Nudist Mum Visits Son

***

Chapter 7

Ring, Ring

A little distraction, "Seb, I've a gift for you too."

Visibly surprised, "You do?"

"You see, on the day I arrived, on my way to your apartment, I saw an Ann Summers store. Just for a lark, I sauntered in for an educational tour, since I was early and had a little time to kill. I ended up getting you a little something. Just for fun."

"Oh?"

Sheepishly, "I had, on devilish impulse, decided to get you a cock ring. Well, here it is."

"A cock ring?"

"This one is made of pliant rubber for added comfort."

"Very thoughtful of you, mum. How does it work?"

"At the store, I asked the sales assistant the instructions. Would you like me to help you?"

"OK"

"Let's try it on your penis first. There's a second step to it. We'll try that later."

I help to fit the ring on my son amid my musical giggles and Miss Piggy squeals. It is a bit of a struggle to fit as he is stiffening as we do it.

"There, we've done it! How do you feel?"

"A tensioned pleasant agony. Like I'm aching to pee but I can't."

"Let me check that everything is in order. Fun as this may seem to be, there is a safety element to it. People have died doing it wrong."

"Mum, you're spooking me."

I check him out diligently. He has deflated some after I told him about the safety consideration. Which is exactly right for our next step.

"You're good! Now, the second step..."

Visibly intrigued, "What might that be?"

"You see, this ring is actually two interconnected rings. We've fitted you through the cock ring. The other ring encircles your testicles. There is an interplay of tension around your cock base and around your testicles."

"Oh?"

"I notice your cock has eased up a bit. This makes it easier to slip the ring around your testicles."

A pause. An anxious look on Seb's face. We struggle a little with the fitout.

"The shop assistant advised to start the fitout when the person is soft. Then, it works its tensioning magic as he gets harder."

A pause.

"But, you've stiffened since again."

"Mum, I can't help it. Looking at your naked body, and then your touching me, helping me with the fitout, is too much for me. Sensual overload."

"I've an idea. I'll blindfold you to shutout one of your senses. You can't see me. I'll fit you out. When you're fitted properly at both places, I'll remove your blindfold. You can then look at me, and that may help you grow into the rings, to relish the tension."

"OK mum. There is an airline-type eye-shade in my bedside drawer. Can you get it?"

"OK"

I go to the bedside drawer. I don't see any eye-shade.

I lift up a book, a novel titled "Mothersome". What an unusual title. Mothersome as in wholesome, fulsome, awesome and so on? Or, as in lonesome, twosome, threesome? I wonder what it is about.

Beneath it is a bible, presumably the bedside bible. King James Version, no less. Beautiful, ornate, cushiony-soft, feel-good leather-bound. Does he use it as a pillow sometimes, to make for a better sleep? I'm surprised he has one at all, let alone at his bedside. I don't have one, be it bedside or anywhere. The eye-shade is beneath it.

"Here. Put it on."

"I'll go to the kitchen to freshen our pot of tea. Why don't you take this time to chill, simmer down some, so that you can be ready when I return."

Seb puts on the eye-shade. See no evil.

I'm about to beetle to the kitchen. But, a strange impulse compels me to stay quietly and watch my naked son without his awareness. His cock is still through the cock ring, but not his testicles. Now, why do I desire to watch him. Maybe there is a particular thrill in studying him properly without him looking at me? It is one thing to want to watch him get and stay hard. But, why want to watch him turn flaccid?

Indeed, he is beginning to flag. Is it really so easy to turn on and off our senses just like that? And I am aroused by his change of state. My finger is rubbing my lips. Why is that? I think I'll psychoanalyse myself later.

I make some noise as if I've just returned.

"There, looks like you're ready to complete the fitout."

I complete fitting the remaining ring on his testicles. I do this quickly with minimal flesh contact, to avoid arousing Seb. Otherwise, we'll be back to square one. Or, more aptly, ring one.

"Seb, you're now properly fitted. I'm removing your blindfold. How do you feel?"

"Good. And a welling expectant sense that it'll get even better."

"It's working..."

Seb stiffens a notch.

"Mum, can you help heighten my visual stimulation a bit."

"Huh? Heighten? Aren't you... looking... at me... already?"

"A little more variation and detail?"

"Detail?"

A pause.

"I don't know. This is awkward..."

"Pose for me..."

"Oh?"

"Mum, you were a ballerina and gymnast when you were young. I know you do yoga nowadays. Can you do a couple of positions?"

