“Hey!” Tom’s sneakers crunched on the asphalt as he galloped down towards the retreating figure. “Hey, wait! You dropped this!” For an old lady, she sure could move, he thought, feet pounding against the pavement. Her grey curls were wild, bobbing gently while she made her way out of the parking lot.
“Jeez, stop already!” He shouted. “You dropped something!” On the sidewalk, she stopped, and turned. Tom skidded to a halt, arrested in the heterochromatic gaze burning gently under her grey curls.
“Yes?” She asked, her voice inflected by an accent the college track star couldn’t place.
“Sorry,” he said, brushing his brown hair out of his eyes. “You dropped this, ma’am.” He proffered a cellophane-wrapped rectangle. Her weathered features split into a grin, revealing a brilliant white smile.
“Thank you.” She took the package from him, inspecting it for a moment, then handing it back. “But it’s not mine.”
“What?” Confusion marred Tom’s otherwise-fine features as he took it back. “I’m sure it’s yours, I saw you drop it outside the store.”
“Not mine,” she repeated, curls bouncing. “See, it’s pantyhose.” The old woman tapped the package. “I don’t wear ’em.” To prove her statement, she reached down and hiked up the hem of her skirt, revealing bare, skinny chicken legs that fed down into an ancient pair of Birkenstocks. “No hose.” The skirt dropped again. “Are you sure they’re not yours?”
“Mine?” Tom was taken aback. “No, I don’t wear- I mean, mom sent me down to buy- I mean, she’s gotta go to work and she asked me to-”
“Thank you.” Warm fingers reached up to caress his cheek. “You are a very good boy. I’m sure you’ll make your momma very happy.”
“What?” He said. “Listen, are you sure-”
“Aren’t you late?” The old woman asked.
“What? I-” Tom glanced down at his watch. 8:19. Fuck! His mom was waiting for him back at the house; he was probably going to make her late for work. Desperately he looked back at the drugstore, then back at his watch, then down at the package in his hand. He poked his nose in the opened end. They *looked* black, anyway. That would have to do.
“Fuck. Fuck! I’ve got to go! Bye!” With a wave, Tom was off again like a shot, galloping back towards the house. If these things turned out to be the wrong size or color or whatever, she’d just have to deal.
—
Amanda Werner checked her watch for the tenth time in as many minutes, tapping her foot impatiently. She never should have sent him. She should have just gotten in the car and gone herself and been late or just sucked it up and gone without. But he’d been so damn eager to please, hadn’t he?
“He must be angling for something.” She said to herself, checking her watch again. The car, probably. Home between semesters, Tom didn’t have transport and had taken to borrowing hers at every opportunity; after finding a third used condom underneath the driver’s seat, she’d put a pretty quick stop to that, but that didn’t stop him asking, wheedling, bargaining or buttering her up like earlier.
“I don’t know why he didn’t just drive.” Amanda paced back and forth. “He doesn’t actually *have* to run everywhere.” Now she was stuck waiting. She probably *could* leave, but didn’t know if he had his house key, and didn’t want to lock the kid out.
“It’s not *that* far,” she said, checking her watch again. Then there was a clatter downstairs as somebody blew through the front door; heavy feet thudded up the stairs.
“Got ’em!” Her son shouted as he reached the top. “I got ’em, mom! Here!” He thrust a package into her waiting hands.
Amanda turned it over. “This isn’t my usual brand. There’s nothing on this. Did you even get the right size?”
Tom shrugged. “I just asked the lady at the store. She gave ’em to me.”
She pulled them out of the package. Black nylon hung limp from her fist. “Well, they’re the right colour, anyway.” He was watching her, expectant. “Thank you.” She said, then drew herself up to her full five-foot-nothing height and looked up into her tall, lanky son’s hazel eyes. “Get out so I can put these on, will you?”
“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.
She was in a happy daze when she got home, coming in through the front door, not hearing Tom’s shouted greeting as she leapt up the stairs. Really, she it was almost *too* happy a daze; she realized, coming in through her bedroom door. There must be something going on with the pantyhose.
Amanda kicked off her flats, and stood in front of the mirror again. She turned her leg back and forth, watching the subtle gleam. The 43-year old mom lifted up the hem of her skirt, raising it up until it was dancing around her thighs, and watching herself in the glass. Her legs shimmered and there- was that it? Was that the pattern, crawling behind her knee? She turned, as the gleam twisted around her thigh, heading upwards. Her hem followed.
“Hey mom, I wanted to-” Tom walked in through the door. Amanda scowled at herself in the mirror. Not at her legs, though. They looked even better now than they had this morning, all wrapped up in their clingy nylon, dark fabric shadowing every hollow and curve of her stems. Tom’s mom perched up on her tiptoes, watching the muscles bunch. Maybe heels tomorrow?
“I didn’t thank you for getting me these this morning,” she said, turning this way and that. “They’re not what I asked for, but they’re great. *Really* nice. So, thank you. You’re a good boy, Tom.”
“I know,” he said, distantly. “That’s what the lady sa-”
Another gleam around the tops of her thighs.
“Do you really not see that?” No answer from Tom. “I mean, *I* can see it, but nobody else-” Amanda glanced over at her son, who was staring at the mirror, eyes slightly glazed. “Tom! Wake up.” She let the hem of her skirt drop. Tom blinked once, slowly, shaking his head.
“Sorry mom, just tired I guess.” He said, coming back to life.
“Did you clean up the kitchen like I asked?” Her voice was stern but soft.
“Hm?” His eyes focused on hers. “Oh yeah, yup. All done.”
“Good,” she said, pleased surprise breaking through her stern facade. “Did you have something you wanted to ask in return?”
“No, I don’t think so,” he shook his head. “Just…just happy to do it for you.” He blinked.
“You’re sure?” Amanda asked, confused.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” He smiled.
“Uh okay,” she said. “Well, keep up the good work, and maybe you can use my car again. Now, you head on down, and I’ll come start dinner, okay?”
“Sure thing, mom!” Tom enthused, clomping on back down the stairs.
Amanda turned back to the mirror. Had he been staring at her legs? Her thighs rubbed together, sending a little frisson of pleasure up her spine. No, it couldn’t be. He was just, tired or something, pent up after she’d cut him off from getting the car. That had probably put a pretty serious kink in his sex life. That must be it.
She looked down at her feet, wiggling her toes in their cobwebby wrap. Maybe it was time to paint them again.
—
When Tom woke up the next morning, it was from a fitful night’s sleep of half-forgotten dreams. The harder he tried to remember the details, the faster he forgot them, though he definitely remembered something silky and gauzy and warm against his face. There had been a woman there too, right? A woman’s voice, anyway, whispering something, telling him he was a good- a good- it was gone in the morning light.
What wasn’t gone was the enormous erection he’d woken up with. Lying in his bed, Tom looked down at the massive tentpole in his sheets. At 20 years old, he was not unfamiliar with the experience of waking up with morning wood, but he’d never seen it quite like this before. Keeping a weather eye on the door, he let his fist wrap around the throbbing meat, and began to gently stroke it. It must have been a hell of a dream, he decided, fist sliding up the sensitive shaft, trying to remember what it had been about. There had been a woman, he knew, a woman who had- a woman who-
Down the hall, there was a crash. Tom squeezed his shaft and tried to ignore it.
“Fuck! Damn, fuck!” His mom shouted. “Tom!”
Gritting his teeth, the young athlete sprang out of bed, yanked on the nearest pair of shorts, and padded down the hall to his mother’s bedroom.
