Grace is looking at the wildflowers in the vase on her coffee table. There is really no point trying to arrange them. The honeysuckle, the forget-me-not, the iris, they had tumbled into their symmetry.
Grace tilts back her chair a little, and surveys the photos, mementos and books on her shelf, as one might a life.
How often do we tell our own life story? Our life is not our life, even if it seems so. It is just a story we have told about our life. A story about our life told to others, but mainly to ourselves.
Grace thinks of everything that has happened in her life, and how little she has allowed to happen.
Grace is fifty today. She has been married for thirty years. One son. He is twenty-five years old.
Fifty is a quietly tumultuous time in a woman's calendar of life. A sort of existentialist angst sets in, maybe not so very different from the youthful version. Déjà vu? Yes, but not texturally different.
For the longest time, Grace could not figure if she was going somewhere, or just going. Now, she is decidedly launched on a trajectory arc, on the cusp to something novel and life-changing.
But, what precisely? Is it a journey? A destination? Or, more intuitively, a journey to an end destination? A longing to be accepted for her radical new aspirations, but too old to be seeking approval.
If there is a destination, where is that? Grace philosophises this in her swirl of mind. The destination is the end point. But, is it in reality? More pragmatically, the destination is that point of the journey when one passes the point of no return. The rest, beyond the hump, as they say, is freewheeling downhill all the way.
Grace has been reading erotic literature for about two years. It is only since the beginning of her menopause that she has felt a need or desire for new forms of stimulation. She has given herself the time, opportunity and permission to enjoy herself alone.
Grace chances upon a mature female English author, by the moniker of Saula, in a popular erotic literature website. She is caught up by the potential reality of Saula's stories, and the engaging way they have been crafted. Grace values well-written stories, imaginative language, beautifully described images, and believable situations and action. Saula's stories carry these elements. What Grace wants is to have her mind stimulated and excited, dancing, pirouetting dizzily on edge, and to imagine things more than meets the eye and mind. She likes the stories to focus sometimes on sensuality and tenderness. An unlikely brew of savage carnal tenderness. She enjoys Saula's stories for these very reasons. She can feel herself in the picture. Sees what the story character sees. She wants in on the story, and is admitted by the narrative force. Once in, that force will not let her out until the story, and hence she, is spent.
Grace particularly likes the stories about photo sessions, and a bit of mum and son taboo. She finds herself eagerly scheduling time to read yet another story in Saula's collection, or a second or third instalment of a story.
Outside of erotic literature, Grace has a particular appreciation for women writers. She enjoys Pat Barker, Anne O'Brien, Philippa Gregory and Hilary Mantel. Their historical work has given her so much pleasure, especially so because of their perspectives. The historical novel can be a backdoor into the present, which is very valuable.
Grace was first drawn into this realm by Philippa Gregory's 'The Other Boleyn Girl' of book, then movie fame. An unlikely story around a woman who is a footnote in history.
So too Pat Barker's war-themed 'Regeneration Trilogy'. War is terrible and never to be repeated. And yet, the experiences derived from the wreckage, after considered introspection, are of enormous value.
And Hilary Mantel's Cromwell trilogy. Twice Booker Prize laureate, with a shot at a third.
Grace thinks women do view the world differently and being able to express that difference, not necessarily in what is said, but in the way it is said, has given her enormous satisfaction and a sense of being part of the sisterhood.
And this applies to Saula in erotic literature too. Erotic literature is dominated by male authors, who focus too much on the animistic hump and grump, and graphic depiction, very much a man's lurid pleasure, when what Grace wants is stimulation and excitement at a subtle, more abstract level.
Grace has never tried her hand at writing erotica. She feels that she will not know where to start, or what sort of subject or genre her imagination should inhabit.
Perhaps a mature woman being seduced by a young man? Or two young men? Perhaps her son and his friend?
If she is really wicked, she might imagine a scene where her son and his friend cajole her to pose for them, for an art project or something artistically worthwhile in the creative sphere. She knows that the idea is not particularly original, but is exciting. Grace unconsciously writhes her body, and then realises that she is animating her story. Grace blushes shyly to her sentinel other self. But, she feels a stab of devilish pleasure in these private thoughts.
At a time when Grace is pondering the sensual order of her life, of what has been, and what can be, Saula's stories have helped in making her mind race giddily into yet uncharted dangerous and daring areas. The point of no return must by necessity be fraught with high hazards. Otherwise, it would not be a point of no return. A crossing of the raging Rubicon.
Menopause is a physical, and then, psychological marker. Since the beginning of Grace's menopause, she has been aware of so many changes. Much of it has been flowering in gratifying bloom. She feels that the linear constrained life she has led, and being hidden away under a shell is over. She is emerging from herself in a lush of reinvention. Appreciating herself much more. Affording herself time and opportunity to enjoy things more, to satisfy demands and desires that she has rejected or ignored for most of her life.
This has gone along with an increase in her libido. She senses a different heat of fire in her loins.
***
Fire. Grace mulls.
Physical, yet abstract. Literal, yet metaphorical. That is its elusive charm.
There are degrees of fire.
Gas stove fire. Placid parading beauty in symmetry. Order and discipline. Unity, harmony, unison. This fire is functional, purposeful, useful. Boils your water. Cooks your food. Simmers your meat in its own juices. Predictably well-behaved too. Best of all, you get to control it. Cut the fuel, and you conveniently snuff it out.
At the other end of the firelight latitude, there are houses on fire, forest fires. Wild, combustive, raging, ranging firestorms. Poetry gone rogue.
And then, there is the bonfire at the campsite, or by the beach. You are moved by kindling captivation in watching its dancing flames. It warms you even on a balmy night. That you do not experience from a gas stove fire. And when you douse the bonfire at the first light of dawn, its embers have a lingering stubborn persistence that defy the new light of day.
Grace remembers her schooldays chilling at the beach on moon nights. Those halcyon days. Salad days.
In Grace's mind, she tends a bonfire of driftwood, meticulously assembled into a rickety pyramid form. Once started, she watches the dance of flames intently. She wonders, when she sees the fleeting shapes that the bonfire makes, she feels kind of strange. It is like all of a sudden, she gets very clear about things, but short of a jolting epiphany. Watching the fire, she gets this deep, quiet kind of feeling.
A fire can be any shape it wants to be. It is free. So, it can look like anything at all depending on what is inside her. If she gets this deep, quiet kind of feeling when she looks at a fire, that is because it is showing her the deep, quiet kind of feeling she has inside herself. It does not happen with just any fire. It will not happen with a gas stove, or a cigarette lighter fire. It will not even happen with an ordinary bonfire. For a fire to be free, she has to make it in the right kind of place. Which is not quite so easy.
Can she do it?
Freedom is a bonfire. Try toasting marshmallows on a gas stove. And then on a kindling bonfire. There is something more going on.
