Is It Hereditary?

"When you're naked it's hard to think of anything except the fact you're naked."

Accepting the proffered glass of wine, I'm sure I tilted my head slightly. Men are odd creatures, but that statement about being naked rang true even for the sane gender. At least it did for me.

"I mean if you're wearing, I don't know, briefs or whatever, it seems possible to think of something other than that you're naked, at least for brief periods, if only because you're not naked."

"Go on," I prompted. A little more perplexed now. Where the hell was he going with this? And where was he coming from?

"If you're wearing say briefs and a teeshirt you don't think about being naked because you're not naked, so you can think about other things."

He was gorgeous. Naked. And gorgeous. Just as he had been earlier in the day when I was having my driving lesson. I sipped my wine. Possibly following him now, sort of.

"If you're wearing a teeshirt but no briefs or slacks or whatever, then you feel more naked and more distracted by being naked, but because of the teeshirt you might be able to think of other things if only briefly..."

As I said, he was naked and gorgeous...but I resisted the glib quip because he might actually be leading somewhere important. The problem being he was naked and gorgeous and my pussy was starting to brew up. To regain some control, I lowered my glass a bit and interrupted with: "Put your hands behind your head."

He did.

"Does that make you feel even more naked?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Umh, because now I feel more vulnerable. Like I may not be able to get my hands down in time to protect myself."

"You probably can't. Besides, I'm not going to let you put your hands down. So don't even think about it."

His gorgeous erection moved involuntarily: rolling, that little bit, the way they do. And tip began to glisten. Julie would describe that as a Tell. She was right. It was definitely a Tell.

A bit of back story: he had initiated the game. He had proposed I Spy, where he would warn me of something by saying 'I Spy' and giving me a hint - sometimes a very direct hint if my driving was really erratic. He said the game was to focus my mind on the road, and the rules of the road. (I suspect now that he had an additional motive, but be that as it may...) He had peeled off his tee, exposing those gorgeous male abs and pecs, voluntarily - and initiating everything that followed.

That was 4 hours ago on the quiet country road. For the rest of the drive, he had removed one garment for each instance of I SPY. Needless to say, I had deliberately done things to keep the flow of 'I Spy' hints coming - along with his clothes. (But that is another story: see Is It Hereditary?)

Now we were here: me fully clothed, (settled comfortably at the bistro table in his flat, pardon me, his apartment) with a glass of wine in my hand - him beautiful, stark naked, hands behind his head, standing fully exposed beside the table for me to study and apparently prepared to follow my every instruction or whim.

"So if I took that thin gold chain from around your neck would that make you feel even more naked?"

To test this, I beckoned him closer with the index finger of my free hand ...and kept beckoning, until he got the idea and bent his head forward. Then I reached up and took the chain between my thumb and that index finger - pulling it ever so slightly to tighten it.

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"I just realized I'd feel much more naked, because I've worn it every day since my 13th birthday."

"So I'd be stealing your manhood?"

"No. But it's been a long time since I've been completely naked, including no chain."

Kicking myself for being glib, and silly, and feeling my face flush, I thought through a direction of value behind a sip of wine and said, "Would you feel more naked if I took it off or if I made you take it off?"

"I don't know."

Abruptly, and not for the first time, a calm determination settled over me. Releasing my hold on the chain, I beckoned him closer - then relished the reluctance, the way he inched forward. So I repeated the instruction, mutely beckoning him forward, confirming his discomfort at doing this. Thinking third time lucky, I repeated the process. By which time he was almost, almost out of control - his legs stiff, his thighs taut and twitching, his gorgeous penis visibly pulsing: a small bubble of white cum forming in the hollow of the circumcised head.

And I heard my mother's voice, inside my head, saying: 'Good. Because I've earned the right to keep your dad naked all weekend so this should work for all of us.' It was so clear, so close to my ear, I was tempted to ask (her) aloud, "Is It Hereditary?"

Catching myself only because he was so close to me now, so visibly unsettled...too close and too unsettled. Any moment now he would cum and ruin the emerging plan.

Taking hold of the chain again, pulling it and twisting it slightly so he was bent once again, my eyes fixed on his, I said, "Shower. Cold. For at least 20 minutes. And shave. I mean, shave - because if I find a single pube, one single pube...do you understand?"

Eyes wide, flushing crimson, he said, "Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, mam?"

"Go. Now."

He did. And it was a lovely butt - muscular, firm, yet flowing. One that cried out for particular attention. Then he was gone, and my breathing began to slow, my mind to settle. I filled my glass with wine and took a deep swallow. I have no idea how much time passed.

At last relaxed, I raised my glass, smiling, and said aloud, if quietly: "Mom, I've earned the right to keep him naked all weekend so this should work for all of us. But my question is, Is it hereditary do you think?"

A moment later, he was back. In the doorway. Naked, fresh from the shower, hands behind his head...shaved. How thoroughly remained to be determined. The game was afoot. And he had initiated it. And he had asked for it...asked ME for it. So of course it was my duty - my hereditary duty? - to give it to him.

Smiling over at him, I patted the table in front of me. "Up here..." It took a few minutes, and a few instructions, but in due course he was face up, hands clasped behind his head at the very far end of the table and the soles of his feet pressed together. Take a moment to visualize this. The position splayed his knees at least two feet, placing his naked, exposed, vulnerable penis and testicles directly in front of me - in full view, and in very easy reach.

"In a moment I'm going to inspect you for pubes." Pausing to sip my wine, not for the first time I was amused by how instinctively males reacted when truly randy - how their thighs thrust upwards involuntarily, how their breathing grew erratic, how pre-cum appeared...every time.

"But first a few rules. Rule number one: I own every drop of cum. Ejaculating even one drop without my express permission is punishable, severely punishable. Understood?" Not waiting for him to answer, I continued on, "Your natural state around me is naked. I will decide where, when and how your naked state is achieved in each instance but you are to accept, and to expect, to be stark naked anywhere, anytime, for any length of time I decide. Understood?"

"Yes."

"Pardon?"

"Yes, Mam"

Not acknowledging, at certain points, was a trick I had learned from Jill at the strip poker game with the boys - only a few months, but now seemingly years, ago. Instead, as he struggled to lift his head enough to see me, I simply said: "For the pubic hairs on the bottom of your testicles, I'll send you out tomorrow for wax and then we'll see that everything and I do mean everything gets waxed...we should probably make that a regular session." His head sank back and I went on: "For the cum currently oozing around your cute penis head and pooling on the area of your navel, in a moment I'm going to make you sit right here beside me and write a detailed, very lurid but accurate account of your last CFNM session prior to meeting me...so I guess that's probably your last session prior to today..."