, and then testicles. He would rim his helmet ridge against my edges of folds.

Both of us were insanely contact-sensitive there. He, his helmet edge rim and the ring recess below. Me, the edges of my petals. My inner fold lips would rub against and stimulate his head around his penis slit. My outer lips would rub against his mushroom ridge rim, and the recess. This movement invariably sent us both to the far side of the moon.

I inevitably couldn't help but squeeze him there. From where his shaft met his testicles. And then edging outward. A pearly drop of arousal would bubble out of the tip. I would spread the male excitement on his head.

We had to be careful to rein in his exuberance so that he didn't mess up my garments.

***

Here's another side account of a little playful eroticism I had with my son.

One day, I was horsing around with my son. My hubby was again on an extended business trip. I was again in my boudoir ensemble of quarter cup exposed corset bra and crotchless panty. I was in a lush state to the point that my pink was showing.

We were communing. My son had just bought a euro-bikini, a European-styled minimalist male thong, sort of penis sheath, effectively a cock sock, over the internet. He had it on.

We were kidding around, fondling, caressing, kneading this way and that. He was stiff. The novelty of the new garment just unboxed, and the vulnerable feeling of wearing something minimalist and quite skintight, had a straining effect on him.

He wondered aloud what it would be like to enter me in his cock sock. So I said, let's try it. We were a little apprehensive that the fabric might be too abrasive on my insides. I said we'd do cowgirl, so that I could calibrate the movements to my comfort level.

I lowered myself gingerly. He grazed past my petals and folds. He filled me more than his usual male presence. I made some tiny exploratory, experimental movements. A gauzy sandy sort of feeling. The anxiety of it all, regardless real or imagined, spoiled the fun. We decided not to proceed. He exited. His garment was soaking wet.

There was somehow a mutual unsatisfying feeling of unfinished business. My son had an epiphany of sorts.

"Mum, let's swap our bottoms. We do it differently."

"Huh? Swap? Do what? Differently?"

Perversely, my son took off my crotchless panty, then struggled into it himself. I was afraid he would tear it. He near did, but didn't.

I writhed my motherly form into his cock sock. We were afraid it would bust asunder. But, I made it. It was more elastic than it looked. But only just.

My son chortled. I was sporting a deflated limp penis.

I returned the hilarity. My son looked ridiculous with his penis sticking out of the black lace. His ripe testicles barely made it through the opening.

I looked quizzically at my son. What now?

He gazed lovingly into my eyes as only a son in heat could. Then, he pressed his shaft gently against the limp sock of the euro-bikini, slowly nudging the sheath into me. Bit by bit, looking at my face, watching out for any hint grimace of discomfort. As the garment was wet, and now, getting even more wet, the passage was smooth, if not, quite pleasurable.

The sheath was fully stuffed inside me. My son said that it looked like I was wearing a thong bottom with a massive cameltoe! He slid into a chuckle. It did look it.

Was this intercourse? Just goofing around with textile. Did it count as incest?

***

Our final day together before Seb went back to the city tomorrow morning. My husband would be returning from his business trip in three days.

Seb sat on an armless wicker chair in our usual garden spot. The mood, pensive. We both knew the remaining of our time together felt precious and scarce. The next time I would see Seb would be in six months. Eons. Winters are always long. As summers are way too short.

As was our usual routine, he spent a good ten minutes just looking at me. Being the devoted model mother I was, I let my son have his visual feed. It tingled me a little to have him check me out like that. The arousal ranged through me like a forest fire. Were my petals blooming too fulsomely? Was too much pink showing? Getting his jollies. Me quietly dispensing. Now was all I had. Now was all I needed.

And he. He was so beautiful. All of him. It nearly hurt to look at him too long. But, it hurt more when I looked away. It was that kind of a feeling. A tightening in my loins.

The virtues of solitude, longing and beauty in their utmost simplicity. Themes that poets have the profound eloquence for.

It made me a little sad that this won't happen again tomorrow. Or the day after. Or, anytime soon. I felt a blank space worming inside me, aching to be filled. A lingering quiet heat. Like Dante's Inferno turned down way low, to be warm and alluring.