When he walked in, Amanda was sitting on the edge of her bed, holding her left leg tightly. She was wearing the pantyhose he’d “bought” her yesterday, her right leg stuck straight out, bare toes wriggling in discomfort. She’d painted them red, he noticed.
“Um,” he said, carefully. “Mom?”
“Goddamn that hurt like a sonofabitch,” she complained, then unfolded her knitted hands. Underneath, a laddered run in the nylon scored her shin, revealing a scarlet mark where she’d barked it against something. Amanda extended her left leg, surveying the damage. “Fuck,” she muttered under her breath. “Another pair gone. Goddamnit I *liked* those.” Looking up, she caught Tom’s distracted gaze. He was looking straight down at her legs, his sculpted bare chest heaving.
“Tom,” she began. “I’m going to have to ask you to run back to the store, honey.” Without thinking, Amanda stood, hiking her skirt up and hooking her thumbs in the waistband of the hose. She turned her back to her son as she wriggled them down her thighs to kick them off her foot.
Tom got a good long look at the black cotton briefs that were wrapped tightly around his mother’s pert buttocks, cradling those tight little spheres, before he realized he should be looking away. Blushing hotly, he looked straight down at the carpet, where her scarlet toenails dug deep into the thick pile. He was suddenly very aware that his morning wood hadn’t really gone anywhere, and jammed his hand in the pocket of his shorts to grab the shaft and keep it under control.
“Throw these away before you go, will you?” She said, holding them out. “Hang on. I’ll get the pack-” Tom took the wad of black nylon while his mother scooped the discarded package they’d come in off the floor. “Put ’em in here and just chuck it-” Amanda looked inside the pack, then looked again.
“What the hell?” She said, wondering. Tom watched as she pulled another wad of nylon from the depths of the packaging; they were a smoky grey, this time. Amanda tossed the package on the bed, and unrolled them. A smile spread over her features as she slid a hand inside, feeling the fabric. “I guess they were tucked away in the corner.”
“I…guess?” Tom said, not sure it was the right time to tell her how he’d gotten them in the first place. His fingers absently worked the discarded pantyhose in his fist.
Amanda thought for a moment. “Okay, I can work with this.” She shrugged her suit jacket off and began to quickly unbutton her blouse. Suddenly remembering her son was in the room, she addressed him. “You can go. I’m getting dressed.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Tom said, backing up a step. “Obviously. I’m not hanging around for that. Pfft. Did you still want me to, uh-” he held up the old pair.
“Chuck ’em,” his mom said with a dismissive shake of her head. She opened her closet and pulled out a red skirt.
‘Yup, sure.” Tom stuffed the pantyhose into his other pocket and backed away. He shut the door behind him. In his shorts, his hand hadn’t let go of his cock; the whole time he’d been in her room, it hadn’t flagged an inch. Feeling the head rubbing gently against his thigh, Tom made a snap decision and ducked into his own bedroom.
Before the knob had even clicked, he was lying on his own bed, one hand inside his shorts, furiously working his swollen member. Tom grunted, and lifted his ass off the mattress, wriggling the gym shorts down his legs to his knees, kicking them off. As he did, Amanda’s pantyhose fell out onto his stomach, landing between his rigid pectoral muscles. Tom stared at the empty, reinforced toe of them as they unrolled, one long black leg unfurling across his stomach and onto the bed.
He froze. The toe lay just at the apex of his sternum. If he craned his head down, he’d be able to kiss the-
Tom shook his head. What was he thinking? The image of his mother’s red toenails, all wrapped up in nylon flashed across his vision. Tom blinked, then wriggled a little, trying to get the pantyhose to fall off all on its own. The nylon was warm. Up close like this, Tom realized that he could *almost* see a pattern in them, like snakeskin almost. He shuffled a little, and the nylon glimmered in the sunlight pouring in through his window. He stared a moment, watching the light dance, eyes trying to trace the pattern as it snaked away from his vision. Meanwhile, the pantyhose refused to dislodge.
With a grimace, he gingerly plucked at a fold with thumb and forefinger. Despite himself, Tom rubbed the fabric between the pads of his fingers. The nylon glimmered. It was smooth. Very smooth. He rubbed it around and around, enjoying the swishing sound. No wonder his mom liked wearing them so much, he thought, other fist still idly pumping his cock.
Tom slid them around his fingers, drawing more and more of his hand into the nylon web. His fingertips tingled, almost as if the nerve endings were waking up for the first time.
“It’s so soft,” he said quietly as the nylons sizzled in his fingertips. “So soft, so smooth.” Tom’s gaze fell on his own cock, rampant and thick and leaking in his fist.
No. No, he couldn’t, could he? How wrong would that be? The nylon glimmered. Tom glanced at the door. It was still closed.
With trembling hands, he released the shaft and reached down to grab the leg of his mother’s pantyhose that had rolled off to the side, sliding his fingers into the hole revealed by the run. As his arm slid into the lower end of the nylon, the skin woke up, tingling and electric with the sensation. He wriggled his fingers, experimentally, watching them stretch it out. Suddenly, he was struck by how much it seemed like the gauzy blackness from his dreams.
Tom’s cock surged in his fist as he wrapped his hose-coated fingers around it, and he had to suppress a groan as he gave it an experimental pump.
“Ffuck,” he grunted. He’d never felt anything quite like it. Sliding it up the shaft, he circled his fist around the head and made an incoherent noise deep in his throat as the nylon caressed the flared tip. Topping the shaft, he spread his fingers wide and allowed the fabric to cast a wide, silky net across the head.
“Ungh,” he said, hips pumping involuntarily upwards, fucking into the pantyhose, stretching it out, making it glimmer in the light. The pattern flashed momentarily, circling the head, just as it had circled his mother’s thigh the day before. Tom closed his eyes, and all he could see was the pattern, flashing along her thigh, circling her taut, firm flesh before it slid downwards, behind her knee, across her calf. Tom’s hand did likewise, a marionette limb caught in the pantyhose. He watched her stand on her tiptoes, calves bunching, soft little feet arching; he had to stifle a gasp.
Fucking faster into the nylon web, Tom opened his eyes to see the empty toe of the other leg, still somehow on his sternum, staring at him accusingly. The nylon was empty but only a few minutes before his mother’s toes had been in there, wiggling, red-nailed. He licked his lips. They had been so bright, like cherries. The pattern glimmered; seconds later the nylon was trapped between Tom’s lips as he fucked himself into the pantyhose, stretching it beyond any reasonable expectation of its tensile strength.
“Honey?” The door opened a crack. Tom looked over, face panic stricken as he saw his mother appear in the doorway. Amanda had changed into a crisp white blouse with an extra button undone to reveal a tasteful hint of her lightly-freckled cleavage, and a tight red pencil skirt that emphasized her diminutive waist and the swing of her hips. She carried a pair of dark red heels in one hand. The smoky grey nylons were sheer and shimmery in the light, and her toes wriggled once, in surprise at discovering the tableau laid across her son’s bed.
Before anyone could say anything more, Tom glimpsed the pattern flashing up his mother’s shin, and suddenly he was cumming, grunting and fucking hard into the dark pantyhose as the cream poured out of him in great hot gouts; his eyes rolled back in his head as the pleasure overtook him, brain washed clean by the white hot pleasure.
“Ungh! Ungh! Ungh!” The noises were dragged out of him by the plumes of semen that jetted around his fist. Amanda watched as her son’s body was wracked by orgasm, every finely-tuned muscle in his body standing out as he arched and humped and came. The last spurts of cum dribbled out of Tom’s fist, through the pantyhose and down his fist.
