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She was my mother, after all. It was wrong, forbidden, and she had always raised me to be a gentleman. And gentleman do not stare at their mother's quivering bosom, or her luscious long legs, or at the juncture of her thighs, wondering whether she was shaved or hairy, what the lips of her sex might look like, if her labia minora might poke, enticingly, outside of that mound.But she made it so terribly difficult for me not to look. There were days when, for reasons known only to herself, she wore a bra, panties, and a garter belt with stockings. Those days were always the worst, for they had the most profound effect on me; I tried to avoid her, but at the same time I wanted to see her, to abandon the charade and make my feelings for her known.Today, however, she wore a fetching matched brassiere and briefs, pale blue and embroidered with flowers, roses twining across the material that contained her decolletage. The panties were masterpieces, with sheer panels that displayed her soft,. Sweat poured off of his temples and soaked though the arm pits of his shirt. His chiseled biceps appeared strong and bold. I found myself wondering what it would be like to have those arms ravishing my body. “You need to drink some water,” I said. I stood up and approached him, the glass in my hand. I was nervous, but at the same time, curious and confidant. Julian took the glass from my outstretched hand. I watched as he gulped down the water. I untied the knot to my satin robe, allowing it to open just slightly. I don’t know why I was so turned on. Julio handed me the empty glass. I watched as his eyes locked on to my chest. “I have to go,” Julian nervously remarked. “No,” I said softly, as I intentionally parted my rode to expose more of myself. “I know you saw me walking across my living room,” I said, “Does my nakedness bother you?” “No ma'am,” Julian responded. “Oh please,” I responded, stepping closer, “Please don’t be so formal.” “Yes ma’am,” Julian responded. I was now.
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