My husband and I are in our fifties. We have an 18 year old son. Our only child. I have a younger widowed brother, also in his fifties.
My husband and my brother are blood mates. Thick as thieves. No, thicker. It is my brother who introduced me to my husband. My son and my husband are more mates than father and son.
You can discern a happy triangle forming here. One of their more durable bonding interests is photography. Photography as an end in itself. Camera gizmos, photoeditor applications. And photography as an access vehicle to explore other realms such as art.
We live in the English South Coast, in an area particularly blessed with miles of desolate sand dunes and secluded coves. Nary a soul. A sunbathing paradise. The closest to heaven without the inconvenience of dying.
My husband and I have this secluded dune and cove which we literally stumbled, arse over head, down to, one day. It is in this little cocoon nook of sand and water that my husband and I enjoy our skinny dipping. A place to call our very own. We relish the primal feeling of sun, sea and wind caressing skin. But, we are not nudists in the organised movement, or liberated lifestyle sense. In fact, the only adult manhood I have seen in the flesh is my husband's.
My husband is scheduled to be away for an extended period because of an overseas work assignment. This is at the high noon of one of the best English South Coast summers in a long time. My husband wants me to enjoy the glorious weather on offer, but has some reservations about my being nude alone in a secluded place. I tell my husband that any aspiring weirdo will melt away quicktime on first distant sighting of my venerable body of flabs and sags.
He suggests that if I am comfortable with it, he will arrange to rope in our son, or my brother, to my sunny enterprise. He is cool with the nudity if I am comfortable with the arrangement. It will be family. Awkward at first maybe, but safe. No different from nudist families. He reasons that with my option of roping in one or the other, it will afford me more quality sun time opportunities and scheduling flexibility, as our son and my brother each have their own busy schedules too.
I tell my husband that I will have to mull over it. This is new terroir that I am traipsing into, a path somewhat on the wild side never travelled, my being in a state of nature with our son and my brother. If we are a nudist family, nobody will blink. But, we are not, and never have been. And will they be nude too? Will it be awkward if I am nude, and they are not? I tell my husband that I will let him know in a couple of days.
***
Chapter 2
I Decide
My husband is somewhat of a worry wort. Always has been. I don't want him to worry about my safety the whole time he is away. He knows my independent nature all too well. That whatever the case, I will end up sunbathing alone anyway when the sun is high, and its lure irresistible.
So, I tell my husband OK. Against my better judgement.
That decided, then, how shall we ask our son and my brother? Are we imposing on them, asking them to be naked as well? Is it at all right to ask them to be naked? Will it work if I am naked, and they are not? And if they are naked too, what if they are in flourish? Is there an element of the taboo in this? Who shall do the asking? Do we need to inform our son that his uncle is involved in this? Conversely, do we need to inform my brother that his nephew is in this too? So many unwieldy inconvenient questions. I am beginning to regret agreeing to this whole matter. I am getting squeamish about the whole proposition. No other male has seen my adult body other than my husband. And now, in a single stroke, my son and brother will see me. A teen and a mature man. That about covers the rainbow spectrum. Not just fleeting glimpses, but hours on the dunes.
***
A description of me is appropriate at this time.
People close to me tell me that I am the quintessential English rose. I think I am pretty in a plain sort of way. I was an active dancing enthusiast. Ballet. Although I have stopped active dancing a long time ago, I still maintain the upright demeanor of a ballerina, so I am told.
I have light brown hair, cascading off my shoulders with some grey in places. I have green eyes. My husband tells me that they sparkle when I am happy or aroused. I take his word in good faith. As with all things nice about me.
My skin, virginally white. Astoundingly, this is despite my many hours of sun time. Maybe this summer, I will make the breakthrough yet.
My breasts are small to medium sized. In the modest range. They are heavier than they look. Sagging a little from their weight. My left breast is slightly smaller than my right breast, asymmetrical, but not glaringly so. My husband tells me that my sags add to my mature allure, without taking anything away from my form. Being all natural, my nipples point down just enough to make them alluring. My areolas are small relative to my nipples. They rise markedly above my breasts with their own distinct personalities, like miniscule pedestals, from which my nipples stand out. Three tiers. Breast. An areola stage. And then, the star of the show, my nipples. A dusting of freckles on my upper chest. My husband tells me the freckles accentuate my modest cleavage. Optics enhances reality.
Par for a woman in her inconvenient fifties, I have my obligatory share of flabs and sags, and body signature lines of my age. A wrinkle or two, here and there. Just slight ones. But my body otherwise is toned, healthy. Smooth shoulders. Unblemished back. And my high point of pride, no cellulite. None.
My arse. My husband describes me like so. A distinctive curve. Each orb is separately defined and sculpted in its own right, with its own expressed identity. Not a young girl's butt for sure. But, not a blubber mass either. A woman's tail, longish and curving. And the hint of light shadow, the recess between is, he says, bewitching. This, I believe, by his deeds. He dry humps that recess at every opportunity, when we are naked, but not quite enough time for indulgent intercourse. I love the grazing intense feeling welling at the triangulation of my upper thighs, lower mound vee, and my arse orbs.
I have a soft rise of tummy. An artful delicate caesarean section cut filament line just above my mound.
My waist is about right for my age.
I think my legs are my best assets, if I may be allowed to say so myself. They are the only body parts that have not gone wayward by inevitable force of nature, and willful gravity. My legs flare into ample hips.
My husband calls me lite Rubenesque. Not quite the classic ideal abundance manifested in oil paintings. But, no less enthralling. So he says. He is an inveterate liar. And I love him for that.
A faint shadow is at the base of my abdomen. My pubic hair is matchingly the same brown as the hair on my head, only curlier. I keep my bush neatly trimmed. Natural primal luxuriance. And yet neat. Tamed wilderness. None of the plasticky, clinically mowned, waxed renditions with contrived perfectly linear landing strips. My husband tells me that my bush complements and ornamentalizes my lady parts well.
My labia is apparent. But not demonstratively assertive and proud. A shy peek-a-boo tease. My outer labia hangs down a little. My slit is prone to open when I am aroused, as my husband will testify. Otherwise, my inners are jealousy concealed.
I keep my five foot four inch mature form in shape through exercise.
I have mixed feelings about my body. Self-evidently, I like my lush bits. But, I am acutely conscious of my modest top. I am at peace with the reality that is me. Delusions soothe, but, do not consume me.
I am shy. But, I am no prude.
***
Pondering it over, it will be so much simpler if I just sunbathe in my skimpy thong bikini like other ladies. After all, given my nominal Wicked Weasel thong textile, it is as good as being in the buff.
But, my husband will hear nothing of this. He knows that in the compelling glorious sunshine, I will succumb to the pull of the au naturel. Being nude is more than just a deficit of textile. It is mental. It is psychological.
My husband says that he will spare me the discomfiture, since this is his brainchild in the first place. He will talk to our son, after a few chilled pints at the pub. And do the same, separately, with my brother, that is his brother-in-law.
My husband adds that it will be even more awkward if I am nude, and the boys are not. So, just go for it. The full monty. Think of it as me inducting our son, and my brother, one-on-one, into the glorious institution of nudism. An evangelism of sorts. Assume a missionary position.
***
Chapter 3
Dad-Son Chat
And so my husband talks to our son. This is what my husband recounts to me afterwards in near verbatim. I have an open and trusting relationship with my husband. So, we are candid with one another.
Husband: You know, I'll be away on an extended overseas assignment this summer.
Son: Aww, that's a shame, dad. The way the weather is shaping up, it looks like we are going to have one of the best summers ever. A scorcher!
Husband: Yes! That leads me to the question that I want to ask you. It's a bit awkward though.
Son: Dad, just shoot.
Husband: You see, your mum and I stumbled upon a secluded dune and cove sometime ago. We have been sunbathing nude there ever since. We are not nudists in the club or lifestyle sense. We just enjoy the sun.
Son: This is a surprise! Well, this is so cool! My parents are skinny dippers! And mum... hmmm... never would have thought...
