With a grimace, he gingerly plucked at a fold with thumb and forefinger. Despite himself, Tom rubbed the fabric between the pads of his fingers. The nylon glimmered. It was smooth. Very smooth. He rubbed it around and around, enjoying the swishing sound. No wonder his mom liked wearing them so much, he thought, other fist still idly pumping his cock.
Tom slid them around his fingers, drawing more and more of his hand into the nylon web. His fingertips tingled, almost as if the nerve endings were waking up for the first time.
“It’s so soft,” he said quietly as the nylons sizzled in his fingertips. “So soft, so smooth.” Tom’s gaze fell on his own cock, rampant and thick and leaking in his fist.
No. No, he couldn’t, could he? How wrong would that be? The nylon glimmered. Tom glanced at the door. It was still closed.
With trembling hands, he released the shaft and reached down to grab the leg of his mother’s pantyhose that had rolled off to the side, sliding his fingers into the hole revealed by the run. As his arm slid into the lower end of the nylon, the skin woke up, tingling and electric with the sensation. He wriggled his fingers, experimentally, watching them stretch it out. Suddenly, he was struck by how much it seemed like the gauzy blackness from his dreams.
Tom’s cock surged in his fist as he wrapped his hose-coated fingers around it, and he had to suppress a groan as he gave it an experimental pump.
“Ffuck,” he grunted. He’d never felt anything quite like it. Sliding it up the shaft, he circled his fist around the head and made an incoherent noise deep in his throat as the nylon caressed the flared tip. Topping the shaft, he spread his fingers wide and allowed the fabric to cast a wide, silky net across the head.
“Ungh,” he said, hips pumping involuntarily upwards, fucking into the pantyhose, stretching it out, making it glimmer in the light. The pattern flashed momentarily, circling the head, just as it had circled his mother’s thigh the day before. Tom closed his eyes, and all he could see was the pattern, flashing along her thigh, circling her taut, firm flesh before it slid downwards, behind her knee, across her calf. Tom’s hand did likewise, a marionette limb caught in the pantyhose. He watched her stand on her tiptoes, calves bunching, soft little feet arching; he had to stifle a gasp.
Fucking faster into the nylon web, Tom opened his eyes to see the empty toe of the other leg, still somehow on his sternum, staring at him accusingly. The nylon was empty but only a few minutes before his mother’s toes had been in there, wiggling, red-nailed. He licked his lips. They had been so bright, like cherries. The pattern glimmered; seconds later the nylon was trapped between Tom’s lips as he fucked himself into the pantyhose, stretching it beyond any reasonable expectation of its tensile strength.
“Honey?” The door opened a crack. Tom looked over, face panic stricken as he saw his mother appear in the doorway. Amanda had changed into a crisp white blouse with an extra button undone to reveal a tasteful hint of her lightly-freckled cleavage, and a tight red pencil skirt that emphasized her diminutive waist and the swing of her hips. She carried a pair of dark red heels in one hand. The smoky grey nylons were sheer and shimmery in the light, and her toes wriggled once, in surprise at discovering the tableau laid across her son’s bed.