Awaening Obsession

The day after I had sex with my mother was, to say the least, a little awkward. I wasn't sure if she'd even really remember what happened. I quickly learned that her memory wasn't all that cloudy. Mom was quiet all morning while Donna was still there, and she avoided looking me in the eye during breakfast. Donna asked if Mom was feeling OK, and Mom just said she was hungover. I of course knew better, but surely couldn't say anything. I was becoming more uncomfortable and awkward myself as time went on.

After Donna left, Mom got up from the table and said she wasn't feeling well, and she was going to lay down. I hesitated, unsure what to do. It bothered me so much to see her like that, when it was essentially my fault. Finally, I stood up and caught up to her, grabbing her hand, and asked if we could talk. It took some cajoling and pleading before she finally agreed, and we finally talked around what had happened the prior evening.

It took a while. I told Mom how much I loved her, that she was the most wonderful and beautiful woman I'd ever known, and that I would always honor and love her more than anyone else would or could. I told her that we obviously had too much to drink, were very lonely, and desperate for intimacy. I reassured her that I certainly didn't feel any different today about her, unless it was that I felt even closer to her than ever. I could tell that she was finally getting over it, to an extent, and that we'd finally be able to move forward. Of course, she said it was something that could never happen again. Hoping for a smile, I asked if I was that bad. That startled her into a laugh and her face turned red, and she couldn't look me in the eye.

We kept talking for a little while, when my mother made a comment about not knowing why I'd go for her in the first place. She said she was old and divorced, practically a retread, so why a young good-looking guy would even be attracted to her when drunk was a surprise to her. I snorted and said she obviously had no idea how hot she was, and it was her turn to scoff. I decided to let her in on what made me tick, and told her my thing with the secretary look and being a leg man. I then told her about how heels and nylons enhance the whole look, and the feeling of nylon on skin was intoxicating to me.

I could see a look in her eye when I said that, like I had inadvertently touched on one of her own secrets. She said that she'd always felt that her legs were her best feature, and so tried to accentuate them as much as possible. When I told her that did indeed have great legs, she blushed again and thanked me. I knew that there was more she wasn't telling me, so I started asking her questions, like if she enjoyed the attention, if she liked wearing pantyhose, stuff like that. She finally admitted that she liked the feel of them herself, after I pointed out that I remembered several times when she was wearing jeans with hose, and couldn't have just been trying to draw attention to her legs. She told me it was something that she'd discovered as a young girl, and she wore them since she was a teenager every chance she got. She loved the feel of the tightness across her legs, she said, and loved running her hands over them. I laughed and said that was something else we had in common.

We dropped it after that, and life pretty much returned to normal. She still dressed the same to go to work, still kissed me on the cheek as she left. I still complimented her on her looks, maybe even more so than before, and still rubbed her feet for her every other night. What she didn't know was that I wasn't done. I'd thought that if I could just satisfy my desire, my obsession would dim and I'd be able to move on with my life. Instead, with that taste, I found that I wanted her more than ever.

What I didn't know was how to bring it about again. She'd made it pretty clear it wouldn't happen again, but I figured with the proper stimulation she would change her mind. She now seemed to be a little more careful about her drinking, probably from knowing that her inhibitions could obviously drop enough to have sex with her son. She hadn't needed a ride (in more ways than one) since our night together, and she hadn't seemed more than slightly tipsy since then either. I couldn't force the issue without being too obvious, so I let it lie for a while, hoping that eventually she'd let her guard down.

When opportunity finally did knock, I was ready to kick the door open. Mom had a presentation to do at work, involving her boss and several of their important clients, and she was incredibly nervous about it, spending long hours at night working and tweaking it. We were both looking forward to it being done, and I was happy when presentation day arrived. I got up a little early and made us both breakfast. Mom was surprised and grateful, giving me a big hug, and I took advantage of her distracted state to stare at her while she sat, enjoying her food. She was dressed conservatively, which wasn't typical for her anymore, but it didn't hide the sensuality of her body. Her blouse, a dark, almost navy blue, buttoned all the way to the neck, but tightened beautifully across her bosom with her movements, contouring her gorgeous breasts. Her skirt was knee-length and white, but the slit on the left side exposed another four inches of her thigh to me and displayed a little more of her suntan nylons. She wore dark blue pumps, still with a 3 or 4 inch heel, and as she sat, ankles demurely crossed and tucked under the chair, it was all I could do to resist taking her right then and there.

