Nissa's Nylons

Whew, so, how to start? This is going to sound craz- No, too obvious. Here’s the story of how I got all the fetish sex I ever wanted. All right, a little more appealing, but pretty boring and doesn’t really capture the weirdness of it all. How about, Hi, I’m Carson, and this is how I wound up fucking my mom’s feet.

__________

Let’s get all the biographical stuff out of the way. I’m 19 years old and going to community college – formerly in Arizona but now in Virginia. Up until about 7 months ago, I was living with my dad, Danny. But he got in a car wreck, and now he’s gone. I wish I could say I was sad. He didn’t raise me, my grandparents did. My mom, Nissa, had me when she was just a teenager and my dad was 22. He was starting out as an auto mechanic, she was still in high school. He couldn’t resist the spicy half-Latina girl, and she must have been attracted to his grease-spotted roughness. Let’s just say that family planning wasn’t part of the equation, and when I arrived, she couldn’t take care of me. But neither could he, so I wound up with my grandmother and grandfather on my dad’s side. Throughout my childhood, my only exposure to my mother was when she would take me to her Catholic church, or occasionally out shopping for a treat or a toy. Then it was back to Ma and Pa.

Mom and dad were never married, and they eventually parted ways to pursue their respective careers. Dad stayed in Arizona, mom headed off to the east coast working in banking. Officially, I was in dad’s custody, but he never had time for me, and I kept living with his folks until I was a sophomore in high school. Ma and Pa were getting too old, and dad had an attack of conscience and wanted to play at being a father, so I went to live with him. But the formative years were gone and we never really got close. We fought far more than we bonded. After making his way up to district manager, he was always busy at work, acting more important than he really was. Danny always had an angry tirade at the ready, after which he always had someplace else to be. He still couldn’t keep his hands off younger women he should have been smart enough to steer clear of. Apparently he at least learned his lesson about pulling out or wearing a rubber; I don’t have any other siblings bumbling around (that I know of). He didn’t have enough saved, so I had to pay my own way through community college working odd jobs, and I couldn’t afford to do that and make rent. So even though I was legally an adult, I still lived with him, at least until his wreck. At that point if I wanted to finish school, the only option was to transfer across the country and live with my mom. I had only seen her on occasion over the last decade and I figured it would just be a chance to mooch off another estranged parent for a couple more years until I could get some work and strike out on my own. How wrong I turned out to be!

Moving across the country was remarkably easy. I didn’t have a lot of stuff to box up, and I certainly didn’t give a shit about Scottsdale. My friends had already gone off to other schools, and there wasn’t much for me to be sad about in saying goodbye to the city. Screw that place, my life had never been good there anyway. Not that I was excited about Richmond. As far as I was concerned, life was just one long progression of annoying-ass schools I had to slog through before I could get a job and earn a living. So I took my half dozen boxes of junk and clothes – and one carefully packaged gaming PC – FedEx’ed them to my mom’s address in Virginia, and got on a plane. When I arrived, I was greeted by the woman who brought me into this world, but whom I barely knew. Mom took me into her arms, and at the time I felt nothing. Too much shock about what had happened to dad, worthless jerk though he was. Too much cynicism about moving across the country just for a couple more years of free rent. If there was a part of me that registered that a fashionably dressed, smoking hot Latina was pulling me into her ample chest with a warm embrace, I wasn’t aware of it at the time.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, I love big melons and a juicy peach as much as the next guy, but my first love has always been legs and feet: the curve of the thigh, the swell of the calf, the narrow ankle, the firm heel, the graceful arch, the delicate toes. And that love is inseparable from my love of nylons and high heels, the accessories that transform pretty legs and feet into objects of pure sex. I don’t know why, but all my life I’ve had a thing for women in nylons. Stockings, but especially pantyhose, drive me completely crazy. When I see a woman go by with that telltale sheen on her legs, it doesn’t matter what I’m doing – I might be carrying on a conversation, saying some bullshit, but what I’m really thinking about are those lovely legs and shapely feet wrapped in butter-smooth fabric. Classy high heels are the ultimate companion to a fine pair of stems, flexing the thighs and calves into sculpted perfection and propping up a plump pair of ass cheeks to make them look ready for sin. I know more than any straight guy should about brands of heels, designers, and styles, and I’m always silently judging women by their shoes. That heel is too short, that ankle strap would be cuter with a different buckle, that open toe is nice but the color doesn’t go with your toenail polish. And of course, skirts are a necessity, just to make sure all those other assets are properly shown off to the world. I’m not picky about skirts except to say that the shorter and tighter, the better!

