When I was 18 my family lived in the English Midlands. My parents both worked for a pharmaceutical firm and they were working at its English subsidiary. We lived in a small village about 20 miles outside of Birmingham. Because both my parents worked they could afford to send me to a public school—which in England means a private school. The school was in the city, and I would ride in with parents every morning and ride back home again every evening. This pissed me off. I had turned 18 two months ago and I wanted a motor scooter so I could go to school by myself That would increase my "cool" factor significantly.
On Wednesdays we had a half day, so I would have lunch at the school cafeteria and then take a bus to the house of an American couple who were about my parents' age and whom they knew. Paul worked as some kind of sales rep for the same drugs company that my parents worked for and Laura, his wife, worked part time at the local library. If she wasn't there when I arrived there was a key under the flower pot and I was to let myself in and do my homework or watch TV or whatever. A lot of times she was there when I arrived and we got along well—she was easy to talk to and treated more like a real person than someone still in school..
One day I arrived around 1:30 and there was nobody home. I let myself in and made myself comfortable in the living room, listening to some of the records stacked on top of the stereo. About half an hour later I heard Laura come in.
"Hi Scott," she said, "How are you?"
"I'm fine Laura, what about you?" Even though she let me call her by her first name instead of "Mrs. Vaughn" I was still polite and respectful. My parents had trained me that way.
"I'm fine, just a little stressed out." She plopped down on the other end of the couch. "We had a couple of people come from the council today to look at the library before approving our budget request for the year and I got the job of showing them around. I dressed a little nicer than usual to make a good impression, but it was a mistake to wear these heels—I was on my feet for about two hours without a break and I'm not used to it. They look good, but I'm not sure it was worth it. Don't they?"
It took me a minute to figure out that she had just asked me a question. "Well they certainly do make your feet and legs look their best," I replied, a little embarrassed.
"Hmmmm, do they?" And she held one foot out and turned it this way and that, looking at it.
She was dressed conservatively in a white l blouse and dark blue skirt which came to just above her knees . She had on white hose and white open–toed sandals with about a three inch heel. She normally wore heels that were lower, and it was true, these higher heels gave her legs a taut sexy look. Or rather sexier. Laura had good legs, at least in my judgment which I considered quite developed, because I looked at the legs of every female I saw between 12 and 80.
The rest of her was only average—rather wide hips, a rounded but unremarkable ass, and boobs that while big were not particularly well emphasized or prominent. I guessed that they were a bit saggy and that she should wear a bra with underwiring. She had short blonde hair and a face that could be called almost cute, but it always looked a little tired. She was a little heavier than my ideal woman, but her legs were always a sight that could turn me on. Too bad she wore trousers so often. Still, for someone pushing forty she was pretty good looking.
"Well , yeah, I mean yes, you really do look special when you're dressed like that." I surprised myself by how daring my comment was.
"Dressed like what," she asked. "I'm not wearing anything special." It was true—she wasn't dressed in any way out of the normal—except for those extra high heels.
"Well, I just meant—I uh,-- I oh, nothing." I was too embarrassed to go on .
"Well you must have meant something. What were you going to say?"
"I meant that those high heels you're wearing with the white stockings—they make you look "—and here I mumbled inaudibly—"extra sexy." I knew my face was turning red.
"Extra sexy? Is that what you said?" I nodded, my eyes down. "Well that's the nicest compliment that anyone's given me in a long time. Thank you Scott."
She said, "If it won't spoil your appreciation of my 'extra sexiness' I'm going to take them off." And she proceeded to undo the ankle straps and kick off her heels. "By the way, it's pantyhose, not stockings."
She had embarrassed me again; but she didn't seem to be embarrassed at all, talking about stockings and pantyhose with a 18-year-old boy. I was trying to keep my mind off her legs and pantyhose because I felt a boner coming on and I didn't want to have to conceal that from her. Somehow though, the image wouldn't go away.
She crossed one ankle on to her knee and began to rub her foot. "That feels better," she said with a sigh.
