The Freediver

Commanding, "Get on it."

I gaze at him with what must be an astounded look of fascinated repulsion, "What?"

"Perspectives"

I give him that.

***

"You've the simultaneous air of a chapel and a bazaar. You wear your sexuality with an older woman's ease."

Seb kneels before me. He looks at me there in a way that makes his attentions and desires plain. He places his nose at my most intimate. He breathes my feminine air, and then appears duly inspired.

This is what I love about this young man. I can never tell if he is playful or profound, dramatic or authentic. I can never tell whether the bruising jock or the thoughtful humanist will show up next. But, once his turn of demeanour is done, he resumes his quality of interpretability.

Gazing up, "You've to breathe the air, to really know a place."

"So, is that chapel or bazaar?"

He gets up, leans over, tucks my hair behind my ears, "I'm still ascertaining..."

I have never been adored like this by anyone. Never with such pleasure and single-minded concentration. But, then again, I have never been so revealed.

"You do fit the body I've imagined for you that day I met you on the plane. I'm glad for that. Nature at her most benevolent."

"Hmmm... Praise be."

Whispering, "Pose for me..."

I arch my body. Thrust my bosom. I am growing a little nervous. And yet, I instinctively tilt my casual hips for emphasis, to add a little asymmetry colour to the imagery. He watches me, every inch, every flicker. I so want to be touched. In love or in desire.

He looks grave, as if rebuking an overly frisky kitten, "You're a naughty mum."

I discern that he is viewing the scenery with the eyes of persons accustomed to drawing, deciding on its capability of being formed into pictures.

As if confirming my thoughts, he observes, "All arranged according to the laws of pictorial sensual art."

"What do you think of your mommie dearest namesake's mammaries?"

"A limited edition of a form and substance which nature makes no more. Your arc sag provides the essence of my satisfaction. They quiver a little when you breathe. A pair of ornate genuine articles."

Relishing this erotic opera, and emboldened, "Please let me..."

His hands mould my full swell, apparently loving the feel of its heft and balance in his palm. He methodically weighs each in his hands with an air of preoccupation, finally concluding, "They are heavier than they look."

I am lifted by proprietorial pride, even though it is a strange way for a young man to take my measure. He is so wildly loving. My breasts have not felt so full in a long time. Seb seems to enjoy my sharp intake of breath.

"My breasts are too white. Despite my spending so much time in watersports and tanning whenever I can."

"Your breasts are a lovely pristine bridal white. I much prefer white to tan. Breasts that are white from being covered are way sexier. They make a muted statement. That they are private. And secret. They make the admirer feel privileged. And that's what I'm feeling now."

"Privileged? You should be. Only my husband has seen them."

"Thanks, Soph, for saving yourself for me."

I smack his groin in mock indignation.

"What do you think of my posterior?"

"Not a young girl's butt for sure. A woman's tail, curvy and longish. But firm."

"Señor Aficionado, my thighs?"

Ponderously, "Smooth. Soft muscle definition. Nothing is hotter than lean, defined muscles shaping a woman's thigh. Your thighs are gorgeous with chiseled definition at the quadriceps. Your return on investment on your years of lapping the swimming pool."

"Hmmm..."

He adds, "But, this I can't tell from a static body pose. The biggest appeal for me is the way the muscles ripple gently when a woman is walking towards me."

He is devilishly egging me. I am feeling slavish. I do exactly that. I pose my legs this way and that, flexing, as if to validate his critique. A male sigh.

"Sturdy thighs, muscular yet softly pliant, that are wicked in their delight."

Seb adds archingly, "A triangulation of athleticism, grace and sensuality in equal measures."

I pose a little more. Tilt my chin sweetly, elfin, as if tucking a violin under it. Seb backs up, and gazes at me.

Soliciting shamelessly, "Well?"

What Seb does next astounds me.

He examines my breasts again. He rests his cheek on my soft breast. I feel an intense longing for him to spend the rest of his days there. I so want the life that it implies.

He roves. A hunter-gatherer all over again. Bloodthirsty, craving for a decent cut of meat. Males never lose this instinct. Right this moment, he owns everything he touches. My buttocks. My minutiae of feminine bits. He leaves them, like some treasure he'll come back to dig one day.

His exploration and experimentation takes a new creative turn. My anus. Oh my God, is he looking in my creased oily ring?

