Seven

Seven by Michele Nylons

Day 1: Sloth

The first day of Michele's terrible ordeal was triggered by the simple fact that she forgot her son's fifteenth birthday. Her son Mike was used to being neglected; he was born to his mother in her twenty-fifth year, fathered by a stranger, and totally unwanted. Michele would have aborted him if she could; but she had grudgingly given birth to her son and kept the baby only because of family pressure on her not to adopt him out.

Michele predominantly ignored Mike from the moment he was born; she tolerated his presence like someone might tolerate a pet they no longer loved but didn't have the heart to put down. She fed and clothed him, paid his school fees and gave him pocket money but that was the full extent of her nurturing.

As a baby Mike had a succession of nannies, they were really just local women who worked cheap; drunks and deserted wives with kids of their own. He received no loving there either. Once Mike entered school he was pretty much left to himself. He made his own way to and from school, made his own breakfast and lunch; and often his own dinner. After school and on weekends he was left to his own devices; his mother had no interest in how Mike progressed at school; she did not attend parent teacher meetings or school functions and she counted the days until Mike would finish his education, get a job, and move out.

In his early his teens Mike bought a dog which he named Sultan. The dog loved him and showed him the devotion that was lacking from his mother. Mike tried to love Sultan in return; but as he had no real concept of what love was; Mike treated Sultan the same way that he was treated by his mother. He fed the dog and bathed him when he needed it but other than the odd pat on the head the dog was neglected.

Michele grudgingly took her son along on the few family gatherings that she bothered to attend; Mike would mostly just sit quietly and obediently; smiling occasionally when spoken to. Everyone thought him well mannered and well behaved. Mike received a few Christmas presents every year and he would open them sitting under the tree on his own whilst his mother sat on the lounge drinking coffee laced with rum.

His birthdays were different; every birthday until his fifteenth, Michele had made the effort to buy him a cake and place the requisite amount of candles on it. She would light the candles and he would blow them out and she would give him a hug and a kiss and hand him a little present.

Mike could give a fuck about the present; he craved the hug and the kiss. It was the only time his mother ever showed him affection. Mike knew that it was phoney affection but he loved being held against his mother's soft warm body, her breasts like pillows against his chest, enveloped in her perfume, the lingering taste of her lipstick from the single kiss she planted on his lips. He craved his annual allowance of affection and this year the bitch had forgot his birthday!!!

Michele worked as a legal secretary at Dewey, Cheatem and Howe; a medium sized law firm in the city. Just the wrong side of forty; Michele realised that she had reached the pinnacle of her career supervising three other legal secretaries preparing legal briefs for the lawyers; her hopes of climbing the corporate ladder long gone. When she first joined the firm she had dreams of continuing her law studies at night school and eventually getting a law degree. She watched the young, thin, female attorneys with envy; clattering around the office in their high-heels, elegantly dressed in business suits, sheer hosiery, perfect makeup and coiffured hair.

Michele never actually signed up for any legal courses; she spent most of her evenings and weekends with a succession of bad boyfriends or married men who promised to leave their wives, but never did. The men always promised her that they would help her career and ease her journey up the corporate ladder but their promises proved empty.

She modelled her appearance on the young attorneys; pencils skirts and jackets, pumps, hosiery, hair and makeup; but she didn't quite get it right. Her skirts were too short and too tight fitting and their kick-pleats showed too much thigh. Her jackets were also too tight and her blouses revealed too much cleavage. Her makeup was just a little too heavy, her lipstick and nailpolish too red; her heels and her hair too high. She wore too much perfume.

The other secretaries and female lawyers laughed at her behind her back because they knew she was trying to dress like a lawyer but she looked like a hooker. The men at the firm also laughed at her behind her back but; they lusted after her because of her looks and the way she dressed.

A lot of the firm's lawyers and business associates preyed on her, using her expectations of promotion and her naïveté to bed her and then drop her like a hot rock. She was sometimes passed around from man to man; always expecting to be treated better than the last time, to be loved and respected, but she received neither love nor respect. After nearly twenty years at the firm she had become a joke.

