My mother was tall and willowy, with smooth, light golden skin and long, layered, sun-blonde hair--flaxen hair descended from her Norwegian blood--that almost glints white in the sunlight. She has elegant features and high cheekbones, the kind that any fantasy fanboy may have imagined a regal elven queen to bear. She's slender and tight, with a flowing body unobstructed by the cut of leanness that some CrossFit moms have going for them. Her breasts were just over a handful, while her butt was small, widening sideways from her hips like a pear. Her cheeks were round and as golden as the rest of her skin thanks to the sunbathing she did in her whale-tale, micro G-strings that I'm sure I'm not supposed to know about, but I did. She was wearing a pair of sunglasses, had her lotion in one hand and her towel in the other, and was wearing something that could have been a bikini if companies made bikinis out of dental floss. Attempting to cover my mother's breasts were black strings with triangle cups that left three-quarters of her tits bare. The tiny bra strings wrapped around her sides, connecting in the back, and below her waist, she wore a pair of matching panties, with two nylon waistbands riding her hips while a tiny, triangular patch of cloth slid vertically down between her legs, cupping her inner lips and barely covering the inward folds of her outer lips--which left so much of her pussy meat bare. Half of her bright, blonde landing strip lay above the low-slung waistline of her bikini panties, and Jenna's eyes widened at the sight of those sunlight pubes.