Regifted Lingerie Surprise

Summary:

A sexy mom cheers up her heartbroken son.

Note 1: This is a Valentine's Day 2019 Contest story, so please vote.

Note 2: Thanks to Tex Beethoven, Robert and Wayne for editing this story.

Regifted Lingerie Surprise

I was feeling pretty down and already rather tipsy when my son came into the house, way earlier than he was supposed to be home after a romantic Valentine's Day evening.

I asked, as he trudged in still carrying Angela's gift bag in his hand, "Did you forget something, honey?"

His response broke my heart.

No words, he just began sobbing. He turned his head away trying to hide it from me, but his grief was obviously beyond his control.

First time I'd seen him cry since his father had passed almost a year ago.

"Oh honey," I said, rushing over and pulling him in for a hug. "What happened?"

"She... broke... up with me," he managed between sobs.

"Oh honey," I repeated, rubbing the back of his head and his back, while I thought,

What kind of heartless bitch dumps someone on Valentine's Day?

I then thought,

Well, at least she didn't get her present.

After a moment he told of her adding insult to injury, "She left me for Mike."

Mike was his best friend. Apparently, in mere seconds his entire world had come crashing down around him.

Bruce and Angela had been dating since their freshman year.

Bruce and Mike had been best friends since middle school.

It was rare not to see all three of them together.

In no scenario could I have imagined this ever happening.

Again, I repeated my motherly condolences, "Oh sweetheart, I'm so sorry."

"I just can't believe it," he said, looking at me so sad, so completely bewildered.

"I can't either," I admitted, likely not helping the situation, but I didn't know what else to say.

"How could they do that to me?" he asked, shifting from hurt to angry.

"I don't know," I said; I really had no answer for this.

As a parent, there's no worse feeling than coming up empty for your child when he's hurting.

I'd felt equally helpless when his father died in a car accident.

I didn't know what to tell him when he questioned why God would do such a thing. The drunk driver had survived, and he'd spent less than three months in jail. A year later, Carl was still dead.

As before, I had no magic wand to fix what had happened today.

"They fucking told me they've been fucking behind my fucking back since fucking New Year's Eve!" he wrenched out, his burst of words filled with the acidic taste of betrayal.

"Oh my God!" I gasped, this double-team stab in the back making a terrible situation even worse.

"Mike apologized profusely and explained it had just happened, and they fell in love," he continued. "Angela was more nonchalant, as if this was no big deal. I'm not sure which hurt... hurts more."

"Oh honey, can I get you something to eat?" I said; some comfort food usually helped me feel better.

He responded, "Not in the mood. How about something to drink?"

I'd let him drink at home since he was eighteen, deciding it was better to have him at home under the influence than somewhere else, especially after my husband's death. Which meant I knew he was someplace safe while he drank... and I wouldn't have to fret at home alone, worrying about what might happen to him.

When Carl had still been alive, we'd been a bit more eager to have Bruce out of the house for several hours during an evening, since our preferred version of lovemaking had gotten very loud and when Bruce was home it was difficult to restrain ourselves.

"You can join me; I'm already on my third glass of wine," I offered, pointing to the more than half-empty bottle.

My son, a super sweet boy, shifted his problems aside and focused on me. "Oh, Mom I'm so sorry, I should have been more considerate. This is your first Valentine's Day without Dad."

I loved that he cared and that he could even set aside his own pain sufficiently to realize and to care about what I was going through; but I didn't want to make this about me, so I brushed it aside, "Oh sweetie, I'm fine."

"No woman is ever fine when they tell you they're fine," he pointed out accurately, something he'd learned from his father.

"I'm okay," I rephrased, downing the remainder of my third glass of wine.

"Same thing, Mom," he pointed out.

"Fine," I began, and then laughed at automatically falling back on my go-to word. "You're right, honey: I've been better," I admitted.

"Oh Mom," he said, hugging

me

this time.

It felt so good to have someone's arms wrapped around me, someone who cared about me, something I hadn't had since the funeral just after Carl had died. There had been lots of hugging then, but it wasn't the same.

When he released me, I consoled, "Well, at least we have each other."

"That we do," he nodded, and went off (still sadly) to get himself a drink.

I poured myself wineglass number four which emptied the bottle, sat back down on the couch, put my feet up on the coffee table, and took another sip.

