There is no sex in this story. Only titillating frisson.
I was in my early 50’s then. My son was 18.
I have a fulsome body. I have my complement of obligatory flabs and sags par for my age. My husband told me that I have an appealing English rose coquettish demeanour that nature has calibrated just about on song, short of provocative buxomness.
My son and I have a trusting and open relationship. We have a lovely secluded garden which I like to potter around. One day, when I had some alone tranquil time with my son sipping tea at the bottom of our garden, I intimated that I have observed that he has been checking me out. I asked him what he thought of me honestly because I couldn’t quite fathom what a strapping teen would see in a woman in her 50’s.
He reflected philosophically, and mused that he saw me in two dimensions. One, as a mum he respected, trusted and loved. Two, as an appealing mature woman who gave him twitches, and shudders on occasions. Reactions which were natural, which he could not deny.
He told me that he had tried to reconcile the mum-woman views, and have concluded that the views just were what they were, beyond sensible reconciliation. Any reconciliation would simply be suppressing one view, self-evidently, the ‘woman’ view, in deference to hardwired social conditioning. It was questionable if this was reconciliation at all. Being at peace with the mum-woman view was the philosophical equivalent of the Nietzschean peace of the Apollonian and the Dionysian. Hah! My son the philosopher.
I pondered over what he philosophised.
Me: Do you mind if I ask you if you’ve have any fantasies?
Son: To be honest, just one. Seeing you in your full glory.
Me: This old body?
Son: This very manifestation.
Me: But why?
Son: I just appreciate mature bodies where mother nature has averaged out the perfections and lesser perfections, to a mellowed contoured whole. I find the impossibly perfect bodies that assail my senses over public media inauthentic and plasticky.
Me: You know when there is no one home, I go native, and do a spot of gardening, to soak in the rays, enjoying the outdoors, in our garden. I don’t consider myself a nudist though. There has been some heavy heaving grunt work that I have been postponing. I could do with some help there.
Son: I’ll be happy to help. When?
Me: My, my, we have an eager beaver here. This Saturday will be fine. Your Dad is away on business travel.
And so we did.
I chose an outdoors setting so that there was a natural aura to it all. There would have been a degree of contrived nudity awkwardness if it had been indoors.
After the gardening, marks head bobbers porno we had tea at the bottom of our garden. It would have been a curious sight for anyone who chanced upon this mum-son ensemble.
A mature woman in native glory, seated with legs crossed, conserving her secret feminine cache, but only just so, sipping tea nonchalantly, juxtaposed against a bare chested teen in bermuda shorts. Cool as the cucumber sandwiches we were pecking.
Me: Thanks for your help!
Son: Happy to help, mum!
Me: So, what do you think of your old mum?
Son: Lovely! Comely! A sight to behold!
Me: Be brutally honest. As I have been with you.
My son surprised me. He stood up demonstratively in muted answer.
Me: Thank you. This is the most pointed validation ever that a woman can hope for.
This was the only time my son saw me naked. We never talked about this after that day.
There is a sort of epilogue to this.
Fast forward. I was with my husband in our bedroom. Bedtime banter. Just as I do with my son, I have an open and trusting relationship with my husband.
Me: You know, I’ve been observing that our son has been checking me out.
Husband: I’m not surprised. Par for his raging hormonal course. I’ve observed him surreptitiously stealing oblique glances at you too.
Me: I was curious what he saw in his mature mum. So I asked him. He intimated that he appreciated the mature feminine form.
Husband (jocularly): That makes two of us!
Me: I asked him if he had any fantasies…
Me: Are you OK with the way this is going?
Husband: I’m cool. Just be candid.
Me: Our son intimated that he had fantasies of seeing me naked.
Husband: Par for the Oedipus course. As Dr Freud had prescribed. I’ve been there. And how did you feel about it?
Me: The mum part of me was conflicted. The woman part of me was flattered that a teen would have interest in a mature woman with flabs and sags.
Me: I decided to help our son, one-off, to get over his fantasy. As far as fantasies range, this one was not really that over the top. Lend flesh to his imagination. Demystify his imagination. So that he can move on.
Me: That Saturday when you were on business travel, I did gardening in the buff, while our son, dressed, helped me with the grunt work. Afterwards, we had tea in the garden. That was all.
Husband: Lucky lad! What was his reaction?
Me: I couldn’t really tell when we were gardening. I had my gardening apron on from the outset.
Husband: That red one?
Me: Yes. It massage porno was somewhat of a titillating peek-a-boo display on the front and the sides. Of course, my back was fully exposed, ornamentally bound up in two bits of strings.
Husband: It must’ve been tormenting for the lad.
