Like an exotic flower

Every process settles into a rhythm. Our days too smoothen up into a rhythm polishing up the jarred interfaces of the collage of events that they are fraught with. My life also had settled into a smooth aerodynamic streamline. Nothing was left to chances, days pulled on as a proud repetition of their predecessors. I rode my days with a tipsy craze to bask in the sun of my success. But then after a long and eerie lull sometimes the ingredients of change suddenly fall into place. Apparently trivial events synergize to an earth shattering crescendo.

But then, let me familiarize the readers with my background, as it has contextual significance as no experience is independent or insulated from the past. We are Syrian Christians, the ancient stock of oriental Christians, as old as St. Thomas the Apostle. We are from Kerala state, India. I belonged to a fairly poor family of farmers. After my high school, at an early age of eighteen I was married away though I would have preferred to join a college and continue my studies. The justification for the marriage was that a certain man was intensely in love with me, though I had nearly never talked to him.

He had apparently been watching me with amorous designs. Indeed I was good to look at, even today at the ripe old age of 37, I can turn heads and stiffen pricks. I am 5'7'' with rich black flowing hair. My breast size is36 D, the pectoral slackening has resulted in a cute sag to my girlies. My golden hue is attractive indeed, this I apparently inherited from out Semitic background. My lovely shining eyes are admired by my colleagues in the shop. Also my success in life has furthermore contributed to a brilliant aura to my body. Yet I have no interest whatsoever into libidinous adventurism. It is not my cup of tea. Not that I am a prude or a pseudo moralist. I do not need a man in my life, the complications thereof are too much for my two feminine hands to handle. I have had enough, for that matter.

He met my father and talked his way into an arranged marriage. My father fell into the trap because the young man did not demand any dowry in the first place, and then the boy was from a fairly rich family. Indeed these are two cardinal governing parameters in marriage deals. Love and mutual chemistry are pushed under the rug until after the nuptial chord is eternally tied. Once the initial bon homie phase is over, the fangs are bared and the venom is shared. There after realities are denuded of the aura of romance. And man cannot put asunder what God in heaven has prudently joined. However in my case the picture was still worse. The guy who went all the way to hold my hand proved to be an incorrigible alcoholic. Once his fantasy on me was fulfilled he reverted back to his jaded ways of life. Sex was no more a desirable thing, in fact it never was for me. He had his ways with my body and I just suffered through the vandalism as if it was my duty as a wife. But the dreaded nocturnal lecherous advances had lately become a lecherous nightmare. As if that was not enough, I had to suffer his mother. Through all the pores of her vicious words, puffed out the accusation that I had come without a dowry. In any case, after eighteen months of my married life I walked out on my bastard of a husband for good. I returned to my parents' house with a four months old child and a cold determination to follow my heart. Another marriage was absolutely out of question and in fact I never wanted it. But I had to prove my worth, I had to succeed, I had to carve out a space for my and also for my child.

Years came to pass, my parents faded into eternal silence and slipped behind the mysterious veil of time. But in the meantime, I had been establishing myself. Ours is a small town named Kalady, on the river Poorna. This is an ancient town- the town that gave birth to Adi Sankara, the great Indian Philosopher who redeemed Hinduism from the all prevalent Buddhism twelve centuries back. Though I am a Christian for namesake, I actually follow no religion. Yet Snkara's philosophy of non-duality has caught my imagination long log back. Only our ignorance makes us grope in this delusive world. We experience the multiplicity of things, but the created and the creation are one and the same. So there is no meaning in anything except that we have to be true to ourselves and realize the unity of things. But such things are outside the gambit of my story.

I began my life of freedom at Kalady, by becoming a seamstress of little consequence. Success was my ardent goalpost, I would not settle for anything less. This is a cut throat man's world where the fittest only will survive that too as long as one's fitness fits well into the ever nascent space-time cross section. It was a difficult period, indeed. You are absolutely lonely at two points in life- when you are lost and deflated and also when you reach the apex of success. I have visited both situations in my time- rather my ruthless destiny pushed me to both situations.

