She, too, had had a bath, washed her hair that was still wet. It smelled sweet in a delicate feminine perfume. She was dressed in a white cotton saree...with large maroon printed flowers and a maroon blouse.She wore a bindi and no jewelry other than her Mangalsutra, which married Indian women always wear as a sacred symbol of marital fidelity to their husbands. That was another of my mother’s interesting quirks, wearing her marital status prominently even as her son was fucking her cunt off.It. I placed a hand on her lower belly, and gently pressed down and around with my fingers, which made her squirm. Don't do that, she said. I'm bursting, I'll wet myself, aren't there any toilets round here. Not on the beach, I told her, but there's always the sea, I'll come with you. So we waded in up to our knees and I held mum against me, with one hand cupped around her crotch. I felt a gush of hot liquid flood over my hand and down my legs into the sea, as mum sighed with relief. Then it. More

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