Chapter 02
The Photo Shoot
Pantyhose nearly ruined my life. Yes, that's right, pantyhose. One day, I was living in Boston, a junior at Emerson with a solid B average. Then, before I knew it, I was skipping classes, putting off studying and homework, so I could spend each day looking, rubbing, and spraying cum all over the pantyhose worn by my beautiful, long legged roommate, also known as my mother. That's where the trouble all began.
Since puberty, I'd been helplessly drawn to the sight of pantyhose over a pair of long, sexy legs. Generally, any woman in a short skirt with a pair of high heels instantly caught my eye, though usually it was merely a passing glance, that is, unless she wore pantyhose. Then I couldn't look away.
From the glossy sheen, to the smooth, feather light texture, everything about pantyhose instantly made my dick hard, even the sound they made when the object of my attention suddenly crossed her legs, brushing her silky thighs together so the nylon threads briefly rustled -- music to my ears.
At school, I was lucky to have several teachers who wore pantyhose fairly often, some of whom despite their age were actually still pretty hot, perhaps instilling my lifelong preference for older women.
Of course, none of them had any idea what a massive hard-on I was sporting under my desk, as I sat there drooling over the sight of their luscious legs. Yet, as hard as I was, there still wasn't anyone who made my dick throb to the painful degree that Mom did.
For some reason, she seemed to enjoy wearing pantyhose and showing off her well-toned legs more than any woman I'd ever met. In fact, it was Mom who started my whole obsession with pantyhose in the first place.
Before I discovered porn, or even knew what it meant to have a pantyhose fetish, each day after school, I would sit at home and count down the hours till my mother got home from work.
Then, around 5:30, she'd swing open the front door and stamp her heels firmly on the carpet, leading my eyes to the sight of her long, wondrous legs, dazzling in any color, nude, black, or suntan, if I was lucky.
With her tits propped up, brown hair falling in waves down to her shoulders, and her effortless power to draw my gaze with her provocative sense of style, at 42, my mother still embodied everything a woman should look like to my young, impressionable mind. Her tight dresses and form-fitting business suits presented a woman who prided herself on looking perfectly fuckable at all times.
No matter how tired she was, seeing me always brought a smile to her face, mirroring my own reaction, fueling the unsaid connection between us -- Lauren and Chris Shepherd against the world.
From the sofa, I'd watch in silence as she slowly removed her shoes. As much as they seemed to hurt, apparently no outfit was ever complete unless it included a striking pair of five-inch stiletto pumps.
Relieving the soreness of her aching feet, she'd step out one shoe at a time, exposing the nylon shrouding her high-arched soles, flexing them up and down, rolling her weary ankles, as I noted the vibrant color of her toenail polish sparkling through the hose.
Eager to undress, she'd then hurriedly pull down her skirt, while I quietly sat there, eyes level with her thong, or sometimes no panties at all, as she innocently stripped down to just her pantyhose, usually control top, though sometimes sheer-to-waist, as I failed to avoid stealing quick glances at her pussy showing through the nylon.
As an ex-gymnast, she had a habit of tiptoeing around the house, which only drew more attention to how lean and shapely her legs had been since high school.
Though most women needed pantyhose to give the appearance of firmness and definition, with one look at my mother's legs, it was easy to see that every inch of her from the waist down had been vigorously trained to look that way, toned and curvaceous, suggesting she might have worn pantyhose for other reasons, reasons I wouldn't discover until after I left for college.
Nine years later, after jerking off countless times thinking back to those days, nothing sent more cum streaming from my cock than the thought of Mom strutting around the house in her high heels and sheer, sexy pantyhose -- a vision of womanly perfection with her warm hazel eyes, long, full-bodied, chestnut brown hair, and adorable brown freckles born from her Irish roots; not to mention a pair of legs so perfectly sculpted that I often stared at them from the distance when we went shopping, comparing them to every mannequin in the women's department, imagining they were jealous.
As I said earlier, I was a junior at Emerson, eager to sow my wild oats, when Mom found an apartment near campus and asked me to move in with her. Without thinking, I quickly agreed, never guessing how things would change between us from that moment on.
To my amazement, what started as childhood fantasy soon escalated from harmless flirtation to the very brink of forbidden sex, all after finding my mother's journal and reading the lurid details of her past encounters with younger men, all of which involved pantyhose and the joy of teasing them with her long, scrumptious, nylon-buttered legs.
