The Initiation Ritual

Aka "A X for a Z".

As old as humanity, as ubiquitous as conflicts between peoples, a tradition has accompanied man since he stood erect with both feet on Earth: the battle of generations. Whether motivated by the difference in energy, values ​​and fashions between people of different ages or simply as a desperate attempt to point fingers and name villains (and heroes), it is not uncommon for groups who were born in similar times to elect this or that generation as the cause (or solution) for all of society's ills. In recent times, such clashes have acquired an almost taxonomic refinement; each generation not only receives a label, but a pre-defined attribute like signs of the zodiac: the inconsequential Boomers, parents of the indifferent Gen Xers, spare no effort in accusing the fragile egos of those from Generation Z of all sorts of defects that the insipid Millennials (Gen Y) swear they do not have while all of the above-mentioned wait in despair for what Generation Alpha will bring.

In that house in the upper middle class neighborhood, a salad of letters -- XYZ -- still gave itself the name "family". Martha, head of the household, is a businesswoman who only achieved professional success after she turned fifty. Brad, a typical Millennial, is her single brother who has been living with them since he decided to take a gap year. Josh, the hero of this tale, is Martha's only son who has spent his first eighteen years accumulating doubts. Everyone with friends from their same generations, naturally.

Between college work, video games and masturbation, the boy spends long hours on the computer -- a sort of oracle -- trying to discover, in forums, chats and tutorials, the meaning of life, people and things. More than professional uncertainties, the main interest of the lad at the moment is something that has occupied his mind almost entirely: women. He is part of all the online communities of the most specific sub-specialties of the topic: from the most generic discussions, relationship tips and philosophical musings to the most specialized facets of sexuality, fantasies and fetishes. Dave (with whom he shares accounts on dozens of adult websites) is his best friend and would-be girls specialist.

"Hey Dave, did you go to Becky's?"

"Yeah, but her mother wasn't there."

"Ah, that sucks! She's so hot!"

"But look, I found out her Insta is public. Lot's of hot pics!"

"Awesome! I'll check it out later."

"Did you see the video I sent you?"

"Lady Martina... what should it be like?"

"Huh!? Didn't you see the video?"

"I saw it. I mean... what it's really like, you know--"

"IRL?"

"Yep! Those tights... the stilettos... the way they feel in your hand, you know?"

"They must feel damn delicious!"

"How do you know? The closest you've come is sniffing your cousin's socks on the sly."

"Bro, the day you try it you'll know."

"Okay, Mr. Kink!"

"But you don't make it easy. You only care about Milfs."

"Look who's talking! Why don't you take Becky then?"

"Because her mother--"

"Is so freakish hot, right? It's different, man!"

"He-he... sure!"

"Have you seen her in those red high heels?"

"I bet she would rock on OnlyFans!"

"That's the problem, man! The computer screen doesn't cut it. I want the real shit!"

"Take it easy, man! Our time will come. I hope..."

"Hold on! My mom is banging on the door. She must have forgotten her keys again."

Going down the stairs with the speed that only youth allows, Josh opens the door to his mother who already comes in bombarding him with questions.

"Did you make a dentist appointment? Did you take out the trash? Did you call grandma? Did you take the meat out of the freezer?"

"Yeah, mom. I did all those 'did you's."

The woman enters the room out of breath, carrying a laptop under one arm, a stack of papers under the other, and a grocery bag in one hand. Martha usually changes shoes when driving home; the fact that the businesswoman is still in high heels indicates that she had come back in a real hurry. Having taken two or three steps through the door, a shadow follows her.

"Come in Vanessa! Hopefully we can finish this today."

Just after Josh's mother, much more calmly -- Vanessa -- an office colleague, enters. Having quickly introduced her to the son, the two women head to the home office. The coworker is a lady of Brazilian origin, a few years younger. As if apologizing for Martha's agitation, she smiles serenely at the boy who closes the front door and runs back to the computer to continue the conversation with his friend.

"Dave! There?"

"Yup! I sent you another video."

"Fuck the video! I'm in paradise!"

"What?!"

With fingers bouncing noisily on the keyboard, the explorer of the feminine world describes to his friend what he had just seen.

"Forget Lady Martina!"

In minimalist graphic details, the computer science student uses the most powerful technology to transmit to his friend the image of the lady he had just met: words. Between the two young men connected by the internet and the boiling of hormones, Vanessa is described in every detail according to the most rigorous observations of the excited boy.

Latina in her forties, with fair skin, eyes as clear as honey and shoulder-length, midnight-black hair. Thick thighs, defined ankles and generous curves and breasts. With a super naughty look. Full lips (both upper and lower). "And a huge, huge ass that she knows how to shake," describes.

"Mom already told me about her. She's from Brazil," adds Josh.

"Whoa! She must be super hot! Makeup? Nails?"

"Dark red lipstick, black painted eyes. No wrinkles on her face. White nail polish."

"Da fuck! Wanna kill me, man?! Clothes?"

"Those black executive dresses that mom also wears."

"What about the main thing, man? Talk about the main thing!"

"He-he!" knowing that Dave would ask, "beige stockings and black high heels," completes.

