Ballerina Mum Performs For Son

I feel full, his cock sliding snugly against all sides of me. I moan, heat flowing from my body to his erection. The silken smoothness is overcoming, pushing all other thoughts of mine aside. Only this matters. Here. Now. Him. Like nothing I have known before. He grits his teeth as if to stave off ejaculating for a little longer. A delirious hunger in my heart. Bringing my mouth close to his ear, I speak barely above the rushing wind sounds from the patio.

"You're only my second. I'm so glad it is you."

"What?"

In a grievously hurt tone, "So, you think your mum is a slut?"

"No"

"Well, I am."

"Huh?"

"I am a slut. Just for you tonight. One night."

"Thank you, mum, for saving yourself for me."

In a tone more serious than I had intended, "This will be our only time, ever."

Feathery hidden muscles wrap around his cock, pulling him, taunting him farther in.

It appears like this cock is no longer his. It has taken a renegade life of its own. Heavy, ramrod hard, aching for relief. A heaving serpent. His body's energy, all of it in his arms, legs, chest, all of it gathered into his hard-on. My insides feel on fire. His cock is mine to play as I want. I try to draw him deeper into my softness. He seems to think he is in as far as I can take him. But no. With a final push, I devour him to the base. My arms are wrapped around his neck.

My face an inch from his, nose to nose, eyes on him, "Is this the way you want to fuck your mother?"

"Remember, you get to do it only once, so, decide wisely."

My nostrils are filled with the scent of our sweat and the aroma of wine on his breath.

I turn my head away. My voice low. Not meant for him.

In a soft mutter, "Please forgive me for this. I know how terrible I am."

To be that close to him. That is what I want. I know it in the instant it happened. My face, my breath up against his. My pussy encasing his sweet cock. Nothing can compare. Nothing comes close.

I sit up a little, straightening my back, moving back and forth with just the lower part of my body. Pushing my pelvis and clitoris against my son hard. I find a rhythm. I begin grinding. He gets it too. He pushes with me, meeting my clitoris each time. This is teamwork, collaboration of the highest order.

My face is still in front of his. Nose to nose. My breasts cushioning his chest. He must be feeling the hardness of my steely nipples.

As our rhythm continues, slow and steady, we sink into raw sensuality. I am so small that I feel a large beast is inside me, totally consuming me. I emit these inarticulate little cries as I come to a crisis, tightening my leg muscles, and squeezing my inner muscles around his cock, massaging him from my insides. I have never felt anything remotely like this before during lovemaking. We exist only in the now.

He appears overcome by it. He twists his face down, bites my nipples hard. He pulls them way too far with his lips. A painful bliss. I wince.

"So, is this the way you want it?" I ask rhetorically. "OK then."

In turn, I bite his neck with my teeth. Hard. A little blood. He gasps. Both of us trying to hurt the other a little. I dig my fingernails into his back, leaving marks. My heat all down his front. I feel a chill down my back from the patio wind.

As we rock, his hands find their way under me, searching for my buttocks.

Sitting astride him has caused my buttocks to pull apart, each side resting on his thighs. His middle finger finds the divide.

His breath grows heavier. I match mine with his until we are in unison and harmony, rocking and breathing together, like musicians who have played all their lives together.

His finger creeps downward, inch by inch, until meeting the small anus, already wet from my sweat. He rubs his finger around the opening. My heat building fast, the rocking grows harder, quicker, then with abandon. I raise my thighs, tightening around his waist. He slips his finger in my anus. Just a little. It goes in so easy.

"Oh," is all I can manage.

We rock. His finger moving in and out, deeper inside, up to his knuckle and back. I pant right at his ear, then biting my lip to stifle a groan. More panting. Stifling another groan, this one louder.

I turn my head. My breath is all over his face. Heavy breathing. He must be smelling the sex building up from my pussy, rising to his nose. Panting loud and quick, non-stop.

I freeze suddenly. Both of us still, in anticipation for several seconds. I am yielding to the sensations of his finger in my anus, and my pussy impaled on his hard cock.

Suddenly, quickly, I heave, squeeze my arms tight around his head. Will I crush his skull?

I grind my mound and vulva into him. Hot flesh on hot flesh. He groans. I am beginning to enjoy our steady lovemaking movement. Not as some mechanical repetition anymore, or some prescribed ceremony. He fucks with a spring in his movements and a song in his heart. My body feels a natural desire now to make each movement more enjoyable than the previous.

