Freediving Mum

Preamble:

This is a banter-style teasing, titillating story, written in literature nuanced prose.

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: Hen Party

Chapter 2: Bedroom Banter 1

Chapter 3: Shop

Chapter 4: Bedroom Banter 2

Chapter 5: Vacation

Chapter 6: Café

Chapter 7: Rick’s

Chapter 8: Prep

Chapter 9: Hirsute

Chapter 10: Freediving

Chapter 11: Couple

Chapter 12: Fire

Chapter 13: Nocturne

Chapter 14: Playback

Chapter 15: Singularity

***

Chapter 1

Hen Party

I am Sophie, or Soph for short, an early fifties UK mum of an eighteen year old strapping lad, Sebastian or Seb. My only child.

I was a champion swimmer in my schooldays. Now, Seb is faithfully following my footsteps. Seb and I share a deep bond in swimming, and all things in the swimming universe.

One of my prized possessions is a picture of Seb and I in racing swimsuits. A heartwarming mum-and-son shot. It so encapsulates everything about us. Our life passion. Our bond. Who we are. As a proud mum, I wait for my friends to inevitably enquire about how Seb is doing, and I will whip up my cellphone, and show them the picture.

I am at an afternoon tea hen party. We get to talking about our kids. A cheeky girlfriend observes from my prized picture that Seb is well-endowed. She shamelessly pinches open the screen to enlarge the image at John’s crotch. The outline of John’s endowment, tucked up north, is very clear. My cellphone is passed round amid a rising chorus of ooohs and aaaahs, and girlish shrieks. We are all close friends. Cabal. There is no awkwardness. Just between us girls…

When my cellphone rounds back to me, one of the girls teases mercilessly, “So, what do you think of your son’s stash, mommie dearest?”

I play along coyly. I study the picture like I am looking at it for the first time, with scholarly intent, arch my eyebrows sagely, and quip: “Hmmm… not quite the full bloom I know.”

A cacophony of riotous giggles and squeals. The café manager glances over in amused alarm. Oh dear, the sisterhood is out of control.

***

Chapter 2

Bedroom Banter 1

That night, when I have a quiet moment at bedtime, after clearing my emails and messages of the day, I instinctively pull up my favourite picture to revisit. My fingers auto-pilot to pinch expand my son’s crotch. Yes, the lad has grown up, and out, in all the places that matter. I feel a sensation which I cannot quite place. Is it motherly pride, or womanly tingle? The mother-woman dualism. Charming ambivalence.

My husband, Ethan, who is reading by my side, happens to peer over just then. He knows about my fave picture because we have it enlarged and framed on hardcopy photo.

Winking, “Checking out our son before going to bed, huh?”

I have an open and trusting relationship with my husband. We tease each other mercilessly.

I flash a wicked grin.

Quipping kittenishly, “A mum has to monitor her son’s measure, to figure when to shop for the next speedo size for her growing son. This is what mums do.”

My husband counters, “Such devotion to detail! Well, sleep tight!”

He always has the last word.

***

Chapter 3

Shop

We are planning a family vacation to the Mediterranean. While we are talking about the trip, Seb who has been researching on our holiday destination, asks if he needs to wear one of those “euro-bikinis” there.

I tell him that I am sure it will be fine for him to wear his regular trunks. I do not think about it again until a couple of weeks later. We are in a sports goods store. I traipse off to do my shopping while Seb wanders around. When I am done, I find him looking at a rack of skimpy swim briefs with cautious fascination. I ask if he needs a new swimsuit. He says no, and looks away, a bit embarrassed.

A couple of nights later, I am online. I type an “s” to search for something, and the address bar suggests a swimsuit outlet. I check the browsing history. It seems like Seb has been looking at swim briefs on the site. I then realise that he wants to try wearing a euro-bikini. I am happy to buy him one, but unsure how to bring up the subject.

***

After breakfast, I need to run a few errands. I ask Seb if he would like to tag along. He has nothing else planned, so decides to come. My workout bathing suit is getting a bit worn and weary, so I stop by the swim shop to get a replacement. Seb wanders around while I try on a few swimsuits. After deciding on one, I find Seb in the men’s section at the swimsuits rack. I suggest he try one on. I expect him to decline. But, instead he says, OK. He takes a plain blue male thong off the rack.

I wait outside the changing room while he tries on the swimsuit. I have no intention of checking on him as I respect his privacy.

After a few minutes, I knock on the door, “How’re you doing?”

“It fits, and yet, it doesn’t.”

“Huh?”

“Mum, come in and have a look…”

He opens the door just wide enough so that I can slip through.

I am momentarily conflicted. This is my eighteen year old son. People in the shop may see me go in. I look around. Mercifully, no one is near the changing room.

“Sorry mum, for putting you through this.”

“No worries. This is what mums are for.”

It is the first time I have seen a euro-bikini on flesh. My years of staring down speedos poolside as a competitive swimmer, and then as a mum of a swimmer, in all their worldly variations has not prepared me for this spectacle.

Confused, “I can’t decide if it fits. I feel a wee vulnerable. I can’t imagine it any more snug. On the other hand, it feels a tad loose.”

Jocularly, “Hmm… It is economical! Effectively a man sheath. A cock sock masquerading devilishly as a swimming costume.”

Pointedly, “See here…”

Giggling, “This serpent?”

“Mum!”

“I see what you mean.”

There is silence for a minute.

I look wise, “Just so you know, I feel the same way when I try a skimpy bikini. This euro-bikini is a new experience for you. Your sense of sizing is a little messed up. If euro-bikini is what you want, accept the sense of vulnerability that goes with it. Having made this decision, you then fit it right, even if it heightens the feeling of exposure.”

“Now that you frame it that way, yes.”

“It’s obvious to me that this size isn’t optimal. Stay here. I’ll go find a smaller size for this design. What’s this size?”

Seb instinctively lowers and flips the top of the hemline to look inside for the size label. He is pristine. I can just see the junction of the base of his penis and his balls. This is the first time I see the privates of a grown male other than my husband’s. I get a tingle.

As Seb looks up meeting my gaze, he realises what he has inadvertently revealed. Sheepishly, “Size 11.”

The store carries the smaller size, but not in blue. I return to the outside of the changing room with the available colours in hand.

Knocking gently, “No blue. But, yellow and green.”

“Cool! I’ll try them.”

Seb opens the door a crack. I pass the garments.

He surprises me, “Mum, why don’t you just come in, because I really value your opinion. It’s not practical to flit the door back and forth.”

I instinctively scan the shop surreptitiously, then, enter.

The room is small. Seb attempts to turn away, to lend a modicum of modesty, to change from the blue to yellow. There is insufficient swing space. He is struggling.

“Seb, this room is small. It’s OK, don’t bother. Just do it.”

It didn’t occur to me then that whilst I may be cool, Seb may not be. I am insensitive.

Seb slips off the blue. This is the first time I see a grown male other than my husband in full native glory. The first time I see my son’s privates, up close and personal, since he was ten.

I relish the first time sight of my son’s naked adult body. I know I will never see it the same again, if I see it a thousand times again. It is like once I see through an optical illusion, I can never see it again.

He is what every mother would wish on her son. For a young man, he has a dignified formality, and a regal charm.

Pensively, “You’re so well formed. Pleasing.”

Seb puts on the yellow thong. For some inexplicable reason, I feel a tingle course to my loins, and then a contracting sensation, as he slips his arc of manhood into the sheath.

The yellow fits well. We assess the colour. It looks fine, but we agree it should be compared against the green, to be sure.

It is surreal seeing my son in effectively a cock sock. In fact, more strange than if he is just plain naked. I feel a motherly itch, then, a womanly ache.

“Now, this maybe a little awkward and intrusive, but pertinent…”

Curiously, “What?”

“You’re a young man, a sack of hormones. You’ll get flourishes when you eye the biodiversity on the beach.”

“What are you getting at, mum?”

“You’ve wiggle room in a speedo. You can kind of coil yourself, obfuscate it away into a stash. In this stark costume, you don’t have that convenience.”

“You’re suggesting I fit to a stiffy?”

“Perhaps you should, for good measure. You don’t want to get into a fit on the beach when you get hot and bothered by the flora and fauna around you.”

Seb appears to process this suggestion.

“I’ll leave you to it. Let me know when you’re done.”

Seb pragmatically, “Mum, stay. You’ve already seen me.”

I feel a surge of motherly bond warmth, “You sure about this?”

“I’m cool.”

Jocularly, “Hmm… cool is not what you need now.”

A chuckle.

Seb pulls down the yellow thong. His penis quivers a little from its release, but is flaccid. He puts his hand on his penis, pauses, and in an act of socially conditioned modesty, turns away. He begins his ministrations.