He returned with a filled glass in each hand as he joked, "I've got some catching up to do."

"Get to drinking then, Mr. Two-Fisted Drinker," I smiled, wondering whether it made me an understanding mom or a bad parent to be drinking with my son.

I mean, he

is

eighteen. That's legal drinking age in Alberta where we live. So it wasn't really wrong. And he wouldn't need to drive home. Not surprisingly, our family had a real thing about impaired driving.

He downed his first whiskey in seconds, and then sat down beside me.

I smiled, "This is turning out to be a great Valentine's Day: I'm spending it with my favourite man." It probably sounded like a bittersweet comment, but I meant it more on the sweet side. I was incredibly fond of my son, and he'd often said he felt the same about me. My parenting had always tended far more towards nurturing than discipline, and in the past two or three years, even before Carl's passing, Bruce had found a good number of occasions to turn the tables and comfort me about something. We'd always been very close, even when he was little.

He smiled warmly at me, saying, "I can't imagine anyplace I'd rather be, Mom."

"You're sweet. A liar. But sweet."

"No lie, I'm serious. I'm sorry I was so thoughtless," he said. "I just came barging in the door making it all about me."

"Oh honey, you have your own life to live," I pointed out. "What those two did to you this evening had to hurt!"

"I know and it did," he nodded. "But I also have responsibilities as the man of the house; as

your

man. That's what I am, you know. I can't let myself wallow in a pity party when you're feeling needy."

I had to chuckle; I'd been quite horny (still was actually), and until he arrived, I'd been planning a lengthy session with my magic wand. "Trust me son, you can't solve all my needs."

Not catching my meaning, he continued, "I'm serious. I'll do whatever you need to make you happy."

My chuckle became a full-fledged giggle, the alcohol getting to me, making me a little too blunt as I stressed the words, "Trust me:

you,

my loving son, can't really solve my

current

need."

"What do you mean?" he asked, so adorably innocent.

"It's been a year," I offered a clue.

"A year since..." he began and blushed bright red as the lightning bulb (a red one) blinked on above his head, "Oh!"

I tried to make a joke of it as I added, "But not to worry, thank God for technology."

"Oh Mom," he sympathized, downing his second drink. "You should get out and find someone."

"It's okay, honey," I reassured him. "I'm not ready to date."

He got up, "I'll be right back."

"No worries," I replied, sipping on my wine.

Once he'd left, I turned and laid myself out so I was using the whole couch, needing to stretch the backs of my legs.

When he returned with his third drink, I began to move my legs to give him a spot to sit, but he stopped me, saying, "Don't move Mom, you look comfortable."

"I am," I admitted.

He surprised me when instead of sitting on another chair or the love seat, he lifted up my feet, sat down and rested them in his lap.

He surprised me again when he took my right foot (no shoe, but nylon stockinged) in his strong hands and began to massage them... just like my husband used to do.

I have diabetes, and foot massages are helpful for my circulation. I audibly moaned when he put pressure on my foot. Not a sexual moan, just one of pleasure.

He said, "Since Dad is no longer around to give you foot massages, I should man up and do them for you."

"You don't have to," I demurred, even though it felt so good, and I definitely didn't want him to stop. To tell the truth, it was beginning to feel sexy, giving me a little embarrassing tingle you-know-where.

"Yes, I do," he insisted, applying firm pressure on my foot, "it's my job to look after you."

"It does feel nice," I admitted, his massage relaxing me and turning me on.

"Anytime, Mom, I'll do anything I can to make you happy," he reaffirmed, massaging each toe individually. Sometimes Carl would do this and then suck each toe between his lips... it felt so good and so erotic, and it really got me revved up. Unfortunately, I couldn't ask my son to do that for me.

"Be careful what you offer," I warned, letting another soft moan escape me. Truth be told, being touched like this for the first time in almost a year was getting my who-ha not just tingling, but wet. I had to remind myself I wasn't with Carl, but my son. Which was harder to do than you may imagine since they looked so similar and Bruce even had a similar voice to his father's.

"I mean it, Mom," he reiterated, "I'll do things for you anytime." Then I felt a flinch under my feet.

Was that his cock?

Was he getting hard because of me? I was certainly getting wet for him.

"Well, you may be massaging my feet every day, then," I warned him.