Husband: Here's the thing. I want mum to enjoy the summer in her usual way. But, I don't feel at ease with her being naked alone in a secluded place. There is a carpark leading to the trail to the secluded dunes and cove. A parked car will indicate that there is a sunbather in the vicinity, remote as the area may be. The seclusion is a double-edged sword. Great that no one is around. But, if there is a random wandering weirdo who chances upon mum, it can spell trouble.
Son: So how can I help?
Husband: By accompanying your mum when you can.
Son: Just to be sure I understand you right. Me accompanying mum who will be nude?
Husband: Yes
Son: Errr... you and mum don't mind me seeing her nude? Know that I've never seen mum in anything less than a sensible one-piece swimsuit.
Husband: Mum and I have discussed this. Initially, under the circumstances, mum had offered to sunbathe alone in her bikini. But, I know from her independent streak that under the glorious sun, she is likely to throw caution to the wind, and go nude anyway. That will be worrisome for me. So, we, or at least I, decided to go with the nudity.
Son: I see. Yes, now that you mention this, mum has that devil-may-care flippant demeanor which surfaces when one least expects it.
Husband: There will be an inevitable initial moment of nudity awkwardness. It will pass.
Son: Errr.. am I expected to be in the buff too?
Husband: It's really your choice. The purpose of this is ensuring mum's safety. So, your being nude or not doesn't really matter. But, if you're nude, it would kind of equalise the situation. A symmetry to it all. Mum won't feel awkward. I'm afraid mum may decide not to go nude if she feels awkward, in which case this whole rationalization falls apart.
Son: I see your point...
Husband: Safety first.
Son (jocularly): Have you considered the remote possibility that under the circumstances, I, your son, may be the, in military jargon, the clear and present danger to mum?
Husband (guffawing): You're manifestly wicked! Yes, your mum is sexy. For a mature woman in her fifties, she has her rightful allocation of flabs and sags. But, she has defied the march of nature, and gravity well. Buxom. Curvy. Breasts with just the right sag. Well defined arse orbs.
Son: Dad, stop, stop! No more spoilers.
Husband: Your mum is a piece of work. I get carried away. I forget we are talking about my wife, and your mum.
Son: Seriously, growing up, I have never seen much of mum. No childhood accidental bathroom ooops nudity flashes. No bathroom to bedroom streak sprints. No teenhood inadvertent fleeting lingerie exposés. No spectacular wardrobe malfunctions. I cannot remember ever having any access to mum's wardrobe and laundry basket lingerie velvety stash.
Husband (jocularly): Oh, you poor child! I didn't know. We didn't know. What an underprivileged, deprived, dreary childhood! What an austere upbringing!
Son (quipping): Yes, starved of my rightful oedipal rations. Consequently, I am an epileptic, stuttering Freudian mess today.
Husband (jocularly): It's never too late. Mum will make it up to you. I am so glad we have this conversation.
Son: Dad, seriously, what if I sport a stiffy. I am a son and an emerging man. Mum is a mother and a woman. At some level, the man and the woman will show up.
Husband: I can't speak for your mum. But, knowing her, she will display outward sheepishness, and will feel validated by your pointed approval. She will be mutedly elated that she has elicited a reaction from a strapping young lad.
Son: You seem very open about this...
Husband: Besides being a father, I am a son and a man too. I've been there. The Freudian trip.
Son: Hmmm...
Husband: Oh! There is something else you should know too.
Son: There is more?
Husband: I'll be having this same conversation with your uncle. Mum's brother.
Son: What? Is it really necessary that he has to know about this?
Husband: There is a bit more to what you are thinking of.
Son: Oh? What may that be?
Husband: You have your own plans and schedules. There will be times when mum wants to sunbathe, and you're busy, and can't accompany her. It's not fair that mum dominates all your free time. Knowing your headstrong mum, she will just go ahead alone with her sunbathing if you are unavailable. So, we rope in your uncle as an alternate. This will give mum some scheduling flexibility, and also not take up so much of your time. Mum will also feel better, not being a drag on any one person. Your uncle is widowed, and not with anyone now. He runs his internet business from home, so he will have time.
Son: Hmmm... interesting...
Husband: There is also a secondary incidental objective to this.
Son: There is? Let me guess. You are recruiting Grandad too? We are going big on family bonding?
Husband (jocularly): Hey, that's an idea! Seriously, we think that this is a good opportunity to induct you and your uncle into nudism. Not in the organized nudism movement sense. Just enjoying the sun, sea and wind au naturel whenever. Chill, casual, easy. Where we are living, desolate miles upon miles of dunes and coves, it's criminal not to enjoy the sun as it should be enjoyed. And maybe if you and your uncle are hooked, you can join mum and me in future.
Son: Dad, I am cool with this arrangement, odd as it may sound. I do feel somewhat awkward about the nudity thing. I hope mum is comfortable with this all.
Husband: Just enjoy the experience. And the mum-son bonding. Just go with the flow.
Son (jocularly): I hope it won't come to flow! Lots of laughs!
***
When I have my quiet tea time, I ponder the candid conversation that my husband had with my son. Hmmm... all that Freudian oedipal nuanced banter. Is there something more simmering beneath my son's comments? Am I reading too much into this dad-son boys pub tête-à-tête? Did my son find me attractive in his teenhood? How have those feelings morphed now that I am in my mellowed fifties, and he, a strapping young man? These thoughts pique me. Well, I will have ample opportunity to find out in the dunes. I get a tingle from the thought. I shouldn't really. But, I do. Hmmm... what's happening here?
***
Chapter 4
My Husband And My Brother Chat
Later, my husband talks to my brother. His brother-in-law. He kind of had the conversation script rehearsed in his mind, from the earlier exchange with our son, with improvisions of course, as he is talking to a mature man. This is what my husband recounts to me afterwards, again, in near verbatim.
Husband: You know, I'll be away on an extended overseas assignment this summer.
Brother: That's a shame. We are going to have scorcher summer.
Husband: Yes. That leads me to the favour that I want to ask you. It's a bit awkward though...
Brother: We have always been candid with one another. Shoot!
Husband: You see, your sister and I stumbled upon a secluded dune and cove sometime ago. We have been sunbathing nude there ever since. We are not nudists in the club or lifestyle sense. We just enjoy the sun.
Brother: Really?
Husband: Why the surprise?
Brother: Hmmm... I just didn't expect my prim and proper sis to be a nudist, even if in a secluded place. Quite a revelation.
Husband: Here's the thing. I want your sis to enjoy the summer in her usual way. But, I don't feel at ease with her being naked alone in a secluded place. The seclusion is a double-edged sword. Great that not a soul is around. But, if there is a random wandering lurking creep who chances upon her, it can spell trouble.
Brother: So how can I help?
Husband: By accompanying your sis when your schedule permits.
Brother: Just to be sure I get you right. Me accompanying my sis, your wife, who will be in her native glory?
Husband: Yes
Brother: Errr... you and her don't mind me seeing her nude? Know that I've never seen my sis in anything less than a sensible one-piece swimsuit. And that was like when she was in her twenties. Eons ago.
Husband: Your sis and I have discussed this. Initially, under the circumstances, she offered to sunbathe alone in her bikini. But, I know from her independent streak that under the glorious sun, she is likely to throw caution to the sea wind, and go nude anyway. That will be worrisome for me. So, we, or at least I, decided to go with the nudity.
Brother: Yes, sis has that derring-do demeanor since she was young. She has that more so than me.
Husband: There will be an inevitable initial moment of nudity awkwardness. It will pass.
Brother: Am I expected to be starkers too?
Husband: It's really your choice. The purpose of this is ensuring her safety. So, your being nude or not doesn't really matter. But, if you're nude, it would kind of equalise the situation. A symmetry to it all. She won't feel awkward. I'm afraid she may decide not to go nude if she feels awkward, in which case our whole discussion here is moot.
Brother: I see your point...
Husband: Safety first.
Brother (jocularly): You know I have been widowed for coming to two years now. Have you considered the possibility, wildly remote as it may be, that under the circumstances, I may be the danger that you worry about, to your wife? Lots of laughs!
