Mum/son Tease Homestay Hosts

Preamble:

This is an autobiographical account by the mature mum of an intimate English mum/son pair who went for a remote countryside homestay holiday in the English Lake District. They teased their husband/wife pair hosts with their subtle, mostly implied intimacy.

Was it just family affection? Or, was there more going on?

There is teasing, titillating sensual and erotic tension in this story, in a stew of exhibitionist, voyeur and incestual emotions.

The sex is lite. If you are looking for bruising, caterwauling and torrenting sex by sex triathletes, this is not for you, skip along.

***

Part 1: S&S

Part 2: House on a Hill

Part 3: J&J

Part 4: The Secret Garden

Part 5: Pee Wee

Part 6: Movie Night

Part 7: Son Visit

Part 8: Vroom

Part 9: Gypsy

Part 10: Rainstorm

Part 11: Let's Dance

Part 12: Sail

Part 13: Secrets

Part 14: Last Night

Part 15: Photos For Dad

Part 16: Dear Saula

Epilogue

***

Part 1

S&S

I am Saula, a Literotica writer, from the English south coast.

I have an intimate relationship with my only child, my son. This is with the blessing of my husband. I have a loving and trusting relationship with my husband.

When our son left for university in the city, we had an empty room, in addition to our guest room. My husband and I decided to monetise our property asset some, to run a small homestay business on the side, in our seaside cottage.

We are listed on a popular homestay app. We enjoy the experience of bringing the world to our doorstep, hosting interesting guests from all over the world, immersing a little in other cultures.

With our being registered hosts on the homestay app, we enjoy discounts when we, playing as guests, book homestays with other hosts on the same app. This enables us to periodically flip our host/guest experience.

As hosts, we have engaged some interesting, if not intriguing, guests. Conversely, as guests, we have met some fascinating hosts.

The diversity of the human condition overlaying the cultures of the world is a wellspring of learning and inspiration.

Our experiences have inspired me to write a few homestay-themed stories in Literotica.

And now, a little about myself. I am in my early sixties. Five feet, six inches. I am often told that I carry that classic English rose look. A curiously healthy anemic complexion, with a light dusting of freckles.

I have small to medium breasts. Nothing so loud and proud. But, if I may say so myself, they do rise and swell nicely to a form of ripe fruit. A little east-west. They are heavier than they look, so I'm told by my son. A faint sprinkling of freckles on my upper chest accentuates my modest cleavage.

Being all natural, my nipples point down just enough to make them coyly inviting. They are pink. But an odd sort of pink like some other colour was accidentally mixed into it.

Delicate rise of tummy. An artful caesarean filament line.

My buttocks are pleasantly contoured. Not a young girl's butt for sure, but not a blubber mass of arse either. A woman's tail, longish and curving.

My buttocks arc down to sturdy thighs. Muscular yet softly pliant.

Par for a woman in her sixties, I have my obligatory share of flabs and sags, and body signature lines of my age. A wrinkle or two, here and there, just slight ones. But my body otherwise is toned, healthy. Smooth shoulders. Unblemished back.

My son, in our Britspeak, is a strapping young lad. Seb is eighteen, and not getting any older. He is slightly taller than his dad at six feet. Lean, mean. He is what an Englishman named Sebastian should classically look like.

At eighteen, a lad gets a new set of genitals. Seb's manhood has that proud, expectant disposition that only brand new machinery possesses.

Seb's penis carries a statuesque demeanor. It is in the medium range. It appears like it is in a perpetual semi-erect state, although it is hard to really tell for sure. It points downward in a soft arc, not quite true south. He has clean meat lines. When he moves, he does not sway nor swing as flaccid phalluses merrily do. It remains regally dignified.

When Seb gets aroused, he stiffens some, but doesn't get that much longer and harder.

I do still wonder what exactly is Seb's normal state. Will the real Seb please stand up? A male enigma that defies demystification.

So, that is us, Saula and Seb, S&S.

***

One weekend, Seb was visiting us. In our dinner banter, we discussed our homestay experiences in the last twelve months. We hosted a couple of intriguing guests, family members who were rather affectionate, to say the least.