Me: Tortuous by my estimation. But, it wasn’t by any measure of devious sensual design. It’s my usual garden variety apron.
Me: My, my, you’re lapping this up. It’s getting late. Maybe we should continue this tomorrow… he he!
Husband: Don’t you dare!
Me: It was all a flurry of activity. Our son was preoccupied with his heavy heaving grunt work to focus on anything else. He could’ve stolen sidelong glances at me when I was beetling around, doing this and that, crouching, bending over, climbing the ladder. But, I can’t tell. It was only when we chilled for tea that I observed him.
Husband: Moving on…
Me: I was done with the gardening first. As our son was finishing up his tasks, I went into our kitchen to fetch tea and sandwiches. By the time tea was served on our garden table, our son was done. I called him over. I took off my apron exposing my front for the first time. I sat down. I crossed my legs to lend a modicum of modesty. I felt then that any other sitting posture would appear lewd as I didn’t have the benefit of a table top cover to obscure my nether charms. I suddenly felt particularly vulnerable given my scrupulously pristine mons pubis rendition.
I paused. I have a cruel sadistic subterranean streak. I wanted to mercilessly fluster my husband into anticipatory pulp.
Me: Our son crashed onto his chair across me. He wore a bermuda, and was otherwise bare chested, deluged in perspiration. Our boy had earned his due. We made some small talk on this and that about the gardening. I could sense that he felt awkward and sheepish sitting across his native mum. He managed courteous rationed tentative glances. At first, my top. Then, drifting south to my crossed legs where his eyes were trying to prise open. I decided to put him at ease. I told him that he needn’t feel awkward about looking. After all, this is the whole point of it all. I told him to just look without restraint and awkwardness. And if he felt a tingle, it’s because he is alive, not cold stone. I went as far as to tell him that I was flattered by his interest in my venerable body. This eased the tension. He, well, in fact, both of us, became quite relaxed, chatting nineteen to the dozen.
Husband: Did he get to see more?
Me: It was obvious that our son wanted to see my bottom, but was too shy to ask. This whole fantasy enterprise meet-suck and fuck porno wouldn’t be complete without my revelation. But, I didn’t want this to be a lewd, risqué show-and-tell. That would be distasteful. It would take our mum-son relationship into an unwieldy uncharted direction.
Husband: What next?
Me: So, I announced that I will freshen our tea pot and tidbits. I uncrossed my legs as if as I going to get up. I then paused, asked him if he would like another serve of sandwiches, seeing that he had laboured so hard. He was ogling at my plump mons pubis, and my hint peek of cleft. He said, OK. There was a moment when our eyes locked. I smiled a coquettish smile. It was a moment of bonding, although I don’t know of what. This seemed to embolden him. He looked more intently. We made some trivial talk. I decided to push the envelope some. I asked, in cheeky mirth, what new insights he has now gleaned of his mum. He laughed. He surprised me with his forwardness. He said: “Mum, you look the part of a schoolgirl.” Instinctively, I looked down at myself. Yes, I looked immaculately pubescent! Then, I realised what I have done. I looked up consciously to see him grinning. I winked, and quipped coyly: “So, I reckon you’ve a lot of experience with schoolgirls, huh?” He laughed. I then got up. Our son was still seated. I pottered about the table gathering the tea cups and what-nots. I then padded back to the kitchen.
Husband: He would have enjoyed a view of your rump, in marching motion.
Me: I don’t know for sure. I don’t have eyes at the back of my head. But, I would imagine so. I returned with a freshened pot of tea, and sandwiches. Again, I pottered around the table, bending now and again, setting the tea and sandwiches. And then, I don’t know what possessed me. This was my wickedest ever. I surprised myself. I sat down, and was about to cross my legs, when I decided otherwise. The frisson of the schoolgirl comment earlier tingled me. I sat with my left leg planted on the ground. I angled my right leg flat on the seat surface, then tucked my right foot beneath my left thigh. My plump mons pubis was exposed, but only just so. Artfully revealed without being lewd.
Husband: What was our son’s reaction?
Me: My pose surprised him somewhat. By now, he was way past bashfulness. He gazed liberally at my private charms as we conversed, but always maintaining a gentleman’s distance and demeanour.
Husband: Did he sport a boner?
Me: He did. His bermuda was contorted in agony. We were open about it. He told me I caused it. I told him I was flattered, and felt validated by his pointed reaction. We chatted for awhile. Just then, our doorbell rang. And that was it. Satisfied?
Husband: Well, almost… I want to see you in that gardening apron now.
Me: Hmmm… looks like we closed one fantasy, and started another…
I got up from our bed, and took off my nightie. I pirouetted.
Husband: You’re manifestly wicked!
Me: This will get your garden to full bloom.