Ask her mom

Jasmin walked to the stairs.

She didn't rush. Didn't cover herself. Just moved—her damp skin still glistening, her petite frame on full display, water droplets sliding down the curve of her spine to the cleft of her ass.

Each step brought a new sensation. The cool air kissing her bare breasts, hardening her nipples into tight peaks. The smooth wood under her bare feet. The way her thighs brushed together with each stride, her smooth, shaved pussy lips pressing against each other.

A warmth was building low in her stomach. Not embarrassment. Not discomfort. Something deeper. Something that made her want to walk slower, feel more. Her clit was beginning to throb, a persistent ache that pulsed with every heartbeat.

Why does this feel so good?

She reached the bottom of the stairs.

The kitchen was ahead. She could hear her mother moving around—the sizzle of something in a pan, the soft clatter of dishes.

Jasmin rounded the corner.

Her mother stood at the stove, still in her robe, dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail. She was flipping pancakes, her back to the doorway.

"Morning, honey."

Jasmin stopped.

Her mother hadn't turned around. Hadn't seen her yet.

The warmth in her stomach flared. She stood there, completely nude, in the kitchen doorway, and felt—something. A pulse. A pull. Her pussy was getting wet, and not just from the shower. She could feel her arousal building, her inner thighs growing slick.

"Mom."

Her mother glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes swept over Jasmin—damp, naked, bare everywhere. They lingered for a moment on her small, perky breasts with their hardened nipples, then traveled down her flat stomach to the smooth, bare mound between her legs.

She turned back to the pancakes without a hint of surprise.

"Sit down. Breakfast is almost ready."

"That's it?"

Her mother paused, spatula mid-air. "What?"

"I have no clothes." Jasmin's voice was steady, but heat was rising in her chest. "Everything is in the wash. The dryer's broken. There are no towels. I'm standing in the kitchen naked, and my pussy is practically dripping, and you don't even care?"

Her mother turned fully now, leaning against the counter. A small, knowing smile played at her lips.

"I can see that, sweetheart. And I can see you're enjoying this more than you expected to."

Jasmin felt her face flush. Her mother was right—her nipples were rock hard, her clit was throbbing, and she could feel her juices coating her inner thighs.

"I—this isn't—"

"It's okay." Her mother's eyes moved over her body again, appraising. "You're eighteen. You're discovering what turns you on. There's nothing wrong with that."

She knows. She can see how wet I am.

"Sit. Eat. We'll figure out the clothes situation after."

Jasmin's mother sets a plate of pancakes in front of her and disappears to look for something she can wear.