My heart stopped, then raced. I nodded mutely, throat dry.
The bathroom was small, steamy even without hot water, lit by a single candle on the shelf that threw gold across wet tiles. She’d already filled the large steel bucket, dipped a mug, and poured it over herself. The light-yellow petticoat she wore—thin, worn soft from years of use—was soaked instantly, turning translucent and clinging like a second skin. It tied high under her arms, knot straining against the weight of her breasts, the fabric plastered to every curve: nipples dark and prominent, the deep valley of her cleavage glistening, the generous swell of her hips and the unmistakable outline of her pubic mound visible through the wet cotton. Water streamed down her thighs, pooling at her bare feet. She handed me the soap with a casual laugh. “Turn around, beta. Wash Mummy’s back properly.”
I stood behind her, hands shaking as I lathered the bar. Her back was smooth, olive skin dotted with stray droplets, the petticoat clinging low on her hips, exposing the dimples above her ass. I spread soap in slow circles, feeling the warmth of her body through the thin cloth, the subtle shift of muscle under skin. She sighed—soft, grateful—leaning forward slightly, hands braced on the wall. “Lower… yes, there,” she murmured as my fingers worked the small of her back, inches from where the petticoat dipped dangerously. The scent of soap and her warm skin filled the tiny room; candlelight danced over the curve of her waist. My cock throbbed painfully against my shorts, but I kept my touch clinical, reverent, terrified of betraying the storm inside me.
When her back was done, she turned, petticoat plastered to her front now, breasts heaving gently with each breath. “Your turn,” she said lightly, taking the mug. “Can’t let my boy stay sweaty.” She poured water over my head, cool rivulets running down my chest, then soaped my shoulders, my arms, her touch brisk and maternal—exactly as she’d done when I was five. But I was seventeen now, hard and aching, and every brush of her fingers felt like fire. She scrubbed my back with the same efficiency, humming an old lullaby, oblivious to the way my breath hitched when her breasts grazed my arm through wet fabric.
“Done,” she declared finally, rinsing me off. “Now out—go get dressed before you catch cold.” She shooed me with a playful splash, turning back to the bucket.
I stumbled out, towel around my waist, heart hammering, and grabbed fresh clothes from my room. But the towel I’d used was the only big one—hers was still inside. I hesitated, then knocked softly. No answer. The door was ajar; steam curled out. I pushed it open just enough to reach in for the towel hanging on the hook.
And froze.
She stood fully naked under the candle’s glow, water streaming down her body in silver threads. The petticoat lay discarded in a wet heap. Her back was to me first—broad shoulders tapering to narrow waist, the lush flare of her hips, ass cheeks full and glistening, a single droplet tracing the cleft. Then she turned slightly to scoop more water, and I saw everything: heavy breasts swaying as she moved, dark nipples erect from the cool air, the soft curve of her belly, the dark triangle of curls between her thighs matted with water, plump outer lips visible as she shifted. She was magnificent—real, maternal, powerfully feminine—and completely unselfconscious.