Nudist Mum Visits Son

Seb has a bit of my dad in him. Other fathers told their children war stories. My dad told anti-war stories. How he got penned in and pepper sprayed in this and that anti-war demonstration. How he was riddled with rubber bullets during the anti-Vietnam War rally, the mother of all rallies.

Dad held the idea that the whole world is one big school. You can learn biology from looking at frogs and worms. Sex education from a horny stallion at a stud farm. Fractions from making pies. History from talking to old people. And he loves the countryside, where the bullshit is for real. Great beauty of small things can save us.

My dad was largely influenced and shaped by his dad, that is, my grandad. But, perversely, in reverse. Grandad was convinced that if you played Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" backward, you'd hear some evil incantation. Enough said about the old boy.

Seb is like dad in a refreshed version of that unwavering idealism.

Seb makes me feel better about humanity's prospects in the furnace face of today's polarised political and social fractures.

This is what life is about. Finding out.

And I wonder what else will I find out this weekend with Seb. Not about him. About me.

***

We are home.

Seb is in the bathroom. As usual, he leaves the door open. Drops his shorts. Kicks them off. He holds himself peeing.

I get a glass of water from the kitchen. I walk out to the living room. Seb is naked, his back to me, standing by his bed looking out the window.

We sit facing each other on the sofa. We recall the day's outing. Charming Khun Kittibun. His musical English. Thai cuisine. Georgia O'Keeffe's art.

Seb moves a little, lays his head on my lap. I place my hand on his light haired chest. My fingers drift to play innocently with his nipples as we continue our conversation. His cock lying on his belly in a kind of indeterminate semi flourish. His testicles, limp nest eggs at rest.

Getting dark now. I get up and switch on the desk lamp. A warm yellow.

"After the Thai feast, let's have a light dinner. Beer or wine to go with?"

"Whatever you're having."

"A Sauvignon Blanc. More precisely, a Sancerre."

I come back with the sandwiches and wine. He is flipping through the movie catalogue on the widescreen.

***

Chapter 4

Movie

"Mum, how about a whodunnit-styled erotic drama thriller. But, nobody dies."

"What's the title?"

"La mère."

"Huh?"

"French. The mother. I've chosen French in deference to your Sancerre. And the movie title in deference to you."

"What about the mother?"

"I've no idea. I choose it because the movie poster looks enthralling. Let's just watch it. Let the movie tell and show. The charm is in not knowing."

***

Marie, in her mid-20s, lived in her remote coastal ancestral home in Brittany where she grew up. She jogged routinely along the beach in the quiet of the night, just after midnight, relishing the solitude, the wind beneath her wings.

One night, Marie was accosted, blindfolded and raped by an unknown assailant who loomed from the shadows. The silent assailant had a unique, particular way of sex, mixing the tender and the savage in giddy cycles, confounding her senses, leaving her in a cloud of enthralled repulsion.

The experience seared her mind. Even though blindfolded throughout, she could vividly recall every movement, twitch, surge, every breath, sensation, emotion, like it happened yesterday.

The perpetrator pulled blindfolded Marie up. He pushed then pressesd her back against the cool damp cliff wall. He grabbed her wrists. Extended her arms out so that she was in the position of a crucifixion. This made her ripe breasts stick out lewdly. He pinned her down. She was effectively nailed. Strangely, he used his knees to force her thighs to close tight.

She looked violated. And yet divine. Was this some sort of subconscious deep, dark, religious symbolism of the perpetrator animating itself out?

Still holding her wrists, he pressed his hard against her confluence of upper thighs and mound.

Stab.

Stab.

Stab.

Marie whimpered.

He pressed his tongue passionately into her mouth as he dry humped her standing up. Marie instinctively tightened her clenched thighs to stop his advance. But, this only egged him to piston harder, to breach her seal of thighs. His pace intensified as if goaded by her resistance.

Marie felt fatigue setting in. She loosened her clenched thighs a little to ease the tension off her sinews. The perpetrator sensed the slack. He humped harder. This cycle went on for awhile.

Clench, release.

Clench, release.

Clench, release.

She sensed the perpetrator welling up. She read the signs. She knew the male vulnerability that went with these signs. His hold on her wrists loosened some. She abruptly disentagled from him.

What happened next was unclear. Did the perpetrator force Marie to drop down to a classic woman lying down missionary position? Or, did she move to the position on her own volition?