Panting and spent, he opened his eyes.
“Mom-” he croaked weakly, trying to formulate an explanation, an excuse, anything. Before he put another word together, she was gone.
Amanda’s head was spinning as she slid in and slammed the car door. What was that? What had she just witnessed? When had her son started doing *that*? When had her son grown such a big *cock*?
The tires screamed as she roared out of the driveway.
But there was no driving away from the heat smouldering between her thighs.
—
If yesterday had been spent going in and out of a daze, today Amanda was in there for a full eight hours. For starters, she’d picked that pencil skirt specifically because no matter what she did, how she moved, or walked, or sat, her nyloned thighs would rub together, and send that delicious thrill up through her, as her sensitized skin slid against the hose. Which is to say, the sizzle of gently pleased nerve endings followed her around all day long.
Secondly, any time her mind started to wander, Amanda’s imagination would begin conjuring up images of Tom, naked as the day he’d been born, fucking his fist into her discarded pantyhose, looking for all the world like a golden god seized at the peak of ecstasy, manhandling a rod which had looked as though it rivalled in size the big pink vibrating pussy pleaser one of her friends had gag-gifted her on the fifth anniversary of her divorce. She jokingly called it “Big Jim,” but Tom’s cock – the first live dick she’d laid eyes on in an embarrassingly long time, and far and away the biggest – was no joke. The uncomfortable knowledge of her son’s endowment made her squirm, which only added to the sizzle of pleasure radiating up through her lower body to the base of Amanda’s neck.
And that image launched a myriad of questions that battered against the inside of her skull all day: had he done that before? did he do that often? why pantyhose? why *her* pantyhose? why was it in his mouth? when did he become so *handsome*? why couldn’t she stop thinking about his cock, his abs, his lips (so pouty) gripping the hose so tight in his mouth? when was the last time she’d had a cock, any cock?
Luckily, Amanda was able to fob most of the day’s work off onto one of the interns working downstairs; he’d looked so cute and eager when she’d sat on her desk, crossed her legs, and offered him a chance to do some grownup work. What was his name? Chad? Brad? Something like that. Big brown eyes and charming smile and broad shouldered in his brand new suit.
What was his cock like, she wondered? Was it as big as Tom’s? Amanda tried to imagine it, a big fat tool straining through those slim navy pants of his as she perched her ass on the desk, dangling one shoe from her little foot, until it eventually clattered to the floor, and she began sliding her toes up his thigh…
Back in reality, Amanda whimpered and squeezed her thighs under her desk. The hose slid together, and the diminutive MILF tried not to move any further. The wetness down there was getting too insistent to ignore.
Really, she should just take them off. Take the hose off entirely and let her head clear so she could get properly mad about what she’d seen, and figure out what to do. Under the desk, the nylon gleamed, and she thought she saw that pattern, snaking its way around her ankle. They were so *pretty* and they felt so *good*, she just couldn’t make the sacrifice. It wasn’t worth it.
Maybe she just needed to get laid, instead. That sounded pretty logical. Did Brad/Chad have a girlfriend?
The day went on like that, round and round in distracting circles, until five o’clock passed and Amanda realized she’d have to go home and find some way to address the morning’s events.
For good or for ill, the house was empty when she got back around six. Tom was nowhere to be seen, but the kitchen still gleamed from the surprisingly thorough cleaning he’d given it the day before.
“He’s a good boy,” she said to herself, sitting down at the one of the stools around the kitchen island, where she’d have a good view of the front door when Tom came back. “I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it. We’ll talk it over. It’ll be fine.” Amanda crossed her legs and watched the door, letting the pleasant tingle radiate up through her.
One of her heels *tok*ed against the lower rung of the stool. The clock on the wall ticked away the minutes. Seven o’clock came and went.
Amanda checked her watch, then the clock on the wall, then the clock on the oven, then her watch just to be sure they were all in sync.
Eight o’clock ticked past.
Her fingernails tapped at the screen of her phone. No messages from Tom, no replies to her messages. She paced, shoes clicking on the tile.
Nine o’clock.
She thumbed through the contacts on her phone. Did she have any of his friends’ numbers? Their parents’ numbers? What about that Michael kid? Or the rich one…what was his name..de something. De Walter? De Winter? De Wynter? She couldn’t remember.
Ten o’clock. Ten-thirty. At ten thirty-nine, her son waltzed in through the kitchen door, not the front, obviously hoping to slink past unnoticed. Instead, he found Amanda standing there, glaring. Her arms were crossed underneath her breasts, the sleeves of her once-crisp blouse rolled up unevenly; her auburn tresses had been pulled back into a slightly-wild ponytail that was tight at the scalp and made her look more severe.
“Well,” she said. “And where the *hell* have you been?” She clipped her words, looking up into her son’s face. Tom wouldn’t meet her heated stare.
“Just- just,” the young man floundered. “Out. Just out. With some of the guys.”
“Did you lose your phone? Did you break it? Was it off?” Questions fired like machine gun rounds, each punctuated by her heel. “Did you not get my texts? Were you too busy to notice it going off? Or just didn’t care?”
“Mom, I-” he groped for the words, eyes desperate. “I’m a grown man now, mom. I shouldn’t-”
“Sit. Down.”
Tom pulled a face but dropped into a seat at the kitchen table. He looked miserable. Amanda’s voice softened.
“Honey,” she said. “I worry. You know I do. I don’t ask for much. Just let me know when you’re going to be late coming back.” Amanda hopped back up on one of the stools.
“I know you’re a good boy,” she said, crossing her legs absently, trying to ignore the pleasant tingle. As the hose sizzled, Tom glanced up. “Just let me know, okay?” She recrossed her legs.
“Okay,” he said, then blinked, and looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry mom. It won’t happen again, okay? Can I go now?”
“No, you can’t go,” Tom sighed and rolled his eyes, and stretched the full length of his legs out under the table. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, either.” Amanda recrossed her legs, and saw his eyes flicker up. He straightened up, and mumbled an apology. “We still have to talk about- about- about what happened here this morning.”
A wretched look crossed Tom’s features as the heat rose in his face. “Mom, I- I mean I don’t- I mean I’d never- I mean it’s not-”
“It’s okay, honey.” The hose sizzled and his eyes flickered and the blush faded a little. Amanda felt the heat of her anger drain away as the tingling in her legs radiated from the tips of her toes on up to her scalp. “I know-” she swallowed. “I know that young men have- have needs. And I know you haven’t been able to take care of them the same way since I said you couldn’t borrow my car.” Amanda let one shoe slip from her heel, and dandled it on the end of her toes. Tom watched it bob, and listened to the sizzle of her hose. “Isn’t that right, honey?”
“Y-yeah,” he said in a faraway voice. “That’s right, mom.” Tom shifted in his chair, eyes on the arch of his mother’s size-five foot. Amanda’s fingers toyed with the hem of her skirt, which had wandered somewhere north of her knee.
“So, I understand.” The hem of her skirt inched higher up her thigh. “I understand why you- why you ended up-” pumping that thick young cock into my sexy fucking pantyhose, part of her wanted to scream “-doing what you did, okay? But I don’t ever want to see you doing that again, alright Tom?” There was a glimmer around her well-turned ankle, and Tom’s eyes chased it up the muscles in her calf, over her knee, and across the expanse of smooth, smoky-grey thigh.
“Absolutely, mom.” Tom agreed without thinking. “Never again.”