I was booked on a homestay vacation with my husband. But, a work contingency arose for him. He suggested that Seb go with me instead. Seb was on uni break.

My husband observed that so far, we had hosted interesting guests, and on the flipside, had also met fascinating, eccentric hosts.

He suggested that maybe for this homestay vacation, Seb and I turn the tables, and pique our hosts with simmering mum-son affection, bordering on intimacy. Tease and titillate our hosts a bit, depending on how liberal our hosts are, but only to the extent that we do not cross any red lines.

Seb and I looked at each other as if searching for ourselves. We could see a certain sparkle of recognition in each other's eyes. Hmm... if Seb and I overextended ourselves, we could go to jail.

I quipped, "I can envisage it all. Mother and son on vacation find their place in The Sun on Sunday."

Guffaws.

But, we didn't say anything more to my husband. The germ of an idea had been planted. There was a certain dangerous, reckless charm in it, as in anything that tests and pushes the boundaries. I found myself already contemplating thought crimes of increasing severity.

***

Part 2

House on a Hill

A narrow, sunken country lane that characterised that part of the country, rural England at its most quintessential, wound its way up. Charming houses with roofs half-ready to blow off in the next big blow lined either side of the narrow gravel road.

The cottage, the sole property on the hillock, was set back from the lane, with a sweeping drive leading up to it. The clouds were far behind the hill.

A riot of wisteria vine overgrew the perimeter low stone wall. An old oak tree spread out its branches as if to protect the cottage. There was the wind taking its survey of the land.

The cottage overlooked lake country in every way we faced. A sailboat appeared at the lee of the island in the lake, and inscribed a short white arc as it sailed into the ramshackle jetty. Another boat was in a static gallop, moored.

There was a silence that came with too few people in too big a space. It was not simply an absence of sound. The silence seemed to be trying to tell me something about itself.

The Lake District. Wordsworth country.

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed--and gazed--but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

***

Part 3

J&J

An attractive, woman answered our knock. I supposed she must have been around late fifties, though it was hard to be sure. Her most striking features, short fair hair lightened with some silver streaks, though the roots hinted at a darker natural colour, penetrating brown eyes, high cheekbones, a few freckles beneath her eyes, and a lovely smile, combined to make a most appealing face. There was a touch of maturity in her figure. Nicely rounded, but firm. Neither overweight nor skinny. In all, she displayed signs of taking care of herself, without being obsessive over it.

She didn't seem to be making an effort to look younger than her age. She seemed pretty self-confident.

Her breasts, from what I could see beneath her t-shirt, and I had to try not to stare at them, were on the small side. There was no sign of a bra. Her t-shirt also revealed that the freckles, like mine, continued on her upper chest and arms.

She did have a good figure. A tidy behind. Nice hips. A neat waist.

"Welcome! You must be Saula and Seb. I'm Jane, your host. Pleased to meet you."

We exchanged pleasantries and made small talk. Although I had made the change on the homestay app booking, I thought it polite to reiterate that my son, Seb was taking over my husband's place, as he had a work contingency.

She pivoted toward Seb at one point and caught him admiring her. She smiled sweetly, though there seemed to be a faint look of anxiety on her face.

"My husband, Jake, is presently out. He'll meet you later."

As we entered the house, I heard angels sing from the living room as if beckoning us in. Now, where have I heard these angels before? Ah, the British Airways ad. The Flower Duet, from some opera.

She led us up the stairs. The older things in the house looked inherited. The windows had faint cream-coloured curtains that the sun could not fade. We turned to the right at the top. She opened the second door along the passage and stepped back to allow me to enter first.

It was a spacious, cheerful room, tastefully furnished without any of the over-the-top chintzy decoration that so many guest houses seemed to feel was necessary. Apart from the double bed and a fitted wardrobe, the furniture included a sofa, a writing desk, and a wall-mounted flatscreen TV.

For some reason, my eyes lingered on the writing desk a little longer than I should. On the desk were three precision-sharpened pencils, and a notepad at the dead centre. An unqualified still life.

Looking at me, Jane said, "I hope the double bed is adequate..."

I turned to Seb gravely, "You will behave, won't you?"