She still dressed the same; but her age was catching up with her. Her face, still attractive, was showing signs of wrinkles that no amount of Botox or makeup could hide. She found it difficult to stick to a regimen of exercise and strict diet and her buttocks had spread a little; she had become wider in the hips, and her once perky breasts now sagged. She still had great legs and a pretty face and the older lawyers occasionally asked her out; but the lavish champagne dinners at popular restaurants were a memory. Her dates now took her to dark dingy bars where they would not be seen by anyone they knew; and then on to a cheap hotel.

Michele was angry at the world and took her revenge where she could. She didn't really hate the men who used her; she was naïve, but not stupid, she knew what they wanted from her before she went out with them. She did however hate the female lawyers and legal secretaries who she knew laughed at her behind her back and ridiculed her; so she took out her vengeance on them. Her subordinates were treated with distain and were overly supervised; chastised for minor errors or omittances in their work and given little leniency or flexibility in their hours and routines.

Some of the female lawyers found subtle errors in briefs prepared by Michele's legal team; errors that could severely embarrass them in court. They could never directly attribute these errors to Michele; she proffered perfectly good excuses or blamed her subordinates for the errors. She was protected from retribution by the men in the firm whom she ensured received impeccable briefs and manuscript from her team; it also helped that most of the men had either fucked her or wanted to fuck her.

She also took out her frustrations on her son Mike. She blamed him for having to work to support him so she couldn't go to university full time to finish her degree. She blamed him for the men who used her but were not interested in a permanent relationship with a single mother. She blamed him for her perceived failure as a good daughter in the eyes of her mother and father because she had borne a bastard child. Michele blamed her son for everything in her life that she hated about herself.

She never beat him; she never berated him; she never neglected his health; she never deprived him of money. She just ignored him. Michele only spoke to him when necessary and Michele and Mike could go for weeks saying only a few words to each other. Most nights and weekends she left her son to his own devices whilst she pursued her own dreams and desires. Michele was grateful that Mike was well behaved and that he was very capable of looking after himself.

Michele blamed her son for her shitty life but she didn't hate him; she felt nothing for him; with the single exception of his birthday. For some reason she couldn't fathom; on his birthday she felt a bond with her son. She remembered the day he was born and she held him in her arms; his blue eyes staring lovingly up at his mother. It wasn't love that she felt for him on his birthday; it was sentimentality. It was the one day of the year that she could bear physical contact with her son. She hugged him; kissed him; smiled at him and gave him a present. And then the coldness returned.

Mike had grown up cold and alone; deprived of love and happiness he had learned to look after himself at a very young age and to love no one in return. He was intelligent and mature and adept at keeping up the appearance of normality. He lied to his teachers and his few friends and told them that his mother was a highly placed lawyer in a prestigious legal firm and was far too busy to come to school functions or community events.

He could forge her signature perfectly and he signed his own report cards and permission slips. He was a straight-A student and was probably the most well behaved boy in school so there was never any reason to summon his mother down to the school. Mike wrote his own notes explaining why his mother couldn't attend parent teacher meetings and signed them with his mother's signature. The teachers had enough on their plates without chasing up the mother of a well behaved proven academic; whatever the lawyer woman was doing at home it was working they thought. Besides she got to see his report cards and commendations so why bother a busy woman?

Mike was content with his life; he knew no other. He knew that his relationship his mother was the antithesis of the relationships that other kids had with their mother's, but he was resigned to live the life that providence had designed for him. In his own way, he thought, he had privileges that none of the other kids had.

He came and went as he pleased; did whatever liked, whenever he wanted to; he managed his own allowances; bought his own clothes; ate what he liked. So long as he stayed out of trouble his mother could care less what he did and when.

Mike was a good looking lad and was often approached by pretty young girls at his school; but their advances were politely but firmly turned down. Mike was in the throes of puberty and it was not that he was disinterested in sex or that he was gay. Far from it; Mike's hormones were raging and he thought constantly about sex. But not sex with young pretty cheerleaders or even with the young women who graced the pages of the sex magazines that his friends had stolen from their father's stash.