“Good,” she said, smiling. She recrossed her legs, letting the other heel dangle, and relishing the building giddy pleasure deep in her core. “Good. Now, if you’re good. And *only* if you’re good for the rest of the week, I’ll let you borrow the car on Friday. How does that sound?” The hem of her skirt had rucked all the way up around the tops of her thighs, and as they worked, Tom’s eyes were locked on the glimmering pattern circling just below where the fabric ended.
“That sounds great, mom. That all sounds amazing.” One of his hands was under the table now, in his lap. Amanda could see the muscles in his arm working; he must be itchy.
“Good,” she said again. “Good. I’m glad that’s settled. I’m just going to go to bed now, honey. You have a good night.” Amanda hopped down from the stool, and walked over to her son on slightly wobbly legs. His eyes were unfocused, and a light sheen of sweat sparkled on his brow. She could smell him, a slightly musky, animal smell as she leaned in to kiss him on the forehead. Her lips lingered for a few moments, tasting the sweat before she parted. “Good night, Tom.”
“‘Night, mom.” He replied, watching her, not moving from his chair.
She was unzipping her skirt before she reached the top of the stair, and it *flump*ed to the floor just inside her bedroom door. The air was cool on her damp thighs as Amanda peeled the hose off, skinning them down the sweetly rounded curves of her ass, stepping down out of her heels as she did. The diminutive redhead laid the pantyhose reverently on the bed once they were off, smoothing them out, hands relishing the silkiness of the fabric. No wonder Tom had stretched the other ones across his cock; it took considerable effort for her to stop touching them with her hands. Idly she wondered what they’d feel like, tickling her nipples, or sliding between her pussy lips…
“Get a grip, girl.” She whispered to herself, fingers sliding off the nylon. Casting about, Amanda spied the package on the floor and picked it up; they’d be safe tucked away in there and-
Tucked away in the corner was a wad of bright blue fabric.
“What the hell?” Reaching inside, her delicate fingers drew out a pair of electric blue nylons. They definitely hadn’t been there this morning, she knew that. There was no way there’d been room for *three* pairs in there. It simply wasn’t big enough.
Laying the new pair next to the grey ones she’d just taken off, Amanda looked inside again. Nothing. Blank white cardboard stared back. She laughed, and if there was a slightly hysterical edge to her laughter, nobody said anything about it. She looked again. Nothing.
“Get a grip,” she said again. It wasn’t a magicians’ top pocket. An endless stream of pantyhose wasn’t about to come flying out. That simply wasn’t possible. Right?
Amanda looked at the new pair. There was no way she could wear these to work tomorrow: the colour was too outlandish, too bright. Nonetheless, she smoothed them out, spreading them over the sheets, two long slashes of searing blue, connected at the top by a narrow bridge of the same colour.
These were obviously not her usual sedate work safe pantyhose. There was no crotch in evidence, for starters. They almost looked like stockings and a garter belt, all of a single piece. Her fingers toyed with the fabric. Amanda had never worn stockings before.
She picked them up by the waistband, holding them just under the shadow of her navel. The big black briefs she was wearing looked ugly, utilitarian, against the wild blue. Amanda fingered the nylon. Then, she made a decision. Stepping back from the mirror, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and yanked them down.The sudden inrush of air made her very cognizant of the creaminess that stained the gusset of her panties.
Feeling giddy, and a little girlish, Amanda dropped the panties to the floor where they lay in an unsightly little pile, and remained there forgotten, as she slid her foot into the blue nylon. The single mother had to repress a shudder as the fabric stretched and across her skin, creamy pale underneath the opaques. Again, the delicious sensation of nerve endings awakening and tingling to life rippled throughout her lower extremities. Her toes curled as the fabric crawled up her calves, past her knees, silkiness sliding across her taut thighs until the waistband snapped into place just below her navel.
Amanda pulled her ponytail loose and shook her head, letting her hair tumble down to her bare shoulders in an auburn cascade. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her skin had the ivory smoothness that came concomitant with the red in her hair, though the early summer sun had kissed her shoulders and the upper slopes of her breasts, concealed beneath their nude cotton bra, with a sprinkling of freckles. She spread her hands across the expanse of her stomach, kept trim by constant attention, though perhaps a little softer than she’d like. Her fingers found the waistband of the hose and tugged them upwards, relishing the new sensations radiating up through her legs as they stretched a little tighter across her skin.
Amanda turned and looked over her shoulder into the glass. An electric blue band of nylon skimmed across the tops of her buttocks before sweeping down in a dramatic inverted U that left her firm cheeks half-bared, elastic digging into the muscular flesh. She reached back to snap the band, watching the slight jiggle in the meat of her behind before standing up on her tiptoes and flexing it, feeling those globes go steely hard under her fingers. Her legs looked like they’d been dipped in Blue Raspberry flavouring. Wheeling about on one toe, she inspected the well-trimmed, bright ginger tuft of hair left exposed at the apex of her thighs, and fluffed it with her fingernails. Not too long, but could do with some grooming soon.
Below, she saw moisture glistening on the inside of her thighs; spreading her legs slightly, she looked down. Strawberry-pink labia peeked out from between Amanda’s vulva, dripping steadily with wetness that had been oozing into her panties all day. Her fingers slid easily between her lips with a little wet noise, and she gasped. Straightening up, she reached back with sticky fingers and unhooked her bra before flicking it into a corner with a disdainful look.
After she’d had Tom, her breasts had swollen through the first three letters of the alphabet, settled somewhere north of D, and stayed there. As they wobbled into view, all milky white mature flesh, capped by dusty pink nipples standing at attention, Amanda regarded herself in the mirror, letting her fingers do the walking past her tidy nest of pubic hair.
She looked good, she decided, slick fingers sliding back and forth between clitoris and vagina. Her hips tilted back as she spread her legs a little more, and the suspender hose glimmered. Better than good.
“Fucking *hot*,” she hissed through plush lips, lifting one heavy breast, mauling it with her fingers. Where was Brad/Chad now, she wondered. There’s no way he’d be able to resist her like this, ethics be damned. Then she could throw that strapping young body down on her bed, tear those tight-ass pants off him and-
Amanda crawled up onto the bed, opened the drawer in the side table and scrabbled around inside before pulling Big Jim out from his resting place. It had always seemed so intimidating before, she’d never actually put it inside of herself, simply used the vibrating function to get off; now, it seemed, if not actually *smaller* then certainly more *manageable*.
Her mouth twisted up into a grin as she twisted the base and it roared to life in her fist. Getting up on all fours, Amanda rubbed the tip of the thing against the slippery folds of her pussy, and it slid easily into her ripened depths.
“Unf,” she grunted. “That’s right you fucker, fuck that young cock right up inside of me.” The dildo, buzzing away in her cunt, squelched as her juices sluiced out around her fist. “I’ve been waiting all fucking day for this, and you’d better fuck me right.” Amanda imagined the intern saddling up behind her, taking her hips in his big hands and-
There was something wrong with that picture.
She flipped over onto her back, furiously plunging Big Jim’s humming pink shaft in and out of her clasping hole. Looking down, she raised her electric blue thigh, and Brad/Chad loomed over her, sculpted young body tense as he thrust into her, her legs stretched wide and high in the air, pantyhose glimmering and-
“Fffuck,” she said through shivering lips. “If you’re not gonna fuck me right, hon, then momma will just have to show you how it’s done.” Amanda rolled over onto her knees, righting herself, fingers holding Jim tightly inside her juicy hole. “How’s it feel to get fucked,” she asked an imaginary Brad/Chad, mauling one tit as she palmed her clitoris. “How’s it feel to get fucked by a real woman for once, and not one of your stupid college sluts?”
