Nude With Son And Bro Is This Incest

My husband and I are in our fifties. We have a son in his twenties. I have a younger brother in his fifties.

For obvious reasons, I am going anonymous. I am disclosing more than I should really about what transpired between me and my husband, me and my son, and me and my bro. It involves other people besides myself.

My hubby and my bro are blood mates. It is my bro who introduced me to my hubby. My bro is in his fifties. My son and my hubby are more mates than father and son. One of the more durable bonds among my hubby, son and bro is tinkering with photography.

We live near a glorious coastline of coves and dunes. We have this secluded dune and cove which we literally stumbled down to one day, arse over head, which we can call our very own. It is in this seclusion that my hubby and I enjoy our skinny dipping. We relish the primal feeling of sun, sea and wind caressing skin. But, we are not nudists in the organised movement, club or liberated lifestyle sense.

My hubby has to be away for an extended period because of work overseas. This is in one of the best summers in a long time. My hubby wants me to enjoy the glorious weather, but has some reservations about my being nude alone in a secluded place. I tell my hubby that any aspiring weirdo will melt away quicktime on first distant sighting of my venerable body. He is unconvinced.

He suggests that if I am comfortable with it, rope in our son, and/or my bro, to my sunny enterprise. He is cool with the nudity. It will be family. Awkward at first maybe, but safe. No different from nudist families even though we are not one. A small price. With my option of roping in one or the other, it will afford me more sun time opportunities and scheduling flexibility, as my son and bro have their own busy schedules too. I tell my hubby that I will have to think about it as this is new ground, and will let him know before he leaves for his overseas assignment.

I then totally forget about the matter until the day of my hubby’s departure. I tell him I will go with his suggestion, subject to my son’s and bro’s agreement, of course. My hubby is somewhat of a worry wart. I don’t want him to worry about my safety the whole time he is away.

Although my hubby didn’t intimate so, I sense that there is more simmering in his mind. Our son and my bro are photography buffs. My hubby asks for beach photos to be emailed to him. The photos will be conversation points for our ensuing banter.

My first dune time with my son is somewhat awkward, as to be expected. My son is not inexperienced with the female species. We just have to get adjusted to each other’s nudity. And his flourishes.

My first dune time with my bro is somewhat awkward too, again, as to be expected. My bro has been widowed for a couple of years. Not in any relationship. Fallow. A prolonged downtime. So you can see how I may affect him, notwithstanding that I am his big sis. He has his pent up release of flourishes too. Poor sod!

Over time we simmer to an easy soft-tensioned equilibrium. Photography, as a charged art form, is a convenient vehicle to ease us through. It pleases me that I still hold sensual sway over my young son and bro, as demonstrated by hard evidence. It delights me even more that this comes from two different age groups. Both bases. Youth and mature. I have it covered. Perversely, by dint of being uncovered.

I email the photos separately taken by my son and my bro to my hubby. We discuss the artistic merits of the photos over our webcam chats. My hubby sometimes succeeds in cajoling me to recreate the more sensual poses over the webcam to let him better appreciate the artistic nuances of the photo renditions. My hubby is eager to know how my son or bro reacted to this pose or that, and what they said. So I pose, spiced with running commentary.

My hubby is an insatiable visual animal. And it is apparent that this genetic detail is brought to bear on our son. My son never tires of ogling me. This is what bodyguards do. Watch over their charges. And this he does. Unwaveringly.

Did I do the deed with my son? We have ample time to get comfortable with each other over our nudity, and to bond. I have to summon all my will to resist our crossing the line. I have to meet my son, a strapping young man, part way. He so kindly provides bodyguard services on the dunes.

It didn’t happen by design. We have gotten comfortable with our nudity and casual grazing, nuzzling body contact. We are goofing around for a lark. My son wrestling me, pressing into me. He hardens. One flurry move leads to another. Playful animation. Then, he stabs, then pistons my junction nest of upper thighs, and the vee tip of my mound. I let him dry hump me. A sort of compromise. This is the least I can do for the lad. And if truth be told, for myself. It is not enough. But, it will have to do. This is how it started.

I begin by clenching my thighs tight. This goads him to intensify his efforts to breach my defences. He is competitive. And aroused. He pounds me mercilessly. His pummeling loosens up my junction to the extent that he makes headway. But, he does not get into me. He goes on until release. Is this incest?

To offer a dimension of variety, I also let him piston me, from my rear. My enticing junction of arse orbs recess, upper thighs, and the vee tip of my mound. He sometimes hurts my pliant breasts with his intense kneading. I wince. Sweet agony.

And my bro? If my son is a strapping surging young man, my widowed bro is a pent up resurgent charged mature, reconnecting after two years off the grid. I believe in equal opportunity. I let my bro dry hump me. He doesn’t get to go in even though I can see that he is aching to do so. On a few occasions, his head peers fleetingly into my moist warmth, and then his helmut head nicks my lips as it beats a hasty retreat. My bro doesn’t know this. Just as well. If he keeps this up, I will turn to pulp. And he can take me however.

Does this amount to copulation? Did we cross a line? Is this incest?

The old awkwardness creeps back on the one occasion when my son, bro and me are together one glorious heavenly Saturday morning.

Uncle looks surreptitiously at nephew as nephew lasers in on his mum. Nephew steals darting glances at his uncle as uncle homes in on his sis.

I size up both my boys. My bellwethers.

The boys are initially sheepish about their exuberance. I am elated that they are at a higher flourish point than usual. I am pleased. I feel

validated.

Again, photography is the icebreaker. With the three of us, we have more photo composition possibilities. We goof around. My son and me posing, my bro taking photos. My bro and me posing, my son taking photos. Playful tug shots. Cupping breasts. Simulations. What a lark!

We get inventive. More simulations. Doggy. Cowgirl. Reverse cowgirl. These photos send my hubby to a whole new level, over the edge.

All too soon, my hubby returns from his overseas assignment. I never went sunbathing again with my son and brother. I still get a tingle emanating from my junction when I meet my son and my brother. And I instinctively clench my thighs. Perhaps they see me do this?