Mom Helps Son Fit Thong Swimsuit
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There is mom-son playful nudity tension but no sex in this story. Move on if you are looking for bruising, wailing, oozing sex.
I should start by giving you a baseline on who I am, and my general views on nudity. I will then describe a particular one-time family nudity experience of mine to illustrate how these things animate out in real life, when our highfalutin values are put to the test of the pudding.
I’m a UK mum of an 18 year old healthy strapping lad. My only child. I’m in my late forties. Socially liberal.
First off, my views on nudity. I should establish that we are not nudists in the formal or recreational nudism movement sense. We have great regard for the movement. It’s just that it’s not something that we have investigated in detail.
I have my personal theory of sorts on mum-son nudity. This ‘theory’ can be expanded to other inter-family member nudity situations such as child-parent, sibling-sibling, or at another level, nephew-aunt, niece-uncle. But, I will stay within the mum-son parameters here.
I’m a mum and a woman. In my interactions with my son, most times, I am a mum. But, I can never know when the ‘woman’ in me shows up.
I guess it’s safe to reason that the same applies to my son, in his interactions with me, though I can’t ever know for sure what plays inside his head at any instant. He is a son and a man (or ‘male’ if my son is a teen). In his interactions with me, most times, he is a son. But, he can never know when the ‘man’ in him shows up.
So, we’ve these possible interactions. Mum-son, mum-man, woman-son, woman-man.
Nothing much frissonic happens in mum-son. Boring! Maybe a mum may get a sensual tingle, charge or surge in a woman-man, and possibly woman-son mode, when triggered by incidental circumstances.
And if we assume hypothetically that my son may react to me too, he may get his onset of flourish in man-woman, and possibly mum-man modes, from his perspective.
Actually, these modes apply even when no nudity is involved. Think a mum eyeballing her hunky rippling son in the gym. A mum ascertaining her speedo-clad son lounging poolside. A son admiring his mum in her killer black dress as she leaves for an office function. A son appreciating his bikini-clad mum at the beach. So, when we stir in nudity into the stew, be it son nudity, mum nudity, or equitably both, it can only heighten the simmer.
We are human. We slide seamlessly from one mode to another unconsciously, and are only conscious when we experience bodily flourishes, our signalling system. I would go so far to say that this fluid shifting of states, and the never knowing for sure, is the charm of it all. It makes us alive. It makes the mum alive to the son. And the son, the mum.
It’s par for the maternal course for mums to experience a simmer of sexual feelings for their strapping sons. Only a canlı bahis cold fish mum, bereft of sensual wiring, would be unmoved. As long as it’s simmering under the lid, just go with mother nature’s ebb and flow.
Now that I have made my views known, I would like to share my personal experience.
I was a champion swimmer in my schooldays. Now, my son John is faithfully following my footsteps. John and I have a deep bond in swimming, and all things in the swimming universe.
One of my prized possessions is a picture of John and I in racing swimsuits. A heartwarming mum-and-son shot. It encapsulated everything about us. Our life passion. Our bond. Who we are. As a proud mum, I would wait for my friends to inevitably enquire about how John is getting on, and I would whip up my cellphone, and show them the picture.
One time, a cheeky girlfriend of mine, in an afternoon tea banter hen party, observed that John was well-endowed. She instinctively pinched open the screen to spread the image at John’s crotch. The outline of John’s endowment, tucked up north, was very clear. The cellphone was passed round amid a rising chorus of ooohs and aaaahs, and girlish shrieks. We were all close friends. There was no awkwardness.
When the cellphone rounded back to me, one of the girls teased coyly, “So, what do you think of your son’s stash, he he?”
I played along coyly. I studied the picture with scholarly intent, arched my eyebrows sagely, and quipped: “Hmmm… not quite the full bloom I know.”
A cacophony of riotous giggles and squeals. We were out of control.
That night, when I had a quiet moment at bedtime, after clearing my emails and messages of the day, I instinctively pulled up my favourite picture to revisit. My fingers auto-piloted to pinch expand my son’s crotch. Yes, my boy has grown up, and out, in all the places that matter. I felt a sensation which I couldn’t place. Was it motherly pride, or tingle.
My husband, who was reading by my side, happened to peer over just then. He knew about my favourite picture because we had it enlarged on hardcopy photo.
He winked. “Checking out your son before going to bed, huh?”
I should tell you that I have an open and trusting relationship with my husband. We tease each other mercilessly.
I grinned a wicked grin, and quipped 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 countered, “Such dedication! Well, sleep tight!” He always has the last word.
We were planning a family holiday to the Mediterranean. While we were talking about the trip, John asked if he’d need to wear one of those “euro-bikinis” there.