Amanda gritted her teeth as the pleasure rolled through her body. “You fucking love it don’t you? You fucking love this fucking cunt, old enough to be your-” the hose glimmered. She gasped, had to catch her breath. “That’s right old enough to be your fucking moth-” She humped the humming plastic filling her up with ever-increasing desperation, barely aware of the words falling out of her mouth while the suspender hose glimmered and the pattern raced around her thighs, unseen by the wearer. “Your *fucking* mother!” She gasped. “Your fucking *mother*, motherfucker!” The fire between her thighs, smouldering all day long, burned searingly hot now, achingly so, a dam of white-hot pleasure so ready to burst. “Fuh-fuh-fuck! Motherfucker! Fuck motherfuh-fucker! Fuck your fuh-fucking muuuuhhhhhhHHH!”
The words were lost in a rising shriek as she started cumming, juices pouring out around the pistoning plastic cock, her back arched and hair a wild mane of sweaty loose curls as the orgasm ripped through her body. Ecstasy sang through her legs and thighs, the tingling song of the pantyhose firing neurons through pleasure centres she hadn’t even known she had.
Amanda’s body jerked its way through orgasm, electric shocks coursing through her limbs, leaving behind an irresistible lassitude that ended in her crumpling helplessly to the bed. Too exhausted to move, she let sleep take her, but it couldn’t take the smile from her face.
She fell into unconsciousness even before she could hear a door quietly shut further down the hall.
—
Amanda awoke early the next morning from a night of pleasantly sexual dreams. Big Jim slid easily out of her as she stirred, cycling her hosed legs in the sheets. The pink plastic glistened and dripped in the morning light and she idly considered sliding him back in again to go another round; but the batteries were dead, she found, twisting the base this way and that.
Oh well. That would have to be a trip to the store later. Amanda sat up, crossing her legs, letting her fingers toy idly with her still-slippery though achy labia. She glanced at the clock; it was way too late for a run, now.
With a sigh, Amanda unfolded herself and stood up, stretching, pushing her milky mature tits up and out. Padding into her ensuite bathroom, she cranked open the shower faucet. It was with great reluctance that she stepped out of her hose, letting them fall to the floor, but there was really no way to wear them to work. Under pants, maybe, but then there’d be no way to show them off, to let Brad/Chad ogle her electric blue legs, invite him back to her office for a little lunchtime meeting.
No, it’d have to be the grey ones again, she decided, towelling her hair. Maybe a shorter skirt this time?
Striding out into her bedroom, Amanda tossed the last night’s pantyhose onto the bed, and looked around for the grey pair. They were nowhere to be seen. Not on the bed, not next to it on the floor, not under it. She couldn’t remember actually putting them away, but she picked up the packaging anyway, and peeked inside.
As before, something dark was tucked away in the corner.
“This is getting ridiculous,” she muttered, pulling out the scrap of fabric. “Where did that kid even get this thing?” It turned out there were two scraps of silky black nylon inside; stockings. Sheer black. Stayups.
—
Tom rolled over out of sleep when his mother shook him.
“Good morning, lazybones.” She said, smiling gently down at him. Her auburn curls glowed in the sunlight. He just stared, dumbly, into her face for a long moment. Heat rose in his face.
“Um, hi.” He said, cautious. “What, uh, what’s up?”
“Tom,” Amanda folded her hands in her lap and crossed her legs. He sat up a little, suddenly aware that she was wearing and abbreviated, black cotton jersey mini dress, a cocktail dress that had been re-appropriated as workwear with the addition of a white cardigan draped across her shoulders. The cotton jersey lovingly flowed through his mother’s tightly packed curves, but his eye was drawn to the retreating border of her skirt as it crawled alarmingly high up her nylon clad leg. The silky fabric was smooth and sheer and black and Tom thought he could see a hint of a darker black band just peeping out from underneath her hem. His fingers flexed under the bedsheet. “We need to talk about something.”
“Um, ok?” He said, then: “I thought everything was OK after last night.” He shifted uncomfortably. Amanda laid one hand on his leg, and her skirt crept in a millimeter higher, confirming the black band that encircled her smooth thigh.
“Honey,” she said, “everything is fine. I just wanted to ask you: did you really go to the drugstore the other day?”
“Of course I did,” Tom said, straightening up. His mother’s hand slid up his muscled thigh. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just curious,” his mother reassured him. “They are so different from my usual brand, I wanted to go back and pick up a second pack. You bought them at the store around the corner, right?” Tom couldn’t meet her gaze, and let his eyes drift back down to her legs instead. The pattern, like snakeskin, flashed across the nylon; it twisted and turned it moved along her stems, like something alive.
“Bought?” He asked. Sweat appeared at the fringe of his shaggy brown hair. “Not exactly.”
“Not exactly?” Amanda raised one carefully shaped eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
Tom looked miserable for a moment. His mother’s hand slid a little higher. He bit his lip, then appeared to make up his mind.
“Well,” he began, “this is how it is.” He told Amanda all about the old woman with the crazy eyes and the unmarked package and how she’d dropped it but wouldn’t take it back.
“I see,” she said, not sure what to make of it. It couldn’t be true, not really, but she wasn’t about to call her only son a liar. “Well, I guess that’s it for that, then.” Amanda gave him a squeeze and stood up. Tom lay there, half covered by the sheets, chiseled chest golden in the morning sunlight. His hands were somewhere under the covers. She straightened the hem of her skirt.
“Now be good,” Amanda said, looking around at the mess. “And clean up this pig sty of a room before I get home, okay?” His eyes were glued to her legs as they fed into mirror-black pumps, calves standing out beneath silky sheer stockings.
“Yes, mom.” He said. His left arm moved, just a little, under the sheets.
“Good boy,” she said. Her voice was warm. Amanda leaned in and kissed her son on the forehead, tasting his sweat. Her lips lingered a few seconds longer than necessary. A shiver ran through Tom.
She turned and left, the skirt of her dress wrapped tightly around her hips, hem dancing around her upper thighs. She didn’t see Tom’s hand reaching under his pillow to extract something.
The day passed. Amanda relished the sense of freedom the stockings granted, the air swirling under her skirt as her skin tingled beneath the nylon. Brad/Chad came by to ask a series of increasingly-distracted questions about his project as he stared at the older woman’s legs, trying not to be obvious about getting a glimpse up her dress while she crossed and recrossed them for his viewing pleasure. In Brad/Chad’s defense, she made it spectacularly difficult to do otherwise, perched on the edge of her desk, dangling one heel while her stockings glimmered. Amanda was happy to see that her efforts had the desired effect, as evidenced by the obvious bulge in his tailored pants as he left.
She’d have to find a way to suitably reward him for all his hard work once he finished, Amanda reflected, sitting back down in her chair. The scent of her own arousal wafted up from between her legs.
“Buy batteries,” she told herself, resisting the urge to let her fingers slide up under her skirt, forcing them to glide along her silky thigh instead. Amanda’s toes curled inside their shoes. Thus, she passed the day in a light, pleasant buzz, rewarding herself for tasks completed with radiant tingling sparked by fingertips against the nylon.
Around five, she fairly danced out of the building, limbs buzzing with energy, brain a little foggy with pleasure, and so just distracted enough that she walked straight into a homeless woman outside, knocking her over.
“Oh my god I’m so sorry!” Amanda gushed, blushing hotly as she gave the other woman a hand.
One green eye and one blue eye regarded her from beneath a fringe of tight grey curls.
“Don’t worry about it, honey.” Amanda couldn’t place the accent.
“Do I- do I know you?” She asked, memory triggering somewhere in the fogged-in back of her head.
