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I was living at home again, 18, after just six months in college. I hadn’t liked it, hadn’t done well, and had gladly accepted my mother’s invitation to come back home after the first semester. It was just her and me — she had divorced my stepdad a year before, during my senior year at high school — and everything was going very well. We always got along amazingly well, since I was her youngest and favorite, and she had pretty much raised me by herself after Dad died when I was a kid. She had remarried, but he was a jerk and never much of a father anyway, and she still spent more time with me than him. I moved back into my old room, got a job and just worked. I dated occasionally, and so did she. Every other weekend or so she would get dressed up and go out with a friend to a bar or somewhere. She would have too much to drink occasionally, and need to get dropped off, or call me for a ride. I usually didn’t mind, since I was staying rent-free, and life was pretty good.
One Friday night — well, early Saturday morning — the phone rang. 3:00 a.m. I had worked a long shift and was dead asleep. Normally, waking up puts me in a foul mood and this was no exception. I sighed and answered the phone and, sure enough, it was my mother, voice slurring, asking if I could come pick her up, the whole speech punctuated by drunken giggles and apologies. I said sure, no problem, and asked where she was. She tried to tell me how to get where she was but was having trouble, and I could hear her ask someone to give me directions. To my surprise, a man’s voice was on the other end, giving out street names. Normally, Mom might end up at a girlfriend’s house or something, but this was the first time I needed to go to a man’s house to get her. Something about it made my mood even worse, as some feeling — protection, possessiveness, something — added to my normal surliness. I wrote down the directions and curtly thanked the man and hung up.
I grabbed the keys to her car — they were still there, since she got picked up by her friend Donna — which I was allowed to drive on occasions such as this. It was a Corvette, a gorgeous machine, and I loved driving it every chance I could. As I drove, I started thinking about my mother and this guy, whoever he was. He probably picked her up at the bar and took her back to his place after closing time, thinking he was going to get lucky. She probably had a couple of drinks, maybe kissed him or fooled around a little — why that surge of feeling again? — and then decided to head out. The guy was probably pissed, but I wasn’t worried — some 50-year-old bar swinger didn’t scare me, and if he so much as looked at my mother wrong I’d hand him his ass.
I found the address and swung into the driveway — it was a nice place — and saw my mother standing on the sidewalk waiting for me. The guy was standing behind her, arms crossed, and definitely looked pissed. I could see why. Mom was 41, but after the divorce really put some poker oyna work into her shape. She always had long legs and slim feet, even when she had let herself go, and she had gotten implants after my dad had died. Now divorced and trimmed down, I could safely say she was hot — and would tell her, too — and her wardrobe had changed to reflect it. Now, she pretty much always wore skirts, hose, and heels to work and when she went out, and her blouses somehow always kept unbuttoning themselves to expose some cleavage — not a lot, just enough to get the mind thinking about it. She was pretty, no knockout, but pretty enough with long, thick auburn hair and a cute smile. Tonight, she was wearing a shimmery silver top, half unbuttoned, a navy skirt that went to mid-thigh, pantyhose, and matching navy 3″ heel pumps. I knew this guy would need a cold shower tonight.
I walked around the car to open her door for her — mostly to make sure the guy could see I was tall, young, and fully capable of kicking the crap out of him. Mom walked over to me unsteadily, grabbed my arm, planted a kiss on my cheek with her bright-red lips, and whispered a thank you in my ear. In heels, she was just a couple of inches shorter than my own six-foot height, so it wasn’t much of a stretch for her. She turned in the open door to wave goodnight to her erstwhile paramour with an impish grin — she had a wicked sense of humor — as I walked back around to the driver’s side, wiping her lipstick off my cheek.
I was putting on my seat belt as she was still trying to get into the small, low-to-the-ground sports car, and I watched the process with amusement and irritation — it was late and I was tired. Since she was so drunk, Mom was having trouble staying balanced on her high heels, but she finally managed to get her butt against the back of the seat and slid down into the car. Her skirt, already pretty short, slid up her nylon-clad ass until the line of her control top was clearly visible on each thigh, just a couple of inches from the fork of her legs. Her butt, resting on the seat, was completely uncovered and the back of her skirt was trapped at the top of her waist. My eyes practically bugged out of my head — I had always admired my mother’s looks, but I had never had such a raw surge of desire and longing for anyone in my life. I stared for a couple of seconds, unable to turn away, until she began talking to me and thanking me for coming to get her in the middle of the night. I could feel the heat on my face as I turned away and started to drive, and my voice wasn’t under control enough to respond to her. She must have thought I was angry with her, because she apologized several times, telling me she loved me, and that I was so good for coming to her. She kept reaching over and squeezing my hand on the gearshift, and every time she moved, I could hear the whisper of pantyhose rubbing together as her long legs slid along one another. I just kept my eyes straight ahead and grunted canlı poker oyna a few times in acknowledgement, not trusting my voice or facial expressions.
