Mommy's Scent

Chloe Cherry sat alone in the living room. When she had the place to herself she pulled out her mother’s panties. She pressed them to her face and took long, greedy breaths. Outside, Cherie DeVille walked up the drive and saw everything through the glass. Before Chloe could hide the evidence, Cherie knocked. Chloe shoved the lace deep between the cushions and opened the door. Cherie smiled, asked if her mother was home. Chloe said she was alone. Cherie asked to come in. They sat on the couch. “I saw what you were doing,” Cherie said, calm, amused. Chloe’s denial died in her throat when Cherie reached behind the pillow and lifted the panties. Heat rushed to Chloe’s cheeks; she mumbled nothing at all. Cherie told her it was normal to feel these things about women, natural to want their scent. Nothing wrong with desire, she said, except taking it from the wrong drawer. She asked how many pairs Chloe had stolen. Chloe stood, led her to the bedroom, opened the bottom drawer filled with satin and lace. Cherie whistled, then offered a cure. She would play the mother; Chloe could do whatever she pleased. Off came the dress. Black lace hugged Cherie’s hips and breasts, expensive, indecent. She slid her own panties down, picked up a pale blue pair from the drawer, and stepped into them. A few sprays of perfume finished the picture. Chloe felt the last of her hesitation melt between her legs. Cherie crooked a finger, and Chloe walked straight into the fantasy she’d been too scared to name.