He carries on for a good three minutes, becoming increasingly flustered.

Concerned soft tone, “Are you good?”

Seb doesn’t answer, but increases the speed and intensity of his movements. I realise that the lad is a bundle of nerves. Claustrophobic room. A mum in waiting. Muffled sounds of people dithering in the shop. Mounting anxiety. Since I started this, it is only fair that I help Seb through.

I touch his shoulder, “Some visual stimulation…”

Seb turns around with an expectant look of anxious fascination.

His eyes lock with mine. I see a longing. I make some small adjustments, “Just a little more…”

Seb responds.

I offer a small invitation. He nuzzles me, a small politeness under the circumstances.

He struggles animatedly, almost valiantly, to get his apparently still flourishing self into the green thong. A palpable racing urgency. Is it because he wants to get in before he loses it? No, it appears more like he wants to get in before he can’t. I can smell the testosterone in the room.

This is nice in a way. Reassuring. It reminds me that I am a woman, not just a mum and wife, and that I still have some titillating appeal in my fifties. I do not delude myself that Seb wouldn’t be the same with any woman who is with him in this same situation, but in a sense, that is the point. It is incredible to share this with my son.

The green fits. But, Seb prefers the yellow, as I do.

I flash Seb a coy wink, “Your swimsuit is guaranteed to fit under all circumstances, going forward.”

Then, I see a grimace on his face, and then a look of panic.

“Oh mum, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t help it.”

“Don’t worry about this. These things happen to healthy lads. We’ll purchase both the yellow and the green. I’ll tell the shop assistant that you like the green so much that you’ve decided to wear it home.”

I open the door slightly, peep gingerly through the crack. The coast is clear. I go out, and melt into the shop. I pay for our purchases. We leave the shop. Seb walks a bit funny, like he has sprained a groin muscle.

***

Chapter 4

Bedroom Banter 2

Ethan and I sleep nude. We enjoy our nude placid bedroom banter moments together.

“How did your day go?”

“Nothing tumultuous. In the morning I went shopping for my swimsuit for our vacation.”

“Seb?”

“He tagged along.”

“Did he get anything?”

“A euro-bikini for our vacation.”

“A what?”

“Seb has been researching online on our holiday destination. The sights, cuisine, culture, what’s hot. Apparently, euro-bikinis are all the rage there.”

“Euro-bikinis? Aren’t bikinis for women?”

“Male bikini bottom thongs.”

“Oh?”

“Are they like racing speedos? Wouldn’t Seb have plenty of them from his swim team stash?”

“Why don’t I show you. I bought two for Seb. A yellow and a green. The green is in the laundry. I’ll get the yellow.”

“But, why would a newly purchased swimsuit be in the laundry?”

“Seb messed it up.”

“Oh?”

“Long story…”

I get the yellow thong from my not yet unpacked shopping stash.

Ethan astounded, “But, this is a penis sheath! A gentrified penis sheath from what I used to see in the features on native jungle tribes in National Geographic.”

“Yes, effectively a cock sock masquerading as a swimsuit.”

“Is this even legal?”

“I understand it’s de rigueur where we’re going. It’s outrageous not to wear one, so I’m told.”

Ethan holds up and extends the full extent of the thong, “So, this is our son?”

Coyly, “Yes. He tried it on. We’ve to be cocksure about the fit because the shop has a no return policy. Hygiene regulations.”

Quipping, “Hmmm… the lad has certainly grown up. And out. You’re a wonderful mum. You’ve raised him well.”

“Hmmm… He has. And I have.”

“So, Seb tried it on and the fit-out went well. What happens when he sports a boner on the beach?”

“We got that covered too.”

“We?”

I see that Ethan has a raging boner. But, he acts nonchalantly cool. He is getting his jollies in a curious, if not perverse way. I have never seen this side of him. Well, we learn something new everyday, don’t we? I decide to play along out of curiosity, and to feed his jollies a little.

“After I was done with my swimsuit selection and fitting, I found Seb hanging around the male swimsuits section, in particular, the thongs rack. I asked if he had anything in mind that he would like to try out. I expected him to say no. Instead, he chose a thong, and went to the changing room.”

“How was his fitting?”

“He was confused.”

“Huh? Isn’t this a, hmmm…, straightforward process?”

“Seb took an awfully long time. I knocked on the door to ask if he was doing ok.”

A pause.

Matter-of-factly, “He asked me to join him to help him.”

Incredulously, “Help him?”

“I entered the room. I sensed Seb’s confusion. It was the first time he put on a skimpy costume. Akin to me trying out a wicked skimpy bikini. I know the visceral feeling of exposure and vulnerability. His thong was a tad loose. But counterintuitively, he can’t imagine a smaller size because it’ll heighten the vulnerability further.”

I run my hand on Ethan’s manhood. It feels strained. And warm.

“And?”

I emit an exaggerated yawn, “It’s getting late. Shall we continue this account tomorrow?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I told Seb that having decided that euro-bikini is what he wants, discomfitingly skimpy as it may be, he must get the right size. There should be no compromise on fit.”

Ethan mulling, “I guess this is sensible, in a kind of perverse way. What next?”

“Seb remained in the changing room. I went to get a smaller size for him.”

“And?”

“I returned with the smaller size. I passed the garment through the door crack to Seb. But, he asked me to go in, to help him confirm the fit.”

“Did you?”

“I was reluctant to go in. What would the shop staff and customers think? A mature woman and a lad. But thankfully, no one was about then.”

“Did it fit?”

“It did in that there were no creases in the material. But, it was not taut…”

I pause as if agonising over something. Ethan looks at me sensing my nervous hesitation. He appears intrigued and a little excited at what I am struggling with.

“Unlike speedos, there is no space in a thong to stow away a boner. So, I told Seb that he has to fit the thong to a stiffy. Better to ascertain now, than to feel discomfort at the beach.”

I pause.

“And?”

“Seb worked himself in earnest. He fitted OK.”

“You were with him?”

“He struggled a bit at first. I think it’s the combination of the anxiety associated with the skimpy garment, the claustrophobic room, and not holding up the changing room for too long.”

I paused.

“And?”

“I heard impatient waiting noises outside the changing room. We had to move on. This stressed Seb. I decided to help him.”

“Oh? How?”

I study Ethan’s flush face, “Are you OK with this?”

“I’m cool.”

I touch him. A searing furnace heat, “You’re hot!”

A chuckle.

Emboldened, “I offered our son a little visual stimulation.”

“Oh?”

“And?”

“He fitted OK.”

A male breath.

Smirking, “And for good measure, just to be sure, I helped him a little more. Seb and the thong went the distance. Just then, there was an angry knock on the door. We wrapped up.”

***

Chapter 5

Vacation

Shit happens!

Three days before our departure, Ethan’s company wins a megadeal. The biggest ever. He has to cancel his leave to get started on the project because time is of the essence. In a sense, it is a happy problem.

We can get a refund for one pax, but not for all three. Seb and I have to go without Ethan.

***

The island is ten square miles, though one will have difficulty to find a square anywhere as the lay of the island runs in strange directions. If I hold the map with east on top, it looks like a gangly teen about to break into a run.

There is no spot on the island where I cannot hear the ocean. It is the quietest place I have been, bar the sounds of the ocean. I sit and watch time. Watch my thoughts. My emotions. Listen to the whisper of the wind voices.

The cottage has fine architectural bones. It is built in the traditional local rustic style, poised at the head of a valley. The valley slopes down toward the sea. Wooded slopes surround the valley. The kind of beautiful countryside that poets like Yeats would forever try to do justice. Perfect! I want to be looking at flowers longer than I should.

The garden is a study of how one disciplines nature. Straighten it. Clip it. Smoothen it. Trees lined up as if in parade, or planted in symmetrical groups. In the corner stands a huge tree. The stem does not send off a wild branch here and there to take its own way. All the branches share in one great fountain-like impulse.

The only traces of disorder in the garden are human. There is the garden, gardening and the gardener. Is gardening for the garden or the gardener?

There is a swimming pool which we can use if we feel too idle to walk the mile down to the secluded beach.

It is a cottage, but in fact, it is quite a substantial house. More so a villa. Peaceful, quiet and private.

There is honesty in its design. Neat undecorated brick. Although rustic, it is mutedly modern in its sense of order, cleanliness and light.

I sleep in a white room with white sheets, in white silk nightie. It is the colour of fresh snow, chalk, milk. And weddings. It is the opposite of black. But, is white a colour, an absence of colour, or a mingle wash of colours? White is the hardest colour to preserve because it is so vulnerable to everything else it engages with.

Unfiltered light falls on my face in the morning to wake me up.

