To The Lighthouse

He is ogling her from behind. At the top of her legs, he can see her cheeks jiggle a little musical jingle as she moves. And before him is her oily o-ring, a little mysterious in and of itself, but rendered even more mysterious, exposed to twilight by her lewd panty opening.

And those soft little labia, just barely protruding from the minutiae below.

She waits a good minute before straightening back up. This private vision of his mother's most intimate places begins making him harder.

A little sheepishly than really necessary, "Can I?"

She doesn't answer. He reads that as an implicit yes.

He approaches her. Her bra top fabric is so delicate, he appears almost afraid to touch the sheer material, as if it will disintegrate under his touch. He sees the hint of the fine aqua veins below the surface.

She expects him to warm up to knead and fondle her. Maybe even maul her in his youthful fire.

Instead, he traces his finger on her top lace pattern, the hem edge. And then, southerly, the sheer velvet of her bottom, the hem edge of the crotchless opening. He does this for a long time, touches the fabric, never her flesh, as if discovering a sensual principle. As a son, he is way too interested in his mother's underwear. Weird. But gratifying.

This means he understands how powerful and precious their connection to lingerie can be. Sharing lingerie is an intimate undertaking in a relationship. Even if only one party is wearing the lingerie.

Just as abruptly as he had started, he is done.

She writhes a slow striptease of her exposed bra, and then, the crotchless panty.

She approaches him, nuzzles him in the way a professional stripper singles out and teases a squeamish member of the audience. She whispers sweet nothings in his ear, and then, huskily, "Sam is watching..."

"What?"

She glides her dainty finger from one corner of his lips to the other, like she is sealing it hermetically. She draws her finger away, then smirks.

He is seeing his mother properly in her full naked glory. But, it is not proper for a son to see his mother this way.

No tension. No stealth. No rush. No sheepishness. No awkwardness. There is a hush, not quite amounting to silence.

Archie is still working out in his confused mind what it means for a third party, Sam, to be observing this. A sizzling hot wok of voyeurism, exhibitionism, taboo. What does all this mean to Sam? More pertinently, what all this means to his mother and him? The taboo is charming and fun, but incest is socially abominable and illegal. He wonders why mum is so chill about this?

She does fit the body he has imagined for her on the day she arrived at the lighthouse. He is very glad for that. He lets the moment run its unhurried course.

She is sensually architected. Flying buttresses of wide hips tapering to sylphy legs. Breasts with just the right calibration of sag. Inviting eruptions of nipples. He studies the swell of her buttocks. They don't make mothers like this anymore.

Gazing at her lovingly, "You're not to move until I say so each time."

She smiles as she watches him dart from one pleasing gratification to the next. There is form and there is substance. She can sense him weighing her breasts with his eyes. Are they heavier than they look?

He peers into her, closer and inner.

"Whoever said beauty is skin deep hasn't chanced upon this."

The way he is looking at her, he might have been waiting for her all his life. Maybe he has.

Soon, he will have to respond to the vigorous urging of his loin. He is full of good intentions, desiring to please her in every way.

***

Sam is watching the sensual opera in a sort of happy dissonance.

Do they know that he is watching? Debby just went below deck. Did she take a peek into his empty room?

***

Archie sits with his back propped up against the mast, legs straightened out. He gets himself comfortable.

She straddles him, facing him, her knees on either side of his legs.

She takes hold of him. Lines it up with her entrance. Without any ceremonial preliminaries, she drops her hips, moaning aloud as his huge pole impales her deliciously. Her opening is warm and wet. He groans. Lifts his hips. Forces himself deeper up inside her.

Panting, "You feel so much tighter this way!"

She lets out a long, loud groan as she impales herself on him again. He cups her bouncing breasts, stilling them. Plays with her nipples, which immediately harden to his touch.

His length is completely inserted into her. She lets him rest there for a moment, a respite, clamping her walls round him. He moans again.

She clenches his cock, teasing, enjoying the cause and effect, "Do you like this?"

"Yes! Do it again."

She flexes herself. Holds him in her grip for a few seconds, then releases him.

Clench. Release.

Clench. Release.

Clench. Release.

There is a constancy, yet a variation in it. It excites him to watch her face grimace with each clench, layering emotion on action.

She begins to move a little on him, "Put it all in me. Just let it all go."

She is beginning to enjoy her steady lovemaking movement. Not as some mechanical repetition anymore, or some

prescribed ceremony. Her body feels a natural desire now to make each movement more enjoyable than the previous.

