tagIncest/TabooMother's Glove Love

Mother's Glove Love

byjohnny955©

GLOVE LOVE

My big mistake was to have mentioned Caroline to my mother in the first place. Innocent as it had been - Caroline and I had done nothing more serious than hold hands in the cinema - it was as though my first date with her had been a criminal act.

"I'm sure she's a perfectly nice, girl," mum told me after I got back from the date, "But the fact is you're still too young for that sort of hanky panky."

I wanted to laugh. The phrase "hanky panky" was still in vogue back then, in the 1950s, but at the age of 18, it still seemed faintly ridiculous.

Dad was on night shift at the bakery again, so there was no one to step in and defend my right to date girls. Mind you, mum had confided to me once that dad had no interest in the fair sex, so he would probably have backed down beneath one of her famous withering looks. Though there was no sex education to speak of at school, I knew full well what mum meant - that she and dad hadn't "done it" for a very, very long time. Which puzzled me, I had to admit. Some of the boys at school had told me, half-joking, that my mum was "hot stuff".

Which, in the dark, primitive part of my brain, my mother was. She was then 40, and had an hourglass figure - held as the ideal in those days because of actresses like Sophia Loren and Diana Dors. Her figure, of course, was helped, or exaggerated perhaps, by tight-fitting girdles, which made women's waists narrow, flattened their bellies and accentuated breasts and hips.

I had to sit on the couch next to her while she lectured me. She wore a big, fluffy towelling dressing gown, and, as she crossed her legs to clasp her hands around her knee while she got into the flow of her warning against dating, I saw that she still had her stockings on. The gown had parted a little, showing her finely-boned knee, and the wet gleam of tan nylon. The wrinkle of the nylon behind her knee was something I always found arousing. The girls at school were always bare-legged and wore ankle socks or knee socks, and even Caroline tonight had worn knee socks with her floral going-out dress. And, while I wanted nothing more in the world than to exchange long, hot kisses with Caroline, a girl my own age, there was something infinitely more erotic about older women with their nylons and perfume and sticky lipstick and mascara.

And, naturally, my mother knew all about that, and could take advantage of the fact whenever it suited her. I had no secrets from her, it seemed. She noticed that I'd glanced at her legs just now, for instance.

She gave me a critical scowl, and snapped the hem of the dressing gown back across her knee. Which I knew was only for effect, since currently she was telling me off and didn't want her stride to be broken. I blushed hotly and lowered my head in shame.

As I did, though, she reached down, and started fiddling with the reinforced heel of her stocking. She was wearing kitten-heeled slippers, backless, with pink pompoms on the straps across her insteps. She twisted the stocking a little to straighten the seam, then drew her palm up her calf, twisting the stocking and checking to see if the seam was straight all the way up her firm calf. She continued speaking through this operation, saying, "You know how easy it would be to get a girl in trouble, Colin. I don't need to tell you...all that horrid rock and roll music, and loose morals."

"Mum," I sighed at last. "That's just silly. Caroline's a good girl, and you brought me up to be respectful."

She sat up straighter, uncrossed her legs and folded her arms across her abdomen. "Well, yes, I did. But we both know that respect doesn't always apply...in certain cases." During the pause she gave knowing look in the direction of my crotch. Of course she was right. My young penis knew nothing at all about respect, since it had already swollen inside my jeans in reaction to the sight of my own mother's nylon-clad legs.

"Well," she said, "Lecture over. Now I need to finish getting dressed, young man. The Bridge Club won't keep." As she stood up, she sighed suddenly and drew aside the hem of her dressing gown, displaying a firm, shapely thigh and the dark tan stocking top that bit into it. She pushed both thumbs into the welt, either side of her thigh, and pulled the stocking higher up. The nylon wrinkled as she pulled and I thought for a second the material might tear. She muttered, "Darn nylons keep slipping."

The sight made me gasp a little and I had to hold my breath in case she told me off. But she didn't appear to be interested and concentrated instead on adjusting the nickel clasp on her fat white suspenders to try to force the stocking to stay higher up her thighs.

"Anyhow," she said, operation complete, "Off to your room and do your homework. You can look after yourself until I get home, can't you?"