***
And that is Grace's renewed libido. A crakling bonfire of tinder twigs, shaping and reshaping itself around a core of heat.
But, there is that essential extra stimulation to help Grace find that gorgeous high. The stoking. And that is Grace's quest...
***
Grace looks at a bit of porn. She initially treated porn with a sort of fascinated repulsion. But, it grew on her. Some videos have been a big help. The ones that suggest and imply, rather than tell and recite.
But, it is the written word that satisfies Grace most. This has led to her exploring all sorts of genres and concepts that she would only a few years ago been shocked by, and felt were outrageous.
She finds one of Saula's more popular stories, 'Induct Son And Bro To Nudism' enormously enjoyable and mercilessly titillating. She reads it a number of times, parsing the erotic scenes with relish at each new pass.
A husband regularly sunbathes nude with his wife in a desolate, secluded dunes and cove area in the English South Coast. Hubby has to inconveniently go away on an extended overseas work assignment, at what promises to be the high noon of a glorious summer. He has reservations about the safety of his wife sunbathing alone. He arranges for their twenty year old son, or her brother to accompany her. Hubby being a worrywart, the wife reluctantly agrees to the arrangement.
Grace is particularly piqued by the first time revelation of the strapping lad to his mum. And conversely, the mum's maiden exposure to her son. The revelation of the mum to her son, of her most intimate. Her first touch of his fledgling manhood. These move Grace. The words are seared in the video of Grace's mind...
***
The tender carnal drama narrative...
I run my fingernails experimentally up and down his penis slowly, softly. My first touch. Then again. On one side. Then the other. I trace an imaginary axis line up to his bulbous head.
Mum: You are pleasing to the eye.
I examine him closely. I bend down to look. I touch it.
Mum: This is so hard.
Son (jocularly): What is this? Biology lab?
Mum: You had your anatomy class. I have mine now.
I take it all in for a moment. I squeeze his penis a little. Stroke it. Feeling all around.
Mum: 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.
I cup them like treasured objects with one hand.
Mum: Then, they loosen again, hanging down and swinging. Then tightening up.
Son: I didn't know you can be so poetic. On the subject of balls.
I deftly 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.
I grasp his penis with my whole hand. I hold it. Feel its thickness and hardness. Take its measure. I squeeze it ever so slightly every few seconds.
I am driving my son closer to the edge. But, I am just getting a sense of his physicality. My feeling is indescribable.
With my thumb and index finger, I encircle his penis. Grab it right below his head, ascertaining its circumference.
Mum: Marvelous. A work of art. Visual art.
Son: Now, you are making fun of me.
Mum: 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.
I touch the tip of his penis with my index finger, teasing more drops to seep out. I roll my finger in the liquid. I lightly spread the moistness over the head of his penis. Coating it. I lean over for a closer look.
My son loves watching my breasts with my every move. My undulating arcs. My nipples. Hard and pointed. Like my son's penis, 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 am beside myself. I wrap my fingers around it. I begin stroking. Then, slowly pumping up and down. He is slippery from his own fluids, and is in such a state. I bend over closer, my face hovering above the head of his penis. A saliva drop. My finger smooths my saliva around his head. 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, strangle it a little. His shaft sticks straight up, like some spire. His penis wavers a little, leaks even more, the drops dribbling down his shaft. This will not take long. More pumping. His body jerks. He groans. I freeze. I stare at it. He spurts, straight up. Then, a second, even higher, falling down and landing on my knee. One or two more follow, falling back on my hand. He stops at last.
A wave of unease sweeps over me. It is not supposed to be like this. This is supposed to ease our tension, not heighten it. And certainly not bring it to boil.
Mum (climbing down to earth): Son, I am so sorry. Yours is my second manhood. I got carried away. I crossed a line.
***
Grace's mind flashes back to an instance in time when her son was nineteen. She cannot remember the details. And yet, the experience was like it played out just yesterday. History, the interpretation of it, and then maybe a little historical fiction emerges.
It was something about body hygiene and its upkeep. Cleanliness is next to godliness. Grace was next to her Son.
Her son was naked from his waist down. His penis was extending out at her eye level. His crotch was pristine. Simple elegant clean lines. Like a pencil line drawing on white art paper. It accentuated his youthful maleness beyond his age.
Her son was uncircumcised. Hooded entirely by his delicate sheath of foreskin, right up to his cute tapered tip.
Grace picked up the hand cloth. Lightly wrung out a little water from it in drips. A little intentional damp to soften the harsh rawness of the fabric.
Grace proceeded to wrap the cloth on her son. Running the cloth ever so gently over the brittle bone china in a slow soothing silken motion. The copious warm water dripped back to the metal basin receptacle. She did this repeatedly with determined pedantic discipline.
Her eyes lasered in on what she was methodically doing. She muttered something instructive about the importance of personal hygiene at every bodily level. This was as much demonstration as education.
All through this, her son stood relatively still, if not tensed, statuesque, peering down intently on his mother's measured pattern of motion. Except that his penis quivered ever so slightly, each time her hand slid off the hand cloth, to rinse it in the basin.
She could not tell whether it was from the hand cloth slide-off motion, or his natural youthful reaction, that caused his shuddering movement.
Grace was focused on her ministrations. Her perfunctory dutiful cleansing of her son.
After what seemed like an eternity of five minutes, she detected a look of mild discomfort on her son's face. A fleeting grimace, not quite amounting to agony.
The hand cloth slid off her son's penis as usual. She noticed that his penis, though still fulsome, had flagged somewhat from its stark horizontal position, to an oblique down-pointing orientation. The knob head, though not big, looked less intimidating than before. His foreskin appeared less taut, having crept foreward some, to reclaim a little of his raw pink head.
Grace stopped her ministrations. She said in a soft tone that he had a lot of grime. Her son did not know what she meant. He had just bathed that morning.
She laid down the towel on the basin.
This time, she ran her bare hand up and down him in a slow motion. He stiffened. He grew out farther. Much farther out than he has ever extended. His foreskin receded to reveal more of his head. He was wondering in his mind how cleaning his penis with her motherly hand could be more effective than hand-toweling it.
Grace ceased her hand movements. She paused, then gingerly peeled back his skin, gently, ever so slightly, as if reading his fear of tearing, if not painful rupture. Beneath was grime, caked over time, clinging to the circular recess between his shaft and budding knob head.
Grace intimated in an educational tone, "There's the grime. Caked. You see it? Alot."
Grace gently, gingerly used her finger tips to scrape the flakey grime off. He felt a warm charge of raw tingle with each delicate scraping motion, heightening, as she was finishing up, loosening and clearing the remnant speckled dirt that was still nestled in the crevice ring beneath his penis helmet head. Grace was pedantic in her cleansing.
He grew stiffer.
