Chapter Ten

A slight sense of wrongness threatened to sour Clarita’s ebullient mood as she ransacked her wardrobe.

When had she become so drab?

All of the outfits were ancient. Faded and worn like she had been feeling more and more lately.

Much of it was strewn across her bed and carpet as though she were a child playing dress-up with her Mama’s clothing. Totally bland and depressing dresses, pants, and shirts were discarded by the armload. Yanked off cheap wire hangers and tossed aside in disgust.

She used to be fun. Flirty. Desirable. Mateo would take her salsa dancing, dressed to kill in short skirts and low-cut tops and heels–Dios, the disastrously high heels she would wear as they moved to the rhythm, bodies pressed together. Where were they now?

Awful flats and orthopedic horrors clattered about her ankles as Clarita dug through the neat rows of shoes with rising apprehension.

Searching for a lingering scrap of the young, vivacious beauty she once was and desperately yearned to recapture.

Would that be so bad? An infinitesimally small part of her balked at the idea of going backward. Regressing… was that the term the talking heads used? Mutton dressed as lamb, her Mama would have said. But Clarita didn’t feel old or look it, for that matter.

She kept glancing at the standing mirror in the corner. The terry cloth robe had fallen open in her manic hunt. Taut olive flesh spilled out, rich and round. Fuller than she remembered, to be honest. Her younger self had been lithe and graceful. Rocking skinny jeans and leather hotpants that showed off her long legs and lissome figure.

Who was this woman with flashes of scarlet in her glossy mane of midnight tresses and inexplicably bigger bust?

Then her questing hand closed over something slim and sharp. Fingers tracing the shape of a stiletto. Thin, pliable straps of leather tangled in her grasp.

A lost treasure unearthed from her distant past.

Slowly. Gently. Clarita withdrew the shoe and cradled it reverently against her swollen chest. A crimson spike heel so tall it could snap an ankle on a whim.

Her poor, neglected pussy juiced at the discovery, and she lowered the pointed toe between her slickening thighs. It coasted along her budding pearl with zero resistance, drawing forth an ecstatic shudder.

The dulled, blood-red leather took on a fresh shine as Clarita polished it with her womanly nectar, sliding through her cleft and producing wondrous friction.

“Fu-fuck… hyaaa~... so hot.” She stammered, hips widening a fraction with each needy gyration.

Her free hand swept about the clutter, seeking the second shoe. Soon, she had the matching pair, licking one while grinding on the other. Her lapping tongue ran up the four-inch, narrow heel as though she could absorb the sex appeal by sucking it into her puckered lips.

That felt good, perfectly natural, having something long and stiff in her mouth, if on a small scale. She sucked and slurped on it anyway, luscious lashes fluttering as scintillating embers ignited, both above and below. The edge of the insole dredged sopping folds, making her thighs quiver at the rush of sensation.

“Mmmhmmm!”

Then, the soft music from across the hallway stopped, and Clarita’s heavy-lidded eyes shot open.

Had she moaned too loud? Was Carlos–her big, studmuffin son–alert and listening for strange noises now? Would he be stepping through the bedroom door to check on her–like the considerate and caring man he had become–to discover his practically naked mother in a state of biblical sin?

No, no, no, no, no!

Her teeth chomped down on the stiletto heel like a bite stick as the scenario sprung to life in Clarita’s imagination….

Carlos’ muscular silhouette darkening the doorway, handsome face in shadow, looking down in stern disapproval at his mewling Mama. Her, begging for his forgiveness, cumming hard and vocally from humping some totally hot, sexy-time footwear like a shameful, perverted puta.

What would happen next? Would her sweet Cariño turn away in revulsion, or maybe–just maybe–he’d lurch forward to seize and punish her wickedness with his manly strength? To bend his depraved mother over a knee and spank some repentance out of her.

“Pleease… Dios! Yes, Carlos, please!”

Clarita’s ripening body thundered with gut-curdling passion, nearly breaking apart when she was flung into the throes of a forbidden fantasy that burrowed down through her bliss-addled psyche to etch itself onto her soul.

A silent scream, bereft of air, departed her straining lungs. Bone-shaking spasms of carnal elation shook her like a feather in a gale. The crashing pleasure was twisted. Improper. Vulgar. She wallowed in it like a drowning swimmer, sinking in an ocean of illicit desires.

