Kafka's hands, warm and steady, stroked Olivia's back as she lay against his chest, her soft curves pressed into his rigid frame. Her laughter had faded, leaving a quiet warmth in its wake, and he tilted his head, his voice soft with concern.
"You alright, Mom?" He asked, his fingers tracing gentle circles along her spine. "You seem...happy."
Olivia's cheek rubbed against his chest, a contented sigh escaping her as she nestled closer, her body sinking into the comfort of his embrace.
"Of course, Kafi." She murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "I'm just...so happy right now. So happy I could just fall asleep on your chest and stay here all night."
Her words were unguarded, her heart laid bare by the joy of their closeness, a moment she'd dreamed of for years.
Kafka's smile was warm, but a glint of mischief flickered in his eyes.
"Sleep sounds nice, Mom, but not yet." He said, his tone light but insistent. "I wanna catch up, hear about what you've been up to all this time. And I bet you've got a ton of questions for me, right?...Stuff you've been dying to ask."
Olivia's head snapped up, her eyes wide as she met his gaze, a spark of realization cutting through her haze.
"Yes!" She said quickly, her voice tinged with excitement. "I totally forgot—I had so many things I wanted to ask you. I even made a mental list on the drive here!"
Her mind raced, trying to recall the questions she'd prepared about his life in the village, his interests, how he'd changed—but as she searched, her thoughts scattered, overwhelmed by the intimacy of the moment.
His hands on her, the press of her breasts against his chest, the playful groping of her ass—it had all clouded her mind, leaving her blank.
Kafka's brow arched, his hand pausing on her back as he studied her. "What's wrong, Mom? Cat got your tongue?"
She bit her lip, a flush creeping up her neck.
"I...I can't think of anything right now." She admitted, her voice small, almost sheepish. "No matter how hard I try, nothing's coming up. It's like my mind's...empty."
He chuckled, the sound low and reassuring, his hand resuming its gentle stroke.
"You don't need to think, Mom. Just say the first thing that pops into your head when you look at me...Whatever it is, just let it out."
His eyes held hers, a quiet insistence in his gaze, urging her to be open, to embrace the village's unfiltered honesty.
Olivia hesitated, her heart pounding as she looked into his eyes. The encouragement in his voice, the warmth of his touch, emboldened her, and without overthinking, she blurted the first thought that surfaced...even though it was exactly what he was expecting and caught both of them off gaurd.
"Can I...Can I touch your body, Kadi? Can I roam my hands all over your upper body since I want to see how much you've grown?"
The words hung in the air, shocking them both. Olivia's face flamed a bright red, her eyes widening as she realized the absurd thing she'd said.
"Oh, no, forget that!" She stammered, shaking her head frantically. "I didn't mean it, Kafi! I-I'm being crazy. Don't listen to me!"
Her voice trembled with mortification, her mind spiraling with fear that he'd think her strange, a perverse mother asking to touch her son's body. She braced for his laughter, for a teasing jab that would cement her shame.
But instead, Kafka's hand moved to her head, patting gently in a calming, almost paternal gesture that stilled her panic.
The touch was soothing, like a balm to her frayed nerves, and she looked up, meeting his gaze. His eyes were warm, devoid of judgment, a soft smile playing on his lips.
"It's alright, Mom." He said, his voice low and reassuring. "No need to be embarrassed. I'm actually proud of you for saying that."
Olivia blinked, confusion knitting her brow.
"Proud?" She asked, her voice hesitant. "Why? A mother asking to...to touch her son's body, it's not right. I should be ashamed."
Kafka shook his head, his hand still patting her head, his touch steady and comforting.
"Not at all. You're just doing what every mom does—wanting to see how your kid's grown. That's normal, Mom...But what makes me proud is that you said what you were really thinking, no matter how embarrassing it felt."
"...That's what I want, for us to be open, to say what's on our minds. It's how we get closer, how we make up for all that lost time."
His voice was earnest, his eyes holding hers with a sincerity that eased her racing heart.
Olivia exhaled, a sigh of relief washing over her as she realized he didn't see her as strange or improper.
His understanding, his encouragement, felt like a lifeline, pulling her back from the edge of her shame and she nodded, her blush fading slightly, gratitude swelling in her chest for a son who could turn her mortification into a moment of connection.
Then, to her surprise, Kafka's patting grew softer, his gaze tender, almost as if he were the elder, the one offering guidance.
"I truly am proud of you, Mom." He said, his voice a soothing caress, laced with a warmth that felt almost paternal. "Proud of what you said, proud of you trying to do your best to accompany to this towns customs."
"...Keep it up, and we'll catch up on all those years we missed. I promise."
His hand lingered on her head, his fingers threading gently through her hair, his eyes holding hers with a love that made her breath catch.
