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A month had passed since my “incident” with my mother. Contrary to what I had hoped, I began to discover that my carnal interest in her was only getting stronger. I found myself staring at her crossed legs every morning at breakfast, sometimes dropping my napkin just to take a longer, lingering look. Practically every night, before I went to sleep, I was thinking of her as I frantically sought a release. I would pause every time I passed her bedroom door, glancing in to see if by some chance she was dressing or undressing. I couldn’t get it out of my head. I even voluntarily helped out with my own torture — I knew she was trying to catch the eye of her boss, so I was suggesting shorter skirts, more high heels, tighter shirts. While it added to my fantasy life, I was still wracked with guilt and shame every time I thought of her that way.
I even started initiating more physical contact between us, brushing up against her coming through doorways, leaning into her while stretching past her to grab something off the counter I didn’t need, squeezing her hip when she gave me a goodbye kiss on the cheek as she left for work. Growing up, I had given her foot massages every now and again, which is probably where I grew to relish the feel of nylon. Now, I was giving her at least 3 a week, passing it off as just something nice to do for her since I wasn’t paying rent — her on the couch, watching TV, me kneeling at the foot. I loved the feeling of her foot, still in her nylons after work, running my hands over her calf as I massaged them as well, surreptitiously keeping my eyes peeled for a flash up her skirt. Every moan of pleasure she gave added to the rock-hard pressure I felt, and when I was done I always needed to excuse myself and go into the bathroom for relief. I hated myself, after, and would vow that it was over, I wasn’t doing it or thinking of it again, but a couple of days later, I was back at it. Nothing more happened for a while, but I wouldn’t be disappointed long.
It was a Friday night, and Mom had already told me she was going out that night with Donna — some restaurant/bar had dancing after 9 pm, and they wanted to check it out. She mentioned something about her boss maybe dropping by there, so I knew she was going to go all-out tonight. My mind had kept thinking about it all day, just imagining what she’d look like, imagining some man pressing up against her, imagining myself pressing up against her — it was a wonder I could get any work done. By the time I got home, I was a horny wreck. I did anything I could to take my mind off of her — work out, watch TV, listen to music, whatever — but my brain kept right on going back. I couldn’t take it any more; I needed some kind of relief, some release of pressure. I knew Mom was going to be home late, and so I went into her room.
It was neat, everything put away — as always. I looked at the bed where a month ago I had knelt over her body and came all over her ass and legs. In my mind’s eye, I wasn’t just pleasuring myself; instead, I was kneeling between her spread legs with my face buried in her crotch, licking her into a frenzy. My heart rate started to pick up even faster. A minute later I found myself looking through the clothes in the closet, stroking the fabric of the skirts, running my fingers over the silky fronts of her blouses. I came across some lingerie hanging up, teddies and the like. I paused over each one, imagining her in them, her nipples poking through the lacy top of the blue one, the curve of her ass cheeks hanging just below the hem of the peach one. The last item was a corset, red and black, with garters for stockings dangling from the bottom.
I pictured my mother cinched into it, freckled breasts nearly spilling out of the top, strutting around in black stockings and stiletto heels. I could feel her pressing into me, soft lips brushing mine while my hands slid down her back and cupped her ass cheeks, finally pushing her down onto the bed and entering her while she hooked her nyloned legs around my waist. I wanted her so badly at that moment, that had she been home, I have no idea what would have happened, what I may have done. I came out of it, flustered, hot, and suddenly ashamed. I quickly left the closet, meaning to try to get a hold of myself — probably in more ways than one — when I saw her dresser. Having just looked through all of her clothes, there was only one other thing to see, that I suddenly HAD to see. Still red-faced with shame, I walked over and began going through my mother’s panty drawer.
The front of the drawer had what would be typical for a woman in her forties — plain white cotton, nothing interesting or racy. I was surprised by what was behind and under them. Black, red, and pink, lacy, silky, and see-through, high-cut, low-rider, and even some thongs. The variety and numbers surprised me — despite her abundant sexiness, I was naïve enough to think that she was too conservative for what poker oyna I was seeing. I was rapidly learning better. As I looked through them all, I realized that there were no stockings or pantyhose to be found, and I moved onto the next drawer.