Success was my single point programme in life, nothing else mattered, nobody was important. Personal comforts and relaxation were not on the cards. I had to convince the world that this world belongs to me also, its promises, its possibilities and its uncertainties. From an innocuous seamstress at an age of 20 I limped and dragged my way up. It was an arduous process where the universe conspired to nudge me to success. I convinced the grim and grumpy bankers, I impressed the retail Moguls in Cochin and in the textile cities of the north. By and by Alice Fabrics worked out a space in Kalady with a discerning list of committed clientele. It was a passion, I made every move like a grand master in chess. The progress had a heady impetus. Now on looking back I find myself on a plateau, relaxed at last and self confident. Now at last it is time to sit back and enjoy the show.

So much the back ground, now let us flip back to the present with a click on the mental mouse. In the beginning I alluded to the synergizing events. The first one in the sequence happened today just before Christmas, earl y in the morning. It was a moderately cold December morning- the part of the day when we savor the oblivious slumber, freed from all existential worries that frown on us in the wakeful moments. And I had a dream suddenly from the blue. I was frantically making love to an Adonis, naked and deliciously cute. I was balanced on him, his heavenly phallus I was impaled with. I was pumping him and at the same time feeding my luscious breast to his eager mouth. I was bathing his balls and penis with my clear feminine juice. Thus I shatteringly came. My body convulsed and quivered, I shuddered and mewed. Then I realized embarrassingly that the boy I was claiming my pleasure from was my own son Allen. I was jolted back to wakefulness with a gnawing shame. My own son- I mulled with a guilty mind. But my body was relaxing after a rejuvenating orgasm, that too after such a long time. Probably I have never had an orgasm from a man. In fact it was never in my scheme of things.

But early morning dreams are supposed to come true.

For that matter, my life and my son's life have been nearly never over lapping. I had left him to his own devices, he did not need a back seat driver of a mother. He was fairly autonomous. He never troubled me with childish trivialities. We were almost never conscious of each other's existence. Perhaps my work fury made him resign to himself. May be I was incapable of loving. But it seems that my sub- conscious mind still keeps an indelible image of his. The moral side of the dream did not disturb me, I have long ago out grown all that. But the psychological side was alarming and searing enough.

I came out of the bed to begin a new day. Allen had already gone to college in Cochin. I moved to the toilet to brace up for a busy day in the shop. I stood naked in front of the mirror. The nipples were still glowing after the stolen orgasm. My body seemed radiant. It had a personality of its own. Without my permission or assent it grabbed an orgasm. It is a body that demands its own share of cuddling, caring, caressing and loving. Pussy juice had dried up profusely on either thighs and had matted the furry triangle. My nether lips looked furious and oily, they were shining and hot, indeed I was ovulating. I tried to fantasize how my son looked like. He had just turned eighteen and had an athletic body which he took care of by regular exercise and football. Suddenly I fancied his lips on my nipples, they instantly became alert and queried whether it was a false promise. The nipples became stiff and slightly moist, they screamed for his lips. There was some action in my pussy, a delicious vacuum I felt inside. I was changing, I was beginning to live, and I was becoming a woman.

My son had prepared breakfast for me also. I wanted to meet him, talk to him and hold him as a mother should. I had to be at Alice Fabrics by nine. There was time enough. Sipping my coffee I sashayed to my room and en route I had a sudden urge to step into his room, which I had not done for years. I was a bit excited like stepping into an alien territory, like doing something blasphemous. His room was not locked, as he knows that nobody ventures into it in normal course. The room was indeed chaotic, with books, periodicals and worn clothes strewn around. 'All ye enter here give up all hope', there was a bizarre warning on the wall. Near his table there was a notice: 'Do not disturb cobweb, it is part of interior décor, do not touch anything unusual, it may explode, do not disturb the disorder, it is my order; do not disturb rats and cockroaches, they are my bed mates.' Just a regular bachelor's den. Then I opened his aged portmanteau, it was mine long back. I expected something inside. There were few notebooks, some certificates and unused books. I took one of his notebooks. It had a weird language. I am fairly uncanny in breaking codes. And I did indeed beak him. It was simple- n=1. In place of 'a' use 'b' and so on.

