"What in hell do you think you're doing, woman?"
Margaret mentally chides herself, hearing the words in the voice of her ex-husband. Although he would have been more forceful with the warning. A lot more forceful.
For a moment she feels incredibly stupid, not to mention somewhat deranged. Here she is, a 45-year-old woman, sitting on the edge of the bed with her skirt up to her waist, thighs spread wide, trying to decide on the best method of keeping her vaginal lips spread open without using her hands. And for what? To do something so forbidden, so...unthinkable...that it could land her in prison or, at the very least, an asylum.
The problem was, she was already wet. The thought of what she was about to attempt had kept her awake all night with the dark fantasies about what might result. It was true that her son, Billy, used to try to peek up under her skirt when he was a small boy. But all small boys did that, didn't they? Natural curiosity. The difference was that he was doing it to this day, at the age of 18, though albeit more subtly. Or so he probably thought. The fact of the matter was that she had caught him out more than once, though had chosen not to say anything about it, and pretended she hadn't noticed. At the time of the incidents she reasoned that if his father found out he would have battered the boy to pulp. In much the same way as he had done to her through the years until she finally got brave enough to divorce him.
The divorce had been two years ago. And she had been too afraid to try another relationship since.
With her right hand, she spread her damp, fleshy labia wide, pushing the lips as flat as she could, exposing the raw pink flesh and the sweating opening to her vagina. Determined to succeed this time she had even taken the trouble to half pull on the pantyhose she had bought especially for the occasion. If you could call it an occasion. A disaster in the making, more likely. Still, she mustn't let the anxiety and fear of consequences stop her. She'd come this far. And, after all, this would not be the first time she had deliberately done something naughty. Only this was overstepping her previous games. That's what she called these activities, so as to be kinder to herself – words other than "games" would be judgemental and only add to her guilt.
The first such game had been prompted by a perfectly innocent moment. Margaret had returned from the shops, laden with grocery bags and frankly was tired. Billy, just returned from school for lunchbreak, was tucking into a sandwich at the kitchen table. Margaret was dying to take off her high-heeled pumps, which she never left the house without. So she pulled out the chair next to her son's, too tired to bend down, and put her right foot on it. Because she was wearing a tight pencil skirt she had to slide the hem back from her knee several inches before she could reach forward to unfasten the straps of her shoes. For a brief second she froze, realizing Billy was gazing at her legs. More specifically, her thighs in their shiny tan pantyhose. From where he was sitting he must be able to look right under her skirt and see the gusset of the pantyhose and the white satin panties she wore underneath. A look at his flushed face, his guilty last minute flicking away of the eyes, the light sheen of perspiration on his top lip, told the whole story. She almost gasped in shock. For one thing, he was her son. For another, still a teenager, and at school, to boot.
Almost angrily she tugged the hem back down, dropped the unfastened shoe to the ground. She was about to turn away when a sudden, barely-formed idea caught her attention and she couldn't shake it off.
She sighed, said, "Billy, I'm really, tired out. Would you mind unfastening my other shoe, please?"
Her son nodded meekly and, when she didn't move, he slid off the chair, knelt down at her feet and, with trembling fingers, unfastened the strap across her instep. The open-toed black pumps gave a good view of her red-painted toenails through the pantyhose. So she wiggled the toes, and saw his intent gaze on them. With both shoes off now, she stretched her toes apart, then relaxed them, sighing with relief.
"That's better," she said, as her son returned to his chair and resumed eating his sandwich. She could not help noticing, however, the distinct bulge in his shorts. And in bed later that night she kept thinking of just how big that bulge had been.
Some weeks later, at church, she developed – as was not unusual – an itch on her thigh. True she was wearing a tight tweed skirt over smoke grey pantyhose and an underskirt. But the itch developed nonetheless. At first she simply tried rubbing it through the skirt. Which only made it worse. Margaret was aware, during the relative quiet of prayer, of the sound of the underskirt rasping against her nylons. Billy must have noticed it, too, because she caught him sneaking a look at the tight skirt over her thighs, and the movement of her hand up and down her thigh which twitched the hem back and forth, exposing her knee once or twice.