Husband (guffawing): I'll take my chances! Yes, your sis is sexy. For a mature woman in her fifties, she has her rightful allocation of flabs and sags. But, she has defied the persistent march of nature, and uncompromising gravity well. Buxom. Curvy. Breasts with just the right sag. Well defined arse orbs.
Brother (jocularly): Stop, stop! Don't spoil it for me. I want to enjoy the revelation moment.
Husband: I take this to mean you are amendable to the idea? Your sis is a piece of work. I get carried away. I forget we are talking about my wife, and your sis.
Brother: Seriously, growing up, I have never seen much of sis. No childhood accidental bathroom ooops nudity flashes. No bathroom to bedroom three meter streak sprints. I cannot remember ever having any access to her wardrobe and laundry basket lingerie velvety stash.
Husband (jocularly): What a deprived, austere, dreary siblinghood!
Brother (quipping): You said it. Seriously, I couldn't help but admire her from a brotherly gazing distance. She is lovely. Then and now. You lucky sod! If society has different ground rules to the game, I may not have introduced my sis to you.
Husband: Come to think of it, Lucy, your late wife, does look like your sis.
Brother: Don't go there...
Husband (jocularly): I won't. Well, it's never too late to make amends. Your sis will make it up to you. I am so glad we have this conversation.
Brother: What if I sport a boner? I am a brother and a man. And a fallow two-year widower to boot. Your wife is a sister and a woman. At some level, the man and the woman will show up at the party.
Husband: I can't speak for your sis. But, knowing her, she will display outward sheepishness, but will feel validated by your pointed approval. She will be mutedly elated that she has elicited a reaction from her younger brother.
Brother: You seem very socially liberal about this...
Husband: Like you say, there is the brother, and there is the man. There is the sister, and there is the woman. We have these combinations. Bro-Sis. Bro-Woman. Sis-Man, Man-Woman. Go figure the dynamics. It's complicated. I'm not going to mull over it. Your sis is my wife. You are my mate first, brother-in-law second. You introduced my wife to me. We are in this together... Que sera sera, as the song goes.
Brother: Hmmm...
Husband: Oh! There is something else you should know too.
Brother: There is more?
Husband: I had this same conversation with your nephew. My son. Your sister's son.
Brother: But why? Is it really necessary that he has to know about this?
Husband: There is a bit more to what you are thinking of.
Brother: Oh? What may that be? Pray tell.
Husband: You have your own plans and schedules. There will be times when your sis wants to sunbathe, and you're busy, and can't accompany her. It's not fair that your sis dominates all your free time. You have your life to tend to. Knowing your headstrong sis, she will just go ahead alone with her sunbathing if you are unavailable. So, we rope in your nephew as an alternate. This will give her some scheduling flexibility, and also not consume so much of your time. Your sis will also feel better, not being a drag on any one person.
Brother: Hmmm... That brings the family bonding to another level!
Husband: Just think of it as the sun being the centre of the universe, our raison d'être, and we all fall dutifully around it. Wife. Sister. Mother. Brother. Uncle. Son. Nephew. Whomever.
Brother: Hmmm...
Husband: There is also a secondary incidental objective to this.
Brother: There is?
Husband: We think that this is a good opportunity to induct you and our son into nudism. Not in the organised nudism movement sense. Just enjoying the sun, sea and wind au naturel whenever. Skinny dipping. Where we are living, desolate miles upon miles of dunes and coves, it is criminal not to enjoy the sun as it should be enjoyed. And maybe if you and our son are hooked this summer, you can join your sis and me in future.
Brother: OK, I'll go with this. I do feel awkward about the nudity thing. I hope sis is comfy with this all. If you and her are comfy, I will be. It is apparent that you and sis have rationalised this. If you're cool, I am too.
Husband: Just enjoy the experience. And the bro-sis bonding.
Brother (jocularly): Bonding huh?
Husband: I owe you. Big!
Brother (jocularly): You do! But, there are compensations. I have to admit, the idea of seeing sis naked, even if it is strange, piques my curiosity. She is very attractive. And I have never seen her naked. Truth be told, I get a twitch just talking about all this now.
***
Again, when I have my quiet morning tea time, I think over the candid conversation that my husband engaged with my brother.
Is there something simmering beneath my brother's comments about his young days? I think back to my young days. I draw a blank. Am I reading too much into this boys talk? Did my brother find me attractive in his teenhood? If he did, how have those feelings morphed now that I am in my mellowed fifties?
Again, as in the case of my son earlier, these inconvenient, but not unpleasant thoughts pique me. Hmmm... I will have ample opportunity to find out in the dunes. I get a tremor from this thought. I shouldn't really. But, I do. Hmmm...
First, my son. Now, my brother. And what exactly is playing in my husband's mind? An emotional whirlpool. A lot to process...
***
Chapter 5
I Tease My Husband
I finish my bath. I am standing naked in front of the full length mirror in my bedroom, posing this way and that, inspecting my body here and there, posing, preening, hunting down cellulite colonies, and mercifully finding none. Normally, I do this on my bare feet. But, today, on a whim, I feel moved to slip on my fuck me stilettos.
I hear my husband returning from work. He has been very busy this week, as he prepares to leave for his overseas assignment tomorrow morning. A jackboot march of steps up the staircase in a rising crescendo.
I remain in my present state. My husband and I are accustomed to casual home nudity. There is only me and him living in the house. Our son lives away.
He enters the room.
Husband (emits a lusty wolf whistle): Nice! A sight to behold for sore eyes! Hmmm... what's with the heels?
Me: Hi Darling! All set for your business trip?
Husband: Just about. I see you are all set too?
Me: Huh?
Husband (smirking): I see you are all set too for my business trip.
It dawns on me that my husband is cheekily referring to my sunbathing with our son and my brother, when he is away.
Oh well, two can play a teasing fantasy game. We do tease each other mercilessly. But, the taboo realm is a new incursion we have never explored before.
Me: Not quite yet. I need your wise counsel.
I twirl, spin down in my husband's direction. Perched totteringly on my high heels, I thrust my pelvis.
Me (coyly): I trimmed my bush. What do you think?
I tease more.
Me: I want to be presentable to our son, and my brother. I want them to think well of me. I am a mother and a big sister. I want to live up to these lofty expectations.
I crouch on my stilettos facing him. Body proudly upright. My legs parted only just so, showing my bush, and a delicate outline of cleft.
Me: Is it showing a wee too much? Or, not nearly enough?
I stand up. I turn my back to him. I keep both legs straight together, body bent down impossibly low, as only a former ballerina can. My left hand grips my right ankle, to lockdown the pose. A tantalising exposé of labia, slightly agape, but betraying nothing.
Me (coyly): You are awfully quiet back there...
I slide my legs apart while maintaining them straight. I graze my cheek against the side of my lower thigh, peering back coquettishly. My left hand continues to grip my right ankle.
Me: Shall I mow the lawn completely?
My husband does not reply.
In a kind of hypnotic trance, he strips in a flurry, guides me to the wall. He presses my back hard against the wall. He extends my arms horizontally out in a crucifixion configuration. His hands pin down my palms to lock me down. I am nailed. Holy cow! He nuzzles his rockhard shaft at the moist confluence of my lower mound and upper thighs in a sawing dry hump motion. As I tighten my clenched thighs, my husband intensifies his pistoning motion to breach the seal. Animistic pagan growls and howls. Can our neighbours hear us? His perseverance pays off. He gets in, by dint of forceful persistence.
It is apparent that he approves of my trimmed bush.
My husband flies off in the morning.
***
Chapter 6
Mother and Son
The morning sun is simply divine. Is it my imagination that the sky is brighter and clearer than usual?
I message my son if he would like to go to the beach. He replies yes in the usual economical terse reply of young people.
After meeting up in my home, we drive to the beach. There is some awkwardness as we make light contrived conversation in the car. There is an expectant air. I don't know of what precisely.
We hike a two mile meandering bushy trail. We squeeze and force our way, brusingly, through an unyielding thicket wall of tall bush. Our secret entrance. Nobody in their sound minds will navigate themselves through an impenetrable thicket wall.
Voila! Our secluded dune and cove. Members only. And today, I am inducting a new member.
