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.