"What?"

"I just thought if you do things familiar to your routine, it will be easier on you."

"Start with, what do you call it, arabesque?"

"Hmmm... I'm not so sure about this."

It has been years since I did this. I position on one leg. My other leg raised ninety degrees behind my body, extended in a straight line. My pussy is clearly exposed. Oh dear, I'm stretching quite a bit. Can he see my pink? Does this look lewd? But, lewd and ballet don't go together, right?

I hold the arabesque longer than I should.

"I'll execute a pirouette now. I'm sure you know what that is."

I rotate, a complete turn of my body on one foot, en pointe, that is, on tippy toe. Seb sees my pussy all round. Like a child watching a twirling ballerina figurine on a wind-up music machine in wonder.

"Oh mum, this is good!"

Smirking, "My ballet is good, or you're good?"

He doesn't answer. I look at him. He encircles his girth at his base with his thumb and forefinger over the cock ring, as if he is informing me something pertinent about the chain of cause and effect, gazing at me longingly. I can only give a tiny nod, like a contented cat, as if this is great collaborative teamwork, and we did it. The whole thing is too sensual for words.

Straining now. I can see the tension. The rings are painfully taut. He is indeed good.

"Mum, you've a nice behind..."

"Is this an observation or a request?"

He doesn't answer.

I lie on the floor facing down. I raise my head and shoulders. I prop myself up just enough. He can see my breasts, though my nipples are hidden, pressed against the floor. I suppose it is a sexy teasing view.

Gasping, "Oh, mum, this is so sensual! So erotic. Can I go round to look at you?"

I nod weakly.

He goes around checking me out. I close my eyes, letting him know that I am doing that. Perversely, I am giving him quality privacy to violate my privacy. Let him rove and range my secrets.

I don't know how long I stayed in this position. Time stopped. It is an utterly strange primal emotion. My son is studying a new breed of mother cat with scholarly anthropological interest. He is indeed a bum man.

After what seems like the longest time, my eyes still closed, I feel a little tired. I lower my bosom to the carpet, lying flat, my front totally obscured.

I slowly cross my legs, intersecting at my ankles. Coy. Coquettish. I don't know how long I am locked in this position. My eyes remain blissfully closed.

Can he see past my butt cheeks? Is my thatch showing? If it shows, is it adequate to obscure my lips? Are my lips engorged? I am deeply aroused.

I feel an emerging, welling moistness. The kind of prescient feeling you experience just before it rains full pelt. Oh dear, will it show? Would my pubes glisten? I hope it won't come to dribble. What will my son think of the mummy fluid? Maybe if he has his way, he will save it in tiny glass ampoules, stow them away in an unmarked shoebox deep in his cupboard, to relish it again, at his pleasure, in installments.

I decide to tighten up a bit. I move to cross my right thigh over my left thigh. My legs intersect at the back of my knees. This has to be the most prominent pear shape a woman can muster, barring circus contortionists.

I clench my buttocks. More compact now. This must have perked up my butt cheeks into pressed buns.

A gasp.

I relax, then clench my butt cheeks.

Relax, clench.

Relax, clench.

Relax, clench.

I relish the straining visceral tension in my body even though it is a little uncomfortable.

Again, I am unmoored from spacetime. I wonder what my son might be doing? There is a certain devilish charm in not knowing, not caring to know.

Perhaps he is surveying the curve of my hips? Perhaps he is studying my pressed butt orbs? I have been gaining a little weight in my backside of late. I hope he finds them still appealing. Maybe the extra weight might have added a little sensual sway mass to my mature tail?

Can he see any tuft peeking from my butt crack? I should really do regular hirsute maintenance like most women. But, how am I to know that I would be posturing like this for my son's private visual stimulation to test-drive an intimate gift I bought for him on impulse?

And horror of horrors, I hope my posture doesn't reveal my puckered oily o-ring? That will be vulgar and unmotherly. No, that can't be. My cheeks are clenched. But, at an angle, and all perked up like an offering. What sort of rump perspective will that present? Oh, what a worrywart I am!

Perhaps he likes the muscle lines of my toned thighs? And lower, the arc of my calves? Will he discern the faint shading of mole dots on the back of my right thigh as an alluring feature or as unlovely blemish?

Perhaps he likes my turn of ankles? I instinctively point my toes. A sort of strained ballet en pointe.

Is that my feverish imagination, or is it a stifled click of a cell phone?