Mike could sit in class surrounded by young nymphettes showing off their legs, breasts and arses and not become aroused. His economics teacher, the youngest female teacher at the school, whose tight young body and pretty face provided most of his male classmate's with masturbatory fantasies, held little interest for him. One day she gave a whole lesson sitting perched on the edge of her desk unwittingly showing the V of her pretty pink panties between her sightly opened legs and every boy in the class had left the room with a boner. Every boy except Mike!

But Mike had the hots severely for his English teacher Ms Jones. Ms Jones was close to fifty but still attractive and she usually wore tight-fitting navy-blue or black skirts and suits, satin blouses, heavy makeup, hosiery and high heels. She had an hourglass figure but her buttocks were generous and her breasts large and soft. She had only to bend down to pick something up or to stretch up at the whiteboard causing the kick-pleat of her skirt to open and display a glimpse of silky slip or sheer-hosed thigh and Mike was instantly hard. Whenever Ms Jones came to his desk and looked over his shoulder at his work, her proximity and the smell of her perfume would produce in him an erection so hard that he would have to leave the class holding a book over his crotch to hide the bulge and wet spot at the front his pants.

At home, alone in his bedroom, Mike searched the internet for pornography, as did all boys his age; but Mike didn't search for naked nubile young girls being taken by young studs. His tastes were very specific; he searched for pictures of middle-aged women dressed in business clothes, uniforms or smart work attire. He didn't even like the stunning MILFs with their tanned and sculptured bodies; he wanted mature and attractive women who looked their age; a little worn, bodies starting to spread and sag with age; but dressed sophisticatedly.

Mike first started to enter puberty when he was about thirteen and it was then that he discovered the delights of the bathroom laundry basket. He would remove his mother's soiled clothing which had been infused with the odours of her body and traces of her perfume and, robbed of her touch and affection; he would hold her clothes against his body and inhale her scent and imagine his mother hugging him.

One evening, home alone and locked in the bathroom, he held one his mother's satin slips against his naked body and found that he had developed an erection. The slinky feel of the slip gliding softly over his erection and the scent of his mother's perfume invoked an involuntary but violent orgasm. After that he took to sneaking items of his mother's soiled clothing into his bed, masturbating into her lingerie whilst inhaling the aroma of her panties; sometimes he would even wear her lingerie while he sniffed and licked at the crotch of her soiled panties.

Mike developed his fetish over the years, surfing the internet and visiting online chatrooms where others shared his penchant for mature woman and obsession with their intimate clothing. Whenever his mother went away and left him alone for the weekend, which was quite often, he indulged in a special treat.

Mike would raid the laundry basket and return to his bedroom with his treasures and lock himself in. He would take a pair of mother's sheer-to-the waist pantyhose and stuff the legs with foam rubber or tissue paper to fill them out. Then he would then stuff a pillow into the top of the pantyhose so that they filled out to resemble the bottom of a human torso. He would then slide a pair of his mother's nylon or satin panties up the legs of the torso and adjust them over the panty part of the pantyhose and then dress the torso in one of him mother's slips and sometimes a skirt.

Mike would arrange images of mature women dressed in business suits and elegant and sophisticated clothing, posing provocatively or engaging in sex, along the wall at the top his bed. He would lie the torso down on the bed, propping it up with more pillows, and then hump away at the torso whilst looking at the pictures until he reached climax. By turning the torso over after each emission he could fuck the mannequin repeatedly over the course of the weekend.

Mike was careful to make sure that he washed his mother's clothing after he had used it for his masturbatory fantasies. His mother was a sloth and he was expected to take care of most of the chores around the house anyway and this included doing the washing.

When his mother was away from home Mike also explored his mother's lingerie drawers and her walk-in wardrobe and was excited to find some fetish clothing. He had never found any of this in the washing basket; his mother kept it secret. In her lingerie drawers he found packages of silk and nylon stockings, some with back-seams and reinforced heels and toes and an assortment of garter belts to hold them up. He found a couple of satin bustieres and corsets and even some crotchless panties and peek-a-boo bras. He had seen women dressed in lingerie like this on the internet and found them very arousing.