Grace finished up with the hand towel. It was then that her son had his ejaculation, although it was all very understated and undramatic. It happened in a flash, under the cover of the hand towel.
Grace continued with the motion oblivious to the change of her son's body state. After awhile, she declared that he was clean.
***
The breaking of taboos is so sexy. Just the thought of the possibility gives Grace all sorts of things to think about and imagine.
***
Grace discovers that being naked around the house is wonderful. When her husband is out, she enjoys doing house chores naked. Wandering nude around the house is quite thrilling. In the hallway, there is plenty of see-through glass on either side of the door that leads to the street. The curtains in her sitting room are open.
In the beginning, getting habituated to the pleasant sensation of soothing air caressing her private skin, the tingle of naughty nakedness was overwhelming. She would get moist. That would soon build up deliciously to copious dribble. She would have to wipe herself.
And soon after, a noticeable wet spot would build all over again. At first, she used tissues. One day, she ran out of tissues. She used her panties as wipes instead. The sensation of sheer material grazing her delicate nether flesh created as much fluid as it soaked up.
And there are other sensual innovations to fire up little pleasures.
***
Grace is tidying her son's room. She is nude as usual. He has his own apartment. But, her hubby and she maintain a room for him, his former room, for him to use on days when he stays over.
There is a large portrait of her son on the shelf. An artfully posed intent, a little brooding, sort of observing look, yet softly engaging. Grace just cannot suppress the impulse to reposition the picture a little each time before she begins to clean the room, so that it surveys the room, his room, properly.
Grace is tidying, ordering his drawers when she discovers a stash of briefs. Male thongs to be precise. Effectively cock socks, she muses in muted wonder.
Is he a hipster? Or, maybe gay? Or both? Grace does not follow male fashion fads, let alone male intimate wear. She does not know. It does not matter. He is who he is.
Hmmm... so this is his male measure. Is it sized to full flourish? Or, sedate normal form? The charm is in not knowing for sure.
For some inexplicable reason that is too abstract to unpick with rational precision, Grace is moved from moist to flow. Instinctively, she picks up one of his thongs to soak up her piquant excitement. She instinctively gazes guiltily at her son's portrait picture.
His brief is the exact opposite of her dainty panties. Even though economical of textile, it is rough, raw and male. A muscularity to the garment. And the tubular construction facilitates the soaking up of her inner minutiae of feminity. Grace inserts her finger into the cock sock, and then plunges it into herself. She closes her eyes. It ignites wild associations and imaginations. As the garment soaks, she leaks. Exactly what the resident psychiatrist in her head ordered, for her continuing therapy to the next level. Seven briefs in the drawer. A week of bliss. And then again, in sensual repetition. Grace closes the drawer as if to shut out her thoughts.
She wipes the inside of her thigh, soaking up the rivulets of feminine fluid. But, his minimal thong is too small to soak it all up. Her thigh is still wet. She is going to shower shortly anyway after her chores.
She leaves her fluids be. It feels wrong walking around naked with her fluids on her leg. She feels deviant. Pottering here in her son's room, she feels both motherly and unmotherly at the same time. It is a pleasantly confused good feeling.
Hereon, she will dispense with wiping up her fluids. They are what they are. A part of her constitution and bodily self-expression that she must not deny. But, only in so far that it does not dribble down to the floor.
***
On an inexplicable whim, a whim whose time has come, Grace puts on her fuck-me high heels one day when she is naked in front of the bedroom mirror. It elevates her to a whole new level of high. Physical, psychological and sensual.
Footwear is not worn just for the benefit of men. It is to tease and please both the woman wearer and observers.
Most of the pleasure of buying shoes involves a private fantasy that begins with the woman, and ends at her feet. And that is the case with Grace.
The stiletto becomes a part of Grace's naked repertoire. And on particularly productive days when her feminine arousal runs down to her feet, and then collects a little at her high heels, she experiences a curious queasy, sexy sensation that is repulsively pleasurable.
***
Grace loves walking naked in her, mostly private, garden. Her very own secret garden.
In Frances Hodgson Burnett's novel, 'The Secret Garden', the garden is a metaphor for self-discovery and wondrous rejuvenation. A thing that is neglected withers. But when it is worked on and cared for, it thrives.
Grace cannot think that she is an exhibitionist. But, she can understand that delicious thrill of being seen fleetingly naked to unsuspecting eyes.
It begins mundanely, if not perfunctorily, with gardening. Naked bliss or not, those earthly chores must be done. Watering, trimming, culling, weeding.
Once, when she felt the urge to ease herself, she decided to just do it, rather than beetle indoors. The garden area that Grace most wants to fertilise with her personal stock of urea is also the most vulnerable to neigbourly eyes. But, a pee is fleeting. And no one is the wiser. To the best of her knowledge anyway.
***
Grace has very naughty fantasies about enjoying a physical relationship with her son since she began visiting him at university and staying over in his various digs. He was so welcoming to her in a way that surprised her. And boosted her ego and sense of importance to him. He did not care what his friends thought about him having his mother over to stay. At the same time, Grace felt she did not need to be quite so hidden and private with him.
***
Quite early on, Grace's son saw her in underwear, she thought for the first time in his life. The underwear was less than exotic or attractive, but the excitement it generated was palpable.
In nervously mentioning that, her son confessed to having peeked at her a few times during his teens when she was changing, or had just showered. That news was life-changing for Grace, if that is not over-stating it. Grace felt an immediate rush of arousal and love, and a deep desire to undress for her son right there. However, the moment passed because Grace did not have anything like the courage she has now, or the confidence in her body.
Grace's confidence has since developed in the last two to three years and has led to an interest in nudism generally. She has discovered just how enjoyable nudity can be. She has also allowed herself to explore such imaginings and given herself permission to indulge in self pleasure in a way she would have considered wicked earlier in her marriage.
***
Part 2: Agency
Fast forward.
It is the first day in the COVID-19 pandemic second national lockdown.
Grace's son, Jasper is coming home today to be at the family home instead of at his apartment on his own. He spent the first lockdown in his apartment.
***
"Oh! I'm so sorry mum! I didn't know you were up."
Grace looks up from her kitchen chore. Honeyed sunlight illuminates her son's face.
"It's alright. It's just my morning routine. I totally forgot that you are staying with us."
Grace puts on her robe which is draped over the kitchen chair.
"I just couldn't sleep anymore this morning, even though it's not my custom uptime, so I've come for some juice. I'll pop back later."
"Stay. Chat with me. I miss you. Breakfast will be ready in a jiffy."
"Dad?"
"He has to be away for two days attending to a particular matter."
***
Grace moves this way and that in the kitchen preparing and serving breakfast. There is nothing for her son to do but ogle his mother. Surreptitious rationed glances at first, and then increasingly bold. His eyes are lasered on her bottom which he knows is pantyless.
