The Weekly Ritual

"But sometimes in the shower I'll..."

She pauses, and for the first time I notice a hint of pink flush her cheeks. "I'll use the shower head, you know, down there."

I feel a flutter low in my belly at her admission. Suddenly a mental image forms in my mind, unbidden: My beautiful mother, naked and dripping wet in the shower. Blonde hair slicked back, her perky breasts wet with droplets of water, nipples hard. One hand braced against the shower wall while the other angles the stream of water between her...

Enough Eva

I shake my head visibly, as if I can knock the intrusive image loose from my mind with the motion. But as I shift in my seat, I become acutely aware of a growing ache between my own legs...

Mom's face turns a deeper shade of pink as she seems to realize she may have shared too much. "Sorry, you probably don't want to hear stuff like that about your mom," she says with an embarrassed laugh.

"No, it's okay!" I blurt out, a little too enthusiastically, before I can stop myself.

Mom looks surprised. Despite my burning cheeks, I feel compelled to continue. "I mean...ok this isn't exactly normal evening conversation, but I...I think it's good to be open about things like that," I say shyly.

I take a deep breath. "And, honestly, it is kind of interesting to hear...I don't really have anyone else to talk to about this stuff."

Mom studies me for a moment, and I force myself to maintain eye contact even as I grip my sweaty palms together in my lap under the counter.

Finally she smiles, her expression softening. "Well, I'm always here if you want to talk more."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Thanks, Mom."

A lingering tension hangs in the air between us. I sense Mom's hesitation, but I can't deny my own curiosity. Although deep down I know it's not just innocent curiosity motivating me to continue this line of discussion. Truthfully, the thought of discussing sex so openly with her makes my whole body thrum with nervous energy.

I take a sip of water to steady my voice. "So...does the shower head really work that well?"

My boldness surprises us both. But despite her initial embarrassment, I can tell Mom is intrigued by my interest. A new connection sparks between us, and I find myself leaning in closer without realizing it.

"Honestly? It works amazingly well," she says in a lower voice, like she's sharing a secret. "The right setting and angle, it's perfect clit stimulation."

I practically choke again at her use of the word. "Clit." I can't remember her ever saying anything so bluntly sexual in front of me before. But hearing my elegant mother say it ignites a roiling heat between my legs.

I feel myself being pushed along, compelled to continue this taboo discussion by some unseen force. "Have you ever, uh, used anything else in the shower? Or like, in your bedroom when you're alone?"

Mom taps her spoon thoughtfully against her lip, considering my question.

"Well, I do have a couple...toys," she says delicately. "But to be honest, most of the time I find I enjoy using my own fingers the most. It's...well kinda of like this..." I nearly flinch as she starts to reach across the counter...

But she stops halfway and demonstrates by lightly tracing her index and middle finger in slow circles on the countertop. I fixate on the graceful motion of her fingers.

"Using your fingers allows you to really explore and find what feels good. The clit is the most sensitive of course." Her circles grow tighter. "But there are other erogenous zones too, like the nipples."

Involuntarily, my own nipples harden into stiff peaks under my sweater at her words. In my mind's eye, I imagine myself sliding my shaking hands under my sweater, grazing the bottom of my breasts with trembling fingers before moving higher, tracing little circles around the pebbled bumps. And then, gently, rolling the sensitive nubs between two fingers....

But I resist the urge, gripping the counter tightly instead.

I catch the faintest flicker of her eyes glancing down at my petite bust before they return my gaze. Her breathing seems to be taking on a more rapid pace. Does she notice? Does she see how her words are affecting me? I wonder.

She continues, "Even just stroking along the sides of the breasts, or down the stomach. You can really draw out the experience, edge yourself along..." Her fingers trail languidly down her own torso, delicately outlining her curves over the worn fabric of her sweatshirt

My eyes follow her fingers, up the length of her delicate arm, along her collarbone to the curve of her neck...then lower, to the generous swell of cleavage visible above the loose neckline of her shirt.

"But really, any kind of touch can feel good in the right context."

She reaches out, all the way across the counter this time, and gently runs her index finger up along the exposed flesh of my wrist. I shiver at the delicate contact, the light stroke igniting sparks along my skin.

"It's all about taking your time to build the tension and anticipation," she explains. Her finger continues trailing slowly up and down my arm.

I force myself to take slow, measured breaths, but I know my cheeks are flushed and arousal courses through me. The ache between my legs intensifies as Mom's feather-light touch sends tingles through my hypersensitive body.

"I like to start very light, just barely touching myself here and there." Mom's finger traces delicately down along my shoulder, then slowly along my side.

I tense, intensely tuned in to every spot her finger makes contact with my body. Down, down her finger trails along my ribs, my waist, eliciting a line of sparks. Finally, lightly, teasingly, her finger reaches my bare thigh.

She traces it along the length of my leg, igniting every nerve ending. When her finger reaches my knee, she pauses. Her half-lidded blue eyes lock onto mine, holding my gaze. I notice her cheeks are tinged a slight crimson hue. I part my lips slightly, my chest rising and falling quicker now despite my attempts to stay composed.

"The key is taking your time to build sensation. It creates a much deeper pleasure than just rushing into...penetration."

As my mother says the word "penetration," her eyes flick down my body for just a split second before meeting my gaze again. The subtle movement sends a jolt of electricity through me.

I swallow hard, shifting in my seat as I press my thighs together. I'm suddenly aware again of my own nakedness underneath my school sweater. My nipples, stiffened into hard peaks, rub against the soft inside of my sweater with even the slightest movement. And there's now a slick dampness between my legs that makes my bare skin glide smoothly when I rub them together. The feeling is delicious, and I imagine myself slowly parting my glistening thighs, draping a long lean leg on either side of the stool, granting my beautiful mother an unobstructed view of my most private area. She would see how wet I am, the evidence of my arousal practically dripping down onto the seat.

