Lingerie Intimacy With My Son

Preamble:

This is a near-autobiographical account by a mature mum, of her blossoming lingerie experience with her son. The goofing lingerie fun led to higher tender intimacy.

Later, the mum relates her experience to her husband.

There is teasing, titillating sensual and erotic tension in this story, in a haze of exhibitionist, voyeur and incestual emotions. It inhabits the range of the sensual through erotic, just short of lusty.

The sex is lite, rendered in ornate literary prose, with light musings of philosophy, literature and music. If you are looking for bruising, caterwauling and torrenting action by sex triathletes, this is evidently not your cuppa, skip along.

***

Part 1: Mum-Son

Part 2: Wife-Husband

Epilogue

***

Part 1

Mum-Son

The single most potent sexual organ in the human body is the brain. Stimulate the brain as well as the body and you will rock the person's world far more than if you just stimulate the exact body parts.

Lingerie has become so eroticised, so symbolic of that which is desired that they, in effect, often become the central desire. Perversely, lingerie can make a woman more naked in her beholder's eyes. Less is more.

The body. One needs to be free of one's body. The independence of the stifling forces the body casts on one. Lingerie liberates the body by enfolding and revealing it as one desires. Opaque. Translucent. Transparent. Whatever in between. Obscure a part. Flaunt another. Seen. But, not really. Fifty shades of lace in between. Lingerie is a language unto itself. A woman can have an infinite number of bodies when clad in lingerie.

Lingerie is a market times two. The wearer. The admirer. Bonded by sheer lace.

Lingerie are a part of me. They are me.

***

It all began innocently enough.

Perversely, my lingerie experience actually began with denial of lingerie.

I particularly enjoyed the occasional pokies to tease my son, Sebastian or Seb, aged eighteen, when my mood was willing. And in the right public context and circumstances. The chafing of nipples on fabric was stimulating in and of itself.

Seb is a photography buff. Photography has deep associations with lingerie. Boudoir, chiaroscuro, the play of light and shade in image art. That sort of emotion-invoking imagery that jerks our senses in unseemly directions and shakes us from a strange angle.

***

On swimwear and lingerie, Seb loves me to parade in them in our private moments. I'm more than pleased to oblige. The lad loves looking at me. His taste is understandably a bit more lusty than my hubby's, thanks to his spasming hormones.

Wicked Weasel thong bikinis. He likes impossibly high-cut bottoms with the gusset vee hemline straining barely over my pout of lips, just so, and no more.

At poolside, I tease my son mercilessly. I turn my body. My legs parted. My slit outlined. The slightly swollen lips pushing out, pressing, straining against the wet fabric.

He is aroused when my pubes peek shyly out of the gusset edge in shadowy pencil shading.

I keep my bottom natural. I've done nothing to it all my life. I've the classic thicker-in-the-middle, then, thinning, fading to the edges pubic hair. Goes well with high-cut gusset designs.

The hair between my legs, black, like that on my head. Not much of it. Short. Soft little rip curls. Appears close cropped, as if it has been trimmed. Curiously, there is tiny tuft a little above the top of my slit. It apparently has a mind of its own. It stands up a bit, refusing to be combed down no matter what I do.

My son knows my pubes. I think he does. He can tell when he runs his magic fingers on my thatch determining my texture. He draws each breath in deliberately when he is doing that. Oooo, the flush of thrill. The rush of something new, unexpected or immense.

My son observes that my pubic hair is so natural looking, it can't have been trimmed. And it hides nothing. The narrow slit, my opening, is clearly visible. The outer lips soft and slightly puffy. All of it, my son tells me, a quiet, dignified beauty. Whatever that means, it gives me a sensual pride that is hard to define precisely.

Seb adores my breasts. Their shape. Their mass. Their weight. Their hang. Their sway. The way they make him feel more alive. He says they are heavier than they look. He likes the way they, in his words, spill out of my bikini top, sensually, but not lewdly. Hmmm... it's a fine line between sensual and lewd. But, I trust his hormonal instincts.

Now, here's the curious thing.

We know the classic primal psyche of husbands desiring to show off their wives to other men. The usual explanation for this is that the hubby is mutedly asserting ape-like: "This is mine. You can only ogle and envy."