Grace is well aware of this. She can hardly suppress her shudders.
When Grace bends to serve his breakfast, her son gets a generous view of the top of her breasts. Large swathes of her fulsome bosom.
After Grace is seated, her son offers to get the orange juice carton from the refrigerator. He hovers over Grace to pour the juice into her glass. He gets a glorious eyeful of her breasts again. Is his mum exaggerating her movements to jiggle her breasts? He sees them quiver and undulate.
***
After breakfast, mother and son chill at the sitting room. It overlooks the garden. Grace's secret garden. But for now, it is the sitting room that holds a spell of secrecy.
Grace is feeling increasingly comfortable and at ease with her son. She is still a little excited by her accidental exposure in the kitchen. Was it really accidental?
Grace cannot help but feel that this morning is the time that has come. The whole swirl of everything that is to come begins this morning. But, of what precisely? The devil, as usual, is in the ambiguities.
It is just both of them alone in the house. In this lockdown, there will not be any visitors or service people popping in. Grace asks her son if they should get comfortable, and enjoy the privacy of the home. Her son is not altogether clear what his mother is alluding to. Isn't this lockdown privacy enough?
Grace gets a little bold. She teases, "Just now, you had a sneak view of me. Tell me. How does your mummy dearest compare with the last time you saw her in your uni days?"
In a sad tone, "If you recall, I didn't get to 'see' you. You were in your underwear, mum. Sensible ones at that."
"Ah yes! In your teens then?"
Grace's son pauses, hesitantly gets up, faces his mother, and gazes down. He leaves a little silence.
"Oh my god! But, that was a good ten minutes ago!"
"Yesss, mother. I am... petrified. Petrified wood."
He sits down.
Surprisingly, Grace stands up as if going to the kitchen, pivots around her heels, faces her son. She parts her mid-thigh length robe revealing a bit of her upper thigh and no more. A glistening rivulet streak. A piquant scent of vinaigrette.
"I think we both enjoyed the visual experience."
"Oh mum!"
"You may've perceived it already from your earlier close encounter of the third kind. I've become a nudist. Not in the organised club and community sense. The home and garden variety. Baby steps back to basics."
"Yes. I thought so. I'm happy for you, mum. The couple of times I skinny dipped, it was so liberating and heavenly. What a feeling! I totally understand your motivation for the direction you've taken."
"Thank you for your understanding. While we're on the subject, there's a little more I'd like to share with you since we're in this mood."
Distant chirp of birds in the garden. Birdsong. Musical melody of wind chimes.
Sensing his mum's hesitation, "Go on, mum. I'm all bated breath and all ears."
"In the last couple of years, I've also allowed myself to explore a little in other sensual realms. Erotica. Even a little porn. Charge my imagination a little. I've given myself a latitude of permission to indulge in self pleasure in a way that I would have considered wicked in the past. Maybe this has to do with my menopausal changes? There! I said it!"
"Mum, I'm so happy for you. You deserve this. You owe this to yourself."
A pause. A minute of uneasy silence.
This turn of banter has made him sense his mother's sexuality, from where he is. It is like sensing the sea before one can see it.
"We're both grown-ups. I can let my mummy hair down a bit. While I still have it, lots of laughs!"
He chuckles. His mum indeed still has it. He perceives that she is subtly seeking validation. He reaches out his hand to her, to brush the cascade of her hair. A mental connection, sealed with a physical connection.
A little heavy silence.
Lightening up, "We can engage in a little adult cabal. Shall we demystify what we've inadvertently started just awhile ago?"
Son looks at mother disbelievingly, then inquiringly.
Grace teases. "I'm no spring chicken, thus old school. Gentleman first."
"Right here? Now?"
"Yes. Carpe diem! You take your shirt off. And then, I'll take what little I have off, in pace with you."
Her son unbuttons his shirt. He takes it off silently. He has hair on his chest and a few muscles, Grace notices. He looks at her.
Grace smiles softly. She feels her ears and cheeks burning. The whiff of sin, the fear of discovery, sharpens the pleasure.
She reciprocates awkwardly by sliding off the top of her robe from her shoulders, until it covers the tops of her breasts, her hands shaking. Like a strapless one-piece swimsuit.
"This is kind of weird isn't it," she looks at her son.
"I guess so, if you think about it that way."
They instinctively inch closer.
Jocularly, "Are we doing OK in social distancing, mum?"
Quipping, "We're family. I doubt the authorities will approve."
Cautious stilted laughter.
Although Grace initiated this, some of her old anxieties are beginning to creep back.
"OK. But, right now it feels a bit uncomfortable for me. My venerable body is far from appealing. I always feel self-conscious about how my body looks. I don't like being judged."
"I'm not judging you. Mum, you look gorgeous. So far... You're needlessly over-processing."
"What I'm going to wonder about is what you think. If you just look at my body without saying anything, I'm going to think the worst. You've to tell me what you think. What you really think, alright?"
"Sure, mum. Will you tell me what you think of me too?"
It never occurred to her that her son might also want her opinion on his body. Maybe her perceptive son is just trying to diffuse the tension of the moment? Grace nods.
Grace gives her son a light boudoir smile. She lowers her robe further until it covers, only just so, up to her eruption of nipple tips. She crosses her arms coyly under her makeshift bra to hold it up. But actually, it is more to heighten her cleavage.
"I like the bra you've fashioned. Or maybe, more like a bustier."
"Your turn."
Grace watches her son pull down his shorts, exposing his underwear. The same type of male thong that she has seen in his drawer. So, this is what it looks like in full accommodation. Grace twitches. Her son looks at her expectantly, the corner of his mouth betraying an emerging smile.
"So?" he prompts.
Grace endeavours to defuse the tension a little. She looks down at her son's bare legs. "Your legs are hairy in a really sexy way."
In an act of socially conditioned modesty, Grace turns her back to her son. She drops her robe to the floor. For an instant, she is bare arsed. She bends her torso over a little flexing her curves. She picks up and refashions her robe into a slender sarong-like skirt, wraps it around her bottom, then secures it.
Her bottom done, she raises both arms across her chest to cover her top. She pivots to face her son. She looks like a woman caught starkers, and then, doing what she can to protect her modesty. As with Mozart and Rembrandt, the highest art lies in concealing art.
Her son is staring at her nominal sarong. Grace looks down to make sure that everything is in order. Then, mother and son stand there looking at each other until they both laugh in unison.
"Mum, you have nice legs. Take this from a leg man."
Grace starts to feel weak in the knees. She sits on the rug. She looks up at her son, waiting for his next move.
He asks cheekily, "Are you ready for the big one?" and emits a half-laugh as he starts to push his underwear down his hips. His naked genitals are displayed before his mother at eye level.
