Nissa's Nylons

"Yeah. Haha! Uh, you know. Gotta take the edge off." Is that something stoners say? I gotta watch more stoner movies if this is gonna be my cover story.

"Okay! Well don't get up on my account. I know how it is." She gave me a mischievous smile and a wink. "I'll handle the groceries. Come out when you've got the munchies and I'll fix you something!" She closed the door behind her.

I was frozen for a few more seconds as I listened to her footsteps fade away back toward the foyer. Whew. Okay. Breathe. Take stock. I started gasping for air as I was coming down from the sensual high and suppressed breathing. I just... I just fucking cummed right in front of my mom. Against all odds and good sense, it seemed that she didn't realize she had walked in on me masturbating and instead just thought she had walked in on me doing drugs. Which she seemed pretty chill about? Think about that later.

Next order of business: at this point there was jizz soaking through my jeans, getting on my chair, and running down my pant leg. And probably some smeared on the underside of my computer desk. I wouldn't even be able to stand up without more sticky fluid running down my pants from my gradually softening cock. Instinctively I reached down and stroked it just a bit more through my jeans, helping to coax the last few drops from my aching nuts. Ugh, god that feels good. That was the strangest, scariest orgasm of my life. But also, in a weird way... exciting?

After spending one more moment cursing myself for almost getting caught so stupidly, I managed to stand up and waddle out of my chair in that weird way people do when their pants are a mess. There's nothing for it, I'm just going to have to strip off everything below the waste, wipe myself down with a t-shirt or something, and get dressed again in fresh clothes ASAP. With some fumbling around, I managed to get all that done, putting on fresh boxers and a thankfully similar-looking pair of jeans, and making a mental note to check the desk and the floor later. I rubbed some sanitizer on my hands, took a quick breath to remind myself to "act stoned" - maybe not that hard to do in a post-orgasmic haze - then opened the door and shuffled deliberately to the bathroom to wash my hands for real.

With that done, I walked slowly back out to the living room and looked over the kitchen counter. Nissa already had the groceries unloaded and put away, but I figured that a high person wouldn't notice.

"Uh, you need any, y'know, help? With stuff?" Not exactly Best Screenplay material but I was supposed to be out of it.

"Hmm? Oh no honey, I took care of it, all done. You want something to eat? I got some of those little snack bags of chips for you." Okay, looks like she's still on board with the weed munchies theory.

"Uh, no. I mean yeah. You got any Cheetos?" After all, a near-miss personal catastrophe is no reason to skip out on a bag of Cheetos.

"I think so. Yeah, here you go." She made to toss it to me, then thought better of it and set it on the counter. "Exams got you stressed? Needed to hit the trees a little huh?" Crap, that's like, weed talk right? You hear that in rap lyrics. Maybe I should find someone to smoke with just so I can learn this stuff.

"Yeah, exams man, like... hard... but boring too y'know?" I shuffled up to the counter and grabbed the little orange bag. "Gotta take the, uh-" (you already said take the edge off, genius) "-take it down a notch. Take it easy. Hit some trees. Yeah." Okay, this is deteriorating quickly, get out of here.

"Oh for sure. Don't worry baby, I don't mind. I know I must be an old lady to you, but your mother still knows how to have fun." She gave me that mischievous smile again. Soon, no matter what girl's face I was watching in a porn video, that smile is what I would see.

"Haha, yeah, thanks for being cool. And there's no way you're an old lady to anyone. Okay, gotta keep studying. Bye mom."

"Bye baby. Good luck!"

It wasn't until I made it back to my room and walked back over to my computer to close out the browser tabs that I had a realization. I clicked back over to the video window to memorize the title for future sessions before closing it, and it hit me: "pantyhose banker footjob". This wasn't any of the usual tropes I searched for. "Banker" was very specific. Now, with the onset of post-nut clarity, it finally hit me. I had just blown a huge, messy, boiling load while staring right at her. And the longer I thought about it, the less I could deny how hot it was. Maybe my mind wanted nothing to do with her, but my cock desperately wanted my mom.