At his first stroke, she bucked, instinctively raising her lower torso farther up. His hands gripped her knees, pushing and grinding, his penis making movements inside her. His first ten measured strokes resulted in another of her contractions. She kept pressing herself harder against his strokes.

The perpetrator started pushing into Marie harder and deeper, grinding faster, trying to initiate long strokes, while cryptically warning her by his tightening grip on her knees that he was close.

She pressed into him, clamping her legs around him, swiveling and grinding her lower torso to lockdown his rampage, as if attempting to limit his range of movement.

She could not help it. It was just too much. She climaxed.

He felt a joyous jolt of semen lava. He was wedged. He could not pull out. He shot again and again deep inside as he tried to pull out. But she slammed him, as if to milk his every drop. He was somewhat astounded by his victim's reserve of strength and counter aggression. When she at last sensed that he had fired his last salvo, she released her vice clamp of legs.

He exited. A gentle touch on her mound.

Her blindfold still on, Marie somehow knew she was alone again. Left to her own psychological devices.

For some inexplicable reason, Marie did not report the rape. It was as if she wanted to preserve the experience of the violation in an ampoule, stow it away in an unlabeled shoebox under a loose floorboard in her attic. She never told anyone. Not her family. Not her pink diary. Not her eventual husband. No one.

It would not have been difficult for the police to nail the perpetrator given that this was a small population district with low people traffic movement. Was Marie afraid that the perpetrator might be somebody she knew?

A year after the incident, Marie resumed her running regimen. Every run was more exhilarating than the previous. She was racing away from danger in the first half of the run. Toward danger in the second half. She would be drenched in sweat and more after each run, as if she had powered herself through a monsoon raging in the opposite direction.

She won an Olympic gold in the 1,500 metres in record time.

Fast forward...

Marie married. Bore a son, Jules. She inherited the ancestral home. They lived in it.

Busy, busy, busy husband had scant interest in sharing her life interests such as recreational running. Marie, now 55, grew close to her 25 year old son. They enjoyed running. The same coastline run.

There were places well-traveled Marie remembered all her life. Though some had changed. Some forever, not for better. Some had gone, some remained. All these places had their moments. For Marie, this coast was timeless.

Jules became increasingly invested in his mother. They messed around, innocently at first, progressively more and more intimate. Their night runs were their private quality time. They had their nook of the universe to themselves.

One night, Jules messaged his mother. He was held up in his work. She was to start her run. He, a mean runner, would catch up with her at the rock they have christened, La Bosse, the hump in English because it looked starkly so.

A tingling shiver crept up Marie's spine. This was where it happened 30 years ago to the day.

Marie felt the same lurking sensation stalking her again. Something she missed when running with Jules. Anxiety, fear, expectation, vulnerability, excitement. A confused stew. It defied identification. Assuming her rapist was her age, at 55, he could still be a clear and present risk.

She slowed down, approaching La Bosse. Dead quiet. She called out to Jules. Nothing.

And then, it happened all over again. Every movement, twitch, surge, breath, sensation, emotion. The exact experience.

Lying spent and a little sore, Marie felt polite fingers closing her petals just like 30 years ago, then removing her blindfold.

Jules! Wtf? How could that be? Not a soul knew. Jules wasn't even born yet. Was this her fertile imagination? Was this a cruel dream?

She closed her eyes and reopened them again as if to reboot reality. Jules.

She looked questioningly at Jules. The movie ended.

***

"Whoa, Seb! I didn't expect this."

"Me too."

"You're a high-brow film buff. What do you make of it?"

Seb sagefully, "The Frenchies are adept at leaving us hanging there. Something deliciously repulsive in the balance. A semi untied knot here. An unresolved longing there. A touch of ennui. That sort of charmingly annoying thing. The French make art sport of us sombre Anglos, and chuckle at us."

"Hmmm... yes. They play on our Anglo psyche. We're binary-minded, first past the post, win/lose. They, a continuum. We, material, objective, analytical, unity, singularity, the Theory of Everything. They relish abstraction, diversity, complexity, emotion. Hence, Analytic Philosophy versus Continental Philosophy."

"On movies. We're an entertainment-seeking people, which is not necessarily the same as pleasure-seeking. Europeans are the true pleasure seekers."

"I'm not a particular fan of Margaret Thatcher. But, here's what the old girl said about Europe which kind of resonates with what we have just discussed. I think we over-romanticise the abstraction of Europe."