I don't know what had gotten into me, but I figured if I had said the words "extra sexy " to Laura I couldn't do much more to embarrass myself. "Would you like me to do that for you," I asked in a strange sounding voice. "I can if you want me to."
"What, rub my feet? Why I think that would be wonderful, Scott. It always feels so good when someone else does it—not that I know much about that, but yes, I would like that if you don't mind."
"OK," I croaked. My voice was dong weird things, my mind was up under her skirt, and my cock was getting harder. She leaned back against the arm of the couch, put a cushion behind her head, and wiggled her self into a comfortable position. Then she lowered her feet right into my lap.
I was sure she could feel my hard-on with her feet, but if she didn't mention it I certainly wasn't going to. I took one foot in my hands and started gently massaging it, trying to remember what we had learned in phys.ed. class last month about massage and the circulatory system and all that textbook stuff that I'd never had a chance to practice – until now.
I figured that the safest thing was just to be gentle and thorough and watch for indicators from her as to what she liked best. She got a contented smile on her face and let out some "mmmmmmmmm" sounds so I took that as a good sign.
My mind had crawled back our from under her skirt and was now concentrated on the reality I had in my hands. (But of course that didn't stop my cock from getting even harder.) Her foot was rather dainty and well-formed. I was turned on by the warmth of her skin through the silkiness of the nylon pantyhose that covered her foot. I rubbed each toe and then the sole, then the instep. Next I cupped her heel in my hand and squeezed, applying a little more pressure. Then finally I used my thumbs on the ball of her foot.
"Ooh, that feels so good," she said.
Suddenly some of that science stuff came back to me. "Yes, the weight of the person is concentrated on the ball of the foot when they walk, and wearing high heels like yours puts even more pressure on it," I said in what I hoped was a normal voice.
"The second pressure point is the ankle," I said, as I lightly massaged her ankle.
"Mmmmmmmm," she said, "do the other one now."
I put her foot gently back into my lap where I was sure she could feel my hard-on. But I took the other foot in my hands and started the same process of gently massaging each part of the foot, taking my time and making it as sensual as possible. I made sure to rub each toe separately and Laura really seemed to enjoy that because she nestled down into the couch a bit more and said, "oh yeah."
I finished up some minutes later with her ankle, and I began massaging her lower leg just above the ankle bone. "Wearing high heels can also put undue stress on the lower leg above the ankle bone," I said in my most serious voice, as if I were presenting an anatomy documentary. As I said this, I continued to rub her leg a little way above the ankle bone.
"How do you know that?," she asked in a light-hearted tone.
"Read it in a book about human anatomy ," I said, matching her tone.
"That feels wonderful—do the other side now."
I switched back to the other leg, massaging it above the ankle, as I had the first one, but daring to make my hands go a little higher until I was massaging her pantyhose covered calf. I was very gentle and sensual and I was sure that she was starting to get aroused because her eyes were closed and she had a dreamy smile on her lips which she licked occasionally. She was also sighing and breathing heavy and starting to look a little flushed.
I switched legs again, massaging her other calf as I had the first one,; slowly working my hands higher up her leg toward her knee over the smooth white nylon of her pantyhose. Even thinking the word—pantyhose made me want to cum.
I finally went just about as far as I dared. I reached the part of her leg just below the knee and I wasn't experienced or brave enough with women to touch her knee. I wasn't experienced at all with women—the most I had done was some heavy petting with girls of my own age or younger.
"Scott—don't stop," she whispered in a breathless voice.
"The knee is the third point of pressure when wearing high heels," I said in my science teacher voice, but it came out sounding thick and lustful , even to me. It didn't matter because my hands were already caressing her knee, cupping it and then sliding on the slick nylon around behind it, the sides, the top of it again, and then my hand was a few inches above her knee, brushing the edge of her skirt. She gave no sign that she was conscious of what I was doing except to let out a long "mmmmmmmmm" sound that was definitely sexual. I knew I was getting her turned on. I continued to massage both of her legs above the knee, just brushing the edge of her skirt, but it was getting difficult for my hands to reach that far, sitting as I was with her feet in my lap. Also, my hard-on had become painfully cramped.