Perversely, my son likes to show me off at the appropriate places and circumstances, like on foreign beaches, and when we are homestay guests where the hosts are of the liberal sort. He cajoles, no, implores me to put on my wickedest Wicked Weasels. And then, he would fit my gusset this way and that, artfully transforming the bottom illicitly into effectively outrageous g-strings. Heaven forbid, just short of my pink showing.

Is my son asserting: "This is my mum. I get to see her all the time. But, you get to see her only now. Feast!"

Is this just my son? Or, is this something simmering beneath the consciousness out there in the pan psyche of discerning sons everywhere? We can never know, can we?

***

Lingerie...

These are my son's favs.

Babydolls, camisoles with hemline dancing deliciously just below my mound.

High-cut leotards, sans top padding, outlining my bosom with geometrical precision. Bottom vee skimming just over my outer labia, woodsmoke wisps of bush showing.

My son loves the illicit matching-lace combination of quarter cup exposed bra or bustier, and crotchless panty. Delicate fabric of black lace strained over creamy white, a little anemic, English rose skin. Sheer delight.

***

I want to meander off a bit and share here my first time, my maiden experience, of teasing my son in my combination of quarter cup exposed bra and crotchless panty.

It was the first time my son saw my femininity. It was also the first time I saw my son's male credentials since I nursed him through a feverish bout when he was in his early teens.

A first-time visual experience is special and memorable. That searing defining image on one's retina and the imagination it fires up in the mind. It can never be replayed to the same compelling effect. It is like once you see through an optical illusion, you can never see it again.

Think lingerie and we think of warm and fuzzy soft lighted bedroom capers and florics. Counterintuitively, maybe we should just be bold, inventive, and thrust lingerie to the fore. Air it in the great outdoors. These sublime velvety treasures can be better admired in the open.

***

We live in a seaside cottage perched cliffside, overlooking a moor of ocean on the south coast. Quintessential countryside of rambling English poetry and prose. The lay of our tiny sliver of land has a menacing but exhilarating feel to it. It rolls and slopes gently to the cliff edge. The sensation like we would tumble down the abyss if we weren't so surefooted for a moment. Søren Kierkegaard's fear and trembling.

It is said that the heart of danger is the safest place. Like the eye of the storm. This, the edge of danger, has an inexplicable alluring charm. This is the anxiety I feel when I sit in my garden. A sort of delicious unease.

Our nearest neighbour, a kindly Sir Stu Miles, is a good two miles away. A venerable relic of our glorious Empire age when we were in the zone. The civilising force for a quarter of the inventory of humanity this side of the universe.

These days, Sir Miles, and his weak back from years bearing the white man's burden, and matching weakening finances, struggles to civilise the native wild plants encroaching into his garden.

In its rose tinted days, his garden was a classic study of how one disciplined nature. Straighten it. Clip it. Smoothen it. Will it to grow however. Trees lined up as if in parade. Or, planted in rational symmetrical groups. In the corner stood a huge tree. The trunk did not send off a wild branch here and there to take its own way. All the branches shared in one great fountain-like hurrah impulse. Even the garden toads and birds knew their designed places in the garden. The only traces of disorder then was human.

But, gardening had become a defence activity for the old chap. A perpetual military campaign. In founding a garden, he appropriated, by horticultural force, a patch of land from the forest. He moulded it so that it became an oasis amidst the wilderness.

It had since become an endless struggle. Turn his back for a moment, and the darkness of the forest begins its insidious invasion of his modest haven. Sir Miles harks back wistfully to his imperial halcyon days. The Empire was such a blissful realm to order and manage. That work was easy, boring, busy. Busy, those hours before tiffin.

I happened to drive past the old boy's home recently. I couldn't help but stop outside his estate for a longer than a lingering moment's pause, taking in his embattled garden, parsing its true nature. There was a kind of charming wild order to it. Not completely riotous. A sort of revolutionary fervor. A kind of uneasy coexistence of mother and human nature, like they made some kind of peace. Maybe gardens everywhere should be like this.

It got me thinking about my own garden. I wanted the roses and the toads to be real. I wanted to smell raw turned earth.

***

It was spring. Life was exciting and new for no particular good reason. I was glad we live in a world with Marches. Wouldn't it be terrible if we just skipped from February to April?