“No.” The other woman’s teeth gleamed as she smiled. Amanda helped her scoop up a collection of gewgaws and clutter that had fallen out of her overstuffed carpet bag, unmindful of how much leg she was showing off as she did. “Thank you child.”
Amanda didn’t hear her. She was too busy staring at a cello-wrapped oblong package; the cardboard within was white, but a tiny square window revealed a stretch of opaque black nylon.
“Is this-” she began, heart trip-hammering in her chest, “where did you get these?” She asked, waving the package.
“Oh, somewhere,” the old woman waved a hand. “I forgot they were there. I don’t wear them, me.” She lifted the hem of her broomstick skirt to prove it, but Amanda wasn’t watching. “Do you like them?”
“I love them.” The response was immediate and emphatic. “If you don’t want them, will you sell these to me?”
“Sell them?” The old woman laughed. “No, but I’ll give them to you. Just enjoy them, enjoy your life with them, enjoy your family with them. That’s all I ask.”
“Sure, sure.” Amanda agreed, not really listening. Her fingers wanted to open the pack so badly. “Oh thank you so much!” Suddenly, she was hugging the other woman, face buried in clean-smelling curls that crunched as she did.
“Don’t worry about it,” the woman chuckled. “Us mothers gotta stick together, don’t we?”
“Thank you, thank you!” Amanda kissed her on the cheek, and danced away.
The whole way home, she kept one hand on the package, fingers peeling the cellophane open, sneaking inside to rub the unworn tights. She squeaked through three yellows rushing home, running one red that changed *just* before she entered the intersection.
“Hello~o!” She called out, tripping into the house on light feet. “Tom? I’m home!”
“In here,” he called out from the living room. Amanda poked her head in, and saw him laid out on the couch, watching TV, wearing a pair of grey gym shorts that ended above the knee and a soft blue wifebeater.
“Did you do what I asked you?” She asked, chipper.
“Yup,” he said, not looking away from the television.
“Good boy,” Amanda said, and a blush rose in Tom’s face. He shifted on the couch, rolling over onto his side. “I’m just going to change, and then we can start supper, okay?”
“Sure, mom.” She was already halfway up the stairs, heels loud against the hardwood flooring.
Bounding up the stairs, cellophane crinkled as she tapped the package against her palm. Passing Tom’s opened door, she took a moment to peer inside.
It was certainly clean-er. The clothes had been picked up and stacked neatly on his desk. The floor was devoid of magazines and video game cases and various dinnerware. The covers had been pulled roughly over his bed. Amanda went to leave, then glanced back through the door.
Something smoky grey peeped out from under one corner of Tom’s pillow. Amanda’s brow furrowed; she stepped into the room and plucked at it with thumb and forefinger. Pantyhose, *her* pantyhose, her *missing* pantyhose, came tumbling out, pooling on the floor. She tossed the pillow aside, revealing a small nest of nylon underneath, black and electric blue.
Amanda scooped up the grey hose, and held it up against the light. It looked unstained, intact. She did the same for the other two pairs. They seemed clean.
Her nostrils flared. She drew herself up to her full height and bellowed, “Tom! Thomas Michael Kennedy! Get up here! Now!”
Her son appeared in the doorway, seconds later.
“Mom? What-” She turned to face him, nylon dangling from her fingers.
“What.” Her words were clipped. “Is. This?” Amanda thrust her hands out accusingly. He blushed, then paled, mouth working but unable to produce any sounds. “Sit down, young man!”
In a rush, he seated himself on the bed.
“Explain yourself, please.” Amanda gestured at the pantyhose still lying where his pillow had been.
“Mom,” he started, licked dry lips, then started again. “Mom, I don’t know. I was home and I was cleaning up and I saw them and I picked them up and I just liked, I just liked the way they felt and I put them there for safek-”
“Do *not* lie to me, young man.” She waved the grey nylon under his nose. “These were missing from my room when I woke up this morning. Those,” she pointed, “I told you to throw out yesterday. *Those* I left lying on my bed when I went to work this morning.” Tom squirmed under his mother’s glare. She fumed, waiting for an answer.
When none came, she said, “lie down.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Lie. Down.” Hands on her hips, Amanda stared down her lanky son until he complied. She grabbed hold of one wrist.
“Mom, what are you-” a twist of her hands, and the grey pantyhose was looped around his wrist. She yanked it up, and fed the loose end through the spindles of his headboard. “Mom?” Not saying a word, she tied the other end around his free wrist and let the nylon snap back.
Tom looked into his mother’s face. Her features were set, angry, but her eyes fairly shone with manic energy.
“This is cr-”
“Shut up,” she said, snatching the ruined black hose from behind his head before stuffing it into his opened mouth. Tom’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he pulled at the pantyhose restraining his arms, biceps standing rigid as he did. Somehow, the hose held.
Amanda seized his ankles, tying them to the foot of his bed with her electric blue hose. Again, Tom pulled hard at his restraints, powerful legs straining to free themselves to no avail.
“How’s that?” She said. “How’s that feel? Do they feel nice now?” Tom looked at her, mouth full of the taste of his mother’s sweat. “Are you going to tell me the truth now?” He nodded. “Good.” She plucked the sodden nylon from his mouth.
“Why didn’t you throw these out like I asked you to?”
“I…I liked the way they felt,” he said. “I had them in my hand and- and I just, I just couldn’t. I had to touch them, feel them on-”
“I know where.” Amanda said curtly. “What about these?” She gestured at the head of the bed. “When did you steal these?”
“Last night,” he said in a quiet voice.
“Last night?” His mother echoed. “Last night? While I was asleep?” Tom nodded. “You mean you saw- you saw me wearing my blue hose?” And nothing else, his mother left unsaid. She sat on the edge of the bed, one hand on his bare calf.
“I only stopped to close the door,” he said. “But you were there, and they were there and you looked so-” he groped for words. “I mean, I know it was wrong but I saw you and you looked so-”
“Saw me?” Amanda raised an eyebrow. “You mean you watched me – watched your own mother – pleasuring myself?” He nodded again. “And then you took them?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry mom, I’m so sorry. You just looked so… beautiful. I had to feel them.”
“Is that why you took these, too?” She fingered the pantyhose wrapped around his ankle. “Did you…use them?”
“I’m so sorry mom,” he said. “I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t stop it. They felt so good and you looked so fuc- so beautiful. I picked them up and I started thinking of you and how you looked and I just-”
A queer look crossed her face, pride and uncertainty and excitement. She shrugged off her cardigan, revealing smooth, bare arms.
“What about these?” Amanda asked, standing. Tom looked at her as she hiked up her abbreviated skirt until the hem was above the welts of her stockings. “Do you like these?” Tom stared as her stockings glimmered, eyes chasing the pattern as it raced down her legs, vanishing into the vamps of her black pumps. He nodded. “Were you planning to steal them later, to touch them?” Another nod. “To touch yourself with them?” Again.
Amanda regarded her handsome son. “Do you want to feel them right now?”
He grunted, then nodded emphatically.
On shaky legs, his mother stepped out of her pumps and onto the bed. Crouching between Tom’s outstretched thighs, Amanda extended one shapely leg and brushed his cheek with her toe.
“How about that?” She asked. “How does that feel?”
“Good, mom. It feels real good.” Tom’s voice was a ragged croak.
She dragged her big toe across his lips, dragging a needy moan out of him.
