Son Waxes Mum

She closes her legs. The intimate theatre ends.

"How do you feel?"

"I feel I know less about your body than when I started."

"Hmmm... you do have a good caveside manner."

***

"I'm next."

"What?"

"Anatomy 101"

She runs her fingernails experimentally up and down his penis slowly, softly. Her first touch. Then again. On one side. Then the other. She traces an imaginary axis line up to his bulbous head.

"You're pleasing to the eye."

She examines him closely. Bends down to look. Touches him. Nurses him with a motherly devotion not seen since he was ten.

"This is so hard."

She squeezes him a little. Strokes him. Feeling all around.

"I love the way your skin stretches as you grow. The way your head gets bigger and bigger. Those first little drops of excitement. And the way your balls tighten up."

She cups them like treasured objects with one hand.

"Then, they loosen again, hanging down and swinging. Then tightening up."

She deftly uses a finger to move them back and forth, fondling them, just slightly swinging them as if they are bells. All in slo-mo. No hurry.

She grasps him with her whole hand. Holds it. Feels its thickness and hardness. Takes its measure. Squeezes it ever so slightly every few seconds. Her heart thuds as her cheeks flush.

She driving him closer to the edge. But, she just getting a sense of his physicality.

With her thumb and index finger, she encircles him. Grabs it right below his head, determining its circumference.

"Marvelous. A work of art. Sculpture. Visual art."

"You're making fun of me."

"No. No. It is so beautiful. A life all its own. You can will it, and yet, it has a stubborn persistent will force of its own. Kind of like our free will. We have it for all intents and purposes, and yet, do we really? It is so you, and yet, not you. Spasming. Swaying. A poetic beast. It takes my breath away to watch how fabulous your body is."

She touches his tip with her index finger, teasing more drops to seep out. She rolls her finger in the liquid. Lightly spreads the moistness over his head. Coating it. She leans over for a closer look.

He loves watching her breasts with her every move. Her undulating arcs. Her nipples. Hard and pointed. Like his penis, they too seem to have a life of their own.

She holds his erection straight up, at a ninety degree angle to his stomach. She is beside herself. She wraps her fingers around it. She begins stroking. Then, slowly pumping up and down. He is slippery from his own fluids, and is in such a state. She bends over closer, her face hovering above the head of his penis. A saliva drop. Her finger smooths her saliva around his head. Not that he needs extra lubrication. She is just having fun.

She pumps more. Up and down. Then, with her hand firmly at his base, she holds it there, strangles it a little. His shaft sticks straight up, like some spire. His penis wavers a little, leaks even more, the drops dribbling down. This will not take long. More pumping. His body jerks. He groans. She freezes. She stares at it. He spurts, straight up. Then, a second, even higher, falling down and landing on her knee. One or two more follow, falling back on her hand. He stops at last.

A wave of unease sweeps over her. It is not supposed to be like this. They are supposed to just study each other's bodies.

They fall into a light snooze.

***

He rises. He wants to be inside her. She wants him there with a desperation. A few moments later, his penis is nudging her lips, then edging slowly inside.

Whimpering hoarsely, "Cowgirl"

"Mum, you sure are a sexy cougar."

"Cowgirl"

"Oh!"

She raises her buttocks over him. Positions his shaft at her entrance. Without any preliminaries, she drops her hips suddenly. Thud. She moans aloud as his huge shaft sears the edges of her petals, then impales her deliciously. She takes great pleasure in consuming food she has grown herself. He groans and lifts his hips, forcing himself deeper up inside her.

"So good! You feel so much tighter this way!"

She starts rotating her buttocks in response to the urgent up-and-down movements of his muscular young hips.

He is moving even as she is moving. Einstein demonstrated that relativity is at the very core of the way the universe works. All motion is relative to some particular frame of reference. It all depends on where one is looking from. It's all relative. And they are relatives.

His penis feels like a steel bar inside her. Every time she sinks down over him, it fills her completely. He is right. In this position, his shaft feels so much longer and thicker.

She begins to bounce up and down, lost in the ecstasy of riding him.

She remembers what her violin teacher told her. Play the music, not the instrument. Let the instrument play you. She always imagined the music trapped inside her violin, not trapped inside of her.

"I wish I can squeeze your breasts and buttocks" he groans.

She wishes he can too. It will be such a turn on for her if he can reach up and fondle her jiggling breasts. She pictures him pulling her down onto his bucking penis by her breasts. God, that would feel good!