Seb growled in mock tigerish, "Grr...!"

Laughter. This kind of broke the ice.

In the corner was a door to a small en-suite bathroom, with shower and toilet. The expansive floor-to-ceiling window looked out over delightful lake country that seemed to go on for quite a distance.

***

Later in the evening...

They obviously liked opera. Music media albums lined the shelves, arranged by composer: Verdi, Puccini, Donizetti, Richard Strauss. A symbol of a worldview, calm and immovable. When there was a gap in our conversations, I would let my eyes wander over the album spines, reading the titles aloud in my mind. La Boheme, Tosca, Turandot, Norma, Fidelio, Lakmé,... This was their world. At the bottom shelf, there was an untidy pile of albums. Porgy and Bess, West Side Story and others.

Jane said that she was a novelist. Romance genre. She had published eighteen novels, and two books on poetry. Bohemian. Hers was a world alive with words. She would use the word that felt most warm in anything she described.

Jake poured Seb a beer, and me, a wine. He was slim, tall and had a good head of salt and pepper hair, but otherwise I thought him not particularly memorable.

We talked well on into the evening. I couldn't say that I was greatly taken by Jake, but Jane was another matter. Bubbly, bright, lively. Pick any of them and they described her perfectly.

J&J, as different as prose and poetry.

Jane seemed relaxed. She curled her legs beneath her on the sofa. Whether it was intentional or not, her pose revealed an expanse of unclad thigh. I noticed that this detail did not escape Seb. She brushed off an imaginary metaphysical piece of lint on her skirt, just above the knee. I felt compelled to cross my leg giving a little more view of my upper thigh.

Then, when Jane bent toward Seb and me, her blouse fell forward, revealing her small breasts, still unencumbered by bra. They were tipped by two plump light brown nipples, on a raised stage of tiny but dense areola. The sweet little things turned beautifully upward, like vine's new tendrils seeking sunlight.

I could sense that Seb found it hard not to stare. The lad was on the cusp of manhood. His body was maturing faster than his mind, if you understand my meaning.

But, Seb was socially aware enough to not want to draw Jake's attention to the fact that he'd just been given a full view of his wife's breasts.

Was that a tinge of jealousy scything through me? I couldn't think of an emotion more exciting than jealousy. Jealousy, fear, shame or doubt means there is something at stake, an imbalance in power, that will shift in due course. But, shift how?

Jane bounced up and went across to the music player system.

"What genre of music do you like, Seb? Come pick something."

"Jazz, saxophone."

"Why do you like it?"

"I once heard a sax in a music shop. I couldn't move away. The sax and me. It was a meeting arranged by destiny. I've listened to the sax since then."

The music played.

The style was smooth, elegant and sweet. It was not art. But, it was music made by the skillful hand of a pro that could put the listener, if not a crowd, in a good mood. Seb was enthralled, sucking the music right out of the player.

We sat and listened, drinking much more than we should. The moonlight seemed to be swaying with the music.

***

That was our introduction to Jake and Jane, J&J.

S&S and J&J playing house on a hill.

***

Part 4

The Secret Garden

As sometimes happens with total strangers, I found myself sharing little intimacies with J&J that I almost never shared.

On our third day, in our casual evening banter, I alluded to J&J that my husband and I were casual nudists back home on the south coast. Where we lived, it was secluded and remote, so nudity wasn't something one deliberated on, kind of moot. I was silent on whether Seb joined us, and J&J knew from earlier chats that Seb, attending uni, didn't live with us.

Jane remarked that their cottage, on high ground, was just as private, if not more so. She encouraged Seb and me to make the most of our homestay, in our most preferred ways.

We agreed with J&J on their guidance for our nudity in their home, that would make everyone at ease.

***

Our fourth day at the homestay. This was the morning after our nudism discussion.

The morning dawned beautifully. A wind had swept away the clouds of the previous night, leaving behind a sky unnaturally high and transparent. That was the sort of morning it was.

I found it inspiring that one sky could actually cast so much sunlight.

I felt total equanimity. As in, I was worried about some things, but, what were they again? There were people trying to hold time back. And people urging time forward. For me this morning, time didn't exist.