In her wardrobe he found a nurse's uniform made entirely of white satin with a ridiculously short hemline. He also found a black latex cat-suit fitted with a zippered crotch and nipple-holes. In a box at the back of the wardrobe he found two sets of handcuffs, a ball gag and other restraints.

As Mike got older he realised that his mother had many 'gentleman friends'; although she seldom bought them home. He began to comprehend that his mother was probably having sex with at least some of these men; and having found his mother's secret hoard of fetish clothing; he could understand why some men especially sought after his mother.

Mike did not really fantasise about his mother when he used her clothing for sexual gratification; he had a picture in his mind of a mature sexy sophisticate who dressed and smelt like his mother; but who was not actually his mother.

Forgetting Mike's birthday was the catalyst that triggered Michele's ordeal; but she was also, unknowingly, directly responsible for the way Mike decided to respond.

Because Michele treated her son as though he was invisible, she didn't care too much about how she conducted herself in his presence; nor was she especially aware that her son was maturing or that he had entered puberty.

Michele thought nothing of coming home from work and kicking off her heels and collapsing on the couch, her skirt hiked up showing off her nylon encased legs and sometimes her panties. On some evenings when she was getting ready for a date she wouldn't bother to finish dressing until the last minute so that her clothes remained fresh and unwrinkled and she would walk around the house in just hose, heels and slip; wearing her heavy makeup and jewellery, drinking wine and talking on phone.

One day Mike came into the kitchen and found her straddling a kitchen stool dressed just so; her legs spread wide showing off her pantied crotch. Mike stood at the door to the kitchen staring at his mother whilst she was oblivious to his presence. He took in her heavily made-up face; pretty but world-wary; his eyes drifted to her full creamy breasts stuffed into a red satin brassiere; then down to the small roll of tummy fat caused by the tight waistband of her black nylon slip.

Her slip had ridden up her legs and was bunched at her waist displaying her full-cut panties; the same red satin as her bra. The front panel of her panties was stretched tight and, through the diaphanous nylon of her pantyhose, a few wisps of pubic hair could be seen escaping the crotch of her panties. His mother's legs were clad in lustrous, sheer-to-the-waist, taupe pantyhose, and his eyes followed her legs down to her simple but elegant black high-heeled pumps; a silver chain glittered on one ankle.

As she prattled on into the phone, totally unaware of the presence of her son, she was smoothing the wrinkles out of her nylons; her long red fingernails contrasting magnificently against the sheer flesh-coloured hosiery. An empty wine glass sat on the counter and when she finally became of Mike's presence she picked up the glass and waved it at him; indicating dismissively for him to refill it. She didn't even bother to close her legs.

Mike refilled his mother's glass and then raced up to his bedroom and relieved himself into a pair of his mother's soiled panties.

Such displays were common; and Mike's fascination with mature women who looked and dressed like his mother grew proportionately.

And so the tension built until it exploded on Mike's fifteenth birthday. Mike spent all day at school thinking of nothing else but his birthday cake and his birthday present; but most of all he longed for his mother's birthday hug and kiss.

On Mike's birthday Michele had a lousy day at work and when she was finally finished for the day she was glad it was over. She walked to the darkened parking garage, her heels clattering on the cement floor, and looked through the window of her car. The boxes containing Mike's birthday cake and present sat on the back seat; she had gone to the mall at lunchtime to pick them up.

She climbed into the driver's seat, her tight skirt riding up her thighs, and was about to start the engine when someone rapped on the passenger-side window. It was Bill McGregor; a new partner at the firm. Michele smiled at him and punched the switch and the window slid down. She was a little surprised when he put his hand through the window and opened the door. Bill was a big man and had to squeeze himself into the passenger seat.

"What can I do for you Mister McGregor?" Michele asked; her eyebrows raised.

"Call me Bill please," he said "I wanted to talk to you; but I wanted to talk to you in private."

"Really; what about?" she replied.