He appears bemused by so many pleasures on offer. He has to declare a pleasure major, or he'll be overwhelmed.

And just when I think he is done, he returns to the fold, my folds of petals, in a recommitment to my womanhood.

He is licking my petals, then drifting to my pearl of nub, nibbling gently.

"You're enjoying this?"

Coming up for air, "Yes"

"How so?"

"Read my lips."

It is as if he has to take me apart to see how I am fitted. No other unlawful action on this planet can be more joyous than this. My being an illicit object of discovery.

I am in a state. A little bit is too much at first. But, it soon grows to not nearly enough. Enough can be alot to ask of oneself. But, I decide, enough, before we go too far. But, it can't be wrong if it feels so right, can it? Am I seeking a tragedy with a happy ending?

I notice that now Seb is getting properly excited. He is erect with conviction.

Teasing can almost be as good as love, and sometimes better. But really, is it?

"Seb, we must stop. Before we lose ourselves..."

He stops. But, he is still lost, adoring me from a distance.

I need to help Seb. I need to help the lad.

"My turn."

"What?"

"Well, you saw me and stole my most intimate secrets. Fair is fair."

***

The mood is chiaroscuro. Light and dark, representing strongly contrasting tones. Darkened shadows and vivid shafts of light heightening emotional tensions.

He has an adorable penis. So full of cock. But still, nothing too dramatic. Suitable for many applications.

I didn't grab him. Not at first. But, I hunger to commit the act of touch.

My hand, half gentle, half menacing, comes to rest on him.

I run my fingernails experimentally up and down him slowly, softly. My first touch. Then again. On one side. Then the other. I trace an imaginary axis line up to the bulbous head.

"You're pleasing to the eye."

I examine him closely. I want to see what can be seen of him. Take him in. Memorise him. Save him up so that I can live on that image later. The lines of his body. The texture of his flesh. The glisten of sweat on his skin.

I bend down to look. I touch it. More of a specimen than a human. Mine to have and to hold, but not quite till death do us part.

"And this. This is so hard."

"What's this? Biology lab?"

I pay him no mind. Take it all in for a moment. I squeeze him a little. Stroke it. Feeling all around. He is a bit of a handful now.

"Do you mind if I ask if this is only your second experience, up close and personal, after your husband?"

"Yes. A long time coming. So, I want it to be a long second time."

"It will be our long night's journey into day."

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

I cup them like treasured objects with one hand.

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

"I didn't know you can be so poetic. In praise of balls."

I use a finger to move them back and forth, fondling them, just slightly swinging them as if they are bells. All in slow motion. No hurry. A studious look on my face.

I halt. I grasp him with my whole hand. Hold it there. Feel its thickness and hardness. Squeeze it ever so slightly every few seconds.

I can see it is driving him closer to the edge. But, I am just getting a sense of his physicality. My feeling is indescribable. As must be Seb's.

With my thumb and index finger, I encircle him. Grab it right below the head, ascertaining its circumference.

I trill, "Marvelous. A work of art."

"Now, 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? Again, what did Schopenhaeur say about free will? You can choose whatever you desire, but, you are not free to choose your desires. 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."

"All this abstraction. Philosophy. Metaphysics. This side of you. You surprise me, for a competitive, pragmatic career woman and an ex-kickass swimmer."

"Well, this is a night of surprises... And discovery."

I touch the tip with my forefinger, teasing more drops to seep out. I roll my finger in the liquid. Lightly spread the moistness over his head. Coating it.

I lean over for a closer look. He appears to love watching my breasts with my every move. My undulating arcs. My nipples, hard and pointed. They too, seem to have a life of their own.

I hold his erection straight up, at a ninety-degree angle to his stomach. I wrap my fingers around it. I begin stroking. Then, slowly pumping up and down. He is slippery from his own fluids. He is in such a state. I bend over closer, my face hovering above his head. A saliva drop. My finger smoothens my saliva. Not that he needs extra lubrication. I am just having fun.

I pump more. Up and down. Then, with my hand firmly at his base, I hold it there, his shaft sticking straight up, like some spire. He wavers a little, leaks even more, the drops dribbling down his length. This will not take long. More pumping.

I sense a reptilian jerkiness along his spine. He groans. I freeze. Stare at it.

He splutters all over the air, raising the humidity of the room a notch, even as he rains on my naked breasts. He makes happy baby baboon noises.

