Mommy's First Foot Massage

I was five beers deep into Dumas' Twenty Years After, right at the part where the four agreed to meet for dinner even though they were on opposite sides of contention. Porthos, of course, would choose the food due to his gastronomy, and the rest would put aside their affiliations for one night. I know it's rather douchey to consider any work of Dumas' to be your favorite, but the friendship within the Musketeers has always, and will always, be my favorite. That, and what happened next would forever sear the great work into my mind.

I stopped mid page to step outside and smoke a cigarette, as I was want to do. Again, another douche-like propensity of mine. I liked to think I was akin to Hemmingway, stepping away midbeat to let the scene build and stretch to its maximum. Really, I was just tipsy and didn't want to wait another few pages to smoke.

Coors in one hand, Marlboros in the other, I made my way downstairs to the front door, which opened as if automated. I blinked away the tipsiness and recognized my mother coming home after work. Glancing at the clock I hated, one that had twelve different birds that would caw and sing every hour, I saw the time and held the door open. "You're late."

She sighed as she entered, hair messily sticking out of a bun, over sized purse hanging from the crook of her arm, "The meeting ran long." She let the purse tumble into the entryway and kicked off her inch high sensible heels. "How was your day?"

I took in her frazzled appearance and smiled, "Definitely better than yours."

"Ugh," she rolled her eyes, "I need a glass of wine."

"Here," I said smoke break forgotten, "go sit down, and I'll grab you a glass of wine."

She smiled, bright blue eyes striking out under thin marks of eye liner, dimples framing full lips painted burgundy, "You're my best son."

"I'm your only son," I called over my shoulder and entered the kitchen. The fridge was mostly alcohol and leftovers. She was the best mom, but cooking was more of a chemistry experiment that always ended up in smoke and coughing for her. Four half drunk bottles of wine, seven more Coors, and two boxes of pizza. As well as an assortment of condiments stared at me from the shelves. I grabbed another beer, a bottle of chardonnay, and made sure to put it in a wine glass. Heaven forbid she drank an entire bottle out of anything other than a proper wine glass. To do otherwise was uncouth blasphemy.

As I approached her with wine she was set deep into the couch, eyes closed, feet up on an ottoman. "Here mom."

"Oh Jesus, bless you," she took the glass with chipped blue nail polished fingers, and took a deep gulp. Sighing afterwards. "A glass of wine, then a nice hot bath. That's what I need."

"You and your baths," I laughed. "Here, I'll go smoke and then you can tell me all about the drama." She nodded, eyes still closed, and stretched fully into the couch. Head and shoulders pressed back, toes pointed forward, black skirt drawing midway up her pale thighs, wine glass never moving. As if her wrist had a perfect gyroscope that refused to even tilt the glass.

I barely remember the cigarette. There are few cigarettes I do remember and all of them were after cigarettes, not before. An after cigarette you languish in, the pulses of whatever happened before ebbing and flowing while you turn over the memory of moments earlier. A before cigarette, you're in too much of a hurry. You pull and exhale, flicking ashes constantly, always quivering with anticipation. Now, I didn't know this was a before cigarette, but somehow I'm sure I smoked it with the eager desire for an after cigarette.

I came back in to the mirthful call from my mom, "Oh, waiter boy!"

I smiled, "Yes mom?"

"It seems someone drank all my wine," she shook the empty glass at me.

"Oh no," I said and grabbed the glass, "let's hope there's more."

"I'm sure you can find some," she winked and then settled back into the cushions.

Another trip to the kitchen, and I figured why not finish my beer and grab another since I was the official bartender tonight.

"So," I asked as I handed her a now full glass of wine, "how was everything?"

"Bleh," she said, tongue flicking out, "horrible. They had me running ragged." There was always drama at her office. Apparently, when you got a bunch of senior citizens together they acted just like high-schoolers. I can't remember what the drama was that night, blame it on the years, or blame it on her distracting me.