"Well as you know I have recently joined the firm and have taken over as the office manager and one of my jobs is to supervise the legal secretaries,"

"Yes I know; I got the memo," Michele replied a little sarcastically.

She was in a hurry to get home and wanted Mr McGregor to get to the point.

Bill reddened; he looked furtively at Michele's exposed thighs and then looked nervously around the car park and went on.

"Well one of my duties as office manager is to enforce the dress code and I have to say Michele that your choice of clothing and makeup comes very close to breaking the code," he said somewhat nervously.

"And you needed to tell me this in the car park," Michele said; this time very cynically.

Bill reached over and put a sweaty hand on Michele's thigh and squeezed.

"See what I mean; your skirt is so short that it has ridden all the way up your thighs," he huffed, his face getting redder and beads of sweat breaking out on his brow.

Michele made no effort to remove Mr McGregor's hand from her thigh. She was naïve but not stupid and she knew what was really going on.

Bill McGregor was a fat balding married man in his early sixties; and now that he was the office manager he was her supervisor and he could make her job as easy or as hard as he wanted to. She was not unused to being coerced by the superiors of the firm. She only had herself to blame in some respects; her reputation as an easy lay had been built up over the years; submitting to men of wealth and power who promised plenty but delivered little. She decided to get this over with as quickly as possible.

"Ok Bill; I think we can resolve this issue to both of our satisfaction, but not tonight; I have to get to an important appointment," she said.

"Well I'm a busy man Michele, and as I am your superior so I think we should resolve this issue now," Bill replied, making every effort to exert his authority.

Bill began to stroke her thigh just below the hem of her navy blue skirt; in the silence of the car his sweaty fingers rasped on her sheer hose. Michele reached down and tried to remove Mr McGregor's hand but he gripped her thigh and leaned over and hissed in her ear.

"Don't play hard to get! I know all about you; so why don't we resolve this issue right here and right now and then we can forget all about your breach of the dress code!"

Michele had little time for Mr McGregor's foolish games; she had been at the firm too long and knew too many senior partners to be threatened by him.

"Come on Bill; I really have to get home, I'll call you tomorrow and we can make a date," Michele said sweetly, trying to be polite.

"Fuck tomorrow! You've been parading those legs and that arse around the office all week and I want my share!" Bill growled, getting angry now.

"Fuck off Bill! What do you think I am!" Michele responded indignantly.

"I know exactly what you are!" Bill said and squeezed the top of her thigh.

He groped at Michele's legs, running his fingers under her skirt and up and down her nylon encased thighs. Michele tried to slap his hand away but he was a big man and he put all his weight on one hand to hold her down in the seat while with his other hand he took her hand and forced into his lap.

Michele knew what the fat man wanted; a quick wank in the car park. Michele decided to let him have his way but not to make it too easy for him; she didn't want him to think that she was a pushover; but she did want to get home soon.

She could feel Bill's cock tenting the front of his trousers. He was panting and moaning and his face had become even redder; sweat streamed down his forehead and ran into his eyes. He let go of Michele's hand and opened his flies and freed his thick stubby cock.

"For fuck sake Bill let's get this over with shall we!" Michele sighed; finally exasperated.

She wrapped her fingers around Bill's penis and he moaned; pawing at her thighs with his free hand.

"If you ladder these fucking stockings Bill, you'll buy me a new pair!" she whined at him.

"Well pull them down love and they won't get ruined," Bill laughed.

"Just get out your hankie and have it ready please; I don't want my upholstery stained," Michele said smugly in reply.

Michele stroked Bill's hard stubby penis poking out of the front of his trousers, trying to get him to come as soon as possible. As one of his sweaty hands pawed at her under her skirt; the other hand fumbled in his suit jacket looking for his handkerchief.

Bill's fingers were now digging into her labia through the layers of her underwear and she squirmed down into the seat in discomfort. She wriggled around trying to get him to stop groping her but at the same time wanking away at his cock, trying to get him to orgasm quickly.

Then she felt his fingers tear through the gusset of her pantyhose and push aside her panties; grating against her outer labia lips. His fingers rubbed frantically, grinding at her dry cunt.