Her insides love being stretched by her son's hard cock. She rocks back and forth while watching his glazed eyes in a kind of euphoria. Building speed. She has to grasp his shoulders firm to steady herself. It is that intense.

As she gyrates on her son, she studies his face. One word, ecstasy. Male in a maelstrom. He is covered in a light layer of happy sweat.

His cock is now in contact with her female erection of clitoris that has protruded out of her hood. The grazing contact is stimulating her clitoris. Erection engaging erection.

She rides harder. Rides him with jazz-like syncopated beats. It feels so marvelous to be made love so passionately by her own son. By male meat she herself painstakingly cultivated cell by cell, to this heaving anaconda that has a life of its own.

"Fuck me so good that I'll never have to fuck again."

She sort of screams. Like she is compelled to reach the summit before the mountain falls away from her. Her buttocks just go crazy, bucking, flailing.

In lust, she herself is approaching what promises to be a massive high. She frantically moves up, down, forward and back in search of the sweet spot. The golden mean. Their golden mean. The groove of fluid performance is intrinsically pleasing. Archie is a gentleman. He is happy to let her assume full control. He is twenty-five years old to the day, and his mother is mothering him all over again. A mother's duty is never done.

Whimpering hoarsely, "I'm almost there."

She feels the rising symphonic buildup of Ravel's Bolero. Beginning meekly with a sweet flute. More and more instruments entering the fray. Always the same tune. Only increasingly louder. A rising musical tide. More festive. Grander. Until the full complement of the orchestra roars.

She moans as her release nears. The whole damn meaning of life is happening right then.

Her climax is triggered when he abruptly grabs her face. Pulls her toward him. He plants a wet kiss on her mouth, muffling her rapturous scream. Not that anybody can hear them from the ocean yonder. But, Sam can. Her body shakes with the force of a tsunami. Her insides squeeze him with a rhythmic force.

Struggling to keep her eyes open, she is treated to the most amazing sight. As her insides throb, his orgasm begins. She feels her son tense, then jerk repeatedly. While his eyes roll back in his head, his penis twitches as his load spurts into her motherly womb. He emits such a loud cry, so strange, that he is quite frightened at it himself.

"Oh god! I can't believe we did that."

When their combined convulsions climb down some, she peers deep into his eyes. She can detect a hint of residual desire in his eyes, like a faint light deep in a mineshaft. Oh, the deep reserves of youth! And then, a confused expression of love. Is it mother or woman he just made hot love to? They had become their yesterday's future. When the thing is perfect, the problem of existence is solved.

They cuddle. She relishes his bakery warmth. Her bosom pressed to his male chest. Her right thigh over his cock. They fall asleep this way.

***

She feels his hardness. Not so steely as before. But still good for particular tactical applications.

He rouses. Sits up, back against the mast.

She straddles him, again facing him. She raises her buttocks and positions him. Sitting astride him causes her buttocks to pull apart, each side resting on one of his legs. He enters her again, though not nearly as assertive as before.

At first, he wraps his arms around her as carefully as if he is holding a work of art delicately fashioned from glass.

She holds her breath and twists. He moves slowly and quietly with his arms around her.

"We don't have to do anything. Let's just stay this way and talk for awhile, before we go below decks."

It feels wonderful to talk this way. The closest connection possible between a mother and son.

If he says something funny and makes her laugh, the tremors come into him through his penis. Full circle. When he discusses something sublime, he is like a quivering violin string.

From time to time, a little ripple runs through his cock, to her pussy, then up her spine.

Every now and then, he strokes her beautiful body, stokes her, and feels her stir. She yearns to live the rest of her life this way.

Mostly, bodies fuck. That is what bodies do. But, souls fuck too.

They hold each other like this for a long time. Silently, they are each wondering about how things have developed in this way.

***

Chapter 11

Dream

Sam creeps back below deck to his bedroom. His eye lids are heavy. The room is really dark now. Crammed full of darkness. Like all the world's darkness has been boiled to their ultimate density.

***

She comes slowly toward him, holding herself erect as always. She is barefoot. The floorboards faintly creak as she walks. Silently she sits down on the edge of the bed. There is something carved and still about her face. A strange beauty.

She remains that way for a time. She has on a white silk nightie that touches her knees. She reaches out and touches his head, her fingers groping through his short hair.

She stands up again. In the faint moonlight shining through the porthole from the outside, she begins to undress, like it is the most natural thing to do. She is in no hurry. But, she doesn't hesitate either. In smooth natural motions, she slips out of her nightie. Steps out of her dainty panty. Piece by piece her clothes fall to the floor, the soft fabric making no sound. She has a dreamlike look. Her eyes are open, but it is like she is sleepwalking.