The interior, unfussy antique furniture. Wood-burning fireplace and stove. Wide-plank floors of honey-coloured wood. A meticulous attention to detail so that no detail is apparent to the eye. It looks beautiful without being precious. Comfortable good taste. It gives the feeling that you can actually live in it, which is not always the case with pretty photogenic houses.

A mile away is a charming seaside village of quaint shops, homey cafés, and vibrant F&B establishments. The village is named something sur-Mer. The name itself confers lavish charm on itself without the village having to show up.

I have not brought my camera. Taking photographs can assuage the itch for possession sparked by the beauty of a place or a person. Our anxiety of losing a precious scene or sensual sight can decline with every click of the shutter.

People cannot just enjoy beauty. They have to possess it as well. The only way to possess beauty properly is to understand it, by making oneself conscious of the factors, visual and psychological, responsible for it.

***

Chapter 6:

Café

The morning dawned beautifully.

The sky is a spacious cloudless blue, of the exact same hue as the sea before me. The sky, sea and me in my blue blouse, are in total accord on this morning.

“Seb, I need my fix. Let’s go for an espresso at the village café.”

“The Coffee Dive”. Tables adorn the sun-kissed patio as if painted there by the tip of an artist’s brush.

It is early. The machines are yet to warm. I ponder this chance to reflect a moment longer, to drink in the aroma of this place.

The barista has a glimmer in her eye, a dead give away of her good heart. She is one of those surviving sparks, one of the ones who hold on to who they really are, proud of her craft. A gentle soul on good terms with the universe.

I ask for an espresso, and then, a danish to be warmed to a particular temperature, apologising, “Sorry, I’m just feeling like being a bit of a fuss pot this morning.”

I see her spark glow a little brighter, her face more relaxed, a smidge more joy in her eyes, “That’s alright, you be a fuss pot.”

She speaks with a faint but recognisable Irish lilt. It is musical as only a human instrument can emit.

I laugh unexpectedly. I know that I am feeling that tiny bit better too, “Thanks for indulging me. I need that.”

At the table, Seb perceives, “Mum, I’ve never seen you this happy. It is said that the highest and purest happiness is happiness for its own sake, not attributed to anything in particular.”

This is what I love about Seb, beyond his being my sole offspring. The rippling jock swim torpedo with a killer instinct in the water annihilating all competition in his wake. And yet, a sensitive humanist attuned to the fluff of art, lit, music and philosophy. He can cite Marcus Aurelius, refute Nietzsche, demolish Sartre, and burn rubber hot-rodding Saturday nights through the town with his mates.

Seb makes me feel better about humanity’s prospects in the furnace face of today’s polarised political and social fractures. Seb has ambitions to be a creative writer.

I snap out of my flight, “Yes, I’m in a happy haze this morning.”

The café has a gentrified yet homey feel. Mercifully spared of plasticky kitschy hip.

One breadth end of its rectangular layout is the barista’s stomping ground. The other end is a massive glass window that looks into the depth of a swimming pool.

One length side of the rectangular layout overlooks the cliff edge, dropping to the moor of ocean. The other side is a wall adorned with underwater marine themed ornaments and artifacts, primarily diving.

We enjoy the view. Cliff, ocean, sky and cloud brought purposefully together to assemble this vision, for this moment, for our admiration.

You can be made small by a doorman in a posh hotel, by heroes of great achievement, or by the Sahara Desert. The choice is yours to choose the most satisfying way to be diminished. My choice of diminution is this assembly of wonder before me.

I feel half of me is ocean. The other, sky. I hear the ocean waves of time, hinting at a larger outer vastness. I hear sounds within sounds.

Infinity is not a concept. Not physics. Not math. It is an emotion. Then, it got mathematicized into a symbol.

I think of all that life can be.

Seb perceptively, “Penny for your thoughts. What are you thinking?”

In a philosophical mood, “That we are the mere playthings of the forces that laid out the oceans, and chiseled the mountains. Only the surface of the ocean is available for human observation and interpretation, while its depths conceal unknown and unknowable truths.”

“Mum, I think that you’re the ocean. You can dive that depth to uncover a little more of yourself.”

We love swimming, watersports, all things water. We love the sea. To look at. To immerse in. To listen to. To smell. The scent of seawater on our skin in the sunshine.

“Mum, you never did tell me. How did you learn to swim?”

“We lived on the farm. Miles from nowhere. No swimming pool. No swim coach. But, we had plenty ponds and rivers. I learned swimming on my own, from a book borrowed from the village library.”

“You did what?”

“Yes. It can be done.”

“I believe you.”

“How do you know?”

Seb pensively, “You’re a noticer. I remember your shelves were lined with shells, bird feathers, pebbles, eggshells. The skeleton of something that might be a bat. They were just bits that were lying on the ground that anyone else would step over or on. Flowers growing tiny and low to the ground. But, you saw beauty in them. So, I can imagine you poring over the swim instruction book pictures by the waterhole, and then, making them come alive.”

“But, that ain’t the whole story. My family moved to Hawaii. Growing up there, slicing through turquoise waves is a birthright, as easy as stepping out the front door. Pleasures that cost nothing, belonged to no one, and were accessible to all. I perfected my swimming those years there. Hawaii is an exaggerated version of paradises everywhere else.”

***

I relish such pensive moments with Seb. We enjoy the comfortable silences between us. The resting place of the mind is the heart. The only place the mind will ever find peace is inside the silence of the heart. And that is where we are.

A look of astonishment on Seb.

“What’s up? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost?”

Seb moves to the massive glass window that looks into the swimming pool. I join him.

A woman is finning underwater. Other than her face mask and fins, she is naked. Her identity is obscured by her mask.

She fins gracefully, vertically down to the bottom of the pool, arcs dramatically, then fins up vertically again. In the next cycle, she spirals down to the bottom like a power drill, arcs, porpoises obliquely up.

Little do I know that the whole giddy swirl of everything that is to come begins this moment.

Her tan skin is stretched smooth and tight, like filled sails, over her chest. But, when her body tension falls away, she actually has sporty, fun-looking rococo breasts. Rather cute. Her pelvic bones stretch clear of her skin.

Her pubes, bushy, revealing peek fleeting glimpses of her femininity as she tunnels the water.

I smirk, “Enjoying the show?”

“What a glorious body of water. She is very talented. So at one in and with the element.”

I realise that it is not Seb’s hormones talking, but Seb the swimmer, the watery aficionado, “Yes, indeed. It’s a wonder that we’re viewing this in a public café open to families and children.”

“They sure have a different attitude to nudity, don’t they? Maybe they applaud this as art?”

“I’m really piqued by this. Are we viewing a life-like recorded free dive on a high-definition TV screen? Is this a show? Is the diver actually an underwater robot diving to a software algorithm?”

“Mum, why don’t we ask the barista?”

The diver is executing loops now, close to the viewing window, as if performing for us, or maybe for Seb. I see Seb following her every movement in earnest, taking in the detail. I wait for this display to end.

***

We walk over to the barista.

“Excuse us. Can you please tell us a bit about the freediving?”

“Sure! The proprietor of this café, Rick, owns this building. Back-to-back to this café is an indoor swimming pool. Well, more like a tank. Rick runs a freediving school, as well as some other freediving activities.”

“So the diver we saw through that window is a student?”

“No. She purchased one of Rick’s freediving video service packages to record her dive as a memento. The pool is equipped with underwater cameras at various locations to capture the dive from multiple perspective angles. Rick can tell you more. His office is through that blue door over there, up the stairs.”

“Many thanks!”

***

Chapter 7

Rick’s

Knock, knock.

A good-looking tanned surfie dude with an insouciant winning smile gazes up with a back flick of ponytail, “Of all the dives, in all the towns, in all the world, you walk into mine. Hello! I’m Rick. What can I do you for?”

I smile. Rick is the type who can disarm an overly accessorised terrorist into expired K-Y jelly in a sec. He has the olive Mediterranean skin that seems to retain the glow of the sun long after it has set. He appears well-travelled, a sublime worldliness, carrying with him a trace of all the lands he has crossed. The type who sees the world as a small and easily managed place.

Rick ascertains us politely. A May-December pair is what he must be thinking. But, he betrays no leak of emotion.

“I’m Soph. This is Seb. We were at your café. We saw the free diver. We are watersports enthusiasts. Can you tell us about your freediving services?”

“I run freediving classes. Some of the graduates of my class, as well as other experienced freedivers, want a video record of their freediving as a memento. I offer a freediving video service.”

Rick leads us to the poolside. It is illuminated brilliantly by a skylight roof construction, affording it a stark post-industrial glass, steel and water outdoor aura.

Continuing, “I’ve high-resolution underwater videocams installed at various points of the pool, to capture different perspective angles.”