"Now you've ruined my fucking stockings and if you think that rubbing me with your fingers like that is in anyway enjoyable you're wrong," Michele said, becoming incensed at Bill's tenacity.

"Well I like it!" Bill laughed and dug his fingers deeper inside Michele's labia, probing at the entrance of her vagina.

"Oh fuck this!" Michele said, finally at the end of her endurance, "Take your fucking hand out of my panties and lie back and let's get this over with!"

She put her free hand under her skirt and was finally successful in removing Bill's hand out of her crotch as he lay back in the seat in anticipation of what was to come. Michele lifted herself up out of her seat and leaned over; difficult in the cramped car, until her face was in Bill's lap.

"Oh suck it Michele," Bill moaned; and he pushed down on Michele's face until she had no choice but to take his appendage into her mouth.

She sucked at Bill's cock, managing to take his entire stubby appendage into her mouth; her lips locked around the thick shaft leaving traces of her lipstick as she bobbed up and down. She alternated between flicking her tongue along his frenulum and suckling his glans. Michele was an accomplished fellatrix and Bill's wife had last blown him on their wedding night forty years ago so it didn't take him long to climax.

"Oh fuck Michele!!! Yes!!!! Yes!!! Yesssssssssss!!!! Bill moaned as he climaxed and forced Michele's face into his lap with both hands pushing on the back of her head.

Bill's cock exploded in her mouth and Michele swallowed his issue and continued to milk him with her lips and tongue. Michele was a pragmatist and she would rather swallow all of Bill's semen than have him spill any of it on her car's upholstery. She sucked him dry and licked him clean and then lifted her head out of his lap.

Bill, affecting a scintilla of gentlemanly behaviour, offered Michele his handkerchief. She wiped her mouth, and being a lady, she wiped Bill's slowly deflating penis clean with the hanky and then tucked his shrinking member away inside his trousers and zipped him up.

She lifted herself up in her seat and straightened out her underwear and pulled down the hem of her skirt.

"Fuck me Bill; you've ruined a pair of my best sheers," she complained as she saw the damage Bill had done to her pantyhose.

"Well let me make it up to you then," Bill said, mopping the sweat off his brow.

"How?" Michele asked indifferently as she pulled down the visor and began to repair her makeup in the mirror.

"How about dinner at Beethoven's?" Bill replied; a smile crossing his face.

Michele was surprised and flattered; Beethoven's was one of the best restaurants in town. It was the sort of place where she used to be wined and dined when she was younger and still had dreams of success.

"My wife's out of town so we can go and have dinner and if anyone sees us we can say it's a business meeting," Bill grinned.

Michele knew that she should say no and go home to her son and celebrate his birthday; but the offer of dinner at a swank restaurant with a big-shot lawyer was too tempting.

"Ok; an early dinner and then I have to go straight home," Michele replied.

As it turned out Michele could have saved herself from an ordeal, and from what turned out to be the worst dinner she'd ever had, by simply saying no. She spent the whole evening in a darkened booth at the rear of the restaurant trying to keep Mr McGregor's hands from under her skirt. He constantly pawed at her, continually complimenting her on her appearance in a futile effort to get her to capitulate and let him grope her.

Michele stayed too long and drank too much. Bill was frustrated; Michele continually thwarted in his efforts to grope at her under the table nor would she reciprocate and fondle him. As well as having to deal with Bill's constant pawing at her, he kept insisting that she go to a hotel with him after dinner.

The final straw came when she returned from the ladies a room, a little unsteady on her high-heels, to find that Mr McGregor had slipped his cock out of his pants and when she sat down he took her hand and tried to get her to fondle it under the tablecloth.

Michele gulped down her wine and abruptly stood up and walked out.

Meanwhile at home Mike was seething. His mother was a cold hearted bitch but she had always come home to celebrate his birthdays with him. He fumed and boiled with rage until he eventually snapped. The years of neglect and sexual tension took their toll and Mike coldly made plans to take his revenge.

Mike went up to his mother's bedroom and took the handcuffs, restraints and the ball gag from their hiding place in her closet and then went down to the basement.