She got up to leave, nervous but confident, and I helped her out the door. When she leaned forward to kiss my cheek, I moved enough to kiss her on the lips instead -- just a quick peck, nothing overt -- and in her state she didn't even bat an eyelash, just asked me to wish her luck. I did, and watched a confident, beautiful woman walk to her car and head out to work.

When I got home from work, she wasn't home yet -- which was unusual for midweek. I took that as a sign that things either went really well and she was celebrating, or things went really badly, and she was drowning her troubles. Either way, I thought, this was going to be lucky for me. I made sure that wine was chilling in the fridge and showered, whistling a happy tune, and put on a little of the cologne she bought for me. I didn't dress up, but I tried not to look too sloppy, either. Just another casual night, I thought, but my pulse betrayed my own excitement. I was like my mother from this morning; nervous, anticipating, but overall confident in my ability to pull it off.

I didn't have to wait too long. When she walked through the door, I could tell by her radiant smile and slightly shiny eyes that the day had been a success, and she had indeed been celebrating. I asked her how it went, and she was ecstatic as she told me the details: the clients loved her, loved the presentation, asked questions she knew all the answers to, and complimented her on the whole thing. While she talked, I started to open the wine -- to celebrate, I said -- and as I did she then went on to her boss, who loved it as much as the clients did. He told her the reason why he picked her to do the presentation was because he knew that she had the grace, charm, and looks to pull it off. After it was done, he took Mom and the clients out for dinner and drinks.

As we drank our wine, she told me what she referred to as "the best part": the boss kept putting his hand on her knee during dinner, and kissed her on the cheek as she left. I knew she'd been chasing him for a long time, and I wanted to feel happy for her now that she seemed to be getting closer, but instead I felt jealous. What's this guy doing fondling my mother? Who is he to caress her knee, brushing his fingers across her legs, trying to kiss those full red lips? I felt that now familiar surge of protectiveness, of ownership. I wasn't going to submit to anyone without a fight.

I came back to the conversation and smiled and nodded, sharing the wine with her, refilling her glass every time it reached the halfway point. She was entrancing, her face slightly red from her triumph and the wine, her smile beaming and movements energetic. I felt such a surge of love for her that blended with my lust of her, and at that moment I'd have done anything she could have asked of me. Finally, during a break in the conversation, she remarked that her feet were killing her from standing all day. I relished her blush and laugh as I remarked that those shoes were made for a lot of things, but standing wasn't one of them, and told her to follow me and I'd take care of her. Wine glass in hand, she followed me to the couch.

She settled onto the couch, laying back at an angle so her head rested on the armrest but her feet dangled over the edge, her normal position when I gave her a footrub. I put on some relaxing music and she closed her eyes as I knelt at her feet, slipping her shoes off. I began to work on them, enjoying as always the little moans of pleasure she emitted from time to time. I worked hard at doing a good job, and she was perfectly relaxed and enjoying herself. Now it was my turn.

While I continued working her right foot with one hand, I gripped her ankle with the other and slid it slowly and firmly up her calf, kneading the muscles, stopping at the back of her knee to lightly brush it with my fingertips, and slowly and softly stroking her leg on the way back down to her ankle. She moaned, louder than before, and told me how nice that felt. I used the motion to pull her legs slightly apart, but the conservative skirt prevented me from going too far. I gave her a couple of minutes of it before switching to her left foot, which was the side closer to the couch back. I gave it a little pull, and Mom obliged by sliding her ass a little closer to the edge of the couch, giving me more access to her leg. She placed her right foot down where it rested on my left thigh, just inches from the rock-hard bulge I had.

