We sat cross-legged on the cool marble floor facing each other, the baskets between us. She wore a simple sleeveless kurti and cotton palazzo pants, hair tied in a loose knot, a few damp strands clinging to her neck. Every time she leaned forward to sort, the kurti gaped slightly, offering fleeting glimpses of the soft upper curves of her breasts cradled in one of the very bras we were about to fold. I tried to keep my eyes on the clothes, but they betrayed me, darting to the sway of her body, the way her thighs spread comfortably beneath the thin fabric, the faint outline of nipples when she reached overhead to pin a saree.
She picked up one of her lace bras—black, delicate, the cups sheer enough that I could see the darker shadow of her areolas through the mesh in my memory—and shook it out with a practiced snap. Her fingers traced the underwire absently, checking for twists.
“You know,” she said casually, not looking up, “those pictures on your phone… they really don’t bother me.” A small, reassuring smile curved her lips as she folded the bra, cup into cup, the lace whispering between her palms. “Mothers understand more than sons think.”
My breath caught. Heat flooded my face and surged lower, cock thickening instantly against my thigh. I focused desperately on pairing socks, but my hands shook.
She continued, voice light, maternal, as if discussing exam grades. “When I was your age, I had all sorts of confusing thoughts too. Bodies are… fascinating at seventeen.” She reached for a pair of her panties—ivory lace, high-cut, the gusset still carrying the faint, intimate scent of her. Held them up to the light, checking for loose threads, then began folding them with the same care she’d use for my school tie. “It’s normal to wonder. To imagine.”
I couldn’t speak. The air felt too thick, scented with warm cotton, detergent, and the deeper, unmistakable note of her skin rising from the laundry.
She tilted her head, eyes soft with curiosity. “Do you have any questions about girls, beta? Anything you’re… confused about?” She passed me the folded panties—warm from her hands—and our fingers brushed, lingered half a second too long. “Bodies, feelings, how things… work? You can ask Mummy anything. No embarrassment.”
The question hung between us like incense. My mind screamed with every filthy thing I wanted to know: how her nipples hardened under water, whether she waxed or shaved the soft curls I’d glimpsed, if she ever touched herself thinking of anyone, if the slickness I imagined between her thighs tasted as sweet as it smelled. Instead I managed a strangled “N-no, I’m okay.”
She hummed, unconvinced, and picked up another bra—this one peach-colored satin with delicate embroidery. Held it against her chest for a Mummyent to smooth a strap, the cups molding briefly to her breasts beneath the kurti before she folded it. “Really? Nothing at all?” Her tone was gentle, encouraging, the same one she’d used when teaching me to ride a bicycle. “Boys your age wonder about breasts, how they feel, what it’s like to touch them. Or… lower.” She gestured vaguely toward her lap, palazzo fabric shifting over her thighs. “How a woman’s body responds. Wetness, sensitivity…” She said the words without a trace of coquetry, purely educational, maternal concern shining in her eyes.