If I was surprised before, I was shocked now. The entire drawer was full of nylon hosiery, so much that it could barely be opened or shut. Black, taupe, nude, control top, sheer-to-waist, thigh-high stay-ups, stockings — it was a sea of nylon. I looked through, counting in my head, stopping when I reached twenty and wasn’t even halfway done. Slowly the thought began to dawn on me — was my mother as into nylons as I was? Why else would she own so many pairs, wear them nearly every day? I had no real way of knowing for sure, but I clung to the thought as I became more and more aroused by it. My hands were still idly moving through the nylons, and something caught my eye long enough to break through my fevered thoughts. Far in the back, tucked into the corner, I saw a pair of pantyhose that looked a little different. Grabbing them, I saw what was different: they were crotchless.
Even seeing her array of lingerie hadn’t prepared me for that, naïve or not. The idea of my mother, sitting at the kitchen table, legs crossed to cover her otherwise exposed pussy, threw me into a whole new realm of fantasies. I have no idea why this particular article of clothing affected me so strongly; I guess it was the blatant sexual nature of them. They were designed so that pantyhose could be worn during sex. I thought of my mother, of all people, wanting or needing such easy access. It made her seem a little whorish, and that thought turned me on even more. It was more than I could take. I quickly pulled down the front of my sweatpants with my left hand and grabbed my erection with the right. The crotchless hose were still bunched in my hand, and a few seconds of the silky friction were all I needed to climax.
Close on the heels of release came the feelings of panic. What do I do with her hose? Stuff them deep in the hamper and hope she doesn’t notice? Wash them myself? I didn’t really do the laundry — would that be weird or suspicious? I decided that it was worth the risk — much better than her finding her hose, crumpled and sticky — and began gathering all the clothes, hers and mine, to struggle through the laundry. She probably wouldn’t be home ’til late, and by then everything would be put away and I’d be free and clear. A few minutes later, the washing machine was running, and I went to my room to wait for the buzzer. Finally relaxing, I laid down on my bed and started to read.
When I woke up, I wasn’t sure of the time. What I was sure of was my mother was home, the laundry room door was open, a basket of clothes in front of the machine, and nothing was put away. I could hear voices — for a second I thought she had brought a guy home with her, and was again surprised by a strong feeling of jealous possession. I soon recognized the voice as Donna’s, my mom’s friend. Donna was a couple of years younger than Mom, freshly divorced herself, and had done a lot to bring out the partier in my mother. They worked in the same building, had known each other a few years, and they grew a lot closer after my mother’s divorce. I suspected it was Donna who talked my mom into getting the divorce in the first place, so I’ve always liked her. The fact that she was pretty hot for her age really helped too.
She was shorter than Mom, probably around 5’4″ or so, but I never saw her without heels on. She was tan year-round, dark-haired, and obviously spent a lot of time at the gym. When I saw her, she generally dressed much the same as my mother, business suits, skirts, heels — I assumed she would pretty much head out after work and look for fun. The clothes my mother wore had changed quite a bit after she became friends with Donna — I had originally thought it a product of the divorce, but now thought of it as imitation and admiration for her friend. Donna was a bit of a tease and a flirt, at least with me, but I always just passed it off as a game for her — she would say something mildly suggestive to me, Mom would act shocked and admonish her, and everyone would laugh. She had spent many a night parading through my fantasies.
At that moment, though, I wasn’t thinking about Donna or anyone else. I was laying on top of my covers, in my boxers — I had thrown my clothes in the basket to wash – with the lights on, and didn’t want to try to explain what was going on. I quickly shut my eyes again and pretended to be asleep. I listened to 2 pairs of high heels click their way across the wood floor to my room while they chatted — assuming I was awake — then my mother shushing her friend when she got to the door and saw I was “asleep”. I heard an “awww…” from Donna as my mother walked over and pulled a blanket over me. I could smell her perfume, intermingling with the canlı poker oyna faint scents of cigarette smoke and wine. As she started to leave Donna told her in a whisper that she’d be happy to tuck me in if Mom would just give her a few minutes. The usual fake-shock “Donna!” followed, and they both chuckled quietly. As the door began to close, I cracked my eyes, just to get a peek before they were gone.