Then, a second spurt. Even higher. Falling down, landing on my knee. One or two more follow, falling back on my hand. He ekes out one last spurt. He is in an extravagant mood.

So much. Enough to put out a small fire.

"My God! Amazing! Simply amazing."

"I'm sorry I came so fast."

"I'm not. It's a testament to my skills."

"Are you sure I'm only your second?"

"Are you alluding that I'm a slut?"

"No. Your initial wonder, and tentative experimental exploration, is telling that this is your second male in the flesh."

I feel a stab of guilt, "Do you think this is so wrong?"

"Probably, by societal norms."

He pauses, then continues, "But regardless, I like it. I can't begin to tell you how much I liked it."

"Me too. God is in the details, they say. So is the devil. And regardless, no one else needs to know. This is just about us. This makes societal norms tangential, if not irrelevant."

"But, we haven't crossed the line, have we?"

I test Seb, "Have we not?"

He does not say anything about our couple dive. I let it slide.

Innocently, "I guess not. But still..."

Some moments pass. I am still sorting out my moral disorder. I grow pensive. My mood rubs on him. I touch him intimately again.

"And now it retreats. Losing all its power. Quiesced. Getting soft and quiet."

I trace an imaginary line down, around his balls, then take his flaccidness in my hand, as if it is a valuable artifact. I am emotional now. My eyes water.

"But, even now, it is still so beautiful. Such a marvelous mystery."

We sit side by side for awhile reflecting on what has just transpired. In the aftermath, there is a creeping awkwardness between us.

Quietly, I draw my legs up, turn sideways, and stretch them across his lap. I place my head on his shoulder. We nuzzle.

He whispers, "We're going to break all the rules tonight, aren't we? We're going to do this. It'll be our secret."

I do not answer. I am conflicted on four counts. One, that this is happening at all. Two, I will be cheating my husband. Three, I am old enough to be his mother. Four, am I subconsciously playing mother, and he, son? This is an inconvenient excursion into truth. I feel a stab of guilt, that I am my own pimp.

The more reasons to the sin, the bigger the sin. I feel a cold thing land on my heart. It is the fear of God. I have always been distant from Him. But now, I know his omnipresence. Will I burn in the hell that I don't quite believe in? Salvation by grace through faith. Maybe God will love me because there is so much to forgive?

You can think clearly only with your clothes on. I am naked now.

Seb puts his hand on my bare legs. He begins caressing my skin. With just the tips of his fingers, he brushes, ever so slightly, down to my knees, then back up my thighs, higher, just short of my mound.

I slowly open my legs wider on his lap. He strokes my thighs again, desiring to feel all the way to the satin of my mound. His fingers touch soft hair, even softer puffed lips, and the moist opening.

I lie down. Head on a scatter cushion. Legs still across his lap. I part my legs a little wider. There is a raw nakedness to my posture. Is it sensual and erotic? Or, lusty and lewd? I think it excites him to see me like this.

Signore Bertolucci lurks in a dark corner. He is silently directing me. Willing me in parts. Le Dernier Tango à Paris. The Last Tango In Paris. Middle-aged man, young woman. I remember now. The movie ended badly. The protagonist was shot. We'll always have Paris. But, this not. This is yet something else. But, is it?

He slides a finger inside me, gliding in easily, engulfed in warmth. Withdraws his finger slowly. His fingertip traces a delicate path around the edges of my opening. Everywhere he touches is glistening in warm moisture. His finger glides all around. He appears to relish my wetness. Through the dim nightlight, he sees me studying his face.

I sense that he wants to go fast. To mount me. Take me with wild abandon. Like a teen sowing his wild oats the first time.

But, he seems to be resisting his impulses. That this should last. Go slow. Take our time. The night too precious to waste by hot haste. That he will go by our plan. A long night's journey into day.

He traces my soft opening and those most secret small hidden petals with his finger. He inhales my sex as more liquid coats his finger, and dribbles down into the crevice of my buttocks. Not without some difficulty, he finds my clitoris. He plays softly with it. Caresses it experimentally until he discovers what brings a reaction. Moving his thumb across my nub of pearl, then back down. That works. Sighs. Shudders.

I move my hand down to the slight bulge of my mons and my pubic hair. I begin caressing myself there, just above his thumb.