__________

The mental barriers were tumbling down. Every morning when she left for work, I noticed what color hose she had on, which heels she was wearing, where the hem of her skirt fell. It wasn't exactly porn costume material, but it was right there in front of me, enticing me. And when she got home, heels in hand, sometimes she'd set them on the edge of the table by the door when she needed to grab something else out of the car. Once, when she came in and ran off to the bathroom, I quietly picked one up and sniffed the inside of her shoe. The nylon-tinged smell of her sweat instantly made my cock twitch in my pants. I risked one more long whiff before setting the shoe carefully back down in the same spot, then immediately had to adjust my jeans to keep from sporting a visible bulge when she walked back into the living room. It was just as bad when she came home from the gym. She wore baggy tank tops and old sweatpants, nothing eye-catching, but knowing she had just come back from working up a sweat to keep her 37-year-old body in shape was a turn on in itself. And when I smelled that exertion on her, I couldn't help but think of other, much more intimate things she could do to exercise that hard-on inducing body of hers.

Naturally, as a virile 19 year old, it got to be my routine that after welcoming her home I would quickly excuse myself to my room so I could rub one out. I still couldn't bring myself to picture doing anything sexual with her - come on, that's your mom, you perverted fucking weirdo. But I would simply imagine her body - lounging on the couch in fully nude form, or sashaying around the house wearing nothing but a pair of hose and 5 inch platform shoes - and I'd just slowly and luxuriantly stroke off to that mental image. It can't hurt just to look, right? Before long, every time I wanted to touch myself, I simply thought of my mother Nissa teasing me with that flirtatious smirk and those long, smooth legs, and pretty soon I was filling up another towel or sock with my thick, hot cream. There was already a sense that I had crossed a line, but I had no idea then just how far across it I was about to go.

One Thursday, seemingly like any other, she came home from work and I emerged from my room to greet her (and refresh my mental image of her before disappearing to take care of business again). She was dressed in a matching outfit of pale, cherry-blossom pink: jacket, blouse, below-the-knee skirt, with nude color pantyhose. But she wasn't carrying her heels in her hand like normal. Those pale pink, patent leather, 3 1/2" heel, ankle-strapped pumps were still on her feet. The shoes click-clacked across the foyer tile like they always did when she left in the morning. My breath caught as I heard the sexually triggering sound for the second time that day. But when I looked to her face, her brow was furrowed, her cheeks were flushed, and her lips were tight. She looked like she wanted to either cry or scream. Time to show some filial concern.

"Mom, hey, you doing okay? Rough day at the office?"

"Oh Carson, you have no idea! Mierda, those fucking mall developer guys from HarperWest jerked me around all day and still wouldn't sign! One stupid thing after another. They want to review the contract, the traffic estimates, the fucking drainage survey, all this bullshit and still they can't make up their minds. Ugghh!" she huffed. "I'm sorry baby, I know you shouldn't have to hear your mother talking like this. It's just..." She trailed off into a heavy sigh.

"It's okay Mom, really. You can talk however you want to me, don't worry about it, it's not like I don't cuss. You can vent! Tell me about all their stupid fucking bullshit." I gave her a little chuckle of encouragement.

"Oh, baby, I appreciate it, but honestly I don't want to keep talking about this anymore. I've been talking about it all day. I just want to relax." She shrugged off her pale pink business jacket, briefly flexing her arms back and thrusting her chest out as she let it slide off her shoulders. I blinked and looked off at the wall behind her to keep from staring, but my eye still caught her pink blouse stretching provocatively under the pressure of her bra-lifted D-cup tits. That will be my win for the day, I thought, that little mental picture of her thrusting boobs and a tiny hint of cleavage. That wouldn't even have registered if I had known what was coming next.

"Honey, here, come sit with me." She click-clacked a couple more steps over tile before thumping across the carpet to take a seat on the left end of the couch. I duly walked over and took the right end, leaving the middle cushion empty between us.

"Sure mom, what's up? I mean, if you don't want to talk?"

"If it's not too much trouble..." She paused. I tilted my head like a confused dog. What could she trouble me with?

"...Could you rub mommy's feet?"

Complete brain lock up. I did not just hear that. She did not just say that. This is not currently happening.

"It's been a really long day and I've had to run back and forth across the office in these damn heels the whole time, going to the printer, the copier, the fucking coffee pot. They treated me like a secretary out of Mad Men or something, it was humiliating. And my feet hurt. I know we're not that close yet and I try not to ask you for a lot baby, but can you do this for me? Just give my feet a massage? I'd really appreciate it."

