There is build-up teasing exhibitionism and voyeurism tension frisson, and incestual sex amid countryside serenity in this story.
It explores mum-son sexual tension on one track, and husband-wife tension arising from the former, on the other track.
A cottage perched on a picturesque towering cliff, on edge, somewhere in Cornwall. There are no homes within a three kilometer radius. Far from the madding crowd.
The cottage commands a breathtaking sea view. A winding cliff trail connects its seafront quintessential English garden to a secluded virgin cove beach. The beach is accessible by this trail only. The entrance to this trail is through a nondescript hollowed lair in the bush, right out of a mystery novel.
A coral island bobs in pristine waters a hundred metres offshore from the cove. The coral island has an open sea facing beach, and a secluded rockpool waterfall. These offer yet another level of privacy.
The cottage is a private heaven unto itself. No part of it is within sight of anyone anywhere.
In a word, Cliffcombe.
A couple, Julian and Julia, lives in Cliffcombe. They recently returned from a holiday where they celebrated their sixtieth birthdays cum fortieth wedding anniversary.
The couple have a child, Philip or Pip in Britspeak for short. He is in his twenties.
Julian runs a small business in a village ten kilometres away.
Julia was a ballerina in her youth. Dance, specifically ballet, has been an influential part of her life. She weaves that into the fabric of her life regimen.
Life is good.
A description of Julia is appropriate at this time.
Julia is the quintessential English rose. She is pretty in a plain sort of engaging way. Although she stopped active dancing a long time ago, she maintains the upright graceful demeanor of a ballerina in bloom.
She has light brown hair, off her shoulders with some grey in places. You can get lost in her green eyes. They sparkle when she is happy or aroused.
Her skin virginally white.
Her breasts are small to medium sized. More in the modest range. They are heavier than they look. Sagging a little from their weight, to the degree of adding to her mature allure, without taking anything away from her proportionate form. Being all natural, her nipples point down just enough to make them alluring. A dusting of freckles on her upper chest accentuates her modest cleavage.
Par for a woman of sixty, she has her obligatory share of flabs and sags, and body signature lines of her age. A wrinkle or two, here and there, just slight ones. But her body otherwise is toned, healthy. Smooth shoulders. Unblemished back.
A distinctive curve to her buttocks. Each orb is separately defined and sculpted in its own right, with its own expressed sensual identity. Not a young girl’s butt for sure, but not a blubber mass of arse either. A woman’s tail, longish and curving. And the hint of light shadow, the recess between is bewitching.
Soft rise of tummy. An artful delicate caesarean section cut filament line just above her mound. Her waist is about right for her age. Well-turned legs flare into ample hips. Lite Rubenesque, and yet, not quite the classic ideal.
A shadow is at the base of her abdomen. Her pubic hair is matchingly the same brown as the hair on her head. She keeps her bush artfully neatly trimmed. Natural primal luxuriance. And yet neat. None of the plasticky, clinically mowned, waxed renditions with contrived landing strips. Her bush complements and ornamentalizes her lady parts well.
Her labia is apparent, but not demonstratively assertive and proud. A shy peek-a-boo tease. Her outer labia hangs down a little. Her slit is prone to open when she is aroused. Otherwise, her inners are concealed.
The five foot four inch tall mature woman keeps in shape through exercise.
Julia has mixed feelings about her body. Self-evidently, she likes her lush bits. But, she is acutely conscious of her modest top.
Julia is shy. Nobody, male or female, has seen her in adulthood full splendour except her husband, and her doctor who is female. But, she is no prude.
Julian is five feet eight inches tall. He has his rightful legacy allocation of mellowed contours. Julian is an average bloke.
His penis is above average in length, but by not much. His decent-sized endowment does not grow very much more when in full exuberance. Kind of what you see is what you get. It thus has an apparent perpetual semi hard-on meaty succulent appearance. A kind of silent soft power. Julia calls it statuesque.
Julia has never seen another adult penis in the flesh other than her husband’s. Julian’s is her defining ideal of the epicentre of all manhood.
Only child, Pip lives and works in Nice, in the publishing business. He immerses in the local teeming biodiversity, loving the French Latin lifestyle in all its Mediterranean sea of colourful nuances. Pip is a photography şirinevler escort buff, having earned a minor in the subject in uni. His keen photographic eye captures many subtle images of French life, which he is keen to share with his parents.