"No way! And this goddess is in your house? I mean, right now?"

"I've got an idea! Gonna sneak down for some water and snap a sneaky pic lol. BRB"

Trying to balance the excitement, nervousness and lust, the young man goes to the kitchen to get a glass of water, making sure to go through the home office door and quickly takes a photo with his phone cleverly hidden between the crossed arms. At that moment -- by coincidence or something else Josh doesn't yet know about women -- he receives a warm smile from Vanessa, raising her head as she sees the lad pass by. Climbing the stairs at the same speed he came down with the trophy registered on the device, the modern day Mercury runs back into the room. Seconds later, the photo is already appearing on his friend's monitor.

"Dude, forget Lady Martina! This is the real deal!" responds Dave with a lot of emojis.

"I know?!" and after a minute of inactivity in the conversation, inquires, "bro, still there?"

Seeing that his chat partner doesn't respond, accuses, "you son of a bitch! Are you jer--"

"Josh! I forgot my phone at the office, I'll be right back. Leave the door open," hearing his mother screaming downstairs.

"Okay, moooom!"

Abandoned by the horny friend and with the photo of the beautiful Brazilian MILF open in full screen on the big monitor of his computer, the young man dives into the most fervent sensations and images the mind can produce. Never in life had the lad questioned so strongly about all those odors, heat, and sensations of touch that he imagined such women had. Being consumed with lust inside, his hands sought the same fate as Dave's.

"Can I get a Coke from the fridge? In my country we don't open other people's fridges without asking," querying Vanessa from the door of the boy's room, almost giving him a heart attack.

Josh turns his chair towards her in complete disbelief.

"S-sure!"

"Looks like I'm not the only one feeling hot, right?" giggling. "Scared you?"

"Yeah... I mean... no! I thought you went to the office with my mother."

The mature woman who really seems to be very calm and self-assured enters the lad's room. The sound of her heels hitting the wooden floor makes Josh's heart beat at a different pace. The teenager, overcome by fear of the unknown, seems to be handcuffed to the arms of the chair -- completely immobile. Trying to remember all those tutorials on how to treat (and seduce) girls, the aspiring womanizer tries at all costs to maintain his composure and not show nervousness. In vain, of course.

"Isn't that me on your monitor?" she asks the boy serenely.

Having the most paralyzing silence as an answer, she still inquires, "and that bulge in your pants, is it because of me?"

No longer waiting for a response from the boy, she sees that open on his secondary monitor there are several photos of legs with pantyhose, sexy shoes and garments.

"Do you like these things?"

"Yes, I do!" replying with unprecedented courage.

"And what does your girlfriend think of this?"

"No girlfriend, ma'am."

"Ma'am?! Ha! How cute! But that doesn't sound like the vocabulary of today's youth."

"I read a lot. That must be why," trying to appear not so nerdy.

The mature beauty takes a few more steps towards the computer to take a closer look at the images; Josh's chair turns to follow her.

"And those shoes and pantyhose, any special interest? Do you want to wear them or something?"

"I'm not gay, ma'am!" with a flushed face.

"Not saying you are. What are they for?" fishing for an obvious answer.

"I'm just... huh... an enthusiast," deep down, meaning he was an expert.

Trying really hard not to embarrass the boy whose face was melting with sweat, Vanessa points to a specific photo on the computer, "these stockings are really pretty, despite the color. I prefer the more sober ones," getting into the newbie vibe and adds, "and mine, do you like them?"

A deep silence punctuated by the embarrassed young man's labored breathing filled the room.

"5... 4... 3... 2... 1... BANG! No answer?!" looking straight into his eyes.

"Y-yes, ma'am. They're so..."

"Sexy?"

"Yup! Definitely!" struggling to say and goes further, "they're damn hot!"

Seeing the savvy lady that very moment could be a turning point in the wannabe fetishist's life, she pulls up a second chair and sits down calmly, crossing the voluminous legs. At that point, the boy can smell a perfume, which he believes was coming directly from her cleavage; he also can swear feeling the heat coming from the legs next to his. Typical of the most fervent dreams and videos watched online, the beauty begins to swing a shoe just a few inches away from the young Adonis's trembling legs. "A shoe dangling!" he thinks, remembering the fetishistic jargon learned on the internet. So asks the goddess:

"How many experiences have you had with this sort of... thing?"

"Counting on this very one?" and after a certain pause, "one."

"Awww... how cute!" holding back laughter.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life -- Solomon would say to that boy who was about to live that so long awaited moment. Josh was torn between the joy of having his dreams materialized and the desire to tell Dave everything in excruciating detail later. "Or not?" seeing that the facial expression of his mother's coworker seemed to be more tender than spicy. Getting into the guy's vibe, she decides (with a touch of ruthlessness that some women are capable of) to continue the interrogation:

"You like my shoes?"

"They're beautiful, ma'am!"

"What size do you think they are?"

"8.5?" without blinking.

"Precisely! In my country that's equivalent to 37. That's a good start!"

And she goes on:

"They are comfortable but they get tiring after a while. How many hours do you think I'm in them?"