He moves my mouth onto his. Not a kiss. A scream. From my mouth into his throat, to muffle the noise. Holding my lips on his as I ride my orgasm, on and on, until I peak.

On my downslide, there is a quivering in my stomach. I feel his spasms against me. My limbs are shaking. Guttural sounds in my throat as his pulsations begin.

His cock is getting hotter. It looks like his sperms are moving up, pushing themselves toward the head of his cock.

I feel him letting go. Launching. A fountain erupting inside me. Three, maybe four bursts. Semen oozing. A seminal moment. The magic of passing it from him into me. All of it in the dark void we never see, only feel. Sweet seconds of ecstasy.

I have a second climax as he comes. Shudders and groans. My legs squeezing against him. Then, it is over.

We cling to each other in the chair. Beads of perspiration dribbling from skin to skin, like we are one being.

"Nothing can exceed this. Nothing."

An orgasm isn't just a high, but the unique, peculiar high that nothing but fucking can give. To say that the joy of fucking is simply one joy among many others is like saying that the earth is merely one planet among others.

I feel a wonderful lightness in my body. A ridiculous happiness. It seems to come from nowhere. And everywhere. I don't think I can ever be this happy again. It is just not possible. It is such a luminous day. I doubt that there will be another day like this.

Possibilities. I feel possibilities in my being.

I want to be a singer in the park. A violinist in the piazza. A dancer in the rain. A surfer philosopher. Roll in the grass with my dog. Oh, I don't have a dog, I'll get one. Run down the hill screaming. Pirouette till I fall over. Then, writhe a floor dance till my dress is rag.

I want to be in France with Christian. I want to ride a blue bicycle around a quaint Brittany village. Christian and I swig out of a wine bottle, eating cheese and a baguette. This thought makes me smile to myself. I resolve to get delightfully drunk and run into a wall.

We cuddle. I lay my head on his shoulder. It feels so good and right. I listen to him breathe. He entwines his fingers within mine. I love this time. So simple. Yet, will be so memorable.

***

Chapter 13

Afterglow

Later...

It is just before dark.

We are languishing naked on the bed. He sits cross-legged. I am stretched out on my back. My head in his lap.

He is playing with my nipples. He touches me there. Slips a teasing finger in to feel my wetness beginning.

"I'm a little frightened of where we are going," I whisper as if there is an interloper in the shadow.

"But then, I'm obsessed with this," turning my head in his lap just enough to kiss the shaft of his cock, which I am holding beside my ear like it may tell me something. The greatest of all works of art is before me.

I play with his balls and his cock. It is soft. I love the tenderness. I love the way it can transform itself into a multiplicity of personalities. Pinkish tender and sensitive. Darkly menacing and lethal.

I roll his balls around. Trace my forefinger along his shaft. Use my forefinger to absorb his male arousal. The finger painting I used to do in my art class under Mr Arturo flits to mind. I finger paint on Christian's head, doodling cryptic designs on his tender canvas of flesh.

"You've nice balls. So tender. And yet, so heavy," as I hold them.

I caress them lightly with my fingers. Cup them with my hand, as if taking their mass and weight with scientific precision. Then gently massaging them, soothing them some, as if my weighing them has traumatised them a bit.

"You feel so good, son."

Then back to his cock, stroking, brushing his head lightly, then stroking more. Like a precious pet. The kind who are seemingly docile and vulnerable, yet, may snarl at me, scratch at my eyes if I am too close, without warning.

"Mum, I'm way too close. You need to stop."

Is he telling me that he has some expectations going forward, so he has to conserve his capacity? I did say that the last time was to be our only time. Or, is he thinking that our only time is the time we have together before his dad returns tomorrow.

We look at each other in silence. His eyes are sad. And yet, they gleam. The gleam is a bit too bright. This longing teaches Christian and me humility and wisdom. The need to suffer a little to be happy alot. It should add a few new elements to our inventory in understanding who we are.

He smiles. His smiles are so slight. But, say so much.

***

Chapter 14

Rainstorm

I look out of the bedroom window, to the garden, and the sea beyond. Black rain clouds, low and fast moving. They are rolling in from the sea.

Whispering, "Do you smell the rain coming? I can. Another storm."