Pip has a French professional dancer girlfriend. A budding ballerina. They have been an item for a year. Life is on song for Pip, and the song hums itself on.
Pip looks the part of a strapping young man. Or, lad in English patois. Plays the part too. He tops six feet. Lean. Mean. Fresh faced. Suffice to say, Pip is what a young Englishman named Philip would classically look like. The archetype of his species. A ‘lovely’ young man by archetypal English terms of reference.
Pip has not visited his parents for awhile because of a deluge of work and other commitments. His girlfriend is currently on a performing tour for a month.
Pip is on his way from Nice to Cliffcombe. A week’s holiday. Time off for good corporate behaviour. Or, more aptly, exemplary corporate servitude. This is a good time to visit as his parents have just celebrated their significant sixtieth birthdays, and fortieth wedding anniversary. Three milestones in one. And he is keen to hear all about their travel experiences exotica. There is much to catch-up.
His parents moved to Cliffcombe two years ago. Pip’s past visits have been frantic carousel spins. He has never stepped beyond the cottage garden.
It is the high noon of summer. Pip can soak rays in the patio, garden and beach. Swim. Snorkel amongst the corals, grazing darting sea life. Bathe under the waterfall. Maybe even some nude sunbathing if circumstances permit, to refresh his coat of complexion. Chill. Life is good. And it gets better.
Pip flippantly abandons his laptop-PC at home so that he is conveniently uncontactable. Not that it matters much because continental Europeans, particularly the French, hold vacation time sacrosanct, in contrast to the Anglo machinery psyche. But, then again, he is working for a UK company in their Nice office.
Pip arrives at Cliffcombe at 11pm. A long day’s epic journey into night. Julian and Julia wait up for him. After a round of warm hugs and kisses, reconnecting in earnest, Pip wolfs down a snack of soup and rolls. Julian tells Pip that he will be away for work by the time he wakes up tomorrow morning. He will catch-up with him in the evening.
Pip totters to his room. He crashes out dramatically to deep transcendental slumber.
Pip wakes as if an epiphany has zapped him. He feels renewed and sharp after the six hour deep state coma sleep. He feels repurposed, although he does not quite know for what. His cellphone reads 6am. Not his custom uptime. But this morning, it feels so right. For once in a long time, time is on his side.
He freshens up. Changes into a breezy t-shirt and boxers.
Pip wanders into the lounge. Not a soul. His parents are morning people, early risers. He gazes out to the verdant garden. He spies his mum at the distant far end, on edge, just before the cliff drop. She is executing ballet moves. Her dance exercise routine.
Pip has never seen his mum in anything more economical than a sensible one-piece swimsuit. On this brilliant morning of a renewed universe, his mum is nude. Nude as the day his naked mum gave birth to naked him.
He squints his eyes against the morning sun. Hmmm… what a sight to wake up to! He can see her curvy contoured outline. Her topside appears modest. Her arse proudly perky, but not obtrusively assertive. Legs flare into wide hips. He squints again, lasering in at, first her top, then her crotch. It is too far though to make out the feminine details of her nipples and bottom. But, what is certain is that her bottom is mown. To the last fine blade. Or else, her patch will stand out from this angelic vision.
Julia suddenly pirouettes. She spins down to face the cottage.
Julia sees her son. She waves to Pip. She motions to him to come join her.
Pip is stunned. His mum seems uncharacteristically blasé about her nudity. Julia waves again. This time more vigorously.
Pip strides sheepishly towards his mum. He wears a buoyant expectant look on his face as one who approaches an object of high aesthetic draw. As he nears his mum, he is swept by a wave of mild disappointment, which he immediately tries to suppress. But not before his perceptive mum reads his facial sea change.
His mum is dressed in a nude-coloured sleeveless high-cut dance camisole leotard. Razor-slim skin-coloured spaghetti straps lend the visual impression that her camisole top is melded on her body by a magical adhesive force. Julia is braless, as evident from the peeking sides of her breasts. Her garment outlines her free form with clarity, peaking in her nipple form. Pokies.
The high-cut covers her slit, only just so, exposing much of her mound. There is a hint of light shadow at her vee. Are those wayward sparse strands peeking şirinevler elit escort out?
Her arse orbs are trussed and bound in the manner of a thong. Her legs, bare without leggings. Her hair, a neat bun.
Julia (chirpily): Good morning, Pip!
Pip: Good morning, mum!