"Oh my God!" She covers her mouth with both hands, suppressing any further outbursts. It is not that she is shocked by seeing a flaccid penis in itself, but, the sight of her son's privates has the effect of inducing embarrassment.
He is trying to decide whether to be cool, or to be raw, "Well?"
Looking up from his genitals, she quips cheekily, "It looks like a penis."
"Well, how does it compare?"
She looks back down to his drooping organs. After gazing thoughtfully, she teases, "OK, I guess."
Grace does not want to feed her son's ego. There is time enough for that. But secretly, she notes that even in its flaccid state, her son's manhood is rather long. Longer than her husband's. She wonders how big it gets when aroused.
"Your turn."
Feeling her son's stare, she drops her left arm. Her right arm barely conceals her breasts.
The moment of truth. The moment of reckoning. Again, her old anxieties taunt her. Looking up again, she asks, "Are you ready?"
"A rhetorical question."
She smiles sheepishly as she slowly drops her right arm. She looks down at herself. She is pleased. Her bosom is full of fruit. Fulsome yet pert. Pointed. They hang high on her chest.
She looks up at her son for his reaction. Judgement day is upon her.
His eyes rivet on her naked chest. He nods appreciatively when she looks up.
He gazes at his mother's face, then, wild-eyed back at her breasts, the beautiful form of which nature makes no more.
"Well?"
"Spartans have raped entire cities for bounties less than this."
Laughingly, "Be serious."
"A divine revelation. They're lovely. Alluring. If I had a hand in sculpting your breasts, they will look exactly like this."
Adding, "Your nipples are nice too. They're pink. They're lush."
"You've never seen pink nipples before?"
"No. They're sweet."
Grace starts to laugh again. She is aware of the slight jiggling triggered. She observes that her son is watching. The look on his face expresses bemusement. But his intense stare suggests a covert fascination. She sticks her chest out for emphasis. Loud and proud. She gently traces the contours of her breasts with the tips of her fingers. Her left, then her right. One way, then the other, as if illustrating her own form. Her nipples are very sensitive. Even soft caresses can trigger an orgasm. She avoids touching them for now. That can come later.
"What do you like about my chest?"
He replies open-endedly, angling for more, "I like their size and their form. Their substance, I can't tell."
Grace grins widely, "Really?"
"For sure. I like to feel real breasts. The kind that will fill my hands. Not impossibly perfect inflated plasticky orbs."
The seed of an idea is planted in Grace's mind when she hears this. She cannot say why, but she knows what she wants to do. She can feel herself blushing as she contemplates what she is about to say to her son. Fear flutters in her belly. What if he is repulsed? Yet, she does not think he will be. She can feel it. Somehow, she knows he will be alright with it. Her road with her son will lead to grace, however wayward the path.
Her mouth opens, as if of its own accord, the words forming on her lips without her willing them, "Do you want to feel them?"
Her son looks at her, bewildered, like she has spoken to him in olde Cornish.
She qualifies guiltily, "Just for a sec."
His eyes are wide. He sits down on the floor next to her, meeting her gaze, concerned. "Are you sure about this, mum?"
"Mmmm, just for a sec though." She pushes her chest out in longing anticipation.
Her son looks serious as he reaches out with both hands toward his mum. Her nipples activated electrically as soon as his palms make contact. Grace quivers. His fingers lightly brush the skin of her breasts.
Grace cautions, "Go easy on the nipples. They're highly charged. They will electrify, then shock me to whimpering pulp. I don't want that. At least, not just yet."
"That sensitive, huh?"
"Oooh! That tickles!" Grace chuckles with a shudder. Her son draws his hands back politely.
Grace, smiling, takes her son's hands in hers and presses them firmly against her sensitive mammaries.
"Like this," she instructs.
Closing her eyes, "That feels good. Do you like how they feel?"
"They're soft. Really soft. A pair of ornate genuine articles."
"Any more observations?"
Her son reads this as tacit approval to caress and fondle each breast more thoroughly, to ascertain their essence. He focuses on one breast, then the other, and then repeats his studious ministrations all over again.
He cups her breasts. He feels at the tips of his raw fingers the weight of her sensuality. All her private own.
"In my considered opinion, an alluring breast imparts a sense of heft, by feel and visual, of weight and mass. Mum, you tick all the boxes."
He forgets himself. He continues to fondle his mother's breasts. He kneads them now.
"That's enough," she reminds him, against her better judgement, opening her eyes and releasing his hands.
Her nipples now stand out excitedly. Her son looks elated. She looks down at his lap and becomes aware that his elation is emanating in more ways than one. "Can I touch you?" she asks longingly.
"OK"
Grace is secretly astonished and thrilled that her son so readily agrees. She does not expect him to go along so easily and wonders if he shares the same hidden excitement she is feeling.
Eagerly, she reaches down between her son's legs and cups his sac in her hand. His testicles feel delicate and vulnerable. They are large, weighing on her palm. She thinks about all the sperm and hormones that must be coursing in her grasp. It seems strange that the source of masculinity is so fragile. She squeezes gently.
"Does that feel OK?"
He flinches in response, so she releases him. She shifts her hand, wrapping her fingers around her son's rising sex organ. She looks up at him. He is looking down at her hand, his expression intensely focused. She squeezes his warm shaft between her thumb and forefinger. She can feel him swelling rapidly in her grasp.
"You're getting hard," she observes. He says nothing. She hears her son's breathing intensify as she slides her grasping hand slowly up his lengthening shaft to his mushroom head. Grace squeezes his phallic cap between her fingers and gently massages his flesh.
She looks up at his face. His mouth is open. His eyes wide. He meets her gaze, still looking intense.
She says softly. "Your penis is really big. It's nice. A piece of visual art."
In a moment of awakened latent impulse, Grace strokes her son's penis as if priming it for some higher purpose. She surprises him when she gently draws back his foreskin with maternal tenderness. She casts a critical motherly eye on the revealed detail.
Approvingly, "Ah! I see you've been faithful to your mother's lofty hygiene standards."
"Mum, there isn't a day I've not lived up to that standard. Some things, one doesn't forget..."
Finally, she releases her son's penis. Instead of dropping, it bounces upward, standing free and tall. His shaft, which she estimates at eight inches plus, is straight and pointed up from his lap at an angle. Ripe with tension.
"You do get hard fast," she observes, studying her son's straining organ.
"I guess so."
She smirks. "I know you love me and all that. But, I mean, is it normal to get an erection for your old mum like that?"
"But, you were rubbing it. That is the only reason..."
"I'm just teasing. It's flattering actually, for your august mum. It's interesting how it looks when it's hard. Your head... is so large."
"So, as a woman, do you think a big head is good or bad?" Her son has a slight tremor in his voice, but she can tell he is trying to sound casual.
"I think a big head like that is a plus. It's all about stimulation. A big head, more surface area contact opportunity, ought to be stimulating, don't you think?"
