Ballerina Mum Performs for Son

Preamble:

This is a tender, teasing mother-son love story written in ornate literary language, languid mood, infused with side references to dance, music, lit, art, philosophy, psych, and even science and math. The lovemaking scenes are described in sensual, erotic rendition, with savage high moments, just short of lusty and lewd. There is titillating taboo interplay of simmering mother-son-father emotions.

If this style of calibrated narrative is not your thing, if you much prefer wailing and flailing action by sex triathletes, skip along.

***

Chapter 1: Chris and Chris

Chapter 2: Banter

Chapter 3: Preen

Chapter 4: Exercise

Chapter 5: Chill

Chapter 6: Videoshoot

Chapter 7: Playback

Chapter 8: Relief

Chapter 9: Naked

Chapter 10: Dance

Chapter 11: Figs

Chapter 12: Love

Chapter 13: Afterglow

Chapter 14: Rainstorm

Epilogue

***

Chapter 1

Chris and Chris

I'm a 50 year old mum. I've an 18 year old son, Christian, our only child. Now, don't read us wrong. We named him Christian because my mum wanted a continental nuanced name for her only grandchild, not because of our religiosity. We are raving atheists. We fundamentally worship Richard Dawkins. The old girl wanted to spell her grandchild Christien. That was when we put our Anglo foot down.

My husband, Christopher or Chris, is 52. Christian lives with us. We live in a remote quintessential English cottage, perched on a cliff, on the south coast.

Christopher and Christian. Chris and Chris. Big Chris and Small Chris. How do we differentiate dad and son? We don't. We kind of just know when we communicate. But, I wonder a bit about this sometimes as it will become apparent later...

***

I'm still active in ballet, something carried forward from my young days, more as a sort of home recreation and exercise routine to continue to remain toned and supple. My dear late mum was a professional ballerina in an august ballet company. There is a sort of ebbing lineage to this.

I practise my ballet routines in my living room, the only sizable space in the cottage. No glorious gravity-defying prancing and leaping moves. Just simple slow, placid movements, culminating in leg, hand, torso stretching and pointing postures. Not a race, just grace is all I can muster. Flex my old sinews a little.

I observe a sort of pattern in Christian when I am practising my ballet. Inevitably, he will be in the living room doing this and that. Reading, working on his laptop, gaming and such. The kind of things young people do which seem frivolous and critical simultaneously. I didn't think anything of this. He usually does these things in his room. Maybe he just wants a bit of diversification in his environment every now and again. And our living room overlooks the patio, and then beyond, the sea. Easy on the eyes. Gentle on the mind. Breaking surf waving in the distance. It is all quite pleasant on the soul.

***

Christopher spends 3 days a week working in his home office upstairs, and 2 days at his office 8 miles away, down the giddy winding coast road.

Christopher is in Tech. He designs the AI software for a popular drone brand. Our countryside home affords him space and range to test-fly his prototypes.

Ah, tech! You may judge that Christopher is yet another one of those techie automatons locked in algorithm. But, if I may say so even though I'm his wife, he is, uncharacteristically, quite a humanist, attuned to the profundity of the human condition. I guess he must be so to program drones. He once told me, as his test drone was ranging the sky in quest of something, that it is not the person flying the drone, but that the drone is the flying person. Something hopelessly profound like that. Flight of imagination. Rocket science humanised.

I try to execute my ballet routines, as best as I can, when Christopher is at his office, to not get into each other's hair in our small cottage.

***

Chapter 2

Banter

One day, when Christopher was coming down the stairs from his home office to get a drink, he inadvertently observed my son and me without our awareness. It was my so-called "ballet day", and he had swapped his office day to work-from-home because of some work logistical change.

***

Later, that night in our usual bedtime banter...

"You know, when you were preoccupied with your ballet exercise this morning, I was coming down the stairs. I noticed that our son was checking you out."

"How do you know that?"

"You appeared to be in a world of your own, listening to the ballet symphony through your wireless ear buds, preoccupied with your dance moves."

"Yes, I'm like that. I was swimming in Swan Lake. Something I learned from my mum. Total immersion. The music dances me."

"Chris kind of realised that you were in the zone. Zoned out to care that he was there. He appeared emboldened to check you out in earnest."

"In earnest?"

"He was transfixed on your figure. His eyes were tracing your body like they were drawing pictures in the air."