My son pauses, and surveys and admires the picture-perfect scenery before him. He savours the austere seclusion. Maybe he is thinking of the incidental possibilities it affords?
My son takes off his sneakers and socks first, tossing the socks on the groundsheet, and the shoes in his bag. Next, he pulls off his t-shirt.
I have seen him in a swimsuit before, so this is no big deal.
He hears a rustling behind him, off his right shoulder. He knows that I am taking off my clothes in unison as well.
He says nothing. He keeps his eyes focused on the far horizon ahead. Next, his shorts. All he has left is a pair of briefs. He pauses.
This is our moment of truth. My rustling of clothes continues behind him.
In a swift movement, he pushes his briefs down his legs and steps out of them. He tosses them carelessly on the groundsheet.
I glance at his penis. My first view since he was an adolescent. Good length and girth, but not overly assertive. A dignified, almost regal demeanor. He is half-hard already. It stands away from his body in a droopy half arc.
He appears embarrassed to be in this state. I sense his twitch. He must be feeling an erotic tingle inside knowing his mum is seeing him for the first time, thick and partly aroused, rather than placidly shrunken.
Me: Alright! Time to turn around!
He turns around. He beholds me for the first time. I gaze into his eyes, and follow their laser beam.
He parses over my skin, like a mouse on a mouse pad, respectfully caressing me visually, lingering here and there, then moving on. Then, he ascertains my breasts as if deciding whether my sag is just about right, or perhaps a wee excessive.
By force of curiosity, he cannot stop his eyes from drifting lower, to between my legs. He looks surprised at that juncture. Perhaps he is expecting a full, wild bush befitting of a mature fifties female? Or, more contemporarily, a pristine silken mown mons pubis?
Instead, my son sees a faint brown bush. Closely cropped and shaped in a delicate wedge. It affords scant cover to hide the thin lips dangling sweetly between my parted legs. Is the fleeting glisten on my bush sweat or something else? Does he notice this detail?
I suddenly throw my hands out, dramatically, to my sides.
Me: So, what do you think of your venerable mum?
He is embarrassed, again.
Son (sheepishly): You look great, mum!
Now that my son has done his grand tour of his august mum, it is my turn. I run my eyes up and down his body, superficially in the early iterations, then immersing in the details.
Me: You look great too! A fine specimen. Now, tell me more about what you see.
Son: Exquisite! Mums shouldn't look like this! Utterly unmotherly.
Me: Hmmm... Just so you know, you are only the second person on this planet, male and female, who has the privilege of seeing me native.
Son (cheekily): I am so honoured! Thanks mum, for saving yourself for me all these years.
Me: Hmmm... you are too clever by half!
I move around the groundsheet organizing this and that, bending, crouching, kneeling, standing up again. I can't help it. My organizing instincts.
I spy my son's eyes are now drawn exploratorily south to my arse. Full, firm and ripe. Exposed to his view. I feel a shot of tingle.
Is that another twitch between his legs? He must be worrying about not being able to control his reaction. He doesn't want to be around his mum with an inconvenient raging hard-on. But he has no choice now. I sense he must be finding it hard to pull his eyes away from my arse. His penis is still only half erect, still behaving, nominally, but for how long more? Nobody can tell. Not even him. The charm is in not knowing, ever.
With our groundsheet in cosmic order, and housekeeping done, we sit down to chill some.
I sit down on a low portable foldout chair. My legs are parted slightly. My son sees the lips of my vagina. He tries to pull his eyes away and rivet them on my face. But, it appears almost impossible. My lips are parted. Only just so. A crack. He must be wondering what it will be like to part them more.
My son must feel like he has fallen down a rabbit hole. This must be the strangest experience he has ever had in his life, by far. His mum sitting naked with legs spread a few feet from him. He is naked with a semi-erect penis pointing in his mum's direction. He catches me glancing at his penis, between his own rationed darting glances at the enticing junction between my legs.
My body seems to have assumed a life of its own, coursing independently of me. Something is going on in me. My knees seem to be a bit farther apart than they have to be. My body is inclined farther back than it has to be. The result is that not only is the entire cleft of my vagina in view, with a hint of pink showing between my labia, but the creased oily circle of my anus as well. What is happening to me? What invisible force has appropriated my being?
I decide to take the proverbial bull by the horns. My son and I are going to be naked around each other all summer. We will endeavor to break all the sheepish inhibitions this morning. Get comfortable with our nudity, so that we can bed down quickly to a placid equilibrium, and enjoy ourselves without tension going forward.
I sit far back, almost reclining, on my low portable chair. My legs fall open wide. My son's eyes cannot help it, once again. He stares at my vagina. My lips glisten. Beckoning. Maybe it is just sweat. Is that a piquant vinegarish scent in the air?
My son must have stared at me longer than he is conscious of, because when he finally looks up, he sees me staring at him, my lips pursed in a wry smile.
Me: Do you like what you see?
My question catches him short. His youthful face registers shock. I smirk. He thinks I caught him. He barely stammers in reply.
Son: What . . . what do you mean?
Me: You were looking at me. Down there. Down me. Between my legs. Do you like what you see?
Poor sod! He must be thinking that there is no good way to reply to a question like that. I have a subterranean cruel streak that needs to find expression, every now and then.
Son (sheepishly): Mum, I'm sorry! I didn't mean that. I won't do that again.
Me: Don't be. And don't tell me you didn't mean to. I saw you doing it several times. You have been doing it ever since we got naked. You are looking at my vulva. You like looking at it, right?
His discomfort is now sky high. Not only has he been caught looking at me down there, but now I am putting on my motherly let's-be-completely-honest-about-this manner. The last thing a son wants to talk honestly with his mum is about looking at her vagina.
Me: Come on, son. Be honest.
Son: OK. Yes. Guilty as charged. I was looking at you. It is hard not to. You're a woman. You're attractive. And you're naked.
Me: Exactly! It is normal.
Son: I'm having a hard time getting used to this being normal. This new normal.
Me: Well, we don't live a nudist lifestyle. But, many families around the world practise nudism. They get used to nudity. To them, it is a completely normal, day-to-day, mundanely routine thing. It's all a matter of habituation.
I get up, and hop up on a flat rock ledge near the dune, and patted it with my hand.
Me (invitingly): Join me over here?
I sit on one end of the rock ledge and turn around. My son reluctantly follows and sits on it as well, a few feet from me. His penis begins to swell with all the talk about my vagina. He tries to conceal it by pressing his legs together.
Me (in a kindly tone): It's OK. Face me.
Reluctantly, he does as I tell him to do. He swings his legs up on the rock and sits cross-legged, facing me. His penis, choosing a bad time not to cooperate, grows still harder and pops up from his lap, angling in my direction.
Me (smiling softly): I can see you are definitely interested in the subject.
I look my son in the eyes.
Me: Look at me.
He stares back at me.
Me: No. Not at my face. Down here.
I point to my lap, between my legs stretched out to either side of the rock surface.
Me: Look at my most intimate.
Son (bashfully): Mum...
Me (reassuringly): Go ahead. I want you to. We are going to spend a lot of time together this summer, from today. I would like you to get to know me better, as I do you, so that we can be completely at ease with ourselves after this.
He does. Slowly. His eyes trailing away from my face, drifting down my neck, to my plump sagging breasts, past my belly, and finally to the nest of junction between my thighs.
I angle my hips toward my son, until the full vertical slit of my vagina is in his view. Top to bottom. I sit only a few feet from him. He gets the closest, best view he has had of it yet.
I can discern that he thinks it is lovely, the mounds of my outer lips framing and pressing against the thin folds of my inner lips. Brown well-trimmed hair lie about my lips, but do nothing to conceal them. My inner lips are parted. Just a crack. He glimpses a faint fleeting glistening sheen inside, from the reflected clean light of the morning sun.
Me: I think it is time to be candid with each other. You and I have never been naked together like this. I don't think you've ever seen me fully naked before. I cannot recall any fleeting bedroom or washroom ooops nudity exposé flashes. Am I right?
Son (sighing): Yes
He struggles to pull his eyes away from my womanhood.
