There is no sex in this story. Only titillating frisson.
***
I have never given any thought on the subject of incest, let alone mother-son incest. But, an unexpected incidental experience I encountered piqued my interest in this taboo subject. That said, till today, I'm still unsure if what I encountered qualified as incest. Or was it just chill nudity laced with frisson?
I'm John. Mid-thirties. Single.
When my parents passed away, my younger sis, Jane, early thirties, single, and I inherited a penthouse condominium apartment.
The condominium tower was perched on a wild desolate hillside. There were no other developments within a 2 kilometer radius. Far from the madding crowd. The penthouse was on the 40th floor. It had 3 bedrooms, a kitchenette cum dining area, and a lounge, that spilled seamlessly to an open patio.
The bedrooms, lounge and patio commanded a spectacular seaview. A coral island bobbed in pristine waters 100 meters offshore.
A little known winding cliff path connected the condominium garden to a secluded beach below. The beach was accessible by this path only.
The penthouse was a private heaven unto itself. No part of it, including the open patio, was within sight of anyone anywhere. A bolthole in the sky! The closest I'll get to heaven without the inconvenience of dying.
Besides the penthouse, my parents left Jane and I a more-than-modest sum of money. A surprise gift of largesse from our austere parents who worked and lived the Protestant Work Ethic. Counterintuitively, the unstated gift from my parents was that they never let on that there would be any inheritance, so that Jane and I were not distracted by moral hazards, in our academic and career pursuits. Between us, Jane was the more conservative one, somewhat influenced by our parents' religious values. But, she was no prude.
The inheritance enabled us to resign from our regular jobs, live in and enjoy the penthouse, and pursue home businesses which aligned to our passions. I wrote freelance, dabbled in photography, and put together multimedia contents that included images, videos, sound and text. Jane, the pragmatic one, was an avid and shrewd online trader investor.
Jane and I each occupied a bedroom. We ran a homestay on the third bedroom, listed on one of the popular online homestay apps. The homestay room had an in-built washroom and a small balcony. This was productive deployment of an otherwise idle asset. It helped defray our living expenses. And we could orbit the world without venturing past our doorstep, hosting and engaging interesting people from all over the world, on our terms. And homestay guests got to share our skyhaven, and enjoy local immersion. Win-win.
We received a homestay request from the south of England. The requestor was Sophie. Two pax. Two-week stay. She remarked that she was looking for some place quiet, private, nestled in nature, to chill. The profile pictures of our penthouse, and the vista sweep of hill-thru-sea view impressed her. I studied Sophie's profile picture in the app. She had a pleasant look, maybe in her late forties. We have never hosted English guests before. Great! We replied that we'd be pleased to host her and her partner. We would pick her and her partner up from the nearest village, 3 kilometers from our condo.
It was the day of Sophie's check-in. She texted me from the village. I drove to the village to meet her.
From a distance, I spied a middle-aged woman, with a young man of about 20 at the village cafe. I instinctively scanned round to see if there was a middle-aged couple nearby. There was none. I then studied the woman's face again. Yes, it looked like Sophie's profile picture. I strolled up to them.
We introduced ourselves. Exchanged pleasantries. I told them that their co-host, my sister Jane, was back at the penthouse. Sophie introduced the young man as Sebastian, or Seb, her son. She could sense that I was surprised by Seb's presence, and felt obliged to explain that Seb had, at late notice, taken over her husband's place because of unforeseen work contingency. Her husband had just won a big business deal. Shit happens! But, this was a happy problem. Sophie and Seb would celebrate the business success on behalf of dad.
Sophie in the flesh, looked late forties, to early fifties. She carried that classic English rose look. A curiously healthy anemic complexion, with a light dusting of freckles. And then nuances of cheeky warm cuddly lusciousness. Comely was the word that would do her social justice. Five feet, four inches. She was lush topside. Delicate rise of tummy. Her posterior was pleasantly contoured, a soft arc of provocative protrusion, without being riotous. Somehow, these contours of perfections, and lesser perfections, conspired to conjure a womanly whole that was appealing. An allure that was easy to identify, but hard to define.
Seb looked the part of the strapping son, in complement to his mom's earthy matrony charms. Played the part too. He topped 6 feet. Lean. Mean. Fresh faced. Seb was exactly what a young Englishman named Sebastian should classically look like. A 'lovely' young man in the Brit vernacular. I knew my sis would be mutedly pleased to have this living sculpture grace our penthouse for the next two weeks.
