Christmas Family Gift Exchange

Preamble:

This is a teasing, titillating story. The action is light. It is not altogether clear if there is sex in this story.

But, if you are looking for bruising, howling, torrenting action by rippling triathletes, this is not for you.

***

I am Literotica author, Saula88.

My husband, Julian, and I are a mature couple. We are in our early sixties.

Our only child, David, is in his twenties. He works and lives in a town ten miles away from our coastal home.

I have a younger widowed brother, Jude, in his late fifties. My only sibling. He works and lives in another part of England. His Chilean wife passed away some ten years ago. Tragic. He did not remarry.

Jude and I were close in our growing up years. Although I am the big sis, I cannot remember a time when I did not look up to him as my big bro. And he was big. For his age then.

Julian and Jude are blood mates from way back. Ju and Ju, partners in crime and more. It was Jude who introduced me to my husband. In a word, a cabal.

Julian, David and Jude. My three 'boys'. A trinity. The father, the son, and a kindred spirit. They follow my Literotica stories. Given the recurring theme of my stories, they often josh me on the outrageous goings-on in my latest stories. They tease me mercilessly on the wellsprings of my inspirations. I reckon they let their imaginations run away too far and wide. They enjoy my stories more than they should. But, is it not what fertile imaginations are supposed to do? Move soul and body? I am complicit in all this. And I too enjoy my stories more than I should, and often in ways that maybe I should not. Does Art follow life? Or life, Art?

But, stories are just confected abstractions. They play out harmlessly in our minds to an exclusive private audience of one.

But, the event described below animated my stories to a level I could not have envisaged. When fantasy mingles with a sort of reality, the giddy ambivalence can be quite dissonating. And enthralling.

***

Tis the season!

It is Christmas Day. David and Jude are with us. It has been quite some time since all four of us are together. A cosmic alignment. Usually, one or two of us are away somewhere for some reason.

Gift exchange.

My boys each gifts me an intimate wear present. This cannot be sheer coincidence, can it? I whiff a male conspiracy in the festive air.

They intimate that they are inspired by one of my recent Literotica stories, "Changing Room Conversations". The story is about an upmarket lingerie boutique owner who eavesdrops on her clients.

My husband surprises me with a white, fine-laced boudoir-styled bustier. This was the garment of interest, of the main character in my story.

My brother, an ensemble of sheer black embroidered peek-a-boo top, a matching crotchless high-cut panty, garter belt and stockings. This was the garment of interest, of the Olivia character, of sis Olivia and bro Oliver pair, in my story.

My son, a spartan Wicked Weasel thong bikini. This was the garment of interest, of the Briony character, of mum Briony and son Sebastian pair, in my story.

I was earlier searching online for a swimsuit for my husband. His suit was surf shorts styled. We were planning a Nice holiday in the coming year. He should be wearing something more amendable to continental shores. Be more sensitive to local cultural nuances.

I checked out the latest fad male swimwear. Euro-bikinis were all the rage. Effectively penis sheaths or cock socks masquerading devilishly as male thong bottoms. As I was concluding the purchase, there was a pop-up screen for a buy-3-for-2 promotion. Long story brief, I got thong swimsuits for my three boys. A tricolor parade. Blue. White. Red. Vive la France! I can picture the flagstaffs a-fluttering, standing upright and proud.

So, by curious dint of cosmic design, all our presents are intimate wear! Maybe it is not so coincidental. I could have been subconsciously self-inspired by my Sebastian character in my story, whose garment of choice was a thong swimming trunk.

Alcohol is a great democratising leveler. My son suggests that I try out their presents to ascertain their fit-for-purpose, as he calls it. Whose purpose, I wonder?

Now before I traipse further down this rabbit hole, just so you know, no male has seen me in my natural glory other than my husband. And he had to marry me to earn that privilege.

Conversely, my only male experience has been with my husband. I have never seen another adult male genital.

The straight and narrow. The gifts from my boys are quite racy. I decide that I will upkeep this modesty standard. I reason that if I stay faithful to this standard, it will put a lid on our rising euphoria, and hopefully keep things on an even keel.

But, on this particularly joyous night, our festive spirit would inject a shot of moral complexity to test this resolve to its last holding fibre.