She leans forward a bit so that her breasts dangle over his face. He takes the hint. He begins sucking and licking her erect nipples as she rides him, nibbling and biting on them. Her nipples, they can cut glass. She feels another wonderful orgasm begin to well in her loins.

He is pounding his hips at her as hard as he can. His shaft is stimulating her clitoris into a powerful orgasm. Pushing her closer and closer with every thrust. She is close. Very. Close.

She continues to impale his formidable shaft. The true measure of a man is how he treats the women folk in his family. And right now, her son is measuring up well.

"Do you like this?" she asks.

"Yes"

Proving his point, she drops her arse violently down against his hardness, completely enveloping him.

She squeezes and relaxes rhythmically on her son. He relishes the maddening tension. Clench, release. Clench, release. Clench, release. A curious vaginal masturbation.

She clenches his shaft yet again, teasing, "Do you like this?"

"Oh God, yes! Do it again."

He wonders how his petite, delicate mum has such awesome internal muscles. Is she endowed with them by the benevolence of nature? Or, did she earnestly develop them, sinew by sinew, like a rippling bodybuilder?

She flexes herself again and holds him in her grip, longer this time, then releasing him.

She extends a hand underneath and starts tweaking her clitoris with a finger.

She moans loudly as he speeds up his pistoning to meet her. His penis is ramming her hard now. He grunts with exertion.

His mother is a bit tired now from all that bouncing and muscle flexing. Compensatingly, he is pounding her with an animal pleasure to sustain the intensity. He pushes on in a perambulating manner for a while, picks up hectic momentum, into violence.

"Harder, son," she goads, still unsatiated.

And like a good son, he does his mother's bidding. He pumps his mother with demented vigour. It is a little painful now, but she takes it.

She groans and whimpers softly. Her neck and chest are flush. The more red she is, the more aroused she is. She sucks all the air in the room. He is gasping.

Her whole body shudders and shivers. She makes tiny noises in her throat.

It is so good. She has never climbed this high a pinnacle. She is in a state of sexual grace. Depleted and full all at once.

She emerges from a dark tunnel and finds herself in the middle of a Rio carnival.

He slows, and hammers her with two last massive thrusts. He experiences an explosion in reverse. Funneling inward to a geometrical point of stillness. He stops fully inside her. She feels her son twitch and spurt.

The cathedral hush before dawn. Finally, he lets out a sigh and pulls out. He lets go of her breasts and lies deflated.

She slumps on her son like a rag doll, paralysed. She feels fluids ooze out of her from every body crevice. But, it is only one.

***

Mother and son linger in the moment.

After a long while, she regains the power of speech, "You know, you're only my second..."

"Second?"

"Yes"

"This cave... What happens here stays here."

"This is what caves are for."

With uncertain determination, "This is to be our only time."

But... does she want to get to the end without wanting it to be over? Do monsters make war? Or war makes monsters?

Shame versus guilt. Shame, in contrast to guilt, is social. Shame cuts right to the core of our being.

She remembers she once went out without wearing a panty. She wore a long skirt that ran way past her knees. Nobody saw anything. Nobody was the wiser. But still, she felt ashamed. Why was that? All "good" girls wear panties.

From the other corner of the cave, shame watches her like a dog.

***

They have been in the cave for a good six hours. The waterfall curtain is now letting in only the slightest suggestion of natural light. The light cuts the cave into two. Half bright. Half murky and asleep.

The cave is a place of few distractions. It would take severe effort just to tell if the weather outside had changed. Outside, the clouds and sun and moon have shifted around each other in the sky.

Their bodies are beginning to ache from too much sex, and not enough of non-sex.

Full moon rising. It shines so brightly on the waterfall curtain. The water looks like pure rushing light. Even in the moonlit stillness, Julia thinks her son looks sun-drenched and windswept, like he is on a sailboat.

The night takes hold of them and drags them to even more unmapped, darker secret places.

Tender is the night.

***

Chapter 5: Boys Talk

At the pub.

"How're things?"

"Good, dad!"

"Your vacation with mum?"

"Great! Mum really enjoyed herself letting her hair down."

Smirking, "Hair? I thought she was pristine?"

"I never did thank you for your job on mum. She was lovely. Simply lovely. But, you already know that. Ah, and the swimsuits too. Good choices. Though she hardly wore them at all, LOL!"