Spring. Sun shining on the rain. And the rain falling on the sunshine. Even the rain gives a gloomy grandeur to the scenery. Things working under the earth in the dark, then pushing up. The robin finds a mate, and is building a nest.

My son and I were at a quiet secluded corner of our sea-fronting garden. Not a leaf stirred. All nature was in meditation.

Only my son and I were home. My hubby was on business travel a continent away. Somehow, this gave me a thrilling feeling of liberation, though I couldn't really tell liberate from what precisely. Like the sweet anticipation of missing someone you didn't know, and the promise that came with it.

I was in a casual summer dress. Seb was in t-shirt and shorts. We were sitting on the wicker chairs in the garden chatting nineteen to the dozen.

We spent the whole beautiful morning together in that delightful spacetime of our demarcation. Sea breeze blowing. Talking. Not talking. Connecting. Reading. Weeding. Floating. Fooling around. Just being. It was a perfect day. Like something I might have dreamed up and written myself.

"Mum, what are you reading?"

"It's a book."

Sarcastically, "Really?"

He peered at the book cover. Indeed it was.

"It's a Book" by Lane Smith.

"What's it about?"

"A children's book. About books. So profound."

***

We were listening to Brahms' Second Piano Concerto on the media player. There was something just so wonderful about Brahms playing at the edge of an ocean without a sign of anyone as far as the eye could see. Brahms was performing just for Seb and me. And the ocean.

Now, the cello passage that began the third movement. I could see Seb listening intently, sucking the music right out of the player.

Musing, "Richard Strauss boasted in his heyday that he could describe even a broom musically. Could music really depict these things? How could one describe a broom in music? Or, hot grilled cheese sandwich? Or, someone's callused feet?"

The ocean. We could see beyond the wall of breakers. There, just beyond the turmoil, laid the whole of the ocean. Calm as a puddle. Smooth as a newborn's cheek. Peaceful as a whispered promise. We saw a distant flicker of a sailboat out there.

Just then, Brahms ended his gig.

"Let's test this music-can-describe-anything claim. But, not Richard Strauss. Ravel's "Une barque surl'océan" from his Miroirs suite."

"Is this something about the reflections of a boat on the ocean?"

"Ravel was invited on a cruise in his friend's yacht. He was influenced by his observations and feelings from the experience. His vision of water was also fed by a little cutesy toy, which sat on his piano. Within a glass bell was a little boat on cardboard waves, which would toss the boat about when turning a hand crank. Ravel paints the ocean on a vast canvas, sweeping across enormous areas of the piano keyboard, reflecting the endless space of the ocean. Throughout, the boat rocks and sways on top of or within fluid, expressive textures and changing harmonies. Water is continually and immediately evidenced by constantly flowing music. Adding to the swaying effect is his direction for a flexible rhythm for the theme and the accompaniment. Midpoint, the ocean stirs from its opening serenity into a storm, leading to a huge, overwhelming, dissonant climax. Dynamics are used to illustrate the unpredictability of the ocean. The boat survives the storm in a slower paced music. A soft recollection of the opening music brings his composition to a peaceful closing."

***

The meaning of life. The existence of god. The nature of existence. The ideal of justice. Seb is a Philosophy major, with a minor in Literature.

Even though Seb is my son, I have never met anyone quite like him. Good-looking. Brains. If I may say so myself. An easy, almost lazy, fluency with language. Hardly ever deadly serious about something, if not anything. He appears to be always relaxed and carefree. He lives life with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye.

The confounding nature of man. The mysteries of religion. Analysing the pattern of a musical piece. Literary examination of a good book. These are abstractions he will immerse in to mine their essence or beauty, but not obsess over. If you like it, enjoy it. Don't try to take it to pieces, analyse its scheme of bones and muscles to death, and believe that you will enjoy it more. This is his unstated philosophy. Though he will loath to call it philosophy. He thoroughly enjoys the moment he is living in. Not in the New Agey syrupy way where the moment often saturates the experience. But, in the way a hobo enjoys his stab of whisky ripping down the hatch, burning his entrails so that he may live more fulsomely a shorter life.

Shakespeare's rational, scheming, calculating, cold Hamlet. The classic Nordic.

Cervantes' spirited, inventive, ranging, tempestuous Don Quixote. Archetypal southern.

Thought versus action. Seb would be a third Hamlet, two thirds Quixote. We are Anglo. As is Shakespeare. So, where did that come from?

