"Whatever I do now," you think, "I am not spending the rest of the day in a thong." Thus resolved, you slide all the closet doors until you find the space where the clothes are stored. It's tiny compared to the space allotted to boxes and books. But it's still a considerable amount, especially for what you're used to.
Dresses are placed on hangers, and some of them are shrink-wrapped for protection, including your mother's wedding dress ("Why would she hold onto that?" you wonder). Regular clothes, like blouses, slacks, and jeans, are piled on the top shelf. Intimates you find in three bins stacked on the floor: one for socks, one for panties, one for bras, camisole, and other lingerie.
"All right," you say, looking up and down at all the clothing options. It just occurs to you that you first need to disrobe in order to change. That means seeing Mom naked.
"And being her," you remind yourself bitterly, which only makes it worse. It would be bad enough to walk in on her and quickly shut the door before you saw too much, but now, you have to concentrate while you fish around for the apparel you never thought you'd have to think about in relation to your mother. And now you have to feel what she feels. The sensations when there's nothing covering her body...
You groan, but it's better to change into relative comfort than to go around with your ass cheeks moving freely under the denim, making you feel naked all ready. You might change the bandau too, though it's comfortable and - you hate to admit it - you're curious what the rest of her negligee feels like.
Deciding to go for it like you're ripping off a bandage, you close your eyes, unbutton mom's slacks and yank them down. In the process you drag the thong along with them, an unpleasurable sensation for your rear and crotch where it's digging in. You wince but keep going. Off comes the top. off comes the bra. You get caught in the momentum. It's best to get a new start, you reason. Pick the way Mom dresses. It gives you more control.
You open your eyes. You regret pulling off the bandau bra because now your breasts are hanging freely, and wow. You feel your body's tissue straining as they cling to them... You look down, despite yourself, and for all of Mom's stress and her relatively indoor lifestyle, her skin's still a healthy color, and her breasts aren't misshapen or sagging. They explode from your chest as if beckoning for a baby to come suckle. You cringe at the maternal image, but you're seriously impressed. The cold tickles Mom's nipples, and you feel them barely swelling. Her aureolas are huge. You look past and see Mom's, well, patch, which matches the drapes, and between your legs you feel the slit where the act you were born from took place.
"This is so fucking weird," you think. "Why the hell is it turning me on?"
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