It was that moment, she reflected later, that cemented everything for her. Put the fixed idea into her head. A perfectly natural, innocent moment. At least on the surface. But, when she considered later, she knew how sexually frustrated she had become since Frank had gone. While it was true he was no great shakes in the bed department, he did occasionally manage to satisfy her. Usually with his mouth and tongue, to be fair, since his thin, never fully erect penis failed to fill her up. Even his cockhead which, used cleverly, might have flicked and polished her opening sufficiently to make her spill her fluids, was never put to use other than in relatively useless unimaginative thrusts. Oddly, it was only once he had fallen asleep next to her, snoring deeply, that she would proceed to satisfy herself. Night after night she would stealthily rub and chafe at herself with her left hand so he wouldn't see the blankets moving, until the blessed waves of climax shuddered through her. it was hard not to move and she always had to stifle her cries. But at least it was something.
Somehow, though, since he'd gone, she hadn't touched herself. Not once. Perhaps she felt a failure. Or guilty that she had deprived Billy of a father (even though Frank had done that job all by himself). Or maybe the old church teachings were coming back to her. Self abuse was strictly forbidden, at least in her father's teachings. Which, of course, had forced her to it. Though as a teenager and later she felt intensely guilty afterwards.
So all this must have been writhing around in her subconscious that day in church. Because, during an especially long prayer, she decided to do something about the itch. In both the real and the metaphorical sense. Slowly, she drew back the hem of her skirt, several inches above her knee. She checked first through half-closed lids that her son was watching, while pretending to pray. He was. And closely. Satisfied, she raised her bottom a little off the pew and drew the side of her skirt all the way up, past mid thigh. Then she began slow, circular scratching with her fingernails, rasping them satisfyingly and slightly noisily, against the nylon, leaving red welts in the flesh of her thigh beneath. The raging itch subsided. Or that one did at any rate. Seeing her son practically drooling while he ogled her leg, and catching sight of the boyish penis sliding down the inside of his slacks to form a long,lightly twitching cylinder, made a second itch start up inside her. Her belly started crawling and heat flushed up her abdomen to her breasts, and down to her vagina and the front of her thighs. The tickling warmth spread through her and she felt her nipples swell and harden, pooching out her bra and showing visibly through the thin material of her cashmere sweater. She bit her bottom lip. She could swear her smell changed. Yes, the dampness between her legs confirmed it, there was a definite, faint muskiness coming off her now. And to the church prayer, whatever that was about, she added her own. That the old man sitting next to her wouldn't notice. And that her son would. Not that Billy would necessarily know what it meant. That his mother was now in heat!
"Oh, my God!" she thought, suddenly, "What a truly awful woman you are. This is just wicked."
She was so mortified by her actions, in fact, that she suddenly excused herself and edged past several irate parishioners, headed for the rest room in the vestibule and locked herself in a cubicle. For a moment she stood there, catching her breath, palms flat on the cool metal door. Then, shaking herself out of her feverish guilt, she hauled her blouse out of the waistband of her skirt and pushed her hands up under her brassiere cups. Sure enough, her nipples were hard as wine corks. Wicked woman! she thought, and then pressed her thumbs and forefingers on either side of the nipples and pinched them really hard. She squeezed so hard, in fact, that she almost squealed in pain. But she gritted her teeth and squeezed even harder until raw pain seared through her like a red hot poker. She shuddered, doubled over with it, panting, and then let go. The relief was indescribable. She adjusted her clothing, took a deep breath and went out to the washbasin, splashed her hot face with water – taking care not to smear her make up – and dabbed herself dry with a paper towel. Looking in the mirror, and content that her face was not flushed with desire now, she returned to her seat.
Now she feels ridiculous. The brand new pair of sheer-to-waist Hanes pantyhose are pulled just up past her ankles, the bundled nylon stretched wide between them as she pulls her legs as wide a apart as she can. She had already tried sticky tape, attaching one end to the inside of her right labial lip and the other to the bare flesh of her hip. In the first place it looked ridiculous. In the second the tape simply pulled off in three seconds flat. Dammit!
"Mom?" Billy's voice at the door.
"Can I come in a minute?"
"No!" she snaps, more fiercely than intended, panicked that he would see her like this. Although this is her plan ultimately, she is trying to lead up to it rather than shocking her son into flight. "I – mean – I'm getting dressed right now."