I saw them for only a second, but the image stayed in my mind as clear as a snapshot. As I’d suspected, Mom had outdone herself tonight. Her hair, slightly curly, hung loose to the middle of her back. She wore a tight shimmery white long-sleeved blouse tucked into a black leather miniskirt I’d never seen before. The skirt was short, shorter than I’d ever seen her wear, and if she’d bent over at the waist you’d have seen much of her bare ass. I knew she was wearing tan pantyhose — the tops of her stockings would have been completely visible in that skirt — and new shoes, patent leather heels with an ankle strap. Her left arm was stretched behind her, pulling the door closed, as well as pulling her shirt tight across her ample chest. Donna was framed in the doorway, weight shifted to her right leg, arms crossed, smiling at my mother. Her clothes were like a negative image of my mother’s: black shirt, white skirt, white pumps, her tanned legs standing out in sharp contrast. Her breasts, smaller than Mom’s, were pushed together by her crossed arms, and I could see the edge of white lace on the swell of one tanned breast.
The door clicked shut, and I could hear them talking in low voices as they moved away from my room. I quickly got out of bed and moved over to the door so I could catch the conversation — and what might happen when my mother saw the half-done laundry. I could tell they were in the kitchen, heard the clinking of glasses and the fridge door — time for more wine. I heard it opened, and the click of heels leaving the kitchen. Any second now — and there it was. The sound of walking had stopped in front of the utility closet. I cracked the door so I could hear. Mom must have said something about it being odd, because I next heard Donna say something about thinking it was sweet that I was trying to do the laundry. My mother hesitated a second; my heart thumped in my chest; then she said, “about time” and laughed. My whole body relaxed — a coward dies a thousand deaths — and I finally could breathe easy. I listened to them move into the living room — it didn’t take long, the condo was pretty small — and settle on the couch. Some music started playing, soft and low, while they sat on the couch and talked.
I was wide awake now, as well as relieved. The fear and apprehension I had felt was rapidly fading, and now the back of my mind starting clamoring for a second look at the two gorgeous women sitting thirty feet from my room. I couldn’t see them from where I was — the kitchen was in the way — so I would have to sneak out, past the kitchen, and look around the corner. I could get caught — anything was possible — but I didn’t care. The coward had already died enough times that night. I quickly slipped out of my room, leaving the door cracked, padded down the hall past the kitchen, and got down on the floor. I inched my way forward and looked around the corner, wall pressing into my left shoulder.
They were on the couch, half turned and facing each other, Donna on my right. They each had a knee pulled up on the couch, the other foot on the floor. I couldn’t see from my vantage point, but I knew that you’d be able to see straight up their skirts, and with how short they were to begin with, the exposure was probably close to 100%. Donna had her right elbow on the back of the couch, resting her head in her hand, and it pulled her shirt open enough that I could see the entire side of her right breast. I was surprised to learn why — I was pretty sure the shirt was buttoned lower now that it was originally. I was a little surprised by that, and it made start to pay more attention to their behavior and less just ogling their legs.
At first I didn’t notice anything else odd, until my mother stretched forward to pick up her wine glass from the coffee table. As soon as she turned her head, I could see Donna’s eyes drop down, looking between my mother’s legs. She kept her eyes there the entire time my mother was drinking, lifting her eyes when she finally leaned back. Donna then shifted slightly, sliding forward just a bit and pulling her right knee a little higher. This movement pulled her skirt up a little more, increased the exposure, and left their knees touching lightly. Donna then turned her head and went for her own drink. I couldn’t see my mother’s eyes to tell for sure — the angle was wrong — but I swore her head lowered just slightly, and I was convinced that she was now taking in her own show. Donna seemed to know it, too; she took her time with her wine glass, just looking into internet casino nowhere in the living room, taking a sip, talking for a minute, sipping again, drawing it out. Mom’s right hand had been resting on her own right thigh, but as Donna’s show continued, that hand began to slowly slide up and down. As she stroked her leg, her hand moved towards her inner thigh and continued its long, sensual movement. I was riveted, but not enough to miss Donna glancing out of the corner of her eye at my mother’s leg and smiling.