I nodded meekly and head off to my room upstairs. Her voice calling my name me turn. She stood at the foot of the stairs, one red-nailed hand on the banister, and said, "Help yourself to milk and biscuits if you like. Oh, and I've left a little present for you under your pillow." She added, mysteriously, "But for God's sake, don't let your father see it."

Rebelliously, I didn't want to give my mother the satisfaction of telling her I loved her gift. Whatever it was. I was annoyed with her, so why should I suddenly thank her for a gift. To be fair she'd left me nice surprises before. Bars of chocolate, toys, comics...usually hidden somewhere so I had to go in search of them. It had been a game with her as I was growing up, and one that always delighted me. Today, though, was different somehow. She'd told me where she had hidden the gift. Which meant it was something out of the ordinary. But just how out of the ordinary I wasn't to discover until much later, when she'd left to go to play Bridge with her women friends.

Plagued by images of my mother playing with her nylons, my cock throbbing inside the pyjamas I had changed into, I forced myself to concentrate on homework. I had an arithmetic exam in two days from now, and an English essay to hand in, as well as several science problems and a chapter of a geography book to read. I got through it, though, sitting at my table by the window, and waited until I heard the front door click shut. Then I peeked over the window sill and saw mum, dressed to the nines in a dark skirt with taffeta petticoats rustling, climb into a car driven by her friend, Betty Carlson.

I pulled the curtains closed and went to my bed. I drew back the coverlet and the first thing I noticed was the smell. A slight perfume, with a stronger muskiness. A scent familiar to me, since I had smelled it off my mother on more than one occasion whenever she stood close to me.

Pushing my hands beneath the pillow I immediately knew what the gift was. And I could hardly believe it. I began to tremble as I slowly drew the silky thing into the light. It was a pair of mum's knickers. High waisted, with lace around the legs and a small satin bow at the waist, they were made from translucent pink nylon. I laid them across my knees and stroked them gently, then opened the waistband to check inside. Sure enough, the cotton gusset had a yellowish stain on it. Shaking with a mixture of excitement and dread, I raised the knickers to my face and inhaled. The gusset was actually wet, so I had to assume mum had only recently removed them. That she must, in fact, have been wearing them while she was giving me the third degree earlier.

The dampness was not urine, I realised. But...the other thing. By now I knew her well enough that she would leak when she was excited. Not that I had understood this until recently. One of the boys at school James Grant, popular for his jokes and filthy stories, had passed on to a rapt group one day something of his older brother's exploits. And he'd claimed a girl his brother had gone out with sprang a leak whenever she wanted sex, and that she smelled "like a cat on heat."

Which was how I guessed my mother smelled sometimes. After dad had gone out for night shift I'd heard her moaning and groaning in bed, and gasping and giving out little squeals. By now I knew that women played with themselves as much as men did. Just as I would play with myself listening to her through the bedroom wall.

I pulled down my pyjama bottoms and rubbed the knickers over my throbbing cock, wrapping them fabric around my shaft in my excitement. But, I didn't know why she had given them to me. Was I supposed to play with myself? I supposed so. But then what? What did she want of me?

I lay down on the bed, coverlet pulled back and heard a slight rustle. There was something else beneath the pillow. When I raised the pillow there was a piece of paper folder beneath it.

Unfolding it, I read the following words, in mum's distinctive cursive handwriting:

"When you've finished with them, I want them back. Don't even think about washing them."

Something in me rebelled then. With every fibre of my being I wanted to rub her underwear all over me and ejaculate onto them. I knew if I'd given in, obeyed her instructions, her knickers would have been soaking with my seed by the morning. But that would have meant she had won. So, with great difficulty, I folded the knickers up and pushed them under the mattress. Which did not stop me from playing with myself, however. Oh, no, I did that alright, mostly thinking of the way mummy pulled up her stockings in front of me. And the third time I ejaculated into a handkerchief, I wondered why it was that my father could manage to keep his hands off her.

Next morning, as I headed out for school I handed her an envelope. When she saw the fat package, she smiled, until I said, "Don't worry, they're in the same condition you left them with me."

She opened the unsealed package, peered in at the folded up knickers inside and put the envelope to her nose and sniffed.

"Hmm," she said. "Well, I can't say I'm not disappointed."

