Preamble:

There is teasing exhibitionism, voyeurism and incest tension, frisson, amid countryside serenity, in this story. There is some sex, rendered lightly.

If you are aching for moaning and groaning, howling and growling sex, this is not for you. Move on to avoid disappointment.

Although this story is Chapter 2, it is crafted so that it can be read on its own. Readers who have read Chapter 1, please bear with some repeated contextual details, which I have endeavoured to minimise.

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Picture a country cottage perched on a picturesque towering sea cliff, on edge, somewhere inconsequential in southwest England. There are no homes within a two kilometer radius. Far from the madding crowd.

The cottage commands a breathtaking ocean view. A dizzy winding hacked-through cliff trail connects its oceanfront 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 small coral island bobs in pristine waters a hundred metres offshore from the cove. The coral island has an ocean-facing beach which offers yet another level of privacy.

The cottage is a private heaven unto itself. No part of it, including its open patio, is within sight of anyone anywhere. The closest to heaven without the inconvenience of dying.

In a word, Cliffedge.

A couple, John and Sophie, or Soph in charming Britspeak, lives in Cliffedge. They have just returned from a holiday in a faraway locale. An indulgent treat, where they celebrated their 50th birthdays and 30th wedding anniversary.

The couple have three grown children, scattered over three continents. The baby of the family, early twenties Sebastian, or Seb, is in Europe. Philippa or Pipa in Asia. Eldest, Philip or Pip in Latin America. Grandparents three times over with installments in the pipeline.

John runs a small engineering business in the nearby village five kilometres away. Soph was a ballerina in her youth. She teaches freelance at a nearby dance academy during the school term in the autumn and winter months. Dance, specifically ballet, has been an influential part of her life. She weaves that into the fabric of her life regimen.

Brown haired Soph is the quintessential English rose. Soph is pretty in a plain sort of engaging way. Although she had stopped active dancing a long time ago, she maintains the upright graceful mien of a ballerina in bloom.

Life is good.

Soph is most aptly described as, confoundingly, buxomly and nubile, in the same hiss of breath.

Imagine a mature woman, five feet four inches, just degrees shy of buxom. She has her obligatory share of flabs and sags, and bodily signature lines of her age. A dusting of freckles on her upper chest. Softly contoured rump, prominent, but sensibly restrained, just short of provocative. Soft rise of tummy. An artful delicate caesarean section cut filament line just above her mound. Well-turned legs flare into wide hips. Lite Rubenesque.

Now, imagine a fresh faced nubile adolescent, also five feet four inches tall, on the cusp of womanhood. Her budding breasts are contoured in a soft wide arc. A gentle rise that promises lush in the fullness of time.

Her silken mons pubis is a minimalist dainty incidental gash. An impish schoolgirly cleft sans lurid assertive inner lips, that peeks out nondescriptly from low beneath her mound. If you gaze at this adolescent from a distance, you are apt to wonder where her vagina slit is.

Now, copy-and-paste the budding breasts, and pubescent bottom, to the mature woman. Voila! There you have it, Soph! A curious confluence abstraction of buxom and nubile, of pubescent and mature. A surreally implausible woman child. An aberrant go-go dancer ballerina. Easy to identify, but elusive to define precisely.

Soph has mixed feelings about her body. Self-evidently, she likes her lush bits. But, she is acutely conscious of her modest top. To John, her buxomness heightens her pubescent allure to conjure a comely feminine whole. Whereas Soph feels that it accentuates her topside deficit. Soph is shy. But, she is no prude.

John is five feet eight inches tall. He has his rightful legacy allocation of mellowed contours. John is an average bloke.

His penis is above average in length, but by not much. If he is in a porn movie orgy, he will be a faceless extra to make up the rippling sea of flesh. 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. Soph calls it statuesque.

Soph has never seen another adult penis in the flesh other than her husband’s. John’s is her defining ideal of the epicentre of all manhood.

John’s scrupulously shaved groin complements Soph’s virginal pubescence.

DAY ONE

Youngest child, Seb, lives bursa escort and works in Nice, in the publishing business. He has immersed in the local teeming biodiversity, loving the French Latin lifestyle in all its Mediterranean sea of colourful nuances. Seb is a photography buff, having earned a minor in the subject in uni. His keen photographic eye captured many subtle images of French life, which he is keen to share with his parents.

Seb has a French professional dancer girlfriend. A budding ballerina. They have been an item for a year. Life is on song for Seb, and the song hums itself on.

Seb 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, Seb is what a young Englishman named Sebastian would classically look like. The archetype of his species. A ‘lovely’ young man by archetypal English terms of reference.

Seb 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.

Seb is on his way from Nice to Cliffedge. 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 50th birthdays, and 30th wedding anniversary. Three milestones in one. And he is keen to hear all about their travel experiences and exotica. The farthest that they have ventured from home. There is much to catch-up.

His parents moved to Cliffedge two years ago. Seb’s past visits have been frantic carousel spins. He has never stepped beyond the cottage garden.

It is the high noon of summer. Seb can soak rays in the patio, garden and beach. Swim. Snorkel amongst the corals, grazing darting sea life. Maybe even some nude sunbathing if circumstances permit, to refresh his coat of complexion. Chill. Life is good. And it gets better.

Seb 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 machine psyche. But, then again, he is working for a UK company in their Nice office.