"Oh? That explains it..."

"Explains what?"

"That he would always busy himself doing this or that in the living room whenever I did my ballet. Reading, laptop, gaming and so on. He always seemed so focused on whatever he was doing. I had no idea..."

"The lad seems enamoured of you."

"Is this weird? It's not like I'm a sweet young nubile ballerina, and my ballet is not particularly exquisite. Just a venerable old matriarch dame limbering up."

"It's your dressing..."

"My dressing? It's just an old dance rag that has seen better days."

"Your leotard is sleeveless high-cut, high-waisted. The slim transparent spaghetti straps give the strapless impression that your leotard top is melded on your body. The nude colour, an uncanny exact match to your skin complexion, makes you look like you're naked."

"Oh? I had no idea I look like that. I never gave it any thought about how I looked in it. I bought this leotard years ago when I thought I'll be doing my exercise alone at home. So, I picked something comfy, brief and sheer, so that I don't perspire so much, especially in summer."

"Well, I don't blame the lad for checking you out. He must have been trying awfully hard to check you out while pretending to be engrossed on his laptop or whatever."

"Hmmm... I feel a little weirded out about this. A son checking out his mum. My son checking me out."

"Freudian..."

"Did you ever check out your mum? She was quite a lush eyeful."

He looks away, he doesn't answer. His mum, that is, my mum-in-law was my ballet mistress in another lifetime when I was a teen. I got to know Christopher through her. Christopher would hang around the ballet studio waiting for his mum to finish her last class of the day, afterwhich they would go home together.

I run my hand over his boxer briefs.

"Is all this talk doing this to you?"

He sighs, "Go put on your ballet leotard..."

"What? Now? We're about to go to bed."

He gives me a longing look. A certain little boy hunger in his eyes. I remember that innocent, yet possibly menacing, look from somewhere sometime. Oh yes, my young days at the ballet school studio. The boy waiting for his mum, looking at his mum, to be done with her last class.

I go to the wardrobe, then to the washroom. When I return, he is naked, sitting on the end of the bed, like he has just woken up, taking pause for the remaining stupor of sleep to wear off, before he gets on with the day.

Patting his bare thigh, he beckons, "Sit here."

I get it. I can't help but feel a little annoyed. Why make me put on my leotard when we are going to fuck?

"No. Leave it on."

"Huh?"

I straddle his thighs. He locks me in a savage embrace. I can hardly breathe. Then, a longing look, culminating in a passionate wet kiss.

I move on him. His cockhead grazes then rubs the slim gusset of my leotard. The gusset hardly covers my pussy. This heightens his flourish. He apparently relishes the sensation of sheer fabric, tender smooth mound skin and the stray wisps of thicket. Each render a different traction on his tender pink head.

He is beside himself now. Me too. I raise myself, hovering above his thighs, resting my breasts over his male shoulders. He pulls my gusset to one side. Runs his finger down my slit.

I lower my opening to his head. I take pause, just letting his tender head flesh graze my petals. Hot flesh searing hot flesh.

Then, I let it slide in. He watches this process with a look of wonder on his face like this is all new. Maybe it is the kinky first time novelty of fucking me in my leotard with my gusset pushed aside. Fucking a ballerina.

I lower myself onto his full length. I stay still as I let myself get used to his unseasonally larger size, and for him to simply enjoy being inside me.

Then I begin to move, sliding his cock to my opening, then thrusting down again to his full length. He grabs my hips, seeking to thrust deeper into me. I feel his hard hot shaft fitting tight to the walls of my vagina. I cannot hold back a sobbing cry of inner joy.

I have been penetrated many times before by my husband, but somehow this is different. Something else is going on.

His length is completely inserted into me. I let him rest there for a moment, clamping my vaginal walls round him. He moans, "You're lovely in your leotard."

A strange complimentary observation on apparel at a time like this.

I clench his cock again, "Do you like that, Chris?"

I almost never call my husband Chris when I'm alone with him, least of all, in the giddy tumult of lovemaking. This stuns him a little.

Slurring, "Oh God, mmmm... yes, do it again."

Am I hearing what I think I am hearing? I flex again and hold him in my grip for a few moments, then releasing him.

Clench, release. Clench, release. Clench, release.

We are fucking up a storm. We are buoyed senseless.

