Mother Daughter Exchange Club #41

She came in on the eleventh, the same day she was supposed to be burying him. Black dress still warm from the church heat, she found me in the room that smelled like stale flowers and old secrets. Her stockings caught on the edge of the chair when she sat, then she didn't bother fixing them. I watched her fingers work the buttons down her front one by one. No ceremony, just that flat look she gave the casket hours before. Heat coiled low in my gut when the fabric parted and her breasts came free, nipples already tight against the cold room. She slid her hand between her legs without asking permission. I moved to her. Quick. My knees hit the carpet. She smelled like winter air and sweat when I shoved her thighs wider. The chair legs scraped. My tongue found her hot and slick, and she grabbed my hair hard enough to hurt. Each stroke dragged another sound from her throat, low and raw, echoing off the walls. Her hips bucked when I pressed two fingers inside her. She was wet enough that it ran down my wrist. I curled them, found that spot that made her swear, and worked until her legs shook. She came hard, thighs clamping my head, her voice cracking through the empty house like it had been waiting for permission to break.