His private dairy proved to be a gold trove of obsessive confessions. For the last eight years, that is from he was ten, he had been recording his feelings towards me, it was a daily journal recording my clothing of each day, my hair style, how my boobes enticed him, how my bum distracted him. How much he craved to suck on my girlies, how he savored my feminine musk, his wet dreams of sleeping with me.

The taboo nature of the work notwithstanding, I was terribly amused and excited. I felt stirrings in my body, my body was perspiring and palpitation was fairly audible. It was enticing that my 18 year old son loves me and adores me. But nothing could be done about that. The moral side of it did not much bother me, but the emotional black hole that may evolve scared me, if something more than innocuous fantasy takes place, it might devour us all. Still the realization that a young fellow from the opposite sex virtually worships me seemed promising. Perhaps the basic reason for the same is that I have never been a good mother to him. I have nearly never mother-hened him. I remained remote and unapproachable. I was lost in my passion to succeed in life, to assert that I am. Any way I decided to burrow deep into his journals in due course. Alice fabrics had to be opened by nine.

This development could be cold and disgusting, qualmish and eerie. But I found it tastefully decadent, treacherously tipsy and deviously euphoric.

The author of the very next synergizing event was my friend Maria. I have no real friends, I trust none but keep all in good spirits. Maria is a rich lady whose husband is abroad. She has money and she has fastidious tastes. I oblige her as she is a precious customer. My seamstresses make close fitting blouses for her, which nobody else in town is capable of. It is my business knack to keep her and all other spoiled and decadent customers in good spirits.

By the time I had begun to grapple with accounts, invoices and orders, she came to my chamber to spend some time with me.

'oh, Maria you look really good today, time has failed on you,' I flattered the 39 years old lady, who looks somewhat like me, except that she is a grade more plumb and her hair slightly wavy.

'You must know why, dear Alice,' she winked and said conspiratorially, 'gifted lips, delicious tongue, subtle fingers and a magnificent cock- they make it.'

'You wicked,' I laughed.

'This is something you miss, you healthy and upbeat, but you need a man to make your life livable. Good sex makes you healthy and beaming. Self denial is writ large on your eyes and face. You can be shining and radiant with the right dose of sex.'

'No, no. I cannot afford such complications. I had had enough and it is too late. Man is trouble, I am happy the way I am,' I summarily dismissed that grim prospect.

'But there is somebody who adores you, he even worships the ground that you walk on. If you give him a chance, you will never be looking back and the chemistry of life will be altered for good for all time to come.'

'Who could that hapless fellow be?' I feigned surprise.

'He is somebody very close to you. His mind and body are designed to please a woman. His natural instincts are exquisite and I have fine tuned his talents. My body is screaming to have him all the time. But lately I realized that he has fixated you on me. He makes love to every part of my body fantasizing you.'

'You devil, who is he?'

'He is just in front of you,' she giggled and darted out in a hurry, as if dodging an imminent attack.

There was nothing in front of me, except files. Could he be one of the clerks I have been dealing with?

Then I saw it, under the thick glass panel on my table there was a photograph- a photograph of me and my son on his seventeenth birthday. I felt surprised and taunted. I went after her and practically dragged her back to my chamber. She was laughing to have irked me.

'You dirty devil, he is my son. You have confessed to have lured him into debauchery and is it not enough for once?'

'Your son or my son-who cares? It is real fun to have a son like him. I would have made love to him, even if he were my son. Who can resist his charm, his lips, his fingers, his tongue? You know not what you miss. Have him when you have him and forget your hyper sensitive orthodoxy.' She patted my shoulder and marched out in her feminine glory.

The day rolled on in a haze. I could not concentrate. I retired to my private toilet in the shop and surveyed me in the mirror. I unclipped my saree and felt my bust. They were ripe glossy and in the prime of life. I imagined Allen's lips and fingers on them. The effect was magical after all these years. My nipples tingled and quivered. They strained to pierce the bra cups in the hope of securing my son's lips. I realized that my panties were being wetted by clear syrup. Strange things were sweeping past my anatomy. The woman in me had been hibernating all these eighteen years. Now she seemed to be waking up with a vengeance.