Grace suddenly feels a warm surge of affection and admiration for her son. Her life's consolation prize, and she is celebrating.
"Are you going to take your bottom off, or keep me in terminal suspense?"
Grace feels her heart racing. For reasons she does not fully understand about herself, in that moment, her son asking her to take her bottom off provokes an unexpected and unintended response in her body. A wave of sexual reaction awakes somewhere deep and sweeps though her body, reaching her head in the form of heat. She feels flush. There is the tingle of sweat pores activating around her face and neck. Deep down, she feels another delicate response that she knows is the beginning of wetness inside her. It feels warm down there too. She has been trying to convince herself that this is no big deal. Yet, somehow it is.
Grace blurs the image before her, enough only just so, to let the non-rational slip in.
"Do you not think a mother deserves to keep at least one secret from her son, loving as her son may be?" she asks bashfully as she hooks her thumbs around the top of her sarong, trying to make light of it despite herself.
"Are you ready?"
"Like you said, I am hard for you. Just look at me."
Adding, "I don't think I can be any more ready than I am right now."
Grace smiles at him. She pushes her last garment, her sarong, down her hips, then stops, her legs still together.
Her face still warm, Grace pushes her sarong down her thighs to her knees. She stands up. She lets the sarong fall the rest of the way to the floor in a puddle. Her smooth pubis is directly in front of her son's face. Her bare vulva, squeezed between her thighs, puckered outward. Her outer labia pouting. A neat mound. Her inners are concealed. All this bracketed by womanly hips. She wonders aloud in her stilled mind if she should be embarrassed.
Grace stands, one foot crossed over the other, like a ballerina about to leap away in a jete. But, she remains statuesque still.
He looks admiringly at the naked sensuality that clothes her. She does fit the body he had imagined for her, and he is very glad for that. He cannot believe that she can be the repository of so much sensuality in one woman.
Jasper studies Grace's mons pubis with an almost anthropological sense of wonder. The geographical, biological and spiritual heart of her being.
"Say something, please," she implores.
He appears to search his brain for words. Maybe the words have not been invented yet. Sometimes, one has to let the meaning choose the word.
He manages, "Nice, beautiful, it is beautiful." He accompanies his words with a most languishing glance.
"You really think I look beautiful?" She laughs at herself as soon as she says it. She is a gangling teen all over again.
"Yes, you look smooth and pink and alluring."
"Alluring?"
"Attractive. You look attractive. I like how it looks pouty."
"That is good? I have a pouty pussy?"
"Yes, I like it."
Her face creases gently. A moon river smile. Wider than a mile.
Grace is feeling bold now. Her son had let her take the lead in their mutual striptease and she is going to push it further. By this time, she is humming with sexual arousal. She is thinking less and less about the fact that he is her son, and thinking more and more about how aroused she is, and how she wants more. Passion. A little was too much too start with, but now, it is not nearly enough.
"Do you want a closer look?" she volunteers shyly.
"OK" Her son looks like he is in a trance. The further along she takes things, the more excited she gets. But, her son looks increasingly uncomfortable and docile.
Grace steps over to the sofa and sits down. She puts her hand on the cushion, "Come, sit next to me."
She watches her son's erect penis bounce wildly as he gets up and walks over. The conical point glints in the sunlight that streams through the bay windows. "You are leaking," she muses as he sits down next to her. Naked thigh to naked thigh.
Without invitation, she reaches over and touches the tip of her finger to the little slit on the end of her son's penis where a droplet of clear liquid is forming. He does not move to stop her. A sharp intake of male breath. She doodles her finger in a tiny circular motion around the tip of his penis. She withdraws and rubs the warm sticky liquid between her finger and her thumb. It has the consistency of syrup. When she separates her digits, a translucent streamer stretches between.
"Oooh . . . Does this mean that you're going to ejaculate soon?"
"Not necessarily. But, it means I'm very turned on right now. I'm not going to ejaculate without some kind of physical stimulation. But, it won't take much right now. Like, if you rub my penis again like you did before, I will probably ejaculate instantly."
"That will make a royal mess. Does that mean I am so sexy that you can't resist your own mother?"
"Isn't this a rhetorical question? Look at me, mum."
"Are you going to be able to keep your cool the rest of your stay here in this lockdown? You can't very well go around with a boner all the time. You will scare the womenfolk." She smiles devilishly.
"I can only try..."
"Looks like I'll have to keep you cloistered here, to reform and rehabilitate you, before you can rejoin civilised society at the end of the lockdown, huh?"
Grace thinks about licking her sticky fingers. She looks at her son and assesses that he may think it weird. Instead, she wipes her hand on her bare thigh, leaving behind a visible prominent glistening slick.
"Are you sure you want a closer look? I don't think it's going to make your condition any better."
"Yes, I'm fine."
Grace reclines back on the sofa. "You really want me to do this?"
Her son nods silently.
"If you want to see more," Grace messes with her son, "you have to ask me to show you. Ask nicely and tell me exactly what you want to see."
"OK," he plays along, "will you please show me your most intimate, mummy dearest?"
"Since you ask so respectfully, son..."
Feeling single-minded in her intensifying sexuality, Grace swings her legs straight up, exposing her neat pouty crotch. Then, she spreads her legs a little wider.
She watches him as he looks down, captivated, rapt, at her displayed womanhood.
"You can get closer if you want."
He leans forward. She can feel the warmth of her son's breath on her vulva. He is so close, Grace thinks his mouth is going to touch her lips. She holds her breath in anticipation. But, he does not do it.
"Can I touch you?"
Grace nods in silence, and swallows.
She feels a finger gingerly run the length of her engorged labia. He gently prods and pinches her tender lips.
Her son's fingers playing with her there heightens her rising ardour. This emboldens her to push it a little further. She is no longer afraid of her son's reaction.
"Do you want to feel what it is like inside?" she asks brazenly.
"You're OK?" His voice shakes noticeably.
Grace reaches down to her mown mound with both hands and spreads open her vagina lips, her petals, as her son watches. "Do you see me?" she asks, pointing it out with her finger.
He peers into her intimately. This is something so wholly female and defining, so connected to the great cycle of nature. It is a gift from a flower to a garden.
"Yes. It's pink. Lovely. Quite lovely."
"You can feel me a little if you want" she encourages.
She holds the soft petals of her labia open in invitation.
He looks longingly at her womanhood. "You're tempting me. It's kind of mesmerising actually. The inside of your vagina has these intricate little folds. While you were talking, the opening was getting larger and smaller. I was wondering if you were doing that intentionally. Your opening looks kind of small actually. I thought it would be larger."
His carnal knowledge of his mother is now nearly complete.
Grace's sexual urgency is overwhelming now. Pleading, "Please. Put your finger in me. I want you to."
