"I borrowed this from our son. But don't worry, I've sanitised it. Just for you. I thought we'll test-drive it on you. If you like, I'll buy another, specifically sized for you, from the experience of this try-out."
"Aren't you the thoughtful one."
Chortling, "Just kidding! This one is your very own. Seb has his own. Like toothbrushes and towels, family members should not share such things, however close."
I tug my hubby closer.
"I started fitting our son like so."
"Was it easy to fit?"
"No. A struggle. An odyssey."
"Oh? I would've thought it was just a matter of slipping it on."
"He got hard all too soon. The way these implements work is to slip on when flaccid, then grow merrily into the tension."
"Oh? I didn't know that."
"He's a strapping young lad. Bulging bag of hormones. I think the combination of our nudity, the new toy, the anticipation of a new enthralling experience, and me, his mum, fitting him up, was just too much to bear in one moment."
"Was he finally fitted?"
"Yes, with alot of help from me. Although, I now wonder if it was my help that was stirring the problem."
"You helped him to get flaccid?"
"I thought about that, but didn't, because that would reset our fitout process somewhat, if you know what I mean. We did this on the last day of my visit. I had a train to catch, to travel home. So, we soldiered on."
"What happened then?"
"It was all the more fulfilling when we got there. Both fulfilling and funny."
"Funny?"
"At the exact moment he was properly fitted, he came. I had never seen such ferocity. Enough to put out a small fire."
"And then, a sort of Second Coming. Our son, he was in an extravagant mood. Oh, the excesses of youth!"
I continue the fitout on my hubby. He is semi-erect, which is just about the right rendering for further progress.
"You're doing OK?"
Hot and bothered, gasping, "Yes, mum..."
***
Chapter 11
Again
"I need to fuck you, like now."
"With the cock and testicle rings on?"
"Is there a problem?"
"Hmmm... I'm not sure if it's safe. If it's designed for that level of stress. I don't want you to blackout."
"Kinda late in the night to be reading the engineering specs."
I touch him there to assess matters. It worsened matters.
"Anyway, safe or dangerous, there's no way we can slip them off now. You're captive to your own excitement."
"Never mind, if you die, you'll die happy. Delirious will be more like it."
"Good to know..."
My hubby gets something from the bedside drawer. It's not like we need lubrication and what-nots. What is it?
He blindfolds me. So, that's what it is. Some kinky game in the making?
He leads me to, apparently, the bedroom wall. He pushes and presses my back against the wall. He extends my arms horizontally, pins my palms to the wall, gripping my wrists. He uses his knees to force my thighs together. He uses his feet to sweep my feet so that they cross at my ankles. I am nailed. Jesus-like at the cross. Again. He has never done this before.
He begins to hump me like a demented soul. Attacking my junction of thighs and mound. Flesh slapping flesh. He is unseasonally assertive. Certainly not in recent memory. The cock and testicle rings are working their magic.
"Why this?"
"Better I start modestly with dry humping, to pace myself. Won't do if I blackout."
"What's with the blindfold then?"
He says nothing. He grows harder still.
***
Chapter 12
Found and Lost
The Japanese are fond of sakura. Cherry blossoms. The trees are famously fleeting. They bloom for two or three days. And then, are gone. Other flowers, like plum blossoms, for instance, last considerably longer.
But, why go to such great lengths to cultivate something so fragile? The Buddhist concept of mujo, or impermanence, holds clues. Life is ephemeral. Everything we know and love will one day cease to exist. Ourselves included.
Most cultures fear this inconvenient fact. A few tolerate it. The Japanese celebrate it. The most precious thing in life is its uncertainty. We pay more attention to branches about to blossom or a garden strewn with faded flowers rather than blossoms in full bloom. The cherry blossom is lovely, not despite its short life span, but because of it. Beauty lies in its own vanishing.
Appreciating life's small, fleeting pleasures demands a loose grip. Hold them too tightly and they break. Pay attention to things, but not grasp them, manipulate them, try to figure them out. This skill does not come naturally to most peoples. Grip is too tight. Always questing to figure things out, unearthing hidden meanings that may or may not exist. As for impermanence, it terrifies most of us.
***
That was my first and last time with my son.
Did I tell you Seb is a travel writer? Imagine a young man on the sunlit balcony of a crumbling old mansion in Havana, drinking mojitos, gazing down at the street and making occasional scribbles in the kind of notebook that everyone says Hemingway used, but which he actually didn't. That could well be Seb.A week after my visit, Seb was assigned to a project in a distant, remote locale. In the last leg of his long and arduous journey, the propeller plane crashed on the mountain. Sometimes the world is just cruel that way.
It is such a colossal effort not to be haunted by what is lost, but to be enchanted by what was. I am trying so hard...
I wanted to get to the end without wanting it to be over. Now, I have relished the end, and it is over.
I continue to study the ceiling. Even when I close my eyes, I continue to study it.
***
For a moment we lay apart, gazing at each other's bodies again. He telling me what gorgeous breasts I have. Me telling him what a lovely cock he has. Then, we begin to explore each other's bodies again. He wants to be inside me. I want him there with a desperation. A few moments later, his penis is nudging the lips of my vagina, then edging slowly inside. But, he is still tender.
"All I know is that I'm still looking at your penis, and if I see a hint that it's coming back to life, I'm going to mount you in reverse cowgirl. You're going to watch my big arse produce another climax from that thick penis of yours."
These dreams... they keep me going these days.
***
The End