Son Waxes Mum

Preamble:

An English mature couple, Julian and Julia, are planning a holiday to a distant exotic chic locale. In the meantime, Julian is on an overseas work assignment. Julia will fly to the holiday destination on her own, and link-up with Julian there.

As they prep for the holiday, they realise that Julia needs a Brazilian waxing for her new thong bikini. Julia is shy, uncomfortable with strangers executing the intimate deed.

Who then?

This is a banter-style teasing, titillating story. The action is light, the culminating lovemaking savage, but poetic. If you are aching for bruising, caterwauling, torrenting action by rippling triathletes, this is not for you.

***

Chapter 1: Preparation

Chapter 2: Reflection

Chapter 3: Vacation

Chapter 4: Unfinished Business

Chapter 5: Boys Talk

Chapter 6: Webcam

***

Chapter 1: Preparation

Julian is on the webcam with Julia.

Julian excitedly, "Darling, the travel and accommodation bookings are confirmed."

"Brilliant!"

"I'll email the travel documents to you shortly."

"Perfect! Cheers for making all the arrangements."

"Oh, by the way, I was killing time at the mall near my hotel after work yesterday. I couldn't help but buy two Wicked Weasels for you. Awesome designs. I just know they'll look good on you."

"What are they?"

"The first is a high-cut, high-waisted one-piece. I know jet black is your fave colour."

"Just exactly how high is the cut? I hope the design doesn't expose my mons too much?"

"Wait a sec. I'll show you the swimsuits."

Julian steps away from his webcam. He returns with two pieces of apparel.

"Here! This is the one-piece."

"Nice! But, I really can't tell about the high-cut fit, and the gusset cover. It does look bold."

"You'll look fine."

"Can I see the other swimsuit?"

"This is the top."

"Oh! A summery yellow bandeau. I do like the subtle bandeau twist. Nice!"

"I've a thing for strapless bandeaus. Unlike classic triangle tops, they exude vulnerability. And the twist accentuates the cleavage."

"Hmm... and the bottom?"

"Oh my god! You didn't say it's a thong!"

"Did I not? Well, I did say it's a Wicked Weasel."

"Oh my god! No way! You'll have to return it. It's utterly obscene. For goodness sake, I'm sixty!"

"You'll look fine. Where we're going, nobody knows us. Blissful anonymity. You can wear whatever. Even go nude."

Adamantly, "You'll have to return it."

"Sorry, the shop has a strict no-return policy. Hygiene."

"Hmmm... are you making this up?"

"It's six weeks to our departure. There is time enough for me to courier the swimsuits to you to try them."

"Darling, you do whatever. I'm not wearing them. Never in public anyway."

Julian reckons that better this be a discussion for another day. They move on to other matters.

***

A week later. Another webcam. They talk about this and that. The chat meanders...

"Have you received the Wicked Weasels? They should be delivered today."

"Give me a sec. I'll check the postbox."

Julia returns to the webcam with a small parcel in hand. She unboxes the package.

"Can you try them on?"

"No"

"Humour me? Please?"

"Hmmm... seeing that you've been away from the warm comforts of home for some weeks now, starved of your regular domestic rations, I've to feed your jollies."

Julian emits a male sigh. Julia goes off screen. A rustling of fabric.

Julia is still off-screen. But, her voice comes on.

"I can't show you the one-piece."

"But why?"

"It's lewd. Vulgar."

"Show me..."

"No"

"I'm your husband. There's nothing I haven't seen. So what if I see you in a high-cut one-piece however the fit."

Julia steps sheepishly in front of the webcam. She looks up to the ceiling as if fixated on a fly.

Julian knows her pert breasts, their shape, their rise, their fall, their form. And now, they are so lovingly encased in the strapless twist of the one-piece top.

He gazes south. The high-waisted cut accentuates her mound. The gusset covers up to just half of her pout of outer labia ridge. And then bracketed generously by womanly hips. Her rip curl of luxuriant thicket is a tamed wilderness. Soft, sheeny, mossy. Against the jet black swimsuit, it is as if it is the lacy edge of the gusset. And yet, not.

"Darling, you're a vision of loveliness. A little hirsute maintenance and you'll be presentable."

"Are you out of your feverish mind? Can you not see that half your wife's lips are on show for the world to see?"

