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I had always admired her breasts. Even though she was older than me, her boobs were more pert, rounder and bigger. I envied my own mother’s breasts.

We were both slim-framed, though mum was curvier, wider-hipped, and I always told myself – always thought – there was nothing sexual in my appreciation. Until the day she gave me some appreciation of her own.

I had been living back with my parents since finishing college and, unable to get a job that paid high enough to cover my rent and food, mum and dad had been kind enough to welcome me back. I didn’t know then that I would be welcomed back so warmly.

It was mum and dad’s date night; now that I was /supposed/ to be moved out they had made more time for themselves in between their own work-lives. I was in their bedroom, watching mum pick out her clothes; it was nice to be a part of some good old-fashioned girls’ fun with her, having already helped mum paint her nails earlier.

“What about this?” she asked me, holding up a classic little black dress. I could see, even held limply against her, how it would embrace her curvaceous shape and, with the inbuilt underwiring, hold up her cleavage higher than it held itself.

I couldn’t help grinning as I replied, “that’ll look great, mum”; she wore florals for a casual date with dad, ones that ended in a footrub and sleep; slinky little numbers like this meant she wasn’t expecting to be tired when they came back…

“What?” she laughed back. I was old enough now to know these little ‘secrets’, and mum was my confidante in my own little trysts. “Here, stay and do the zip for me.”

I tried to be discreet, casual, in my watching her take off her work-clothes: boxy black trousers and a pearl-buttoned blouse. “I can’t stand these,” she muttered, twisting her pale bra round til the clasp rested between her breasts, the silk ribbon connecting the two halves taut against her big nipples. The naughty thought of wondering if they were as sensitive as mine ran through my mind, and I started biting my nails for something to do with my fingers, my mouth. The room was cool, the window open behind the closed velvet drapes, but I suddenly felt flushed and red.

“There’s a lot to keep in them,” I mumbled, then really did blush realising I hadn’t exactly kept that thought, well, private. I looked up, mortified, and hastily added, “in a good way!”

Mum laughed good-naturedly (who wouldn’t be good-natured all the time, knowing your body was already perfect and didn’t need to be worried over?) and I saw her eyes look me up and down, coolly appraising. I felt as if I had been physically touched, but surely I wasn’t thinking it had been by my mother, though it had been her eyes looking at me?

“There’s nothing wrong with your body,” she said, undoing and finally – did time seem to be going slower? – taking off her bra. There was a heady, long moment where it seemed all we were doing was watching each other, me in my tight jeans, loose t-shirt and socks, and mum, a beautiful humble goddess, in her silk panties, scalloped lacing embellishing her shapely tan thighs and ornamenting her hips. Her breasts hung between us, nipples pointed, firm, magnificent. My own boobs weren’t flat but mum’s always made mine seem inadequate. kaynarca escort I had despised when puberty had finally ended and, to my continuing childish despair, I was only a 36b and my mother was a perfectly proportioned 32c. Yes, I know there are bigger (hah!) matters in the world like wars and starvation, but it was my mum’s tits all but pointing me in the face at that moment.

Then the moment broke and I’m sure (even as I began to consciously remind myself she was my mum, wife to my father, the people who had raised me!) I felt my stomach plummet, until I realised she was dipping her upper-half, beautiful bosom literally dangling in front of me, as she lifted a leg and slid her panties off, then the other.

Could she sense how thick the air had become to me, how it caught my breath and caressed me through my clothes at the same time? I was silent if only because anything I would’ve tried to say would end up a moan. I had always wanted her breasts – on my body. Now a treacherous, sensory part of me wanted her breasts against my body, pressed between us, against mine. Mum had undressed in front of me before, and me in front of her, but I had always deliberately looked away, more for my jealous sake than for her modesty. Now she stood perfectly naked, the moment before the redressing, and I saw not only her ripe cleavage, but all of her, the most sensual parts of her, the most natural thing bathed in the unnatural light from the lamp. I swear to myself I couldn’t help myself; my eyes drifted, as my father’s must have time and time again, to her shaven snatch (pussy seemed too childish a word for my elegant mother, cunt too vulgar, but my mind was being bombarded with vulgar thoughts…), first in idle curiosity then in voyeuristic fascination.

I wasn’t even a lesbian, and all of a sudden all my thoughts had honed in on lusting for my mum!

It was an agonising matter of moments, one I forced myself to hope she would break by putting something on (traitor thought skimming through my mind: imagine if she puts that little black dress on without any underwear), and I was ready to be dismayed and grateful when she picked the dress up.

But she didn’t slip into it. She held it up again, not against her but in the air beside her, looking at me as if she (how could she not!) knew nothing of my fantastical thoughts, my suddenly alive desire, my suddenly pulsing cunt.

“Take your clothes off,” she smiled. Was she really innocent to me? Or was I innocent to her? “I bet this fits better on you.”

“Mum,” I breathed, at first trusting myself only with that one word.

“Come on,” she continued smiling, unashamed of her natural glory, seemingly ignorant of me, her lustful daughter’s sudden appetite for her, and stepped closer.

“Mum,” I repeated, firmer, “dad will be home soon and you’ll be late if you’re not ready.”

“We have time,” she breezily said, glancing boredly at the clock on the dresser-table. “Come on,” she said again, holding the dress up.

“Mum,” – the word had become a mantra to me – “it won’t fit! Your breasts are bigger than mine!”

She stopped then, looked down at her own boobs as if only just realising they had ever been there, and tilted her head to küçükyalı escort the side before looking at my chest. The dress was still in her hand, held aloft, like a dark physical spirit prompting us to… to what? Mum only wanted me to try the damned dress on!