Me: We have the summer before us. We are going to be naked together for a while longer, and if we're going to get something out of our beach time here, we need to be comfortable. I know you've been trying to be discreet about it. But I can tell you've been agitated. I don't want you to be that way. If you're agitated, then I'm going to be agitated too, and neither one of us will get what we should out of this summer. So, we're going to try something that should make us both more comfortable. Scoot closer.
He does so. I spread my legs wider still.
Me: We are going to put the mystique and strangeness of our nudity to rest, and enjoy the rest of the day. Cool?
Son: I guess so.
Me: You can see my hood here, covering my clitoris.
I trace its length with my index finger. It is long. It fully conceals my nub of skin underneath.
Son: Mum, I am not a gangling teen. I know what a vulva is. I have seen one before. More than one.
Me: But, you haven't seen mine before. This is about habituation, remember? Getting you accustomed to something you haven't seen before. Making you comfortable so that we don't have to deal with any awkwardness for the rest of the time we're here. Bear with me. Think of this as "Anatomy 101" for slightly more mature students, like for medical students pull the skin of my hood up and back.
Me: Now, you can see my clitoris. My clit. It is small and not easy to see. But, it is right there.
I touch my finger to the round pink bit of flesh under the folds of skin. I draw my finger back.
Me: Ahhh, sensitive! Go ahead and get a good look of me.
My son leans closer. He appears mesmerised. His mum, me, just feet away, exposing herself to him as she is, and encouraging him to look at her.
I sense some part of my son appreciates that my vagina is appealing in a way that is more than sexual. That its curve and shape and colour is beautiful. Like a flower. But, at the same time, my son is aroused. It is his mum's vagina. And, sitting here, looking at me, his penis standing straight up in salute from his lap, he cannot imagine ever being so "habituated" to it that he won't be turned on by the sight of it. My son must be wondering if, even just a little bit, if I am turned on too.
I allow him no time to think about it more because I impulsively spread my lips apart with my fingers.
Me: Now, you can see my vagina.
It must be embarrassing for him to listen to me talk this way. But, his eyes are glued to the pink gash that I have opened to him.
He is a healthy, libidinous eighteen year old male. He must have seen a few young vaginas in his time. Maybe even entered a few willing ones. But, it appears that he has never seen one presented to him quite so brazenly. I sense that he is trying to fight the feeling, because he is looking at me, but he can't help but acknowledge how arousing it is to see me this way.
I continue with my personalised anatomy lesson as though he hasn't said anything.
Me: The vulva is the proper name for the exterior, although some people call it a vagina. But, the vagina is only the interior part. You can see from the light reflecting off it that it is a little wet. Some women at my age get drier, especially around menopause, and dryness can make sex uncomfortable. I am fortunate. I stay fairly wet down there. That's not a problem for me.
If I am unconscious that I am talking to my son about my body's ability to handle intercourse, my son isn't. Maybe in his mind he imagines a hard penis pushing into the wide open vagina in front of him.
Me: If you look down here, you can see the urethral opening. That's where pee comes out. A lot of men seem to find it a mystery where a woman's pee comes from. But there is no mystery to it.
My son's jaw drops open. He is spellbound at this point. He can't say anything. Whether it is because it is his mum or not, he has never seen anything as arousing in his life as what I am showing him. The detached, clinical manner of my presentation somehow makes it even more arousing, not less.
Me: Down here, just below my urethra, you can see my vaginal opening.
I peel my vagina open still farther, so that my son can look deep inside my channel. Where he emerged from 18 years ago. I hold myself open, so that he can look for as long as he wants. How long, he doesn't know. He loses track of the time he spends looking deep into me, as far as he can see, where bright pink gives way to a dusky rose, that fades away into shadow. He sits transfixed, staring into my nether depths. He can't tear his eyes away. I am willing to let him look as long as he wants. When he breaks his gaze from it, and looks up at my face, he notices that I am staring at his penis, which remains as hard and straight as ever. This gives him a twitch. I notice him noticing me. I look instinctively away. Do I look embarrassed? He must think so.
This is getting stranger and stranger. And he is getting more excited.
I close my legs.
Me: We are good for now. I don't know how much you are paying attention. But, it looks like your penis was.
I point to it. His shaft stands straight away from his lap. Hard and vertical. Directed toward the heavens.
Son: Sorry about that.
Me: There is no need to be sorry. If you don't feel what you are feeling now, you are not alive.
I hop off the rock and return to the groundsheet. My son watches my arse sway exaggeratedly as I pivot away from him. I think he realises right then, if he hasn't fully realised it before, that he will never look at me the same way again. My anatomy lesson has the opposite effect of the one I intended. Instead of desexualizing my nudity, it has aroused him. He shows no sign of abating.
Just when my son is thinking that our habituation is complete, I surprise him. I turn the tables on him.
Me: Your turn now.
Son: Huh?
Me: Just as you got comfortable with me, I want to get comfortable with you. Come over...
My son is in my face.
Son (cheekily): Am I bigger than dad?
Me: Hmmm... I am an honourable woman, a lady. And ladies don't tell on their man. But, know this. You're what every mum will wish on her son. You know, you are only the second manhood I have seen.
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.
Me: You are pleasing to the eye.
I examine him closely. I bend down to look. I touch it.
Me: This is so hard.
Son (jocularly): What is this? Biology lab?
Me: 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.
Me: 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.
Me: 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.
Me: Marvelous. A work of art. Visual art.
Son: Now, you are making fun of me.
Me: No. No. It is so beautiful. A life all its own. You can will it, and yet, it has a stubborn persistent will force of its own. Kind of like our free will. We have it for all intents and purposes, and yet, do we really? It is so you, and yet, not you. Spasming. Swaying. A poetic beast. It takes my breath away to watch how fabulous your body is.
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.
Me (climbing down to earth): Son, I am so sorry. Yours is my second manhood. I got carried away. I crossed a line.
Son: Mum, it's OK. Chill! We just moved a notch from habituation to bonding.
Me (guiltily, conspiratorially): This is just about us. No one else needs to know. Let's relax awhile.
I pour the wine from our picnic basket. For the first time this morning we enjoy the serenity of the dunes and the cove in silence. I gather my thoughts. My son must be doing the same. Is he thinking my thoughts? And me, his? There is a telepathic peace between us.
I don't know about my son, but I am getting emotional now. Beside myself. My eyes water. He sees my glistening eyes. He skims his finger lightly across my eyelids like a windshield wiper.
We sit side by side for awhile reflecting on what has just transpired.
Quietly, I draw my legs up, turn sideways on the groundsheet, and stretch them across his lap. I place my head on his shoulder. We nuzzle.
He puts his hand on my bare legs. Tentatively. He begins caressing my skin. With just the tips of his fingers, he brushes experimentally, 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 reads my nuanced movement. He strokes my thighs again, desiring to feel all the way to the silkiness of my mound. His fingers touch my soft hair, even softer puffed lips, and my moist opening. But, he goes no further. He is content to doodle cryptic text messages on my mound. We remain this way till it is time for us to leave.
***
Chapter 7
Aftermath
The next three days are simply glorious. Record scorchers. Each day outdoing the previous.
But, I have no inclination to go to the beach. I am just content soaking up the rays at the bottom of my garden, catching up on my reading.
Something is gnawing deep inside me. Eating my innards.
I crossed a line with my son. I was the initiator. The instigator. A predator. He is a lad of eighteen, for goodness sake. What have I done? I keep turning this over and over in my mind. Has this to do with my husband being my only man, and my dormant tinder passions being ignited by another manhood?
A perfect storm. My first time nudity with anyone other than my husband. Only my second manhood encounter. A strapping young lad in my face. The tingle of the taboo. The seclusion of the dunes. What have we here? A confluence of, one, two, three, four, five forces in concert, bearing on me.
And what about from my son's perspective? I hazard a guess. The lad has been orbiting around the block somewhat. I have met his carousel spin of girlfriends. His would have been a perfect storm of a mature buxomly woman in his face, the tingle of the taboo, the seclusion of the dunes. A perfect storm confluence of, one, two, three forces.