As I was starting to work her left foot, sliding my hands across her nyloned foot and leg, an idea occurred to me. I brought my face closer to her foot. I wasn't sure what I expected, but I could smell her sweat mingled with the smell of her nylons, and it reminded me of the night I buried my head between her legs. I'd never been a person into feet, but I couldn't get the idea out of my mind. As I stroked my fingers back down her calf with my left hand and worked her toes with my right, I slowly ran my tongue up the arch of my mother's foot. I heard her inhale sharply, like a diver coming out of water, and I continued up her foot until I reached her big toe and slid it into my mouth, running my right hand up her left leg and bringing my left hand over to her right leg, still resting on my thigh, and stroked her legs while I sucked on her toes.

When I opened my eyes and looked up at her, still working on her with my mouth, I could see her staring at me, lips apart, breathing heavy. I continued, watching her as she watched me, now bringing my hands up to stroke her thighs under the skirt. Emboldened, I brought my left hand to her right ankle and slid her foot until it reached my crotch, resting it on the bulge there. Tentatively, then with increasing pressure, she stroked my hardness with her foot as I continued sucking and licking her foot.

I began to run my tongue up the top of her foot to her shin, then started around to the back of her calf. I grasped her foot and raised it in the air, giving me access to the back of her knee, which I then began to softly kiss and lick in turn. My other hand was rubbing her inner thigh, coming tantalizingly close to the wetness I could already see forming. Her skirt was still getting in the way, so I rested her leg on my shoulder and used both hands to slide the back of her skirt up to her waist. Her hands briefly and vainly pulled at the hem in the front, trying to cover herself, but I wrapped my left arm under and around her right thigh and kept a secure hold on the skirt. I pushed her left leg up so that her foot was resting on the back of the couch, and with my mother's legs spread wide, I buried my head between them for the second time.

I was again driven wild by her scent, masked slightly by the nylon, and tore open the crotch of her pantyhose with my teeth and right hand. I immediately began to assault her sex with my tongue, long broad strokes, while my hands and fingers wandered over her thighs. I began to slow down the rhythm, in counterpoint to my fervent beginning, and to savor the sounds of pleasure she was making. I took my time, building up her response, keying on her breathing and subtle movements, all the while feeling the slightest twitches in her legs as I stroked them. In contrast to the first time I ate out my mother, which was fast and furious, I settled down and coaxed her along a path of pleasure.

I toyed with her for some time, speeding up a little, listening to breath come harder and faster, then slowing down again, reveling in her slight sound of disappointment, knowing I would build her up again. Finally, I decided to end it. Starting off slowly once again, I gradually built up the rhythm, adding a little more pressure with each stroke. Her breathing kept pace with me, and as it quickened, I would quicken my own pace. Soon enough, my face was firmly planted against her, tongue working furiously, arms wrapped tightly around her thighs, and she was chanting "yes yes yes" as she began to reach the crest. When she finally went over, with a cry that sounded almost painful, I backed off the pressure, gliding my fingertips across her thighs and gently kissing along them.

I slowly pulled back and stood, one knee on the couch, and looked down at my mother. Her head was tilted to the left, her right arm curled next to it, fingers near her parted lips. Her left hand rested on the top of the thigh of her left leg, which was still resting across the top of couch from the knee down. The sight of her lying there - hair sweaty and disheveled, in her high-necked long sleeve blouse, conservative skirt raked up, exposed legs spread invitingly, pantyhose torn away from her crotch -- increased the insistent need within me. I slid my shorts down to my knees and leaned forward, putting an arm down on either side of her torso.

She opened her eyes and turned to look at me, breath still rasping in and out of her mouth. With a sigh, she placed her right hand on my shoulder and grasped my firmness in her left hand. As she guided me inside her, my mother pulled my head down, ear to her mouth, and whispered, "Fuck me." As I began to move inside her, I pulled my head back enough to see her face, and her eyes locked on mine as we rocked into each other on the couch.