I knew exactly what to do. I launched myself at him. Placed my hands on his shoulders. Straddled my legs on either side of the seat. Looked down at his face. Gave him a sultry look that said he belonged in that secret warm space of mine.

"This is to be our only time. Let's live this like it is our first and last."

I lowered myself onto his lap. His eyes shone with lust and excitement. My femininity was spread open and positioned above him. Almost a little lewd. Even vulgar maybe.

Whispering, "Make sure you go through the crotchless panty opening smoothly. This one is really small. I don't want you getting tangled in the material."

I held my son's shaft in a firm position. Lowered myself until my labia was cleaved apart, and my womanhood penetrated. The entry seared me. It was as if his shaft had an urgent commitment to meet, a manifest destiny with my wet warmth. Instantly, that magical lock-and-key fit clicked into place. An incestuous union.

I pressed into his male chest.

"Let me do the grunt work. Consider this your personal tutorial on Lingerie Lovemaking For Sons 101 ."

He said he loved the way my breasts sat in his hands. Weighty in a gentle way. Like the rare paperback version of a book normally rendered in hardcover only. He said he loved the promise it represented of itself, and in his mind.

I tried to act like this wasn't incest. Not mum-son. But, woman-man. Me Jane, he Tarzan. A kind of noble primal wild life.

It wasn't easy. The body-mind dualism. A philosophical twist to it. My body was decidedly woman. My mind wasn't so sure if I was mum or woman. And don't get me started on wife. I'm a wife too, a pristinely faithful one at that. Up until now. Descartes had a go at this in his time. Philosophers have been arguing hoarse on this since time immemorial. I wasn't going to arrive at any enduring truths just now, inspirational as it was sitting on my son here.

His length was completely inserted into me. I let him rest there for a moment, a respite, clamping my walls round him. He moaned again.

I clenched his shaft again, teasing, enjoying the cause and effect, "Do you like this?"

"Oh God, yes! Do it again."

I flexed myself again and held him in my grip for a few moments, then released him.

Clenched. Released.

Clenched. Released.

Clenched. Released.

There was a constancy, yet a variation in it. It excited him to watch my face grimace with each clench, layering emotion on action.

I began to move a little on him, "Put it all in me. Just let it all go."

My insides loved being stretched by my son's hard penis. I slowly rocked back and forth while watching Seb's glazed eyes in a kind of euphoria. Building speed. I had to grasp his shoulders hard to steady myself. It was that intense.

As I gyrated on my son, I studied his face. One word, ecstasy. Male in a maelstrom. He was covered in a light layer of happy sweat.

I rode harder. Rode him with jazz-like syncopated beats. It felt so marvelous to be made love so passionately by my own son. By male meat I myself painstakingly cultivated cell by cell, to this heaving anaconda that had a life of its own.

In lust, I felt myself approaching what promised to be a massive high. I frantically moved up, down, forward and back in search of the sweet spot. The golden mean. Our golden mean. The groove of fluid performance was intrinsically pleasing. Seb was a gentleman. I was happy to see he'd let me assume full control.

Whimpering hoarsely, "I'm almost there."

I felt the rising buildup of Ravel's Bolero. Beginning meekly with a sweet flute. More and more instruments entering the fray. Always the same tune. Only increasingly louder. A rising musical tide. More festive. Grander. Until the full complement of the orchestra roared.

I moaned as my release neared. The whole damn meaning of life was happening right then.

My climax was triggered when Seb abruptly grabbed my face. Pulled me toward him. He planted a wet kiss on my mouth, muffling my rapturous scream. Not that anybody could hear us from the ocean yonder. My body shook with the force of a tsunami. My insides squeezed him with a rhythmic force.

Struggling to keep my eyes open, I was treated to the most amazing sight. As my insides throbbed, Seb's orgasm began. I felt Seb tense, then jerk repeatedly. While his eyes rolled back in his head, his penis twitched as his load spurted into my motherly womb. He uttered such a loud cry, so strange, that he was quite frightened at it himself.

"Oh god! I can't believe we did that."

