Was It The Nylons?

Literotic asexstories – Was It The Nylons? by butteredcrumpets,butteredcrumpets Cleverer people than me have drawn a connection between sex and death. Films have been made about it. Then you have the whole Oedipus Complex business. Myself, I remain sceptical. Nevertheless, the day of my father`s funeral was the first time I slept with my mother.

At the funeral, Mom had looked and behaved immaculately. Supported on either side by her brother Colin and myself, she had remained sufficiently composed to greet the considerable number of mourners who had filed into the crematorium.

Only when the doors were closed, a few appropriate words had been said and Dad`s coffin began its slow trundle into the flames, did she allow herself a few tears. Her head sank and her shoulders shook. Uncle Colin found a tissue. I placed a protective arm around her.

My own tears began to flow. For Dad, for myself. But especially for Mom. They had been so close for so many years, I didn`t know how she would manage.

Outside in the sunshine, though, she seemed to have rallied. Everybody looks good in black, don`t they? But at sixty-three, Mom looked better than most. She wore a figure-hugging dress, ending just above the knee in the hint of a flare. Similarly, unlike most of the plain, black dresses on display, Mom`s dress had a discrete pattern: the suggestion of a very dark, purple flower winding sinuously up one side, from hem to shoulder.

The modest, high-necked bodice seemed to amplify her generous breasts; and in another defiant gesture, she had wrapped a green, silk scarf loosely round her neck. She wore dark stockings and, despite her modest heels, was still just about the tallest woman there. Hatless, wearing almost no make-up, her grey, shoulder-length hair straightened for the occasion, she looked magnificent.

“Phil! Phil!” It was Uncle Colin, trying to attract my attention.

“What is it, Uncle Col?” I stammered. People regress at family gatherings. Here was I, a forty-year-old man, still referring to this doddering septuagenarian as Uncle Col. What`s more, feeling as though I had been caught in the act of doing something disreputable. Which, in a sense, I had.

“You look as though you were off with the fairies, son,” he said. “Pull yourself together and let`s get your mother back in the car. She looks about done in.”

“Right you are, Uncle Col,” I said, in full, fifteen-year-old mode but glad of some activity after all the sitting and standing around.

Between us, we shepherded Mom through the handful of remaining mourners to her car and helped her into the back seat.

“You`d best get in beside your Mom,” Uncle Colin said. “You don`t look in any fit state to give the driver instructions. Hit you hard, has it?”

“I don`t think it`s properly sunk in, yet,” I said, sliding in beside Mom and taking her hand.

“It`ll take a while,” Uncle Colin said, settling himself in the front seat and beginning to gesticulate wildly to the driver. “I remember when my lass died, it were three years….”

Uncle Colin`s voice merged with the soft hum of the engine. I really was very tired. I wished Sandra had been able to come. I glanced down at Mom`s nylon-clad knees. A memory surfaced.

I was home from college. Mom, Dad and I were watching television in the sitting room. In fact, Mom and I were the only people watching, as Dad was asleep in his armchair, snoring heavily. Mom caught my eye, smiled and rolled her eyes as his body was shaken by a particularly violent convulsion. I smiled back.

We were sitting quite close together on the three-seater settee. Not for the first time, I became aware of Mom`s plump knees, poking demurely out of the “little black dress” she always wore to work. I say plump, but, encased in the tan stockings which she favoured for work, Mom`s legs were, in my eyes, just about perfect.

And they were in my eyes often. As Mom moved around the house- climbing the stairs, bending over to retrieve something from the kitchen floor, crossing or uncrossing her legs on the very sofa where we now sat- I would watch discretely, to be rewarded with the occasional glimpse of stocking top, or of the pale flesh beyond. On one memorable occasion, when Mom had sat with her legs angled towards me, I had feasted my eyes for several minutes on the white triangle of her panties.

At such moments I was not immune to doubts as to the morality of fancying one`s own mother. But I am a great believer in compartmentalisation. I was doing well at college. I had a girl friend. I even accompanied my parents to church. If I harboured lustful thoughts about Mom, who was to know? It was my glorious secret, and I was not about to share it with anyone.

Some years later, when I was married, my theory of compartmentalisation had to be modified, when Sandra, my wife, guessed at my maternal obsession.

“How did you know?” I said.

“I`ve seen the way you look at her,” she said.

As she said this, she gave my cock a playful tug (we were in bed), as if to indicate that this was not a problem for her. I decided it should not be a problem for me either, and continued to lust privately after my mother, while expanding that particular compartment to include Sandra.