I told him that I’m sure it would be fine for him to wear his regular trunks. I didn’t think about it again until a couple of weeks later. bahis siteleri We were in a sporting goods store. I went off to do my shopping while he wandered around. When I was done, I found him cautiously looking at a rack of skimpy swim briefs. I asked if he needed a new swimsuit, but he said no and was embarrassed. A couple of nights later, I was browsing the internet. I typed an “s” and the address bar suggested a swimsuit outlet. I checked the history, and it seemed like John had been looking at swim briefs on the site. I then knew that he wanted to try wearing a euro-bikini. I was happy to get him one, but not sure how to bring up the subject.
After breakfast one morning, I needed to run a few errands. I asked John if he’d like to tag along. He had nothing else planned, so decided to come. My workout bathing suit was getting a bit worn, so I stopped by the swim shop to get a replacement. John wandered around while I tried on a few swimsuits. After deciding on one, I found John in the men’s section hovering near the male euro-bikinis rack. I suggested he try one on. I expected him to decline. But, instead he said, OK. He took a plain blue brief off the rack. I waited outside the dressing room while he tried on the brief. I had no intention of checking on him as I respected his privacy. A few minutes had gone by. I knocked on the door and asked how it was going. He seemed unsure. He requested if I could come in, and take a look. He opened the door. I went in. It was the first time I’ve seen a euro-bikini on flesh. My years of staring down speedos in all their worldly variations hadn’t prepared me for this spectacle. It was effectively a penis sheath masquerading devilishly as a swimming costume. It was a sight for a mum to behold.
The euro-bikini looked good, but it was a tad too loose. John was conflicted. On the one hand, the euro-bikini was so vulnerably miniscule that John just couldn’t imagine a smaller size. A smaller size would accentuate his shaft even more acutely. And yet, the fit didn’t feel right. His sense of size was messed up, and I don’t blame him. It was obvious to me that the size wasn’t optimal. I guess I could assess more objectively because I didn’t have to agonize over the vulnerability of the costume like John did. I told John that I’d find a smaller size. I went outside. The store carried the smaller size, but not in blue. I went back to outside the dressing room to update John, with the alternative colours in hand. No blue. But, yellow and green. John said, he was cool, and will try on both. John opened the door a crack. I passed the garments over. Then, he surprised me. He said, mum, why don’t you just come in, because I really want your opinion. It’s not practical to flit the door back and forth. I was momentarily conflicted.
On the one hand, this is my 18 year old son. On the other hand, people in the shop would see me go in. bahis şirketleri I looked around. Mercifully, no one was around. I entered. John apologized for putting me through this. I said, no worries. This is what mums are for. The room was small. John attempted to turn away from me, to lend a modicum of modesty to this whole charade, to change from the blue to yellow brief. There was insufficient swing space. I told John not to bother, as I was cool. It didn’t occur to me then that whilst I may be cool, John may not be, but not for the reason that you may be thinking. John slipped off the blue brief. That was the first time I saw my son’s privates, up close and personal, since he was ten. Its size was what every mother would wish on their son. John hurriedly put on the yellow brief. It fitted well. We assessed the colour. It looked fine, but we agreed it should be compared against the green, to be sure. It was surreal seeing my son in effectively a cock sock. In fact, more strange than if he had been just plain naked. I felt a motherly tingle, then a womanly tremor.
John appeared conflicted and immobilized. I gazed south. He had an erection. A massive one at that. The frisson of the moment got to him, as it did me. I reached out to John reassuringly. I told him it’s natural, and that if he didn’t feel what he felt, he wasn’t alive. I told John that I was flushed too, if that was of any help to him. A surprised look crept on his youthful face. A moment of bonding, although I don’t know of what.
John pulled down the yellow brief. His penis quivered from its release. He slipped on the green brief. He struggled animatedly to get his still flourishing penis into the sheath. I told John in a light breezy tone that this would ensure that his euro-bikini is guaranteed to fit under all circumstances, going forward. I gave John a coy wink. He grinned back. Our eyes locked. It was yet another unstated bonding moment.
He preferred the yellow. I felt the same. John stripped off the yellow brief. And that was the last time I saw him naked. He put on his pants.
I opened the door slightly, and peeped gingerly through the crack. The coast was clear. I went out, and melted into the shop. I paid for our purchases.
There is a sort of wicked epilogue to this.
Fast forward. John, my husband and I were at the Mediterranean beach, chilling on our loungers.
Bare chested John got up, lowered his bermuda. He was in his euro-bikini in full glory, raring to go. He traipsed off to ascertain the flora and fauna biodiversity of talent on the beach.
I disrobed into my economical barely-legal Wicked Weasel bikini, in cowed deference to the local cultural sensibilities.
My husband looked at me incredulously.
Husband (enquiring pointedly): Did I see what I just saw on our son? Where did that come from?
Husband (jocularly in reference to John’s and my state of dress, or rather undress):
Hmmm… when he checks out his mum, his suit is gonna pop!
Me (winking): It won’t happen. I helped our son with the fitting.
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