"Laura, I'm going to move a little bit so I can finish your massage a little easier."
"Finish? Oh no, it feels so good, you have to keep on." She said this in a voice that sounded thick and a bit strangled. "You have to do more." And to make her point she slid her skirt up about 6 inches. "I mean, aren't the thighs under stress from wearing high heels?"
"Yes, they certainly are," I managed to reply. My eyes were glued to her white silky thighs as I gently lightly shifted her feet off of my boner, got up, and kneeled on the couch with her legs between mine, my crotch right over her knees. But I didn't dare lower myself—I stayed on my knees—not the most comfortable position—and began massaging her thighs where she had pulled her skirt up. I was a little uncomfortable but at least it had removed the pressure on my cock and it was free to keep swelling in relative freedom inside my trousers.
Now Laura was licking her lips frequently and starting to pant a little. One of her hands went to her forehead and the other was moving slowly around in circle on her throat and over the top button o f her blouse. Every 10 seconds or so she would let out a deep "mmmmmmmmm" sound which then changed to an "aaahhh". Every so often she would suck in her breath suddenly. I knew these were the sounds an aroused woman makes-- I had heard the same sounds a few weeks earlier when I had slipped my hands inside the panties of one of the girls at my school that I was fooling around with.
I was massaging the back of Laura's thighs now and she raise d her knees just a little until they came in contact with my crotch. This caused her skirt to slide up another inch or two and I thought I was gong to cream in my shorts, but I didn't. I tried to control myself, making sure to rub gently and thoroughly every inch of her luscious legs.
Laura had a grimace on her face now—her mouth was open and her features were all squinched up—and again I recognized this as a sign of sexual pleasure because I had seen it on the face of the girl at school when I rubbed my finger over her pussy. I decided that the time had come for boldness.
I pushed Laura's skirt all the way up, exposing the band of darker nylon at the top of her pantyhose, all the way up to where the waistband of her panty hose made a pink mark on the whiteness of her belly. All the way, so I could see the light blue bikini panties under her pantyhose and the seam to the cotton oval that covered her pussy.
She said one word, the sweetest word I had ever heard up to that point in my life. "Yessssss…"
My hands were now caressing her thighs all the way up to her crotch, rubbing the darker bands at the top of her panty hose, squeezing her plump inner thighs. I wasn't thinking about being gentle and thorough any more . I was thinking about ice cubes, about taking out the trash, about soccer scores , about anything that would keep me from cumming while I filled my hands with the loveliest thing I had ever felt in my entire life, the pantyhose covered thighs of a woman in heat…
Laura reached up and put her hands on either side of my face and literally pulled me down so my mouth was pressed onto her mound and then she moved my face down over the slickness of her pantyhose until my mouth was directly over that small oval of cotton which by now was soaking wet and the she pressed down hard, pressing my face into her cunt and began to buck her hips up into my face, almost breaking my nose and crying out "yes, yes, yes, oh god, yes…"
I couldn't take it anymore and I lowered my crotch , pressing her knees down until I was sitting on them where I exploded a huge splash of cum into my shorts.
After I had stopped shivering and she had stopped quivering we lay still, my face still buried in her nylon covered pussy. I could feel how slick and slippery her panty hose had become, soaked as they were with her cunt juice and I smelled what has always been my favorite perfume— wet pussy—and I felt the little shakes of pleasure against my cheek that she gave as her orgasm slowly ebbed away and left her satisfied and with a delicious smile on her face.
Eventually we moved and I climbed off her knees and sat on the couch and she sat up and put her feet on the floor, though she didn't pull her skirt down. "Look at me, " she said, I'm soaking wet." That was the best massage I've ever had, but now I have to go change my pantyhose and panties—we don't want anyone to notice anything , now do we?"
I didn't want to see her go—I wanted her to stay where she was with her skirt up around her waist and a big wet stain over her cunt and a silly , happy, sleepy, contented grin on her face and a lustful light in her eyes—but I could see her point. It wouldn't do to have my parents arrive and find us like this. She disappeared up the stairs and I went to the downstairs bath room to try and clean up a bit. I didn't want to wash the smell of pussy juice off my face but I figured I had to.