Now, with Mom sitting so close beside me, I felt a growing desire to touch her. How to go about it, though? I am an only child. We are not a tactile family. Other than the occasional, manly handshake from my father, or peck on the cheek from my mother, we kept ourselves to ourselves.

I was aware, though, that another opportunity like this might not present itself soon, and decided to go for broke.

As we chortled at the inane sitcom on television, I inched closer to Mom, until our thighs were touching. This in itself was a heavenly sensation for me, though Mom barely seemed to notice, and I was happy to wait a few minutes before making my next move.

Fortune favours the brave, and at a particularly “hilarious” moment in the comedy, I pretended to rock with laughter and placed my hand on Mom`s knee, as if to steady myself. Mom gave me a sideways look, and I half expected her to pick up my hand and remove it. But she didn`t.

I couldn`t believe my luck. I was sitting thigh-to-thigh with my mother, my hand on her soft, nylon-clad knee. And she was letting me.

I allowed several more minutes to elapse before daring to move my hand. When I did, it was merely to stroke Mom`s knee gently, almost absent-mindedly, as if it was part of the enjoyment of the programme. Did I imagine that Mom parted her knees the tiniest amount, to make my task easier? Whatever the case, I now had access to the inside of her leg, and as we continued to chuckle at the programme, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to move my hand slowly upwards, until it came into contact with the bottom of her dress.

Another moment of truth was at hand. But for the moment I was content just to gently caress Mom`s leg, savouring the feeling of her warm flesh beneath its thin veneer of nylon.

While not openly acknowledging what I was doing, neither had Mom moved away, and after a couple of minutes I felt emboldened to slide my fingers, in infinitely small gradations, under the hem of her dress. Soon, I felt a subtle change of texture as my hand reached the reinforced section of her stocking top.

I ran my hand backwards and forwards over the smooth silk, familiarising myself with the gentle contours of Mom`s upper thigh. This time, there was no doubt that Mom parted her legs slightly more to allow me easier access.

Knowing that Mom was a willing party to what I was doing- what we were doing- I suddenly lost all sense of urgency, and would have stayed with my hand up Mom`s dress, gently stroking her warm thigh, indefinitely.

Inevitably, though, my hand came into contact with the bare flesh above her stockings, and my fingers were just beginning to explore this new, forbidden territory, when Dad coughed and stirred in his sleep.

I jumped to withdraw my hand. But, even more quickly, Mom placed her hand over mine, clamping it in place between her legs. For a minute, neither of us stirred. Dad snuffled a few times, then found a more comfortable position and dozed off again.

As soon as I thought it was safe, I resumed my exploration of Mom`s upper thigh, running my hand beneath one of her suspenders, where it pressed into her soft flesh.

Mom had not taken her hand from mine, and with a gentle pressure encouraged me to venture higher. At the first contact of my hand with the silk of her panties, Mom gave a soft moan and nestled closer. Pressing my hand harder, she indicated exactly how and where she wanted to be touched.

All caution was now thrown to the wind. Glancing down, I saw that Mom`s dress had ridden up, revealing her nylon-clad legs, suspenders and pale, upper thighs. Her legs were parted and my hand rubbed vigorously at her pussy through the damp patch on her panties, now revealed to be a delightful shade of primrose yellow.

It was a sight I will never forget. Mom`s panties were stretched tight over her bulging mons, the indentation of her pussy lips clearly visible. Instinctively, I sought and found her warm slit. But, by a firm pressure of her hand, Mom guided my fingers to her swollen clit, its hard nub easily located through her panties.

By now, Mom was to all intents and purposes using my hand to masturbate. In a rhythm dictated by her, I allowed my middle finger to rub hard over her sensitive gland.

Mom came quickly. After a few barely stifled moans, her legs began to shake uncontrollably and she buried her face in my shoulder. As her climax peaked, in order to prevent herself from crying out, she sank her teeth into my shoulder and bit hard.

As soon as the last tremor had subsided, Mom quickly smoothed down her dress and re-established a short distance between us on the sofa.

A minute later, Dad stirred. “What have I missed?” he said, focusing his gaze on the television screen.

“Nothing much,” Mom said.

Ours is a secretive family, and what happened on the sofa that evening was never mentioned again. Until…

“Phil! Phil!” Mom was trying to get my attention. “Where have you been? We`re nearly there!”

