Nudist Mum Visits Son

Chapter 1: Visit

Chapter 2: Gift

Chapter 3: Morning

Chapter 4: Movie

Chapter 5: Next Morning

Chapter 6: Vibe

Chapter 7: Ring, Ring

Chapter 8: Last Night

Chapter 9: Goodbye

Chapter 10: Bedroom Banter

Chapter 11: Again

Chapter 12: Found and Lost

***

Chapter 1

The Visit

Christmas just passed.

My cellphone chimes. A message from my son, Seb. Almost conspiratorially, he confides that he has a special gift for me. I wonder what special gift that might be, that he couldn't give me during our Christmas gathering at home. He says it is too intimate to bring home. Intimate? Sons don't give mums intimate things. I naturally assume it might be something sexy to wear. Hmm... all very uncharacteristic of my son. What's brewing?

***

I visit Seb at his apartment in the city. I do that periodically every 3 to 4 weekends. This visit, I am staying longer than usual, for a week.

He is a little sheepish in handing the gift to me, which I think is really cute.

***

I guess I should reveal at this point that I am a practising home nudist when I am at home with my husband. I don't belong to any nudist club or enlightened organised movement sister or brotherhood sworn to the cause.

No, my husband doesn't partake in this celebration of the body temple. He regards my nudism with a degree of fascinated hilarity, in the vein of women obsessing over yoga, pilates, organic food, keto diet, eastern religions and philosophies, and the like in mindless faddish cycles. In other words, fluff.

I have intimated in passing to my son about my home nudism. He is supportive. But, I have never been naked in his presence before, be it in my home, his apartment or anywhere.

We are not prudes cowering under a watchful God's metaverse omnipresence and omniscience. But, not particularly liberal either. My son has never seen me in anything more revealing than a matronly 1-piece swimsuit. The last time I saw my son's genitals was when I was nursing him through a bout of high fever when he was fourteen.

***

To my knowledge, my son is not a nudist. But, he has encouraged me to practise my usual nudism in his apartment. No reason not to, he says. His home is my home.

His studio apartment is on the top floor of a high rise block, a massive erection on the wooded slope of a hillock at the edge of the city. It is a cosy nest of a place.

Modern without being clinical and impersonal. Kitchenette. Bathroom. A kind of main room, which is subdivided into a living room cum office area, and a bed area. Its nicest feature is an open roof patio.

The view, a blend of sprawling cityscape and nature, is inspiring. Seen from the patio, the city skyline seems as flimsy as a hallucination. A mist envelopes the building tops. The apartment, particularly the open patio, has that rare combination feel of expansiveness and coziness. The kind of experience train travel provides.

The entire apartment has 360 degree privacy, looming over the neighbourhood. Quite ideal for home nudism, chirps my son. I can sunbathe on the patio, commune with the elements.

My son hasn't said anything about whether he will join me nude, to accompany me, if I do decide to bare myself to the elements. I guess he feels awkward about saying it. And if he does say it, and be nude with me, how will we handle his dad?

Do I need to get his permission? The word "permission" sounds so dated in today's world. Husbands don't own their wives. Like, oh, by the way, darling, when I next visit Seb at his apartment, are you cool if I continue my nudism practice there? Will Seb be nude too, he'll ask. Well, I don't know about that. I guess it will be up to the lad.

Do we even need to tell my husband at all? If we do, how will he react? If we don't tell him, is it right? Am I, kind of, cheating on him? And this is a mum and son situation. It is not exactly broad social custom for a mum and her adult son to be naked in a confined small apartment over a weekend. Maybe seasoned nudists may think nothing of this. But, we are not a nudist family by any measure.

And, I guess males have the added anxiety of sporting a rise at the most inconvenient of moments. I wonder how Seb and I would react in such an eventuality? Probably nonchalantly crack some bawdy joke. A glorious son rise. Rising to the occasion. A pointed reaction.

Ah, but this is frivolous wishful thinking, that a young vital lad would have any interest at all in his mature, venerable matriarch, let alone be mildly aroused.

And God forbid, it is not just my son. What if a dribble of arousal runs down my thighs? Most women at my age get drier, especially around menopause. I am fortunate. I still get fairly wet down there. That is not a problem for me. Which is also my problem in this situation. What if my son sees my copious arousal? Probably nonchalantly crack some bawdy joke. Mum, chill, just go with the flow...