“Kiss it,” she husked. Tom craned his neck forward and slurped his mother’s toe into his mouth. As his tongue slid across the sheer nylon, Amanda gasped sharply; she could see the pattern radiating up her leg now, fast and brighter than ever. He bathed each toe, suckling them reverently, then dragged his tongue across her arch.
“Good boy,” Amanda said in a low moan. Tom watched her through lidded eyes as she extended her other foot for the same treatment. As her son worshipped at her feet, each flick of his tongue sent shivers through her clit, as though his face were buried between her legs.
She reclined on her elbows, watching his pouty mouth working her pinky toe. Somewhere, in the back of her brain, a voice screamed about stopping, about cultural taboos, about resistance, but there was nothing it could do against the radiant pleasure the stockings were wiring straight into her nerve endings.
“You’re making mommy’s feet feel so good honey,” she said, voice ragged. “I think we’ll do this every day after work mmmkay?” Tom groaned into her delicate arch.
“Yes mom,” his voice was muffled by her foot as his tongue sought to cleanse every inch of it. Amanda smiled triumphantly, then dragged her free foot down his chest, under the hem of his shirt, and back up his body, head spinning as her sensitive sole travelled up his bare skin, tracing the contours of his laddered abdominal muscles, up to his lean pecs, toes scrunching over her son’s left nipple. Tom shivered and arched his back, pulling against his restraints.
The sensation of holding power over his sculpted body, of his hot skin flush with her foot, pressing helplessly into it, was intoxicating. Curious, Amanda let her fingers slide up Tom’s thigh, into the leg of his shorts. It wasn’t long before her delicate fingertips were brushing against the leaking head of his swollen cock.
“You love this, don’t you?” She asked. “You love mommy’s feet, mommy’s legs, all wrapped up in their hose?” Amanda ground her foot into his face as he nodded, while her nails danced around his glans. Precum made her fingers slippery against his heated member. “That’s why you had to steal mommy’s hose, wasn’t it? So you could fist this thing,” she wrapped her hand, just big enough to encompass the swollen plum, “and think of me.”
“Yes mom,” Tom mumbled. “You’re all I can fucking think about.”
“Good boy,” she twisted her palm around his head. “Mommy’s legs and toes caught you, didn’t they? Got you all snarled up in her cobwebby nylon trap?” Tom couldn’t answer – her toes were stuffed into his mouth, but the surge in his cock was all the response she needed. Amanda’s fist slid up his shaft, and her son arched up into her fingers, desperate for more.
“Right from the first day I walked in with these,” Amanda transferred the sodden black pantyhose to the hand inside Tom’s shorts, and she wrapped it around his shaft. “You were caught, weren’t you? This big,” she pumped it, “fat,” sharp stroke around the top half of his cock, “young,” twisting her fist, “young cock, all caught up in mommy’s leggy web. I guess- I guess that means it’s mine now, doesn’t it?”
“Wha- what?” Tom asked, head spinning, barely able to tear himself away from Amanda’s toes.
“I said,” Amanda stretched the black nylon across his rampant cockhead and sawed it back and forth. “I caught this cock. It’s mine. Right?”
“Nggghh!” Her son growled and grunted through gritted teeth. “Yes! Yes! It’s yours.”
“Good boy,” she rewarded him by pinching his nipple with her toes. Amanda’s fingers traced along the shaft; it was well-beyond Big Jim’s now less-than-impressive thickness, so much so that her fist couldn’t close around it. “Mommy’s going to enjoy her cock baby, and you’re going to *love* it, I know.”
“Yes mom,” he mumbled, chasing her toes with his mouth, not really aware of what he was saying, just aware of how good it felt to go where the pattern led him, to let Amanda’s nylons massage him, to feel her hand on his cock and her toes in his mouth.
“Good boy,” suddenly she snatched her legs back, rocking herself upright, thighs straddling his torso. Her stockings caressed the sides of his abdomen as she reached down, grabbed the hem of her skirt, and peeled the dress upwards, revealing first the satiny, hip-skimming bikini panties that barely covered her pubic thatch, then her deep, shadowy navel in the smooth expanse of her stomach; Amanda’s mature tits bounced into view, freckled and capped by those thick, plug-like nipples, their dusty pink colouring giving way to an deep angry rose. “You like?” She asked, lifting one tit to her mouth, and giving the nipple a loud slurp.
Tom just stared at his mother, but his cock pulsed in his gray shorts, threatening to burst the inseam. Amanda grinned, then wiped the precum from her fingers with the wadded-up nylons.
“Here,” she said, a wicked look crossing her face. “You messed them up, you clean them.” Before he could say anything, Amanda was stuffing them back into his mouth, where his tongue was suddenly activated by the wet black hose, sucking almost of its own accord, relishing the admixture of flavours. Then, her fingers were under the waistband of his shorts, searching.
“You dirty, dirty boy,” she chuckled as she fished his cock out. “You like it, don’t you? Doing what mommy says?” He nodded, sucking noisily. “You like it when mommy makes you suck your filth out of the hose that caught you.” His fat cock, emerging from his shorts, snapped to attention.
“It must taste good,” Amanda said, and leaned forward. One hand pressed his insistent member against her tightly muscled ass while she caught her son’s mouth in a kiss, her tongue searching for his through the mass of nylon in his mouth.
“Mmmmmmm,” she purred, then broke away. Her eyes bored into his. “That *does* taste good. Maybe later, mommy will have to get a taste direct from the source, but right now,” Amanda slapped his cock against her ass with a loud crack, “I have better uses for *this*.” With her other hand, she swept the gusset of her panties aside, revealing her dewey labia, dripping directly onto Tom’s treasure trail. “Do you want it, baby? Do you want mommy to take your cock like this?”
Mouth full of pantyhose, Tom couldn’t say a word; instead, he made a needy, gagging, slurping sound, thrusting his cock up into her hand, dryhumping her exposed asscheek.
“There’s no going back after this,” she warned. “Once we do this, you’ll be mommy’s pantyhose slave forever, honey. You’ll spend every damn day doing what I want, fucking me how I want, pampering me how I want, and as a reward, I’ll let you touch my nylons, I’ll let you fuck your cock into mommy’s pantyhose, I’ll let you arrange and clean and put them away.” Even Amanda didn’t know what she was saying, but the words fell out of her mouth of their own accord, drawing up a verbal contract that would tie them together forever. “Is that what you want, baby?”
Tom’s head bobbed up and down furiously, even as his cock thrust upwards against her soft skin. Amanda purred, and let his cock slide between her legs, rubbing up against the slippery wetness of her dripping labia.
“Ohhh honey,” she crooned. “Mommy’s going to fuck this cock so good you won’t even remember there are any other pussies out there.” With her index finger and thumb, Amanda positioned the thick plum head at the entrance of her waiting hole, and began lowering herself. Tom thrust himself upward, as far as the limits of the pantyhose restraints would allow (not very far), suddenly desperate for the clasping heat of his mother’s pussy. It felt, for all the world, as though his cock was being swallowed in a silky, slippery nylon mouth, the muscles in her cunt spiralling and twisting around his meat just like the pattern had twisted and spiralled around his mother’s leg.
“Fuck! God, Tom,” Andrea said, biting her lip as her son’s cock slid deeper inside of her, bullying into her needy cunt, “God, you fill mommy up so fucking *good*.” She rolled her hips forward, gasping as it slipped another inch inside. “Fuck baby, mommy’s gonna need this every day. Are you okay with that, honey? Mommy taking your cock every,” she ground her hips counterclockwise, “fucking. Day?”