Gone was the frenzy of the first time. We continued the sex like it had begun, slow and measured, reveling in the pace and sensation and sounds. Our lips and tongues would meet for long moments, breaking apart as we both needed the breath. The steady rhythm began to work on her, and her breathing grew more rapid, the clench on the back of my neck tighter, her thighs squeezing harder, and she came again with a wordless moan. Watching her face during the orgasm, head thrown back, mouth open wide, consumed by pleasure, was too much for me. With my own cry I peaked, thrusting deep inside her, back arching, whole body tense. As I came down, I opened my eyes and looked down at her, to see her gazing up at me.

"This has to stop," she said. "I'm your mother, and...." I cut her off by pressing my lips down on hers. She resisted for a moment, but gave in to the kiss, and our tongues intertwined as I lay atop her, still deep inside and gradually softening. I began to realize how submissive she was, something I should have realized from seeing her previous encounter with Donna, as well as our own first night together. The balance of power and authority had shifted, and I thought that I might now be able to have her again, and that she would want it enough to give in without a fight, even without her being drunk. What I wanted ultimately, though, was to have her come after me of her own accord, for her to want me enough to initiate the intimacy.

I slowly pulled out of her, still kissing, and I could hear and feel a slight sigh of disappointment escape her lips. I rose to my feet, extending my hands down to her, and helped her stand. I guided her by the hand to her room and she docilely followed, allowing me to assist undressing her. I gently caressed her as she shed her clothes, standing behind her, kissing her neck and running my hands along her arms. In moments her clothes were in a pile on the floor and I helped her into bed, the long stressful day and climactic evening catching up to her. After a moment, looking down at her, I shed my own clothes and climbed in beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist as she lay on her side. Her hand slid over mine, and we fell asleep.

When I woke up, I heard the shower running. My clothes were folded and lying on the foot of the bed, while hers were nowhere to be found. No souvenir this time, I thought, disappointed. I dressed and made breakfast for us, not sure how she'd be acting after last night and how she was after the first time. I was surprised when she came out -- she seemed perfectly normal, chatting about work, asking me to take care of some housework chores before I went to work. It was a normal mother-son morning, all the way until she went back to her room before leaving for work. She had something in her hand, which she held out to me as she bent forward to kiss me goodbye, lightly, on the lips. "For your collection," she said, that smirk on her face that I loved so much. I held the torn pantyhose in my hand as I watched her walk out the door.

**

A couple of weeks went by without any extra-curricular activities, and I was growing frustrated. After she gave me her torn nylons, I thought she'd decided that our intimacy was a welcome thing to her. Unfortunately, that didn't seem to be the case. At home, she was much more "in charge", giving me chores, telling me to pick up dry-cleaning and groceries or whatever. I didn't mind doing any of them, of course -- I loved her, and wanted to do whatever I could to make her life easier -- but she'd never really acted like that before; normally, she'd ask me to do something rather than tell me to. Any contact I initiated, slipping an arm around her waist, a hug, anything, would be gently but quickly broken. I wasn't even getting a kiss on the cheek anymore.

Finally, she let slip that she was going out with her boss on a dinner date after work on Friday, and for me not to worry if she wasn't home. That clicked everything into place for me. After her presentation, her boss must have begun to respond very favorably to her, and she decided that she needed to act more like a mother is expected to be. Now that she had a date arranged, she'd become even more distant. I could either let it go, or I could see if her submissive side was still lurking close beneath the surface.

I got up early on Friday and slipped into her room as she was showering. I slowly and quietly opened the bathroom door. On her vanity, as was her normal routine, she had laid her clothes out to put on after the shower. Short black pinstriped skirt, cream-colored blouse, black stockings and pumps, and the corset I'd seen in her closet some time ago. No panties, either -- her intentions for the evening were pretty clear. I started to get hard just thinking about it. I softly shut the door as I heard the shower turn off.

The sound of her heels clicking across the floor started to drive me crazy before she even came into view. I whistled when I finally saw her and she smiled at me. The skirt was short, all right, and the five or so pounds she'd lost in the last couple of weeks definitely looked good on her. She sat at the table, legs crossed, eating a grapefruit, and I could see the tops of her stockings just creeping into view. I ravished her with my eyes, the low-cut blouse, short skirt, long legs -- I felt like I was coming down with a fever. I jumped a little when the phone rang behind me.