Beth sipped her drink as the hotel bar neared closing. She smiled, feeling the cooling cum on her supple old calves beneath her pant legs just above her sexy black trouser socks.
Earlier, she'd used them, her feet, her calves, her socks, on young Michael, a 21-year-old stranger in the bar. She'd been sitting alone, at the hotel for business, when she noticed the young man looking at her legs. She'd crossed them, the pant legs riding up to reveal her shiny shins and muscular calves, one black shoe dangling, and he took wide-eyed note. She beckoned him to her.
And she dominated him, with her sexy 60-year-old legs, those muscular calves and stinky black socks. He'd worshipped them in the nearly empty bar, then she'd made him cum in them, hoisting her meaty lower legs up on his lap, hidden by his suit coat, and jerked his aching cock in their velvety, scissoring fleshiness.
But just before he came, friends of Beth's stopped by to chat. She was undeterred, and during the course of conversation, with Michael's cock trapped in her calves and hidden beneath his coat, she quivered them on him, making him spurt. After they'd left, she made him kneel and suck his cum off her shapely calves and those dirty black socks.
And all throughout, she made him call her "Mother." She'd then sent him on his way -- but not before getting his room number.
"Room 223," she smiled to herself now, a good half hour after their encounter, draining the rest of her drink and putting it on the bar, standing to walk away, feeling the thin sheen of cum crusting on her muscular old calves.
Michael was about to turn in for the night, still processing the impossible situation that had just happened, how he had succumbed to her pressure, from her mind and those amazing legs. Granted, he'd long been a fan of older women, but this woman was something else, and he was completely under her spell. He wished she'd come to his room, but now, after 1 a.m. and with a series of boring business meetings facing him in seven hours, he clicked off the light and climbed under the blankets.
Beth stopped by her room, grabbing a chilled bottle of chardonnay, and took the elevator down to room 223. She knocked, waited, knocked again. Finally, she heard shuffling, coughing. She saw the eye piece darken. She smiled, and heard the door latch slide open, then the door. Michael blinked at the hallway light, the beautiful dominant woman silhouetted there.
"Here," she said, handing him the bottle. "Open this and pour me a glass."
She walked in, Michael's eyes riveted to her magnificent ass pressed tight in her black slacks. She sat on the bed, snapping the light on, crossing her legs. Again, the pant leg rode up, revealing that sexy, shiny shin, that marvelously sculpted calf bulging above her low-slung sock.
"Uh, I didn't...," he stammered, scampering to get a corkscrew to open the wine and pour her a glass with shaky hands. "I...didn't think you...."
"Don't think, thinking gets you into trouble," she said sternly, bouncing that leg, dangling the shoe. "Just do. The wine?"
He regained his composure and rushed the glass to her. She sipped as Michael sat beside her in his boxer shorts. She didn't look at him.
"Did I give you permission to sit?" she snarled, nodding to the floor. "There, kneel."
He obeyed, his cock hardening as he was inches from that sexy foot in the black sock and shoe dangling playfully from it. The smell hit him, ripe, raw, funky, that glorious sweaty aroma he remembered from the bar.
"Well?" she asked.
"Well....what?"
"WHAT!"
"Uh, Mother, what Mother!" he said quickly.
She smiled and let her shoe drop to the floor, taking his eyes with it.
"Pick it up, stupid," she sighed, sipping her wine and wiggling her toes, the shin creased with freckled flesh, that calf flexing. "And smell it."
"Yes...Mother..." he groaned, picking it up and putting the inside to his nose.
He thought he'd cum in his boxers. The stench was heavenly, acrid and sharp, alluringly so. He looked inside as he inhaled at the white insole coated with streaks of dark, evidence of her wearing them barefoot many times, a layer of sexy grime. Peripherally, he noticed her pulling up both pant legs, taunting him with the sight of her amazingly muscular old calves, knotted muscle bubbling above those sexy, stinky socks. He stuck his tongue out, tasting the funk, freshly sweated up and ripe.
She shot her feet out, knocking the shoe from his hands and clamping her solid calves around his neck. Calmly leaning back on the bed with one hand, drink in the other, she glared at him with her dark eyes, him on his haunches, her incredibly strong calves twisted vise-grip tight around his neck. His hands shot to them, feeling steel in his fingers. She laced her socked toes together behind his head and worked her chiseled calves harder into the sides of his neck. He went dizzy, his extremities tingling, about to pass out. His hands fell loosely to his side as she snapped his neck in her crushing calves with thrusting jolts.
"I did NOT tell you to lick my shoe, Michael, did I?" she snarled, now shaking her locked calves on his neck, jerking his head around like a rag doll.
"No...pleash..." he slurred drunkenly, his brain addled from the calf squeeze.
"What? No 'please Mother'?" she snapped angrily. "For that, you pay!"