Julia tries to stretch her gusset to conceal more of her womanhood. But, the fabric snaps back with a vengeance, into an even more economical g-string strip, lodged into her fissure of cleft. The strip, so obscured by her thatch now, looks like she is wearing a bottomless one-piece swimsuit, shamelessly flaunting her pubes. Julian gets a sharp tingle from this view as he imagines Julia strutting on a beach in this ensemble.

"Oh my god! This is so lewd."

Julian knows that this is an argument he can't win just now. He moves on.

"Darling, can you try the two-piece now?"

"Hmmm... if the one-piece is vulgar, I can't imagine the thong! Why bother?"

"Please... There's only you and me here."

Julia realises that there is more going on here than itsy bitsy textile. She has to meet her husband some way to feed his hunger pangs. She resolves to be kinder.

Julia goes off-screen. Rustling of fabric. She struggles a little to get into the economical bikini thong. She is about to step back on-screen, then pauses. She gets her stilettos and slips them on. She totters, then steadies herself. Curiously, the stilettos give her a sensation of fullness. She feels her breasts welling, pressing against her top fabric, her hips, mound and buttocks straining against the thong bottom. She has never felt more full in her life. In body. In mind.

Again, she is about to step back to the webcam. But, she pauses. No, let him relish the anticipation a little bit longer. The extended thrill of anticipation is often more potent than the actual, often fleeting, event itself.

Julia finally emerges on-screen. The bikini fits her in the alluring way of a bikini that doesn't fit.

A strapless bandeau wrap of classic tear drops with a little hint of east-west orientation. Even though under cover, her impossibly natural breasts seem light and highly pointed. Curiously, her delicate hint arc of sag provides the essence of his satisfaction.

Her g-string strip nestles taut between her womanly pout of lips, completely obscured by her thatch. It looks like she is an island native wearing an ornamental vine around her waist, and nothing else.

"Turn around."

A male sigh. Julian has seen these buttocks a thousand times. But, he sees them anew now. Two orbs trussed up in a string. Not a young girl's butt for sure. But, not a blubber mass either. A woman's tail, longish and curving.

"Satisfied now? It's evident that I can't wear them. Sorry, you've wasted your money."

"After a waxing, you'll look presentable in the swimsuits."

"Waxing? Isn't this a little extreme? I heard that it's a painful process."

"Oh chill! Where we're going, high-cuts, thongs, waxing are de rigueur. Anything else is outrageous. Honey, I just want you to blend in, immerse, at one with, and enjoy the local beach culture."

"You mean, go native?"

"In a manner of speaking..."

"Since you put it that way, OK, I'll get a waxing. I'll have to check around though on the waxing services available."

"Yes, do that, love."

***

Three days later. Webcam.

"How's your waxing enquiries going?"

"Not good."

"How so?"

"I checked out six services. Three are done by men. I don't feel comfortable with men doing it."

"And?"

"The fourth is a hubby and wife business. Again, I don't feel comfy with male presence. I asked the wife if she could do me alone. She said that theirs is a couple business. They divide the tasks, so the hubby has to be present."

"The fifth?"

"The shop is in a dodgy neighbourhood in a back alley. Not particularly inspiring. I don't feel safe."

"The sixth?"

"The neighbourhood and shop is respectable. The service staff are female. A well-organised operation. Five service rooms."

"Sounds good..."

"Well, a bit too well-oiled an operation."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

"Each room has a CCTV-like monitoring contraption mounted at one corner of the ceiling. I asked the staff who was showing me around what they were. The way she answered didn't inspire confidence. She mumbled something about a security system that is activated only after business operation hours."

"Office security systems are not uncommon."

"Office areas, yes. But, these are in the service rooms. And better yet, the service staff wear a kind of head-mounted lamp. How do we know it's not a portable pinhole cam, what they call an IP camera?"

"Hmmm..."

"Waxing is such an intimate process. I don't want mine to be secretly recorded. We hear so many horror stories of videos posted on the internet. I worry about this."

"Are we being a tad dramatic here? Thousands of women get waxed everyday."

"I just don't want my maiden hirsute maintenance project to be featured on the internet..."

"...and the whole world wax lyrical..."

"Very hilarious! Do you even care your wife is splayed over the worldwide web?"

"OK honey, I understand your concerns and discomfort."

"Let's just forget about this. I'll just shave myself. And then, I'll try on the swimsuits again."

"OK, see you next webcam."

Smirking, "Hmmm... you're getting your jollies, aren't you?"

***

Three days later. Webcam.

After the usual crossfire of pleasantries, and exchange of family updates, Julian asks, and Julia models the swimsuits.