We gathered the luggage. It was a single backpack. I asked if there was more that would be forwarded to the condominium later. No. This was it. Hmmm... this was economical. Oh well, I guess bikinis and lite casual apparel don't consume much space. I drove back to the condominium. Sophie and Seb enjoyed the coastal drive along the winding road that hugged the hillside as it wound up. They were warming up. As we approached the condominium tower, mother and son were awed by the 40-storey massive erection, on the hillslope, that would be their home for the fortnight.
When Jane opened the penthouse door, I sensed her look of surprise at the unlikely May-December ensemble of Sophie and Seb. And then a muted quizzical askewed glance at me that enquired, what-the-fuck? After a brief but illuminating introduction, Jane led our guests to their room. Our normal orientation process was that we'll invite the guests to the patio for an ice-breaking welcome drink and chat to establish the social baseline, show them around the penthouse, and then the near environs. Their room was furnished with a queen-sized bed. I would have to ask Sophie later if she would like any reconfiguration of the bedding arrangement. But, it would be a challenge to replace the queen-sized bed with two singles given the limited swing space.
Half an hour on, we were chilling at the patio. Sophie and Seb had changed into casuals. A pleasantly seismic transformation. Sophie was in a pair of high-cut bikini shorts which accentuated and flattered her legs, and a breezy white top. My sis caught me checking Sophie out, and gave a knowing teasing grin. And then her eyes roved on to ascertain Seb.
Sophie was a homemaker, but worked part time twice a week in a private school teaching Literature and Art. This explained her pétillant demeanor.
Seb had just completed his final uni exams. This was his holiday before he took on the oyster that was his world. Seb was the only child. His uni was located a good 100 kilometers from home. This holiday was a good opportunity to chill and connect with mom, before he cast off to wherever his future job may land him. Dad ran an engineering business. He just bidded and won a sizable deal, so he had to attend to it.
Sophie waxed lyrical poetic on the penthouse's spectacular dizzy view of sea and hill, the 360 degree privacy, and the cosy homey ambience of the apartment. In her words, a cottage-in-the-sky. Jane told them about the cliff path that wound down to the secluded beach, and then, the coral island offshore. Sophie appeared to place great stock on privacy. She asked if the path was the only access to the beach. She seemed pleased when Jane confirmed so. And when I told her that the coral island had a secluded beach cove on the sea-facing side, which offered another level of privacy, she beamed.
Which prompted me to ask whether the bedding arrangement was OK, or would they prefer two single-beds in view of the change in their holiday plan. Mother looked at son in a kind of muted suppressed amusement. Sophie observed that two single-beds would be overly crammed for the room size. She said, through stiff upper lip, that Seb and her will survive the ordeal.
She giggled, "I will have to make Seb behave, he he!" And then turning to Seb, she demurred meekly: "You will, won't you?"
Seb turned to her and growled in mock tigerish: "Grrrr...!"
Sophie whimpered: "Oh, dear!"
My sis shot me an exaggerated astounded look. Hmmm... this must be the high water mark of British reserve! And we haven't even dipped our toes in yet! Seb was nonplussed by this playful tittilating jesting. It appeared like this was the easy outrageous banter that he engaged routinely with his mom. In any case, he felt at ease letting his effervescent mom do most of the socializing, although he was by no means shy.
I spied Seb's eyes darting between his mom's and my sis's legs, as if agonizing pleasantly over a perplexing pickle. His eyes lingered generously on his mom's legs without awkwardness, but engaged Jane's with courteous rationed interest. Par for his hormonal course. I drifted. I became engrossed in Seb's happy dilemma. My spell snapped when my sis recrossed her legs. I looked up and saw her arching what-the-fuck questioning look, which soon melted into a gratifying twinkling smile.
Later on, when Jane had a quiet moment with me, she asked "What was all that about?"
I replied: "Much more than meets the apparent eye".
She smiled: "You mean, your eyes?"
I conceded: "You got me there!" Jane smiled wickedly again.
I left it at that.
The next morning, as Jane and I were at the patio sipping our espressos, we saw Sophie and Seb emerge from their bedroom. They didn't see us. We decided to leave them be. They were apparently making their way, with some haste, down to the beach to catch the first morning rays, and to revel in the privacy that Sophie so valued. Sophie was in a barely-legal skimpy bikini that left little to the imagination. Seb was in a matching Brazilian-style pouch swimming costume. Effectively a cock sock. As the minimalist mother and son made their way to the door, Seb placed his hand on his mom's ample hip, and then drifted to her ass, as he guided her along. A moveable feast.
When they were out of earshot, Jane winked at me.
I quipped in all seriousness: "More and more meets the eye. A bit over the top, huh?"
Jane said cheekily: "Yes, a bit."
I said: "The mother of all bikinis."
We cackled in amused unison.
I observed: "Nice mother-son bonding."
To which Jane added: "Another Oedipus day in paradise."
