The Saturday sun baked Mom's thin white blouse as I knelt in her flowerbed, bees humming and damp soil scent swirling around me. I felt her body—strong calves from weekends spent kneeling, the soft stretch of fabric over her breasts—and knew this was the form I now inhabited.
Dad, shirtless and dusty, wrestled a stubborn root by the oak. His biceps flexed with each pull, a bead of sweat sliding down his shoulder.
“Almost got it, hon!” he grunted. With a final yank, the root came free.
Then I saw Mom—my own body—at the back door, awkward in my clothes, pushing out the mower. Her face was tight with perplexity.
Dad called, “Hey, Pete! Lawn duty?”
She nodded, eyes flicking to me, to my chest beneath Mary’s shirt. I knew she sensed my glance, the memory of last night.
A wicked impulse rose. I stretched Mary’s arms to prune a high rose branch, the shirt pulling snug across her breasts. It was a natural move for her—yet for me, it was a deliberate, silent taunt.
Then, I casually undid the top two buttons of Mom’s shirt, pulling the fabric slightly open. It wasn't a blatant expose; it was just a loose, comfortable adjustment, as if the heat of the garden had made the collar constricting.
I felt the ache of arousal crest in this body—her body. It was impossible to hide; the nipples pressed hard against cotton.
A peculiar boldness settled over me, warm and insistent. The kind of boldness that comes from knowing you hold all the cards, from feeling invincible.
Dad glanced up, and, just for a moment, I pressed my breasts together with my upper arms. I watched his eyes: the way they slid down, the way he looked quickly away, then back again.
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