I beetle to my bedroom to put on my husband's bustier gift. It is a suffocating number that brings me to the fore and more. A cruel and unusual punishment for a hubby to force-fit his wife into such a contraption. I make my accommodations. Oooh, sweet agony!

I am feeling wicked and mildly decadent. I slip on my impossibly high stilettos.

My pubes are exposed. I place my right palm coyly over my bottom to conceal my private charms. I make a mental note that from this moment, my palm is glued to my crotch. My fig leaf.

My buttocks, I decide to let them out, to be themselves. I reason that it will not be so different from wearing a string thong. This is in the modeling plan anyway, featuring my son's Wicked Weasel later in this evening's order of business.

I totter out of my bedroom. It is hard to explain the lift and sensation of strutting down a staircase in the full minimalist complement of lingerie and stilettos, toward the family way.

A sort of philosopher Kierkegaard's fear of falling. When a person looks over the edge, she experiences the intense fear of falling. But at the same time, she feels a terrifying impulse to throw herself intentionally off the edge. Kierkegaard defines this experience as anxiety, caused by our freedom to choose. To either throw oneself off, or to stay put. I decide not to throw myself off for now. I continue my strut to the landing.

The reception is suitably enthusiastic. The under simmering frisson, palpable.

I sense a rising excitement in my son's demeanour. He has never seen his mum in anything less encompassing than a sensible one-piece bathing suit. No inadvertent bathroom ooops flashes. No bathroom to bedroom five metre sprints. No spectacular wardrobe malfunctions.

I discern a glint of primal hunger in my brother's eyes. To my knowledge, he has been off the grid since he was widowed. My husband used to tease me that my brother's wife looks much like me. Perturbing allusions only made light by my husband and my brother being thick as thieves.

I gaze deep into my brother's eyes. Yes, I see a secret.

Secrets. They grow. Never fade. Now I know. I will always see his secret in his eyes. A secret is a secret unto itself. But, when privy to two, it is big. When privy to three or more, it is no longer one. That is its curious math.

I look at my husband. He is looking at my son and my brother looking at me. This man has a different sensuality calculus. Hmmm... a circle game.

They cajole me to pose this way and that. I am a jolly good sport.

My husband, the venerable elder of the coterie, persuades me to drop my fig leaf metaphor, saying that it is alright. Just this once, he negotiates. He is a liberal, and so progressive. With my body. But, I resist. Secretly, I think this adds to the allure. Less is more. Like fine cuisine. You get itsy bits of heaven on palate, and the charge is high.

My brother, the artistic being, asks me to execute one more pose before I change to the next gift set.

I crouch on my stilettos. My torso erect. I thrust my chest loud and proud. My thighs flare out. Precariously perched. A gust of wind will tip me over. I place both hands over my bare bottom coquettishly. I gaze away coyly at the far corner of the ceiling, imagining what a fly on the wall there might see.

Next up is my brother's ensemble. I sashay back to my bedroom until my buttocks tire.

I switch thematically from white to black. Sheer black embroidered peek-a-boo top. Matching crotchless high-cut panty. Garter belt. Stockings. Again, I conceal my mound with my right palm. I am undecided on whether to cover my peek-a-boo top by draping my left arm across to obscure my points of detail. I check them out. My chocolate smear of areolas appear to blend with the peek-a-boo edge lace.

The festive spirit gets the better of me. I decide to give my boys a treat. Draping my arm across the ornate lacy floral top will not do justice to my brother's expensive gift.

Again, I pose this way and that, resisting the respectful but impassioned calls to reveal my private charms. My husband surprises me. He is particularly enthusiastic. A subterranean side of him I do not know. Or, maybe it is the alcohol?

The boys are hoping to fluster me so that I inadvertently drop my guard. I do not waver. But, I find myself minimising my palm to a slender fig leaf, to obscure myself only just so. A few wayward wisps. Never mind. I am enjoying myself more than I should. My palm is moist. It is not sweat.

Last and least, my son's Wicked Weasel thong bikini. It leaves precious nothing to even the dullest imagination. I wonder aloud why I am wearing it at all. I look at the mirror. Hmmm... apparel, they undress as much as they dress.