Tom just thrust up into her, grunting into the pantyhose stuffed into his mouth, desperate to get more of himself inside of her, aching to feel every square inch of her divine pussy. Amanda began grinding in the other direction, knowing she was in complete control of her pleasure, his pleasure, unable to keep a giddy smile from her face. This handsome young fuck god was hers to do with as she pleased, hers to keep here in her house as a toy and a slave and lover, armed with a relentless young cock that would pound her ripened, mature cunt whenever she wished. That he was her *son*, her only child, only made it more attractive somehow, as though she had created the perfect lover for herself, the wrongness adding a heated frisson of the taboo that made her pussy churn and nipples tingle.
Amanda frantically strummed her clit.
“I *own* you now, don’t I honey?” She asked, leaning forward into Tom’s face, one hand splayed out on his chest. “Mommy’s hose caught you and now I own you forever, don’t I?” Tom sucked noisily on the hose in his mouth, the black nylons that had captured his eyes in the first place. Looking his mother in the eye, he nodded. Amanda purred, and began thrusting her hips atop his shaft, slowly pistoning him in and out of her while her sucking pussy massaged the length of him. “What a good boy,” she said, and Tom tried manfully to pound his cock up into her, arms and legs straining, the tendons in his wrists standing out like steel cables.
“Poor baby,” she cooed, kissing his face while languorously fucking him, each upstroke pulling obscene wet noises out of her cunt as she creamed all over his cock. “Does baby want mommy to make him cum? Does he want to fill mommy up with his hot boycream?” Tom nodded desperately.
“Well, tough.” Amanda righted herself, sitting straight up on his cock, licking her lips as she watched him struggle, so desperate to pound his mother’s pussy. She raised her hips a few inches, and dropped hard onto him with a loud smack. “The first rule of this relationship, honey, is: Mommy. Cums. First.” Smack. Smack. Smack. “Understand?” Smack. She began fucking herself on top of his cock faster, tits jiggling as her body dropped again and again. “Mommy. Cums. First!” Her hands crawled under his shirt, fingernails burning scratches in his taut golden skin. “You don’t get to cum. Ever. Again. Unless I say so. Get it?” Tom head bobbed up and down frantically. “If I want to leave these balls aching and swollen for weeks, that’s my prerogative, isn’t it?” She reached back and grabbed his bouncing sac while he signed his approval. “And you fucking love it, don’t you? A strong older woman taking control of you; your own *mother* taking control of your sexual life like this?”
Tom redoubled his efforts to fuck his cock up inside of her, to no avail, grunting out a muffled “YEFSH!”
“Good boy,” she cooed, her hips a blur atop his cock, skin slamming on skin, beating a rapid tattoo that filled the room. “I’m going to train you to be such a good. Boy! Good! Boy! Good! BOY!” Amanda reached out, grabbing his shoulders, leaning into him hard as she started cumming, hips cycling and pussy clenching down on Tom’s cock. Her body jerked, spasming, tits jumping in his face, sweat pouring from her diminutive, tightly-packed body to splatter down onto his. Her eyes were wild and fierce, shining with her newfound power over him, power he’d willingly given up to her in exchange for the intense pleasure pounding through his cock.
She growled, and lifted herself up off his rampant member, letting it fall back, sticky with her juices as they dripped out of her. She plucked the nylons from his mouth, and wheeled around atop him.
Tom stared up at his mother’s pink hole, pulsing and running freely with cream. Without a word, she dropped her pussy down, onto his mouth, and he eagerly slurped at her sopping labia.
Amanda looked down at her son’s twitching cock, head slick with precum. She unrolled one empty leg of the sodden black hose down over his shaft, the loosest possible condom, and stretched it tight. He shivered, and the nylon glimmered, the pattern crawling over her son’s thick shaft.
“Is this what you wanted?” She asked, leaning close. “Mommy’s worn pantyhose on your cock?” Amanda stroked the shaft, fingers sliding over the stretched fabric. Tom quivered from head to toe. The tip of it was so fat. “Or something more?” Tenderly, her lips pressed against the weeping piss-slit through the thin veil that separated them. Underneath her, his tongue thrashed around in her pussy, body straining to do likewise. Amanda gave it a long, experimental lick, savouring the mix of tastes – the nylon, the pussy cream, the precum – then lapped at it again, kittenlike. Her pussy buzzed as Tom let out a long, low moan into it.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, tongue flickering around his glans while she slowly fisted his cock. Had he always tasted so good or was this some weird side-effect of the pantyhose? The pattern glimmered. It didn’t matter. She began to suckle at the tip of his dick, nursing on the gentle pulses of sweet precum that flowed through the hose. Amanda smeared it all over her lips like lipgloss, then licked it away before stuffing the head back in her mouth, grabbing hold of his shaft with the other hand. It was a two-fist job, she decided, offering her son long, nearly continuous downstrokes while she suckled on his enormous phallus. He squirmed under her ministrations, his own tongue clearly unfocused on the job at hand. Each teasing flicker of her tongue brought a new shudder to her son, and it took a second for him to refocus on her pussy. Amanda stroked him faster, now, tongue swiping back and forth across his pisshole, cleaning away the steady stream of fluid leaking out.
“Mommy’s hose caught you,” she said between laps, “so it’s only fair,” her fingers interlocked in a clasping nylon tunnel around his shaft, “that you spill your seed for mommy’s hose first before you get to cum inside of her. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
Tom’s muffled ‘yes’ was indistinct and slurred.
“Of course it’s fair,” the sizzle of the hose on his cock grew louder. “Whatever I say is fair because I’m your fucking pantyhose queen, aren’t I? I fucking own this cock, don’t I? What I say goes, and you fucking love it, don’t you?”
“God yessss, mom. Mommy.” Tom said, his chin momentarily breaking free of her clasping labia. “I love it. I love you. I love your pantyhose. I love your pussy.” His voice was lost as she pressed herself down on him again.
“Good boy,” she cooed, slurping noisily at the head of his cock, fists pumping hard. “Now be mommy’s good dirty boy and fucking cum for me. Cum for mommy! Cum! Cum! Cum!” Amanda felt every muscle in his body tense and jump as his heels and shoulders dug into the mattress, raising them both into a rigid arc as cum burst into her mouth, filling her tongue with the taste of his final submission to her will. The sheer sense of power over his pleasure sent her careening over the edge a second time, gushing hot pussy cream all over his digging mouth while she eagerly drank down the semen his balls shot across her tongue. Pulling off to let out a scream, she carried on pumping him through his orgasm, watching as each plume of cream burst forth from his pulsing cockhead, fountaning up to splatter down across her knuckles.
“Good boy!” she enthused. “Give mommy all that fucking cream!” This drove a strong spurt up and out of his cock, soaring a foot above the tip before splashing on her forearm. Eventually the spurts subsided to a dribble, then ceased. Tom’s body flopped to the bed, cock beginning it’s long journey to softness. Amanda licked her fingers clean like a cat.
“Mom,” Tom panted, “Mom that was incred-”
“There’s more where that came from.” Amanda scissored her legs, standing. She plucked the cum soaked pantyhose from her son’s cock. “Clean these,” she said, tossing them onto her son’s face. “Clean them and I’ll let you see what’s in here.” His mother scooped up the unopened package of pantyhose and held it up for him to see.
Her stockings glimmered in the light, snakeskin pattern speeding around her legs.
With a will, Tom began feeding himself the nylons as his cock began to stir.
“Good boy,” she said, softly.
Outside the house, heterochromatic eyes watched Tom’s bedroom window. They crinkled as a smile spread over their owner’s weathered features.
“They’re all good boys,” the old woman muttered to nobody in particular. “They just need to be shown the way.”
