Peter, a successful twenty-eight-year-old City of London trader, was changing jobs, and had a free week. His on and off girlfriend Janet, was unable to take time away from work ,so he decided to visit his widowed mother, Helen, at her seaside cottage in Lyme Regis, Dorset. The journey was uneventful, and Peter found himself wondering how he would fill a whole week just in the company of his mother. He already got part of the answer when Helen greeted him at the railway station, throwing her arms around his chest.
"How's my big handsome boy?" Peter saw other passengers staring and felt slightly embarrassed, but also pride, looking at Helen's trim figure, mop of curled black hair with only few flecks of grey framing a handsome, if not classically beautiful face, and most of all, shapely legs encased in a tight fitting 'A-line' skirt with high heels that clacked with an echo across the concrete of the platform. He admitted to himself that mother was still a stunningly attractive women. Perhaps the watchers thought he and she were an item. He found the thought more than a little unnerving.
Later that day, having unpacked, Peter was standing in the kitchen sharing a cigarette with Helen. It was something they had done since his teens, she would take a drag, then pass it to him. He always used to notice the lipstick on the filter and today was no different. Helen's full lips were rouged with the reddest of hues.
"You know, Betty Johnson has been going to that new wine bar down by the Cobb with her son. Shows him off to all the world. I want to show you off. Shall we?"
"Sure Mum, but what about Melissa and Jane, don't they take you out when they visit?"
"Your sisters don't visit me much, just you," says Helen, standing on tiptoe and kissing Peter's cheek. "Anyway, who'd want to show them off when they've got a son like you. Betty's boy is short and overweight, you are... what?"
"Six one and a bit over two hundred pounds, I think."
"My handsome son," said Helen, pinching Peter's cheek as if he was a little boy. "Now, I'll go up and change and we'll be on our way. Can you call them and reserve a table?"
Peter remembered that evening well, especially the smug look Helen had given Betty Johnson, dining with her son on an adjacent table, as the waiter showed them through the crowded restaurant. He particularly recalled how good it felt to be sitting opposite his mother, almost as if they were on a date. Conversation flowed easily, some reminisces of Peter's youth, some about his late father, and why his sisters weren't close to Helen.
"You know what Mum," said Peter, "I really think it's because of your figure."
"Really?"
"Yes, really. The girls are both a bit overweight, whereas you, well, look at you." Helen glowed with pride.
"I don't know what to say."
"And your legs, I mean, Melissa and Jane can't hold a candle. I think it's jealousy."
"My legs?"
"Yes Mum." Peter looked a little sheepish. "Not sure if I should tell you this, but I like my women to dress in old fashioned stockings and suspenders rather than tights because of how you dressed when I was little. I remember walking in on you wearing that favourite green jumper, stockings and suspenders, old fashioned waist high knickers, and court shoes. No skirt. You told me off, shooed me out of your bedroom, but it's affected my taste in girls' underwear dressing ever since." As Helen placed her hand on Peter's, he looked at her face in the candlelight and shivered.
"That's OK," she cooed. "If a mother can't show off her legs to her little boy, who can she show them off to?" There was an awkward pause and then the conversation turned elsewhere.
After a brief taxi ride home, the two went straight to their respective bedrooms. Peter was stripped down to his boxers when he heard Helen call out.
"Would you be a darling and unzip me." Peter entered his mother's bedroom to see her standing facing the dressing table mirror. As he went to touch the zip clasp of her dress, his chin rested on her bare shoulder. "Ooh... prickly beard," she laughed, wiggling her bottom before playfully pushing a powder puff over her shoulder into Peter's face. The powder made him want to sneeze, but it's scent, along with his mother's perfume and the touch of her buttocks against his boxers, was oddly arousing. "Naughty boy, now come along, we need to get this dress off." Peter undid the clasp, pulled down the zip, and the dress fell to the floor. He half hoped she would be wearing stockings, but saw she was wearing tights under her petticoat. "Thank you, Peter, now I'll finish getting ready for bed and come and kiss you goodnight.