I am conflicted. My luxuriance is peeking out at the edges. It will take me a good fifteen minutes to tame this wilderness. Thirty minutes if I mow the lawn. It will break the momentum of the moment. I look critically at the mirror again. The bikini bottom is black and lacy. The boys have been drinking. Perhaps their bleary eyes may see my rawness as ornate lace trimming. Leave a little of the edges wild is how we should live every now and again. I take one last look at myself. There is a glisten of dew on my peeking lawn. I wipe. And then wipe again. I will just go with the flow.

My boys are getting a little boisterous. Alcohol and time have emboldened them. They are piqued by my bottom. Lace, thicket or pencil shading shadow? That is the Big Question. Ambivalence breeds mystique. Mystique, sensuality.

Although the Wicked Weasel is minuscule, unlike the earlier two garment sets, it covers all my pertinent parts. With both my hands free now, I pose with greater latitude.

My brother, never one to pass an aesthetic opportunity, suggests a particular pose.

I sit on the coffee table. My torso erect, turned slightly toward them. He asks me to slide my buttocks to a corner of the table. My buttocks are balanced and pivoted on the corner. My orbs rest partly on the corner, and partly hanging on air. He asks me to raise my legs a little so that I am supported on the foretips of my stilettos. This has the effect of parting myself a bit. I incline my head romantically and sigh to add effect.

A rising cathedral chorus of heavy male breaths.

I am wondering if this is going too far. I announce that this is it.

My brother pleads for one last pose. A sort of closure. I say enough. The boys are adamant. A chorus of three against one.

But, I am enjoying myself too. I am also a bit curious about what my brother has in mind. Well, I can always say no if I assess it too risqué. I declare that this last one is it. And I reserve the right to stop anytime.

My brother guides my pose.

He sets me down on the floor. I sit on my buttocks.

My left leg is flat on the floor, in a bent V-shape, knee pointing front, my sole facing backwards.

My raised bent right leg crosses over my left leg.

I place my hands together on my left knee.

I realise the titillating quality of this pose composition. My right nipple, albeit covered by the bikini top, is obscured by my raised right thigh. My left nipple is obscured by my left upper arm. My crotch, albeit covered by my bikini bottom, is obscured by my sitting position. Artfully teasing and coquettish.

Relieved, I say, "This is not so difficult to pose."

My son appears deflated. Maybe he is expecting something more bold and dramatic.

My brother instructs, "Maintain your pose. David and I will turn around. Julian will help you remove your bikini. The top first because that is more accessible. Then the bottom. After that, you lock back your pose. Julian will do a pose check to ensure that it is in visual order. We'll wait for Julian's signal to turn around."

I cannot believe my ears, "What! No way! I'll be naked."

"Yes. But, your chest and bottom will be obscured."

"No way!"

I am about to get up. My husband stops me, "Let's give this pose a try. I'll check that the optics are in order. Only then will Jude and David see you."

"Hmmm... I don't know about this..."

My husband rationalises, "Your top is less revealed than the earlier peek-a-boo top. Your bottom is obscured by your crossed legs and arms. This is a classic boudoir photoshoot pose by wives who want to give their hubbys a photo memento."

I countered, "But, this is not a photoshoot! And my son and brother are here!"

My son and my brother turn their backs to me, as if all is decided.

My husband begins to remove my bikini top. I do not protest or resist. He reads this as tacit approval. This emboldens him. My son and my brother appear to interpret the ensuing silence as progress.

My husband helps me up. He rolls down my thong. I am stunned. I gasp. He taps my thigh gently. Mindlessly, I raise one stiletto than the other. I am now naked. My husband helps me sit down. He guides me to lock down the prescribed pose.

He steps back to where my son and brother are standing. He does a visual check.

He comes to me. He presses my right thigh to my right nippple to demonstrate that my nipple and areola are obscured, and I should know it. In the same vein, he presses my upper left arm against my left nipple and areola.

My top modesty thus secured, I peer down to my crotch. My cleft cannot be seen. A small tuft peeks out from my pressed junction of mound and thighs. I fidget and writhe a little to adjust the relative positions of my torso and legs in hopes of obscuring the sprout. It does not help.

Oh well, it can pass off as artful shadow. A sort of chiaroscuro, the use of strong contrasts between light and dark. Bold contrasts shaping a composition.

I let it go. It will add to the ambivalence and feminine allure. Perhaps I should consider shaving routinely hereon? But, there is a certain earthly appeal to this womanly rawness. I think of the acres of plasticky impossibly immaculate mounds with perfect linear landing strips, in my face, on the internet. Too contrived. Against natural design.

