Tom’s life with mom is dull till he finds a pack of pantyhose

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“Shit! Sorry mom, sorry.” Tom wheeled around and clomped down the stairs. She shut the door behind him, and sat down on her bed. Amanda stuck one hand inside the hose and stretched out her fingers; they looked like mid-denier opaques with just a hint of sheen and-

“What the hell?” She bent close to her hand. In the weave of the fabric, there appeared to be a subtle, winding pattern, almost like snakeskin. It was barely visible, but definitely there. She huffed. There was no way the old bag at the office would let her get away with patterned damn hose. She closed her eyes and imagined the snide, barely-heard comments about side-stepping dress code and a certain local manager’s upcoming promotion. But going without would be worse. Amanda flexed her fingers in the hose experimentally; they *felt* good, anyway. Better than her usual cheap l’eggs stuff. Much better.

8:34, read the clock. Fuck it, she decided, easing one foot into the waistband of the hose. A shiver ran through her body. Whoa. They felt even better going on; as she drew them up her leg, Amanda felt as though the nerve endings in her skin were coming alive for the first time.

“Holy shit,” she muttered, pulling them up over her thighs and pert little butt. As the waistband snapped into place, a tiny gasp escaped her mouth. Amanda looked at herself in the mirror. At her diminutive height, her legs weren’t long, but they had been sculpted through a tireless regime of morning runs and yoga. They looked great even on a normal day, but today they looked spectacular. She flexed one leg, turning this way and that. There was a slight glimmer in the morning light, and she could have sworn she saw something, the pattern crawling up her toned thigh. Now it was gone.

She shook her head, brushed her auburn hair out of her eyes, slipped into a pair of black flats and down the stairs.

In the kitchen, Tom was bent low over a bowl of Cheerios, reading the sports page.

“Hey,” she said. “I told you *plain* black pantyhose. These are patterned or something.”

“Sorry mom.” Milk dropped out of his mouth to splatter in the bowl.

“Can you see it?” She asked. “Is it obvious? Look at me!” Amanda extended one shapely leg toward her son. He glanced up from his cereal, or tried to, as his gaze locked on his mother’s leg. Amanda watched as his eyes lost focus for a moment. “Hey, wake up! Can you see anything?” She waggled her leg back and forth. The subtle sheen glimmered.

“Uh,” he said, vaguely. “No?”

“You’re sure?” She said again; she could have sworn she *just* saw the pattern shimmering along her calf.

“Yeah,” Tom replied, not looking away. “I’m sure.”

“Good.” Amanda straightened up, adjusting her modest, below-the-knee skirt. Tom’s face still a little far away. She looked around the kitchen, where stacks of discarded bowls and spoons and spilt milk greeted her. “I’m out of here. Try to clean this up, will you? And wake up, for god’s sake!”

“Sure, yeah sure.” Tom said, then he seemed to wake up. He blinked, sat up straight, then: “hey mom, if it’s alright, I was wondering if I could borrow the car Sat-”

The front door banged shut. She was already gone.

Work turned out to be pretty good that day. If anybody noticed the pattern in her hose, nobody mentioned it, not even that old bag at the top. In fact, if anything, everybody seemed just a little bit nicer to her, just a little bit more willing to accede to her requests. She really would have gotten a lot accomplished if she hadn’t been so distracted. It wasn’t her fault, really. It just so happened that every time she sat down in her office, her thighs would rub together with that delicious swish, and the sensation of nylon on nylon would send a little thrill up through her; so she’d rub them together again, just a little, and that wonderful woken-nerve-ending feeling would ripple up and down her legs, from her toes on up to her thighs. Next thing she knew, fifteen minutes would pass and there she’d be, just rubbing her legs together.

They just felt so *good*! Amanda couldn’t help herself; and it’s not as if she had missed anything she couldn’t catch up on tomorrow.

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