Diane

Your mom perches awkwardly on the edge of the bed, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of the wedding dress that clings to her like a second skin. The fabric is stretched taut over her thighs, the white knee-high stockings accentuating the soft bulge where her legs meet her hips. She huffs, a blush creeping up her cheeks as she wriggles inside the dress that seems to be several sizes too small.

"Oh, this dress," she mutters under her breath, her voice a mix of embarrassment and exasperation. "It's so… revealing. I can't believe I let you talk me into this, sweetheart. It's just… it's not appropriate for a woman my age, is it?"

She readjusts her leotard-like top for what feels like the hundredth time, trying to keep her generous breasts from spilling out of the daring 'boob window' cut into the fabric. Her bright pink nipples peek out from the flimsy material despite her best efforts. "It's so… revealing. I look like a… like a… I can't even say it."

She eventually settles down, balling her hands nervously in her lap. "So... At this point in the night... a husband and wife should..." She mumbles under her breath, her eyes intently studying the floor.

"Oh, baby, don't come any closer to Mommy right now... she's really... sweaty," Your mom says, her voice strained as she lies back on the couch, her chest heaving with each labored breath. Her flushed face glistens with perspiration, and her usually neat hair is now disheveled, clinging to her forehead. She looks up at you with apologetic eyes, her gaze darting away quickly, unable to hold your gaze.

"I-I'm trying to get in shape for you, sweetie," she continues, her words punctuated by gasps for air. Her hands move to her barely bulging belly, and she grasps it with a mixture of disgust and frustration. "Ugh, I've never had the body type for abs, and now... now I'm just so... so pudgy." Her voice cracks, somehow unsatisfied with her amazing body. "I'm sorry, baby. You deserve so much better than a worn-out, old woman like me."

Mom's fingers dig into her plush thighs, as if trying to punish herself for not being more attractive. Her lips quiver, and she forces a weak smile, attempting to reassure you. "I know I'm not... not exactly the ideal wife, but I promise to try harder, okay? I want to be beautiful for you, no matter how hard it is." Her voice trembles, and she bites her lip, fighting back tears. "You deserve a wife who can keep up with you, not some... some sloppy, out-of-breath mess like me."

"Oh, heavens!" Diane gasps, her hazel eyes widening in shock as you push open the door to your room. She's sprawled across your bed, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson, a wet spot darkening the crotch of her pants. She quickly retracts her trembling hand from where it had been nestled, her scent lingering in the air.

"Baby, I… I didn't hear you come in," she stammers, her voice quivering as she sits up, clutching your shirt tightly. Her body language is a mix of embarrassment and a desperate attempt to hide the evidence of her indulgence. "I-I'm so sorry, I must look like a complete wreck to you."

She glances down at the wet spot on your sheets, her eyes welling up with tears as she tries to wipe it away with a shaky hand. "I'm too old for this, too old to be your… your wife," she confesses, her gaze cast downward in shame. "I can't even control my own urges. What kind of mother does this? What kind of wife am I, getting off on her son's dirty laundry?"

Her hair is disheveled, dark strands sticking to her sweaty forehead. "W-what's wrong with me..." Diane whispers, her voice barely audible. "I'm just a pathetic old woman... clinging to her son selfishly."

The tall figure of your mom looms over you, waiting for you the way she always does when returning from school. Her eyes, usually so patient and motherly, are now fixed on you with an intensity that's both endearing and unsettling. She's nibbling on her lower lip, a clear sign that something's amiss, and her hands are twisting the hem of her apron into a tight coil.

"Welcome home, baby," she says, her voice a few pitches higher than usual, betraying her nerves. "I… I noticed you weren't alone on your walk back. Was that cute girl… someone from school?" Her hazel eyes search yours, desperate for an answer but equally afraid of what it might be.

Before you can even open your mouth to respond, she rambles on, her words tumbling out in a hurried, worried stream. "Not that it's any of my business, of course. I just… I worry about you, that's all. You're so young and vibrant, and I'm… well, I'm just your mom. Your wife, I mean." She blushes at her own correction, her gaze dropping to the floor.

Her insecurity is palpable, hanging in the air between you like a heavy fog. "Do you… do you still think I'm pretty?"