I feel a little more in control, and less naked.

My husband asks if I am cool. I nod shyly, then look away.

My husband nudges my son and my brother. They turn around. I continue to gaze away from them, as if this is part of the aesthetic design.

On the one hand, my not meeting their eyes relieves my moral burden a little. On the other hand, I really have to suppress my impulses to assess their reaction to my nudity. My maiden revelation to my son and brother. A moment in sensual spacetime that cannot be replicated.

After an austere upbringing, my son is finally fed his rightful oedipal rations. I wonder what is coursing through his mind right now? Is the person presented before him mother or woman? Mother first, woman second? Or woman first, mother second? These he must be unpacking. His head and his loins in intense competitive deliberation.

I wonder too what is coursing through my brother's mind right now? Does he see his late wife in his sister, which is kind of morbidly erotic? Or, his sister in his late wife? Sister, woman or wife incarnate?

As if my pose is done, I pivot suddenly to face my son and brother. They do not expect this. My son instinctively looks away shyly. My brother looks at me more intensely.

I decide that this is enough. I am about to tell David and Jude to turn around, so that I can return to my bedroom. But, I do something else. I drape my left arm over my chest, and place my right hand on my crotch. I get up to go back to the bedroom to dress up.

The boys plead for me to put my Wicked Weasel bikini back on and stay awhile to chill. They say it is no different from being on the beach.

Really? Do beach goers strut killer stilettos spiking the sand? Why am I the only person in swimsuit?

I say in that spirit, they should try out their thong bikinis too. I am entitled to view my gifts as they theirs. It is only fair.

The boys are more than amendable to my suggestion. They troop into the bedroom to strip off their clothes, and then put on their thongs. Once they are out of sight, I slip my Wicked Weasel bikini back on.

Shortly, all four of us are in our swimsuits. What a lark! Any more larks and we will be a teeming aviary.

I get to see my three gifts. They are effectively cock socks. I begin to wonder whether I made the right purchase. Are they swimwear or gay intimate apparel?

And their fit? My husband has a little room to grow. My brother fits like a glove. My son appears full of himself. Taut lines of strained vitality emanating from a tight sac.

We enjoy moments of bawdy mirth, teasing each other mercilessly.

My son wonders aloud jocularly how his garment would look on me. My husband volunteers valiantly on my behalf, "Let's see!"

I do not think too much about it. Replacing one itsy bit of textile with another, what difference can it make? And it will be cute to see the outcome.

My son and me in a playful mood, go into the bedroom.

He turns around, and takes off his thong, then puts on his usual briefs. I turn around, and replace my Wicked Weasel bottom with David's thong. I struggle to get in, and almost give up as I do not want to bust his thong. But, thankfully, the garment is elastic enough to oblige.

For yet another lark, David wants to try my Wicked Weasel bottom. I giggle. He places it against his crotch to check the fit. It is apparent that his manhood will runneth over. It will look vulgar. And it will bust the seams and ruin my garment. We agree that it is not a good idea.

We get back into the living room. My buttocks are totally exposed. But, this is not any different from my Wicked Weasel bottom.

My crotch area draws guffaws. An elongated deflated party balloon flops at my gusset. It looks like I am sporting a limp penis that has seen better days.

My husband says that he can fix it. He turns me around so that my back is to my son and my brother. Now, what innovation does he have in mind?

My husband comes to my front. He kneels before me. He asks me to relax a little. To my horror, he starts to stuff the surplus textile into me. He does it up to a quarter way.

My son and brother are piqued. What is happening? What is he doing so earnestly?

Then, horror of horrors, my husband calls out, "Son, this is your thong, you do this!"

Before I can even wrap my head around what is going to happen, my son is crouching beside my husband. He watches his father's action, and then, disbelievingly, takes over the delicate operation. My husband steps away to rejoin my brother.

My son gazes up to me, nervously, wild-eyed, as if seeking my permission. I do not know how to react. I freeze. I say nothing. Then, I make a small movement to relax my torso and part my legs a little. My son reads this as tacit approval.

He encounters a little resistance initially. He is tentative. Progress is slow. After awhile, he gets it. Even enjoying the process. What he does not yet know is that I have gone from moist to wet. It has helped. I am now sopping wet. Soaking through. Can my son sense the piquant scent?