We are in tandem. Heavier breathing. More shudders.

He lets his little finger slip way down. Finds the opening to my anus. Small, moist, oily. Rubs his finger around it. Pushes on it a little.

Breathing heavier now. His thumb and little finger moving in a slow rhythm, back and forth, pushing into both my openings. All in one back-and-forth motion. Slow. Over and over again.

And then, a sequence of shudders and low groans. Stronger, convulsing. Pelvis undulating.

I come with a scream, a sound he swallows in a kiss.

I grab the back of his head, grinding myself against his face. My piquant earthy juices flow into his mouth and over his face. He must be breathing my strong womanly air. He must be wishing that he can bottle a little of it, to stow away in an unlabeled shoebox deep in the attic. He takes a final big deep hit on my feminine scent.

I curl up in his lap. Two bodies melding together to form a single arcing sinew. Hair ruffled. Skin warm. Face flush. I grow quiet. Tender and soft.

***

He strays his hands over me. From my shoulders, down my back, to my haunches. Toward those dark, secret places. They are still warm and wet. I am perched on his lap. He pokes up between my legs. I touch it. Stroke it. Hold his testicles. Gather his liquid arousal with my fingers, bring it to my lips. Then, hold his male flourish. Eminently a better class of hardon than my husband. My marriage just doesn't have that same straining energy anymore.

Was it the Bible? Or Marx? From each, according to his ability. To each, according to her needs. Seb is able again. To do the needful.

I am excited, yet fearful, "So powerful. So strong. You can split me asunder."

"I will never."

"This is what is so amazing. You can really hurt me bad. But, I know you won't."

I run my fingers around. Play with the gathering granules, the small but compelling evidence of human desire and passion.

"A little terrifying."

"Actually, in the locker room parade, I am just average."

"No, no. Don't tease. It is really frightening. But, beautiful. I can imagine, with you inside me, I can really lose myself."

I pull his face to mine. We kiss. His lips taste a little salty.

Our legs entwine.

I lie on my back. Arms stretched out beyond my head. A tacit act of surrender.

"Suck my nipples. Bite them. Hurt me."

Take me. I am screaming silently. My nipples are thick once again, and painfully pointed. My areola soft and puffy. He is testing the edibility of my nipple. He sucks them. Bites down. Like a gourmand. Burrows his face into them. Will my steely nipples puncture his eyes, blind him?

He reaches down. Pulls my knees up to my chest. Moves his face down, kissing, licking, smelling. The secret womanly scent that he knows will be with him from this day forth.

His tongue caresses, darts inside me and back out. Finds my clitoris again. Back and forth over it, this time with the tip of his tongue. He is nibbling fire. I relish it, this lick of dissipation. I think I can see myself, though blurrily, as he may see me.

I come on his face. A little orgasm. He is shocked to discover that I come like a man. White fluids ooze out of my lips, and almost seep up his nose. He loves the fluid. I think he wishes he can save it in tiny glass ampoules, to relish it again at his pleasure another time.

My passion escalates. His head is clamped between my thighs. I begin squeezing wildly as a second orgasm nears. This one evidently harder, stronger. I squeeze his head harder. Will I crush his skull? Finally, I groan. Relaxed. Wipe my hair out of my eyes.

Pleading softly, "We can't..."

I am tender and vulnerable. He puts his head at the entrance. Moves in some. Backs out. Only the second male in my life. My slit seems small. Inadequate. Will he tear me?

He starts again. Slowly. Slowly. Slides half way in, then back out. Then, a little farther.

Whimpering, "We mustn't..."

With one hard roll of his hips, he enters me all the way. He is the stealth bomber of sex. A transcending sharp muted shriek marks the moment that will forever redefine who we are.

He pulls my knees back down around his waist. I unconsciously wrap my legs around him, even as I murmur, "We can't..."

After a flurry of awkward eager stuttering movements, he hits his stride. A slow rhythm. The side of his face against mine. Our bodies sweating, hair wet. The smell of us all around.

I whisper, "We will never tell. Our little secret. Always. We will keep our secrets."

Out the bay window, the first streaks of light of day creep up the horizon.

He maintains the rhythm. He lifts up his arms for a few seconds. Sweat drips down his chest, dropping on my breasts, mixing with my own. Our eyes lock in the dimness. The look from me is impossibly one of agony and exhilaration.