[Note - There's no sex, but this chapter is very horny so… R-18?]
My brain immediately stops working. Every coherent thought I was just having evaporates instantly.
The living room is bathed in morning sunlight streaming through the windows, giving everything this soft, golden quality. And the air, jeez, even the air is different. There's this pleasant warmth to it, tinged with a subtle scent of sweat. It's not harsh or unpleasant, but rather... inviting. Like clean linen left in the sun, mixed with something faintly sweet and feminine.
And there, in the center of it all, is Fiona.
My mom.
My impossibly, devastatingly attractive mom.
She's wearing a forest green sports bra that clings desperately onto her curves. The fabric is clearly high-quality, some technical, moisture-wicking material. Wide, elegant straps cross over her back, and the deep V-neckline plunges down in a way that frames the soft, generous swell of her cleavage like a renaissance painting. The cups are molded and lightly padded, giving her breasts this perfect, lifted shape that maintains its form even as she moves. But, unbelievably, despite all that structural support, there's still movement. Still a subtle jiggle and bounce with every shift of her body, a gentle rippling that draws the eye like a magnet.
The matching high-waisted leggings are even worse. Or better? I don't know anymore. They're made of this buttery-soft, four-way stretch material that clings to every single curve of her body like a second skin. The high-rise waistband sits at her natural waist, emphasizing the dramatic narrowness there before flaring out to her wide, childbearing hips. The fabric has this subtle sheen that catches the light, highlighting every contour, every gentle curve. And when she moves, oh God, when she moves, everything ripples and flows like water. Her thick thighs compress and release with each adjustment of her pose, the flesh soft and elastic beneath the compression fabric, jiggling subtly in a way that's almost hypnotic.
Her long emerald hair cascades down her back in straight, silky sheets, swaying gently with her movements. And there's this small cutout detail at the small of her back, just a little window of flawless, porcelain skin that somehow makes everything more intimate, more personal.
I'm frozen in the doorway, my resume still clutched in one hand, unable to process what I'm seeing.
She's currently in downward dog, and I have a perfect view of her sex. The taut material clings to her, tracing the soft, inviting curve of her slit, each subtle shift of her hips accentuating the contours. Her ass is elevated, the leggings stretched taut across the impossible roundness of it, and I can see every subtle movement as she adjusts her weight. The fabric strains, pulled tight, and the sheer size of her is impossible to ignore.
Then she transitions into cobra pose, arching her back in a way that thrusts her chest forward. Her breasts, confined by the sports bra but refusing to be contained, press together creating a deep valley of cleavage. They compress slightly against the floor, then bounce gently, actually bounce, as she lifts up into the pose.
The room's warmth feels more pronounced now, wrapping around me like a blanket. That pleasant scent of light perspiration grows stronger: not overwhelming, just present. Clean sweat mixed with her usual perfume of warm honey and morning dew, underscored by lavender detergent. It's intoxicating in the most literal sense, making my head feel light and dizzy.
She flows into cat-cow pose, and I watch, God help me, I watch, as her spine curves and her ass lifts up, then rounds as she arches the other direction. Her breasts sway with the movement, hanging heavily for a moment before bouncing back as she reverses the arch. The fabric of her sports bra shifts slightly with each repetition, and I can see the exact moment where the gentle pressure creates a small gap that reveals just a hint more skin.
Everything about her moves with this fluid grace, but there's weight to it. Softness. Her thighs ripple and jiggle with every adjustment, the thick flesh compressing where it meets itself, creating these gentle waves that travel up and down her legs. Her ass does the same, firm enough to maintain its shape, soft enough that every movement sends little tremors through it.
When she shifts into child's pose, folding forward with her forehead to the mat, her ass is elevated again, and those impossible hips are on full display. The leggings are working overtime, the seams screaming out for mercy. I can see the definition of her legs, the way her thighs press together, thick and soft and absolutely mesmerizing. Her breasts compress against her thighs, squishing outward slightly, still visible from my angle despite her folded position.
The scent in the room continues to intensify as she progresses with her movements, that pleasant, intimate smell of exertion getting stronger, while mixing with her natural fragrance. It's not locker-room sweat; it's softer, sweeter, with hints of her body wash and perfume still clinging to her skin. Clean and feminine and making my teenage brain malfunction in ways that probably require professional intervention.
She transitions to warrior pose, standing now, one leg extended back while the other bends forward. This position does absolutely criminal things to her figure. Her ass and thighs are perfectly highlighted, the extended leg showing off every curve, every line. The leggings shimmer slightly in the sunlight, that subtle sheen emphasizing the roundness of her backside, the thickness of her thighs. Her breasts shift with her raised arms, bouncing slightly as she settles into the pose, the sports bra's neckline revealing that dangerous expanse of cleavage.
I should leave. I should turn around right now and walk back out the door.
But my feet are rooted to the spot like I've been flash-frozen, my eyes are glued to her, drinking in every detail like a man dying of thirst.
She moves into triangle pose, bending to the side, and now I have a side view that showcases her entire hourglass figure. That impossibly slim waist, the dramatic flare of her hips, the weight of her breasts pulling at the sports bra as gravity does its work. Everything jiggles slightly as she reaches down to touch her ankle: her thighs, her ass, even her breasts have this gentle, mesmerizing movement.