"I've to reimburse you for the cost of the swimsuits."

"No need. They cost me nothing."

"Huh? Free gift?"

"No"

"Huh?"

"Antônia's"

"What?"

"Yes"

Julian processes this detail for a minute. Deep. Best not to stir the bats in the belfry.

"Was it awkward for you to do mum?"

Cole looks up at the dirty stained pub ceiling for help.

"Look, sorry, we don't have to talk about this if you don't want to."

"Let me just say it's more awkward for me to talk about it here, than the awkwardness when I was doing mum."

"OK"

Chilling, opening up a little, volunteering, "Well, mum was an easy waxing."

Encouraging, "As in she was cooperative and collaborative?"

"That too. But, it was more her constitution..."

"Constitution?"

"This is a bit awkward. We're discussing the intimates of my mum, your wife. Mother, wife, woman. It's complicated stew."

"Well, it appears like she likes her new state. Like it frees her to be who she really is. I suppose it's more mental than physical. I don't know whether to tell you this... it's my turn to be awkward now. Our sex has upped a few notches since she got pristine. She may ask me to wax her in future, so I thought it may be helpful for me to learn something of the delicate craft. From an old hand."

"Old hand, huh? Well, I'm happy for you and mum in the libido department. Mum at sixty is still one hot babe. I can testify to that. She has luscious legs, the perfect mix between curviness and length, feminine without being overly round. If I may be so bold as to say, her body is so full of beautiful associations. I admit, the whole time I was doing her, I had an evil boner. There, I said it!"

"Did mum see it?"

Cole's expression momentarily concerned, and then adjusted back to a smile, "Hmmm... she saw it in the way that a mother didn't see it. Though she appeared mutedly pleased."

"To my knowledge, you're only the second male in her life to have seen her native. She's really prudish, insisting on consulting only female doctors. She refused to give birth to you when the emergency ward obstetrician-on-duty was male. You were agitating in mum's tummy. The poor chap, a young gangly doc, was more stressed than your groaning mum! So, you were born out of prudishness!"

Chortles.

Sagely, "If I read your mum right, I think she found validation and gratification in your pointed reaction to her. She knows many sweet young nubiles must have thrown themselves in your path. A strapping handsome lad who can have his pick of female company talent, appreciating her mature charms in a compelling way."

"Hmmm... I didn't think of it that way. Maybe it's because I just don't think of mum as mature. In popular culture lingo, MILF, cougar, yes, but mature doesn't come to mind. But yes, sixty is mature by any measure."

A pause.

"Dad, since we're in a candid mood, I don't mind telling you I'm having a mild boner now, just discussing mum here. I hope this doesn't embarrass you."

"Doesn't surprise me at all. The single most potent sexual organ in the human body is, surprise, surprise, the brain. Stimulate the brain as well as the body and you will rock the person's world far more than if you just stimulate the exact body parts."

"Hmmm... this is an intriguing insight. Never thought of it that way."

"In Tech today, we've all the virtual reality, gaming, metaverse fancy gizmos. Actually, if you think about it, your arousal response to our discussion on your alluring mum is a virtual reality abstraction of sorts. It played out in the Matrix movie in your mind. What do you think?"

"I think I've lost my boner. I don't want to overthink your insight."

Chuckles.

Philosophically, "I know what you mean. It's like an intriguing optical illusion puzzle. Once you see past the illusion, you can never see the illusion again."

Navigating back on track, "About mum's constitution?"

"Hmmm... you don't let up, do you, dad? You asked for it!"

"In waxing, there're two considerations which will determine whether it'll be easy or complicated to execute. First, the constitution of the woman parts. The flesh parts. Second, self-evidently, the pubic hair itself."

"Makes sense. I'm beginning to understand all this."

"Now, it gets enchantingly awkward. I'm going to discuss my mummy's pussy in all her glorious detail, with my dad. This is about the most intimate private discussion a dad and son can engage in. Psychologists overhearing our conversation will have a field day unpacking new dimensions of the human condition."

Cole takes a deep breath.

"Mum's feminine bits are neat, uncomplicated and pristine. Her cleft starts low on her mound, presenting a surreal angelic schoolgirly aura. If she is standing upright, from certain angles, we can't see her slit at all. Nothing flamboyantly on show there, in contrast to the lurid floral designs on many women, especially mature ones who have rich lived experiences. But, you already know all this. So, this characteristic of mum facilitates waxing access. No minutiae to parse. No byzantine folds and recesses of tender flesh to unpick."