I wanted to ask her why. The impression I got was that she would have preferred the panties to be sticky with my sperm, though for what reason I couldn't imagine. Maybe it just gave her some kind of pleasure to imagine me pulling at myself and spitting my stuff into her intimate garments.

I shrugged with the appearance of an indifference I didn't feel. It didn't pay to cross mum, I'd always found.


Nothing more occurred after that until the weekend. Friday night I announced I was taking Caroline out for a meal. Again, dad was absent, only this time at the pub with his pals. My mother had been planning to go out also, judging by the way she was dressed - a black Chanel suit, with a tight, pencil skirt, jacket and white blouse. And a pair of black perilously high heels and a pair of American tan stockings on her legs. American tan was her favourite colour, she had informed me more than once. Mine, too, I thought.

"So, young man," she said, pulling on a pair of white satin gloves. "You're planning to go out with that girl again, are you?"

The sight of her pulling on those gloves, and giving them each in turn a little tug at the wrist made my heart lurch. My stomach, too, fluttered, because I knew what the gloves meant. For the most part she wore gloves only on special occasions, and a night out with her friends wasn't one of those. So it had to be...the other thing.

"Look, mum," I said, standing up from my chair at the dining table where I'd been doing homework, "We're only going to a cafŽ for a snack and..."

"It's that 'and' bit that worries me, son." She pulled the gloves up tighter and made forks with the first and second fingers to push the gloves tight between each pair of fingers on either hand.

"Now," she said, "You know the drill. Up to the bathroom with you."

"But, mum..." I protested weakly, knowing full well that I would give in to her wishes. That I hadn't the willpower to do otherwise.

"Do as you're told..." she insisted.

I complied, my legs trembling a little as I ascended the stairs and entered the bathroom.

Shortly after I head her high-heeled tread on the stairs, then she followed me inside and shut the door behind her . There was a full length mirror next to the bath, and I could see both mother and my self as she swung me around and stood behind me, making me face the toilet pedestal.

"Lift the seat," she said, and I leant forward to lift the lid and the seat of the toilet, conscious of my buttocks pressing against her crotch as I bent forward. She didn't step back.

"Drop your jeans."

I hesitated, but she tapped by backside with her hand and said, "Do it!"

Of course I had to do what mummy ordered, so I unbuckled my belt and pushed jeans, and underpants down to my ankles, and stood there before the ceramic bowl, my penis and balls hanging limp.

"Oh, dear," mum said, "Looks like this needs a little work."

With that she put her left hand between my legs and encircled the skin between my balls and cock with a forefinger and thumb, cupping the testicles with the rest of her hand. She pulled back gently. My penis still flopped down. She reached around my waist with her right hand and flicked at my cock with her gloved fingers. My thing twitched a little, but I was nervous and mentally tried to resist what she was doing. She'd done this a number of times before, but the fact that she could always control me so well, and that she was now trying to control my relationships, too, made me angry with her.

I tried with all my will to resist. But when she said, "Hold on, I think this might help," unzipped her skirt and pushed it down off her hips, I know it was no use. The sight in the mirror of mummy's nyloned legs, the dark brown stocking tops straining and wrinkling at the tops of her thighs. The stockings were pulled up extremely tightly by fat black suspenders the black girdle she wore. In the mirror, too, I saw the curve of her big, round buttocks emphasised by the pink nylon knickers. It was an open-bottomed girdle, so the knickers were clearly visible.

She raised her left leg - the one nearest the mirror - and put her foot on the rim of the toilet bowl. The high instep of the shoe straddled the bowl, her heel hung over the edge.

She rubbed her nyloned thigh up and down against mine. My insides began to boil. The look and feel of her stocking-clad thigh against my hip made my teenage cock surge to attention. It simply swelled up, curving upwards, and twitched with the blood supply rushing into it.

"That's more like it," she said. I saw her reflected smile in the mirror. It was wolfish.

Her breathing became ragged in my ear as she slowly began to stroke my cock with her right hand. First, she gently pulled back the foreskin then made a circle with her thumb and forefinger and slid the ring on and off the head of my cock, very gently. Each time the fingers and the fabric of the glove chafed the edges of my glans my body jerked. At the same time she massaged my balls gentle and closed her fingers around the skin above my balls. She chafed my foreskin a dozen more times, then pulled my balls back so they were between my thighs.

