8.
Mom lifted the bundle from the box, placing it on her lap. She flipped through the items… a crisp, white button-down shirt… a dark blue and grey Tartan plaid skirt. Long, navy blue socks. And, still in the box – a dark brown cardigan sweater, with the school crest… and a pair of worn leather loafers. “Do you really think it will still fit?”
“Only one to find out Mom.”
“Okay – but you have to promise not to laugh at me if it doesn’t fit.” She stood in front of the mirror. Putting the clothes down on the bed.
“I won’t laugh Mom – I promise.”
“Good. And don’t look at my ass either!” She kicked off her sneakers, bent at the waist, and pulled her yoga pants down to her ankles, and over her feet. As she bent, her firm, shapely cheeks parted, revealing that pink thong as it passed gently over her just barely hidden anus. The pink lace nearly disappeared between her generous labia. On either side of that lacy strand, Mom’s lips spread like the dewy petals of a rose… vibrant pink toward the center, a rich golden olive tone toward the outer edges. And between those glistening lips, Mom’s thong was darkly saturated with an abundance of juicy, creamy mom-nectar.
“Hey I told you not to look at my ass!”
“I’m not Mom. I’m looking at your pussy.”
She stood up quickly, looking at herself in the mirror – before exclaiming, “My goodness, sorry – I didn’t realize I was so… exposed.” She quickly tucked herself back into the skimpy material and straightened out the soaked thong as much as possible. “Now, hand me that skirt.”
Dutifully, I complied, and Mom stepped into the skirt and pulled it up to her waist. She smiled as the waistband hooks clicked home comfortably. “So far, so good.” She pulled her camisole off over hear head, looking at me in the mirror. “Now the shirt please.”
In no time she had the simple white shirt tucked in and buttoned up. And though it fit well, it was clear that Mom had indeed filled out in one area… her tits. Her lace-clad dark nipples pressed urgently against the thin white cotton shirt. She undid the top three buttons. “Ah that’s better – let my girls breathe!”
Then, Mom was looking in the mirror and adjusting the height of her skirt. “This is how we were supposed to wear it.” She showed me the hemline – about 3 inches above her knee. “But when we wanted to be a little wild, we’d wear the skirt like this…” Mom hiked up the waistband of her skirt – nearly to her ribcage. The hem line ascended a good 4 or 5 inches – exposing the lovely olive skin of her shapely thighs.
She sat back down on the bed and pulled the long dark socks up her well-turned calves. Every so often, her skirt would ride a bit high, and I’d get a glimpse of that pink lace between her legs. Mom didn’t seem to mind.
Standing, she slipped into her penny loafers. Turning, she looked at the box once more. “Ah – there it is.” She held up a narrow tortoise-shell hair band. Undoing her pony tail, Mom bobbed her log dark hair up and down a bit, and then put the hair band into place. It gently framed her temples, while her locks flowed freely down her neck and shoulders. I’ve always loved that fact that Mom has a well-defined widow’s peak – which makes her look just a little bit wicked – in the best possible way.
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