I begin to move, then bounce on him, "Put it all in me, Chris, just let it all go."

"Oh yes, mmm..."

"Oh yes, Chris. You're so hard. You're so good. Did I do that to my boy?"

I raise myself till his head touches my petals. I drop on him, dramatically, bearing my full weight on his groin. He wasn't expecting this.

We cum. The roof flies off. The walls collapse. And when I look out, I see the nearby stand of oak trees has uprooted and is making its way up the garden to the cottage. It is that powerful.

***

We cuddle in the afterglow.

I don't quite know what to say. I think Christopher feels the same. Or maybe, he is just spent tired. We have let all our secrets out in one massive revelation. We have inducted each other into our secret societies. And like good secret society members, we know the secrets and don't talk about them.

If there is anyone looking at us now, it would be a curious sight. A mature couple bathed in perspiration after some hard fucking. The man naked, the woman in a leotard, but looks glisteningly nude.

A little squeamishly, "We should do this again..."

"As in in this sheer rag?"

"The works."

"That powerful, huh?"

He doesn't answer. It is said that the biggest human sex organ is the brain. The mind fucks long before the fucking begins, and long after the fucking is done. It's all in the software.

"Can you do some modifications to your leotard?"

"What?"

"Remove the breast padding. Remove the gusset lining."

"Why?"

"To feel you better. And you'll be cooler when you do your ballet exercises in the living room, with summer around the corner. We don't have air-conditioning in the living room, and the window air circulation there is normally not particularly good."

"The leotard will outline my free form with clarity. Pokies. Cameltoe. You know me. I'm natural down there. My bush will show through. You don't mind?"

Christopher doesn't answer. I see a rise. He sees that I see the rise. His answer is in the affirmative.

My gusset had slipped back into its functional place. I roll it into a pencil-like strip, and slip it into my slit. The feel of the rolled-up gusset grazing my petals gives me a charge. I rip the breast pads off.

I dance for my husband. But, not for long. We are rabid bunnies all over again.

***

Chapter 3

Preen

Christopher is away on a 3-day business trip. I am in my bedroom. I examine myself in the full-length mirror. I am not unhappy. I execute a few dance poses. I moisten myself a little. I wipe myself. I don't want to mess up my garment. At least, not just yet.

I slip on my leotard. I haven't had the opportunity to wear it since I made the two modifications requested by my husband. I writhe into it. So hugging, almost suffocating my torso. So sheer. I'm quite afraid I may tear it.

I inspect the effects of my modifications...

The form of my top shows clearly. A naughty hint of pokies. Only just so. I wonder how it will show if I get a little aroused. I tweak my right nipple between my thumb and forefinger. Give it a little workout. I inspect the effect. I can feel the straining hardness of my nipples even though I am not touching them. Hmmm... I think I can live with that.

I see the gentle rise of my mons pubis pushing out what remains of the gusset fabric after the lining has been removed. The slender line of indentation, my slit, concealed only by a single layer of sheer satin. I'm getting a little aroused by my self-examination. I imagine what another person will see of me, and the effect of that vision. Well, only one other person will see me. I shudder.

My nether lips are now a bit swollen. They puff out, pressing the fabric just that little more, further delineating my pussy. I shudder in fascinated repulsion at the thought of what I will look like there if fully aroused. Will it look lewd? It's a fine line between sensual and lusty.

A faint dark showing through the material. My pubic hair. But, not a lot. No renegade strands peeking from the sides. I would have thought there would be some. I look at the rest of my lower body. I am pleased that my thighs are still slender, smoother than I would expect for a woman my age.

Feeling a little wicked, just for a lark, I roll up the gusset into a pencil strand and slip it into my slit. I've duly transformed my leotard bottom into an outrageous g-string. Oh my god! Oh my god! A little wetness creeping through the fabric. I had better stop before I lose myself completely.

I go downstairs.

***

Chapter 4

Exercise

I sit on the sofa in the living room. Christian drifts in from the patio with his laptop. He sits on the armchair opposite me. He has seen me in my leotard before, but appears more invested than usual in looking at me. Like he discerns that there is something different this time, but not quite sure what.

"Hi mum!"

"Hi. Don't mind me. Just carry on with your laptop work, whatever you're doing."