"Close your legs," she demanded. I did, trapping my balls between my thighs.

Now she brought her other hand around and tickled the underside of my cockshaft.

"You can feel my leg, if you like," she said.

I looked down at her meaty thigh, the tan stocking stretched across it, the nylon shiny in the bathroom light. I couldn't help myself now. I just had to do it. I ran my hand across her knee, then up her leg. I could feel the molten lava inside me as she began to stroke and tickle my cock.

She was maddeningly slow. I jerk my hips to make her pull me faster, but that made her do it even slower. She wrapped her left hand around my shaft and tickled the opening of my cock with her right fingertips. Then she ran a fingertip around the glans in slow circle. I thought I was going to pass out from the excitement.

"I don't want your filthy spunk all over my hands, son," she said. "The gloves I can wash. And, since you didn't do it in my knickers, like I asked, you'll just have to show me what you can do."

Those were the words that finally got to me. She rubbed her leg against me some more, and I felt my insides melting. As the sensation rose inside me I ran my left hand up her leg, right to the top, and gripped the stocking top.

As I started to spurt I pulled on the stocking really hard, stretching it away from her thigh, and I felt a tug, then heard a small tearing sound. To my dismay the stocking top started to pull away from the leg of the stocking, a small ladder ripping and running all the way down to the knee.

Then I started to spurt.

"Oh, mummy, ple-ee-eeese!" I moaned as thick gobs of hot creamy glue throbbed out of me. Blob after blob of spunk hit the back of the toilet bowl as mummy pulled and pulled on my cock, really slowly. I clamped my thighs tighter around my balls, increasing the powerful sensations, and ejecting the sperm with enormous force.

"That's my lovely boy," she breathed. "Do it for mommy!"

She was jerking her hips against me, and I felt a slight dampness against my buttocks. The crotch of her knickers, it must have been. I smelled her musk and I knew she herself was leaking now. I had the satisfaction of knowing that much, at least. That mummy herself could lose control.

When the last drops dribbled out of me, slopping over the fingers of her gloved hand, my mother stepped back.

She said, "Turn around."

I obeyed, barely able to look her in the eyes. She stood in front of me, hands on hips. Her suit jacket and blouse somehow emphasised the state of undress below. The edge of the girdle, straining suspenders, glorious thighs and shiny nylons.

"Now look at what you've done..." She pointed at the torn stocking. "It's laddered. Well, a new pair will just have to come out of your pocket money, that's all."

She started to adjust the other stocking, and cinched the front suspender strap to make the stocking sit really high up her leg. Which made my cock rise again.

Mummy gave a sly smile. "See, son, I knew that was going to happen. If you go out with that poor girl in that state, I know exactly what you'll get up to. You'll try to shove that thing of yours inside her, and then where will we be?"

I'd been lectured about teenage pregnancies before. And she'd always found fault with girls my own age, and tried everything she could to keep me close to her. Bribing me with meals out, record albums, trips to the cinema and so on. But her stocking tortures were the most effective, and she knew that full well. The fact that she chose not to resort to that very often perhaps suggested she felt guilty about it, and maybe the gloves were a way of distancing herself from the act. And the spunky knickers would have been something for her to play with without feeling she was actually committing incest. I imagined her pulling on the wet garments and playing with herself, imagining....well, all sorts.

Mother now took advantage of my aroused state to reach out and handle my cock again, saying, "Well, since my stockings are ruined anyway..."

She pulled and pulled on my cock, the sight of my foreskin peeling back and forth seeming to drive her into a frenzy, making her pull on my really fast. The sight of her nyloned legs, the damp patch and fuzz of pubic hair I could see through her knickers, finished me off and I started to spurt again. Hot gobs of my sperm smacked against the leg with the laddered nylon, and she gave a little involuntary squeal. I also saw her chewing on her bottom lip and heard the moaned words, "Oh, Jesus -!"

But mother knew me well. Even after I had stopped spurting, she didn't release me. Instead she sat on the edge of the bathtub. She crossed her right leg over her left and abstractedly smeared my teenage spunk into her stocking top. It made a soapy mess. She kicked her foot up and down and squeezed her thighs together, giving a little whimper each time she did so. Massaging herself, I guessed, though trying not to make it obvious.

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