I came to with a start. Mom was looking at me with concern. We were in the car. Our hands were still clasped.

“I was remembering how Dad used to fall asleep on the sofa in the evenings,” I said. “While we were watching television.”

Mom looked quickly away. “He did,” she said. “Poor man. He was worn out with work.”

“I was remembering one particular evening,” I said. “You and I were watching a sitcom.”

Mom tightened her grip on my hand. “I remember that evening,” she said. “I was thinking about it only this afternoon.”

“Funny what comes into your mind at a funeral,” I said.

“It is,” she said.

We were silent for a moment, each of us lost in our memories of that fateful evening.

“You bit me,” I said.

“No doubt you deserved it,” she said, even now reluctant to admit openly the full extent of what had happened between us. But with a downward pressure of her hand, she guided my hand to her crotch and kept it there. Even through her clothing I could feel the pronounced bulge of her mound against the back of my hand.

“And how are the lovebirds doing back there?” Uncle Colin was grinning at us over the back of the passenger seat. I instinctively went to remove my hand, but with a firm grip Mom held it in place.

“We`re fine, Colin, thanks,” Mom said. “We must be nearly there.”

Almost imperceptibly, Mom moved my hand backwards and forwards, so that I could feel my knuckle sinking gently into her warm slit.

“I`ll have you there in half a tick,” Uncle Colin said, beaming at my mother.

“You`re a godsend, Colin,” Mom said, parting her legs slightly and increasing the pressure of my hand on her pudenda. “I don`t know what I would have done without you today.”

“All part of the service, ma`am,” Uncle Colin said, giving a mock-military salute and turning back to continue gesticulating at the long-suffering driver.

“It`s an interesting route you`re taking us, Colin.” Mom said, gazing through the window at the unfamiliar streets and beginning to rub her clitoris hard with my knuckle.

The reception was to be held at my parent`s house, but Uncle Colin had got hopelessly lost. He failed to see the irony of Mom`s comment. “It`s a bit of a long way round, I admit. But I thought it might give you a bit longer, you know, to compose yourself.”

“That`s very thoughtful of you, Colin,” Mom said, raising her hips and whimpering slightly. “I might need a moment or two.”

She buried her head in my shoulder and began to moan in earnest.

“That`s right, pet,” Uncle Colin said. “Let it all out. You`ll feel better if you do.”

As her body shook in orgasm, Mom wailed and bit hard into the material of my suit. A minute later, she was swinging her immaculate legs out of the car, as Uncle Colin held the door open.

“Thanks, Col,” she said. “I needed that.”

The rest of the afternoon and early evening passed in something of a haze. There were other women at the wake: young and old, mainly members of the family. Some wore dresses much shorter than my mother, and there was ample cleavage on display. But I only had eyes for my mother.

As she climbed the stairs to fetch a photograph album from the bedroom; bent over to retrieve a fallen napkin from the kitchen floor; or sat on the sofa, crossing and uncrossing her legs as she reminisced with one relative or another, I followed her every movement.

And I think she was aware of it. More than once she came and stood closer to me than was absolutely necessary, so that I felt the warmth of her breast, or the gentle pressure of her hip. On one occasion, she made as if to brush something from my shoulder: perhaps a crumb or a speck of dandruff. But there was nothing there except the damp imprint of her lips, invisible to the casual observer, but worn by me like a badge of honour.

Later, when the last guest had been ushered out by Uncle Colin, and that solicitous relative had also finally departed, Mom sank exhausted onto the sofa and patted the seat beside her.

“Thank God that`s over,” she said, when I had sat down next to her.

“You handled it perfectly,” I said.

“Did you think so? I just wanted them all to go.”

“Even Uncle Colin?”

“Especially Uncle Colin.”

“What about me?”

“No. I want you to stay. Right here.”

She kicked off her shoes and draped her legs over the arm of the settee, with her head resting in my lap. She closed her eyes. Her beautiful face relaxed completely, and within seconds she was asleep.

I stroked her hair as she lay there, and tried not to notice that her dress had ridden up her legs.

Instead, I focused on the armchair opposite, where Dad had fallen asleep that evening years ago, oblivious to the fact that I had my hand up his wife`s skirt. The memory produced, as it always did, a stirring in my loins, which I tried to suppress, for fear of waking Mom up with an unexpected pressure against her cheek.

I`m not sure how successful I was, because a minute later Mom raised her head and looked around, disoriented. When she had got her bearings, she rose unsteadily to her feet.

