Take a proper look

Your hand hovers at the hem. The mirror shows your mother’s face, lips parted, the pale column of her throat. You watch yourself do it. Then fingers close on fabric, and you lift.

The hem rises slowly. The white sundress sliding up over tanned calves, knees, the soft inner thighs. The fabric rustles. Then it’s bunched at your hips, and there are her panties. Plain white cotton, high-cut, almost modest. But in the center, just over the mound, a darker spot. It’s faint, but you know. It’s a wet spot. Not large. Enough. The cotton is clinging. Your thumb finds it without permission, pressing. The heat comes through. You press a little harder and your mother’s breath catches—your breath catches. The wet spot grows under your thumb.

You let the dress fall. The hem drops back over your legs, hiding all that softness. The mirror gives no hint except your flush.

Then you start with the shoulders. Not both at once. The left side first. You curl your fingers under the neckline, lift it off the skin. The sleeve slides down your arm. The dress loosens. The right shoulder is still covered, but the fabric is now stretched across your chest, precarious. You see the top of one breast. That pale, blue-veined skin. The collarbone. Then you slide the right side down. The entire top of the dress falls to your waist, gravity doing the rest.

Your breasts are bare. Your mother’s breasts.

They are not small. Not perky. They’re full, heavy, with weight that pulls them down and slightly outward. The skin is soft, freckled at the crests. The nipples are large, the areolas wide and irregular, a dusky rose fading into the surrounding skin. They have a natural sag: the lower curve rounds more than the upper, so the nipple points down and forward when you shift. The left breast hangs slightly lower than the right. There are faint silver stretch marks along the outer sides, delicate as a roadmap. Each breath makes them move, a slow, pendulous sway.

You lift them from underneath. The heft surprises you again. They are warm, almost hot. You cup one in each hand—her hands, your hands—and feel the skin yield, the dense tissue underneath. You make small circles with your thumbs around the nipples, and they tighten. The skin around them tightens too, goosebumps rising. You roll one nipple between finger and thumb, gently at first, then harder. A line of sensation runs down to your belly, straight to the wet spot between your legs.

You look down. The view is hers: the tops of her breasts, the deep valley, the white dress pooled at your waist. You remember growing up, your mother leaning over to kiss your forehead before bed. That same neckline, if you’d looked. You never did. Not really. You saw only Mom. Now you see the way the light catches the hollow of her throat, the way her breasts fill the space her body occupies. The hunger is different, not the hollow wanting of a virgin. It’s the wanting of someone who knows what it feels like to be wanted. The suit remembers that.

You push the dress past your hips. It falls to the floor. You step out of it, and the air in the flat is cool. Your skin tingles. The only thing left are the panties, and they are soaked now. The wet spot has spread into a broad, darker oval. The cotton clings to the shape of your cunt, to the lips beneath. You turn sideways to the mirror. The ass of this body is fuller than Janice’s, softer, with pale dimples at the top of each cheek. The panties do not cover much, the cotton stretched over the width. You run your hands over your ass, fingers splayed, then cup both cheeks. The muscle underneath is buried in softness. You squeeze. A small moan escapes your mouth—her mouth. The sound belongs to your mother, but you are making it.

You hook your fingers under the elastic. You pull the panties down slowly, peeling the wet cotton away from your skin. A thin string of arousal connects you to the fabric for a moment, then breaks. The panties slide down your thighs, your calves, and you kick them away.

You are naked. Face to face with the body that made you. More specifically, the pussy. Your mother’s pussy.

You look down. The hair is there, a soft bush that’s been trimmed, but not recently. It’s halfhearted, neat enough at the edges, wilder closer to the lips. It covers the mound and the very top of the outer lips, but doesn’t extend far down. The lips themselves are visible through the hair: pale, full, slightly asymmetrical. The skin around them is a deeper rose. The folds peeking out are glistening. You can smell her now, a rich, adult musk. Not perfume. Not soap. Just sex, warm and close.

Your thighs are trembling.

You walk to the bed and sit at the edge. The mattress dips. You lean back on your hands, then spread your legs. The movement parts the lips. The air hits the inner skin, and you shiver. You bring one hand down, hesitate, then touch. Your fingers slide through the hair, then lower. You part the outer lips with two fingers, spreading yourself open.

The inner lips are darker, wet, the clit hood already retracted enough to show the beginning of the bud. The opening is small, pink, pulsing with your heartbeat. You spread a little wider. The skin stretches. A trickle of fluid runs down toward the crease of your ass. You use your other hand to pull the hood back gently. The clit rises, small and hard, and the touch sends a jolt up your spine. You’re not even masturbating yet. Just looking. Just feeling.

You glance down and notice the wedding ring. Your mother’s wedding ring. It’s on the left hand that’s now spreading her pussy open. The gold band glints even in the dim light, slightly worn, a small diamond set beside it. The sight makes your stomach drop and your cunt clench. Married. Your father’s gift. You are wearing it while you touch her. The wrongness of it is hot, a burn low in your belly.

You let go. The lips close slowly, sticky. You stay there, legs spread, wetness smearing on your inner thighs. Then you stand, unsteady, and move to the mirror.

Your mother’s naked body faces you. Sweat at her hairline. Cheeks flushed. Breasts flushed from your handling. The bush, the thighs, the glint of the wedding ring. You look like a mother, yes. But also like a woman who is ready to be touched in a way no son should experience. The suit knows that. You know that.

You need to decide where to finish. The bed? The shower? On all fours? Maybe against the mirror. Maybe with the wedding ring in your mouth. You meet your own eyes. Your hand drifts upward, not to your cunt yet, but to your breast, covering it. You squeeze, and watch the woman in the mirror do the same.

The question isn’t whether. It’s where.