As I'm overthinking this, I sense a dampness in motion. A run. Ebb is now flow. I feel that deviant creeping emotion. A rising tide. Mother nature has her own sweet way of carrying on. Why am I like this? People say the biggest sexual organ in a human is the brain. Is that a single violin in the shadows playing one long note of longing?

Hmmm... it's complicated, to say the least. I can well understand why my son doesn't want to traipse into this moral minefield.

***

Chapter 2

Gift

I unbox the gift there and then.

Surprise, surprise! I see sheer lace. I uncover the lace.

In the past, unbox means exactly that. Unbox the gift. Unwrap it. Today, in social media lingo, there is an implicit expectation that you do a whole lot more.

It turns out to be a bullet vibrator. Not the most original or outlandish of intimate gifts on the Richter scale of playthings. But hey, this is a son's considered gift for his mum. Rather forward of him. Bold of him.

He is keen that I should have more gratification time than I currently have with his dad, who is not getting any younger, faithful to the immovable laws of nature. I recall Seb and I had discussed in passing, in one of our less guarded moments after a bit of festive imbibing cheer, that I do have a less-animated toy that I enjoy using regularly, although it isn't a vibrator. Maybe he wants me to just enjoy something different. Something more compelling.

Anyway, I am very pleased with it. It looks a lovely little thing that I can easily stash away in my bag amongst my myriad lady things, and can bring with me wherever I go.

It has a battery in already. Batteries included. How conveniently empowering. And enabling.

After the initial surprise, a little awkwardness sets in. Maybe Seb must be thinking that he has overdone it this time, crossed a maternal red line. We are both a little too squeamish to say anything to each other, other than the usual thank-you pleasantries, as if he just gifted me a box of the finest truffle chocolate that a son's money can buy. To soothe his agony some, I flash him a fiendish grin just short of a smirk. His tension lightens a notch. Maybe mum is shocked but mutedly pleased?

***

We spend the rest of the day shooting the breeze, catching up on this and that. In the evening, Seb sets up a pull-out single bed which he uses when stray friends sleep over, and whenever I visit. I setup the bedsheet and quilt.

Seb sleeps on his usual king-size bed as he needs the cushiony real estate more than I do given his larger body build.

We stay up well past midnight. I go to the bathroom. I change into a t-shirt and a modest panty. At home, I sleep nude. But, this is not my home even if Seb insists it is.

Seb is already in his bed. He has a sheet over his lower torso with both his legs angled, sticking out from under the sheet. I try to piece his legs to his upper torso, but curiously I can't. They don't align and connect. It is as if they belong to another person of a similar build. Why is that?

Is he sleeping nude? The open patio doors let the cool night air in. I switch off the light. We say our goodnights.

***

Chapter 3

Morning

The sun wakes me up by shining right into my eyes. I get up. I go to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. Heading back to my bed, I stop dead in my tracks. Lying on his back with the morning sunshine on his body, is my beautiful naked son. The sheet he uses to cover himself with is completely off.

The lad is no longer a lad but a formidable man. Muscular chest. Light chest hair. A thicket of dark pubic hair. His uncut morning wood, loud and proud, pointed toward the ceiling. His right leg straight down. His left thigh ninety degrees to his right thigh. His maleness in full glory.

Two lovely egg-shaped testicles hang down between his open legs. Not so taut as to be herculean. Not so loose as to be fragile. Sweet child o' mine.

I spend 10 minutes just looking. Just looking in a way a mother should not look. I study this lovely gamey English meat. I wonder why the whole world is not made of English.

How do we judge good architecture. Like the Sagrada Família. Like a massive erection of post-industrial glass and steel construction in the financial district. That sensation of being diminished and enlarged at the same time.

You can only fall in love for the first time once. I have fallen in love with a cock for the first time. This cock. I feel it in such a deep and fundamental way. The heart has its reasons which reason cannot know. A strange space has formed inside me, a kind of pure hollow. This space signifies a simple lack, a nothingness.

I so long to scratch an itch that hasn't come yet. I think... Then, I immediately try to unthink it.

As though by instinct, I squeeze my legs closer, trying to hide traces of shameful need and desire, even though no one is watching me. But, is this shame or guilt? Much sexual fluids have been spilled on this question by humanity over eons. In any case, it is not like I have done anything.