While she spoke animately between sips of wine, she used her other hand to rub her foot. Wine arm bent on the arm of the couch, leaned forward, cleavage pressed together, one hand caressing and kneading her foot. She switched from foot to foot, bending back her toes so her smooth prominent arch screamed at me. Pushing her blue toes forward to rub her heel. Fingers twirling around candied toes.

I stared at the spectacle, taking in each moment. I would like to say it was the beer, but watching her massage or lotion her feet and legs had always been something I did. There was something sensual about the whole thing, even if she was alternating between speaking and drinking. I sat there for awhile, hot and hardened. The polyester of my shorts caressing my bulge.

"Excuse me?" she said breaking my eyes from her feet. "Did you go somewhere?"

"Oh," heat blossomed across my face, "sorry mom. Been drinking."

She nodded as if accepting the answer, "Well," she shook the now empty glass at me. "Mommy needs another."

I was hard, knee up to hide it, blushing like I hadn't since I was sixteen. "Um... okay?" You know that awkward boner walk where you're trying to hide something that definitely can't be hidden? Yeah... that's what I did. Hips pointed away from her, butt tucked up, cock angled down, I sidestepped over to take the glass and scurried into the kitchen. Was it my imagination or did she look down and smile? She had to have seen it, right?

Before filling up her wine glass I headed to the bathroom to get my composure and allow my erection to diminish. "What is wrong with you?" I whispered to myself. "That is your mom. Plus, you've never been into feet!" Tits, ass, hair, lips, neck, legs, and everything else except feet. "Except your mom's." I wrangled with the discovery of a new kink, pissed when I stopped chubbing, and went to resume my bartender role.

"Here mom," I said, composure once again within my grip.

She smiled, eyes looking up behind eyelashes, "Thanks, baby." Her smooth as satin hand cupped mine and held it there. "Do mommy a favor?"

The heat from her hand was at once in tandem with my groin and hand. As if it were two binary stars orbiting each other. "Anything," I said barely able to catch a full breath.

She lifted her leg, skirt riding further up, and pointed her toes at me. A perfect ninety degree angle from toe to hip. "Will you rub my feet? I just don't have enough strength."

From budgeoning heat to full on erection. Her poise, her words, her toes, they all colluded to drive me to the brink of horniness. It was as if the one present I had waited every Christmas for was finally at my door. "Y-yes mom," I stammered. She took the glass fully from my hand, and I dropped to my knees with a desire I had never known I had.

"Get this one first," she held out her right foot, inches from my face, and my hands rushed toward it with fervor. She giggled like a woman half her age, "Calm down now. Be gentle with mommy's feet. Can you do that?"

"Yes mom," I said and took a deep breath, faint with a hint of lotion and vinegar. I started slowly, sliding my hand down the top of her foot, my other slowly caressing from heel to toes. She moaned and my cock pulsed. I took each toe between finger and thumb, gently bent them, twirled my fingers around them, and spread them. I used my thumb along the deep set of her arch.

"Just like that," she murmured breathily, "good boy."

I felt on the verge of busting in my shorts like an unexpected exclamation point. I leaned in closer, my erection pressed hard against the ottoman. Her toes were bending back and forth inches from my mouth. My hot breath came in ragged waves. She had to have felt the heat.

"Now," she said and pulled her foot back, "this one next, son." She extended the other foot to me, bending the previous one so her skirt spread out, black panties barely visible. I pressed my erection deeper into the ottoman and grabbed the new foot with both hands. I rubbed the joint under her big toe, she moaned, I wanted to groan. I ran my thumb along the underside of her toes and she clenched them around my finger, blue nails bent.

I chanced a glance up, her eyes were closed, head back, wine leant haphazardly along the arm of the couch. My eyes trailed down her smooth pale neck framed by brown curls. A button had come undone on her blouse and the full mass of her cleavage was in view. Her hips were slightly arched now, legs spread wide, her empty hand rested on her thigh, fingers curled under the hem of her skirt. Her smooth, thick thighs ran into a gentle curve of calf, down to a beautiful foot.