"Cool"

He rests the laptop on his lap. He appears to be focused on the screen, though he could well be checking me out from that viewing angle. As I uncross my legs, he adjusts the screen angle, lowering it slightly, as if inclining it to a comfortable viewing position.

"I'm going to put on my wireless ear buds and play the ballet symphony music to prime myself into the dance mood. And also do my pre-dance prep ritual. So, we'll chat later. Feel free to go away if my prancing around is distracting you from your work."

"Cool. Don't worry, I'll be fine."

I spread the lotion in lingering slow strokes along my legs. My fingers and palms work their way up from my feet to ankle. To my calves and knees. Then, all the way to my thighs. I smoothen the lotion up to the lower edges of my leotard. My legs are open to my son. I am absorbed in the lotioning.

I hike up my leotard to better access my upper thigh and pelvis area. In doing so, my gusset narrows and slips between my slit, devoured by my outer labia. For a minute, it looks like I am in an impossibly minimalist g-string. My lips are showing. Can't really tell if any pink is showing. I lotion my mound, brushing aside my soft pubic curls to reach some parts.

I steal a surreptitious glance at my son. He has a glazed look. The gleam in his eyes is way too bright. I pull back the gusset to its rightful place. I cross my legs again.

***

I begin my ballet exercise. I'm a little conscious of my movements. I steal a glance at Christian. He appears to be gazing at his screen intently. But, he may well be watching me as well. I decide not to be distracted and carry on my usual way.

Christian appears to have completed whatever he was doing. His laptop is closed, on the coffee table. He slumps languidly on the armchair watching my ballet exercise. When I happen to look in his direction, he flashes a sweet smile, and makes a gesture of light clapping. Sweet child o' mine.

I execute a classic arabesque, the most iconic of ballet positions. I stand on my right leg, tippy-toed en pointe. My left leg extended out straight behind my body. Both arms extended out straight.

In this position, I am facing Christian. I search his face. He appears to be contemplating my top. And he knows I know because he smirks.

I straighten my body upright, lower my raised left leg to touch the knee of my supporting right leg. I execute a pirouette. Christian claps lightly again, shouts a bravo.

I normally end my exercise routine here. But, I'm feeling good, and a little cheeky.

I make a show of adjusting my leotard. I hike it up. The gusset narrows to a sharp V. I stand with my back to Christian. Legs apart. Body bent impossibly low. Right hand grasping left ankle, locking down my pose. I look back and up at Christian. I detect a glazed look on his face. Then, he manages a smile. Did he see anything of consequence?

I flop on the sofa opposite Christian in exhaustion.

"Mum, you're doing good."

"It gets harder each time. I don't think I can keep this going for much longer."

"Mum, you're in good shape too."

"This old machinery?"

"Mum, you look great."

"Really?"

"I'm going to say it. You look alluring."

"Alluring?"

"Sexy. Wicked sexy. You're hot."

"I'm 50. Soon, all this will be history. I sometimes wish I can freeze it all."

"You can. You should too."

"How?"

"I can video you for posterity."

"Let me think about it. Not today though. I'm exhausted."

***

Chapter 5

Chill

It is evening. I am with Christian at the cliff edge of our garden, overlooking the sea.

Living the present moment. I know only one thing, and that's the present, present, present. I watch out for the big, huge, giant wave. Colossal, bright and beautiful. Full of life and death. Climbing into the sky. Standing in the sea. There it is!

There is a sense of fun, of warmth and love, of a pleasurable tingle of sexual anticipation in young people at that wonderful time of life when every night out is a potentially life-changing experience. I am not a young person. But, I am feeling that. I hope Christian is feeling that together with me right now.

"Do you've a girlfriend you particularly like?"

"No"

"Tell me something about your first love."

"Hmm... not sure I want to go back there..."

"Please..."

"There was this boy. There was a time in my life when I thought I was close to him. Growing up with a boy by my side as a partner-in-crime. What a time! And we both didn't know that one day we'd be saying goodbye. Nothing ever lasts forever. But, my oh my, I remember the times that we played in the neighbourhood close to him. And that promise he gave me that warm summer night in July."

"Time went by. And they were saying that he had been growing up much more than I. Nothing ever lasts forever. My oh my, tell me why did this make me feel so sad and lonely? When I never thought he could be the one and only. Goodbye past. Is it true that the good things don't last?"