The words, the tenderness, hit her like a tidal wave. Her heart raced, a strange, electric jolt coursing through her body, sparking a heat that reached her lower belly.
To her shock, she felt her nipples harden against the thin shirt, a reaction so visceral it flooded her with embarrassment. Her son, her own son, praising her, petting her like she was the child, reversing their roles in a way that thrilled her in ways she couldn't comprehend.
The idea of him, the boy she'd raised, taking on a fatherly role, guiding her, approving of her, sent a shiver through her, a forbidden excitement she tried to bury and she pressed her cheek harder against his chest, hiding her flushed face, willing her body to calm, to erase the shameful response.
Her mind was also a fog, the questions she'd meant to ask about his life, his growth, the years she'd missed—lost in the overwhelming intimacy of their closeness.
She also knew that couldn't let her blurted request to touch his body stand unexplained; the fear that he might think her strange or improper gnawed at her.
So, swallowing her embarrassment, she lifted her head, her eyes meeting his as she rushed to clarify, her voice trembling but resolute.
"Kafi, I...I didn't say that because I'm being weird." She insisted, her cheeks burning. "It's just...when I was younger, I did a lot of martial arts to protect myself and Abi."
"Along with that I also studied everything—physique, exercise, how a strong body helps in combat and because of that I've always been fascinated by well-built bodies, you know? They're...the peak of human potential, you know, and for some reason I found that really appealing."
Her blush deepened at the admission, but she pressed on, her voice faltering.
"And from the moment I sat on you, I could tell you've taken care of yourself, that you've got an incredible figure which I wanted to know more about, which led me to ask that question."
"...It was just curiosity honestly, wanting to see how you've grown. So please, forget I said anything. There's no way you'd let me do that."
Hearing her speaking about her vulnerable interests, Kafka's gaze softened, his hand stroking her back in a reassuring manner as he shook his head.
"You don't need to be embarrassed, Mom." He said, his voice warm and understanding. "Everyone's got their interests. If yours is well—built bodies, that's nothing to be ashamed of."
His lips curved into a playful smile, his hand giving her plump ass a quick, teasing squeeze.
"And also I've been admiring your body this whole time, even playing around with this." He chuckled, the gesture light but pointed. "So, as your son, it's only fair I return the favor, let you have a peek, too, isn't it?"
Olivia's eyes widened, surprise mingling with relief at his acceptance.
"Really?" She asked, her voice hesitant. "You'd...let me touch you? Even though it's...strange?"
"It's not strange at all." Kafka said, his smile widening, a glint of pride in his eyes. "I don't mind one bit...Hell, I wanna show off a little since these muscles took a lot of hard work to develop, Mom. Took years to build."
"...Because of that I don't mind showing them off at all, so go ahead, have a feel."
His tone was encouraging, almost eager, as if inviting her to share in his achievement.
Despite his reassurance, Olivia hesitated, her hands hovering uncertainly. Touching her son's body, feeling his muscles, felt like crossing a line she wasn't accustomed to, a step into intimacy that made her heart race. Her fingers twitched, caught between curiosity and propriety, her mind wrestling with the unfamiliarity of the act.
Seeing her hesitation, Kafka took charge, his movements swift but gentle.
To her surprise, he grabbed her hands, his grip firm yet careful, and tugged his shirt up, exposing the chiseled expanse of his upper body.
Before she could protest, he pressed her palms against his bare skin, trapping them between her body and his, the hard ridges of his muscles a stark contrast to her soft touch. The sensation was enthralling, like touching a polished stone sculpture, and Olivia's breath caught, panic flaring as she felt the unyielding strength beneath her fingers.
She moved to pull away, embarrassment flooding her, but Kafka's voice cut through, calm and soothing.
"Hey, don't panic, Mom." He said, his tone gentle but insistent. "It's alright. Touch me like you want to. Just think about how you bathed me a million times when I was a kid, scrubbed every inch of me...This is no different." His eyes held hers, urging her to continue, his expression a full of encouragement and quiet confidence. "Go on."
His words sank in, grounding her in a flood of memories—changing his diapers, washing his tiny body, cleaning him with a mother's care. The boy beneath her was her baby, her Kafi, not a stranger whose body should feel forbidden.
The realization steadied her, and she nodded, her fingers beginning to move, slow at first, tracing the contours of his chest. Her touch was gentle, as she felt the hard planes of his pectorals, the defined grooves of his abs, each muscle a testament to years of discipline. His body was like a sculpture carved from stone, unyielding yet perfect, a work of art that filled her with quiet awe.
Kafka's lack of reaction, his encouraging gaze, only emboldened her.
Seeing no discomfort, only silent urging in his eyes, she grew bolder, her fingers exploring more freely. Her touch roamed from his broad shoulders to the tight cords of his obliques, feeling every ridge and valley, her curiosity overtaking her hesitation...