"Well, I just figured if we're going to the new movie, it starts in, like, thirty minutes."
Margaret thinks for a minute, says, "Did I say we were going to the movies?"
He laughs a little behind the door. "Mom...we always go to a movie on my birthday."
True. And today was Billy's 18th. She was nothing if not predictable. Usually. Though not today, she thinks with a smile. Not today.
"Well, kid, your old lady might just surprise you this one time."
That laugh again. A pause. "Can't wait, mom." This said with an edge of amused sarcasm.
The black cocktail dress has thin shoulder straps, and a straight neck that cut midway across her breasts, making them bulge a little over the top. She wears a black strapless brassiere which barely contains her, and the edge of lace peeks a little over the edge of the dress at the top. She hasn't worn the thing for ten years and she's filled out some since she'd last gotten into it. She'd had to wriggle and hold her breath to pull the zip up at the back, but couldn't quite reach the top.
When she emerges from her room and enters the lounge, she crosses her ankles, throws out her arms, and chimes, "Ta-raa!"
Billy, sitting on the armchair in his chinos, baseball shoes and check shirt looks really smart. He flicks the floppy lock of blond hair away from his eye and grins.
Margaret notices his eyes falter at the swelling of her breasts then flick down to the several inches of exposed leg above the knee. The dress was a little shorter than she'd remembered. But then again she'd been a little younger, too, last time she'd been out in it.
She goes to the table, set up with a bottle of champagne, glasses and hors d'oeuvres. Fake caviar on crackers. She asks her son to uncork the wine. After a struggle, he does, and cork pops, the wine froths and foams down the neck of the bottle. She smiles inwardly, fully aware of the other thing the image makes her imagine.
He pours for them both, they take a sip to toast the special day and eat a cracker each. Simultaneously, they wince.
"Mom," he says through the mulch of half-chewed pseudo-caviar, "That's...disgusting."
"I know," she says with a huge smile. And they both explode with laughter and cough the offending mulch into their respective napkins. "Sorry, kid. I'll stick to peanuts and cheese on cocktail sticks next time."
As she sets down the glass for a moment, she turns her back to him, saying, "Zip me up, will you, hon? I couldn't get the darn thing up to the top."
As he son complies can she feel his hand tremble ever so slightly? Poor thing. This must be all too much for him. Once bullied at school and only now starting to make friends with girls. Though no one special yet. At least she hoped not yet. Selfish of her, she knows, but she cannot help herself.
The shoes she treated herself to for this special occasion were, to say the least, perilous. Black patent leather. Six inch heels. Open toes so Billy can see her red nails through the nylon. Just for you, Billy, she thinks. Only you.
They go for a fine steak dinner at an out-of-restaurant. For some reason Margaret is uncomfortable about potentially being seen by friends, even though the birthday party fully merits dressing up this way. Both get somewhat tipsy from cocktails and red wine. Not to mention the champagne earlier. Not drunk, though. The last thing Margaret wants was to be drunk. Not tonight.
Throughout the evening she is conscious of how things are beneath her dress. Not wearing any panties under the pantyhose make her feel vulnerable enough. But the fact that her genitalia are spread wide, the pink inner flesh pressed flat by the nylon and exposed to anyone who might catch a glimpse up under her short, tight dress, makes her heart pound. Would someone describe her as a slut? God, how she hates that word. The way men, and some judgemental women, would bandy it about was hateful. For some the word slut meant "an easy lay" or "sexy" or "slovenly", a catchall for quite different meanings. Which meant the people who used it were themselves uneducated, hypocritical assholes.
Except you are a slut, Margaret, tells herself. I mean, for Christ's sake, why don't take a good look at yourself before you judge someone else? She shakes her head to push away all this negativity.
"You okay, mom?" Billy puts a hand on top of her's.
She puts on a brave smile. "Me? Oh, sure, Billy, it's just...you know...you're of age now. And I ain't getting any younger."
He grabs her hand, kisses the back of it. "Mom, you're gorgeous. And it's not just me who thinks that. Some of the guys at school..."
He pauses, stopping himself saying the rest.