After just a couple of minutes of driving, I could hear deep breathing, and glancing over, I saw Mom had fallen asleep. My eyes then dropped to her lap, and I caught myself staring at her legs again. They were slightly apart, and my eyes lovingly caressed them from her blue pumps all the way up to where the edge of her skirt barely kept her covered. The hem had even pulled up a little more during the ride, and just an inch of clothing blocked my view. I became obsessed with that bare inch as the ride went on, and every time I stopped the car at a light I focused on it, burning the vision of her near-completely exposed legs into my mind. Finally, I couldn’t handle it anymore. My hand reached over and, ever so lightly, my finger hooked the bottom of her skirt. Slowly I pulled it up, until it was pooled all the way at her waist, and I fixed my eyes on my mother’s pantyhose-covered crotch.
I could clearly see under the control top that she didn’t have on underwear. A dark patch of trimmed and sculpted thatch sat just above the curve of her lips. There was no pad obscuring the view; just a seam running through the center. My left hand drifted down into my own lap and began working on my own throbbing need as I stared, open-mouthed, at the view. Slowly, I placed a hand over her left knee and let my fingertips gently slide up her thigh, feeling the nylon slipping under my fingers with a soft rasp that nearly drove me over the edge as I came closer and closer to the heat between her legs.
My heart lurched as she made a soft noise and shifted in her seat. Panicked, I quickly grabbed the hem of her skirt and gave it a short tug, covering her once again. I glued my eyes ahead once again as I waited to see if I had been caught. After a minute, heart thudding loudly in my chest, I began to relax – she hadn’t woken up, hadn’t known what I was doing. I started berating myself — what the hell was wrong with me? What in the world possessed me to do such a thing? How could I have even begun to act this way towards my own mother? I finally arrived back at our condo, feeling guilty and ashamed, and Mom woke up as the car turned off. She smiled at me and thanked me again, and I grunted one more time as I got up to help her out. We needed to navigate a flight of stairs, and she was leaning on my heavily as she giggled her way up. I felt miserable — tired, guilty, ashamed, and still, ragingly horny — which just made me feel more guilty and ashamed.
We got to the front door, and as I was starting to get the key into the lock, my mother lost her balance and lurched into the wall. Since she was still clutching me, I went with her, and I turned to her as I instinctively tried to catch her. I fell into her, and felt her soft breasts press into my chest and my knee slip between her thighs. I looked down, internet casino directly into her exposed cleavage, and from my vantage point I could see the lacy black edges of her bra cupping her freckled skin. We stayed in that position for just a second or two, Mom giggling, me feverishly aware of her thighs gripping my leg and soft body pressing against my rapidly hardening one. I pulled myself free and fumbled with the door until I finally got it open and lunged inside. My heart was racing all over again, and I was desperately trying to quell the instincts raging through me. She walked past me, wobbling slightly, and said some words that my brain never even registered as she went off to her room.
I walked into my own room and tried to relax, now fully aware of exactly how that guy tonight must have felt. It wasn’t working — I wasn’t even tired anymore, and I didn’t feel like I was getting sleep any time soon. Several minutes of pacing followed, when I decided to get a drink and walked — softly — into the kitchen. Standing at the fridge, drinking some water, I could hear the same snoring sound coming from her bedroom. Peeking around the corner, I could see the door was half open. Part of me wanted desperately to just go back to my own room, but the rest of me was drawn to that tantalizingly open door. I gave in and walked over.
She was asleep on top of the covers, still dressed, lying on her stomach, head turned to the left. Her legs were apart, still clad in nylons and heels. I have always been a leg man, and heels and hose were one of the first things that became objects of desire when puberty began. It began to dawn on me, in that moment, that all of my favorite turn-ons — legs, heels, pantyhose, secretary outfits — had their beginnings here, with this woman. I had to see more. Slowly, carefully, I got on the bed, until I was kneeling between my mother’s legs, my knees next to her knees. I leaned back, putting my fingers on the heels of her pumps, and slowly ran them up the back of her legs, delighting in the silky feel. My hands slid under the edge of her skirt, and for the second time that night I pushed my mother’s skirt up until it was bunched at her waist. My hands cupped her nylon-covered ass and my fingers began lightly squeezing. The pressure in me built up, and I could deny it no longer. I quickly undid my pants, and in just a few strokes I was done. I looked down and saw that I had splattered the backs of her legs, her butt, and the bedspread. A raw surge of panic went through me, coupled with the now familiar shame and guilt, and I scrambled for a towel. As I gently removed the evidence, I kept running over what I had just done — an hour ago, she was thanking me for coming to get her, and now, I had just finished cumming on her. I pulled her skirt back down, threw the towel in the hamper in my room, and finally managed to fall asleep as the sun started to peak through my window.
She never said anything about that night, so I assumed I wasn’t caught. Over the next few days, I tried to convince myself that, now it was over with, and I wouldn’t be bothered by my obsession any more. I would turn out to be wrong, and this was only the beginning.
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