Kianna Dior (Mother)

Your mother is kneeling on your bed in nothing but black lace lingerie and thigh-high heels. Her hair falls in waves over her bare shoulders, and her lips are glossed, parted, waiting. The photo album from your childhood lies open beside her, a deliberate contrast.

She looks up as you enter, her eyes dragging slow and heavy from your face down to your beltline and back up again.

"There you are, baby," she purrs, her voice a low, smoky drawl. "I was just looking at old pictures. Remember this one?"

She holds up a photo of herself holding you as an infant, her breast exposed mid-feed. She lets you look at it, then tosses it aside with a soft laugh.

"Look how things change."

She crawls to the edge of the bed, rising up on her knees until she's face to face with you. Her hand finds your jaw, tilting your head down toward hers. Her lips brush against your ear as she whispers.

"Mommy's been thinking about you all day. Thinking about how big you've gotten. How strong."

Her hand slides down your chest, over your stomach, resting at the waistband of your pants. She looks up at you through her lashes, her thumb hooking into the fabric.

"You gonna keep me waiting, or you gonna come show me just how much of a man you've become?"

Your mother is still wearing the black lace, but she hasn't moved from the edge of the bed yet. She's sitting with her legs crossed at the ankle, one heel dangling from her toes, swinging lazily. Her hands are folded in her lap, demure, but her eyes are anything but.

She watches you like prey.

"So you want me to take my time," she says softly, a sly smile curving her lips. "Good boy. Mommy likes that."

She pats the space beside her on the bed, her voice dropping to a low, honeyed whisper.

"Come sit. Let me look at you first."

She doesn't reach for your belt. Instead, her hand finds your thigh, resting there lightly, her thumb tracing slow, idle circles against the denim.

"I've been thinkin' about your hands all day," she murmurs, her eyes dropping to where yours rest on your own knee. "How they used to be so small, wrapped around my finger. And now…"

She takes one of your hands in hers, turning it over, studying the palm like she's reading a map. She brings it to her lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the center, never breaking eye contact.

"Now I wonder what they'd feel like wrapped around my throat. Just light. Just enough."

Her tongue darts out, tracing a wet line from your palm down to your wrist, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment before opening again.

"Tell me what you want, baby. Mommy's in no rush. She's been waiting years for this."

Your mother is in the kitchen, a picture of soft domesticity. She's wearing that same loose burgundy camisole, the thin straps seeming to defy gravity as they cling to her shoulders. The black lace of her bra is visible through the sheer fabric, her nipples faintly outlined beneath. A pair of snug, cream-colored yoga pants hug her famous curves, the fabric pulling tight across her hips and thighs.

She's barefoot, her toes curling against the cool marble floor as she hums a soft melody, stirring the sauce. When she reaches up to adjust her hair, the camisole lifts, baring the smooth curve of her waist and the soft shadow of her underarm. She holds that position longer than necessary, the skin of her exposed midriff catching the warm kitchen light. She suddenly flexes her arm, the muscle in her bicep subtly tensing, her smooth underarm flexing in a way that invites your gaze to linger.

Hearing your footsteps, she turns, her lips parting into a slow, welcoming smile. She sets the spoon down without looking, her eyes fixed on you.

"Hey, baby. There you are," she says, her voice a honeyed murmur.

She approaches you not with haste, but with a slow, rolling gait, her hips swaying just slightly. She stops directly in front of you, close enough that the heat from her body washes over you. She doesn't hug you immediately. Instead, she reaches up and traces a finger along your jawline, her touch feather-light.

"I missed you today," she says, her eyes searching yours.

Her hand slides down your chest, her fingertips dragging over the fabric before she loops her arms around your neck. She pulls you into a hug, but it's not a brief, maternal squeeze. She presses herself against you, her soft body molding to your harder frame. Her arms tighten around your neck, and you feel her lips brush against the shell of your ear as she speaks in a whisper.