Flushed with pleasure at the compliment, she says, "Go on...say it."
He blushes hotly. They had both gone to see the movie, American Pie, and laughed themselves into a coma. Once Billy had gotten over the initial embarrassment. Once Billy could see his mother was giggling at the most uncomfortably raw moments, he joined in the merriment.
Clutching one another's hands, checking around no one was looking, they chanted, softly, in unison, drumming their joined hands on the table in unison, "Milf...milf...milf...milf!"
Margaret explodes with laughter and has to clamp a hand across her mouth so as not to bring the place down. Through her tears of hysteria, she coughs, "Well, Billy, I must say, I'm flattered....I think."
And that sets them off again. Now people in the restaurant are looking at them both as if to say "whatever they're having, can we have it, too?"
She had managed to pull the fleshy flaps back. She had patted herself dry, attached tapes, which made her flesh sting somewhat, and eased up the pantyhose. She had pulled them up really tight. Then eased her hand down inside the waistband and gingerly removed the tape, yanking at the top of the waistband to draw the centre seam up between her vaginal lips. Somehow she had managed to keep the lips spread wide so that when the nylon was pulled taut against them, they stayed more or less flat and spread. The nylon had caused some friction when she moved but the rubbing was almost pleasurable. The tiny side to side brushing of nylon against the hood of her clitoris made her tingle, too.
By the time she was ready she had already started to leak.
She offers Billy another glass of wine, but he shakes his head, feeling a little woozy and has a soda instead. She sits on the couch opposite the armchair her son is on.
Once or twice she asks him is doesn't think her skirt is too short for an old woman.
"First, he says, "You're not old. And second – " his eyes track to her legs, "You've got a great set of pins."
She giggles. "A great set of pins? You think?"
She stretches out her right leg and rotates her foot, pretending to admire it. "I guess I have, now that you mention it."
They both smile.
When she brings the foot back she adjusts herself of the couch and pulls up her hem a little more, saying, "Wow, this skirt is tight."
Billy flushes. Good, she thinks, this is working.
After a while of chatting and they are both relaxing some more she leans forward, elbow on her knees, glass of wine in her hand. She opens her knees wide. He's sure to have a good view now, she thinks.
And sure enough, she can tell my his face that he has. His eyes widen in surprise. Before he tries to hide the expression, she ventures, softly, "Billy, it's okay, you know. I already know."
"Know...know what?" he mumbles, mortified.
"You're my beautiful boy, Billy. Nothing that you think or feel is wrong in my book. I mean..we've all got...feelings....you know what I'm saying?"
At first he doesn't respond, then nods his head once, cautiously.
"Come here," she instructs and she takes his hand. "I know you want to look, so I'm going to let you, okay?"
When he shakes his head in apparent confusion, she draws his hand down so he is half crouching. Then she pushes him down by his shoulders so he is crouching between her knees.
He starts to protest, "My God, mom, no, I..."
Taking a deep breath, having gone past the point of no return, she says, "No, honestly, I want you to...I mean...I need you to. Do you understand, Billy?"
His breathing is ragged but he says nothing. She pulls her skirt higher up her thighs, spreads her legs wide so he can't help but see all the way up her thighs to her splayed vagina.
"Oh, Jesus!" her son moans.
"That's my good boy," Margaret whispers, and pushes his head lower. "Take a good look. And feel mommy's legs. Go on, now. Please."
Billy, trembling from head to toe, slowly reaches out his hands and places them palms down on the tops of his mother's knees. She manipulates the hands until they move up her thighs. She can feel his thumbs digging into her thigh flesh, the whisper of nylon as his palms and fingers slowly push forward.
She sees the nylon wrinkling slightly as the thumbs dig deeper, feels his rock hard cock against her right leg, and realises how right this is.
"Smell me, Billy."
Her son's face comes closer, and she feels his warm breath on her exposed cunt, then the breathing. It is very ragged and nervous, until she pushes his face all the way forward and clamps her thighs around either side of his face. He makes a series of muffled moans and starts grinding his crotch against her leg. All she can feel is his hot breath on her now sopping wet cunt. She releases him and he draws his face back. It is completely red and he gazes into her eyes with an expression that is a combination and raw lust.