She feels his finger enters her tentatively. She can tell she is wet. It slips in easily without any friction. She pushes against the slow thrust of her son's finger, engulfing him. A light spasm tickles her as he gingerly twists his finger around inside her. She emits a girlish giggle. She resists the urge to hump his finger. She lets her son explore her in his way.
"It is wet and wrinkly. Warm and soft. It feels so good. How does this feel to you?"
"It feels good. I don't want you to stop."
"God! I'm imagining how sweet my penis will feel inside you right now. I mean, if you're not my mum. You're so wet and tight. I'm about to ejaculate just thinking about it."
"Don't get too worked up." She manages a laugh. "Do you want to feel my clitoris?"
"Yes," he sounds excited now. He pulls his finger out of her quickly with an audible slosh. He looks at his glistening finger. He brings it up to his nose. To Grace's astonishment, he licks it.
"Did you just taste me?" her eyes wide in exaggerated surprise.
"Just curious."
"How does your mummy taste?"
"Kind of... musky. Piquant. A raw onion sandwich."
"When you're done licking my juice, give me your finger." She holds out her hand.
Grace takes Jasper's wet finger in her hand and pulls it down to her vagina. She spreads open the top of her labia with one hand and, with the other, she presses the tip of his finger against her aroused love button.
Jasper sees that her interior is inlaid with a shy nub of pearl.
Grace pushes his finger hard against herself and grinds it up and down. She shudders with the sudden pleasure, but she bites her lip to keep from moaning. She does not want her son to know how aroused his mother is.
"That's it. Do you feel the bump?"
"Yes"
She rubs her son's finger harder. Mustering her cool, "I am aroused. Can you feel it?"
"Yes"
"Oh!" the cry escapes her mouth despite her best efforts. She laughs, "I'm really aroused right now. Yours is just more obvious."
Grace swings her foot around until her toes locate his erection. She plays her foot against her son's erection while he continues to rub his finger on her excited clitoris.
He looks down where his mum is stroking the sensitive sole of her foot against his hard penis. "I'm pretty close, I think. But, you probably don't want my fluid on your foot."
Grace shudders with pleasure as her son rubs her nub hard, his finger wet with vaginal fluid.
"Slow down a little," she moans, "Yes, that feels good."
She stops teasing him with her foot. She drops her leg on his lap. His penis flops against her thigh. She feels his penis twitch against her. A teardrop of sticky liquid dribbles onto her leg from his tip.
Her sexual anticipation is so intense, it no longer seems to matter to Grace that this is her son. Yet, there is still a faint but perturbing insistent whisper of reason that keeps hounding her of the fact.
She announces boldly, "God, I wish you're not my son just now. I am so ready for someone inside me right now!"
Her son looks momentarily petrified.
Grace has an idea. Emboldened by arousal, she gives voice to her thought, "Do you want to masturbate?"
"You want me to right now? You don't mind?"
"I think we can both do it," she replies sheepishly. "Is that too weird?"
"No. That is cool with me."
"Do you want to stick your finger inside me again?" her voice low as if to hide her depravity, "Touch me? While we masturbate?"
Her son looks startled. He responds without question. He thrusts his finger inside her moist opening, quickly this time. She moans gently in surprise.
"More fingers" she whispers, and again, he complies.
"Thrust them. Yes. Harder. Oh. Oh. That's it. That's it. Masturbate with me."
Grace fingers her clitoris as she starts to thrust back against her son's fingers.
He surrenders silently to her craven demand. She feels his hand grasp his penis against her thigh. His knuckles rub up and down against her thigh. As he multitasks, at first, he starts to lose his rhythm with his other hand as he starts pleasuring himself.
She pleads, "Keep thrusting, yes."
And then both hands are in sync.
"How does it feel like masturbating while you touch your mother?"
"So good."
Grace arches her back and pushes her pelvis hard against her son's hand. She feels herself spasm. She squeezes on her son's fingers with intense pleasure.
"I'm going to ejaculate. You better move your leg away" he blurts.
"It's OK."
Grace moans as a slight contraction squeezes pleasurably, then releases on her son's fingers, relaxing blissfully. She is floating in a sea of ecstasy when her son's warm semen finally spurts over and over on her exposed thigh. The spurts seem to go on a long time. Her thigh feels like it is soaked with wet dripping warmth. He lapses into a sigh of exhaustion. But, he still manages to cut his mouth wide from ear to ear.
"That's alot of produce. Enough to put out a small fire." she says, opening her eyes and smiling.
"I cannot believe you actually came on my leg."
They glide into relaxed comfortable silence, ignoring the dripping semen. There is plenty of time to clean up later. They have more pressing things to do right now. Like fall into blissful slumber.
Jasper rests his cheek on Grace's soft breast. He feels an intense longing to spend the rest of his life there. He so wants the life that it implies.
***
Grace's eyes flicker. Brilliant, just brilliant. Not the light. But, what she is feeling.
It is late afternoon. She decides to let her son continue his sleep.
Grace looks around the room for something to wipe the cum off with. It feels cold and clammy now and is starting to dry around the edges.
Her robe is strewn across the floor. She uses it to wipe the semen off the sofa first, but even after wiping carefully, there is still a noticeable wet spot.
She wipes up the inside of her thigh, catching the big globs of semen. Her thigh is still wet when she drops the robe to the floor, but she is going to shower anyway.
The air feels close and damp, as if it has been breathed many times. Grace opens the window and clears the afternoon of the morning air.
She walks to the kitchen. She opens the refrigerator to get a drink. It feels so wrong walking around naked with her son's fluids on her leg. She feels deviant. It is a pleasantly good feeling.
Perversely, her religious upbringing makes this all the more enthralling. On reflection, she thinks she is surprisingly relaxed about what she has just done with her son. There is no overhang, no drag of guilt. She feels fine, even pleased. God will be much more in her life now because there is so much to forgive her.
Her son wakes up. He is groggy for awhile. The light was pristine, bright and clean when he drifted into slumber. Now, the light appears used. Lost its sheen of clarity. After a minute, he is sentiently awake and aware.
Jasper goes up to his mother. He looks into her eyes. She is glad that he is smiling. No awkwardness. No tension.
He steps back a little, "I want to look at you properly this time."
He desires to relive the experience of first revelation.
"What do you want to see?"
"Everything. To begin with."
Jasper admires Grace for long minutes. "Oh!" he sighs silently, with a reverence otherwise reserved for opera or privately held Monets.
Grace steps forward into his arms. He is tall. Taller than he has ever been. More like a big brother now than a son. Somehow, the earlier bonding experience with his mother has boosted his male confidence. Without hesitation, he wraps his long arms around her nude body. He squeezes her tightly against him. She melts into him. The contours of her breasts meld into his chest, finding their own level. Her sensitive nipples chaff against his chest. But, he yearns the infantile, he yearns a return to the womb.