"My pleasure," he agreed. After a minute of comfortable silence he observed, "These nylons are super soft."

Carl had been a nylons guy and I was a nylons girl; he'd even admitted later in our relationship that my legs in taupe nylons were the first thing he'd noticed about me. In the eighties I'd started wearing them because they were in style and worn regularly by the popular girls, and I'd wanted to be popular.

In 2018 they weren't particularly popular, although Princess Kate, Katy Perry, Taylor Swift and Beyoncé were bringing them back into style. And my favourite porn site, Brazzers, featured a woman in nylons almost every second day... sometimes even more often.

Yes, I watched porn.

Actually, I watched a lot of porn.

If you don't have a man to come home at night and fuck you, you have to adapt. My coping was assisted by the occasional journey to an adult shop, where I'd bought a vibe (with ten speeds and a variety of vibration patterns), a magic wand (which was indeed magical), a vibrating egg (good for lengthy teasing) and a suction cup wall cock (a big cock that I could bounce back on and ride, although I'd only tried it once, since it had only made me miss Carl and his real cock).

I explained, to my son, not to Carl unfortunately, "I only wear sheer hosiery."

"So I can feel," he said, enamoured by the nylon... like father, like son.

I said as much. "Your father was obsessed by nylons, and especially by my nylon-covered feet." I then added, deciding for some reason to hint at my secret submissive nature, "In fact he made me wear them every day."

"So... Dad's to blame for my strange nylon foot fetish," he deduced, drawing his fingers forcefully between my toes and making me leak.

"You too?" I asked, even though it was becoming rather obvious, judging by the bulge growing under my foot.

"Yeah, that's one of the things Angela finds...

found

... weird," he admitted.

"Today's girls don't put enough effort into their looks, thinking if they wear skimpy outfits showcasing their tits and ass, that's all they have to do," I opined.

"I guess you're right, I don't need to hunt very far to see a lot of cleavage," he agreed.

Continuing my rant I said, "I mean, a woman has two looks. There's her outside appearance, which should be classy with perhaps a bit of sexuality and tease; while underneath, a woman should have sexy and luxurious undergarments in place, ready to display for her man."

He laughed out loud.

"What? I'm serious," I stressed, as he worked on my other foot.

"I know you are Mom, that's what's so funny. Take a look in the bag," he said, reaching down for it and gently tossing it over to me.

"Is this what you were going to give her?" I asked.

"It was," he nodded, before adding, "that, and a promise ring."

"Oh, that stupid girl," I said, shaking my head as I opened the bag. "Oh, this is nice," I nodded, pulling out a cute red teddy with garters attached, and a pair of stockings still in their packaging... Wolford stockings... one of the best, if not

the

best, nylons in the world. A brand I'd never purchased, since they're expensive and need to be imported. "Wow!"

"She wouldn't have thought 'wow', she would have thought 'weirdo'," he sighed, again circling each of my toes individually with his magic fingers.

"I've always wanted a pair of these. Where did you get them?" I asked, in awe of the luxury hosiery in my hands.

"eBay," he answered. "They weren't cheap. And now they're yours."

"Really?" I asked, wanting to rush off and try them on right now.

"Sure, I have no use for them now other than for you," he said, then adding a rather strange clause to his sentence: "you're my best girl now."

"Well, I think they're a

lovely

gift." I leaned over to give him a thank-you kiss. It was intended to be just a brief peck on the lips, but he surprised me by literally welcoming me with an accidentally open mouth, turning a mother-and-son kiss into something else... ever so briefly... for a couple of seconds as he kissed me back.

I was startled as I broke the kiss and he stammered, "S-s-sorry! You surprised me, and I didn't have a chance to control myself!"

"It's okay," I said, startled by my own sudden feelings. And his: why should he need forewarning before he could prevent himself from turning a simple family kiss into the passionate zinger he'd just planted on me? That kiss, added to the sensual massage (whether he meant it that way or not), the alcohol, and now my speculations about his feelings for me... had made me a muddled mess. Or in short, I realized I was fucking horny.

Wait right here, sweetie," I said, standing up.

"Okay, he said, probably thinking I was upset about what had just happened, but the truth was that just now I'd impulsively decided to spring a little surprise on him. I traipsed upstairs, wiggling my jeans-clad ass ever so slightly.