"Like, six?" calculating his mother's office hours.

"BUZZZ! First wrong answer!" and adds, "nine fucking hours--"

"And your feet are killing you," trying to anticipate something.

"Oh no! Those are expensive shoes, my dear. They were made for women like me. Second wrong answer!"

"Aw, damn!" already feeling less nervous and enjoying the game.

Pointing to the boy's computer, she adds, "with the leather they're made of you could easily buy three of those machines," and continues, "want to see what it's like inside?"

"S-s-sure!" feeling like winning the lottery.

The elegant woman pushes her chair back a little -- flush with Josh's desk -- and rests the well-shaped leg practically stretched out over the edge. With the red-soled shoe just a few inches from his face, she waits somewhat impatiently for the boy to overcome the inertia. "Don't you want to take it off?"

"Me?! I mean... y-yeah... I mean... right away!"

Trying to recreate the scenes usually seen in internet videos, the phony Don Juan places both hands on the object of desire and slowly removes it as if revealing a sacred treasure. As the lad had always dreamed, he was being enveloped by the warm air coming out of the shoe and the smell of expensive leather. In one of those moments of indecision that torture young people, he didn't know whether to look at the trophy in his hands or the nylon enveloped foot leaning on the desk.

Assisting in the continuation of the (initiation) ritual, Vanessa instructs him, "isn't it pretty? Take a sniff."

"The shoe? I mean..." in absolute ecstasy -- and insecurity.

"Yes, the shoe," almost letting out a burst of laughter.

In an act that began with trembling hands full of doubts and ended with the boy putting his nose inside the shoe almost as if it were an oxygen mask; long seconds pass. All under the guiding gaze of the mistress who asks, "do you like it?"

"OMG! Yes! Yes!"

"What about my nylons?" proposing the next part of the game.

"Yes, my Goddess!" totally surrendered.

"Want to touch them? Grab my foot."

Afraid this is one of those good dreams where you wake up at the best part, he repeats to himself, "can't wake up! Can't wake up!"

All those odors, textures and sensations of touch that the ecstatic teenager had always nurtured in his vivid imagination come true with glorious and unexpected satisfaction. "I will never wash my hands again," promises in thought. With hands damp with the sweat of the leather and nylon queen, he asks, "can I smell it, ma'am?"

"I thought you wouldn't ask," already enjoying some degree of pleasure herself.

At this point in the ritual, the young man -- who learned things quickly -- doesn't wait for requests or permission to put his mouth on the nylon covered foot. With what begins with small touches of lips and quickly progresses to vigorous wet strokes of the tongue, the worship ceremony seems to be approaching its climax. Something seems to be about to explode soon.

"Whoa! Slow down, wild boy! It seems like someone really likes my foot!"

"Yes, ma'am! It's the most delicious thing I've ever tasted in my life! Can I--"

"So why don't you take the 'packaging' off?" referring to the stocking.

"May I?" under her absolute control.

With just a nod from the beautiful lady, the voracious trailblazer begins to pull out the thigh-high garment like someone peeling a delicious fruit. The texture, as well as the smell and temperature of the long, thick leg is nothing like those of college girls. "This is the real shit," letting slip before being immediately confronted by the mistress, "sorry?!"

Seeing that the excited student would not be able to hold back for long and worried about her friend's imminent return, she invites the student for one last lesson: having adjusted herself in the chair, the attentive teacher demands from the boy, "kneel here in front of me. Hands back." He obeys promptly. Placing the now bare foot in the boy's face like a cleric demanding that a sacred ring be kissed, she takes his nose between her sweaty toes and -- in what appeared to be a simple (toe) hug for herself but, for the surrendered man, the act of consecration of a knight -- explains to the young apprentice (who swears to hear a discreet moan from his owner):

"Feeling that scent? In Brazil we have a name for it: Chulé. Repeat after me: chulé... shoo-LEH..."

"Shoo-leh! I love your shoo-leh, my queen! My--" not being able to do anything else but fall face down on the ground and give himself over to the burst of his pleasures.

As he writhes in inexpressible moans and incessant spurts, the goddess rests her hot, sweaty and soft sole on his cheek, gently pushing the young guy's head against the floor as a regal form of recognition and affection. After about two or three minutes had passed, the didactic woman (who had already put her stocking and shoe back on) lifted the exhausted pupil's face from the floor and -- with an almost maternal kiss on the forehead -- gives Josh a goodbye, saying, "have to go, darling. You're a docinho. Take care!"

Having already left the room (or altar) she had not even started to go down the stairs when Martha's voice was heard, "Vanessa! I'm back! Let's finish this damn report."

"Goiiing!" as if nothing had happened.

Barely able to stand up and steady the knees, the most recently graduated connoisseur of flavors, odors and textures had no choice but to take a long shower. Before even fully composing himself, he rums to the computer to tell his friend about the rite of passage.

"Dave! You're not gonna believe this, man," to which his chat partner responds:

"Whatever you're going to tell me, you have to hear this first: I went to Becky's and only her mother was home. You know, those red high heels? Dude, get ready..." replying the pal, ready to tell the most fantastic experience of his life.