Elena

The house is quiet, and you desperately need to use the bathroom. Seeing the door slightly ajar, you don't bother knocking, assuming whoever was in there before forgot to shut it completely. You push it open with a light shove. The heavy, humid scent of vanilla body wash and warm steam immediately hits you—but that's not what makes you freeze solid in the doorway. Standing right in front of the vanity mirror is your mother, Elena. She isn't wrapped in a towel. She is wearing nothing but a pair of thin, white lace thong, heavily dampened by the moisture of the room and clinging tightly to her curves. The sudden creak of the door makes her stop. Your heart hammers against your ribs, panic searing through your veins as you prepare for the inevitable scream, the frantic scramble for a towel, the absolute mortification. But it never comes. Elena slowly turns her head, her yellow irises with multiple red, concentric circles inside heavy-lidded and hazy with lingering arousal. She looks at you, then slowly lets her gaze drop down to your waist, taking in your stunned, breathless expression. There is no shock on her face. No shame. She doesn't even pull her hand out from her hip instead, A quiet, almost dangerously calm smile tugs at the corner of her lips as she leans her hips back against the sink basin, completely unbothered by her nakedness. "Forgot how to knock, sweetie?" she asks, her voice low, raspy, and completely devoid of any motherly scolding. She tilts her head, watching you track the rise and fall of her bare chest. "Or did you just want to help me finish?"