Eventually Donna leaned back and Mom stopped moving her hand. Their conversation continued, and for the first time I actually began to listen. Donna was dismissing my mother’s boss as a “tease”, and I gradually figured from their conversation that he had shown up, danced with both of them, but left fairly early, and my mother wasn’t too happy about it. It was a strange feeling, listening to my mother describe how horny she was — a month ago I wouldn’t have ever thought of my mother that way — and complain about being tired of just getting herself off. Donna slid her hand over my mother’s knee, and said, “Honey, you get this way EVERY time you drink,” and they both laughed. Donna then got a mischievous look on her face, and said, “you should probably turn the music up a little — don’t want your baby boy to hear.” As my mother got up, I froze in fear — the stereo was right in front of me, about ten feet away. If my mother turned to her right, I’d be completely busted, in my boxers, sporting tremendous wood — all in all, a bad position to be in.
As I crouched, heart hammering in my chest, my mother was standing in front of me, fiddling with the stereo, making the music a little louder. The rest of the living room was now cut off from my vision, so I was surprised when Donna stepped up behind my mother. As she turned from the stereo, Donna stepped forward, placed her left hand on Mom’s hip, brought her right hand up to the side of my mother’s face, tilted her head down, and drew my mother into a deep kiss. I was thankful that the music was louder, since it helped cover the gasp that escaped my mouth. Of course, as intent as they were on each other, I’m not sure they would have noticed. After an initial moment of surprise, my mother was just as into the kiss as Donna; this wasn’t the first time it’s happened, I thought. Donna gently pushed my mother back against the wall between the stereo cabinet and her bedroom door, never breaking the kiss.
After a few seconds, Donna’s right hand slipped down, pushing my mother’s shirt open. Her fingers slipped under the cup of the black bra, exposing the breast, and began to gently squeeze. The tanned hand gripped my mother’s pale bosom familiarly, and the hardening nipple was visible between index and middle finger. Mom slid her hands down Donna’s back, over her ass, then down to the hem of the short skirt. The back of the skirt was soon bunched at Donna’s waist, and my mother was squeezing her nylon-covered ass. In response, Donna ran her left hand over the front of Mom’s skirt and lifted it, exposing her pantyhose-covered crotch. Mom spread her legs slightly to accommodate the hand that was now working rhythmically between her legs. A few seconds of this, and Mom tilted her head back to lean against the wall. Her breathing was rapid, eyes closed, cheeks flushed. Her hips began thrusting forward in time with the strokes, and I could hear Donna whisper, “You love how that feels, don’t you?” Mom didn’t – or couldn’t — answer. Her friend bent her head down and began licking and gently sucking the exposed nipple. Mom’s breathing continued to speed up, coming in short, sharp exhalations. Her eyes opened suddenly, with almost a look of dismay as she bent her head down, as the hand stopped its firm stroke of her crotch and shifted to her left breast. Soon enough, though, my mother’s head hit the wall with an audible thunk, as Donna’s right hand slid over Mom’s pale belly and under the waistband of the sheer-to-waist hose. That hand started working, faster and faster, in time with Mom’s gasps of air, and Donna had a smile on her face as she kept her eyes fixed on Mom’s face. Soon, my mother’s knees buckled slightly, her inner thigh muscles started to twitch, and gasps turned to moans. Donna gripped my mother’s hair in her left hand and pulled her into another kiss, still working her right hand, as they rode Mom’s orgasm until it tapered off.
Donna pulled back and began to gently turn my mother, guiding her to the open door. My mother was now directly facing me, and thankfully her eyes were still closed or I would have been clearly visible, stroking myself with an intense look of passion and longing on my face. The hem on my mother’s skirt had become trapped in her waistband as Donna’s hand pulled out from it, and once again I had a clear view of her nylon-encased pussy, this time with a small wet spot darkening the front. Soon she was walking, wobbling slightly in her spike heels, Donna right behind her, fingernails dragging across the back of Mom’s thighs. Donna whispered that she wasn’t done with her yet, and then it was going to be her turn. The door clicked shut behind them.
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