Continuing, "I don't know if I should tell you this... This is really uncanny. A little creepy. Mum looks exactly like Antônia there! A replica. You can imagine what mum did to me the first time I saw her there. I kept looking at mum there, and then her face, then, there again, in dazed confusion. Mum didn't know what was happening. Was I traumatised at seeing my mum's most intimate?"

Julian gulps. He doesn't know what to say.

"Had I inadvertently seen mum nude in my childhood or teenhood, my memory seared with her compelling image, developed a mummy complex, and subconsciously married Antônia? But, I couldn't remember any such thing. To my memory, mum was a cold prude in her home, outside, pool, beach, whatever dressing. No accidental bathroom or bedroom ooops nudity flashes. No bathroom to bedroom ten feet nude sprints. No spectacular wardrobe malfunctions. Hell, I've never even seen her panties, pristine or soiled, in laundry baskets, wardrobe drawers or on the clothesline."

Quipping, "What an underprivileged, deprived, dreary, austere childhood. We didn't know. I didn't know. Freud would've been properly nauseated. Perhaps mum can make it up to you?"

Wounded voice, stuttering jocularly, "Dad, too little, too late... I'm a Freudian mess today."

Chuckles.

"Moving on... mum's pubes?"

"Mum has neat consistent pubic hair directional flows in each of her waxing zones. In contrast to the mangled, riotous thicket of many women. Again, you already know this all too well. The key to effective waxing is ripping off the strip against the direction of hair growth so that the hair is removed totally from its root. Mum's pubes are just perfect for that."

"How have you been coping since Antônia's passing?"

"I'll be honest. Not good. I think part of it is because the loss happened so suddenly. Like one day, we were frolicking in the water, next day, an aching void."

"Oh?"

"Mum and you have given me good support. I'm grateful to you both."

"Mum probably understands your grief better than me. She was devastated when she lost her bro Carl in the car accident, also very suddenly."

"I see."

"Carl and I were bloodmates. It was Carl who introduced me to your mum. In a sense, both your mum and I lost a bro. Your mum, a biological bro, me, a soul bro."

"I didn't know that."

Julian whips out his cellphone, and navigates to the photo album.

"Here, your Uncle Carl at around your age now."

"Oh my God! Oh my God!"

"Yes, yes!"

"Dad, are you spooking me? I know you like to mess around with photography and such. Is this a photo of me, and you've photo edited it, rendering a retro look?"

"If I did, it wouldn't have made a difference. The photo is indeed of Carl. And you're a clone."

"Uncanny! Even a bit creepy!"

"The day you were born, we were teasing mum that you were Carl's son. Mum went ballistic with the insinuation taking it very personal, but Carl and I were tickled by your mum's wrath."

Chortles.

"Do you've any memory of Carl?"

"Hmmm... I've to trawl my archives a bit."

"Since you go way back with Uncle Carl, what was he like?"

"You know, in every class photo, there is that kid who sticks his finger above the head of the kid next to him."

"So, Carl was that kid?"

"No"

"Carl was that kid who faced ninety degrees from the camera so that only the side of his head showed."

"LOL... sounds like my kind of uncle."

"What was your most compelling memory of Carl?"

Cole is about to say something, then bites his lip.

"You appear like you were going to say something?"

"Errr... yes and no. It's one of those fleeting nothing something."

"What do you mean?"

Expression momentarily strained, then slackened, "It was a little odd observation. And I don't want to make anything of it."

"Look, your mum, Carl and me were very close. Thick as thieves. People called us The Three Musketeers. We relished the label."

"I was let off early from cricket because it was a scorcher afternoon. I remember that day vividly because a few people died from heat stroke as reported on the evening news. Everyone was dressed in the lightest and briefest of clothing possible. I recall you were away on business travel."

"Yes, I recall too. A national record then."

"Being the tempestuous teen I was, too alive for my own good, I high-hurdled over the low garden wall, and cycloned through the patio into the living room."

A pause.

"Uncle Carl was sitting on a high bar chair. He was bare chested in boxer briefs, probably to keep cool like everyone else. Mum was sitting on Carl's lap, her legs on each side of Carl's. She was wearing a floral cotton halter top, and a loose flowing summer skirt, kind of bunched up in parts. They appeared to be watching a movie or something on the open laptop-PC that was on the coffee table. The screen was facing away from me."