Summary: A young college student explores the roots of his pantyhose fetish through a series of memories and encounters with his seductive, divorced, long legged mother.
Story codes: (F/M, mom/son, pantyhose, cum, oral, voy, exh, solo, slow, plot, cons, rom)
It all started when I was 10 years old, the year my parents got divorced, a normal age for a lanky, soft-spoken only child to have his obsession with Grand Theft Auto blindsided by his first crush.
I had just started junior high, where they made us read boring stuff like Romeo & Juliet, though I was too young to understand the dangers of forbidden lust, yet old enough to notice how my mother would often do the sexiest things without knowing it.
Things might have been different had my mother been more willing to let me out of her sight. Instead, I was treated more like a pet, expected to literally follow at her heels everywhere she went. Naturally, by forcing me to spend all my free time with her, it wasn't long before I started observing some of her more peculiar tendencies.
She had an extensive shoe collection, most of which were high heels. She loved wearing heels so much that even when she took them off, I'd often catch her walking around on her tiptoes, like she was purposely training her leg muscles around the house, by practicing in invisible stilettos.
No matter what she was doing, she always seemed to need something inside her mouth. When we went out to eat, she couldn't drink anything without a straw. If she was sitting at home grading papers, she'd sit there for hours sucking on the end of a pen. She watched football every Sunday, though she knew almost nothing about sports. She just enjoyed wearing her fitted jersey and a pair of tights, rooting for whichever team had the cutest quarterback.
Whenever I got lint in my eye, she would lean down, pout her lips together and gently blow until it was gone. The feeling excited me so much that I eventually found myself actually looking forward to it.
By the time I finished high school, I was so used to being by my mother's side that leaving for college less than an hour away filled me with highly mixed emotions due to all the amazing memories left behind.
By my third year at Emerson, the novelty of living away from home had worn off almost completely. With each passing day, I was growing more lonely and homesick, with no girls and only a few male friends to help kill the boredom.
One dreary afternoon, my mother called me completely out of the blue, with the radical idea of finding a new apartment for us to live together.
Even at 42, my mother was still an incredibly striking woman, with long, flowing, chestnut brown hair, hazel eyes, flat cheeks and skinny lips set between her oval chin and the downward tip of her nose.
At 5'6", 120 lbs., she'd fully outgrown the red leotards from her glory days of high school gymnastics, where she'd collected multiple trophies, mostly for balance beam. Still, she kept her body in tremendous shape, wearing trendy outfits that proudly displayed her pert breasts, tight ass, and best of all, her long, head-turning legs.
To put it bluntly, in my own personal opinion, my mother was the hottest woman I'd ever seen. I jerked off thinking about her so much that it soon developed into a full blown obsession. I tried my best to keep her from catching on to how often I fantasized about her. Yet, over the years, she started to worry that I seemed to have no interest in other girls.
I had just started college two years earlier, so the thought of moving back in with my mother initially felt like a step backwards. Admittedly, I was living in a small, dumpy apartment. My roommate was a total slob. Yet, in spite of the headaches, and as much as I missed seeing her every day, I'd still managed to survive on my own and part of me had gotten used to fending for myself.
At 19, I was eager to spend my junior year getting hammered every night and screwing as many co-eds as possible. At least, that's what I'd always imagined college would be like. Though in reality, I was still the same skinny kid from Rhode Island, with a tendency to fidget and make awkward jokes around girls my own age, to the point where even the ugly ones started avoiding me.
The day Mom called I was in lying in bed going through my favorite pictures of her on my cell phone. I never knew when I might get the sudden urge to rub one out and nothing made me cum faster than looking at pictures of my gorgeous mom, even fully clothed.
For as long as I could remember I had always been captivated by my mother's legs. When Dad left, because of all the travel, she gave up event planning to teach marketing at a nearby community college where the women on staff often wore pantyhose under their skirts. By that time, for all I knew, Mom had been wearing pantyhose for many years. Yet, it wasn't until she started teaching that I really began noticing how this basic element of her daily business attire distinctly brought out the remarkable beauty and dimension of her long, sinuous legs.
Maybe it was genetic, or perhaps it was just puberty, but around that time, I became so fixated on my mother's legs that I started to question why I was so helplessly drawn to them in the first place. As flawless as they looked by themselves, their hypnotic effect immediately doubled whenever I saw her in pantyhose.
It was as if this ordinary undergarment was imbued with extraordinary powers luring my eyes to linger over the supple tone of her lean, slender calves, moving up to the meaty flesh of her firm sculpted thighs, where her long, shapely legs gradually expanded leading to the fullness of her hips, topped by a set of luscious round asscheeks beautifully encased under sheer, shimmering threads of nylon.
Though I'd long forgotten the very first time that I noticed Mom wearing hose, the one thing that never left me was an urgent impulse to look down and gaze over the dazzling aura emanating from her legs. From the bottom of all her short skirts, down to the tips of her toes, each pair she wore had the power to enthrall me with its own seductive sparkle.
Not a single day went by where I wasn't sitting at home waiting for her to walk in and kick off her sexy heels. My dreamy eyes followed as she tiptoed around the house, lost in the warm glow of her lustrous pantyhose, completely spellbound. The longer I stared, the more I became desperate to feed my growing obsession at all cost.
Growing up, Mom and I traveled quite a bit. Wherever we were, it wasn't unusual for me to pull out my camera and get her to pose for me out in public. She'd always been the type of mother who gladly encouraged any hobby I developed, especially my growing interest in photography. Eventually, I managed to collect dozen of pictures, all of which focused on her long, gorgeous legs. I was certain she never suspected what I actually did with her pictures after she went to bed, considering I was so young, not to mention being her son.
My favorite pictures for jerking off were the ones that involved Mom sitting down and crossing her legs. Before teaching, working in corporate America had given her many years to develop this particular skill. As a trained professional, she was far too elegant to take one leg and carelessly flop it over the other.
Instead, with her head up and her perky breasts pointed straight out, she'd gracefully sit down, sweep her hands under her skirt, then with full extension, flick out one leg, flexing the tip of her shoe, as she leisurely elevated her long, silky stem, the lush contours visible though the pantyhose, as she draped it ever so gently across her lower thigh, all this in one rousingly fluid motion, seamlessly merging her firm shapely calves in deliciously perfect alignment, as I stood there completely riveted, listening as one leg brushed up against the other, sweeping against the grain, a thrilling sound that instantly made my dick throb hearing that subtle swish.
Deep down, I knew it was wrong. Still, I often tried to convince myself that it wasn't so unusual to see my mother as the hottest woman on Earth. Her voice alone sent chills down my spine, with the perfect diction and dignified restraint of a well-trained, highly confident educator, with only the slightest trace of a typical New England accent.
Despite being over forty, her nutritious diet and friendly demeanor gave her a youthful glow. She barely ate more than two bites of anything, loved yoga, and jogged two miles every morning. While it was clearly a positive thing, her healthy lifestyle only encouraged my physical attraction to continue building and become more powerful each day.
Her bra size was an average 34-B. Yet, her modest chest proudly stood out in contrast with her petite waistline, jutting from the flimsy material of her tight blouses and low-cut tops.
Despite being a hard-working single mom, I had to imagine she still had needs. Yet, to my limited knowledge, after the divorce, she had no men in her life. Perhaps, if she hadn't spent so much time worrying if I was getting laid, she might have had time to date. She should have had offers lined up considering how hot she was. But then again, I might have been somewhat biased by my own forbidden infatuation and my ever increasing lust for pantyhose.