"It's moving fast. It'll be here in a few moments."

I nudge Christian, "Let's go out to the garden, up to the cliff edge."

"But, it's going to storm."

"That's the whole idea. To be at mother nature's heaving bosom."

He begins to put on his t-shirt.

"No. As we are. I want us to feel the lash and slash of the elements."

***

At the cliff edge.

I kiss back. Then we kiss again. We are still locked. Naked. My lips to his. A wave of rain sweeps over us. Torrential. Coming down in sheets. Startling cracks of thunder all of a sudden. Neither of us care. We keep kissing. The sweet taste of his tongue blending with the salt spray of the cold sea rain on our lips.

We pull our faces back. We are laughing. Thoroughly wet. We are alone in the garden, and seemingly, in the world. This garden is the world.

Christian pulls me to my feet. He holds me in his arms and starts to dance slowly. Right there at the cliff edge, with rain pouring, and crackling thunder above. The rain begins pelting my back and my legs, my face. The smell of the rain, fresh and salty, is overpowering.

What if we slip and fall off the cliff? The news headline screaming: Naked mother and son found dead at foot of cliff. What will Christopher think? What will the world think?

We turn slowly, small dancing movements, with unexpected brisk movements in between. I just love his spontaneity.

"I know you're like me," I say, as I wipe streams of water off my face.

We keep dancing.

We stand close. His arm around my waist. My arm around on his back. My hand holding on to his shoulder. Not a word between us. None needed. We listen as the storm runs its course over the coast, washing away the heat and humidity. Christian looks like he wants to take me right there and then, in the slashing rain.

"You don't think we're normal?"

"No. I think normal people can find happiness in their daily routines. But you and I, Christian, you and I are destined for a different kind of life. A normal life doesn't suit our kind. This is why we're dancing in the lashing rain at this cliff edge where we may slip and fall to death."

"Yes. But, what a beautiful place to die in."

The garden cliff edge. A dizzy precipitous drop.

I think of Kierkegaard's "fear of falling". Anxiety, dread and angst are unfocused fear. When the person looks over the edge, she experiences a focused fear of falling. But at the same time, she feels a terrifying impulse to throw herself intentionally off the edge. That experience is anxiety or dread because of her complete freedom to choose to either throw herself off, or to stay put. The mere fact that she has the possibility and freedom to do something, even the most terrifying of possibilities, triggers immense feelings of dread. The dizziness of freedom.

I feel compelled to peer down the edge just once more.

I think back to my blindfold game I once played with my older brother on our treehouse, at the bottom of our garden. I was twelve, and he, fourteen. We were a close pair. Sibling partners in juvenile crime. All the while, I was fearful of falling off the treehouse. And yet, I did not wish the game to end. And when at last I thought I fell, I did not. And here I am now, on a sort of overhang of treehouse, only higher, and me, older. And instead of my bro, my son.

I lead Christian by the hand to a low outcrop of smooth flat rock. The rock is alongside the garden cliff edge. When we sit at the cliff edge with our legs dangling down, the rock serves as a convenient coffee or wine mini table. Now, it will serve a new purpose.

I kneel in front of the rock, and rest my chest on it. Once I am so positioned, I spread my legs apart.

I peer to my side. The edge drop is a mere ejaculation spitting distance away. Perhaps a foot? Instinctively, I want to move away. But, I stay, relishing the anxiety. I am suspended in a place oscillating between fear and excitement. Live a little at the edge is how we should live every now and again.

Christian stops to study me for awhile. My crotch is totally exposed.

My son feels between my thighs. He slips two fingers into me. The sounds of my creamy, viscous wetness can be heard by both of us. I let out a long, low groan as his fingers explore deeper.

"What do I smell like?"

"I smell a raw feminine scent. It has a wonderful smell of the sea at night. Clean and pure. The faint scent of sea air."

"How do you know the smell is of me and not the sea?"

I feel his nose nudging at my lips in quest of feminine truffle.

"It is you."

He removes his fingers. Moves forward so that his cock is poised. Holds my lips apart. He moves the head of his cock between them, ready at the entrance.

He must be thinking it is seriously lusty to fuck his mother this way, "Are you alright with this, mum?"

"Yes", I reply in a low shy voice.

And then, nothing happens. I wait. And wait.