I out count him. The lad is actually more a man of the world, than me a woman of the world. So, maybe it is not so unexpected that I am the over-enthused novice, and hence, the overheated one in the engagement. I wasn't predatorial. I was an eager novice overwhelmed by the moment. I have the advantage of age, but not a great variety of experience. I try to over-leverage my age to compensate. My lad is youthful, but has diversified field experience, so he was happy to defer to his mum, and play it cool.
I feel much better. In fact, I feel validated, though I cannot pin down why precisely.
My cellphone pings.
A message.
My brother.
"Glorious morning! Beach?"
Did I understand it right from my husband? Isn't it the arrangement that if I need my brother's bodyguard services, I will activate him. Well, here he is, activating me instead. My, my, is he an eager beaver. Somehow, I feel very good about his enthusiasm.
If this message had arrived just a tick earlier, my response will have been different.
"Sounds like a plan. Come over whenever."
I pack my beach togs in a tote bag. Towel, groundsheet, suntan lotion, oils, sunshades. A book.
And a picnic basket. A ploughman's lunch. Fruits. Bottle of wine. Water. Snacks.
On impulse, I toss in my camera. My husband did request for beach pictures to be emailed to him. He is a visual animal. I have to feed him his rations.
Now, what shall I put on? Well, it doesn't really matter much because I will be naked when we get there. But, for some inexplicable reason, I spend an inordinate amount of time pondering, if not agonising, over my choice of textile ensemble.
I wrap around a skimpy strapless black bandeau top. It barely reins in my restive hush puppies. They are spilling out. My nipples duck below the top edge, only just so.
I put on the matching high-cut black thong. An aggressive southerly arrow of vee. Enchanting, but not lewd, nothing like the plasticky sculpted nubiles trussed up in stringy bits of crass textile. My pubes peek out curiously, like pencilled art shadow shadings, faint, from the left and right edges.
I put on a comfortable t-shirt, and a pair of hugging shorts. I twirl in front of my full-length mirror.
Hmmm... I can do better. I lose both my t-shirt and my shorts. They won't do. They don't do me social justice.
I choose another t-shirt from my wardrobe stash. White. It will overlay nicely on the black. It fits me to a tee, snug, but not so very snug as to suffocate. And better, it extends deliciously to exactly the arrow tip of my thong vee, and then an inch south, for modesty.
I bottom out with casual high-heeled summery sandals. They will go off when I start to walk the trail. I will change into sneakers.
I twirl again. I almost totter over my heels. But, I recover.
Perfect! Just perfect! Is there a dewy scent of moist in the air?
The doorbell chimes.
***
Chapter 8
Sister and Brother
My brother did not expect to see me in this state of dress. Or more aptly, undress. His eyes linger questioningly at the hemline of my t-shirt. He appears to be about to say something, and then, pauses, as if biting his lips, knowing better.
We clamber onto his jeep, a red hot chili hunk of mean machine. My
t-shirt rides up waywardly to just below the vee tip of my thong, obscuring it only just so. Like a slinky skirt. Even though this spectacle is of my willful devious design, I feel awkward and squeamish. I overcalibrated. I cross my legs coquettishly in instinctive modesty to obscure my thong. An incongruent posture to assume in a hee-haw jeep. My brother can read this in one of two ways. One, that I am concealing my thong. Or two, I am bottomless, so I have to cross my legs to conceal my nether charms. Whichever the case, it has its allure. My brother steals surreptitious glances at my legs. The jeep weaves, either from the meandering cliffside road, or from laboured driving. I hope he doesn't plunge us down the cliffside. I don't mind dying in a spectacular grand finale hurrah. But, not this spectacular.
He parks the jeep. I get out of the jeep, unloading, organising this and that, perched totteringly on my high-heels. My brother watches me with interest. I bend low to change into my sneakers.
We begin the hike. I lead the way. Awfully quiet back there. I gaze back to check that he is in tow. My brother is mesmerised by my marching arse orbs in simple harmonic motion with my dancing peek-a-boo t-shirt hemline. The trail is challenging in some parts. I sense my arse orbs clench then release, clench then release, as I negotiate the terrain. I feel it because the graze of thong fabric against skin heightens my awareness and the sensation. In the video of my mind, I try to imagine how this animation plays out for my brother.
At the two mile point of the meandering bushy trail, marked by an abrupt climb rise in the trail, we squeeze and force our way, brusingly, through an unyielding thicket wall of tall bush. We have arrived. The metaphorical secret garden, finding new expression in dunes and a cove.
My brother asks how I know that this is the access point since there are no apparent landmarks or trail marks. I tell him that I do not depend on any visible marks. I show him my GPS watch trail tracker. It displays exactly 2 miles of distance covered.
My brother crashes dramatically on the fine dune sand. He spends a minute in silent awe, taking in the sweep of scenery. The wild. The desolation. The seclusion. The far horizon. I can see it affects him in a profound way that doesn't affect my son. Or my husband for that matter. My brother has a sensitive and humanistic dimension which I can relate to since our young days. Not the incessant hyper-expressive deep-talking but shallow New Age manicured garden variety. But, a brooding philosophical sensitivity to people, nature and aesthetics, that is comfortable in a genre of its own.
We rest awhile, to recover from the hike.
Me: I am going to get comfortable to sunbathe.
I turn away from him in instinctive customary modesty, and start removing my t-shirt.
Brother: No. Stop.
Me: Huh?
Brother (softly with conviction): Face me. I want to see you. We will eventually see each other anyway. I want to savour this moment.
These words endear him to me in a way never before. None of the squeamish pussyfooting dance charade. My brother wants to see me. His sister. And that is that. I shudder. He notices.
I pivot to face him. He stands frozen, wearing a dark brooding look, its intensity heightened under the glare of sunshine. Our eyes meet, then lock.
I pull off my t-shirt while holding my gaze unwaveringly at him, except for the moment when my t-shirt passes over my eyes. My brother does not blink.
I reach my hands behind my back. I thrust my chest out, to help my access to the bandeau bikini top fastener. I renew the intensity of my gaze into my brother's eyes. I unwrap my bandeau, as one unwraps treasured objects. My breasts are now exposed to my brother's gaze. Is that a blink I see? An impassionate regal riveting look, but never ogling.
I lift my right leg, to remove my sneaker. My breasts sway one way. I lift my left leg, to remove my other sneaker. My breasts sway more, the other way. They come to rest when I straighten up.
Our gaze is hypnotically unbroken. I hook my thumbs on the sides of my bikini thong. I do not wish to perform a strip tease. That is lewd. Crass. Not me. Unworthy of our moment. But, I want this to be a sensual visual moment for my brother. There can only be one instance of revelation moment. A singularity. It cannot be recreated. Our senses cannot be rolled back to renact the moment.
My thumbs and index fingers draw and roll down my thong from the sides. The textile rolls progressively into a thickening string, like a roller blind on a roll. All that is left of my thong is a string, now aligned to the bottom of the vee tip of my mound. My bottom is now exposed to my brother. He sees his big sister's most intimate lady charms.
I maintain both my legs straight, as I roll down my thong to my ankles. In that stance, I bend down impossibly low, as only a ballerina can. My breasts hang down pendulously. I lift first my right foot, then my left, to slip off my thong.
I am now in my full native glory. Before my beholding brother. After a few seconds, our spell breaks.
Me (coyly): What are your thoughts on your big sister?
Brother (patting his taut crotch suggestively): I am past thinking...
Me: I see your point. You now...
We relock our eyes.
He takes off his t-shirt. Glides his shorts down effortlessly. What I see next surprises me. A male thong bikini. And by curious cosmic alignment of our orbits, black, matching mine. No. More like a penis sheath. A cock sock. Taut. Straining at the seams.
Me (teasingly): Very nominal. Very economical. Is this your custom apparel?
Brother (mirthfully): No. Only when I go to the beach with my big sis.
Me: Hmmm... but its utility is shortlived.
With his eyes locked to mine, he peels his thong off. At first light of emancipation, it springs up, slapping his stomach resoundingly, and then shuddering, then quivering down to a dignified regal erection. All that stocked up, pent up agonising cumulative tension from the last two hours, from my home, in the jeep, along the trail, in the dunes now.