Rick points out the videocam locations.

“I’ve installed a grid of transparent cables vertically, horizontally and obliquely in the pool. The freediver may follow these cables by feel of hand, to swim in a particular pattern, for example, vertically up or down, horizontally, and so on. The cables are thin and transparent, invisible to the videocam. It will not be apparent that the diver is following any cable guide.”

Continuing, “Most freedivers dive with fin and mask. A small number of experienced ones dive without any equipment, so that they look completely natural in the video. Like a human fish.”

Seb curiously, “What was the arrangement for the freediver we saw in the café?”

Rick appears to process the question. He studies me, and then Seb.

“Some divers prefer something more memorable. Like, dive nude. Or, a couple dive. Maybe, a couple nude dive. Or, a couple nude dive with a bit of intimacy. It’s really up to the customer.”

“Do your customers feel awkward about their nudity?”

“The bold ones dive without the mask. Others enjoy the anonymity the mask provides, which allows them to express themselves freely without worry of privacy.”

“What about the viewing window at the café?”

“I’ve a control button to open or close the window. It’s up to the diver’s preference. Some divers who dive nude with the mask, like the diver you saw, enjoying performing for an audience. Seen and yet anonymity preserved.”

Rick leads us back to his office. He points to his computer.

“Once the video shoot is completed, I video edit the footage from the different videocams into a single video. I can optionally overlay a background underwater scene as if the diver is in a coral garden, shipwreck, deep trench. Or whatever. I’ve a suite of underwater scenes for the customer to choose.”

Continuing, “Finally, I add in the music.”

I am impressed, “Wow! Fantastic innovation!”

“Well, I was an underwater cinematographer for many years in Splash Studios before I opened this business. Labour of love.”

Rick ascertains us again.

Addressing me, “Well, what do you and your partner have in mind?”

I am about to tell Rick that Seb is my son. But, for some inexplicable reason, I bite my lip. I look at Seb. There follows one of those pauses where people tacitly agree on something without really knowing what they are going into.

Turning back to Rick, I see a knowing smile. He must have heard all the things I did not say. Curiously, I get a twitch from all this circle game of innocent intrigue.

I do not know what came over me just now, “Cool! I’m interested in your freediving video shoot service.”

Seb’s jaw drops precipitously.

Rick passes a form to me, “Here, fill up this self-explanatory service order form on your freedive and video shoot preferences. My service prices, including promos, are behind the form.”

Rick ascertains Seb and I briefly, “I’ve to attend to an admin matter now. Take your time to discuss this with your… partner. Would you like to do that at the café? Complimentary coffee for freediving customers. When you’re ready, let the barista know. She’ll message me.”

“Cool!”

We make our way back to the café. I sense a series of tensions and relaxations between Seb and I, building a sense of anticipation, which is both enthralling and disturbing all at once, to resolve.

We order our coffees, sit down, facing the ocean.

I surprise myself. I shock Seb. I pass the form to him.

Matter-of-factly, “Seb, help me with this admin mumbo.”

Now, why did I do this? Is it because I want to dive in full mermaid glory, and transfer the moral burden to Seb? That it is my son who wants me to dive nude? Am I being fair to Seb?”

I have to help Seb, to help myself, “Look Seb, we’re a thousand miles from home. Just you and me. Blissful anonymity. Let’s just let ourselves out. Swing out of bounce a little. Hang our hair down. Enjoy the place and experience.”

I wink. Seb grins sheepishly.

Continuing, “You fill out the form however you please. We don’t need to discuss. I won’t look at the form. After our coffee, you just hand the form to Rick. I love surprises.”

Seb looks at the ocean for inspiration. He appears to breathe the ocean wind air of the moment. He appears pensive, then smiles to himself. I think he found it.

He fills the form like a pleased student who knows all the answers in the final exams paper. Ticks the boxes methodically. And then appears to write a narrative.

Looking at Seb, I get a little worried. What has he committed me to? But, it is a delicious anxiety.

***

Chapter 8

Prep

Seb passes the form to Rick. A small look of surprise creeps on his face. Maybe Rick didn’t expect the one wearing the pants to be the one wearing the pants in the family.

Rick processes the form. He looks a little astounded. But, he says nothing.

Rick nods, “When do you wish to start?”

I reply eagerly, “Now”

“Cool! I’ll lock the shop reception entrance with a “Video Shoot In Progress, Come Back Later” sign so that there are no interruptions. While I do that, can you go to the changing room and prep yourselves.”

I wonder aloud “Yourselves?”

Rick is a little amused that I am asking this, “Yes, you and your… partner.”

Continuing, “Choose the masks and fins that best suit you in design, colour and size. When you’re fitted up, put on the bath robes. We meet poolside.”

Finally, Rick concludes in an uncharacteristically sheepish tone, “And, there is a trimmer and shaving kit in the changing room in case you need it.”

I look at Seb with arched eyebrows. He shrugs nonchalantly.

Once in the room, I look quizzically at Seb, “What next…partner?”

Chuckling, “Mum, I signed us up for the nude dive. We’ll wear masks and fins. The masks give us the anonymity so that we can freely express ourselves.”

“Oh?”

“The dive is in two parts. You do a solo in the first part. We then have a breather. I then join you in the second part, a so-called couple dive. The result will be that we’ve three videos. Your solo video. Our couple video. And a combination of the two by artful video editing, with you starting solo, and me seamlessly inserting into the video at the appropriate time.”

“Hmmm… You seem to have gotten all this figured out to a T.”

“I mess around alot with video editing for my Youtube channel.”

“I hope you’re not planning on premiering your august mum on Youtube?”

“That’s an idea!”

“Don’t even think about it!”

“Just kidding.”

“Hmmm…”

“Are you OK, mum?”

“It’s a wee offroad and daring. But, I quite like the poetry of the idea.”

I pause.

Seriously, “No other person apart from your dad has seen me naked. And he had to marry me for this exorbitant privilege. Now, in one fell swoop, my son and a total stranger will be seeing me naked. And I will be seeing you naked.”

Sheepishly, “Mum, you’ve seen me before.”

I instinctively look away from Seb. The memory of that poignant experience makes strenuous demands on my mind’s eye. I recompose myself.

Seb assures, “Topside, we’ll be in our bath robes. I will see you only in the filmy translucent pool water, in an artful rendition. Rick will not be seeing you in the flesh, but only on video footage, and again, in an artful rendition.”

“Hmmm… Art purifies and justifies everything, doesn’t it?”

We go about the business of picking out the masks and fins.

Yes, looking at the mirror, the mask, like an opera mask, does obscure my identity. For some inexplicable reason, even though I am no stranger to my son, it emboldens me. I leave the mask on.

I am kind of in another realm. A bit uncanny. What has come over me? I am not even in the water yet.

The changing room is not big. It has no compartments. I make an exaggerated movement of turning away from Seb. I peel off my blouse and shorts. Down to my half-cup bra and high-cut thong panty.

I adore the disproportionately huge power fins. I want to be compellingly powerful. And yet, I desire to be a fairytale mermaid. I feel like the competitive racer I was in my teens, power scrunched up in my sinews. I want the fins to be an extension of me. Here, I am a little conflicted. Should I choose the fin colour that contrasts starkly with my skin complexion? Or, a nude colour to match my complexion? As if I grew the fins. I will poll Seb for his opinion.

I turn around. Seb has picked out his mask and fins. But, I’m surprised his clothes are still on. What has he been doing? Maybe he is busy with something? He has an expectant demeanor. Has he been checking me out?

“Seb, I need your opinion.”

I see a gleam in his eyes. I follow his gaze. It is my translucent thatch of lawn. And a little wayward spill at the sides. My first instinct is to place my palm over my thong. But, my right hand is holding the yellow fin, and my left, the nude colour one.

“I’m conflicted. The sharp contrast of the loud yellow? Or, the subtle seamless nude colour? Contrast versus harmony?”

“Put on the nude.”

I chuckle at the seemingly contradictory statement.

“Can you help me put on so that I don’t fall over. These fins are huge!”

Seb kneels before me. His face inches away. A twitch on his nose. I think he smells the beginnings of my arousal. I can’t help it.

I hold Seb’s shoulder to balance myself. I leverage myself on his shoulder as I lift my right foot. He slips the fin on. For a few seconds, my mound is inches from his face. Then, as I pivot my torso for the left fin, I inadvertently graze my mound against his cheek.

“Sorry, Seb!”

Seb runs his hand down the curve of my calf, then slips the fin on.

Seb steps away, but not before ogling me there one last time. As he looks up, his eyes lock mine. A fleeting bonding of sorts, although I don’t know of what precisely.