Seb arrives at Cliffedge at 11pm. A long day’s epic journey into night. Soph and John waits up for him. After a round of warm hugs and kisses, reconnecting in earnest, Seb wolfs down a snack of soup and rolls. John tells Seb that he will be away for work by the time he wakes up tomorrow morning. He will catch-up with him in the evening.

Seb totters to his room. He crashes out dramatically to deep transcendental slumber.

DAY TWO

Seb 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.

Seb wanders into the lounge. Not a soul. His parents are 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.

Seb 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.

Soph suddenly pirouettes. She spins down to face the cottage.

Soph sees her son. She waves to Seb. She motions to him to come join her.

Seb is stunned. His mum seems uncharacteristically blasé about her nudity. Soph waves again. This time more vigorously.

Seb 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. Soph 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 bursa escort bayan high-cut covers her slit, only just so, exposing much of her shaven mound. Her arse orbs are trussed and bound in the manner of a thong. Her legs, bare without leggings. Her hair, a neat bun.

Soph (chirpily): Good morning, Seb!

Seb: Good morning, mum!

Soph (enquiringly): Why the less-than-sunny look on this brilliant morning?

Seb: 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?

Soph: 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.

Soph walks ahead of Seb. Spring in her step. Seb is hypnotised by the algorithmic marching motion of Soph’s arse cheeks. Soph gives a trailing look, thinking that she has lost Seb as he has gone all quiet. She sees Seb’s intense absorbed look.

Soph (knowingly): Penny for your thoughts! Whatever they are. That is if you are even thinking.

Seb (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 curious private nook of the universe, which looks out to 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.

Soph sits with her legs coquettishly crossed. Seb 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.

Seb 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.

Soph 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 Seb. The high rise vee exposes lavish swathes of the left and right sides of her mound. Seb steals surreptitious glances at his mum’s feminine charms. Is that a peeking cameltoe?

Soph: I have been working out. Dance. Gym. Swim. What do you think of your old mum’s fifty year old venerable body? What do you think of her conservation project, he he?

Seb: You look fine, mum. You are in good shape.

Soph: 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?

Seb: 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.

Soph: Come on! We have always been open with one another.

Seb: But, this is different… there is a personal element to this.

Soph: Come on! If it is a perfectly rational reason, it should be alright.

Seb: 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 the second time, I just had to go.

Soph: What were your thoughts as you were walking up to me?

Seb: 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.

Soph: Elaborate…

Seb: 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.

Soph: 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!

Seb (mirthfully): That too, he he!

Seb (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 wardrobe escort bursa malfunctions.

Soph (jocularly): Oh, you poor child! I didn’t know. What an underprivileged, deprived, dreary childhood!

Seb (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.

Soph (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?

Seb: 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 grand total of my disappointment. There! I said it!

Soph: I’m flattered by your interest in your matriarch’s time-honoured body. But, why is that? There are plenty of sweet young nubiles.

Seb: 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.

Soph: Hmmm… I must verify this lofty authenticity standard of yours against your French girlfriend as proof of your pudding.

Seb: You are a dancer. So too my girlfriend. Is this by cosmic accident?

Soph: 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 Cliffedge with new insights, even new views of your mum.

Soph surprises Seb. 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. Seb offers to help, but Soph says she is doing OK, and would rather Seb sit, relax and enjoy the view. And Seb does just that.

The rest of the day passes by quickly as Soph and Seb spend quality time reconnecting.

Later, John returns from work. They have an excellent dinner on the patio, buoyed by wine and conversation, in equal measures.

Soph and John in bedroom banter. They have an open and trusting relationship.

John: How was your day with Seb?

Soph: A lovely day!

John: Seb must have slept in after his bruising travel yesterday.

Soph: 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.

John: He must have seen you in your dance leotard number?

Soph (smirking): Well, he didn’t, and then he did.

John: Huh?

Soph (hesitatingly): At first, from our window, he thought I was naked. The nude colour of my leotard, you see.

John: That must have given our son a tingle. His mum prancing the garden in an apparent state of nature.

Soph: I should hope it did. If it elicited no reaction from Seb, 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.

John: His reaction?

Soph: Seb 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.

John: Did our son check you out?

Soph: Surreptitiously. He was particularly enamoured of my legs. 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.

John: You do have killer legs. It must have been agonising for the lad.

Soph: I could sense Seb’s eyes prising open my crossed legs.

John: And… and?

Soph (teasingly): It is getting late. You need your beauty sleep. Let us continue this tomorrow…

John: Don’t you dare!

Soph (hesitatingly): There was a singular moment of palpable frisson…

John: And… and?

Soph: I have a cruel subterranean streak. I relish turning my husband into anticipatory pulp. You are getting more than your ration of jollies tonight!

John: Go on…

Soph: We finished breakfast at the bottom of our garden. I stood up to brush the food crumbs off my leotard, and straighten out the kinks and creases. I instinctively hiked up my leotard. It is a ballerina preening habit thing. Horror or horrors, the vee snagged at my cleft. Think the outrageous string thong bottoms you see in Brazilian bikini ads.

John: Did our son see this spectacle?

Soph: Perversely, it was our son who clued me in. I sensed a flush on his face. I followed his gaze. I pivoted away, to adjust my costume. The spell ended.

John: I want to see you in your leotard now.