Amanda’s body jerked its way through orgasm, electric shocks coursing through her limbs, leaving behind an irresistible lassitude that ended in her crumpling helplessly to the bed. Too exhausted to move, she let sleep take her, but it couldn’t take the smile from her face.
She fell into unconsciousness even before she could hear a door quietly shut further down the hall.
—
Amanda awoke early the next morning from a night of pleasantly sexual dreams. Big Jim slid easily out of her as she stirred, cycling her hosed legs in the sheets. The pink plastic glistened and dripped in the morning light and she idly considered sliding him back in again to go another round; but the batteries were dead, she found, twisting the base this way and that.
Oh well. That would have to be a trip to the store later. Amanda sat up, crossing her legs, letting her fingers toy idly with her still-slippery though achy labia. She glanced at the clock; it was way too late for a run, now.
With a sigh, Amanda unfolded herself and stood up, stretching, pushing her milky mature tits up and out. Padding into her ensuite bathroom, she cranked open the shower faucet. It was with great reluctance that she stepped out of her hose, letting them fall to the floor, but there was really no way to wear them to work. Under pants, maybe, but then there’d be no way to show them off, to let Brad/Chad ogle her electric blue legs, invite him back to her office for a little lunchtime meeting.
No, it’d have to be the grey ones again, she decided, towelling her hair. Maybe a shorter skirt this time?
Striding out into her bedroom, Amanda tossed the last night’s pantyhose onto the bed, and looked around for the grey pair. They were nowhere to be seen. Not on the bed, not next to it on the floor, not under it. She couldn’t remember actually putting them away, but she picked up the packaging anyway, and peeked inside.
As before, something dark was tucked away in the corner.
“This is getting ridiculous,” she muttered, pulling out the scrap of fabric. “Where did that kid even get this thing?” It turned out there were two scraps of silky black nylon inside; stockings. Sheer black. Stayups.
—
Tom rolled over out of sleep when his mother shook him.
“Good morning, lazybones.” She said, smiling gently down at him. Her auburn curls glowed in the sunlight. He just stared, dumbly, into her face for a long moment. Heat rose in his face.
“Um, hi.” He said, cautious. “What, uh, what’s up?”
“Tom,” Amanda folded her hands in her lap and crossed her legs. He sat up a little, suddenly aware that she was wearing and abbreviated, black cotton jersey mini dress, a cocktail dress that had been re-appropriated as workwear with the addition of a white cardigan draped across her shoulders. The cotton jersey lovingly flowed through his mother’s tightly packed curves, but his eye was drawn to the retreating border of her skirt as it crawled alarmingly high up her nylon clad leg. The silky fabric was smooth and sheer and black and Tom thought he could see a hint of a darker black band just peeping out from underneath her hem. His fingers flexed under the bedsheet. “We need to talk about something.”