There are persistent remnant wayward tufts from inconvenient places peeking out in many places. The optics do not pass muster.

Discerning the disappointment on Julian's face, "Sorry, darling, I tried my best. You know I'm luxuriant down there."

Julian is about to say something, then bites his lip. This did not escape Julia's notice.

"You were about to say something?"

"I just thought of someone who is experienced in waxing, Brazilian waxing in particular."

But, Julian says nothing more.

Julia is piqued, "Well?"

"Cole"

"Cole? Do I know him? Should I know him?"

"Our son."

Astounded, "What?"

"How would you know Cole is experienced in waxing?"

Cole, early twenties, is their only child.

Julia's younger brother, Carl and Julian were bloodmates from young. Cabal. Partners in soft crime. It was Carl who introduced his sister to Julian. Julian, Julia and Carl, the Three Musketeers. Oh, those carefree swashbuckling days.

Carl was killed in a tragic car accident some years ago. Julia and Julian were devastated.

As Cole emerged from teenhood, he and Julian became more like mates than dad and son. It is as if Cole slid into the void left by Carl.

Cole married young. He was widowed two years ago when his Brazilian wife passed away because of terminal illness.

"Cole told me he waxed Antônia regularly, continuing the habit from her Brazilian days before she married him."

"Oh? So our son discussed his wife's feminine details with you?"

Guardedly, "It was in passing... Boys pub talk after a few rounds."

"Did you discuss your wife's, his mum's pussy with our son?"

Julian does not answer. There is a hush, not quite amounting to a silence. For some inexplicable reason, Julia feels a tingle in her loins.

"I take your deafening silence to mean you did?"

Deflecting, "Honey, I only brought up Cole because of your concern with entrusting strangers to wax you, which is understandable. Cole is experienced. He is family. Yes, he is our son. But, I'm sure he'll be adult and professional about the whole process."

Annoyed, "Do you not find it strange that a husband asks his wife to splay before their son, as he removes mummy dearest's bush?"

Julian countering, "Suppose Cole is a gynecologist, the best in the business. Would you be OK if he examines you?"

"Hmmm... You're skirting the question. Waxing is a vain frivolity. Gynaecology is healthcare."

"Suppose you want a photo essay of yourself for posterity, and Cole is an accomplished pro photographer. Would you be OK if he shoots you?"

"That will depend on whether I'll be opening my legs for him to shoot my charms."

Julian discerns a little progress. All this talk excites him in the same way when he was discussing Julia's femininity with their son at the pub not so long ago. He wonders how this is affecting Julia.

Julian knows Julia all too well. He mustn't overplay this. Just get her to a fringe state of fascinated repulsion. Then, things have a way of moving along on their own impulsive force.

Julia in a final-word type tone, "I don't wish to cross the line. If Cole does me, our relationship will change forever. Whenever I look into his eyes, I'll see my secrets in his eyes. It'll be awkward."

Julia and Julian meander on to discuss other matters of lower moral import.

Julia can't help but sense the deflation of Julian's spirit, at least, what remains of it, as they sign off the webcam.

Julia shuts her laptop with a deep sigh. She is still in the Wicked Weasel thong. As she gets up, she senses a run of fluid from the minimalist gusset, down her thigh, to her ankle. Oh my god, did Julian see that? She stood up a couple of times during the webcam. She touches the dribble. This is her thickest excitement ever. She makes her way to the loo to dab off. Once there, she decides otherwise. She feels deliciously wicked, feeding on her own excitement.

A thousand miles away, Julian closes the webcam window with a sly smirk. He plays back the recorded webcam session. Yesss! It is what he thinks it is!

***

Tossing and turning. Usually, Julia falls asleep quicktime like a falling tree in a forest making no noise. But, not tonight. These thoughts, where do they come from? They intrigue and repulse her. They play gentle and awry on her mind.

***

The haze lifts.

Julia is on a pedestal, installed at some kind of town square. A charming rustic piazza. A surge of people of many hues swirling, milling around the place, discerning, studying this and that.

She can't move. An imposing force has rendered her immobile. But, she is acutely sentient. An odd sensation. Metaphysical. She becomes more self-aware. She is both subject and object in the same dimension of being.

She is standing on the pedestal of David. Michelangelo's David. That of Florence, Italy. She is standing on the pedestal of David, posing like the classical David. But, she is not David. She is herself. Julia. Regally proud and yet vulnerably naked.