Pointing to my panty thong, “Oh Seb, sorry, I’ve to trouble you one more time! I should have gotten rid of this before the fins.”

I turn around, my back to Seb, in a calibrated act of modesty.

“Seb, can you?”

I sense Seb kneel before my buttocks. I feel his hands on my hips. He hooks his fingers on my thong panty, pauses, then pulls it down, as I hold his shoulder to balance myself. I leverage myself on his shoulder as he slides down my panty. I writhe a little to help Seb, although I am not really sure if it helps. My bare derrière inches from my son’s face. As I lift my left foot for Seb to remove my panty, my left orb grazes his cheek.

I turn the other cheek. I lift my right foot for Seb to remove my panty. I feel a delicate brush of skin again.

“Seb, help me undo my bra strap. Then, pass me the bath robe.”

As he unfastens the strap, I hold up my bra so that it will not fall off. Seb wraps the bath robe from behind. I let the bra drop, and insert my arms into the arm holes.

As I kneel to pick up my bra, I realise that I forgot to secure my bath robe. As I rise, I see Seb looking at me.

Seb tries on his mask and fins. He has picked the same designs and colours as mine, so that there is a uniformity and symmetry between us in the couple dive. Satisfied with the fit, he takes them off, as the couple dive won’t be on until after my solo dive.

Seb turns around. He strips and dons his bath robe. He does have sweet buns. I dare say they will complement mine nicely in the couple dive.

***

Chapter 9

Hirsute

I am eager. “All set to meet Rick poolside?”

Sheepishly, “Errr… Just a minor detail. Do you need to use Rick’s trimming kit? You’ve seen me. I’m mown, so I don’t need to.”

“Oh?”

“Yes…”

I mull a few seconds about the implications of this, “You’ve seen a little of me in my thong panty. What do you think?”

“This is different from the usual hirsute maintenance for a thong where there’re clear demarcation perimeters. So, I can’t really tell.”

“You’ve video shoot experience. You can visualise the final product imagery. So, tell me, what exactly are we striving for?”

Seb ponders, “A rendition that heightens the artistic sensuality. But, not so prominent as to overwhelm your delicate femininity. Yet, enough presence to obscure your feminine bits when you’re finning vigorously.”

“OK, this sounds sensible.”

Seb continuing, “And your bush should not be visible from your butt cheeks, like tufts peeking out, when you fin.”

“I agree. We’ll probably never have the opportunity do such a video shoot again. And I’m in my fifties now. I can’t imagine doing this again, even if the opportunity arises, when I’m older, when I’m all awry.”

“Mum, you’re lovely and sexy. You’re being dramatic. You’ll look just as appealing when you’re in your sixties. Trust me on this one. A little fuller maybe, but that will add to your allure.”

“Oh?”

“Yes”

“You seem very sure.”

Seb turning to face me, his bath robe falling a little open, chuckling, “Cocksure”

An itch emanates from my loins. I suddenly have a longing to range, somewhere wild and vast.

“Seb, you’ll be seeing me later anyway, in the pool, and on video footage. I do want the video shoot to turn out well. Can you help me with this?”

“Mum, are you sure about this?”

I drop my bath robe in tacit affirmation. I am now naked in front of my son. Only the second male to see me naked after my husband. I must be quite a sight, a mature fifties woman in native glory, with mask on face, and fins on feet.

The opening view of my nakedness appears to seize Seb with its daring clarity. He takes in everything with a monk’s focus.

I tease, “What do you think of your matriarch?”

Seb roves my body. He makes a contemplative stop as his eyes admire my breasts. I feel a touch of proprietorial pride. And then, he makes another stop.

I urge, “We need to get on with what we’ve to do.”

Seb gets the trimming and shaving kit.

He combs my mangled pubes to work it into some obedient form. I feel him sampling my pubic hair at different parts of my mound. He stands-up my rip curls of pubic strands here and there to ascertain their length. Gentle tugging. His touch sends sparks of sensation showering through me.

He admires my now moist femininity. He parts my petals, lifts my hood as if seeking out hair. Is this really necessary? Can he smell my piquant excitement? He peers into me intimately. This is something so wholly female and defining, so connected to the great cycle of nature. I should be properly ashamed. I have never been so unpeeled, revealed, unfolded.

“Oh!” he sighs silently, with a reverence otherwise reserved for opera or privately held Monets.

He appears encamped at my mons pubis experiencing its subliminal charm. It is as if he moves away, it will not be there again.

Nudging, “Seb, we’ve to move on. Rick is waiting for us.”

“Mum, can you sit down? Part your legs. Drape your hands over your head so that they are out of the way.”

Seb proceeds to gently brush my pubic hair away from the middle of my mound, out to either side so that both my outer, and a peeking hint of my inner lips, are visible.

My vaginal entrance is slightly dilated from the arousal of exposing myself to my son. My inner lips are quite pink and swollen making them protrude down and outwards. My visible wetness betrays my aroused state. This detail appears not to be lost on Seb. I blush at the thought, even as I get a tingle from it.

Seb proceeds to comb back and trim the dark, curly hair that still covers my lips. As he does this, I start to wiggle.

“I’m ticklish down there. Be careful not to cut off anything that isn’t hair.”

I help by pulling my swollen inner lips out of the way so that he can trim without nicking me.

Seb stands back, as if to admire his effort, and then still not completely happy, proceeds to trim a little more of my outer pubes.

“Mum, I’m done with your front. I want to check out your back. Turn around.”

“Like this?”

“Yes. Can you simulate a finning motion as if you’re in the water.”

Seb is crouched behind me. I simulate the finning motion. This is quite odd. My son observing my arse orbs undulating rhythmically.

“There’s a tiny tuft showing.”

“Oh dear!”

“Mum, this maybe a little awkward and intrusive. Stand up, your back to me. Part your legs a little. Bend your torso down low. Clasp your ankles with your hands to lockdown your position.”

I feel a comb run over me. I sense delicate trimming movements. A little ticklish. I imagine the view that Seb is seeing. Have we gone too far? I can feel the units of shame multiplying in me.

Seb pats my butt cheek, “Mum, you’re good!”

I want to thank Seb for subjecting him to this awkward intimacy. But, he looks thankful enough. I put my bath robe back on.

I march backwards to the poolside. This is the way to walk when in fins, to not trip over.

***

Chapter 10

Freediving

Rick explains the system of guide cables in the pool that I will dive by. He describes the possible dive patterns for my solo dive. We agree on a particular dive pattern which is not too complicated, and yet, will look good in the video footage.

My first two dive iterations will be practice runs. The third iteration will be the final one. But, all three iterations will be recorded so that Rick has the flexibility to choose the best footage.

After my solo dive, there will be a breather. Rick will then outline the couple dive details.

“Oh, Soph, before I leave you and Seb here to go to my office where my video control console is, would you like me to close the café viewing window? This is for your solo dive. We can decide again later for the couple dive.”

I look at Seb neutrally, then smile, “Rick, I don’t want you to go through any trouble. What was good for the other free diver earlier is good for me.”

I chuckle, “For once, I will be a spectator sport.”

“Seb, you can stay poolside and help Soph with the bath robe before and after her dive session.”

I make my way to the water edge. In an act of modesty, Seb takes the bath robe from my back as I slip into the water.

I adjust to the water a little. For a minute, I mull over the stark realisation that, here I am, a mature woman, nude before the gleaming eyes of my son, a total stranger Rick, and assorted whoever looking at the café viewing window. Barely an hour ago, nobody has seen me in my full glory aside from my husband.

I wonder how I will present myself in the water. Will my breasts undulate as I propel through the water? Is my slit visible despite my son’s best grooming efforts? Will my vigorous finning open and close my slit like breathing fish gills? Will my inners see watery light of day?

I fin to the starting point of the planned dive pattern in the middle of the pool. I can feel the cable guide. I give a thumbs up signal so that Rick may see me through the video cam.

I take a scrutinising look at the depth of pale pastel blue. Ploosh! I duck dive, breaking the frothing barrier as the burbling of water covers my ears. I am segued into another world. A world I am so familiar with, and yet, not of my own. I enter it by grace of invitation, and I can only sojourn so long.

I fin vertically down as guided by my touch sense of the tendril of cable. There is a second graceful young woman inside me bursting to get out. I am a teen competitive swimmer all over again, except that I am older and more powerful now with my fins. This is so liberating. I am a free spirit mermaid. I fin vigorously. I can feel the power pulse through me. My arse orbs are marching rhythmically, clenching, relaxing, clenching, relaxing, to the silky flow of water. I feel the caress of water on my contours. This is the first iteration of my solo dive, but already, I feel I have been doing this all my life.