"Son, do it. Fuck your mother."

"If you want to be fucked, you must push your pussy back onto my cock."

I thrust back. He sinks the whole way into me. He cries out as I impale myself on him. I feel him in the depths of my belly. He grasps my thighs and pulls me tightly onto him, and holds me there.

He pulls back, almost to the point of leaving my body, before starting to take me with long, slow strokes. I moan the whole time as he slides in and out of me, the sound punctuated by shrill cries every time he sinks into me. He begins to increase the pace of his thrusts. My moans turn into wails.

He reaches round my thigh with one of his hands and explores with his fingers until he finds my swollen clitoris. He begins to caress the hardened nub as he pounds faster and faster.

I push myself up on my arms, throw my head back, and let out one long groan. My breathing is out of kilter, for the air seems thin, poorly oxygenated, second-hand.

It is around the hundredth stroke that I feel like I have passed through something. This is what it feels like. Pass through is the only way I can describe it. Like my body has passed clean through a stone wall. At what exact point I feel like I have made it through, I cannot tell for sure. But suddenly, I notice I am already on the other side. I am convinced I have made it through. I don't know about the logic or the process or the method involved. I am simply convinced of the reality that I passed through. After that, I don't have to think anymore. Or, more precisely, there isn't the need to try to consciously think about not thinking. All I have to do is go with the flow and I will get there automatically. If I give myself up to it, some sort of power will naturally push me forward.

I am in the midst of deep exhaustion that I have totally accepted, and the reality is that I am still able to continue fucking, and for me, there is nothing more I can ask of the world. Since I am on autopilot, if someone tells me to keep on fucking, I may well have fucked beyond a thousand strokes. It is weird. But at the end, I hardly know who I am, or what I am doing. This should be a very alarming feeling, but it doesn't feel that way. By then, fucking has entered the realm of the metaphysical. First, there comes the action of fucking, and accompanying it, there is this entity known as me. I fuck, therefore I am. And this feeling grows particularly strong as I enter my climax.

I see a rising cloud of butterflies of every hue. I see their spread of wings as they bask in the sun. All my butterflies line up and take flight with excitement.

I emerge from a dark tunnel and find myself in the middle of a Rio carnival. I collapse helplessly back onto the rock.

Christian has explosives strapped to his loins. He continues pounding into me for what seems like an age, but can actually have been no more than seconds, before I feel my son's orgasm surging, welling up.

I encourage, "Keep going. Push up on your mother and sweat. Don't stop until the angels sing."

An eruption of sexual self. One more spurt. His last. He is in an extravagant mood. One more. All spent now.

I am both depleted and full all at once. A strange feeling. After he climbs down, he nuzzles, then kisses me, to thank me for making the moment possible.

He pulls out of me, knowing that as I come down from my high, my muscles will contract pretty quickly, sigh back to where they came. To maintain the contact between us, he puts his hands on my shoulders and gently massages them. He lifts himself and kneels upright, enabling him to reach round me and cup my breasts. I let my head fall back against him. He kisses me tenderly on my neck.

It is a moment of love and perfect formal sexual resolution. Only our second together.

"Mum, you look pensive. What's playing in your mind?"

"I'm feeling curiously nostalgic. For a life I never had. For what could have been."

I loop my arms around his neck. Draws him to me. Kisses him.

***

In the aftermath of erotic bluster, I feel a double stab of guilt. I am now carnally acquainted with my son.

My husband returns tomorrow. Will this be the only time? The biggest issue of our relationship is the definition of our relationship.

It comes back to me. He buries his lovely hard cock inside me. When inside, it radiates heat and hardness, and strength and joy. When he pulls back, I burn with the desire to be filled again. I have never felt this alive. I have never been this alive. So many pleasures and moments of profound disquiet.

The inconvenient pangs of the taboo and infidelity needle me. I should be feeling properly shameful.

What did Schopenhaeur say? By Free Will, you can choose whatever you desire. But, you are not free to choose your desires. Your desires choose you.

I recall Nietzsche, who had asked what if one night, a demon steals into your bedroom in your loneliest loneliness, and says to you: This life as you now live and have lived, you'll have to live it again and again indefinitely. There'll be nothing new in it. Every pain and every joy, and every thought and sigh, and everything unspeakably small or great in your life must return to you, all in the same succession and sequence.