A little roleplay

You meet your own eyes in the mirror. Your mother's eyes. Blue, tired at the corners, a flicker of something amused in them.

You let your hand drop from her breast. You cover yourself instead—one arm across her chest, palm hiding her cleavage, the other hand pressing flat against her mound. The pose is modest, almost bashful. Your mother would make this exact gesture if she walked into a room and found someone staring.

You tilt your head. Her voice comes out, warm and a little chiding.

"Marty? What are you looking at?"

The words hang in the air. The reflection blinks, and you feel the blush rise on her cheeks. You bite her lower lip, exactly the way she does when she's embarrassed but trying not to show it.

"Sweetie, you shouldn't—" You let the sentence trail off, letting your arms drop slowly, exposing her breasts again. "You shouldn't look at your mother like that."

The shame curls in your stomach, hot and thrilling. You let it settle.

Then you smile. Her smile. The one she uses when she's about to say something playful.

You step closer to the mirror, your reflection growing larger. You cup her breasts from underneath, lifting them, presenting them. Her voice softens, takes on a conspiratorial tone.

"Okay, baby. If you're going to stare, at least learn something."

You tilt your head, examining her own breasts in the glass. The left one, lower, fuller. The right one, slightly perkier. The areolas are wide, the color of faded rose petals, the nipples already stiff from the cool air. Silver stretch marks trace the outer curves like rivers on a map.

"Your father loves these," you say in her voice. "He says they're perfect. I tell him he's biased." You laugh—her laugh, a low chuckle. "He's not wrong, though. They've been good to me."

You release one breast, letting your hand drift down her belly, over the soft curve, through the trimmed bush. Your fingers find the lips, already slick, and you part them slowly.

"We still do it, you know. Your father and me." Her voice drops to a murmur. "Not as often as we used to. But regularly. He knows exactly what I like."

You lift your left leg, resting your foot on the edge of the sink. The pose opens you completely. The mirror shows everything: the pink inner lips, the hood retracted, the small hard bud of her clit, the dark opening glistening. Your fingers spread the lips wider, and a string of clear fluid stretches between them.

"I like it like this," her voice continues. "When he takes his time. When he looks at me first." You meet your own eyes in the mirror. "You're looking, Marty."

The words land like a punch.

You let the leg down. You straighten. The playfulness shifts, becomes something heavier. Your mother's lips part, her tongue wets them. Her hand slides down her stomach again, but slower this time, more deliberate.

"Unless you want to do more than look."

The voice is lower now, huskier. You watch her hand cup her mound, fingers pressing into the flesh.

"I've seen the way Dan looks at me. At your sister, too." A pause. "He's not subtle. But you—" Her eyes lock onto yours in the mirror. "You never looked at me like this before. I like it."

You turn around.

The mirror catches your back: the curve of your mother's spine, the soft dimples above her ass, the full globes of her cheeks. You brace your hands on the cupboard, bending forward, sticking her ass out. The pose is obscene, deliberate. You look over your shoulder at your reflection, watching her ass jut out, the cheeks parted slightly, revealing the darker skin between them.

"Like what you see, baby?"

Her voice is breathy, teasing. You watch her hand reach back, fingers finding her cunt from behind. The wedding ring glints as she slides two fingers inside herself. Her hips push back against her own hand. Her breasts sway with the motion, heavy pendulums swinging beneath her chest.

"Marty—" Her voice moans your name, drawn out, desperate. "Marty, look at me. Look at your mother."

You watch her fingers pump in and out. The wet sounds fill the kitchen. Her ass clenches with each thrust, the cheeks rippling. Her tits swing, the nipples dark and stiff, the stretch marks catching the light.

You would never act like this. Your mother would never act like this. She's a devoted wife, a loving parent, a woman who folds laundry and makes casseroles and kisses your forehead. She would never spread her ass in her son's bedroom and finger herself while moaning his name.

That's what makes it so hot.

You lean deeper into the performance. Her voice cracks on your name, breaks into a whimper. "Marty—fuck—please—"

Her fingers are soaked now. The wedding ring is slick, sliding easily. Her clit is visible from behind, swollen and red, rubbing against the heel of her hand as she fucks herself. Her thighs are trembling, her breathing ragged, her tits swaying in wild arcs.

"I'm close," she gasps. "I'm so close, baby—watch me—watch your mother cum—"

Her body tenses. Her back arches. Her fingers drive deeper, and then—a gush.

Fluid splashes down her inner thighs, a clear stream that arcs between her legs and hits the floor. It keeps coming, pulsing with each contraction of her cunt, soaking the tile. Her moan is long and loud, her head thrown back, her ass still pushed out, her hand still buried inside herself as the squirt keeps flowing.

The sight breaks you.

Your orgasm tears through you, through her body, a violent release that shakes her from head to toe. Her knees buckle, but you catch yourself on the cupboard, her fingers still wedged inside, her thighs soaked, her breath coming in ragged sobs.

The bedroom is silent except for your breathing.

You stay there, bent over, her body trembling, the puddle spreading beneath her feet. The wedding ring is wet. The cupboard is cold against her palms. Her cunt is clenching around nothing, still pulsing with aftershocks.

You collapse against the cupboard, sliding down until you're sitting on the wet floor, her back against the wood, her legs splayed, her head lolling back.

Your mother's body breathes. Your mother's heart pounds. Your mother's hand rests on her stomach, fingers still wet, wedding ring catching the light.

You don't move for a long time.