Each clinical phrase landed like a lash of fire across my skin. My cock was fully hard now, straining painfully, pre-cum dampening my underwear. I shifted to hide it, folding a petticoat with shaking hands, the thin cotton still holding the heat of the sun and the faint musk of her skin where it had clung to her hips.
She reached across the basket, her breast brushing my forearm as she handed me another pair of panties—black lace this time, the crotch panel slightly stiffened from dried arousal I desperately prayed she hadn’t noticed. “It’s all right to be curious,” she murmured, fingers lingering on mine. “I’d rather you learn properly than from silly phone pictures.”
The kindness in her voice nearly undid me. Tears of shame pricked my eyes even as my balls ached with need. I wanted to fall to my knees, bury my face between her thighs, confess every depraved fantasy while begging forgiveness. Instead I nodded mutely, throat burning.
She smiled, satisfied she’d done her motherly duty, and returned to folding, humming softly. The rain drummed harder outside. Between us, the pile of her intimate things dwindled, each piece passing from her warm hands to mine like relics in a forbidden rite—lace bras that had cradled her heavy breasts all day, panties that had nestled against her most secret heat, petticoats that had outlined her pussy lips when wet. And all the while she spoke gently of arousal and anatomy, of consent and pleasure, utterly unaware that every innocent word carved deeper into my obsession, turning shame into something sacred and unbearable.
The rain had softened to a whisper against the windows, turning the living room into a hushed, grey-lit confessional. The last of the laundry lay folded in neat stacks between us, but neither of us moved to end the Mummyent. Mummy sat back on her heels, palms resting on her thighs, studying me with that gentle, searching look that always unraveled me.
“You’re sure you don’t have questions?” she asked again, voice low, almost coaxing. “I’d rather you learn from someone who loves you than from strangers on a screen.”
I swallowed hard, shaking my head, but my eyes betrayed me—flicking helplessly to the soft rise and fall of her breasts beneath the thin kurti, to the shadowed hollow between her thighs where the palazzo pants draped loose.
She read the hunger there, but mistook it for simple teenage curiosity. A small, reassuring smile touched her lips. “All right, then. A little proper education never hurt anyone.”
Before I could protest, she reached for the hem of her kurti and lifted it slowly, folding the fabric up to just beneath her breasts. The motion revealed the smooth plane of her midriff—soft olive skin with the faint silver lines of stretch marks from carrying me, the gentle curve of her belly that rose and fell with her calm breaths. Beneath, she wore a simple ivory cotton bra, the cups full and slightly worn, lace edging framing the generous swell of her breasts. Her nipples, dark and relaxed, pressed softly against the fabric, visible as faint shadows.