The morning light catches on a thin sheen of perspiration on her exposed skin: her arms, her shoulders, that little cutout at her lower back. She's glowing, literally glowing, and the effect is enhanced by the slight dampness darkening the fabric of her outfit in strategic places.
I'm actively dying. This is what death feels like. I stand there, my teenage brain overheating from a combination of shame and arousal, while my eyes keep showing me a slice of heaven.
She straightens up, rolling her shoulders, and her breasts bounce with the movement, a full, heavy bounce that makes the sports bra's structural integrity look like a suggestion rather than a guarantee. They settle back into place, still maintaining that perfect shape, and I can see her breathing: the rise and fall of her chest, the way the fabric stretches and releases with each breath.
"Hi, darling!"
The voice snaps me out of my trance, and I realize she's looking directly at me now, those brilliant emerald eyes sparkling with warmth and happiness. Her face is slightly flushed from the exercise, a healthy pink glow on her porcelain cheeks, and there's a thin sheen of perspiration on her forehead that catches the light.
"Oh, this is a surprise!" She exclaims, facing me, "Why are you up so early today?" she asks, using the back of her hand to brush a strand of emerald hair from her damp forehead.
"Hi, Mom," I manage, my voice coming out strangled. My brain is actively smoking. I can feel individual neurons surrendering, waving little white flags. "Um, yeah. I, uh... I got a part-time job. At a café. It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing… I uh, just went out this morning and got hired."
Fiona's expression shifts immediately. Her eyes widen, and then she pouts, actually pouts, her full pink lips pushing out in a way that emphasizes their softness, their kissability…
No. Stop. Brain, I'm begging you.
"Aww, you were looking for a part-time job? Why didn't you tell me!" She maintains the pout for another few seconds, her lower lip jutting out adorably, before her face breaks into a radiant smile that could power a small city. "Just kidding! You seem so happy about it! And if you're happy, I'm happy!"
Before I can process what's happening, she's walking toward me.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
Each step sends ripples through her body. Her breasts bounce gently with the movement, that subtle jiggle enhanced by the reduced padding in the sports bra's design. Her thighs brush against each other with each step, the thick flesh compressing and releasing, creating these mesmerizing waves. Her hips sway naturally, emphasizing the hourglass shape, and I can see every muscle in her long legs flexing and releasing beneath the leggings.
The scent of her grows stronger as she approaches: that intoxicating mixture of light sweat, warm honey, morning dew, and lavender. It's overwhelming in the best and worst way, flooding my senses and making rational thought impossible.
She wraps me in a hug, and my entire world narrows to the sensation of her body against mine.
My face gets pressed directly into her chest because I'm five-foot-two and she's five-foot-ten and the universe has a sadistic sense of humor. Her breasts cushion either side of my head, enveloping me in softness that defies description. They're warm, so warm, and I can feel them compress gently against my cheeks through the fabric of her sports bra. There's firmness there, structure from the bra, but also this yielding softness that seems to mold her breasts around my face, accommodating my presence. The slight dampness of her perspiration has made the fabric cling even more closely to her skin, and I can feel the heat radiating from her body.
Her arms wrap around me, pulling me closer, and I feel her entire torso press against me. The scent is overwhelming now, and I'm drowning in it. Clean sweat and honey and lavender and something uniquely her, something warm and maternal and feminine all at once. I can't help but inhale, taking a deep whiff of her scent. I can feel the rise and fall of her breathing, the way her chest expands and contracts, her breasts shifting slightly with each breath.
I'm getting hard.
Oh God, I'm getting hard.
I can't help it. My body is responding on pure instinct, blood rushing south despite every conscious effort to think about literally anything else. Sports statistics. The GDP of Norway. The periodic table. Nothing works.
"But tell me before you plan to do something like this next time, okay?" she says, her voice gentle but firm as she pulls back slightly. Her hands are on my shoulders now, and she's looking down at me with those loving emerald eyes.
"Yes, Mommy," I reply automatically, still too dazed to think straight, my face still burning from where it was pressed into her chest.
Wait… Did… did I really just call her Mommy?
Fiona doesn't seem to notice, or if she does, she doesn't comment on it. She releases me from the hug, her hands trailing down my arms for a second before letting go, and returns to her yoga mat.
I should leave. Every survival instinct I have is screaming at me to evacuate immediately, to put as much distance between myself and this situation as physically possible. But again, I can't help but continue watching.
She settles back onto her mat, positioning herself with her legs spread wide in a V-shape, sitting upright. From this angle, I have a perfect view of her entire figure: the way the high-waisted leggings cut across her slim waist, the way her breasts rest heavily on her chest, the way her thighs look thick and soft even in this stretched position.
"Baby, could you help me with something?" she says, glancing back at me with those beautiful emerald eyes.
Every alarm bell in my head is ringing. Evacuate. Flee. Fake a medical emergency.
"I'm trying to do Upavistha Konasana, but I'm having trouble getting deep enough into the stretch. Could you help guide my legs?"
No. The answer is no. It has to be no. My survival depends on saying no.
But then she looks at me with those trusting, loving eyes, and I realize I'm physically incapable of refusing. It's one of my defining character traits, like being nerdy, or loving my sisters, I just can't say no to honest requests from family.
"Of course, Mom," I hear myself say, sealing my fate.