Son Waxes Mum

Continuing the mirth, Cole gets up, poses a little, "What do you think of your work?"

"On ne peut juger la farine que quand le pain est quet."

"One can only judge the flour after the bread is cooked."

"Hmmm..."

Cole arcs a dive into the rockpool. The dolphin thus freed, Julia joins him. He helps her clamber through the waterfall curtain. They enjoy the thundering torrent for awhile. Julia feels at home all over again.

Cole lays on the cave floor partially leaning against the cave wall. He is somewhat surprised when she sits and nestles against him. He feels her back against his chest, but more compellingly, his hard penis against her buttocks. When she moves even closer, pressing herself against him, he feels he is pressed in her cleft. Not knowing what to do with his hand, he places it on her hip. Soon though, she grabs it and pulls it all the way up until it is nestled between two mounds of flesh. When he feels her breasts against his arm, he instinctively rotates his pelvis backwards, which pulls his penis lower between her cheeks.

Closing his eyes, trusting his willpower less and less, "This isn't a good idea."

Nonchalantly, "What? Relaxing like this?"

"Yes"

"Well, it's not so unlike the first time we were here..."

"Hmmm... I've this thingy that sticks out, you know?"

"Yes, I know. And I feel it quite clearly."

"I don't want things to get out of control."

"We'll manage."

"Hmmm..."

Julia has never seen her son this flustered. Not like him.

In a pure and innocent voice, "You mind having yourself between my butt cheeks?"

"Yes. I mean no... It's just that.."

As he speaks, she pulls herself upwards just a bit, trying to hide the fact by pretending to reposition herself for comfort. His penis isn't fooled though, feeling the increased heat from her body.

"Oh..."

"I'm extremely comfy here in your arms. I can move away if you want, but don't worry about me. Your penis doesn't bother me."

He closes his eyes. Wills himself not to move. Eventually, he does relax and enjoy this intense closeness. They are silent for awhile. He is lazily brushing his hand across her neck and down her back. She feels like a pet cat. Her whole body humming. She can't believe there is anything in this uncertain world that can feel this right, real and true.

His face is buried against her nape. Her hair all over him. He breathes her clean scent. Everytime she moves, he feels a surge of blood coursing.

They sit and lean languidly against the cave wall watching the waterfall like a movie with its volume turned down way low to hum. A silence winds itself around them, and binds them. They look around, then, at each other, realising at the same moment that in their second time in this cave, they are now recommitted to one another at yet another strange level.

He looks at her pensively, "Do you believe in reincarnation?"

"It seems like alot of people are talking about past lives and all that. And even if you don't believe in that in a specific way, most people have a notion of an external soul, right?"

"Yes..."

Julia can't thinking a bit about her late brother, Carl, then continuing, "Anyway, my thought is, if we all have our origins at the beginning of human history in some way, where do all the current souls, including yours and mine, come from? The earth's population 50,000 years ago was not even a million people. 10,000 years ago, it was only a few million. Today, 8 billion. That's more than 8,000 to 1 split of each original soul in just the last 5,000 years. A blip in earth's time."

Cole surmising, "So at best, we're just a tiny fraction of a soul."

"Yes!"

"Is that why we feel so scattered?"

The low slow lull of his voice is soothing. Julia doesn't answer. She moves in another direction, "How've you been managing since Antônia passed away?"

"Most days, it's like a sad melody with happy lyrics. Some days, happy melody, sad lyrics."

A deep pause.

Cole continues, "Antônia never did leave. There was no Antônia."

"Huh?"

"It's complicated..."

"How so?"

He casts a moist sentimental eye toward his mother as he reimagines time, struggling, "Antônia..."

He looks at her a little nervously and can't say it. She is minutely sensitive to the turbulent emotional detail. She is truly intrigued and a little excited at what he is struggling with. Finally, she places her finger to his lips. He appears relieved. Now, their souls are talking, having a conversation of their own, oblivious to them.

Julia thinks of Virginia Woolf's "The Waves". I am not one person. I am many people.

They enjoy the ensuing comfortable silence.

Eventually, she gets up and looks at him with another unreadable expression on her face. She looks somewhat sadder despite her smile, but he can't understand. The thought that she is inviting him to her maternal charms never even crosses his mind.

