Preamble:
There is nudity, exhibitionist and voyeuristic tension, incestual sex in this story.
In Chapter 1, in a hotel room setting, mature couple, Ethan and Em, enlist the help of their son, David, to take intimate photos of them to memorialise their fiftieth birthdays cum thirtieth wedding anniversary.
In Chapter 2, the playful champagne-fueled photoshoot frisson leads to the dad taking simulated intimate mum-son photos for a lark. As it is late, the son stays overnight in the room.
This chapter is on the morning after the photoshoot.
***
A mellifluous rising musical tone marks the new dawn.
It is David's cellphone.
David is a nocturnal beast. Not a morning person. Certainly not at the crack of dawn on a Saturday. But, David has a symbiotic, almost telepathic relationship with his cellphone. An uncanny bond. His eyes flicker open at the first chime of his cellphone. He quickly quieses the cellphone so as not to wake his parents.
The message reads: New development on Shanghai deal. Details in email. Need you there pronto.
David texts: No rest for the wicked. Noon flight. See ya.
David rises in a dissonant daze from the sofa bed, shaking off his pall of sleep. He makes his way to the washroom, passing his parents who are soundly asleep. He pauses at the bed to inform his parents that he has to go off, to attend to work matters.
The quilt is gathered in a clutter at his parents' feet. They are naked. His dad lies flat on his back, snoring in deep coma. A night person. His mum grafts herself over his dad. Her right leg drapes over his genitals, as if clambering on him in suspended animation.
David scans his parents. His eyes laser into his mum. In her position, each of her arse cheeks are proffered with distinct expressed personalities, like individually sculpted orbs. The underside of her lady parts is exposed.
Where one expects to see a lurid flowering of petals on this mature form, there is, almost surreally, a pristine minimalist gash. And then, less elegantly, but just as sensually compelling, a puckered anus, delineated by a faint imprint hint of oily o-ring. Barely six hours ago, David had entered this private nether universe, and left his visitation evidence there. This thought gives David a twitch.
This image before David can pass off as an art class perspective posterior study of a young woman, of youthful body lines, except for the light Rubenesque thighs and hips. A confounding concoction of mature and the cusp of womanhood. It is in this pleasant aesthetic frame of mind that David ponders adoringly over this body sculpt work that is his mother.
Sensing their deep transcendental sleep, an emboldened David bends down to appraise his mother's nether charms at the level of detail she deserves. How pretty her lady parts look. He is glad that she is giving him the privilege of seeing her most intimate charms again, albeit implicitly, this time, in the crystal clarity of early morning light, without the restraining tension of bashfulness of the night before, even though she doesn't know it. Or, does she? His parents have probably decided that given the chill nudity in the photoshoot of the night before, their sleeping nude is not a big deal.
David remembers that his mum is an early morning person. And a pin drop light sleeper. But, maybe on this new dawn, she is sleeping off her champagne. She is a light drinker. And she drank copious volumes last night. Her vulnerability to champagne-strawberries pairing.
David has to muster all his will to resist running his fingers through her vaginal slit. He imagines the sensation of caressing her delicate inner folds. The thing about women with minimalist exteriors is that there is a sort of layered mystique to be peeled, which adds to the allure, maddeningly rationing the sensuality.
David has to capture this moment. He takes a close-up photo with his cellphone. This is the least that he must do, even though it is so wrong on many levels.
A resounding click in the still room air!
Oops!
He forgot to mute his cellphone. Is that a fleeting flutter of his mum's eyes? Did he see the whites of her eyes?
But, she appears to be serenely asleep as before. An animation of rapid eye movement. Par for the dreamland course. He hopes...
His mum moves. David recoils in mortification. Will he be caught out? She turns to the other side, facing David, coiled, knees bent, right leg ahead of left, arse orbs dramatically trussed and cocked up.
Davids decides that he is skating on thin voyeur ice. He is a flicker of an eyelid from being caught out. It is one thing to study his mum with artistic intent in a champagne-fueled photoshoot. It is quite another to ascertain his mum like a museum treasure artefact. And he has a noon flight to catch.
He doesn't have the heart to wake up his slumbering parents. They are naked. It is different if they are under the quilt cover. In the glaring morning light, they may be embarrassed. He will message his parents later on his early departure. Much as he likes to linger to contemplate his mother's maternal charms, David wills himself away from the epicentre of the sensual maelstrom, to the washroom. He gazes back at his mother for a final lingering look. He deliberates on whether to take another cellphone photo of this refreshed perspective view of his mother's charm. No! He has to move on if he is not to miss his flight.
The washroom is bathed in brilliant skylight. The new dawn apparently starts right here. The last vestiges of David's sleepiness fall away in this assault of morning light.
David shrugs off his hotel bathrobe which he slept in. He sports a double boner. A fulsome aggregate of the frisson of appreciating his mother's feminine charms, and his custom morning wood. A unity of sensory and physiological impulses to start his day.
To David's surprise, the washroom door clicks open. David instinctively reaches for his bathrobe. But it is out of reach in the laundry basket.
It is his mother. Unfazedly naked as the day she gave birth to naked David.
David begins to explain. Em places a quietening finger to her son's lips. She then slides her finger sensuously from one extremity of his lips to the other. His lips are sealed. Hermetically.
Mother looks knowingly at her son's erection. Her senses were coddled and coloured by champagne last night. This morning, under brilliant skylight, she has a clarity of senses. It is the most formidable manhood she has ever seen, in rippling flesh, in her life. She drinks in its measure for a few seconds. What she has produced at birth, and enhanced over, in the frisson moment here and now, is what every mother wishes on her son. She feels a delicious tingle blend of taboo delirium and motherly pride elation. She shudders at the possibilities to come.
Em sits on the edge of the bathtub. She motions her son to come over. Curiously, she crosses her legs, sitting coquettishly, concealing her bottom, as if protecting what she can of her maternal modesty, under the circumstances.
David stands ramrod in front of his mother. Michelangelo's David, only better, sculpted in pliant warm flesh. He is statuesquely in her face.
Em runs her fingernails experimentally up and down her son's length. Slowly, softly. Her first touch in illuminating daylight. Then again. On one side. Then, the other. She traces an imaginary axis line up to the bulbous head, as if ascertaining its geometrical properties. She sees a prominent thick blue vein which veers a meandering pathway across the length of his shaft. His signature line. Drawn out. She studiously traces the vein once, one way, and backwards, as if ascertaining a wayward graph against its axis.
Em finds her son's penis pleasing to the eye. Nice size and girth. But, not so long and fat as to be lewd and vulgar. Michelangelo's David. And now hers.
David is piqued by his mother's fascination. As if his mother is a student all over again, in her first biology lab class, inspired by what mother nature can reveal to those who seek her deeper secrets. His noon flight recedes farther into the horizon of his mind.
Em examines David closely. This is only the second manhood she has seen in the flesh, in her life. She bends down to look. She touches it. It is so hard! She squeezes it a little. Strokes it. Feeling all around. She takes it all in for a moment to get its measure. She pays David no mind. It is as if his penis is a separate being, disembodied from her son.
Em loves the way her son's skin stretches as he grows. The way the head gets bigger and bigger. Those first little gathering drops of male arousal. And the way his balls tighten up. She cups them like treasured objects with one hand. Then, they loosen again, hanging down and swinging. Then, tightening up.
Em deftly uses 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. A studious look on her face.