His manhood nestles in her warm junction of mound vee and creamy upper thighs. It stiffens a notch, pressing into her thighs. But, it is not erect. Not yet.
His male hands feel rough on her bare back. He holds his mother for a long time, peering deep into the back of her eyes. And she, his.
They shower and remain naked the rest of the day, comfortable in their shared nudity.
They hold long conversations on their renewed bond, and where it will take them. A kind of fireside chat with a different source of fire.
In lighter moments, they tell each other funny stories of lived experiences. Mother and son hurl themselves about the sofa in hilarity.
Mother and son share intimate moments. But, there is a muted tacit agreement that the highest order of bliss is reserved for later that night when the moon is full of itself. This in itself creates the second highest order of bliss, which is awaiting the highest order of bliss. Minds move and fuck as bodies do, but in mysterious ways.
After dinner, they repair to the main bedroom. The bedroom houses a queen bed, a dresser, and a classic regal writing desk and chair that would be right at home in a historical drama film.
They feel rising stirrings in their loins the moment they enter the bedroom. A mother and son conspiratorial sexual solidarity. As Jasper guides his mother to the bed, Grace veers away to the writing desk.
"Here" she intimates.
He looks puzzled. And then he understands all too well.
They face each other. Jasper pins his mother to the desk. Her palms pressed backwards on the desk top in support. Still a little awkwardness. She turns her face away from him.
Grace feels a hard pressure on her stomach just above her pubis. She looks down to see her son's penis fully erect. It looks massive to her. Formidable. It is red. He stands so close to her. It presses deeply into her naked stomach and he seems oblivious to it. She feels the head of Jasper's penis throbbing in her stomach. It is his heartbeat, she thinks. She is feeling his heartbeat through his penis. His heart is racing too, just like hers.
She wonders if her son is sexually enchanted by the tingle of the taboo, or her nakedness, or both?
She asks herself the same. Taboo it is. There are legions of naked male bodies. But, she has only one son. One Jasper.
He steps closer, pressing his penis harder against her. Grace puts a hand on her son's red throbbing penis. She caresses him gently.Grace turns around from where she stands. She turns her back to her son, camels her back.
Jasper looks at the delicious inviting arc before him. All arranged according to the laws of pictorial sensual art.
Grace feels Jasper's erection between her butt cheeks. She bends forward over the desk, dramatically sweeping papers and objects to the floor with wide motions of her arms. She raises her naked arse up against his penis. Jasper feels a primitive blood force move him to a higher flourish.
Grace looks back. She reaches back and grabs hold of Jasper's erection, guiding it to her exposed vagina. She is drawing her son into a feral experience.
"Is this how you want it, mum?"
"Yes, dear son. This is how I have dreamt I want it. And you are my dream son."
Jasper grips his mother's arse cheeks with both hands. Grace feels his penis head starts to press hard against her nether opening. She should be afraid of his monstrosity. But, Grace finds herself relaxed on the desk. It is because she has rehearsed this so many times in her dreams. Her love portal is relaxed and fearless. The calm before the storm.
Jasper's penis slowly forces Grace open. Then, with a dramatic thrust, he is in his mother. He feels a massive sense of well-being. He is in his element. As he fills her, he feels filled in return.
Grace looks at Jasper lovingly as she feels his warm flesh make its slow relentless entry into her.
She winces as the full width of Jasper is forced into her. She squeezes on Jasper and feels a shot of pleasure. Then, she relaxes again, willing herself to open to him.
"Are you alright?"
"Yes, keep going please," Grace manages, but tears fill her eyes.
Grace continues to slowly shove his formidable shaft into her. She is able to keep herself relaxed and open, ushering Jasper in. 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?" Jasper asks.
"Yes"
Proving her point, she pushes her arse back against his hardness, completely enveloping him.
Jasper grips her butt cheeks and starts slowly pumping his enormous penis in and out of her.
Grace squeezes and relaxes rhythmically on her son. She extends a hand underneath and starts tweaking her clitoris with a finger.
Grace moans loudly as Jasper speeds up his pistoning. Soon his hands are moving on her body until he grips her breasts. Ouch! Sweet agony. His contact with her hyper sensitive nipples electrify her. Grace is capable of orgasms from mere nipple manipulation. That is how sensitive she is.
His penis is ramming her hard now. He grunts with exertion.
Jasper is pounding her with an animal pleasure. 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 painful now, but Grace takes it.
Grace 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. Jasper is gasping. All her butterflies line up, spread their wings, and take flight with excitement in a rising cloud of every hue.
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. Grace is in a state of sexual grace. Depleted and full all at once.
Grace has emerged from a dark tunnel and finds herself in the middle of a Rio carnival.
Jasper slows, and hammers Grace with two last massive thrusts. He experiences an explosion in reverse. Funneling inward to a geometrical point of stillness. Jasper stops fully inside her. Grace feels Jasper twitch and spurt.
The cathedral hush before dawn. Finally, Jasper lets out a sigh and pulls out. He lets go of her breasts and steps back.
Grace slumps on the desk as if paralysed. She feels fluids ooze out of her in every body crevice. But, it is only one.
Mother and son linger in the moment.
A scent permeates the air. Her scent can be described as divine, and yet, slightly suspect, like everything sexual that smells really good.
Fine granules of sweat and other fluids, the small evidence of human desires and passions, line their body parts. Jasper loves the motherly fluids. He wishes he can bottle a little bit of it.
Grace experiences a kind of extraordinary peace in her body as her muscles and sinews sigh back to the places they had come from.
After a respite, Jasper picks Grace up, scoops her up in a flurry, over the threshold of carpet, before laying her on the queen bed.
She nestles into his equatorial warmth, which is disablingly sensual.
***
Grace and Jasper stir at 2am. They workout. And again at the first light of dawn.
"How was it?"
"I don't think I can reduce big sensory experiences to mere words."
"In that case, we'll have to do it again."
Oooh! The excesses of youth.
Grace is depleted. Depleted and fulfilled all at once. She has never felt so complete in her life. Bonfire. The point of no return. All in cosmic orderly orbital alignment.
The work of life needs to get done. And sex in all its biodiversity is work - what work! Sex is the only human endeavour where one can be out of one's mind, and out of one's body. A momentary freedom from consciousness, at the highest level of consciousness. Therein, its charm.
Time has sentimentalised Grace a little. She gazes over at the tranquil male form next to her. Although it has just been a day and a night, she knows this body by heart. She can sketch it in her sleep.
She studies Jasper's placid sleeping face. She gazes down his naked body. She sees hearth and home. Grace spoons Jasper. A bakery warmth.
Grace has thrown herself into the detail of the world around her. To live moments at a time. This is what she enjoys.
Grace allows herself a kittenish smile. The moon beams. Grace mews into slumber.
***