You know in action movies when a flashbang grenade goes off? The character can't see shit and all they can hear is the eeeeeeee of their ears ringing? This is what my brain was going through. I recovered just in time to hear the last part of that - where she asked me again to massage her feet. Okay, I thought, this is apparently happening. This is happening. Stay calm, look nonplussed. Nonplussed? I freak out and my internal monologue switches to SAT words?

"Uhmm. I mean. Sure. I guess, yeah. I don't know if I'm going to be too good at it, but it can't hurt to try." I gave her my best imitation of a weak, unsure smile. I couldn't afford to look too excited, or excited at all for that matter. I tried to remind myself that normal 19 year old boys would not kill for the chance to touch their mother's pretty, pedicured, hose-encased feet. These hypothetical normal boys might even find it gross, though for the life of me I couldn't imagine why.

"Sorry, that's not too weird is it?" Now she looked hesitant. I'd overplayed the unsure thing. Gotta recover.

"No, of course not!" Whoa, calm down there Max Verstappen, don't overcorrect. Stay on the road here. "I mean, it makes sense. You've had a long day, your feet are tired. I can understand that. And if I can help, I'm happy to." And now a warm, "just being a good son" smile. That should do it.

"Well, if you're sure you're okay with it honey. Here, help me get these shoes off then." And with that, she hiked her skirt to just above her knees, turned to the side, and swung her legs up, placing her shoes directly in my lap.

That was the moment it all changed. Even as she'd been speaking, in my mind this was still just a dream scenario, a viciously tempting dream but one that on some level I still couldn't believe would come to pass. But having the firm, faux-leather-wrapped heels of her pale pink shoes braced against my right thigh, and the warmth of her pantyhosed ankles resting on my left? That made it all real.

I was fighting to keep my brain in the realm of sanity and not burst into feral lust. Luckily, my brain competing for blood flow kept me from popping an instantaneous erection. But I couldn't count on that for more than a few seconds before my reaction would become increasingly apparent.

"Umm, here, it would be a little easier if you propped them up like this." I judiciously crossed my left leg over my right, ostensibly to raise her feet up a little in front of me, but of course really aiming to create enough crotch space to let my cock grow to full mast and block her view of it as best I could while I - holy shit, I'm really doing this - carefully began undoing the buckle of her right ankle strap.

Partly out of numb amazement at this event and, okay, partly because I hadn't actually done this much before, I fumbled with the clasp a bit trying to get it open. Nissa started to lean forward.

"Here, let me help-"

"No no, Mom, it's fine. I got it." And just then, I did get it. The buckle now undone, I gingerly loosened the strap. And then with both hands, as gently as if I was a white-gloved museum curator removing a priceless artifact from its crate, I slid the shoe off her foot. My fingers instinctively curled around the shoe, feeling the curve of its arch and the give of its thin, lacquered faux leather for just a second before I leaned forward and dropped it on the carpet in front of the couch. After a moment's pause, I deliberately repeated the process for her left shoe. And then there they were. Two luscious calves flowing down to two of the most perfect, gorgeous feet I'd ever seen - gift-wrapped in sheer nylon, scented with the musk of a long day's work, resting in my lap and aching for my touch, just as my whole body ached to touch them. As I looked down, my face must have glowed like a petty thief beholding a bar of solid gold.

After what I hope was only a second or two, I looked over at mom's face. She looked a little lost.

"Something wrong baby?"

I was silent for a second, then quietly spoke.

"No, nothing. I'll give it my best shot."

The moment of truth. I tentatively cradled the instep of her right foot in my left hand, and touched my thumb to her arch with my right. It took all the self-control I had not to dissolve into a sighing puddle of sensual delight right then and there. After a second, I started to gently caress the bottom of her foot with my hand. The warmth of her touch beneath the silky smooth texture was like heaven on earth. I felt light-headed, blinking to try to keep from shutting my eyes and exploring her legs with my hands.

"Honey, you're going to have to press harder than that. Don't worry, you won't hurt me." Of course. She wanted a massage, not a caress.