This image before me. Is it art or pornography? Art, good art, is not an expression of emotion. The artist is not conveying a sentiment, but rather a form of knowledge. A window into the true nature of reality. Good art also transcends the passions. Anything that increases desire increases suffering. Anything that reduces desire reduces willing, alleviates suffering. When we behold a work of art, we are not craving anything. This is why pornography is not art. It is the exact opposite of art. The sole purpose of pornography is to stir desire. If it fails to do so, it is considered a failure. Art aims for something higher. If the only reaction we have to a still-life of a bowl of cherries is hunger, the artist has missed the mark.

I am viewing live pornography. Shame watches me like a dog. I hear in my mind: boner, boner, erection, hardon, woody, boner,

boner, boner. What is the matter with me?

Maybe I am too harsh on myself? I don't have a thing for him, for my son. But, that doesn't mean I can't see him for what he is. A gorgeous young man. Sweet yet manly face. Hot, tight body. I guess, in that way, it is like appreciating a voluptuous sculpture at the art gallery. I can admit that something is beautiful without needing to break in and take it home with me.

It must be the warmth of the sun on his body. Seb wakes. I am kind of glad he wakes. Lays to rest my awful dilemma. Him asleep, me covetous, I bear the full moral burden. Him awake with me, my moral burden is halved. Oh, what a heterogeneous maze of nonsense am I overthinking!

He stretches and arches his back causing his cock to be even more pronounced than before.

I am wet and tingling. You know me. How I am that way. I already told you so earlier. I cannot bear the scent of my own arousal. It arouses me more.

I sit on the sofa and watch Seb. He sits up, rubs his eyes in a kind of happy daze, and looks at me. Every available inch on his face bursts into a smile. Mums live, and some die many times over, for moments like this.

"Good morning, mum."

I almost climax when he stands up and stretches, his erection bouncing up and down. I can be easily aroused that way. Seeing the look on my face, he realises he is not only naked, but has a massive morning wood.

"Oh mum, I didn't realise... I'm so sorry."

Cupping his balls in his hands and trying his best to cover his hardon, he makes a beeline to the bathroom. His cute butts, they march him along.

He leaves the bathroom door open. I suppose this is a hardwired habit from living alone. I hear him urinating. Then, he showers.

I am still wet. I get up and go to the kitchen to check if the coffee is ready. I pour myself one. Walk out to the patio. Sipping my coffee, I cannot take my thoughts off my naked son. Body so muscular. Lovely body hair. A definitive maleness about it, but not a crass caveman.

His cock is huge, a lot bigger than his dad's. I have never seen one so long and thick. Formidable, and yet, a certain aesthetic tender quality to it. A regal demeanour.

Not that I am particularly worldly about these things. This is only the second adult male I have seen in the flesh. Oh, what a humdrum sexual résumé I have. But still, I know this is premium meat. Premium mum-fed red meat.

Now, what did Freud say? The unconscious. Nothing comes out of the blue. There are no accidents and no coincidences. So, everything is coming to the fore for me.

I am getting wetter just thinking about Seb's huge erection. Sipping my coffee, I can't help but fondle my wet self there. My puffy lips parting as my finger sinks in.

"Mum..."

Taking my hand away, I stand up.

"The patio."

He is standing in the doorway still wet from his shower. His towel around his waist. He looks at me sheepishly.

"I'm really sorry. I just wasn't thinking."

"Don't worry. I know it's an accident. Anyway, I quite enjoyed seeing how... adult you've become."

"Thank you, mum. I'm so glad you're not upset."

"You know, you're only the second adult male I've seen in rippling flesh."

Continuing, "You already know I'm a home nudist. Nudity doesn't make me feel uncomfortable or turn me off."

A pause.

"It's just that... I kind of, not expected seeing you ...err. Well, you know what I mean. The last time I saw you was when you were fourteen, hot and bothered with high fever."

"LOL! I guess I was just as surprised. I'm glad we're both good."

"Sit down. Make yourself comfy. I will get more coffee."

From the kitchen, I see Seb naked in the patio, toweling himself. Returning with the coffee pot, I pour the coffee. Seb has thrown his towel on the lounger. He is standing naked enjoying the glorious combination of cool morning air and warm sun. I hand him his coffee. I sit down.

I sit there for a long time, sipping my coffee, looking at him. This is all very strange. I'm supposed to be the seasoned nudist. I don't even know if Seb is a nudist. And here I am, he starkers, me dressed.

I can't help but think that my son has upstaged me. Did he engineer this whole thing?