I was entranced by the five blue haired sirens before me. My mouth was open and dry. Arid from repeated hot breaths as her toes twinkled inches away from my lips. The shows and stories have it all wrong, you don't salivate, your mouth goes dry, and all you can think about is getting some liquid. I didn't dare take a sip, too afraid the can would make my hand cold and she'd tell me to stop. Instead, my mouth grew drier and my lips drew nearer her toes. My hands, gently caressed every inch of her beautiful foot, and my eyes stared unneringly into the blue of her nails.

"Go ahead," she said and broke my trance.

I looked up like a kid who had gotten caught looking at nudey magazines. "What?!" I was loud.

She was quiet, "Go ahead. You know you want to." She lifted her foot up the last few inches until her toes almost touched my lips. "Kiss mommy's toes." I looked into her eyes with hopeful disbelief, and she just smiled and nodded. "Go ahead."

Ever so gently, my lips touched her toes, my eyes locked on hers. Her smile widened and she whispered, "Good boy. Now don't forget the rest." I kissed each toe, risking a bit of tongue on the pinky toe. She moaned, and I instinctively humped the ottoman. With that moan I became more brazen, openly licking each toe before kissing it. My hands drifted to her ankle, her big toe entered fully into my mouth and I sucked. "Mmmm," she moaned, "just like that."

I licked along the arch of her foot, my hands creeping further up her calf. I looked up, her head was back, wine forgotten on the table, one hand gripping the seam of her blouse as another button came undone. Her skirt was fully hiked up now, legs spread wide to display a pair of panties so thin I could see hairs curled along it. Her other hand trailed back and forth along her inner thigh. I humped the ottoman again.

I trailed my tongue from heel to toe then took all of her toes into my mouth at once. She moaned, "Good boy." Her hand slid into her blouse and cupped one of her breasts, the other hand having finally made it to the fork of her vagina, fingers slowly circling. I slid my free hand down to my own excitement and squeezed my cock. I groaned, she moaned. I licked and pumped, while she groped and twirled.

Her hands sped up and I sucked harder, pumping harder. She moaned, "Such a good boy for mommy." I wanted to bust right then but I stopped myself and took my hand away from my cock. Instead, I grabbed her other foot and pulled it forward enough that I could get to it, but her legs would still be spread. I kissed down her arches to her ankles, then pulled, bringing her closer. My lips left wet trails along her calves, and still I pulled with hunger. Soon enough her thighs were there, she was moaning. I didn't have to pull any longer, she scooted forward.

Her panties were wet as my lips pressed against them. She grabbed the back of my head and moaned, "Yes, son, just like that." My cock was beyond hard at this point as I buried it against the ottoman. Her hips rocked back and forth across my face. It was somewhere between being smothered and having the purest oxygen known to creation. Hair and fabric rubbed against my face and I loved it. She gripped the back of my head hard and tried to shove every bit of me into her groin.

Her thighs clenched my cheeks and she humped my face all the while moaning, "Yes son, yes, just like that. Be a good boy for mommy." I merely had to hold my mouth open and my tongue out as she did all the work. The rough frantic humps and moans reaching a crescendo as she called out loudly, "Gooood booooy!" Her entire body clenched around me, trying to crush my head. Then, in one last moan, she collapsed back into the couch, with a muffled, "Good boy..."

I stood, shaking, as I took in the site of her. Somehow her blouse had come open all the way, veiny c-cup tits hanging out the top of her black bra. Her bun had come completely undone, and her skirt was folded up to her belly button. I stared at her, a vision of contentment, as my own cock cried out for release. The front of my shorts already wet with precum.

Through half lidded eyes she stared at me smiling with contentment. "Now," she said and both of her hands cupped her tits, "your turn?"

"Yes mommy, please." I was shaking like a volcano, plates ruptured, magma convulsing. Hair trigger would be an understatement.

She lifted her foot and pinched her nipples, "Do you want to come for mommy." She stretched her toes out and pressed them against my cock.

"Yes mommy," I groaned as the pressure built up inside of me unfurled and I came.

She giggled like a younger woman and sighed, "Well, that's something we have to work on."