Oh my god! Should I stop him? But, I don't know for sure. Maybe he is attending to an urgent cell phone message from work?

If he is indeed photographing me, will it matter, since my face is obscured by the floor?

Maybe it is more than still life? Maybe he is orbiting me like a silent spy drone, hovering high and low, videoing the finer texture and nuances of his mother's geographical features? Oh my god, he would have recorded my rhythmic arse clenching movements!

All this is quite erotic. Seen, but not really. If my son finds his mummy appealing enough to immortalise her in pixels for posterity, shouldn't I, a mature late fifties woman, be feeling good, if not be rejoicing mutedly?

I am more relaxed now. Almost becalmed in spite of the palpable taut erotic tension.

After what seems like the longest time, I turn over to my front, as if to complete the picture. I look up.

Seb has cultivated a lovely hardon that is worthy of his cock ring. His cock straining against the ring. His taut testicles pressing against the other ring like explosives strapped to his loins. He has a look of ecstatic excitement and hungry anticipation. It looks like the cock ring is working its magic.

"Mum, you've a lovely derrière. Can I get another perspective? Vertical this time. It brings up new nuances."

"This is the yoga Uttanasana position."

I stand with my back to Seb. I am proud of myself. I am still nimble enough to bend over with my knees still locked, my legs straight. Body bent impossibly low. Right hand grabs left ankle to lockdown pose. Face partially obscured by legs.

Seb looks visibly excited. I wonder how I am presented to him. My butt cheeks at the top of my legs. Maybe the cheeks jiggle a little if I make small movements? And those soft little labia, just barely protruding from below. Can he see my inners? Am I opened up? Can he see my pink? And my dark little butthole?

I have no way of knowing. I can only infer from his face. And he is enthralled, like he is seeing a new perspective of me.

I wait a few seconds more before straightening back up.

"Mum, I'm really feeling good from the cock ring. Can you do just one more pose. A sort of finale. Can it be a little bolder than the earlier ones?"

"Hmmm... You look like you're really close. Quite something, given that this is visual stimulation only."

I raise my right leg to put my foot on the edge of the chair seat, parting my legs, looking down at myself. Seb has a perfect view of the opening to my vagina. He can even see a little pink. I am inviting him to look.

Seb grows harder. He looks like he may lose control.

I slowly and gently sift my fingers through my pubic hair. As I am still talking to Seb, I run my middle finger around my opening, caressing my outer lips, pulling them back a little to open myself. I slide a finger up and down my slit, then touching my clitoris, rubbing my finger back and forth. Feeling myself, without really even thinking about it. My opening is moist. My fingers wet and slippery.

The air around us is steeped in the smell of rain. And of sex.

Seb's cock is leaking, waving back and forth, straining against the ring. He has to hold it with one hand to keep from ejaculating. He must be thinking how erotic and nasty I look, his mum showing herself to him like this. My legs open wide for him to see. Those puffy lips and all that motherly fluid gathering at my opening.

This is a moment of warm intimacy. I must have become a magnet of raw sexual desire.

I sense from Seb's face that a deep warm feeling is welling in his loins, charging to his erection. I think he is very close.

And then, it happens. Semen starts shooting out, hitting me on my stomach and bosom. I freeze. He is convulsing as more spews out, hitting my arm, then thigh. It is a little frightening. Yet exciting.

"Sorry, so sorry, mum."

"Did I do that to you, or you just needed to do that all along?"

He emits a quarter sigh, then, finger-combs my pubic hair, like caring for a small animal of a certain delicate but raw beauty.

Though his cock is now limp and moist, and the rings hang loose, I still can't help but look at it.

I walk to the bathroom to clean myself. My slit is caked shut by my now dried excitement. I am about to clean there, and then suddenly decided, what the hell, I'll leave it be. I wipe up a bit, but leave a little remnant trail on my right thigh running down to my calf. Abnormal pleasures kill the taste for normal ones.

I want to stay feeling a little deviant the rest of the day. Maybe Seb may see this too, and think my thoughts...

***

Chapter 8

Last Night

My last night with Seb. I will be leaving tomorrow.

"Mum, I've to attend to something unforeseen and urgent at the office tonight, from 7pm to 11pm. Can you watch some TV, chill, and I'll join you as soon as I'm done?"

"OK, I think I'll watch a movie, and finish up the chardonnay in the fridge."

"Sorry about this. This is your last night here. I should be with you the whole time."

"Don't worry about it."

"Any particular movie you've in mind to watch?"

