loins. My blood moved faster. Faster! She was staring frankly in my eyes only three feet away. Her eyes grew languorous, teasing. Slowly, very slowly, she moved her shoulders. Suddenly the dress slid to her feet!
There was a dazzle of white before me. She was naked! No, as my eyes quieted, I saw she was wearing a white two-piece bathing suit. Still, there was a staggering amount of bare Mother in front of me. Nude, gleaming, immediate, close. She lifted her arms over her head and slowly revolved. Big breasts straining the halter. Naked belly. Navel. Hips. Long rounded thighs, bare. Flesh. Pavilions. Undulations. Textures. Beauty. Beauty. Beauty.
“Do you like your mother, Lars?” she whispered. “Is it as nice as you thought? Was it worth lying on floors and peeking through keyholes for?” I just kept gulping, unable to speak. “You poor darling. I shouldn’t tease you. But I think you like it!”
“I love you, Mother,” I stammered blushing.
“I’m glad, Lars.’’ Her voice had a throaty intensity that maddened me. “In that case, I guess it would be all right to go a little further. Just looking may not be enough for you. You might have to touch. Isn’t that right?” I shuddered visibly. Was she going to let me put my hands on her? “Well, Son, I think you do want to touch your mother. And there is a way that isn’t sinful. You can rub my suntan lotion on for me. After all, lots of boys must do that for their mothers. That isn’t bad, is it?” I shook my head. She gracefully lay down, then sat up. “Oh, but you better change into your trunks, Lars, so you don’t get it on your clothes.” I looked around for a place to change. There were only the trees. I started toward them. “Wait, Son, you don’t have to hide in the trees. There’s nobody here but me, and I’m your mother.” She wanted to see me! But what could I say? “We must learn to be at ease together, Lars, as a mother and son should be. You can turn your back if you want.” Her eyes twinkled, but there was also an avidity in them.
I turned and began to undress. I was extremely clumsy because I was so conscious of her watching. I was sure she was watching. I managed to get everything off but my shorts. I couldn’t just pull them down a few feet in front of my mother’s face.
“The shorts, too, Lars. Take them off.” Her voice was so strange and low I could hardly make it out. I pulled my shorts down, terribly conscious of my bare backside. I tried to get my trunks on quickly. The problem was to make sure my penis didn’t dangle where it-could be seen from behind and that the cheeks of my ass didn’t stretch open in front of her when I lifted my legs. Finally, it was done. I turned toward her. She looked very happy.
“You have a splendid body, my son. Now come and take this lotion. You may rub it all over me. That way you can touch me as much as you want, and we won’t be doing bad. But, Lars, remember I am your mother. You must touch only where you can see. You must always respect your mother.”
I knew that she meant I was not to touch her breasts or cunt. That still left a lot to touch. I poured the lotion on my hand and knelt beside her. She was lying face down, her face on her arms, and her eyes closed. I hesitated a moment, then put my hand on her back. She made a sound somewhere in her.
Something answered in me. There was a splendor in my band. She was like petals. It was like bathing in whipped cream. Mother’s skin was astoundingly suave. Firmness and softness combining to a luxury. I smoothed the suntan lotion over her back. I worked it in. My fingers flexed delicately into her resilient flesh. She sighed deeply. The literalness of my hand stroking the actual mother flesh twisted my bowels. I discovered there were endless parts to her back: textures, countries, depths, infinite shadings of her fault responses. There were bones, muscles, soft parts, articulations. I was shocked by the intimacy possible: that one could sense the body inside.
The color, too, was a surprise. I had thought of her as white. She was an infinite range of pink and pearl and rose and cream and bisque. Nothing was so lovely. But even stronger than the sense of fabulous wealth so gigantically close to me was the lust. Almost despite myself, my hand was an invasion. It insisted on the fact of her flesh. It insinuated itself on the slippery flesh. It was personal. My hand wasn’t putting lotion on a back; my hand was playing with my mother’s body. And her body knew it. Her body tensed and squirmed-however subtly. I worked up and down her sides, and she flexed. I returned again and again to where the strap crossed her back. Finally, in a strained voice she told me to open it.
“Won’t that be bad, Mother?”