I'd run my fingers teasingly along my slick folds before finally dipping one inside my entrance. My back would arch in pleasure as I pumped the finger in and out, using my other hand to circle my swollen clit. A flush would creep up her chest and neck as she followed the motions of my hands between my thighs and she'd absentmindedly let her own hand wander down between her own legs, gently stroking herself under her sweatshirt as I brought myself closer and closer to ecstasy...

I squeeze my thighs together even more tightly, shutting off the imagery. "That's...that's really good advice," I manage to say, my voice coming out husky.

Mom pulls her hand away and sits back. She's still holding my gaze, but her expression is cloudy, far away. I wonder irrationally if she can suddenly read my thoughts, and she's horrified by what she witnessed in my depraved mind.

"Of course, it's always better to..." she says finally "...experience that kind of pleasure with a partner." She pauses, looking down and fidgeting with her spoon, suddenly seeming unsure. "You know, the whole oxytocin thing. That really kicks in when you're um...connecting intimately with someone else."

Her voice trails off and she seems lost in thought, absentmindedly running her finger along the edge of her bowl.

I watch her, transfixed. I wonder briefly if she's referring to my dad, but something about her wistful tone makes me think there's more to it. I feel my chest tighten with an emotion I can't quite name. Without thinking, I reach my hand across the counter and place it over hers. She looks up, seeming startled out of her reverie.

"Mom...I know Dad working nights is hard for you," I say softly.

She blinks a few times but doesn't pull her hand away. Her brow is furrowed as she turns my hand over in hers, staring at it, almost as if she's studying it, like it's a one of her neuroscience papers. When she finally speaks, her voice is thick with some undefined emotion.

"Eva, I...lately I've been having feelings that are...confusing," she says haltingly. "I mean, your father and I have grown, distant, over the years. We're more like roommates at this point. But lately...spending time with you like this has made me feel..." she trails off again.

My heart quickens. I give her hand a gentle squeeze, hoping it communicates what I can't find the words for. That I'm here. That our bond goes beyond just mother and daughter.

Mom's blue eyes lock onto mine. I notice they are darker than usual, dilated. Her lips part slightly as her breath quickens almost imperceptibly. The moment stretches taut between us. I know I should drop my gaze, break this spell, but I find myself leaning in, drawn closer by an inexorable force.

Her lips are just inches from mine when...

"Brrrrrrrrr!"

The timer on the oven suddenly blares, startling us both. I jump back, the spell broken.

Mom clears her throat and stands up abruptly. "Oh, right! Forgot to turn off the oven timer when I pulled the brownies out, ha!" she says, her face still flushed. She looks around the room for a moment, looking lost, as if she was in someone else's house, before going into the kitchen to turn the timer off.

"Oh...right" is all I can manage.

"Ah yes, well...I suppose that's a good reminder that we should commence with our regularly scheduled programming!" she declares in a slightly-too-cheery British accent.

She avoids eye contact as she comes back over to take our empty dishes to the sink. I sit motionless on the barstool, heart still pounding. The previous minute replays over and over in my mind.What just happened between us? Was it my imagination, or was Mom actually leaning in to...?No. Surely I misunderstood. And what was I thinking? Reciprocating this...this misperceived interest?

I take a deep breath and try to regain composure. "So uh, yeah! Can't wait to see what Lady Whistledown has in store this week," I say with forced cheeriness.

Mom walks back to the counter, normal composure restored. If she's flustered by our charged moment, she hides it well behind her posh facade.

"Yes indeed! I simply must know if the Duke will compromise that Featherington chit this season," she titters. She holds her hand out dramatically. "Shall we adjourn to the drawing room, m'lady?"

I hop down and take her hand. The brief contact sends a ripple of electricity through me that I try my best to ignore. "We shall!" I reply with more conviction than I feel. Still holding hands, Mom leads me into the living room.

With each step I'm acutely aware of the cool air drying the not-quite-dissipated slickness still between my bare thighs, and my body still tingles with something like undischarged static electricity. I curl the fingers of my other hand around the hem of my sweater in a death grip, yanking it down; partially to protect my modesty and partially to ground myself.

Just forget about whatever strange moment just passed between you Eva, I tell myself firmly. You just got a bit carried away discussing...women's health. That's all.

I take a deep breath and force a smile, willing things to return to normal as we settle onto the couch and Mom grabs the remote. Surely nothing is amiss between us - we're just two ladies, mother and daughter, enjoying our usual Wednesday night.

We walk into the living room and I plop down on the couch. I scoot to the far end, out of an abundance of caution, but Mom either doesn't notice or pretends not to. She sinks back and throws her legs casually onto my lap like she always does. I tense for a split second before relaxing again and resting my hand tentatively on her bare knee. Just our normal positions.

As the opening credits for Bridgerton play, I glance nervously at Mom. But she looks relaxed, focused on the show. She lightly drums her nails on my forearm in time with the beat. I exhale slowly. Maybe I imagined the whole thing, let hormones and curiosity get the better of me. Mom was probably just being open and supportive, and I interpreted it as something more in my head. Yes, just an innocent misunderstanding, I assure myself.

I take a deep breath and refocus on the drama unfolding on screen. The scene opens with a moonlit carriage ride. As things heat up between the gentleman and lady inside, I'm leaning forward, absorbed in the scene. When suddenly I feel Mom's hand casually rest, high up, on my thigh.

I freeze, pulse instantly quickening. The warmth and weight of her palm on my bare skin sends a spike of electricity through me.

I'm sure it's just an absentminded response on her part to the drama unfolding on screen, I tell myself.

But, what if...