"Maggie said: Europe in anything other than the geographical sense is a wholly artificial construct. It makes no sense at all to lump together Beethoven and Debussy, Voltaire and Burke, Vermeer and Picasso, Notre Dame and St. Paul's, boiled beef and bouillabaisse, and portray them as elements of a European musical, philosophical, artistic, architectural or gastronomic reality. If Europe charms us, as it has so often charmed me, it is precisely because of its contrasts and contradictions, not its coherence and continuity."

Seb gets up to get more European wine. I can't help but notice his state. While not erect, it is engorged and thick. His foreskin has crept back some to reveal at least half his head. What were we discussing? Oh yes, pleasure.

He returns with the wine. He sits next to me, cross-legged. His engorged cock prominent.

"So Mr Film Connoisseur, pray tell, what is your take on the unresolved movie ending?"

"As in, if assuming Marie wasn't hallucinating or dreaming, how did Jules know?"

"Yes. What's your theory?"

"Who else knew besides Marie?"

"No one."

"Not true. Think harder. Think wider."

"The rapist?"

"Yes!"

"How would that link to Jules?"

"Let's let our imagination take flight a little."

Continuing, "After the rape, the rapist monitored Marie's life. He knew who Marie was, so this wasn't difficult to do."

"Some years before Jules was 25 years old, the age that Marie was raped, he deviously cultivated Jules on the internet, anonymously, without disclosing his identity. The rapist presented himself as an erotica writer. He won Jules's trust over time with his charm. Bit by bit, he nudged Jules in the taboo erotic direction. This moved Jules to be closer to his mum, animating his fantasies."

"The rapist deviously planted a compelling erotic story in Jules's mind. The story described a highly charged rape-like scene. Jules was enthralled by the scene, particularly the mash of tender and savage action, that drove the woman to the edge."

"With the appropriate nudge and trigger from the rapist, Jules acted out the scene."

"Yes, plausible. You've quite an imagination."

"Your turn, mum. What do you think of the lovemaking scene?"

"Lovemaking? It was rape!"

"OK. Forget the rapist. What do you think of the son dry humping his mum, then subsequently entering her?"

I start laughing. I look at Seb's face. I laugh harder. Infected, he starts laughing too. We are both laughing hard. No doubt, the alcohol has a hand in shaping our hilarity. After we pipe down some, he asks me what is so funny.

Suppressing further mirth, "Do you find it hilarious, us discussing in earnest, like a pair of high-brow film critics seated on a TV channel studio sofa, on the son character dry humping his mum, while I'm sitting here next to my naked son?"

I playfully pat his cock. It twitches.

We erupt again at the absurdity of the situation.

"But seriously, mum, what do you think of Jules dry humping his mum?"

"Hmmm... what do I think of a son dry humping his mum? What am I supposed to think? Is this a trick question?"

A pause.

I lower to a conspiratorial tone even though there is only Seb with me, "I don't know if I should say this... But seriously, if Jules desired intimacy with his mum short of actual incest, that would be a nice way to achieve a sort of gratification. A very tenuous line though."

The minute the words come out of my mouth, I feel my face go hot with shame. It's a bad day for morality. It's taking a beating.

A pause.

"Now, fair's fair. Your turn. What do you think?"

Seb does not reply.

I slip a playful motherly hand around his hard cock as if milking a reply out of him. This surprises him a little. But, he still says nothing.

A pearly drop of excitement emerges. His sac tightens up. I must say I enjoy teasing apart the man from the son. But, I'd better stop.

"Hmmm... it looks like we are in agreement," I hear my voice say.

It is said that human beings have three lives. Public, private, secret. This is the moment my third life began.

***

We stay up awhile longer. Finally, I tell Seb that it has been a long day and I am tired and need to get my beauty sleep. He leans over, touches my left cheek, kisses me gently on the lips. He whispers goodnight, softer than necessary.

I stand up. My legs are weak. They don't feel like legs at all.

I fall asleep quickly. I dream of a clock without hands. But, ticking in earnest. Is this considered time then?

Seb and I are swigging out of a wine bottle, eating cheese and a baguette. I'm finally in France with Seb, I think, and it makes me smile to myself. I resolve to get delightfully drunk and run into a wall. He tips the bottle, takes a sip, passes it to me. It's like our souls are talking, having a conversation of their own, oblivious to us.