A few minutes later, Peter, lying under his duvet, saw the handle of his bedroom door turn open and his mother walk in. He gulped. She was wearing exactly the clothes he had described from his embarrassing childhood encounter; green jumper, seamed stockings, white suspenders, old fashioned waist high knickers, and court shoes. No skirt. She held a candle in her hand, and switching off the light, gently placed the candle holder on Peter's bedside table.
"Just thought I'd try these on. Do you think I've still got the legs for these?" Helen stroked her stocking tops and sat down on the bed, legs crossed, seams tight up her calves and thighs. "Do you like them as much as you used to, or is your mother just an old trout now?"
"N-n-n... no Mum, you look beautiful," Peter stammered. Helen slowly lifted the duvet up to reveal Peter's cock, hard and erect under his boxer shorts.
"I think my little boy likes his Mummy's legs a lot, judging by that," Helen whispered. "Now what's Mummy going to do about it?"
His heart raced, and his cock twitched in his boxers. He felt like he was in a fever dream, unable to believe that his mother was sitting there, dressed exactly as he had described from his earliest memory of her. The scent of her perfume filled the room, a familiar yet intoxicating aroma that sent waves of desire crashing through him. He watched, mesmerized, as she stroked the stocking seams, her fingers dancing along the smooth fabric. The sight of her bare legs above the stocking tops, the curve of her calf leading up to her thigh, the slight wrinkle of the nylon behind the knee, were almost too much to handle. Helen leaned in closer, her breath hot against his ear.
"You know, Peter, I've missed having a man around the house. Your father always knew how to appreciate a good pair of legs." Peter swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving hers as she placed her hand on his chest, her thumb brushing lightly against his nipple. "But I see you've become quite the man yourself," she continued, her voice a sultry whisper. "You've always had a bit of a naughty side, haven't you?
The room grew warmer, the air thick with tension. Peter could feel the heat of her thigh against his, the smoothness of her stockinged skin sending shivers down his spine. He knew he should say something, do something, but his mind was racing, his thoughts a jumble of lust and disbelief. Before he could react, Helen's hand slid down to his waist, her fingers curling around the elastic of his boxers. With a deft tug, she pulled them down, freeing his erection. She leaned over, her hair brushing his cheek as she took him in her mouth.
The sensation was like nothing Peter had ever felt before. The wet warmth of her mouth, the gentle suction, the way her tongue danced along the shaft - it was a heady mix of pleasure and guilt that threatened to overwhelm him. Yet, he couldn't resist the urge to push deeper, to let out a low moan that echoed in the quiet of the cottage. As Helen looked up at him, her eyes dark with desire, Peter realized that he didn't want to stop, didn't want to be anywhere else but here, with his mother, experiencing this taboo and utterly thrilling moment.
Her hands, usually so adept at cooking and cleaning, now worked with a different purpose. One cupped his balls, gently rolling them in her palm, sending bolts of pleasure through his body. The other hand wrapped around his length, stroking in time with her mouth. The sight of her, dressed in the lingerie of his fantasies, only made him harder. The stockings, the suspenders, the knickers - it was all so... wrong, yet so incredibly right. He could feel his orgasm building, his hips bucking slightly, urging her on. Helen pulled back, her lips glistening.
"Mummy's going to take care of you," she murmured, her voice thick with want. She pushed him down onto the pillows, her hands moving to unbutton her jumper. With a teasing smile, she revealed a matching green bra, her breasts full and inviting. Peter's eyes widened, and he reached out to touch her, but she playfully slapped his hand away. "Patience, darling," she said, standing up to remove her jumper and bra.
The sight of his mother's naked chest took Peter's breath away. Her skin was soft and flawless, her nipples dark and erect. He watched as she unhooked her suspenders, letting them dangle down her sides, and then slowly began to roll down her stockings. Each inch of skin she revealed was like a treasure, sending his pulse racing. She stepped out of her shoes, the clack of her heels on the wooden floor a stark contrast to the soft rustle of fabric. Now only her knickers separated them, and Peter could see the dampness between her legs.