So, with all that, I’d been jerking off to nylon porn for as long as I could remember. Women wearing pantyhose could get a guy off with their feet, their ass, their thighs, their calves, in a dozen different positions. Or a guy can just tear a hole by the gusset (the panel that wraps over her crotch – a fetishist has to learn his terms!) and give himself easy access to her tight asshole or her warm, wet cunt. Every day after work or class I fired up some videos, put my cock in my hand, dreamed my hot nylon dreams, and creamed into a sock or an old shirt.

That wasn’t all I had done. I’d hooked up with a couple of girls by this point, one towards the end of high school, and another my first year in college. But neither of them had ever realized any of those fantasies for me. My high school girlfriend and I worked our way through those first awkward sexual encounters together, and after a few months we were having a pretty good time. I was working up the courage to tell her about my fetish and see if she was receptive. But then one day when discussing their outfits for the winter formal dance, she had a conversation with her best friend, right in front of me, about how gross it is when guys are into pantyhose. They both said they didn’t get it and laughed about how anyone could be into something so weird and unappealing. At that point, no way could I tell her that all I wanted was for her to wear nylons for me. That wasn’t what ended the relationship, but it certainly didn’t help. Before graduation we were through. And after all my eager anticipation of university hookup culture, my one college relationship by this time was disappointing. We had a fling for a few weeks that satisfied no one and went nowhere. So far, I was 0 for 2 on finding a woman who would accept me, understand me, and indulge me with what I truly wanted.

Anyway, I wound up moving into the spare bedroom of my mom’s house in Richmond. We were mother and son, but I could count on one hand the number of times I’d seen her in the last few years. Maybe I should have been angry with her, hated her for not being there for me. But I’d gotten along fine with Ma and Pa, and I’d survived dad. By now, I was past being upset. Being estranged from my parents was just a fact of life. And coming to live with her only when I was already out of high school, it wasn’t really like reconnecting with a long lost mother at all. I was an adult moving in with another adult. An older woman who I’d known from childhood, like a friendly neighbor perhaps, but basically just a new roommate. And I have to say, I really respect the way Nissa handled it. Aside from a slightly embarrassing welcome party at a local restaurant, she didn’t give me some ludicrous outpouring of gifts and praise trying to buy my love. She didn’t ask me to tell her my whole life story and cry about all the things she’d missed. In short, she didn’t try to catch up on 19 years apart. I think she’d made her peace with our family situation a long time ago too. Nissa did want us to become close, but she didn’t try to create a relationship overnight. She gave it time, having conversations with me of an evening after work or school, then going back to doing her own thing and letting me do mine.

Ironically, I think her willingness to take it slow is what put me at ease, and we started to connect much quicker than if she had tried to force it. After about four months of living there, we had really warmed up to each other. And it started to be… something unique. Partly two people getting to know and respect each other, and partly a mother and son starting to be familiar and even loving in the way that, well, family is supposed to be. Sooner than I would have thought possible, I wasn’t calling her “Nissa,” but “Mom.”

Of course, I was still a hormone-soaked teenager, which meant certain habits that required me to have my alone time. In that time, I kept loading up the usual pictures and videos to get off to. But as I started to adjust to the new situation – new home, new school, new city, building a relationship with my mom from scratch – my behavior started to change. And by my behavior, I mean what porn I watched. I wanted to be as indifferent to my mom as I had been to dad, but I couldn’t stay willfully oblivious forever. I was living with a fine mid-thirties Latina, and god did she have a body.