A Son's Cum on His Mother's Tights

Preface

Whether you call them tights or pantyhose, this underwear holds a fascination for men around the world. They tell me dirty or soiled tights are the most enjoyable. This is a story of my attempts to keep my son from stealing my used tights from the laundry.

Disclaimer

All characters in this story are over 21 years of age. All characters consent to all events in the story.

Prologue

Laundry day arrives at our little house in the suburbs. The batteries died in the small light in the cupboard where I store the detergent. I need a small screwdriver to remove the cover to change the batteries. I know my son, Andrew, keeps small tools somewhere in his bedroom. I search his bedroom while he showers.

A Son's Cum On His Mother's Tights

I search various drawers. I find nothing that looks like a tool box. I look in his cupboard. I remember he has a shoebox with some tools and a set of screwdrivers. I look in a shoebox marked with a cross.

The shoe box is full of tights. They look worn. They look like my missing tights.

I sit on his bed with the box on my lap. I lift a pair of tights from the box. They smell worn. They smell like they need washing.

The bedroom door opens. My 23 year old son, Andrew stands frozen, looking at me holding my tights on his bed. His hair is wet and a towel wraps around his waist.

"Why do you have these, Andrew?" I ask.

He doesn't speak. He stands there, flushed and silent.

"These tights look like mine. Are you stealing my tights?" I ask, looking for any sign of emotion on his face.

"It's not stealing." he says.

"But they're not yours." I say, holding a pair towards him. "They're my tights. I wondered where they were all going."

"I didn't steal them." he says, insisting his innocence.

"You'll have to help me out here. I don't understand why you want them. Do you wear them?" I ask.

He looks at his feet. Words don't come.

"I can buy some for you. You can have your own tights. If you like. I can buy new tights, if you like wearing them. It's not a problem." I say, watching for a sign he understands my confusion.

"I like how they smell." he says, without looking up.

"How they smell? They need washing." I say, holding a pair to my nose.

"I like it. I don't know why. I like the smell of the bit that goes between your legs." he says.

"Do you do anything when you sniff them?" I ask.

Andrew avoids answering my question.

"What do you do when you take them out of this box? Do you look at them? Do you masturbate?" I ask.

"Do I what?" he asks, looking up.

"Do you play with yourself while you sniff them?" I ask.

"Sometimes." he says, in a whisper.

I look at my son, standing there full of shame.

"I'll tell you what. Keep these. I'm going shopping later. I'll buy some more. But I want to keep the new ones for me. Is that okay?"

"Yes. I suppose." he says.

"And no more lies. Or stealing my underwear. Do you understand?" I ask.

"Yes. Thanks." he says.

I hug him on my way out of his room. He needs time to think. And I need more tights.

---

(Two weeks later)

---

"Andrew?" I call, up the stairs.

"Yeah?" he answers.

"I'm putting the washer on. I can't find my tights. I put three pairs in this laundry basket this week." I say, standing in front of the open door of the washing machine.

"I haven't got them." he says, after a pause.

"Are you sure?" I ask.

"Just a minute..." he says.

I hear footsteps coming down the stairs.

"Here you are." he says, handing me the three pairs of tights.

"Thanks. But I thought we agreed..." I say, before realising they are stuck together.

"Erm, sorry. Here let me pull them apart." he says.

"This isn't good enough Andrew." I say, holding the tights up for him to see. "I shouldn't have to ask you. Can you leave them alone? What happened to the ones I gave you?" I ask.

"They don't smell as nice. And they go all baggy." he says.

"Baggy?" I ask.

"Baggy. After I tie them around my..." he says, stopping before completing his sentence.

"After you tie them around your what?" I ask.

The silence tells me he is full of shame again. I need to change my approach.

"Why don't you show me?" I say, offering him the tights back.

"Do I have to?" he says, not looking up.

"Well, yes. You do have to. I need to understand the problem." I say.

"It's not a problem." he says.

"It is a problem, Andrew. I cannot keep buying more and more tights. I'm not made of money." I say.

He takes the tights and opens the buttons on his jeans. He pulls his boxer shorts down with his jeans.

"Do I have to do this?" he asks.

"Yes, you do." I say, looking at how much his penis has grown.