Though it wasn't clear exactly who seduced who, knowing her secret made it easier for me to accept my unnatural urges and share them with her more openly. Still, I never admitted to reading her journal, especially after she shocked me by offering to be my girlfriend and promising to wear pantyhose for me all the time. Once that happened, there was no way I'd ever say anything to risk losing out on that.
As she sat in my lap and promised to fulfill all of my pantyhose dreams, it was hard to believe the words coming from her mouth, not to mention the urgency she displayed earlier that evening, when she brazenly insisted that I cover her pantyhose with cum, strangling my cock, jerking my foreskin raw, head back, chin up, desperately waiting to be baptized under a fountain of cum, gasping and smiling as the first blast shot out and streaked straight across her face.
With reverence, her hazel eyes dimmed to a close, basking in the pouring rain of hot teenage sperm, showering her face, drenching her neck and chest with rolling rivulets of pearly white cum sliding over her pear-shaped breasts, then dripping down onto her lap, soiling the off-white pantyhose she'd willingly offered to soak up my warm creamy spunk.
In return for being my own personal slut, all Mom required was total ownership of my long, instantly hard, teenage cock, along with my large, hefty, cum-filled balls, insisting that I save them only for her.
At the time, her one rule sounded fairly easy, given that I'd never felt so lucky in all my life. She'd essentially handed me a winning lottery ticket, assuming I'd be smart enough not to give it away. Still, as the weeks continued, my insatiable lust for pantyhose proved to be far stronger than either of us could have possibly imagined.
One Saturday afternoon, I was home alone, procrastinating as usual, while Mom was gone for the weekend at a training conference down in New York.
It'd been almost a week since that first encounter in the living room I mentioned earlier. Since then, she'd been more than willing to use her considerable talents at making my penis spray like a water hose, treating me to everything from slow, merciless handjobs, using lots of spit, bringing me right to the edge before stopping, then starting all over again; to frantic, slobbering, deep throat blowjobs, which typically ended with Mom kneeling in a foamy pool of warm jism and saliva splattered all over the rug; yet, nothing compared to the times she pleasured me with her beautifully pedicured feet, patiently milking my swollen cock, nestled between her perfectly high-arched soles, stroking with the aid of her heavenly soft pantyhose right until my thick load came spewing and spurting all over the silky nylon shrouding her pretty little toes.
Still, despite all that, for obvious reasons, my mother was still reluctant to take my penis inside her. Even with a condom, she wasn't ready to risk getting pregnant by her own son. To be honest, I was fairly nervous about it myself. So, for both reasons, I purposely never forced the issue. Having said that, on this particular afternoon, I was starting to lose patience as I eagerly waited for her to get home and pick up where things left off.
I should have been working on the Psych paper I had due that Monday. Instead, I was on the web surfing through pantyhose videos, when my phone starting buzzing next to my laptop on the coffee table.
The call was from Cynthia, our short, blonde, voluptuous landlord downstairs. The sound of her voice brought back visions of the moment she'd pulled out her ginormous tits for me in our dining room.
Over the phone, she told me she had something she wanted to show me. My pulse quickened and my dick instantly started twitching from the suggestive tone of her cheerful, high-pitched voice. I sprung off the couch, grabbed my camera, and then rushed down to find her front door unlocked.
I promptly entered, where her living room appeared to be something out of Laura Ashley catalog, brightly decorated with antique vases filled with real flowers, adding a hint of color to the beige walls and matching wall-to-wall carpet, with a white floral print sofa and love seat, plus end tables made of sparkling chrome and glass.
I'd expected her to greet me, yet found only an empty room. With a hint of uncertainty, I called out, "Hello?" then stood there waiting for a response.
"I'm in the bedroom," she answered from somewhere further down the hall.
Following the direction of her voice, I walked down toward the kitchen, finding the bedroom on the left, directly below our living room upstairs.
There I found Cynthia standing by the bed with a huge grin on her face, greeting me in a skimpy white medical lab coat, strategically unbuttoned with her breasts pouring out of a red push-up bra, head tilted, hands on her hips, with her right leg angled outward, exposing the lace trim of her sexy white thigh highs, complete with a gleaming pair of white platform stripper heels, open-toed, with straps buckled around her ankles.
At first, I was too distracted by the size of her tits, pushed up and pressed together like asscheeks in tight jeans pulled half way down. Then I looked down and noticed there was something else shimmering between her legs. Beneath the lab coat, just where the lace trim ended, was a second layer of nylon much darker than her skin, like caramel spread over every inch of her thick, juicy thighs.