Sighing and seemingly sick of my not doing as she wanted, I felt her hand cup my right boob, bouncing it up and down gently in her palm. “No,” she disagreed, while doing the same with my left breast. “These are nice.” Mum looked at me warmly, motherly, content to ignore or unaware of the brazen embarrassment painting my face. “You have nice breasts,” she reaffirmed. Finding opportunity in my stunned shame (and secret coy delight) she started to pull my t-shirt up. I felt the cotton slither up my slim stomach, then rise easily over my chest, revealing how naked my breasts were under the t-shirt (I’d had nowhere to be, no one to see that day), until the fabric tugged against my armpits. Mutely, dumb-struck, I raised my arms automatically, senses too overwhelmed to think, thoughts knowing they were not wanted so did not even try. Mum pulled the t-shirt over my head, off my arms and let it drop to the floor.

The air now felt suffocating and I suddenly wasn’t sure that anything other than mum was going to give me the breath I so needed.

We stood, breasts facing each other, a mere couple of inches space between bodily contact, before I threw my arms across my chest, less at my mother seeing them, but how I loved mum’s breasts so much more than my own, than I should for a daughter. Had I really desired my mum all these years and had only hidden it behind the pretext of envy all these years?

More pressing, was my own mum really so oblivious to my desire, my shameful lust, or was she pretending, leaving me to stew in my lust, letting sleeping dogs lay, as it were?

Words were suddenly useless between us, and whatever my mum thought or believed she was keeping it to herself. Her hands went to the zipper of my jeans and she peeled them down to my thighs, sinking into a crouching kneel, her face looking calm, even blissful, at my crotch, as she took the tight jeans down further until I lifted one leg and she stripped that, then the other, my socks going with them, until it was my turn to stand there only in my panties.

Would this be the moment? I wondered breathlessly. Was my heart not betraying me with its incessantly loud beating?

Too late I realised that in starting to take off my clothes, my mum had dropped her dress meant for tonight, but I was aware enough to watch her straighten back up and bring both hands confidently to my boobs, cupping them fully and squeezing gently. I ached from the inside out, still desperate to believe this was all some form of innocent complimentary ritual, if only to deny my own desires.

“Very nice breasts,” she smiled wanly, as if she knew what I had been thinking, and was trying to appease me. Then: “are they very sensitive?”

“Oh, mum,” I sighed, the sigh all I could give, but full of everything – my desire, my ache, my longing – to be had.

I felt her fingers gently fondle my breasts, her palms pressed against the nipples. “You really do have a nice pair, you know,” she repeated. sancaktepe escort “What is it you like about mine so much? Show me,” she said, and having said so she removed one hand to move mine to her right tit, but did not press it against her as her hands had on my boobs, but let it linger in the air – that small yet suddenly so wide space – between us.

I felt blustered but brave. Tentatively I pinched my own mother’s nipple between my forefinger and thumb, feeling firm between the two digits. Then, growing bolder (wetter), I traced that same forefinger around the nipple itself, skating on her areola, outward still until I had done circuits of her whole boob. Then I grasped the whole breast, that beautiful overspilling handful, and squeezed, less gentler than she had mine, and finally – mind floating in that foggy conqueror called Lust, or maybe more powerful still, Devotion – leant forward and kissed mum’s nipple, testing eagerly my tongue against its texture, her taste.

“All of it. Them,” I murmured dreamily, resuming fondling her breasts as I put both hands against both tits, and straightened myself. “You.”

I had been aware only of my actions throughout the whole intimate moment, but I saw then mum’s eyes glazed with that same heady desire mine must’ve been. I saw then, too, that her breasts rose and fell with the short quick breaths in and out of her lungs, brought on by her initiative and my actions.

“Darling,” she whispered, and brushed my hands aside. My feelings of rejection didn’t have time to take hold though, as mum eroded the remaining little space between us, leaving just enough that her hand fell between our bodies and her fingers slipped into my panties. I shivered with sheer sensation as mum’s fingers brushed over my own unshaven, but groomed, pussy and pressed on my clit.

I moaned, the sound jumping out from the back of my throat, and felt my legs almost buckle underneath me. I wasn’t a virgin but anyone who knows can tell the difference between being touched and being touched by someone you have desired for so long it haunts your every fantasy.

I grabbed mum’s hips, mostly for security of not falling, and felt her boobs pushed snug against mine. My head felt light and my body felt weighted with lust. I knew that if mum went down just a few more inches she would feel how wet she had made me, and would know if she didn’t already how deliciously I ached for her, wanted her to feel how tight I was for her fingers.

“Do you like that?” she whispered lustily. “You have lovely little boobies,” she said without need of an answer, “and…”

I gasped in little panting breaths as her fingers rubbed softly, teasingly, up and down my blood-rushed clit, and slid further down, getting damper as they went, til they pressed against the opening of my cunt.

“…such a delicious little snatch, I can tell.”

There was sweat gleaming across my breasts, my stomach, like little jewels decorating my lust.

“Mum,” I managed to say between hard breaths, “dad will be home soon.” I felt guilty, illicit, for what was happening – but all the more titillated too, excited and fearful. But the thought of what might happen if my father were to come home in the midst of his own wife and daughter touching, teasing, beginning to melt into each other, was too dreadful to think of, so I pushed the thought away like it would bring about the end of the world if it reached fruition.

“Don’t worry,” she cooed, in the way that only mother’s do. “We have time…”

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