"I'm in love. I've never felt like this before. This is it."

"How do you know?"

"I just know. I'm a mum. I know things."

"How?"

"My toes. They tell me. They know. See... they are permanently curled."

***

Chapter 5

Next Morning

The next morning, I again wake up early. I look toward Seb to see if he is still sleeping. He is, and uncovered. A huge morning erection. Foreskin rolled way back exposing his swollen head.

Because it was late when we went to bed, I slept almost nude wearing only my G-string.

Getting up quietly, I go to the bathroom to pee. When I return, Seb is sitting on the edge of his bed. He sees me standing naked except for my G-string, which barely covers me there.

I watch open-mouthed as Seb stands up and walks to the bathroom, not bothering to cover or hide his huge thick erection.

Before I have a chance to make myself decent, he emerges from the bathroom. His penis, now soft, but still very engorged. I make a feeble attempt to cover my breasts. Only the second male ever, privileged to see my top.

Coaxing, "Oh mum, why bother. Come on. Enjoy yourself. See how great it feels to be naked. But then, you know this already. You're the nudist. Whereas I'm just the one carelessly without clothes."

"Well, OK. I suppose it just doesn't make sense that me the supposed nudist is clothed, and you're not."

I still have my G-string on. I am covered there. Well, yes and no. I've been slack in my hirsute maintenance. I've the classic thicker-in-the-middle, then, thinning, fading to the edges pubic hair. Goes well with high-cut gusset designs. But right now, renegade wisps are peeking out of the edges.

So what if my breasts, arse and pubic wisps are exposed. He is my son. He knows I'm a practising nudist. There is no reason to feel embarrassed nor inhibited.

We go into the kitchen to brew coffee. Seb hugs me from behind. I can feel his engorged cock slip in between my arse crack. His pubic hair grazing my cheeks. His arms push against the bottom of my breasts, lifting them a little, as he hugs me. I sense it. Something is going to happen soon that will change everything after it.

At the patio, we drink our coffee. We spend the morning naked talking. Well, not quite. I keep my G-string on. But I feel wicked. My nipples are hard and erect the whole time.

We listen to Mahler. I glance over at Seb. I see on his creased face an expression of rapture. Eyes closed. Breath stilled. He appears elevated to a higher realm, spirit soaring. Yearnings made sublime. I have no doubt in some meaningful sense Seb has left the patio.

Noon. I fix a salad. We sit in the living room to eat.

***

"Mum, another movie?"

"Title?"

"Amore a cavallo"

"Ooo, continental. I like the sound of it already. What's it mean? Love... something?"

"Love On A Horse"

"An erotic film?"

"Err... yes."

"What? Is this some kind of howling and growling, flailing and wailing bestial menagerie sexual barbarism?"

"Mum, my moral conscience has not deserted me. Not just yet. My moral fibres remain stout. You will like this film. I hand-curated it just for you. The Aegean. Idyllic Greek island. Hippie era languid charm. Love triangle. High passion. Culminating in theatric Latin tumult."

***

A 1973 Greek production by Vangelis Serdaris.

Love On A Horse.

A painter lives by the sea in a beautiful Greek island with his younger wife, his muse. Of late, he is running perilously low on inspiration.

Their hippie son motorbikes in, guitar in tow, to visit. He is fascinated by the many nudes of his mother in his father's studio. This detail does not escape his discerning mother.

Son and mother develop a relationship. The tension builds. Beach frolics. Lolling in the vineyard. Stealthy nocturnal adventures.

The painter spies on them. Strangely, his inspiration seems to be returning.

He sees, or thinks he sees, his wife and son riding on his wife's white stallion. Son seated back. Mother in front, sitting on her son, as she gallops the horse. They are flailing in ecstasy riding through the wind.

The painter locks himself in his room. He is moved to paint an imaginary picture on canvas with the two lovers on horseback. He hides his work.

When the mother and son discover his new work, they suspect that he is spying on them.

The mother and son lovers decide to leave. It gets combustive when the painter lays down his paintbrush and picks up his shotgun.

***

I am sitting back on the sofa with Seb's head resting on my on lower stomach just above my mound. I cannot help but notice his penis grow and thicken as we watch the movie. My pussy getting wet and puffy as I watch him. Every once in a while he inhales deeply, greedily, like a diver coming up for air.