Seb sensing me, "Mum, if you're uncomfy with me, I can put on something."

"Oh no! It's just that I can't get over how grown up and manly you've become."

A pause.

Continuing, "Turn around. Let me look at you properly."

I can't help but admire how his muscular back tapers down to a narrow waist, and then, a round bubble butt. His legs are muscular from his distance running routine.

"Your assessment, mum?"

"I am suitably awed."

A pause.

"You're really handsome. You know, when you were six years old, your dad and I thought of selling

you?"

He sits on the lounger facing me. His legs well apart giving me an unobstructed view of his large soft uncut penis and large sac. An artwork in search of an artist. I am that artist. I instinctively open my legs a little wider for no particular reason.

We talk all morning about this and that.

"Seb, are you a nudist?"

"Truthfully, I don't really know. If one is living alone in an apartment with absolute privacy, including in the open patio, and is careless about one's state of dress or undress simply because it doesn't matter one way or the other, because there is no one else at home, is that really nudism? Or, just being practical?"

"I see what you mean. I guess I've a different perspective at home because I'm nude but your dad isn't. Always the consideration for another person, even though your dad is used to my nudity."

"Why doesn't dad just join you?"

"A nudist finds putting on clothes bothersome. Your dad, the reverse. Taking off clothes is a bother. I guess his mindset is that if he takes them off, he'll have to put them on again eventually. Double bother. If dressed, he stays dressed all day."

"Hmmm... that sounds like classic dad alright."

A bit nervously, "Mum, would you like to get comfy and join me?"

"Oh, I don't know... Yes, I'm a practising home nudist. That is just me alone. But, I don't think I'm ready for that just yet here. Maybe later..."

"I understand, mum."

"Any plans for today?"

"I'd like to take you out to my fave Thai for lunch. Chef Khun Kittibun was a classmate of mine. His fiery Tom Yum will singe your insides."

"Sounds good!"

"And, I've Georgia on my mind."

"Do I know her?"

"We visit an art gallery where there is an exhibition on Georgia O'Keeffe's works."

"Is she the one who paints close-up and large-scale flower paintings?"

"Yes. There is a sensual quality to her floral depictions. Roses flowering vulgarly. Petals opening up more than they should on dainty stalks. Some even menacing."

"Hmmm... Are you over-interpreting her works?"

"Do you know that petals are the genital organs of flowers?"

"No. Thank you for this pertinent horticultural insight."

Chortles.

"Maybe we watch an online movie when we get home to round off the day?"

"Great! I'll get cleaned up and dressed then. Ready in 45 minutes."

In the bathroom, I lose my clothes. I review my bare self in the mirror. My lips, wet and puffy. My nipples, erect. They can cut glass if put to the task. I wonder if Seb noticed my steely studs.

Reaching down, I cup my pussy. I finger myself to a high as images of Seb's erection playback in my mind. Bouncing. I think of the metronome at the top of my piano during my music lessons when I was twelve. A musicality to it all.

After showering, I put on a white transparent, tiny G-string. My trimmed bush shows through the fabric. Renegade wisps peek out of the economical gusset edges. No bra. Light cotton summer dress. I bottom-out with sandals.

I step out of the bathroom. Seb is waiting for me. Shorts, chill shirt over a white singlet, soft baseball cap, sandals.

We have a great day. Indeed, Khun Kittibun's Tom Yum burns off thirty percent of my entrails by my raw estimate. I just love it.

After that, Seb brings me to a cavernous Middle Eastern coffee joint, decidedly modern and quaint all at once. He makes me drink a murderously black, concentrated, and above all, thick-brewed coffee, which is made in a big coffeepot, to be sipped lightly. The sludge roasts the rest of my insides.

This is what I love about my son. He torments me with these things, and I love them.

A sensitive humanist attuned to the fluff of art, lit, music and philosophy. He can cite Marcus Aurelius, refute Nietzsche, demolish Sartre, and burn rubber hot-rodding Saturday nights through the town with his band of bros.

He likes to think about everything. He holds up an idea aloft, and looks at it from various perspectives.

He wonders if he playing with his cat? Or is his cat playing with him? If he is making love, he will likely ponder does he fuck in order to have pleasure, or does he have pleasure fucking? All so very profound. Perhaps simply raising the question is some kind of end in itself.

He takes something everyone knows, everyone thinks they know, and tests it. Plays with it.