Now naked, she crawls into the narrow bed. She wraps her pale arms around him. Her warm breath grazes his neck. Her pubic hair pushing up against his thigh.

She takes off his t-shirt. Pulls off his boxers. She kisses his neck over and over. Then, reaches out to hold his penis, which is already cast in bone china. She examines him closely, then runs her index finger over his male texture.

Gently, she wraps her hands around his sac. She fondles one testicle, then, the other, as if trying to determine a favourite.

She wordlessly guides his fingers to her pubic hair. Her vagina is warm and wet. She kisses his chest, sucking his nipples. His fingers are slowly sucked inside her.

Is this dream or reality? He struggles to place himself. To determine where he really is. He is trying to find the direction of the flow. Struggling to hold on to the axis of time. But, he cannot locate the borderline separating dream and reality. Or, even the boundary between what is real and what is possible.

He faces up. She gets on top of him. Guides his hard manhood inside her. He is helpless. She is the one in charge. She bends and twists her waist as if tracing a picture in the air with her body. Her straight hair falls on his shoulders and billows noiselessly, like the branches of a willow. Little by little, he is sucked down to the warm mud. The whole world turns warm, wet, indistinct. All that exists is his rigid glistening penis. He is the extension of his penis.

He closes his eyes. His own dream begins. It is hard to tell how much time is passing.

Around the forty-eighth twist of her torso, he feels like he passed through something. That is what it feels like. Passed through is the only way he can express it. Like his body has passed clean through a stone wall. At what exact point he felt like he made it through, he cannot really tell, but suddenly he notices he is already on the other side. He is convinced he made it through. He does not know about the logic or the process or the method involved. He is simply convinced of the reality that he had passed through. After that, he does not have to think anymore. Or, more precisely, there isn't the need to try to consciously think about not thinking. All he has to do is go with the flow, and he will get there automatically. If he gives himself up to it, some sort of power will naturally push him forward.

He is in the midst of deep exhaustion that he has totally accepted. The reality is that he is still able to continue fucking. There is nothing more he can ask of the world. Since he is on autopilot, if someone tells him to keep on fucking, he may well have fucked beyond a thousand strokes. It is weird. He hardly knows who he is, or what he is doing. This should be a very alarming feeling, but it does not feel that way. Fucking has entered the realm of the metaphysical. First, there comes the action of fucking, and accompanying it, there is this entity known as him.

"I fuck, therefore I am."

And this feeling grows particularly strong. The tide comes in. The moon rises. And so, he comes. There is nothing he can do to prolong it a little longer, to stop it. He comes over and over inside her. The warm walls inside her contract, gathering in his semen.

A long time passes. He can't move. Every part of him is paralysed. Paralysed, or else he doesn't feel like trying to move.

She gets off. Lies down beside him.

She buries her face in his chest. He feels her breath against his bare skin. Their breaths mingle becoming one, like currents from far away, secretly overlapping at the dark bottom of the sea.

She traces his muscles, one by one.

Finally, she licks his swollen penis, gently, as if healing it.

He comes again, in her mouth. She swallows it down as if every drop is precious.

He kisses her vagina, touching every soft, warm spot with his tongue.

Until dawn, they hold each other, listening to silent time passing. He feels like he is lying on the ocean floor, looking up, counting fish. How many does he have to count before he is done?

***

She gets up. Tugs on her panties. Slips on her nightie. She gently reaches out again, brushes his hair. All this takes place without a word passing between them. She hasn't said a thing since she entered the room. The only sounds are the creak of the floorboards, the wind blowing ceaselessly outside. The room breathing out, the porthole glass pane shivering. That's the chorus behind.

She crosses the room. The door opens just a slender crack. With a flick of torso, she slips out like a delicate, dreamy fish. Silently the door closes.

He watches from the bed, still unable to move. He can't even raise a finger. His lips are tightly sealed. Words are asleep in a corner of time. He lies awake until dawn.

Dreams. Is it possible to dream a dream in a dream?

But, whatever, this dream is for a night and no more.

***

Epilogue

Archie hands over the property to the private banker agent as scheduled.

"Here's a little something else for you, from the client."

A cheque. A kind of giant tip or bonus. Twenty percent of the contract sum. Quite something.

Archie studies the cheque. It takes him a minute to make out the intricate rip curl of signature. The kind of signature where you can kind of tell that it is the hand of a wealthy person.

Samuel Saylor. A Boston bank cheque.

What was that again?

"Hi, I'm Sam, sailor, from the US. I just completed my trans-Atlantic crossing. My mast..."

The End