"I'm thinking of watching that French movie, La mère, again. That mum, rapist, son erotic mystery thriller drama."

"Why are you so piqued and fascinated by it?"

"We discussed the movie at great length after we watched it the last time. I want to watch it again to parse the movie. Maybe I can discern something new. In particular, I want to parse the mum-rapist and mum-son sequences to see if I can discern any nuanced clues."

"Hmmm... you're really invested in the movie."

"Well, it is an intriguing movie..."

A pause.

I look into Seb's eye, "I like the way fantasy and reality are juxtaposed against each other, to form a new reality. Isn't real life like that?"

Seb's eyes seem to want to say yes. Instead, he philosophises, "Hegel's dialectic. Thesis plus antithesis yields synthesis. Reality plus counter reality gives a new reality."

"But, is this reality plus reality equals fantasy?"

"Hmmm... The rapist-mum sex is reality. As is the mum-son sex. The fantasy is what we make out of it."

"Mum, anything you want from me before I leave the apartment?"

I look at Seb again, smiling lightly, "I'd like to borrow your eye-shade in case I want to get some shuteye after the movie."

"It's in the same drawer you last took it from."

"Bye, mum!"

***

I go to Seb's bedside drawer to get the eye-shade. I have a cursory flip through of the novel, "Mothersome". It is what I secretly anticipated it to be. Oh Seb! Sweet child o' mine.

The evening is getting a little chilly. I have a choice of closing the patio door part way, and stay nude. Or, leaving the patio door open, continuing to enjoy the high view, and wearing some light clothing.

I go to my suitcase. My first instinct is to choose my jogging top and shorts.

I get the bottle of chardonnay from the fridge, and a glass from the cabinet.

I play the movie.

The chardonnay makes me feel like I am melting into nothing.

***

I hear a noise. A thud. I open my eyes. I see nothing. Oh, this is because I must have snoozed off unknowingly in my eye-shade. I can't see anything. No doubt, the chardonnay helped me to that state. I have lost all sense of time and space. Unmoored.

There is someone in the living room. I can sense it.

Before I can react, I am roughly hauled up. I am pushed, then pressed, my back against the wall. I can feel the raw brownstone-styled texture of the wall pressing against my flesh. Heavy male breaths. He grabs my wrists. I think it's a he. Extends my arms out so that I am in the position of a crucifixion. I feel my breasts stick out. I can't see myself. But, I can picture my breasts sticking out lewdly. He pins me down. I am effectively nailed. Curiously, he uses his knees to force my thighs to close tight. For an instant, I feel safe. He is not going to penetrate me.

Then, it hits me. Oh my God! Oh my God! Am I imagining this in my chardonnay stupor? Or is the movie replaying, starring me?

I feel violated. And yet...

Still holding my wrists, he presses his hard cock against my junction of upper thighs and mound.

Stab.

Stab.

Stab.

I whimper.

He presses his tongue hungrily into my mouth as he dry humps me standing up. I instinctively tighten my clenched thighs to stop his advance. But, this only eggs him to piston harder, to breach my seal of thighs. His pace intensifies as if goaded by my resistance. It is as if he is relishing my resistance. Challenging me, maybe even willing me to clench tighter so that he may stab more vigorously. Bizarre. So bizarre.

I feel fatigue creeping up on me. This is carrying on so long now that I begin to read his in/out movement cycle. I loosen my clenched thighs a little each time he pulls out, a fleeting respite, to ease the tension off my sinews. He is perceptive. He senses the slack. He humps harder and faster, as if endeavouring to deny me of that little respite. This cycle goes on for awhile.

Clench, release.

Clench, release.

Clench, release.

Ooo...

Clench, release.

Clench, release.

Clench, release.

Perhaps if this is all he wants to do, under the inconvenient circumstances, I should encourage and entice him to ejaculate strongly, completely spent, dry humping me this way, so that there won't be further penetrative violation of me.

I sense his welling up. I read the signs. I know all too well the male vulnerability that goes with these signs. His hold on my wrists slacken some. His movements are a little erratic now. His breathing, wild.

I loosen my thighs a little to encourage him. Not so loose that he can enter me. Not so tight as to stop him dead. A very delicate balance. Oh my God, am I enjoying this? Oh my God, am I enjoying finding this golden mean?

I feel he is very close... Anytime now... And that will be the end of it all. He will get his fulfillment, even though it is by way of a dry hump, which he seemed to relish going by my blinded senses, then, melt into the night. In turn, I will...