He is longer than my husband and son, but by not much. Girth is about the same. Uncircumcised. Aesthetically pleasing to the eye. To my eye.
Me: I am flattered by your pointed approval. I feel validated at a level I have never thought possible. Thanks, little brother.
Brother: You have mercilessly teased and tempted me since I met you at your home two hours ago. What do you expect? Know that I have been off the grid since Lucy passed away two years ago. This is my first time up for air, first sojourn, of any level.
Thus settled, I move around the groundsheet organizing this and that. Tote bag. Picnic basket. Bending, crouching, kneeling, getting up, and assorted calisthenics. My brother watches me. I am more meticulous today than usual.
We set up two foldout portable chairs, with their backs propped up, facing each other obliquely.
Time to chill. I sit on one. I put on my sunshades. My brother takes the other. I put my hands behind my head and turn my face skyward.
I think the soft light from the sun softens and takes years off my skin. My chest is arched, and my breasts lay firm against it, nipples pointed up with assertive conviction. I discern my brother's eyes trace a curve between my breasts, over my navel and down to the shadowy gap between my legs. I part my thighs slightly. The full slit of my vagina is on display. My lips glisten faintly under the sunshine.
I spy from the corner of my eye that my brother's penis hardening again. He peers down at the lap of his own naked body. His penis stands up and away from him. He looks up again. My eyes are out of his sight, looking up toward the horizon in the far yonder. He doesn't think I can see him. He hears my sigh. He shifts. My left thigh bends open still more.
His penis is rock hard now. Glancing briefly at me again to confirm that I am looking away from him, he touches his erect shaft with his fingers. His eyes are latched on my vagina as he touches it. I think he knows he shouldn't do it, not only because I may see him, but because touching it will only make his need worse. I read that he is not going to jerk himself off in front of me. But the lure of gripping and stroking himself in front of my open vagina is almost too much to handle. He grips his penis a little more tightly, between his thumb and two fingers. He must be thinking that maybe if I lie this way for just a few minutes and he is quiet, he may yet pull it off.
Me (breaking the silence): Beautiful, isn't it?
I shift my gaze back to him slowly, giving him time to pull his hand away before I see it. Or, so he thinks.
He turns his eyes away from the gap between my legs to the horizon. He bends his legs up to prevent me from seeing his erection. He appears unsure if I can see it or not.
Brother: It is.
I stretch my arms above my head and purr. My glowing nude body stretched like a cat.
We do not say anything for a long time. I lie nearly still on my chair, the sunrays reflecting off my body. After a while I stand up and walk up the dune. I lean forward against the top ridge, my arse pushed out and back toward him. I lean over far enough so that I give him just a shadowy peek beneath my arse, of a slit framed by petite, dangling lips. His penis swells again. He begins stroking it. I sense he feels terrible doing it, sort of. But he can't help himself. His arousal overwhelms his guilt. His pace quickens, but he tries to keep his movements as quiet as possible, so that I cannot hear him.
The rhythmic crash of sea wave sounds wafting to the dunes mask the sound of his stroking, and help him avoid detection.
Finally, I turn around. He moves his hand away before I do. But he doesn't shift his body fast enough to hide his hard-on before I look at him.
I stand still against the dune ridge. My face bears a faint, inscrutable smile. I am enjoying myself. My brother must be wondering if I have seen more than he thinks I have.
Me: Come join me over here.
He gets up. There is no way to hide his hardness. It careens from side to side as he approaches me. He leans over the dune ridge just as I do, staring out into the sea. I feel light-headed. I think my brother does too from the glassy look of his eyes.
We stay this way for, I don't know how long. Spacetime froze in this sandy cocoon.
I remember I have an errand to fulfill for my husband.
Me: I brought my camera. This cove and dunes are lovely. The sunlight is just right. You have a good photography eye. Can you take some pictures of me?
Brother: Happy to! I live and breathe the craft.
I fetched my camera and passed it to my brother.
Me: Look, you are the photography guru. To get the best effects, you direct me. I trust your artistic instincts.
Brother: You go put on your bikini and stuff. I need a few minutes to check the camera settings.
Me: You are photographing me nude. I can take clothed photos anytime. This place is just right for nudes.
Brother: Oh?
Me: Just private photos. Nobody will see them except your brother-in-law and me. Let your artistic impulses range.
Brother: OK. Let's get started. Go over to the rock ledge. Sit on it. Cross your legs. Coquettish. Kittenish. Gaze pensively into the horizon.
Click.
Brother: Open your legs, ever so slightly. A tantalising peek of bush. Gaze away from the camera. Intense look as if fixated by something in the distance.
Click.
Brother: Lie down on the rock ledge, face up. Legs together. Draw up your right leg. Turn your face to the left. Look intently into the horizon.
Click.
Brother: Now, flip over. I am going to immortalise those lovely orbs in pixels for posterity. Legs together clenched tight. That will cock up your orbs. Look away from the camera. Brooding mood.
Click.
And so I posed this way and that for an hour.
***
Chapter 9
Ballet On the Dunes
Brother: You were a ballerina. You know, growing up, I kind of admired you and your dance from afar. Can I take some pictures of you in dance poses?
Me: Dance poses by their nature are, hmmm, you know, rather revealing. Just a few pictures only.
Brother: Cool! You decide the poses. In any case, I am not familiar with dance moves and positions.
Me: Just five snaps, please. I will give you a performance, that is, if my body is still in a cooperative mood.
Brother: Not five snaps. Five poses. I need to take multiple perspective shots for each pose, to capture the best effect. We then get to pick and choose the best of the lot, and then delete the unwanted ones.
My first pose.
Classic ballerina arabesque. Right leg standing straight up, toes pointed, pivoted on ground. En pointe. Left leg extended backwards straight out, ninety degrees to right leg. Right arm extended straight up. My nether charms are stretched and exposed to my brother as they never have been.
My brother orbits me like a drone, shooting me here and there, high and low.
He comes close and low, then rises. Is that a close up shot he is taking?
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Second pose.
A variation of the first. As before, right leg standing straight up, toes pointed, pivoted on ground.
Left leg and left arm extended in parallel straight up, left hand gripping left ankle, to lock in my pose.
Right and left legs are impossibly extended in a near straight vertical line.
This is a breathtakingly spectacular dance position. The sheer difficulty of it all. I surprise myself that I can pull this off at my venerable age.
It conjures a stunning imagery.
If my first pose is intimately revealing, this one leaves nothing to even the dullest imagination. I gaze over at my brother. He is awestruck.
Again, my brother orbits me. I hear the machine gun staccato rhythm of the camera.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Third pose.
I am enjoying myself now. A force which I cannot quite identify, is pulling me along.
This is really more gymnastics than dance. But, who is to know?
I begin in a crouched position facing my brother. I raise my left leg until it is in an impossibly near vertical position, toes pointed. In any other similar situation, this scene will come across as crass, if not vulgar. But, I am confident that I can render it with artistic athleticism. My vagina is in my brother's face. My labia must be parted, though I don't know for sure. Well, if the pictures turn out crass, I will delete them all.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Fourth pose.
This is more dance than gym.
I face away from my brother. My posterior is on show. I maintain both legs together straight down. My body is bent down impossibly low, as only a ballerina can. Left hand grips right ankle, to lockdown my pose. A teasing exposé of labia majorca, slightly agape, but betraying nothing.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Final pose.
A graduated variation of the previous pose.
As before, I face away from my brother. Both legs straight down together. Body bent down impossibly low, left hand gripping right ankle, to lockdown the pose.
I slide my legs apart while maintaining them straight. I graze my face cheek against the side of my lower thigh, peering back and up, coquettishly at my brother. My left hand continues to grip my right ankle to lockdown my pose.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
My brother applauds.
As I straighten up, I see my brother in a traumatic state. Poor sod! In dire agony.
Me: You are tense. I feel responsible. Let me help?
Brother (processing my offer): Are you sure about this?
Me: I completed a course on massage therapy recently. I will give you one. This will give me an opportunity to practise my skills. If I don't use them, I'll lose them.
My brother lies on the inflated lounge cushion. He is on his back. His hard penis is sticking up. He is visibly embarrassed, so he closes his eyes to transport himself into oblivion.