Julia (enquiringly): Why the less-than-sunny look on this brilliant morning?
Pip: Sorry, mum. I guess I am still shaking off my sleep. Yes, I feel great! Recharged! And lovely to see you sprightly and elegant in your elfin dance moves. Am I interrupting your morning dance routine?
Julia: Oh no! The dizzy pirouette you saw is the crowning move to my morning routine. I am done. Let’s get back to the kitchen. I will prepare breakfast. We will bring breakfast to the bottom of the garden and chill there.
Julia walks ahead of Pip. Spring in her step. Pip is hypnotised by the algorithmic marching motion of Julia’s arse cheeks. Julia gives a trailing look, thinking that she has lost Pip as he has gone all quiet. She sees Pip’s intense absorbed look.
Julia (knowingly): Penny for your thoughts! Whatever they are. That is if you are even thinking.
Pip (emitting a soft laugh, quipping): Mum, you have always read my mind with devastating precision. And uncannily, often even before I think my thoughts! Omniprescience. A divine capacity. And god in his infinite wisdom has delegated it to you.
Shortly, breakfast is laid at the table at the bottom of the garden, bounded by a high hedge on one side, overlooking the infinity that is the ocean on the other. A private nook of the universe, which overlooks the vast expanse yonder.
Mum and son sit across each other on their deep lazy wicker chairs. They catch up on events and developments of the last six months.
Julia sits with her legs coquettishly crossed. Pip slumps back languidly on his chair, at first enjoying the serenity of the garden and the ocean, and then drifting to his mum presented before him.
Pip cannot help stealing rationed courteous glances at his mum’s legs. The high-cut vee of her leotard accentuates the allure of her shapely legs.
Julia is not unaware of her son’s visual interest. She unconsciously recrosses her legs a couple of times, refreshing her son’s view. She settles on a sitting position she learned from her holiday in Thailand. In Thai temples, ladies sit on the floor with their knees daintily bent, legs parallel to each other, laid flat on the floor, soles facing backwards, body upright.
This posture piques Pip. The high rise vee exposes lavish swathes of the left and right sides of her mound. Pip steals surreptitious glances at his mum’s feminine charms. Is that a peeking cameltoe? Are those stray strands at the tip of her vee?
Julia: I have been working out. Dance. Gym. Swim. What do you think of your old mum’s sixty year old venerable body? What do you think of her conservation project?
Pip: You look fine, mum. You are in good shape.
Julia: But, you had a cheery expectant look on your face this morning, until you saw me, and then I detected a visible creep of disappointment. Is your old mum so harrowing to look at?
Pip: Oh that! I have a perfectly rational explanation. But, it is awkward for me to tell you. In fact, it will be awkward for both of us. I have no wish to start a day like this on an uneven keel.
Julia: Come on! We have always been open with one another.
Pip: But, this is different… there is a personal element to this.
Julia: Come on! If it is a perfectly rational reason, it should be alright.
Pip: Hmmm… you are determined! Alright! When I first saw you from the window, it appeared like you were nude. This is because of your nude-coloured leotard. I couldn’t be sure. So, I watched you for awhile. Just when I became convinced that you are indeed nude, you saw me. Waved to me to join you. I was conflicted. But, when you motioned to me a second time, I just had to go.
Julia: What were your thoughts as you were walking up to me?
Pip: Mixed. Conflicted. Anticipating. Excited. To say the least. It is not every morning that a son sees his mum in full glory. Certainly, not this particular son.
Pip: On the one hand, to be honest, the allure and excitement. I am a man in case you haven’t noticed. On the other hand, the awkward dissonance of seeing my mum naked. I am your son. A kind of son-man tension conflict. The rational, prudence juxtaposed against the emotional, instinctual. Philosophically, the Nietzschean Apollonian-Dionysian tension.
Julia: Wow! This is deeply profound! And here I am thinking it is just my son getting his jollies ogling his flaunting, less than chaste mum!
Pip (mirthfully): That too, he he!
Pip (seriously): Know that I have never seen you in anything less than a sensible one-piece swimsuit. No childhood accidental bathroom ooops nudity flashes. No teenhood inadvertent fleeting lingerie exposés. No spectacular şirinevler escort wardrobe malfunctions.
Julia (jocularly): Oh, you poor child! I didn’t know. What an underprivileged, deprived, dreary childhood!