She remained locked in that position, hunched in shivering climax, not daring to breathe, until the distant music resumed playing, and she eventually relaxed.

When Clarita’s head rose from where it was tucked against her increasingly pillowy chest, her hazel eyes fell upon something hanging forgotten in the far rear of her closet.

It wasn’t new; she recognized the outfit from her younger years, but it wasn't dull or drab either. The fabric shone, buckles gleamed, and hints of intricate lace peeked back at her.

Her smile was wide and relieved when she rose to stand on unsteady feet. It was precisely what Clarita had been searching for.

She simply hadn’t known it until now.

Back in the bathroom, Clarita sat on the side of the tub, drying her nails.

They had grown from worn-down stubs to proper talons, and as much as that should have worried her, she adored the way the fairy floss pink varnish caught the light.

Her wrists tinkled with several silvery bangles as she fastened large golden hoop earrings and swiveled her head to admire them in the mirror, brushing back a dense curtain of silky hair to do so.

Deep, henna-red hair, from root to butt-sweeping end. That was different too, but wasn’t that a good thing? Clarita was beautiful, desirable, and longed to stand out again. To turn heads while sashaying down the street as she had in her prime. One head in particular kept leaping to mind.

“Ooh, my Cariño…”

A microtremor of pleasure vibrated through her at the thought. The recurring mental picture of her strong, dashing son—that easy smile and kind, intelligent eyes, his powerful jaw and expressive brow…

She gnawed on her plump bottom lip, biting back a gasp, letting a delicate finger slide under her skirt to tickle her dewy bud.

“Hmmmph!”

The shock of ecstasy was immediate and moist. Not earthshaking like earlier, nothing as debilitating or ear-catching.

Just enough to keep riding the edge, maintaining her slick pussy at a slow boil. Dizzy little cummies looping through her core on repeat.

The mini skirt was a blessed find—a real blast from her past, hanging forgotten behind decades of irksome fashion compromises. Fake black leather hugged her substantial hips like a covetous lover, ending a meager inch below her dripping sex, slippery juices lending extra shine to the polymer plastic.

It sat high on her waist–which had narrowed to a skinny teen size–and displayed a salacious amount of supple, bronzed thighs, miraculously lacking unsightly hair or angry blue veins.

Clarita moaned eyes closed as she licked the offending finger clean. The wrongness was still there. A distant feature in the landscape of her brain, eroding away under a constant deluge of feel-good hormones pouring from her gassed-up hypothalamus.

An unwelcome distraction. Unimportant.

What was important were her tits.

Two copper-skinned whoppers billowed from her burgundy bustier like inflating weather balloons. They jutted out above the belts and corsetry cinching her tiny torso, overflowing the embroidered satin cups to form a firm shelf of sensitive tit-flesh right below her sagging chin with tight, burrowing nipples.

She’d never been so large in her youth and didn’t own a bra that would contain their humongous heft, but that didn’t appear to be a problem. They sat high and proud on her chest in defiance of gravity like ripe melons waiting to be squeezed.

So she did, with knee-weakening results.

“Mmmmff~… yes, baby.”

Wet splotches darkened the sheer fabric covering Clarita’s pointing nips as she whimpered. Breast milk staining the satin and leaking down her groping fingers in white rivulets.

It was amazing, sending warm waves of pleasure through the soft mammalian tissue.

It was motherly. A gift from god reaffirming her primary purpose in life: to nurture and nourish her family.

It was womanly, sexy, and exhilarating—awakening feelings and sensations entombed beneath a mountain of maternal duty and responsibility that suddenly seemed silly. She didn’t have to choose between being one or the other.

Clarita was a modern lady and could wear more than one proverbial hat.

Por qué no los dos?

Clasping a lacy red choker around her neck, she glanced at the two remaining morsels glittering in their styrofoam container with a small stab of guilt.

Carlos would undoubtedly forgive her gluttony. He was such a darling boy. Still, she should save him a taste, a sample of the scrumptious treat he had generously shared with his loving Mama.

Cramming the second-to-last pastry into her mouth, Clarita shuddered and gasped in bliss. Her empty loins pulsed with an aching need as hot honey splattered her thickening thighs.

“Aaah, Cariño!”

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