"Okay, I can do that." With her permission, I started to dig my thumb in a little more firmly against her arch. The slickness of the nylon fabric made my thumb glide smoothly through small circles. As I began moving from the arch to the ball of her aching foot, she made a faint murmur of relaxation that gave way to a moan of relief. I bit my lip hard at the dangerous, erotic thrill of eliciting such a sound from my own mother.

"That's it baby. Just like that," she purred.

I was losing my mind. My erection surged in my pants, raging to spring free and take the place of my hand against her foot. Keep it cool. Keep it cool. As if I could possibly keep it cool. The only thing I wanted in the world was to take out my rigid cock and fuck her beautiful, incredible feet until I orgasmed myself into oblivion. But there was no way I could get away with that here, now, with her. I had to keep this miracle going, savor it as much as I could for as long as I could, which meant my hard prick had to remain concealed and my hands had to continue their journey. I moved down a little more, carefully but firmly rolling each of her toes between my fingers, feeling the delicate seam of her pantyhose under my fingertips. Every sensation, every second, I filed away in my mind. I exulted at indulging this temptation for the first time, recoiled from the tiny voice telling me I was becoming an incestuous freak, and feared I might never get to do such a thing again. And all of this erotic terror and joy had to remain hidden on my face.

Eventually I moved back toward her heel, digging in with both thumbs.

"Oh, that's it," she crooned. "You really are good at this. You haven't done this before? It must come naturally," she said. Oh god, don't talk to me about what "must come" right now.

"I... don't know about that, but thanks. Time for your other foot?"

"Yes baby, thank you so much. You're doing a great job." And you're indulging my most secret fetish. I'd say it's a fair trade. I hesitated only a moment before releasing her right foot. She crossed her left leg over her right, bringing her left foot in front of me. I repeated the process, beginning again in the center of her arch and working my way forward and then back. My joy was just as great the second time; perhaps even greater as I grew more comfortable and confident in feeling her under my hands. My stiff, fattened cock raged in its prison, insanely jealous of what my fingers felt. I savored every inch, every touch, every involuntarily whispered moan that escaped my mother's lips as my hands wrung the pain from her body. All told, this probably took only a few minutes. For me, it was a lifetime.

"Is... was that good? Did I do okay?" I was so nervous I could hardly speak. "Do you... want some more?"

"No, I'm good. Thank you so much honey. Really. It means a lot to me that you are willing to help me out after a bad day."

"Of course. No problem. You know... it doesn't have to be on a bad day. I'm glad to help you out whenever. However I can." In for a penny, I thought.

"Aww, thank you. That's very generous of you. Maybe I'll take you up on that sometime." Her smile made me melt. Oh god, am I falling in lust AND love? No, I just really want to fuck h- "So, all done then?" She looked at me expectantly. I realized I still held her left foot in my hands and was absentmindedly continuing to circle my thumb around.

"Oh, of course."

Finally, regretfully, I let go. It had to end. I couldn't keep dragging it out without seeming increasingly suspicious, and besides that, something needed to be done about my own aches - the ones in my straining ball sack and bone-stiff prick. Blinking again, I started to return to my surroundings. Now I just had to extract myself to the privacy of my room, which of course, the aforementioned prick made much more difficult than I'd like. There was no way I could get up and walk off right now without a glaringly obvious erection shoving against the zipper of my jeans and thrusting out inches ahead of me like the prow of a ship. Think, Carson. This is not the first time you've had an awkward boner. You know how to get out of this. Step 1, distract the woman in danger of witnessing my visual confession of carnal desire for her... my mother. Step 2, adjust my equipment, tuck it in my waistband, cover it casually with something - a throw pillow. Step 3, once it has subsided just enough to be maneuverable again, get up off the couch, turning my hips immediately away from her field of vision, and walk straight out of the room. No problem. No problem. I mentally rolled my eyes. Right.

"Well, you're welcome," I said. "Hey, when you're up, could you get me a soda or something?" I made it as nonchalant as I could muster at that point.

"Oh yeah, of course. What would you like?" She swung her legs back down and stood up to pad over to the kitchen. Perfect, that's step 1 done. Quick adjustment with my hand in my jeans pocket, casually grab a pillow, that's step 2 done. "Coke? Sprite?"