"I'm going to the waterfall curtain to let the falling water massage my neck and head."

Taking a deep breath, Julia crawls toward the thundering waterfall curtain.

He watches his mother slink away from him. She radiates a natural sensuality, a deep, heated, milky kind of sexuality. Her marching buttocks quivering.

She kneels down, a few feet in front of him, facing the falling water, in a sort of worshipful position, in deference to the rumbling water god before her.

There is the shadowy noir world behind this waterfall curtain. There is the sunlit world beyond it. It is like one of those sci-fi movies where the heroine is just about to transcend worlds.

She goes down on all fours, then sticks her head under the falling water. At the first pummel of water, she nearly slips from the force. She steadies herself. Her sinews tighten and lock down.

The thunder of water feels heavenly on her. Violent and calm all at once. She moves her torso a bit to let the water fall over her head, then neck, head again, in a kind of soothing massage cycle.

All the barriers are down. She is nothing but a feeling animal. She wonders what Cole might be seeing. It must be a strange view. Even surreal. She wants him to know all the inside things about her.

She thinks of those outrageously fantastical Japanese animes that teen Cole used to obsess over. His naked dowager matriarch in doggy glory, her head mysteriously hidden by water, her fully fleshed torso in some kind of motion pattern. Outlandish, exaggerated butt orbs. Scandalous flaring hips. Impossibly perfect pear shape that no pear in the orchard can match. Oh, the imagery! She instinctively gyrates a little more vigorously.

Something is unfurling inside. She feels a rush of something, everything, panic, pride, guilt, nausea. It is so strong. She believes that giving intimacy to someone is like giving someone a piece of her soul. She has to open herself up to giving the person a piece of herself. A part of her mind. And a bit of her body. It is a personal gift. It's something that shouldn't be taken lightly.

She is overthinking. She shakes her head and returns to herself. She has to secure her footing on the cave floor. She feels the texture of the cave floor on her knees.

Cole watches his mother like a son possessed. Loose wild strands of hair on her cheeks. Her buttocks are offered to him on a silver platter. She is open. He sees her pink. A luminous pink. In the dim lit cave, like a fiery ruby stone treasure. A pure, vibrant red to slightly purplish red colour.

He stands up and stares at her. Is she doing this on purpose? What is her purpose? He doesn't know. But, he doesn't care. As he crawls toward her, he spits a wad of saliva onto his head and coats his shaft. An anime warrior applying war paint before going into battle.

He kneels behind her. Guides his penis against her. Pushes in. If she screams, he will happily go to hell. He has endured all the teasing a son can.

She doesn't scream. She moans in sheer pleasure. He feels that she is letting her legs go limp as if inviting him to go farther. He feels his length penetrate her until he can't go deeper. His saliva and her juices lubricating their engagement.

She cries out loudly, only to be muffled by the falling water as she rolls her head. She pushes back against him. She gets lost in the stampeding passion.

They are both drenched. Both slightly cold. Neither of them cares. Cold on the outside, hot on the inside. Yin and yang. Yin is negative, dark, feminine. Yang positive, bright, masculine. Their interaction is thought to maintain the harmony of the universe and to influence everything within it.

Looking down, he sees his penis arcing a little, penetrating her curvy buttock. Spreading her open.

She turns her head around, half out of the water, uncharacteristic lust glowing in her unmotherly eyes, "Take me."

The minute the words came out of her mouth, she feels her face go hot with shame. What is it about this situation, her son, this moment, that has forced the words to erupt from her like that? She grimaces inwardly at herself, her impulsiveness. She feels oddly aware of her back of her head, as though someone was staring at it.

Those words. The need in her voice sends a shudder right through him. So absolute.

Leaning forward, he places his hand on her nape and pushes her down, forcing her buttocks upwards even more. He then grabs a fistful of her long hair in his hand, lifts one of his knees up to get better leverage.

He begins mauling her with his penis. Holding her hip with his free hand, he pushes and pulls in sync with his thrusts. He has never been rough. It's just not him. But now, he finds that he has to restrain himself, or risk injuring his mother. He can see the flesh of her buttocks quivering every time he pounds her.

She is moaning in ecstasy. She feels like a log is inside her. Her juices are beginning to make a real swamp of her pussy. Her voice staccatoed by his every powerful thrusts. He hears her voice bellowing moans and cries that are punctuated by his penis driving into her.