I pour oil over his body. I massage over his body from head to foot, and then move back up his body. I can feel his knots loosening up some.
I wrap my hands around his penis. His eyes fly open. He is stunned.
Brother (anxious and conflicted): Are you really sure about this?
Me (nonchalantly): This is part of what I learnt in my course. Just relax. You are in good hands. And these hands need the practice. I smile a caring unsisterly smile, and look into his eyes.
Me: This will release the last stubborn remnants of your tension. My hands slowly start to pump his penis. He writhes and moans. He is in a high therapeutic state. Transcendental. He surprises me. He adjusts his body, moves and lies on his side facing me as my hands rub their magic on his penis.
He reaches out and feels my body, tentatively at first, experimentally, then exploratorily, as I continue pumping his manhood.
He has one hand caressing my pliant breasts, investigating my sag. His other hand kneads my arse cheeks, fingers grazing my crack, sending tremors to my significant extremities. He must be feeling my tremors too.
This is only the third man in my life who has touched me in any way. I am conflicted. Part of me tells me that I should steer this massage back on course. But, I offer no sign of objection. Emboldened, my brother drifts his hand from my arse to my mound.
I instinctively part my legs a little. I have a perceptive brother. He slips a finger into me. My hands move faster on his shaft. I am enjoying myself as much as him. I feel his penis thicken. His hips lunge forward as streams of white shoot into the air.
It is quiet for a minute.
Me: That looked nice. Did you enjoy my technique? He nods, yes, weakly.
We are both sticky.
Me: Let's go for a dip in the sea to cool some.
I give him a small kiss and help him get up.
Me (feeling young and vital): Last one in is a rotten egg!
I race him to the water. I have a headstart. He is in recovery mode. I am ahead. Just when I am about to step into the water, my little brother scoops me up in one fluid flurry movement, and carries me over the threshold of shoreline into the translucent turquoise.
The tension thus unwound, we spend the rest of the day chilling on wine and easy banter. A blissful sensual equilibrium.
***
Chapter 10
Internet Chat With Husband
It has been a week since my husband departed for his overseas assignment.
We are on an online video chat. We exchange news, and meander on about this and that. And then, my husband enquires about my sunbathing.
Husband: Has the weather been good? How is your sunbathing going?
Me: The weather has been more than kind. Heavenly! We had record scorchers.
Husband: On cue! Good to know!
Me: Thanks for your arrangements with our son and my brother. My bodyguards, I call them teasingly. It has worked out very well. I have come to appreciate your idea.
Husband: Oh? How so?
Me: I would not have enjoyed this past week of sunbathing if I have done so alone. I would have looked warily over my shoulder every few minutes to check out for interlopers. I have taken safety for granted when I am with you. The seclusion of our little heaven-on-earth is both awesome and austere. So, thank you, love!
Husband: How did the two boys adjust to this?
Me: They adjusted true to form.
Husband: Hmmm... tell me more. Start with our son.
Me: There was initial awkwardness at first revelation, as to be expected.
Husband: How did it play out?
Me: We turned away from each other. Custom modesty. We undressed. We had our moment of truth.
Husband: Did our son check you out?
Me: We were sitting on low portable foldable chairs. He darted surreptitious rationed glances.
Husband: Did he sport a stiffy?
Me: A semi-erection. A droopy half arc. It soon came to full flourish. I sensed that all this tension was quite agonising for the lad. Seeing that we will be together alot over the summer, I decided to help us get comfortable with each other. Habituation.
Husband: Habituation? A big word. Like how?
Me: Hmmm... this is getting a wee awkward...
Husband: Gone on... we are all adults here.
Me: Hmmm... you're getting your ration feed of jollies from this, aren't you?
Husband: Go on.
Me: I thought it would be best if we got to know each others' bodies in a clinical anatomical way, to get the sheepishness over with, so that we can move forward. To break the ice, I started first.
Husband: A show and tell?
Me: Well, our son is not exactly a virginal neophyte with the female of the species. He intimated that he has been there, and done it. So, it is more show than tell. To habituate him to me specifically.
Husband: How did that go?
Me: Over time, he adjusted to my body bits. Legs. Arse. Breasts. He was particularly enamoured of my legs. I can see why. The only asset of mine that hasn't gone wayward.
Husband: You do have killer legs. The lad has impeccable taste. What does he think of your breasts? Did he say?
Me (smirking): Hmmm... do you find it somewhat unorthodox that a husband and a dad is discussing what his son thinks about his wife's tits with his wife?
Husband (jocularly): I most certainly do. Now, can you please go on.
Me: Hmmm... you are persistent. Our son didn't say anything specific other than non-committal fluff like nice, lovely, sexy. But, here is my reading of him. His experience comes from sweet young nubiles. Firm wide arcs of chest plates. Convex boilerplate mounts. So, he is fascinated with my mature pliant saggy ones, mellowed with character.
Husband: Pliant?
Me: If you must know, I let him feel my breasts to get a sense of who I am. Habituation, remember. Let him get it out of his system.
Husband: How did that go?
Me: To make it not awkward for us both, I, by the way, demonstrated to him how I do my routine breast cancer self-examination.
Husband: You know, I have never seen a breast self-examination. Now is as good as anytime to show me.
Me: Hmmm... kinky!
I take off my blouse, then my bra. For some inexplicable reason, I take off the rest of my clothing as well, even though that is not entirely necessary. I am naked. This pleasantly surprises and pleases my husband.
I lock my gaze to the video screen as I conduct the self-examination.
Husband: Go on.
Me: I then asked our son to try doing it, for a lark. He was quite tentative the first time. He got it right after the third time. Practice makes perfect. Our son was thorough, bordering on pedantic. Here, I'll show you.
With my eyes latched onto the video screen, I go through the actions of our son as best as my memory serves me.
My husband and I sigh in unison when I finished.
Husband (quipping): A useful life skill.
Me (teasingly): Oh yes! And it saves lives too. Early cancer detection. My life. I have made up a timetable for our son to conduct the self-examination monthly for me hereon.
Husband (quipping): Hmmm... it wouldn't be a self-examination then.
Me: You are enjoying this aren't you?
Husband (quipping): Insofar as you are. Legs. Arse. Breasts. Is there anything else?
Me: Hmmm... you know, this brings us to another level. I know you won't rest until we cover this. I sensed that our son's experience is with what is fashionable today. Pristine silken shaven mounds on sweet young nubiles. I believe he saw on me the first bush in the flesh in his life. And I dare say, beneath my shadowy veil, his first mature nether charm. I wanted to demystify it for him, for him to get over it, to move on. I showed him. Think medical school anatomy class.
Husband: Show me... what you showed our son.
Me: Hmmm... if I have to do this, let me do it properly. Excuse me for a minute, love.
I take more than a minute even though all it takes is one. Three minutes. I have a cruel subterranean streak. I want to turn my husband into anticipatory pulp.
I return with the portable foldable low chair which I used at the dunes. I set it up in front of the video camera and screen. I reposition the camera.
I sit down on the chair. My legs are parted slightly. My husband sees the lips of my vagina. My lips are parted. Only just so. A crack.
Me (teasingly role playing ): Son, do you like what you see?
My husband replies affirmatively with only laboured breathing.
My knees drift a bit farther apart. My body inclines farther back than it has to be. The result is that not only is the entire cleft of my vagina in view, with a hint of pink showing between my labia, but the creased oily circle of my anus as well.
I sit far back, almost reclining, on my low portable chair. My legs fall open wide. My husband now stares at my vagina. My lips glisten. Beckoning. Maybe it is just sweat. Maybe it is something else.
Husband (role playing): Mum, you are gorgeous. Can I see just a little more?
Me (coyly): Face me.
My husband strips. He has an evil boner.
Me (smiling softly): I can see you are definitely interested in getting to know your mum better.
I look my husband in the eyes.
Me: Look at me.
He stares back at me.
Me: No. Not at my face. Down here.
I point to my lap, between my legs stretched out to either side of the chair.
Me: Son, look at my most intimate. Go ahead. I want you to. I want us to be at ease with each other.