Laura didn't come back down until my parents rang the bell to take me home.
But that's not the end of the story.
During the week I went to a pharmacy in Birmingham and bought a pair of black pantyhose in what I guessed was Laura's size. They came in one of those silver plastic eggs, and I carefully removed the egg from the cardboard holder, took out the tights, and with tiny sewing scissors, cut out the oval of cotton in the crotch. Then I put the pantyhose back in the egg, put the egg back in the cardboard holder, and put it in my school bag.
The next Wednesday when I went to the Vaughn's house, Laura wasn't there. She had left a note though, which said, "Scott, I have to work late today. I won't be home before you leave." And sure enough she didn't come back before my parents picked me up. I desperately wanted to see her, however that gave me a chance to do what I wanted to do .
I went upstairs to her bedroom, went in , and walked over to her dresser. I opened the top drawer, and there they were—half a dozen bras in various colors and materials, about twice as many panties , most of them in a satiny light blue, though there were one or two old-fashioned white cotton pair and a lacy black thong kind of thing. It made m jealous to think of her wearing that for anyone—not jealous of her, but jealous of anybody else who knew she was wearing it. How could I be jealous of her? I was in love with her – you know how a young man can become infatuated with an older woman.
And then I saw what I was looking for. Stockings and panty hose—several styles and colors. I almost took one and put it in my pocket—a light tan sheer-to-waist pair—but I didn't want to do anything to make her mad at me. (From experience I've learned that she probably would have been flattered if I had stolen it.) I took the silver egg and nestled it on top of the pile of heavenly objects.
Several weeks went by and Laura was always out when I was there. I understood that she was avoiding me, but I wasn't sure why. Did it mean that she didn't want to see me? Did it mean that she wanted to see me too much?. I was pretty sure it wasn't because she was mad at me or too embarrassed. But I just didn't know.
Then, on e week she was there—but so was her husband. I spent the afternoon playing chess with Paul. Laura was in and out of the living room, but she never gave any sign that anything had ever happened between us. I was pretty miserable during the day, thinking about Laura. I still did all the making out that I could at school, but when I was feeling up some girl I was imagining it to be Laura. Every night I masturbated to the imagined smell of her wet pussy.
The Vaughn's were leaving England. Now I would never have a chance to tell Laura how much I loved her. How much I wanted to fuck her. At my age I couldn't see any difference between the two. I couldn't think beyond the fact that we should be together somehow. Pure fantasy. I deeply regretted the fact that I hadn't actually got into her panties, I hadn't actually touched her cunt, and I hadn't actually put my dick in her. I hadn't even fondled her tits. I hadn't even really eaten her pussy—she just pressed my face against her cunt as she was cumming. Oh well, that provided unlimited masturbatory fantasies.
My parents invited them over for dinner a few nights before they were to leave. I was in state of sexual excitement all day—by now I knew that Laura and I would never be together, but I was still happy to know that I would be seeing her and I could refresh my image of her for masturbation purposes.
They arrived and I kept out of the way, more or less , though I observed Laura very closely. She was wearing a light blue sweater and a dark blue skirt that came about midway down her legs—not much to look at really , though I already had a good idea of what her legs looked like. Black stockings—pantyhose?—and black high heels. Even higher than the white ones she had had on the day we had our little encounter. They made her feet look delicious and gave an extra lift to her slightly heavy ass that made her a gorgeous thing when she walked.
After dinner when everyone was sitting at the table finishing their coffee and dessert Laura said, "Oh, I almost forgot—we brought a couple of boxes of books that you guys might want. They're out in the back seat. Scott, could you come out and help me carry them in?"
I thought if I said anything I would sound like a frog croaking, so I simply nodded and stood up. We went out the door, a few yards down the drove, and as we got out of earshot of the others she said, "Thank you for the gift, Scott. That means a lot to me. And I have a gift for you too." I expected her to hand me something – a pair of pantyhose or something like that. But no.