Tell her to take off her top.

You take a deep breath, to calm yourself down a little bit. If she were another woman who looked so sexy and felt so good against you, you wouldn't hesitate for a second, but she's your mom. You know that it's wrong to be doing this with her, but the magic is compelling her. The way you understand the spell, if you don't do anything, it could make her get worse. You set a line not to cross in your mind — you won't go all the way to outright ****. You're not sure how close you'll let yourself get to that line though.

One thing you decide you are willing to do is get a look at her breasts. You've never seen any up close and personal, and you can't deny that your mom has an amazing pair. You clear your throat, and lean in close to her to say softly. "You aren't the only one who has feelings like that mom." You want to reassure her, let her know she's not alone. "Maybe you picked up on subconscious signals I've been sending." Your hands stroke up and down her upper arms. "I told you I've had dreams about you, maybe you've noticed me looking at your body. It's natural for a guy my age, who's never been with a girl to be curious about a beautiful woman's body, right?" You think you probably could have just ordered her to strip, but building up to it feels like it is easier for you, and **** to her. It gives you both a way to at least try to rationalize what's happening.

"Would you take off your top, and let me see your breasts?" You whisper in your mother's ear, then move back to give her room, and take in the sight. She smiles shyly, looking happy that she can do something for you. She's blushing with embarrassment that she's stripping for her own son. But she peels the tee shirt up and off over her head, letting it drop to the floor.

You stare for a moment at your mom's full, round tits. Once they are revealed, they look even bigger than you imagined they would. All the pictures of tits you've seen in porn are nothing in comparison to seeing hers in real life, rising and falling slightly as she breathes. "Do you like them, honey?" She asks in a purr. "They aren't as firm and perky as they used to be." She adds, sounding a little worried that they might not be exactly what you want. Her hands move under them to lift them up towards you, and the smooth, white flesh overflows her fingers.

You shake your head. "They're beautiful... you're beautiful," you reassure her, and the praise makes her face light up.

"You can touch them. I want you to. Do whatever you want with them, with me." Your mom's voice is almost pleading. You reach out and cup one, feeling its soft heaviness in your hand. Your fingers squeeze on it, gently kneading. She lets out a low moan, and her body shudders in response.

Her hand moves to the bulge in your jeans, her palm presses against your hardness through the denim. "You... you can... use them... I know men like that." She tells you as her hand strokes up and down along your straining shaft.