There was nothing for me to do. Nothing I should do. Nothing I wanted to do.

The cottage had a lovely, quintessentially English garden. Not so big as to be impersonal and utilitarian. It had a secluded, private, placid, cosy feel to it. A lushly verdant mini amphitheatre. An earthy turned soil smell. A world unto itself.

It was 8 am. I bumped into Jane at the staircase landing. We exchanged morning pleasantries.

I told her that we'd be enjoying her lovely garden. She beamed. Her pride and joy, if not her life's work. People left traces of themselves where they felt most comfortable, most worthwhile. With Jane, that place was her garden.

Seb and I meandered our way to the garden. We were dressed in swimwear, with bathrobe thrown over.

We made a show of surveying our surroundings, checking out the privacy of the place, and the orientation to soak the sunrays.

That part of the garden was effectively away from view, except for the attic window of the cottage. I didn't see anything up there. But Seb thought he detected a fleeting flutter of curtain movement. Since the window was closed, no wind possible, it was likely that someone had been at the window. In any case, only J&J were in the cottage.

The sun was shining obliquely from the direction of the attic rooftop. Seb's first impulse was to shift the loungers to face the sun.

But, I felt a tad uncomfortable. The attic window afforded a view of our nook of the garden. We were at social ease with J&J, but we hardly knew them after just three days. I just didn't want to see Seb and me premiered on the internet in our full splendour, bare to the world, at least, not with our faces shown.

I murmured to Seb that being our first day of nudity, we'd tread lightly. We would position the loungers to face away from the cottage. We would still enjoy the sun, but it would not be in our faces. And we would consciously endeavour to face away from the cottage. That way, we could be a little less constrained on how we could express ourselves. Seen, but not full-on directly. If J&J were watching us, let their imaginations run a little, to interpret our actions. If one looked ahead, one was sucked into one point. There was a certain teasing charm in the implicit, in ambivalence.

I faced away from the cottage, stood up and disrobed. I was in a strapless, tight-fitting, one-piece, high-cut swimsuit. I struggled a little as I lowered the top of my swimsuit, rolling it down. I called out to Seb to help me.

Seb stood in front of me, and helped me lower my top slowly. My breasts were partially exposed. I whispered to Seb to fondle and knead them.

Seb admired my fruits and teased, "Mum, you've heavenly breasts. How did you grow them?"

"I didn't. I once took a walk in the forest and fell into an enchanted spring, bruising my chest. The fairy of the spring appeared. She healed my chest, and then blessed it some. And here I am."

If J&J were watching, it would appear from their perspective that Seb was struggling to lower what was an impossibly skintight swimsuit top.

Let them wonder a little. Why was he taking so long? Was he fondling his mum's breasts? His movements seemed to suggest this. And why was his mum not stopping him?

Finally, Seb managed to lower the top to my hips.

I tried to further lower my swimsuit to my ankles. Again, I struggled, and nearly keeled over. I called out to Seb to help.

Seb kneeled before me in a worshipful position, hands on my hips, to stabilise me. I whispered if he saw anything at the attic window. He smirked, and as if in answer, drifted his fingers to the vee of my gusset, and narrowed it to slip into my slit. My swimsuit bottom was duly transformed into an outrageous Brazilian thong bottom. My undergrowth was showing obscenely. Seb ran his finger on pouty lips, rustling my pubic hair.

Seb was distracted. I reminded him to get on with helping me take off my swimsuit. I pressed my right hand on his left shoulder, to balance myself, while I lifted my left foot off the ground. This forced Seb's face to my crotch. He lowered my swimsuit, grinding his face at my crotch, freeing the swimsuit from my left leg.

Then, we repeated the motions on the other side, to free the swimsuit from my right leg. I felt him over my mound. A gentle breeze wafting over a meadow.

I was naked. I could feel my body soaking up the sunlight - soundlessly, softly, gently. The wind blew, stimulating my nipples, and rustling my pubic hair.

What would J&J have made of this display of a son helping his mum to take off her swimsuit? What would they have made of Seb's face so close to my feminine bits? I felt a tingle in my loins.