The water is cold. I can feel it wrap around my face. Peering through my crystal clear mask as the radiance of the skylight permeates the pool floor, I can see underwater as clear as the morning sky. A couple of delicate strokes and my fins propel me toward the bottom. The water is a large living structure. Stark aesthetic scenery.

I fin past the café viewing window. Is that a mother and her son looking at me? They are about Seb’s and my age. They must know that I am a mum from my mature form. What must they be thinking?

I arc my torso, execute a rip curl into cartwheel. I fin horizontally for a distance, then porpoise obliquely to the far top corner of the pool. I do not feel naked. I am clothed by water.

I fin past the café viewing window again. The son is now behind the mum, pressed against her. Is that his hand on her bare thigh?

I ascend with a dolphin motion toward the rippling surface. I watch the sunbeam from the skylight amuse itself on the water. I have never seen light cast so clean and pure. I want to cry with joy. But, one can’t cry underwater.

I leave my body. The pool. The planet. I step through time. Enter a void. Inside the void now. But, I am also the void. I am looking at the void. All at the same time. Is this the high water mark of transcendence in as far as humans can ascend?

Strangely, prose from Charles Kingsley’s “Water Babies” flow to mind from a subconscious crevice: “The most wonderful and the strongest things in the world, you know, are just the things which no one can see.”

And just when I remember that the protagonist drowned, I break the surface and sucked the sweetest air ever.

***

Chapter 11

Couple

I warp all sense of spacetime. That space is water, and the water is compressing time out of dimension.

Seb the gentleman wraps me in the bath robe as I emerge sprightly from the pool.

Rick outlines the dive plan for the couple dive.

“The concept is to repeat the solo dive, but now as a couple. That way, there is continuity and a symmetry across the solo and couple dives. When the two footages are grafted together in the video editing, the footages will appear seamlessly unified.”

He adds, “Different couples have different ideas on how they wish to render themselves as an artistic dive unit.”

I ask, “Can you give us some ideas based on your past customers’ preferences.”

“Some do it with ballroom dancing-like body engagement. Others like a more intimate rendition, bodies melded, surging through the water as one.”

Rick pauses.

“I find that the most inventive couples have no particular design plan. They just do what comes naturally with jazz-like invention. The video footages for those tend to pan out well because they capture, in essence, the natural impulses and expressions of the couple. Most couples who choose this laissez faire option feel comfortable in water. Divers, swimmers, watersports fanatics.”

I wink at Seb, “We know who we are, don’t we?”

“Soph, I’ve seen you move in the water. A water babe. I’m sure ditto for Seb. I’ll leave you both to it. Give me a thumbs up signal when you’re ready to rock and roll.”

Rick adds, “Oh, I almost forgot. One last admin detail. How do you want the café viewing window?”

Seb casts an oblique glance at me, then smiles, “As it is is fine.”

Rick smiles an internal smile and saunters back to his room.

“Seb, let’s just go with the flow.”

Seb appears a little lost in his own interior. I can almost hear his noisy thoughts.

***

First dive iteration.

In an act of socially conditioned modesty, Seb turns away as I drop my bath robe to enter the pool. Seb then drops his, and joins me in the filmy water.

Seb flashes Rick the thumbs up signal.

We swim to the starting point of our dive path, in the middle of the pool. I detect an unease in Seb. I decide to take the lead as I have experience from the solo dive.

“Seb, we’ll just meld our bodies as one, front-to-front, feel the guide cable, and fin together. We’ve 3 dive iterations to perfect this, so we’ll take the first one as a familiarisation practice run.”

Seb nods, somewhat relieved that we have agreed on a way forward.

We begin our descent. My right hand is on the guide cable. Seb’s right hand is over mine. This becomes a sort of unified pivot point for us.

We fin. Seb’s torso awkwardly bumps mine every other fin stroke. My nipples poke him repeatedly like one testing a pudding. My pliant breasts compress then release against his chest repeatedly.

After awhile, we get into our groove of flow. We meld comfortably. He brings his mid-body into an anxious, tense alliance with mine.

I feel Seb’s mounting excitement. It is pressing urgently against my belly, below my navel. As we fin more vigorously, his penis drifts. He is lodged in the juncture below my mound and my upper thighs. I instinctively tighten my thighs, thus slowing down my finning a little. It sends a shower of shudders through me in many directions. I muse. This is, perversely, a wet dry hump.

We reach the bottom of the pool. We arc our torsos in harmony and in unison, execute a rip curl into a cartwheel. I feel the soft nudge, just short of dig, of a swollen helmet head. Its underside ridge slides along the edge of my petals, one way, then the other, in synchrony with our arcing movement. Like a train on rails, going one way, then the other, in confused commute.

Seb’s finning goes a little awry for a time. But he gets back in groove after a bit of self-calibration.

What might Seb be thinking right now? Can Rick see all this? What will this video scene look like? And the Big Question! Have we crossed a line?

We fin horizontally for a distance, then porpoise obliquely to the far top corner of the pool. We break the surface with dramatic gasps.

Oh! This is the sweetest air I have ever drawn. And I share it with Seb.

A breather. I take off my mask, and then Seb’s. I lean in to kiss Seb on his forehead. I feel a poke at my mound. Seb recoils.

“It’s OK. The exhilaration of the dive. Enjoy it as part of the experience.”

I kiss Seb again, and then give him a long hug. My son feels good. As I do. I relish the moment. I feel a rising forbidden attraction to my son. Perhaps it is yet another one of the great trials of the human experiment.

Seb nervously, “We’re in the pool. The video cams. Can Rick see us?”

“He sees us as lovers.”

“Oh!”

“If you’re worried that Rick can see your boner, here, I will obscure you.”

I nudge Seb to the corner of the pool, then draw closer to him. Seb has drawn level to my navel now. Quite a male feat considering that the water is clammy cold, even on this summer day.

“Seb, in the next dive iteration, I want my top to look stand out good. Can you help?”

I bring Seb’s hand to me.

“Yessss!”

***

Second dive iteration.

From the get-go, I clamp Seb’s arousal below my mound in an uncompromising motherly vice grip. I am a tiger mom. This is the centre from which our dive revolves.

We fin more slowly this way, but our bodies are seamlessly unified. I can just see it, it will look good in the video optics. Two heavenly bodies as one tunneling the watery blue.

It is increasingly easier to grip Seb as our dive progresses, as his excitement is mounting. The traction is quite pleasurable. It must be more so for Seb because as I fin, my hold on him tightens, loosens, tightens, loosens. Is he getting a little harder and bigger with each fin cycle? My thighs seem to think so.

***

Third dive iteration.

We are in a bit of a state from the exhilaration of the first two dive iterations.

We begin the dive in earnest. Seb is in high arousal. As we arc at the bottom of the pool, I feel Seb slipping away. I instinctively tighten my grip. Maybe it is the angle of it?

I feel my son in me. I let this sink into me for a moment as I take this all in. My son is making carnal acquaintance with me.

Is this an accident? Is Seb even aware of what is happening? Have we crossed a line? Does this amount to copulation? Is this incest? Can Rick see this?

Seb’s helmet head rim nicks my lip in its hasty retreat. The contact sears my delicate feminine edges.

The moment passed. Even though it didn’t happen.

I wrestle my emotions to the ground. Curiously, my mind ranges back to the romance novels I devoured in my teens. I see in my mind’s eye Seb and I running hand-in-hand through golden meadows at twilight.

They like to say in the novels, “I’ve taken a lover.”

Have I? I am teeming with need. I don’t want to be ushered back to my own small borders, my own mortal confines. I can’t imagine how I had crammed myself into a puny box of identity when I could experience infinitude instead.

We surface rapturously. As I brush my last strand of hair from my eyes, Seb is in my face. He is so nice. Exactly the kind of taboo lover you can bring home to meet your family.

I experience an inexplicable and random sense of complete bliss, unrelated to anything that is happening in the world. Swollen with wonder. Overflowing with bliss. Everything, for no good reason whatsoever, is perfect.

***

“Soph, Seb, It has been my pleasure shooting you. You’re the most competent freediving customers I ever had in my professional life. Naturals. In your element.”

“Rick, thank you. Water people dealing with water people. That’s what we are. Such a rare pleasure.”

“I’ll email the 3 edited videos to you in 3 days time. Enjoy the rest of your vacation here.”

I look at Rick, likely for the last time. He embodies that additive masculine bit of devilish monstrosity in his mien. Humour sharp and sly. A look that knows things, and a laugh that doesn’t give a damn. This profile appeals to women who are longing for something more, but don’t know it. Beasts with brains.

He will be video editing my most private charms shortly. This thought sends a twitch, just short of an itch, to my loins. But, I flatter myself. He probably video edits miles of enthralling footages in his work, and I’m just another cloud of pixels.

