My mom and I got drunk and compared our tits and pussies for no reason!!

The humid air in our living room was thick with the sweet, skunky scent of weed and the sharp tang of the cheap vodka we’d been mixing with cranberry juice. It was late, the kind of late where the world outside the windows is pitch black and utterly silent, and it feels like you’re the only two people left in existence. My mom, curled up on the other end of the couch, let out a giggle that was more of a snort, a sound I hadn’t heard since I was a kid. She was always so put together, so mom, but tonight, the vodka had loosened something in her, and the weed had smoothed out all her sharp, worried edges. I was feeling pretty loose myself, my head swimming pleasantly, my body feeling heavy and warm and tingly.

“You know,” she slurred, pointing a finger at me that wobbled slightly, “you really did get my body. God, looking at you is like looking in a mirror from thirty years ago. It’s fucking weird.”

I laughed, taking another sip from my glass. “Thanks, I think? Though your back probably didn’t hurt all the time thirty years ago.”

“Oh, hush,” she said, waving me off. Then she shifted on the couch, her movements slow and deliberate. She reached out, and her hand, warm and surprisingly soft, landed on my knee. It was a mom-like gesture, comforting and familiar. But then her fingers began to trace idle patterns on my bare skin, just above the hem of my shorts, and the familiarity began to curdle into something else. Something new. My breath hitched, but I didn’t move. I just watched her face, her eyes hazy and unfocused, a small smile playing on her lips.

Her hand drifted upward, from my knee to my thigh, her touch feather-light but sending jolts of electricity straight through me. I felt a flush spread across my chest, a heat that had nothing to do with the alcohol. This was wrong. This was so profoundly, undeniably wrong. But the part of my brain that screamed wrong was muffled, buried under a thick blanket of THC and a dizzying, morbid curiosity. Her fingers crept higher, brushing against the outside of my breast through my thin t-shirt. I held my breath.

“See?” she murmured, her voice a low, husky thing I didn’t recognize. “Just like mine. Perfect handful.” She gave a soft, experimental squeeze and my nipple hardened instantly, a sharp point of sensation against the palm of her hand. A small, involuntary sound escaped my throat, a gasp that was half protest, half something else entirely.

I should have pulled away. I knew I should have. But my body felt like it was made of stone, heavy and immobile on the worn couch cushions. All I could do was stare at her hand on my breast, her fingers now kneading me with a lazy possessiveness that made my head spin. This was my mom. This was the woman who had breastfed me. The cognitive dissonance was so violent it was almost nauseating, but it was also, perversely, the most thrilling thing I had ever experienced.

Then her other hand snaked around behind me and cupped my ass, giving it a firm, approving grope. “And this too. All me. You’re a little carbon copy, baby girl.”

That’s when something in her seemed to snap, or maybe it was in me. The lazy curiosity in her eyes sharpened into a glint of pure, unadulterated hunger. With a determination that belied her drunken state, she pushed herself up from the couch, standing unsteadily before me. “Okay,” she announced, as if we’d been discussing it for hours. “Enough with the clothes. I wanna see.”

My heart was hammering against my ribs so hard I thought they might crack. “See what?” I whispered, my voice hoarse.

“Everything,” she said simply, and then she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her own soft cotton pajama shorts and panties and pushed them down in one swift motion, stepping out of them with a little wobble. She stood there, completely naked, and my brain short-circuited. My mom. Naked. Her body was incredible for fifty-three, full and womanly and soft in a way my twenty-year-old frame wasn’t. Her breasts were huge and heavy, with large, dark areolas and nipples that were already hard peaks. And below her soft stomach was a full, beautiful bush of dark hair, a neat triangle that looked so mature, so womanly, so different from my own bareness.

She saw me staring and laughed, a low, throaty sound. “Don’t be shy. This is what you’ll look like one day. Now come on, let me see my work.” She gestured for me to stand.

Moving on autopilot, I got to my feet, my legs trembling. My fingers felt numb and clumsy as I pulled my t-shirt over my head and then pushed my own shorts and underwear down my legs. The cool air of the room hit my bare skin, and I crossed my arms over my chest instinctively, suddenly feeling exposed and young next to her confident nakedness.

“None of that,” she chided gently, stepping closer. She took my wrists and pulled my arms away, her eyes roaming over my body with an intensity that was both clinical and deeply carnal. “My God,” she breathed. “It really is like looking at a photograph.” Her gaze traveled downward, and I felt myself blushing from head to toe. “Now, let’s see the important part. Turn around. Bend over for me. Let me see that pretty little pussy.”

The command, so crude and direct, sent a flood of wetness between my legs that was immediate and shocking. I loved this. I loved how wrong it was. I loved feeling like a complete and total slut, being ordered around by my own naked mother. Without a second thought, I turned and bent over, placing my hands on my knees and presenting myself to her. I heard her sharp intake of breath.

“So pink,” she murmured, and I felt her fingertips gently brushing against me, parting me. “So pretty and bare. You’re already so wet, baby girl. Does this turn you on? Does it turn you on showing your mommy your cunt?”

I couldn’t speak. I just moaned, pushing my ass back against her hand slightly, the need for contact becoming an ache. She chuckled. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Her touch disappeared, and a moment later I heard her fumbling with her phone. The low, rhythmic beat of a porn video started to play, the sound of a woman moaning obscenely filling the silent room.

She came back around to face me, her phone in her hand, her eyes dark with lust. “Let’s watch a little movie,” she said, pulling me down onto the couch beside her. We were both naked, skin to skin, and the feeling of her soft, warm body against mine was the most alien and natural feeling in the world. She held the phone between us, but neither of us was really watching. Our breathing was synced, heavy and ragged.

I don’t know who moved first. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was her. But suddenly, our faces were inches apart, and then her lips were on mine. They were softer than I imagined, and she tasted like vodka and cranberries and mom. Her tongue pushed into my mouth, and I met it with my own, the kiss deepening into something hungry and desperate. One of her hands cupped my breast again, pinching my nipple roughly, while her other hand slid between my legs.

“My good girl,” she whispered against my mouth as her fingers found my clit, rubbing slow, firm circles exactly where I needed it. “My perfect, naughty girl.”

I cried out, my hips bucking against her hand. I was so close already, the sheer taboo of it all winding me tighter than any touch ever could. I reached for her, my own hand finding the wet heat between her legs, and I pushed two fingers inside her. She was so wet, so hot and tight, and she moaned into my mouth, a deep, guttural sound that didn’t sound like her at all.

We moved together on that old couch, a tangle of limbs and shared DNA, the porn video forgotten on the phone beside us. It was a frenzy of hands and mouths, of her sucking on my nipples while I fingered her, of her showing me how she liked her clit rubbed before doing the same to me. The room filled with our moans, our whispered, filthy encouragements. “Yes, mommy,” I whimpered as her tongue replaced her fingers. “Just like that.”

Her orgasm hit her first. She screamed into my thigh, her whole body seizing up, her back arching off the couch. Feeling her come apart because of me, because of what I was doing to her, was the final push I needed. My own climax crashed over me a second later, a mind-blowing, convulsive wave of pleasure so intense I saw white behind my eyelids, my entire body shaking uncontrollably as I soaked her hand.

We collapsed together, a sweaty, sticky, breathless heap. The silence returned, now deafening, broken only by the sound of our ragged breathing. We didn’t speak. We didn’t look at each other. We just lay there in the aftermath, the reality of what we had done settling over us like a heavy, irreversible fog. And the craziest part? The most pleasurable, mind-blowing orgasm of my entire life, and all I could think was that I couldn’t wait to do it again.