Both his knees are on the ground once more. He reaches down and grabs both her arms, just above the elbows. This time, he is pulling her hard against him with each thrust, holding her in the air at just the right angle. Something memorable he has seen in a porn movie once, as he has never, ever done anything like this. His eyes are wide open. His mouth grunting raw, low pitched moans. He is dominating her, and relishing the experience.

When he hears her moans turning into cries of climax, his own orgasm triggers and shakes him to his core. All the breath races out of his body.

She sees a rising cloud of butterflies of every hue. She sees their spread of wings as they bask in the sun. Now, the butterflies line up and take flight with excitement.

The thought of pulling out doesn't even cross his mind. Instead, he feels like his entire being is gushing out of him to fill her. Everything is already wet, but he is sure he can feel his sperm being driven out by his undiminished pounding. He is grunting and shouting, his head thrown back and his mouth wide open, experiencing the most intense climax of his life.

It is said that only a body can truly know another body. They summon the joy out of their effort.

He finally crumbles on her, before rolling off and onto the wet cave floor.

Flat on her back, she looks up pensively at the ceiling half expecting to discover some ancient cave art drawing that will make her famous.

A drop of water chose to break tension and fall exactly that moment right onto her right eye. It stings and refreshes her all at once in the way an eye wash does. It suddenly hits her that after a linear life of the straight and narrow, she has just fucked her son, thus committing incest, and cheated on her husband. It's a bad day for morality. It's taking a beating.

She reorders her emotions. Mulls matters for a long while. The Big Questions on her nook of the universe. What does she want to do?

She wants to be a singer in the park. A violinist in the piazza. A dancer on a hilltop. A surfer philosopher. Pirouette till she falls over, then, writhe a floor dance till her dress is rag. Sing in her sleep. Eat petals off flowers. Run into the rain instead of out of it. Plant a tree. Take in smells of garlic and oil and wine from side-street kitchens. There is something both heroic and hopeless about these.

She remembers a concert she attended. The way the soloist was playing the clarinet, it was like turning air into colours. As the great Charlie Parker said, "If you don't live it, it can't come out of your instrument."

Next to him, she rises up on her elbows. A ruminative but wicked grin on her face.

"Thank you. I haven't felt like that in a very long time. That was intense. You've no idea how badly I needed to be taken. I can still feel my pussy rearranging itself. Still pulsing with your rhythm."

Then, she leans forward and bites his chest for no particular reason. Hard. He bleeds a little. But, he feels no pain. Passion. Passio. The passion of Christ. Suffering. Enduring. It all comes together.

In the glow of aftermath, she grabs the back of his head, entangles her fingers in his hair, and presses his head to her. She grinds her loins brutally against his face. Will she pulp his handsome face? Groaning helplessly, her head begins to flail from side to side. God! It is happening! All of it is happening to her. Her salty, earthy juices flow into his nostrils and mouth, and over his face. She tastes of overripe raw onion, a taste that goes straight to his groin.

Her naked pink is so close to his nose. He breathes in her strong womanly air. He wishes he can bottle a little of that excitement to stow away in an unlabeled shoebox in the attic.

They retire to the back of the cave. She nestles in his warmth. He can feel the curve of her left breast against his arm.

She peers at him, "You know, you're really handsome. Your dad and I thought of selling you when you were six years old if the price was right."

Chuckle. He shakes his head in a sort of mild amusement. His hair falls too adorably into his eyes.

Nothing has made her feel the way she does right now. Like she has a window in her chest where the sunlight is pouring in.

In a pensive virginal tone, "I'm in love. I've never felt like this before. This is it."

"How do you know?"

"I just know."

"How?"

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

She imagines loving him would feel like falling in love with darkness. Frightening and consuming. Yet utterly beautiful when the stars come out.

They drift to sleep. In the dimness of the cave, it is easy to fall asleep.

***

Their eyes flicker open simultaneously. The sun has found its way into the cave.

"Dream?"

"How did you know?"

"You sang you in your sleep."

"Oh!"

"What was it like?"

Closing her eyes, reimagining, "It's hard to explain. It's like swimming. But, not in water. In light."