“I`m going to bed,” she said. “Will you come with me, Phil? I don`t want to be on my own tonight.”

“Of course,” I said.

I tidied one or two things up, turned out the lights and followed Mom upstairs. She was sitting on the edge of the double bed, struggling to unfasten her dress.

“Unzip me, will you, Phil?” she said.

I sat beside her and pulled down the recalcitrant fastener. Mom stood up and let her dress fall to the ground. She was wearing a black, silk slip.

“I`m going to crash out in this for tonight,” she said. “I`m too whacked to change.”

I held the bedclothes open for Mom to slide in. She seemed to fall asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

I undressed, walked round to the other side of the bed and slipped in beside her. She had her back to me and I kept a decorous distance, until Mom murmured, “Hold me, Phil.”

I moved closer and wrapped my arm around her. The silk slip moved against her body, and I felt the curve of her bosom against the back of my hand. Thinking that now was perhaps not the moment, I removed my hand and placed it instead on her hip. Again, the flimsy silk of the slip slid over her body, and I felt the outline of her panties beneath. Wherever I put my hand, the slip allowed no purchase, but forced me into one compromising position after another.

“Shall I take it off?” Mom said.

“It might be better,” I said.

Half asleep still, Mom sat up and pulled the slip over her head. She lay straight back down with her back to me as before. Perhaps a little closer.

I wrapped my arm round her once more, and felt the gentle rise and fall of her stomach.

“I`m fat,” she said.

“You`re perfect,” I said.

This time, when my hand brushed her bosom, I did nor remove it, but instead took the whole of her breast in my hand. It was large and soft, with a very hard nipple peeping over the top of her low-cut bra.

I tried to disguise my burgeoning erection, but Mom wriggled closer.

“It`s okay,” she said.

Encouraged, I pulled the front of her bra down so that her entire breast sprang free.

“Shall I take it off?” she said.

By way of reply, I unclasped the skimpy bra and Mom pulled it down over her arms.

I felt her roll over onto her back and kick off the bedclothes. Suddenly, she reached out and switched on the bedside lamp.

In the dim light of the lamp, Mom lay there, wearing nothing but a pair of red silk panties, stockings and suspenders. One leg was bent at the knee, in an almost coquettish manner, challenging me to assess her charms.

While her body may have lacked the definition of that of a younger woman, it was nevertheless still a sight to behold. Her magnificent breasts spilled out either side of her body. Her lined face registered tiredness and sadness, overlaid with something I had not seen there before. Hunger. A habitual half-smile played around her lips.

“Well?” she said, turning towards me.

Overcome by her beauty and vulnerability, I snuggled into her side and kissed her tenderly on the lips.

“I`ve wanted this for so long,” I said.

Mom responded by opening her mouth and pressing her tongue against mine.

My hand sought and found her large breasts, squeezing and pulling first one nipple then the other.

Mom moaned quietly, then took my hand and guided it down her body towards her crotch.

The back of her other hand, lying between us, grazed my hard cock so lightly that it may have been accidental. So many things with Mom seemed accidental: easy to deny at a later date, or even to herself.

But there could be nothing more deliberate than the way she guided my fingers down over her panties and pressed them into the warm hollow of her slit. With the tip of my finger, I began to rub her hard clit through the thin fabric of her panties.

“Shall I take them off?” she said.

“Let me,” I said.

I pulled Mom`s panties slowly down over her hips, then Mom raised her legs and removed the flimsy item completely. To my surprise, Mom`s prominent mound had been recently shaved, though long enough ago for a grey stubble to be growing back.

“I didn`t know you shaved,” I said.

“Why would you?” Mom said.

It was a fair point and I could think of no immediate reply.

Mom laughed at my discomfiture. “Your dad liked it that way,” she said. “I was thinking of letting it grow back. What do you think?”

“I like it just the way it is,” I said.

“Should I take my stockings off?” she said.

“Could you leave them on?” I said.

“Like father, like son,” she said, pulling my head towards her and planting kiss after kiss on my lips.

Without the intermediary of silk panties, I resumed my exploration of Mom`s pussy. She was extremely wet and her mucus was so thick that, had I lifted my fingers, I am sure that a thin skein would have trailed between them, like the gossamer wings of a dragonfly. Her plump, outer labia concealed her inner lips almost completely, and she had a pronounced clitoral hood, from beneath which the pink tip of her clitoris protruded.