The basement of their house was used as a rumpus room, it was carpeted, insulated, and was connected to the central air and heating systems. There was a large screen TV and a DVD player, an old couch and two overstuffed lounge chairs; and on a desk in the corner, an old HP computer with dial-up internet. Other than his bedroom; this was the room in which Mike spent most of his time; his mother happy to have him out from under her feet and Mike happy to be away from her abject neglect.

He made some special preparations in the rumpus room; turned on a reading lamp and turned off the ceiling lights; then he went upstairs and turned out all of the lights in the hallway and the adjoining rooms. He sat in the gloom; the only light in the hallway provided by the dim light escaping from the open door to the basement. Mike had made a sap by filling one of his socks with sand and he sat there in the dark and pounded the sap against his palm; refining his plan and waiting for his mother to come home.

Michele parked her car in the driveway; she was intoxicated from the wine that she had drunk at dinner and she had to concentrate carefully on the road during the drive home. She was still seething with indignity; it was bad enough that Mr McGregor had forced her to wank him off in the car park; but the dinner had been a disaster.

She tottered drunkenly on her high heels to the front door, completely forgetting about Mike's birthday cake and his birthday present sitting on the back seat of her car. Mike's birthday was the furthest thing from her mind at the moment. She unlocked the front door and entered the hall; she noticed that hallway lights were out and she was reaching out for the light switch; then she suddenly lost consciousness as Mike bought the sap down on the back of her head.

Mike struggled with his mother's limp body but eventually he had her where he wanted her down in the basement. Mike went upstairs and ensured that all of the windows and doors were locked and the lights out. He rushed back downstairs, and after a while he had his mother arranged exactly how he wanted her. He was sweating with the exertion of having to manipulate his mother's body and when he had finished he stripped off his clothes and surveyed his handiwork

Michele's body sagged against one of the basement walls her wrists manacled to an exposed overhead water pipe, her legs spread wide and her ankles tied to a weight lifting bar that Mike had long ago stopped using but now came in handy. Her head lolled forward and Mike stepped forward and raised her face; her heavy makeup was smeared and she reeked of booze and cigarette smoke but a feint trace of her perfume still pervaded his nostrils. He kissed his mother on the mouth; forcing his tongue into her slack mouth.

"Happy birthday to me; mommy!" Mike murmured, and then stepped back to look at his mother.

Her hair was mussed and her lipstick smudged; her suit jacket was open and her cream-coloured satin blouse had come out of the front of her skirt which had ridden up her thighs when he'd carried her down the stairs. Her legs were stretched wide, causing her navy blue skirt to ride further up her legs and the kick-pleat to open up obscenely displaying her thighs. Michele's ankles were tied to the weight lifting bar; her high-heels rested on the floor but because she was unconscious most of her weight was taken on her wrists.

Mike gradually became aware that he had developed an erection whilst look at his mother's trussed body. He looked down at his tumescent member, the glans red and angry and dripping clear pre-seminal fluid, the shaft long, thick and veiny. He idly stroked it as he looked at his mother tied up against the wall.

He stepped forward and again kissed his mother's unresponsive lips; he lifted her skirt and rubbed his cock up and down against her pubis through her panties. The feeling was exquisite and he felt his orgasm approaching. He tucked the hem of her skirt into the waistband exposing his mother's body up to her waist. He noticed the hole that Bill McGregor had torn in the crotch of her pantyhose and sneered.

Mike took a step back and wanked furiously at his throbbing member and just as a climactic convulsion shook his body he saw his mother's eye's open.

Michele screamed as her son ejaculated over her supine body. His sperm scalded her legs; ropes of creamy hot semen soaked her red satin panties and nylon encased thighs. Mike shuddered and groaned and another stream of warm semen splashed over his mother's body and legs, splattering her satin blouse, dripping down her skirt and soaking into her stockings and panties.

Michele screamed again and Mike smiled.

This was going to be fun!

To be continued

Please donate to Nifty so that they can keep these stories coming: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

Michele Nylons

michelenylons@msn.com