It is all rather Kafkaesque.

A young man drifts off the swarm of humanity, and stands alone before her. He studies her for a time. Parses her every contour. His eyes trace her curves and sinews, once over, and then again.

He reaches out to touch her mons pubis as if making a determination of something. He is pedantic about the task. Gently, he parses her pubic thatch, runs his finger along her pout of lips, like treasured artifacts. She is of marble. And yet, she senses the warmth of his male hand.

He peeks up tentatively, tilting his sunhat a little to take her in. She sees his face now.

"Mum!" he cries in silence. A smirk.

***

Chapter 2: Reflection

Julia's eyes flicker open.

She is a morning person by habit. Or, more precisely, a pre-dawn person. After a moment of dissonance, she becomes aware of her situation.

She enjoys, and almost hears the silence. The silence is actual, beautiful to her ears, beautiful to listen to. She lays in bed absorbing the poetic stillness.

She gazes at the window. A full moon shines in the pre-dawn sky. It is enormous. A comforting vision. Some greater force is watching over her, and stoically approving.

She drifts out to her open patio, devilishly near nude, a closet exhibitionist if there is such a thing, to write her most inspired private works. Erotic poetry and stories.

On days when Julian is not on business travel, when he rises, she makes the most of the pomp and circumstance of his morning wood.

Here, in the stillness, it all seems so right.

Julia rises quietly even though she is alone. She slips off her nightie, relishing the immediate caress of the night air feeling her up. She traipses to the living room. She fires up her laptop PC on the coffee table. She slides open the sliding glass door to the patio, to let in the remains of the night.

She sits on the sofa, and begins to write down her thoughts and feelings.

She is all too conscious that she is naked. If you've ever walked around your house naked, it feels so weird and wild. She is trying to take some deep breaths and focus on the words. But, words have deserted her en masse this morning.

Her mind is preoccupied with something she cannot quite place.

It is still dark outside.

She cannot see if there is anyone out there looking in at her naked body, sitting, illuminated by the laptop screen. She knows her patio is quite private. But, is there a secret spy sweet spot in the enshrouding thicket of trees? Is there someone who is pulled in by the glimmer of light?

She knows that the chance of someone spying on her is next to zero. But, the speculation makes her feel so vulnerable, so daring, so exposed. So excited.

6am now. Every minute that passes makes her feel ever more exposed, and she has to admit, rather more aroused than she imagined she might be after this amount of time.

She gives up on her writing. Her creative juices are just not secreting. But, something else is.

She decides to amuse herself with the photo album on her laptop. An explicable force field guides her to subfolder "Cole & Antônia".

Here's a photo of Cole and Antônia in swimsuits. By Cole's impossibly boyish looks, it must be circa when they first met. Presumably a Brazilian beach by the looks of it. Maybe Copacabana? Leblon? Ipanema? Is Antônia the girl from Ipanema?

Yes, dear Antônia is lovely. So lovely. May she RIP. What a tragic blow to Cole. It has been two years now. She wonders how Cole is coping with the aching void.

Julia feels a stab of guilt. She thinks back to Antônia's early days in England. She was quite distant to Antônia, at a time when she would've appreciated an engaging mother-in-law to help her settle in what must have been a sedate cold Anglo world to her. It was uncharacteristic of her nature. Why was she that way?

She unconsciously magnifies Antônia's face. It strikes her that her late daughter-in-law looks so much like her, notwithstanding the age difference, if one disregards her latin tone in contrast to her English rose anemic pale. Antônia's wintry Germanic bloodline shows a little, overlaid with summery latin overtones. Is she the secret offspring of a monster Nazi general and a native beach babe, whom he discovers later, perversely, is half-Jewish? Her thoughts are spinning awry.

Julia drifts down Antônia's body clad in custom Brazilian string thong. The bikini looks at one with her being. She was born into it, and then, she just grew into it. Julia begins to appreciate a bit about what Julian was saying about blending seamlessly into the local biodiversity.

Curiously, Julia's hand autopilots to find and select a photo of her young self in a bikini, taken at the nook of cove near her cottage home. She remembers that day. She juxtaposes the photo side-by-side against Antônia's photo. She gasps. Uncanny.

This may be disrespectful to her late daughter-in-law, but she can't help it. She magnifies Antônia's crotch. The string leaves nothing to even the dullest of imaginations. Julia magnifies one more level. The max. She gasps again. One word, surreal.