I’m a single mom, 42, with arthritis and DVT that keep my legs aching, so I wear support pantyhose 24/7—shiny, taupe ones that hug my curves and lift my ass. Working from home, I’m usually in just a t-shirt or dress shirt for Zoom calls, my pantyhose-clad legs bare below. My son, Ethan, 20, has grown up seeing me like this, but lately, his glances linger—on the sheen of my nylon-covered thighs, the way the fabric stretches over my hips. I caught him once sniffing a pair of my pantyhose in the laundry, his face flushed. I didn’t say anything, but my pulse raced, a forbidden heat stirring.
It started one morning in my home office. I was bent over my desk, searching for a pen, when Ethan whistled. “Damn, Mom, your ass looks good in those pantyhose.” I shook my head, laughing. “They’re support hose, kiddo. They lift everything.” He grinned, eyes locked on me. “Seriously, you look hot.” I teased, “Maybe you should try a pair and see how your butt looks.” We both chuckled, and I went back to work, but his stare stayed with me, warming my skin under the nylon.
Half an hour later, Ethan strutted in, wearing my taupe pantyhose, the fabric stretched tight over his legs. “How do I look?” he asked, smirking. I gaped. “What are you doing in my hose?” He shrugged. “You said to try ’em.” I rolled my eyes but noticed they were crooked. “C’mere, they’re a mess.” I knelt, adjusting the reinforced toes, then told him to turn. I tugged the pantyhose down and up, smoothing them over his legs. My fingers brushed his cock through the nylon, and it swelled under my touch. I pulled the waistband again, “fixing” the seam, my hand grazing him deliberately. He grunted, “Oh, Mom, Mom!” and spun around, cum spurting through the pantyhose, staining the front.
He stammered apologies, but I smiled. “It’s okay, baby. No harm done.” He panted, “If pantyhose feel this good, I wanna wear ’em more.” I raised an eyebrow. “If you want, but maybe wear boxers next time.” He smirked. “You don’t.” I blushed. “I’ve worn them forever, Ethan. It’s different. Besides, I can see your… penis like that.” He grinned, unashamed. “Your call, Mom.” From then on, he wore pantyhose at home daily, the outline of his cock clear through the nylon. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t turn me on, seeing him strut around, the fabric glinting.
A week later, we were in the kitchen, me chopping veggies in a t-shirt and pantyhose. Ethan came up behind me, “helping” with dishes, but his hands slid to my hips, fingers tracing the nylon. “These look so good on you,” he murmured, pressing closer. I felt his hard-on against my ass and leaned back, teasing. “Careful, someone’s excited.” He laughed, hands lingering, then squeezed my thighs through the hose. I gasped, wet, but stepped away, heart pounding. “Let’s not get carried away,” I said, but my voice betrayed my want.
Another night, we were watching TV, my pantyhose-clad legs draped over his lap. He massaged my calves, thumbs digging into the nylon, the friction electric. “This okay?” he asked, hands creeping to my inner thighs. I nodded, breath hitching, as his fingers brushed my pussy through the hose. “Ethan,” I whispered, half-warning, half-pleading. He rubbed harder, the nylon slick with my arousal, until I moaned, gripping his wrist. I stopped him, panting. “Not here.” But I fingered myself later, imagining his hands tearing the pantyhose.
The tension kept building. One evening, I caught him in the bathroom, pantyhose pulled down, jerking off with a pair of my hose wrapped around his cock. “Mom!” he yelped, but I stepped closer, voice low. “Need help?” I knelt, tugging his pantyhose back up, and sucked him through the thin nylon crotch, tasting his precum. He groaned, hands in my hair, but I pulled off, smirking. “Save it, baby.” He begged for more, but I left, my pussy throbbing, knowing we were close to breaking.
It all exploded one rainy Saturday. I suggested a nap to escape the storm, inviting Ethan to join me. We climbed into my bed, both in pantyhose—mine sheer and tight, his slightly stretched. I snuggled back against him, my ass pressing into his crotch. He wrapped his arms around me, cock hardening through the nylon. I wiggled, teasing, feeling him grow. “Someone’s happy,” I purred. He mumbled, “The pantyhose… they make me so hard.” I turned, kissing him softly, then deeper, tongues tangling. “Ethan, this is wrong,” I whispered. He nodded. “I don’t care.”
I pulled him on top, our pantyhose rubbing, the swish of nylon driving me wild. “Tear mine open,” I said, guiding his hands to my crotch. The rip sent shivers through me. “Now yours.” He tore his pantyhose, cock springing free. I stroked him, then sucked him slow, my lips tight through the torn nylon, savoring his moans. “Mom, please,” he begged. I climbed onto him, guiding his cock inside me. “Fuck me, baby,” I said, and he thrust deep, the pantyhose still clinging to our thighs.
I grabbed his pantyhose-clad ass, pulling him deeper, our rhythm frantic. “Oh, Mommy,” he gasped, and I came hard, screaming, the “Mommy” pushing me over. “Cum in me,” I moaned, and he did, his hot load filling me as I clenched around him. But he stayed hard, so I got on all fours. “Fuck my ass, baby.” He slid into my tight hole, the nylon rubbing my skin, and pounded me, both of us cumming again, collapsing in a sweaty, pantyhose-tangled heap.
The next day, I bought him his own pair—sheer, black, perfect for his legs. We wear them together, teasing, knowing it’s only a matter of time before we rip them off again.
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