***

I feel a little sad that the dive is, all too soon, over. Maybe Rick will contact us later that the video footage is a washout, he forgot to hit the record button, and has to reshoot?

Oftentimes, the journey is the destination. And the destination is not the end-point. The destination is the point of no return, because the rest of it is incidental.

I don’t know if Seb feels the same.

These thoughts… They play gentle on my mind.

***

Chapter 12

Fire

Seb and I go down the valley to the cove. We have a few hours before the cove disappears into the tide. Seb holds my hand as we wind down the dizzy cliff path to the beach. He doesn’t let go when we land on the sand. I lean on him a little.

The dusk sky is letting the early night in. We enter a twilight zone.

***

We sit by the sea. I can hear small lapping sounds beside me, as if a kindly sea monster is taking discreet sips of water from a large goblet.

Seb tends a bonfire of driftwood, meticulously assembled into a pyramid form. It is getting chilly.

I watch the dance of flames intently.

I squeeze Seb’s hand, “We drifted into uncharted terrain today, didn’t we? Not where a mum and son would normally traipse.”

Seb pensively, “We did.”

I wonder aloud, “Tell me, when you see the shapes that the bonfire makes, do you feel kinda strange?”

“How so?”

“I don’t know, Seb. It’s like all of a sudden, I get very clear about things. Watching the fire now, I get this deep, quiet kind of feeling.”

Seb the budding creative writer, “You know, a fire can be any shape it wants to be. It is free. So, it can look like anything at all depending on what is inside you. If you get this deep, quiet kind of feeling when you look at a fire, that is because it is showing you the deep, quiet kind of feeling you have inside yourself. You know what I mean?”

His words are like night air.

“I guess so…”

“But, it doesn’t happen with just any fire. It won’t happen with a gas stove, or a cigarette lighter fire. It won’t even happen with an ordinary bonfire. For a fire to be free, you’ve to make it in the right kind of place. Which isn’t easy.”

His voice comes out in the cool smooth tones of a late-night jazz radio DJ.

“But, you can do it?”

“Sometimes I can, sometimes I can’t. Most of the time, I can. If I really put my mind to it. Freedom is a bonfire. Try toasting marshmallows on a gas stove. And then on a bonfire. There is something going on. In you.”

“And this bonfire, Seb?”

“There are degrees of fire. Gas stove fire. Placid beauty in symmetry. Order and discipline. This fire is functional, purposeful, useful. Boils your water. Cooks your food. Predictably well-behaved too. Best of all, you get to control it. Cut the fuel, and you conveniently snuff it out.”

Seb pauses.

“At the other end of the firelight latitude, there are houses on fire, forest fires. Wild, combustive, raging, ranging firestorms. Poetry gone rogue.”

Seb tosses a twig into the bonfire. It crackles.

“And then, there is the bonfire at the campsite, or by the beach. You are moved by kindling captivation in watching its dancing flames. It warms you even on a balmy night. That you do not experience from a gas stove fire. And when you douse the bonfire at the first light of dawn, its embers have a lingering stubborn persistence that defy the new light of day.”

***

We talk no more, enjoying the hush that is just short of silence. The quality of a conversation is in its comfortable quietude.

***

Dusk is dimming. Assuming if you just rise from a fairy tale long deep slumber, there is this moment in time when it is impossible to tell if it is dusk or dawn. And then, you know.

A downpouring of darkness. Nothing it seems, can resist the flood of darkness. It creeps past the clouds, over the far horizon, through the valley, seeps through keyholes and crevices, and devours entire landscapes.

The night has come. The way is dark. The moon is the only light we see.

I lift my chin and hum a hushed Clair de Lune to the moon as we make our way back. Light of the moon. Light and airy. Yet mysterious. Darker, more complex chords move underneath the basic melody. Sad, yet also triumphant. Soothing and calming. But, can also be turbulent and emotional. A tune that can dance me away.

Some songs, you have to close your eyes, to listen. I hum Clair de Lune with my eyes closed, as I listen to myself. I link my arm to Seb’s, for him to lead me. I steal a peek at him just to be sure his eyes are open. I don’t want us to fall off the cliff path. But, oh, what a beautiful place and moment to die!

The most compelling art captures the most accurate ambivalence.

Mother, wife, woman. Son, man.

***

It has been a long day’s journey into night. We go to bed.

I reach over and pull open the bedside table’s Bible drawer. I draw out an erotic novella.

The moon is now full of itself. It is enormous. A comforting vision. Some greater force is watching over me, and stoically approving.

Time passes.

Am I asleep now? I can never really be sure if what I think is sleep is actually sleep. Sometimes, it is just another level of consciousness.

***

Chapter 13

Nocturne

For the longest time, caves were the abodes. Humans are made for the light of a cave. And thus, for twilight.

Twilight is the time we sense best. When light is dim, and the pupil opens. Feeling comes out of the eye like touch. Then you really can feel colour, and experience it.

4am.

Summer twilight.

She ascertains him for a time. She slowly comes toward him, holding herself erect as always. She is barefoot. The floorboards creak faintly as she walks.

Silently she sits down on the edge of the bed. She remains still for a time. Her flowing white silk dress reaches to her knees. There is something carved and still about her face.

She reaches out and touches his head. Fingers groping through his hair.

She stands up again. In the faint light shining through the bay window, she begins to undress, like it is the most natural thing to do. She is in no hurry. But, she doesn’t hesitate either. In a smooth natural motion, she lifts off her dress. It falls to the floor. The soft fabric making no sound.

She has a dreamlike look. Her eyes are open. But it is like she is sleepwalking.

Naked, she crawls into the narrow bed. She wraps her pale arms around him. Her warm breath grazes his neck. Her pubic area pushing up, pressing against his thigh. Electric.

She takes off his t-shirt. Pulls off his boxers.

He is aware, but not awake. After a while, he spoons her. His groin right on top of her orb cheeks. He swivels his hips and massages her bare thigh almost unconsciously. It feels heavenly being connected to her in this way.

He nestles right between the gap in her thighs. He is not fully aware, but it is rubbing her petals.

He continues to stroke her bare thigh, adoring the smooth, muscled contours of the limb. She purrs. His hand rides up her leg and wraps around her waist to possess her. She presses her bottom into his groin. She feels the hard, erect penis press more firmly against her labia.

She bites her lip to quieten any illicit sounds she may emit in her bliss. He feels like a steel pole between her legs. She imagines what it looks like for she still has her head and eyes facing forward toward the window. She feels him from the base of her buttocks, across her labia, and forward to her mound. She speculates on his length of rise. She bites her lip again. Her eyes roll back in her head.

She kisses his neck over and over. Then, reaches out to hold his penis, which is cast in bone china by now. Firm and yet so fragile. Gently, she wraps her hands around his sac. She wordlessly guides his fingers to her most intimate. Warm and wet. She kisses his chest. His fingers are slowly sucked inside her.

Is this dream or reality? She doesn’t really want to know.

He struggles to place himself. To find where he really is. He is trying to find the direction of the flow. Struggling to hold on to the axis of time. But, he cannot locate the line separating dream and reality. Or, even the boundary between what is real and what is possible. Some sort of time passes.

He faces up. She twitches her lips to an arc, which never quite make it to a full smile.

She gets on top of him. She guides his hard arousal inside her. He is quite helpless. She is the one in charge. His breath sounds like the wind in a cave. She bends and twists her waist as if tracing a picture with her body. Her straight hair falls on his shoulders and billows noiselessly, like the branches of a willow. Little by little, he is sucked down to the warm mud. The whole world turns warm, wet, indistinct. All that exists is his rigid glistening penis. He is the extension of his penis.

He closes his eyes. His own dream begins. Is it even possible to dream a dream in a dream? It is hard to tell how much time is passing. The tide comes in. The moon rises. Everything arrives that single moment. And so, he comes.

There is nothing he can do to prolong it a little longer, to stop it. He comes over and over inside her. He wants to savour one orgasm at a time, but they arrive all at once. The warm walls inside her contract, gathering in his semen.

A long time passes. He cannot move. Every part of him is paralysed. Paralysed, or else he does not feel like trying to move.

She lies down beside him. They hold each other. They listen to time passing.

She stirs. She buries her face in his chest. He feels her breath against his bare skin. She traces his muscles, one by one.

Finally, she licks his swollen penis, gently, as if healing it. He comes again, in her mouth. She swallows it down as if every drop is precious.

He kisses her petals, touching every soft, warm spot with his tongue. She shudders.

After a while, she gets up, slips into her white silk dress. He cannot decide if she is ghostly or angelic. She gently reaches out again, brushes his hair. All this takes place without a word passing between them. She hasn’t said a thing since she entered the room. The only sounds are the creak of the floorboards, the sea wind blowing ceaselessly outside. The room breathing out, the window pane shivering. That is the chorus behind him.