“No, Son, that’s not bad. It’s… just so the sun won’t make a line. That’s not doing anything bad, if we stop there. And as long as I’m lying on my stomach, you can’t see my… you can’t see.”
I opened the catch. I knew we had crossed a boundary. Something else was beginning. The straps gradually slipped off to each side. I saw that the sides of her breasts were squeezed out from under her body, and were left nude by the way the top of her suit fell away. I gradually worked my fingers toward that soft, soft plumpness. She tensed more and more. I saw her hands clenching. Just before finally reaching the private flesh, I hesitated. She moaned faintly.
“Would that be bad, Mother.”
“No, no that wouldn’t be bad.”
I very delicately drew my fingertips over the springing of the mound. Her body arched violently, then settled back. I tortured her. I crept toward the edges of her breasts and then, I at the last minute, diverted my fingers down her ribs. Or touched so lightly that it was agony for her. Or switched suddenly to the cup of her armpits.
She was moaning audibly now. And twisting at each touch. Finally she rolled over, holding the swimsuit so it would not fall off her breasts. I smeared cream on her stomach. She moaned louder, stretching her arms out above her head. I stroked lotion into her navel, and she bit her lip. Inexorably, my hand started the paths that gravitated circuitously toward her breasts.
How could it not. They were so magnificent. Their size and the stretching upward of her arms had caused the cups to ride loosely up the flesh that they had contained with difficulty even when the strap strained them in place. Now, more and more as she squirmed, they worked up. The lush rounds of her breasts were naked half way to the nipple. I stroked the exposed flesh, whispering in her ear: “That’s not wrong, is it, Mother? You said it was all right to touch what I can see, didn’t you?”
“Yes, yes, Son. Whatever you can see. But remember, Lars,” she moaned, “that I am your mother and you must honor me.” I cupped the base of a breast and jiggled it. The cup worked up higher. I looked at her. My mother’s breasts were naked except for the crumpled cups lying loosely on the nipples. I looked at my hand toying with my mother’s breasts. Her tits! The power surged in me and I knew I controlled her. I was feeling up my fine mother. Really feeling her up. There was very little pretence now. I slipped the tips of my fingers under the cloth, and her only protest was to cover her eyes with her arms. I found the nipple! Her mouth fell open and she began gasping “Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh!” as her hips began a slow, small undulation.
The nipple was bigger than I expected. Fat and hard from her excitement. I twisted it gently. She arched and fell back. I tugged it lovingly. Again and again. My left hand began on the other one. She was helpless. Now I was ready.
I slowly withdrew my fingers from Mother’s nipples, and she wailed. I drew them down and across her stomach. Down to the top of her trunks. Then she understood what I intended! Her stomach sucked in and out with spasms. Again and again I stroked the sides of her belly, making the abdomen convulse. I ran my fingers along the flesh at the edge of the trunks. I moved to her thighs. I stroked them and kneaded them, announcing my strength by flexing my hands in the deep flesh. I moved to the tender inner thighs, oiling and caressing. And up to the groin where the sensitive flesh disappeared into the bathing suit. I teased at this line, accentuating it again and again where the legs joined the body. She twisted back and forth, gasping. She bent her knees and spread her legs, offering up her loins to my fingers. Stretching her bent legs apart this way, exposing the narrow edges of flesh to each side of the cunt. I ran my finger deliberately down this new territory, making her writhe. She stretched her thighs harder, but no new flesh appeared. The cloth was wet through. Juice was running down her thighs.
“I’ve oiled everything I can see, Momma. Should I stop? I shouldn’t touch anything I can’t see, should I?” She said “Aii-i-i-i.” She hooked her fingers in the legs of her suit and pulled up. This tightened the cloth against her cunt so much that I could see the cunt slit. And it exposed new crescents of skin. Almost to the cunt. In fact, a little hair curled out at the edge! I played with the new area.
“I guess that’s all I can see, Momma, so I guess I should stop, huh?”
“Respect your mother, Son. Honor your mother.” She pulled harder upwards, and then pulled her fingers together. The cloth was only the narrowest band now, hiding only the crack itself. The mound was clearly visible, and the hair. Mother’s cunt hair! I watched my hands creep toward it, and her body begin to lift-offering the cunt to my fingers.
“Does hair need suntan oil, too, Momma?”
“Please, Lars, please. PLEASE!”