He kisses her gently on the lips, lingering a little at the far edge, drawing the sleep from her face.

***

They lay apart, studying each other's naked bodies. Art and sex coming together. He telling her what gorgeous Rubenesque curves she has.

"Your contours speak a kind of poetry. Mum, you're way too sexy for your own good."

Making a face that expresses a combination of nerves, amusement and thrill, "You're too invested in your mother."

His eyes roving, "Can't help it. We're in a cave. I'm male. A hunter-gatherer all over again. Bloodthirsty, craving for a decent cut of meat. Males never lose this instinct."

"Hmmm..."

He reaches out and closes his hand on her left breast. He strokes it as if it is a small animal in his hand. It sure feels good. Like slipping into cool river water.

Beauty. Beauty and pleasure. Is she beautiful because she gives him pleasure? Or, does pleasure follow from the insight that she is beautiful? Is beauty pleasure objectified?

She tells him what gorgeous sculpted meat he has. A Rodin.

"You've the loveliest thing I've ever seen. To think of anything else is a waste. I want to fix it in my memory."

"Hmmm..."

"Isn't it just the loveliest thing ever?"

"You're way too invested in your son."

"Mothers invest in their sons from the minute they're born."

They begin to explore each other's bodies.

She is sixty. She wonders whether she looks as sexy as she feels.

***

He bends over, touching her femininity with such passionate attention, she almost feels shy and embarrassed, like she should look away. But, she can't. She is full on gawking. At herself.

Now, he reaches down and with two fingers draws her flesh back exposing an erect clitoris, pushing out from under the tender hood that keeps it safe.

Julia sensing, "Can you see me?"

The question gives Cole a charge. Me? As if her entire being is abstracted into a singular nub of female essence.

He sees her. It is small. Not easy to see. But, it is right there.

Adoringly, "Oh my god, yes! A thing of beauty is a joy forever."

She gazes back at him through glazed eyes. She supposes that he expects her to say something in return to what he meant as a compliment. But, what is she supposed to say to a son who is way too interested in his mother's details?

He gazes at her again as if awaiting her response. She smiles enigmatically at him like she is inducting him to some secret society.

He touches his finger to the round pink. He quickly draws his finger back. Ahhh, sensitive!

He leans in closer. He gets a good look of her. His mother exposing herself to him like this, and encouraging him to look at her, study her, contemplate her. A bit unreal. It is not what sons do to mothers.

Her vagina is appealing in a way that is more than sexual. Its curve and shape and colour is beautiful. Like a flower. But, at the same time, he is aroused. It is his mother's vagina.

Now, he spreads her lips apart with his fingers. His eyes are glued to the pink gash. It is very arousing to see his mother this way.

This is really weird. Suddenly, he remembers his high school anatomy lesson by Mrs Pinky Flores. People use the terms vulva and vagina interchangeably. But, vulva is the proper name for the exterior. The vagina is only the interior part. He can see from the light reflecting off it that it is a little wet.

She surprises him, "Most women my age get drier, especially around menopause. Dryness can make sex uncomfortable. I'm fortunate. I stay fairly wet down there. That's not a problem for me."

This personal detail gives him a tingle.

Now, he sees her urethral opening. Where pee comes out. Alot of men seem to find it a mystery where a woman's pee comes from. But there is no mystery to it for his mother. Here it is. He touches the opening lightly as if to tell himself this is it.

He peels her vagina open still farther. He looks deep inside her. Where he emerged from years ago. He looks at her for the longest time. How long, he doesn't know. He loses track of time.

Bright pink gives way to a dusky rose, that fades away into shadow. He can't tear his eyes away.

Julia is wondering what is happening. While it is arousing, it is also a little tiring keeping her legs open for so long. It is not like Cole has never seen a woman. He is in his twenties, and was married to a hot Brazilian babe. Is he satisfying his scientific curiosity on what a woman looks like biologically? Kind of late in the academic curriculum to be doing this so earnestly. But, she is willing to let him look as long as he wants. A strange feeling. A mother letting her son look at her this way.

When he breaks his gaze, and looks up at her face, he notices that she is staring at his penis, which remains as hard and straight as ever. This gives him a twitch. She notices him noticing her. She looks instinctively away. Did she look embarrassed? He must think so.