Having grabbed his gift bag before I went upstairs, I removed my jeans, my pantyhose, my panties and what the hey my bra too, deciding to go for broke. It would really surprise him if I donned the ensemble he'd bought for that inconsiderate bitch. In spite of what had been happening downstairs and how I'd felt about it, I wasn't planning to seduce him, or even considering incest at the time, I just wanted to show him the lingerie and tease us both a bit. Although in retrospect I think my subconscious must have been planning way ahead of me.

I put on the teddy.

I opened the Wolfords.

I took my time caressing them onto my legs, taking extra care to smooth them out perfectly.

Once I had them on, I tried fastening them to the garters, but I was fumbling helplessly. Apparently I was drunker than I'd thought. Without thinking I called downstairs, "Bruce, could you please come up here and help your tipsy mother?"

"Sure," he called back, as I continued trying to attach the clasps. I'd finally managed one of them when he walked into my bedroom.

"Holy fuck," he gasped, as he skidded to a halt in my doorway.

"Do these look good on your old mother?" I asked, posing sexily with a cocked leg.

"Ummm... First of all Mom, you're not old. Second, yes, you look absolutely stunning," he enthused, staring at me.

His flattering words and his hungry gaze made me feel good about myself, as if I were the prey of a hungry wolf (the downtown kind), and I asked, "Can you help me with these clasps? My fingers aren't working properly."

"Sure, Mom," he agreed, then repeating his earlier promise, as if hinting that if I wished, he was willing to cross the invisible barrier society placed between a mother and son, "anything, anything at all," staring at me with the same admiration as his father used to. (If I didn't know my husband was dead, I could easily mistake my son for him.)

He walked over to me, clearly nervous, and then lowered himself in front of me, his hands trembling.

"You okay?" I asked, looking down at him.

"Y-y-yeah, never better," he stammered unconvincingly, as he attached the front clasp.

It was then I realized what was keeping him so distracted: I hadn't put any panties on! My hairy pussy, which I hadn't shaved or even trimmed since Carl's passing, was no more than a few inches from his face! He could probably even smell how wet I was for him! Perhaps even see the dampness he'd stimulated!

I apologized, not for the absence of panties, but to justify my hairy bush, "Sorry, I've totally neglected my bikini trimming since your father passed."

He seemed to be addressing my pussy as he said, his eyes never leaving the portal he'd passed through to enter the world , "It looks wonderful, Mom."

"You're so sweet," I said. "When your father was alive, I kept my kitty completely shaved," I added, then again hinting at my submissive nature, "he insisted."

"I can imagine! But it looks amazing now, too," he said, reaching his hands to my other leg, but needing to do it by feel since something appeared to be keeping his gaze front and center.

"Thanks," I said, appreciating the compliment.

He adjusted a clasp as he said, "Anytime, Mom, and like I said, anything."

He then knee-walked behind me and did the final clasp. Once it was done, I got a wicked idea.

"Honey, go ahead and feel the silky sheer nylon you just gave me," I offered, wanting to feel his hands on my legs, and figuring he was dying to feel them there as well.

"You sure?" he asked, sounding cautious in case this was a trap, but far from unwilling.

"You've already seen my cunt and neither of us minded," I said bluntly, using the most vulgar word for a pussy possible. A word I loved to moan when my cunt was on fire... and at the moment it was close to a full-blown forest fire I wouldn't be able to quench without someone's assistance.

"Mom!" he gasped at my vulgar tongue.

"I guess you're now old enough to learn that your mother has a pretty wicked tongue," I said.

"I've never heard a woman use that word except in porn," he pointed out.

"You watch porn?" I asked, as he remained on his knees behind me. So I spun around so my wet, scented bush was once again staring directly at him... hopefully tantalizing him with possibilities.

"It's 2019," he said, back to staring at my pussy, my

cunt

, "I think there's a law saying I

have

to watch porn."

"Then I guess neither of us are law-breakers," I retorted, letting on that I too watched porn.

"You watch porn too?" he asked, looking up at my face for the first time in a while.

"Too much of it," I admitted.

"Wow," was all he said.

Adding more innuendo and hints to the possibility of an incestuous evening, I added, "I especially like a Brazzers category where hot MILFs seduce young men with big cocks."

"Mom!" he gasped once again, as I obviously was overwhelming him with shock. "How do you even know what a MILF means?"