Her Mother's Eyes

What should I think while holding this precious life? I met Emily's mother only hours before. We laughed together as she told stories of her daughter's childhood. They were beautiful together.
 
Before my mother died, she told me the lines around a woman's eyes are from worrying about her children. Then she laughed while pointing at her eyes. That was the last time I remember hearing my mother’s laugh.  
 
Emily’s mother had sharp lines at the corners of her eyes. Emily and her mother laughed easily as they talked about making cinnamon rolls that didn’t rise. Emily’s mother shook my hand as we left and I thought of those hands kneading dough or touching Emily’s fevered brow. I thought she must love Emily very much.  
 
That night, Emily knelt and pressed her face into my hardened flesh. I saw her kissing the zipper of my jeans. I was in heaven as these lips that once sucked her mother’s breasts now puffed breath through the fabric. How was a teenage boy supposed to respond to this! Moments later I found the answer while pressing firmly into the flesh her mother had conceived and loved fearlessly.    
 
At that same moment, her mother must have been peaking out a window, wondering if her daughter was happy and safe. Her hands, weathered by years but still soft came to rest softly on her stomach, then slid lower, thinking of her first night.  
 
Buried in Emily's warm, panting flesh, I knew that her mother saw and felt it all. She must have sensed the building current inside of me that would soon send warm jets of lust flowing into her daughter. I hoped she understood our young desires.  
 
As I rose over Emily, she writhed at each of seven electric pulses that shot down my spine before igniting fluid fires within her receiving clutch. A soft whimper framed each thrust. Her eyes looked past me. Her wet tongue pressed between her lips as we raced down the final descent of our two-person roller coaster ride.  
 
As I sank toward her, our eyes met, but hers were the eyes of her mother. Lines of worry framed the corners and she bit her lip the same way her mother had when asked how late we could stay out.  
 
Was Emily happy or afraid? As a teenage boy, I wasn't good at reading body language. I touched her hot brow and kissed her cheek before pressing in deeper to feel Emily's heat as I looked into her mother's eyes.