You'd think my husband would've told me he was having a few of his golfing buddies over before I went to bed.
Let me share a few intimate details about myself. I enjoy sleeping commando--naked, no panties, no bra. I have a beautiful set of 38Ds, a cute face, strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes, and very sexy legs, as I was once an amateur hosiery model. I also sport a 70s-style retro bush.
More often than not, I enjoy falling asleep in hosiery--pantyhose, to be specific. I've grown accustomed to the silky, sensual feeling they add under the cool sheets, plus the added warmth in colder months or during summer when the AC is on.
I enjoy my red wine--who am I kidding? I enjoy any wine or alcohol, for that matter. After work, I like to slip off my heels, stretch my toes, pour some wine, and indulge in a cigarette or two.
My after-work attire is a pair of yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt because I like to feel comfy. Needless to say, my silky, nylon-encased feet are breathing, walking around barefoot after suffocating in heels all day.
Being in a house with two males and being the only female can, at times, be a challenge. Our son is 19 now, taking a gap year to decide what he wishes to do. Over the last few years, I've noticed some changes. He's expressed an eagerness to do laundry, which came as a huge surprise. He's always showering at all hours of the night, he's been attentive to my feelings, and has expressed wanting to help me when he finds I'm alone. More recently, I discovered that he may have a nylon hosiery fetish like his father.
Last week, after returning home from work earlier than usual, I decided to give my son a break and do the laundry. I stopped by his room and grabbed his clothes. As I was sorting, I noticed what I thought was an inside-out pocket. When I went to tuck it back in, I realized it was soft and silky--it was sheer nylon. I pulled it out, and it turned out to be a thigh-high stocking. It could've been one of mine, but it wasn't familiar.
Examining it closer, I noticed it had several white stains that were visibly prominent against the suntan shade and crusty in spots. OMG! I just found my son's cum rag!
That explains it--now it's clear why he wants to do the laundry. Who does that stocking belong to? Where did he get it? Does he wear them? All these thoughts ran through my head. That's a battle for another day, I thought as I gulped a huge swig of my wine.
It was about 8:00 when I decided to call it a night. I was feeling the wine, and my mind was in a total fog. I went to say goodnight to my son, who was playing some game with his headphones on. I called out his name and walked in, but he didn't hear me come in. I leaned in to kiss his neck, and he jumped. "Goodnight," I said. "Oh, you scared me," he said. "Goodnight, Mom." I wanted so desperately to discuss finding his cum rag, but I just didn't have enough liquid courage in me.
I said goodnight to my husband and told him I was going to bed. He looked up just enough from his phone to say, "Goodnight."
I undressed and slipped into bed. I didn't even put the TV on. I don't remember falling asleep--it felt like I slept for hours. Still mentally exhausted, I groggily looked at the clock, and it was only 10:45. If I didn't have to pee, I would've kept sleeping.
Putting on my robe and loosely tying it, I walked out of our bedroom, down the hall, and downstairs to the guest bathroom. Walking down the stairs loosened my robe, leaving it fully open by the last step.
Startled by catcalls, whistles, and flashing lights, my squinted eyes opened in disbelief. There, in our family living room, were over half a dozen of my husband's golfing buddies.
I froze, realizing my robe was totally open. I immediately tried to close it--not a moment too soon, for my huge tits were hanging free, and my dark, overgrown retro bush between my legs, tightly encased in silky, sheer suntan nylon pantyhose, left nothing to the imagination.
Flushed, I turned and ran up the stairs into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.
OMG! What the fuck! I screamed. Taking the last gulp of wine, I wished I had another bottle. Ugh! Lying down, I put myself to sleep in the fetal position.
I woke up to my husband slamming drawers and doors. "What's the matter?" I asked. "This," my husband said, showing me his cell phone. Apparently, he wasn't aware of what happened last night. There were multiple full-frontal nude photos of me. It's obvious that several had been edited so the moment was truly captured.
I slapped his phone away from my face, blaming him for not telling me he was going to have his friends over, no less at that hour of the night. "It's my fucking house!" I screamed.
My husband started saying something when I immediately cut him off, screaming in his face that it was all his fault. "Where were you, anyway?" I asked. "I was in the kitchen, getting some drinks for my guests," he said.
"Expecting people in my living room at that hour was the absolute last thing I could've ever imagined," I said as I got out of bed, naked except for the suntan pantyhose I slept in--evidence from last night's fiasco.
Putting on my robe and tying it tightly around my waist to ensure it wouldn't come loose again, I slipped into a pair of open-toe slippers and headed downstairs.
By the third step, the strong smell of freshly brewed coffee hit my nose. Both my husband and son were sitting at the table. Pouring myself a cup, I turned around, leaning against the counter, appreciating the aroma and taking a sip. While rehashing last evening's events, I noticed an awkwardness and figured it had to do with last night.
After a few sips, I pulled out a chair and sat across from them. With my legs crossed, dangling my slipper off my toes, I asked them, "What're the plans for today?" My husband said he was going for a noon tee time, and my son interjected, saying he was joining as well. "I guess I'll be home alone today," I said as I let the slipper fall from my toes, exposing my silky nylon foot for both to ogle.
The tension between them was weird. I noticed my son seemed distant and ignored my silky nylon foot, which is uncommon for him. Normally, his attention is solely focused on my legs and feet, which my husband seems oblivious to. He didn't even make eye contact with me. Did my husband say something to him? I wondered.
"Better get going," my husband said as they both got up and headed out of the kitchen. Picking up the coffee cups and putting them into the sink, my phone buzzed. It was a text from an unknown number.
**Caller Text:** "Your husband is a very lucky man."
**Me:** Who is this?
Silence.
Waiting...
Nothing. Hmm. Well, whoever it was will just need to text back or forget it, for it's an unknown number.
I walked into my bedroom and started to disrobe when my husband stepped from behind the closet door. He sidestepped me, closing our bedroom door, and said, "We need to talk."
Sitting back on the side of the bed, naked except for the pantyhose I was wearing, I asked, "What's up?"
"All morning long, the guys have been breaking my balls, saying stuff, and, you know."
"Know what?" I asked.
"Saying shit about how you look, that you have such big, fuckable tits. They all said they were in shock that you have such a hairy bush and what a body you have, and that they'd all fuck you if they had the chance."
Making lemonade from lemons, I said, "Well, you should be proud that all your buddies feel that way about your wife, right? Is that all they said? C'mon, you can tell me anything--you know that!"
"De said that your bush looks fucking amazing, like a woman of the Amazon, and--"
"And what? And who's De?" I asked.
"De, short for Dejon, and--"