***

We could talk for hours, agreeing and disagreeing with conviction and passion. Seb, the way one does when one is young at eighteen. Theory and ideology still hold redemptive promise. Me, a little jaded by abrasive experience, but still hanging onto what little of my idealism.

We were discussing Morals.

"Seb, what would be the most moral action you'd aspire?"

"I want to do good things. I want to be kind. I want to contribute to society. I want to make a difference."

"Like what?"

"Drive a drunk home."

I decided we should move on from morality.

***

"The sun is brilliant. I'm going to enjoy all of it."

I stood up, lifted my summer dress off. Seb was wild-eyed. He looked at my body with a kind of awed wonder, like landlocked people who see the ocean for the first time in their lives. A body of expanse. He could not tear himself from the spectacle. His eyes seemed to be straining as if looking deeper into me to glean further insights.

I was in a quarter cup exposed bra and crotchless panty. Seb appeared befuddled that I was dressed this way. Like why wear lingerie that exposed the very bits that they were supposed to hide? And erotic lingerie in full splendour in a sunny spring English garden appeared odd and incongruent. It was like the full force of stadium floodlights was suddenly turned on to illuminate a boudoir happy parlour.

But, in Seb's infinite discretionary wisdom, he said nothing.

I studied Seb's face. I studied my son studying me. His maiden view of his naked mother. When the line between mother and woman is hopelessly snarled. This sort of imagery only manifests once in a son's life, that is, if it happens at all.

It appeared like his first thoughts were that I was wearing a regular covered panty. My exposed short natural pubic hair blended with the sheer fabric of my crotchless panty. He couldn't discern frilly lace from kinky pubic curls. I moved a little to scratch an imaginary itch on my thigh, then lower, my ankle. I think he saw pink. His eyes glistened. An optical illusion demystified.

I decided to up the ante some.

I bent over to pick up my summer dress from the lawn. I was a former ballerina. Still a little nimble. I bent over with my knees still locked, my legs impossibly straight. My knickers in a creased twist.

Seb was looking at me from behind. At the top of my legs, he could see my arse cheeks jiggle a little as I moved. And before him was my oily o-ring, a little mysterious, exposed to light of day by my lewd panty opening.

And those soft little labia, just barely protruding from the minutiae below. I waited a good minute fussing over the folding of my dress, before straightening back up. This private vision of his mother's most intimate places began making Seb harder. It pressed against his shorts. At eighteen, a lad is issued with new machinery. Body at its peak of physical conditioning. He didn't look half bad.

I was flirting with danger here. And I knew now that I might not be able to stop. But, I didn't want to think about that just now.

Rather sheepishly, "Can I?"

I didn't answer. He read that as an implicit yes. He approached me. My bra top fabric was so delicate, he appeared almost afraid to touch the sheer material, as if it would disintegrate under his touch. Could he see the hint of the fine aqua veins below the surface?

I expected him to warm up to knead and fondle me. Maybe even maul me in his youthful fire.

Instead, he traced his finger on my top lace pattern, the hem edge. And then, southerly, the sheer velvet of my bottom, the hem edge of the crotchless opening. He did this for a long time, touched the fabric, never my flesh, as if discovering a sensual principle. As a son, he was way too interested in his mother's underwear. Weird. But gratifying.

This meant he understood how powerful and precious our connection to lingerie could be. Sharing lingerie is an intimate undertaking in a relationship. Even if only one party only is wearing the lingerie. I could be overthinking this.

Just as abruptly as he had started, he was done.

Emboldened, Seb surprised me. "There's just you and me here. I'll go native to make the most of the sun too."

There he was, my elusive prototype, dreamed into human flesh existence. He had truly assertive presence. His body, full of beautiful associations. I couldn't help but trace my finger along a thick vein that ran a good length of him. Hello, Mister Stringy, I greeted. Chortles. I held him. Was that my imagination or was it a shot of pulse? His butt, the tight skin of the rump of an Arabian thoroughbred. A powerful aura of enticing danger. A pencil artist's dream.

My eyes could not help fixing on it with a touch of maternal proprietorial pride. I made this male meat.

On his head, a little moist dense sensual matter gathered. It gave me a strange ticklish sensation down below.

"Do you remember your first erection?"

"My goodness! What a question! At a time like this!"