Is it possible? No matter what happens, Maria does not have to know it, it will be between us, mother and son and nothing should spill outside the domestic walls. I went home a little early, as the business woman in me had taken a retreat.

I reclined on the divan at home and wondered what was happening. The cool lemonade felt its way down my agitated body. Then he came in after his evening tennis. I had to have an eyeful of him as I had been blindly seeing him all these years. He acknowledged my presence with an innocent smile. That was our way of communication. Words had grown precious. I echoed his smile.

Indeed he is deliciously beautiful. Those shining eyes, intelligent forehead, silky flowing hair, delicate lips, chiseled biceps, enticing chest and flat abdomen. His fingers were tender and long. I fancied those lips on my nipples, then on my nether lips. I smiled and scent of my arousal wafted in the room. I looked at him with a silent language of endearment.

'You look tired today, mother,' he inferred.

'Yes business is telling on me,' I lied.

He came to divan and dropped the racket. I was reclining, with the front of saree removed to cool off after the day. He sat at my feet, unsure of himself. I savored him with a newly fanged interest. His body in its totality danced with life and grace. The thin film of perspiration made his skin shine.

'Shall I massage your feet to make you feel better?'

'Please, I need it child,'

Then I remembered how he worshipped my feet and toes in his secret diary. In his fantasies he had slurped and kissed my toes many times over.

His fingers felt gentle cool and silken. He pulled at my toes, caressed the space in between them and worshiped the feel of my skin. I felt relaxed and mysteriously excited.

'Your legs are exquisitely smooth, like alabaster,' he said mostly to himself.

'Do you love them,' I asked with a devilish grin.

'Indeed I do.'

'You can feel them if you want'

He rolled my underskirt and saree up to my knee, I saw him shivering, and his cute enticing hands were shaky.

'So nice, so beautiful,' he murmured despite himself.

'Can I kiss them also?'

"May be,' I smiled.

He kissed in style, beginning from the toes, then the sole, the ankles, the shin. He kissed every single cuticle of the shin and with painful patience reached the knees, the land's end for all practical purposes.

'Your fragrance is intoxicating,' he said.

In fact the odor of my excitement was filling the room with its natural fugacity.

'Do you love my feminine smell?'

"More than anything in the world,' he sniffed purposely.

'It wafts from my private parts,'

He sniffed in between my knees. I had an urge to offer him more of me. But I should not. I opened my knees a little. He poked his head a little inside and sniffed hard. He must be eyeing my pure white panties and the wetness spreading on the gusset. This made me more excited and more wetness gushed out.

'Your scent surpasses the most exotic flower in the world. So sweet, so mesmerizing, so heavenly,' he kept whispering awe stricken, as if in a church.

'Now we must stop,' I pulled myself together and got up with a staunch will.

He also stood up like a puling mule, crest fallen and confused. I could see the outline of his promising erection in his trousers.

'Dear Allen, I understand your feelings, there is nothing to be ashamed of it. It is a passing phase,' I said.

'This is not a passing phase, this is forever,' he said helplessly.

'How do you know?'

"I felt like this as long as I can remember, I will be like this to the last of my breath. I adore you and love you with a oblivious abandon. You are with me in my dreams, in my wakeful moments, in my college, in my helpless reveries, in my most solemn moments. You have filled every pore of my soul. You are the warp and woof of every heavenly dream my subconscious mind concocts.'

'In understand, I have not been a good mother to you. I was lost in my own world. I feel sorry for you. I was not there when you needed a motherly moral prop,' I hugged him with a new surge of love.

'Thank you mother,' he sighed.

'It will be disastrous if we succumb to our passions, we must learn to moderate ourselves,' I said unsure of myself.

'Love is not to be hoarded. It has to flow out. Words left unsaid can be, you know, can be.. very cancerous,' he smiled mechanically to hide his embarrassment.

'I know darling, I know,'

He was devouring me with his shining eyes. Suddenly a silent deal was struck, many things inside were unfettered, the flood gates were open.

'I must go and take bath now. Since you love me in a different way, you can come and help me to change,' I said. Suddenly his body brightened. We proceeded to my bedroom. He was all too anxious to help.