When our combined convulsions climbed down some, I peered deeply into Seb's eyes. I could detect a hint of residual desire in his eyes, like a faint light deep in a mineshaft. Oh, the deep reserves of youth! And then, a confused expression of love. Was it mother or woman he just made hot love to? We had become our yesterday's future. When the thing is perfect, the problem of existence is solved.

Relishing his bakery warmth, pensively, "You know, you're only my second male."

A look of surprise, then "Thanks mum, for saving yourself for me."

I smacked his cock in mock disapproval.

In my saddest tone, "We've gone past lingerie. This is to be our only time."

He smiled. A sad sweet thankful regretful smile. He slid his hand across my hair. It made a rustling sound. Like a soft sigh.

As I climbed down from my high, suddenly the world seemed fuller and more spacious than I had ever imagined it could be. It was like one of those astounding moments when you look around at the world and really see it for the first time, feel its presence as a reality instead of just a bunch of concepts. Water is really wet. The sky is really blue. This world is really the only one we have.

Seb drifted to a soft slumber, grasping my right buttock in his hand, his nose nuzzled against my most intimate. I was moist. Was that my baby's drool or me?

Had we fallen into a sort of love? Reality offered harsh reconciliation. We were in this conundrum of straight lines going round and round. Where do they intersect?

Still, I found a little peace in my own misunderstandings, and questions not yet answered.

***

We smiled. And so the rest of our day began. We would spend our last day at the beach. Staring at the ocean. We walked the beach without a hurried purpose. I just wanted to walk quiet distances with Seb by the shore. The magic of building a sand castle, so that the waves would take it down, wash it away, and I didn't mind at all. Making sand prints. Digging toes into wet sand. Or just walking barefoot.

The beauty and might contained within great bodies of water. We wanted to leave the beach more wonderful than we found it.

Nothing has the same ability to soothe our souls as the beach. Calling gulls. Lapping waves. Salty smell. Wide-open views.

"Hey mum, a penny for your thoughts. You look a hundred miles away."

Reminiscing. I told Seb about my young days. I'd meet the ocean head-on at this same cove beach beneath the cliff of our cottage. Plunge into its cold. It was as if I had an urgent commitment to meet, a manifest destiny with the ocean. Dad would say, be like the ocean. Some kind of fisherman's philosophy. I was never sure what he meant, and I never asked. I guess I just knew without knowing. Only on the beach could I become anything I dared. My first bikini at fourteen. The boys admired what was budding in the swimsuit. Of course, they did not know a shy girl also lived there.

And then, the school bell rang, and summer was over.

I wanted to find some shells to place them on my shelf in my study. They would be carefully chosen as if my very destiny hinged on their shape and form. I scoured the beach.

Oh, it was the prettiest shell ever. Pink and fragile. Curled around into itself. Protected. But somehow vulnerable. Like me. Like my life.

Its place would be next to my photo of a teen me riding a wave. My wave of that day, it had my name on it, which seemed to go on forever, though it was only a good half minute.

Ecstasy is timeless. Joy distorts time. Time is not the same everyday. According to science, it is the same. One second is like any other seconds. It simply ticks. But inside us, time is not uniform. In our lives, the days are not equal. There are arduous mountainous days that we spend an infinite time climbing. And down sloping days that we can descend at full tilt singing.

It was when I read Proust's "In Search of Lost Time" that I came to understand a little something of my time that day on my surfboard. Time and memory. Our two most fleeting human experiences. Time flies. Memories fade. Time is unaware of its own existence. It has no awareness of what year or day it is. We break it down, put a name on it, yet, time itself doesn't care.

I thought of all the poetry and prose I wish I had composed about the savage beauty of an ocean. Days lengthened by the languid arc of the sun. The spell that a beach at sunset could cast on the most impoverished soul.

We laid on sun-warmed sand to heat up our body made cold by the ocean. Wrinkled fingers turned back to normal. Blue lips, pink again, a signal that it was time to plunge into the ocean again.

The wind grew colder. It pushed us closer together. Now, we turned and faced each other, so that Seb blocked the wind. Then, pushing me away, he opened the oversized jacket, pulled me inside, zipping it up around us. A bakery warmth. Home and hearth. We were one. Son and mum. We laughed at what a funny sight we must be in the evening light on the beach, if anyone cared to look. But, the beach was ours.