"I pull them tight like this and then wrap them around, like this." he says, pulling the tights around the base of his cock and balls. My son's cock was limp. His cock is semi-erect now. It looks impressive. My pussy tightens as I watch my son's cock bounce around, bound by my tights.

"And then what do you do?" I ask, secretly hoping to see my son's cock erect in front of me.

"I stroke it." he says, looking up for the first time.

"Show me." I say, gesturing to my son to play with his dick in front of me.

It sounds perverse I shouldn't be provoking him like this but it feels right in the moment. It feels like the right mix of shaming. I want him to know it is not okay to steal my underwear. I also need him to know it is not okay to cum over my tights so they stick together.

"You want me to wank?" he asks.

"Yes. If that's what you do. Show me how you wank with your mother's tights around your cock."

"But you're my mother. Who wanks in front of their mother?" he asks.

"Naughty boys who use their mother's tights to masturbate?" I say, reminding him who is to blame here.

"I can't." he says.

"Can't? Or won't?" I ask.

"It feels weird." he says, twisting his face.

"Here, let me help."

"Mum!" he protests.

"What?" I ask.

"That's my cock you're touching."

"I'm getting you off. Don't you want to cum for me? Isn't that what you want when you play with my tights?" I ask.

"What do you mean?" he says.

"You must want me to play with your cock. You use my tights." I say, pointing to my tights around his cock and balls.

"I know, but..." he says, unable to finish his thought.

"There's no 'buts'. You masturbate using my tights. You must want your mother's pussy."

"Mum!" he says, shocked at the language I use.

"It's true." I say, pulling my dress up and shoving my hand down the front of my panties. "This is what you want. You want your mother's cunt. Admit it."

I wave my fingers under his nose for a second while he smells my scent.

"Let's get this out of the way, once and for all." I say, pulling my panties down and stepping out of them.

"Slide that cock in here." I say, bending over a stool in front of the breakfast bar.

I reach between my thighs and spread the folds of my cunt so Andrew can see his mother's soaking fuck-hole.

"Slide it in." I say, wiggling my arse and pulling him by the hand. "Come and fuck your mother."

"Are you sure?" he asks, his dick like a flag pole.

"Come on. Fuck your mother. Let's get this out of your system."

My son's hands take my hips as the tip of his cock nudges my slit.

"That's it. Just like that. Now push it in. Nice and slow." I say, guiding him inside me.

My instinct tells me this is taboo. My cunt tells me to keep going.

"I want you to savour enjoy every inch of that cock sliding inside your Mother's wet pussy. Can you feel how wet Mother's pussy is?" I ask.

"Yes. So good." he says, through clenched teeth.

"Isn't this better than sniffing my tights?" I ask.

"It is. So much better. Thank you." he says.

"You're welcome. See what you get when you ask?" I say.

His words turn to grunts as his pace speeds up. His grip on my hips tightens.

"Is Mother's pussy nice and tight for you?" I say, knowing my words will make him spill his seed inside me soon.

No reply. His thrusts take on an urgency as I wind him up.

"I bet you could fuck your Mother two or three times a day if I let you."

The stool rocks under me. My cunt tightens. I am on the verge.

"Fill your Mother's cunt with your hot seed!" I demand, bucking hard against his dick.

His grip tightens. He freezes for a moment. He thrusts. He freezes again. I rub my clit hard and cum all over my son's cock.

Cum spills from my mature cunt. My son's seed trickles down the inside of my thigh. My son bred his own Mother, here in our kitchen.

I look at him. There is no going back on this. We have to accept it.

---

"Does this mean every pair of tights I put in the laundry hamper, will stay there?" I ask as Andrew pulls his jeans up.

"Maybe. Or maybe I will need to use them again." he says.

"What do you mean? You've had the real thing now." I say, holding up the cum-soaked wad of kitchen roll I used to wipe between my legs.

"I mean, maybe I need the real thing more often now." he says.

Something in his manner tells me he expects full sex from now on.

"No way!" I say. "That was a one time offer. It was a lesson. That's it. No more."

"So I can use your tights again?" he asks.

I see what he is doing. I sigh. There is only one way out of this.

"Same time tomorrow?" I ask.

"That would be perfect. Thank you."

So, there's the story about how my wicked son got his way!

Thank you for reading. I really hope you enjoyed it.

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I wrote this story to post here on Literotica. If you see it published anywhere else, I would be grateful if you let me know.