She crosses the room. The door opens just a crack. He watches from the bed as she makes her exit, still unable to move. She slips out like a delicate, dreamy fish with a flick twist of her body. Silently the door closes. It is that moment that her soul excuses itself from time and place, and merges with the infinite.

He can’t even raise a finger. His lips are tightly sealed. Words are asleep in a corner of time. He lies awake for awhile, just so that he can relish the rest of his dream. This dream is for a night and no more.

***

Chapter 14

Playback

Seb’s cell phone chimes.

“That was Rick. It’s in the mail.”

“Let’s view it on the widescreen high-definition monitor in the cottage tonight. We’ll bring every pixel to bear.”

“Let’s go stock up on the popcorn!”

***

We have a lovely dinner at our usual village restaurant. The evening is just beginning to hang the night with stars.

I am thoroughly charmed by the place. Perched precariously on the cliffside, as if daring the sea to tumble it down. Tables out front. Bright conversations humming. Ivy and wistful wisteria growing all over the front façade, a warm homey glow coming through the windows.

The assembled clientele is interesting. Across our table looks like a professor of something utterly important. His partner appears really wealthy, with plenty of everything. But, these are mere speculations. In this place, the shopkeepers look like professors. The barmen, tenors. The street sweepers, jazz musicians. What a highly evolved society. There is never a people more rationally ordered.

Enthralling places and fascinating people render us aware of our inadequacies in our language. We are at a despairing loss of words to describe certain orders of beauty and wonder. We conveniently and unjustly classify them under the sublime as if the word means anything.

We are served a rare off-menu treat. A basted wild boar which was tragically run over accidentally by the farmer’s tractor just this morning. The Lord provides in mysterious ways. We stare up the heavens in unison and murmur silent thanks.

The wine is dutifully poured, admired and sipped in that classical order. All good moments finish around a glass of wine. Wine has that charm to cajole us to just be.

Mid-meal, the proprietor, who is also the cook, comes chat with us.

“Everything OK?”

“Lovely, just lovely! Especially your asparagus spears. Do you grow them yourself?”

He replies in a troubled tone, “Everything I plant grows wildly. A thicket of vines. Fine but high grass. Obscenely swollen gourds. The tomatoes are too ripe. Cucumbers, erotica artifacts. Roses flowering vulgarly, petals opening up more than they should, on dainty stalks. Some even menacing. I don’t know if it’s me or the garden.”

We enjoy the rest of the dinner. Oh, the fine nuances of eating the right food, at the right time of the year, in the right place.

As we leave the restaurant, the proprietor bids us goodbye. He presses a slip of paper on Seb’s palm. It looks cryptic. Oh, it’s a website address.

“You must go to my mother’s restaurant when you visit the next village. Eat her stew of intestines of newborn lamb. If you didn’t eat it when you are there, lie to me the next time you see me, and tell me you did.”

***

Seb plays the combined solo-then-couple video.

I shiver a little from the gusts of sea wind. “It’s getting a wee chilly.”

I scoot over to Seb. I sit in front of him, pausing momentarily, as if giving him notice of my next move. I then laze in front of him like he is a lounge chair. We make some fine body adjustments, moulding into a unified whole.

He wraps his arms around my waist as if he is buckling me down in a seatbelt. He tightens his arms, pauses, and then relaxes them as if I am now secured.

Relishing his bakery warmth, I coo, “Thanks Seb, lovely…”

The mood is candlelit boudoir.

My nightie has crept up wayward a bit. Seb places his right hand just above my mound. His forefinger doodles on my silken skin in an algorithmic motion. A sort of hieroglyphics. So cuddled, we enjoy mutual warmth. I feel his spirited lower muscles jump and flutter a little, like a moth trapped beneath his skin.

Rick has done an excellent job stitching up the footages from the disparate vantage points to render them a coherent and whole stream. I don’t know about Seb. I feel like I am at the café viewing window all over again, only this time, viewing myself. I am my own spectator sport.

“What do you think of your venerable mum?”

He doesn’t answer. He cocks his head, and plants an affectionate lingering kiss on my lower cheek. And then I feel something else. A reptilian jerkiness.

I feel a little validated by his nuanced response. Show, not tell. He will make a great creative writer yet. The most important words are not those on the page, but those left out for the reader to fill in.

Next up on the widescreen, Seb joins me. His manhood is artfully rendered in the imagery. Seen, but not really. A teasing ambivalence. Is this his custom dignified formality? Or, is he in flourish? The charm is in not knowing for sure.

I cannot tell if Rick has done any inventive editing. Seb and I are so coalesced as one water being, burrowing through the pastel blue in surreal unity.

“Seb, we were quite close in the couple dive. Can you see any detail of our… proximity?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Seb replays the couple segment slo-mo. Yes, there is that fleeting moment. I remember that vividly, all too well.

Photographs and videos are useful. But, they somehow always confirm the memory rather than liberate it. I decide to let this slide, lest it is awkward for Seb. We have a choice to classify this moment as incidental or defining.

The video ends. We are silent for awhile. Unpacking, processing. Not your custom mum/son holiday video for family night viewing.

***

Chapter 15

Singularity

He says, not exactly in an undertone, but sort of quietly, yet firmly, “I want to see you.”

I am a little surprised by his forwardness. His baldness appears an assertion of power rather than age.

“But, you have. The changing room. The pool. The video.”

“I want to take you in properly.”

“Take me in?”

Chuckling, “Admire you properly, for admiration sake. Unrushed. Tranquil contemplation.”

A giddy onrush of guilty pleasure. I might as well enjoy this a little. I stand before Seb.

I enquire with a flirtation tilt of face, “What would you like to see first?”

“Everything. To begin with.”

“Hmmm… so, I am to give all my gifts at once.”

Will I be the gift that keeps on giving? I wonder.

I turn around, lift my nightie off. Before I can turn back, Seb nudges me to the full length mirror.

“Look at you. Look how beautiful you are. Every line is a curve.”

“What about my caesarean cut line?”

He ignores me, “You’ve the simultaneous air of a chapel and a bazaar. You wear your sexuality with an older woman’s ease.”

Seb kneels before me. He looks at me there in a way that makes his attentions and desires plain. He places his nose at my womanhood. He breathes my feminine air, and then appears duly inspired.

This is what I love about my son. I can never tell if he is playful or profound, dramatic or authentic. I can never tell whether the bruising jock or the thoughtful humanist will show up next.

Gazing up, “You’ve to breathe the air, to really know a place.”

“So, is that chapel or bazaar?”

He gets up, leans over, tucks my hair behind my ears, “I’m still ascertaining…”

I have never been adored like this by anyone. Never with such pleasure and single-minded concentration. But, then again, I have never been so revealed.

“You do fit the body I’ve imagined for you all these years. I’m glad for that.”

“All these years?”

“Since I was old enough to contemplate mother nature.”

“Hmmm…”

Whispering, “Pose for me…”

I arch my body. Thrust my bosom. I am growing a little nervous. And yet, I instinctively tilt my casual hips for emphasis, to add a little asymmetry colour to the imagery.

Seb looks grave, “You’re a naughty mum.”

I discern that Seb is viewing the scenery with the eyes of persons accustomed to drawing, deciding on its capability of being formed into pictures.

He observes, “All arranged according to the laws of pictorial sensual art.”

“What do you think of your mommie dearest’s mammaries?”

“A limited edition of a form and substance which nature makes no more. Your arc sag provides the essence of my satisfaction. They quiver a little when you breathe. A pair of ornate genuine articles.”

Relishing this erotic opera, and emboldened, “Please let me…”

His hands mould my full swell, apparently loving the feel of its heft and balance in his palm. He methodically weighs each in his hands with an air of preoccupation, finally concluding,”They are heavier than they look.”

I am lifted by proprietorial pride, even though it is a strange way for a son to take his mother’s measure. My breasts have not felt so full in a long time. Not since Seb suckled them as a baby. Seb seems to enjoy my sharp intake of breath.

“My breasts are too white. Despite my spending so much time in watersports and tanning whenever I can.”

“Your breasts are a lovely pristine bridal white. I much prefer white to tan. Breasts that are white from being covered are way sexier. They make a muted statement. That they are private. And secret. They make the admirer feel privileged. And that’s what I’m feeling now.”

“Privileged? You should be. Only your dad has seen them.”

“Thanks mum, for saving yourself for me.”

I smack his groin in mock indignation.

“What do you think of your mommie dearest’s posterior?”

“Not a young girl’s butt for sure. A woman’s tail, curvy and longish. But firm.”