Pip (quipping): Now you’re making fun of me. Yes, starved of my rightful oedipal rations. As an unfortunate result, I am a living and breathing Freudian mess today.
Julia (seriously): Thanks for being so honest with me. I really value the way we engage each other so candidly. I have been wearing this leotard for a number of years. Only your dad has seen me in it. I guess I have never given any thought about its visual effect because there was no occasion to. Well, now I know. So, you are disappointed with what you saw?
Pip: I wouldn’t put it that way. You have a great body. Curvaceous, luscious. If you want a point blank answer, it is this. I had the heightened expectation of seeing a sexy naked woman, my mum, no less, and it didn’t happen. That is the gist of my disappointment. There! I said it!
Julia: I’m flattered by your interest in your matriarch’s time-honoured body. But, why is that? There are plenty of sweet young nubiles.
Pip: In our modern era of advertising, entertainment and social media, our senses are mercilessly assaulted by impossibly perfect female sculpted machinery. Plasticky. And I bear the brunt of this assault in my publishing business. Hell, I am even responsible for perpetuating the deluge. So, in my personal realm, authentic womanhood appeals to my battered senses.
Julia: Hmmm… I must verify this lofty authenticity standard of yours against your French girlfriend as proof of your pudding.
Pip: You are a dancer. So too my girlfriend. Is this by cosmic accident?
Julia: Hmmm… I won’t psychoanalyse you on this. I am not going there… Well, I am glad we have this conversation. The Oedipal bit especially. We will have the opportunity to know each other better over the next few days. Maybe you will leave Cliffcombe with new insights, even new views of your mum.
Julia surprises Pip. She stands up. She brushes the breakfast crumb bits off her leotard, then straightens the disheveled creases on her garment, which includes hiking up her V-cut. She potters around the table clearing the breakfast cutlery, attending to this and that. Pip offers to help, but Julia says she is doing OK, and would rather Pip sit, relax and enjoy the view. And Pip does just that.
The rest of the day passes by quickly as Julia and Pip spend quality time reconnecting.
Later, Julian returns from work. They have an excellent dinner on the patio, buoyed by wine and conversation.
Julia and Julian in bedroom banter. They have an open and trusting relationship.
Julian: How was your day with Pip?
Julia: A lovely day!
Julian: Pip must have slept in after his bruising travel yesterday.
Julia: Oh no! On the contrary, he was up at 6am, when I was in my morning routine in our garden. I guess he was rested after his six hour deep sleep.
Julian: He must have seen you in your dance leotard number?
Julia (smirking): Well, he didn’t, and then he did.
Julia (hesitatingly): At first, from our window, he thought I was naked. The nude colour of my leotard, you see.
Julian: That must have given our son a tingle. His mum prancing the garden in an apparent state of nature.
Julia: I should hope it did. If it elicited no reaction from Pip, it would mean that he is gay, or I am a piece of monstrosity. When I eventually saw him, I motioned to him to join me.
Julian: His reaction?
Julia: Pip appeared conflicted. When he saw my leotard, he was visibly deflated. But, he recovered quicktime. I would like to think that, maybe, his mum’s leotard, on closer scrutiny, had some redeeming features, that deserved further investigation.
Julian: Did our son check you out?
Julia: Surreptitiously. I was braless as usual. My natural form was apparent. But then, given my modest top, it was not the centre of his attention. He was particularly enamoured of my legs. I suspect he is a legs man. I think the high-cut of my leotard accentuated my legs, and mystified my lady parts. And then the nude colour confuses his optics, blurring fantasy and reality.
Julian: You do have killer legs. It must have been agonising for the lad.
Julia: I could sense Pip’s eyes prising open my crossed legs.
Julian: And… and?
Julia (teasingly): It is getting late. You need your beauty sleep. Let us continue this tomorrow…
Julian: Don’t you dare!
Julia (hesitatingly): There was a singular moment of palpable frisson…
Julian: And… and?
Julia: I have a cruel subterranean streak. I relish turning my husband into anticipatory pulp. You are getting more than your ration of jollies tonight!
Julian: Go on…
Julia: We finished breakfast at the bottom of our garden. I rose to brush the food crumbs off my leotard, and straighten out the kinks and creases. I instinctively hiked up my leotard. It is an instinctive ballerina preening habit thing. Horror of horrors, the vee snagged at my cleft. Think the outrageous string thong bottoms you see in Brazilian bikini ads. I think a few stray strands of my bottom could have peeked out.