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Logan Adams
Logan Adams

Mom Caught Me Looking Up Her Skirt


Mom had to dress appropriately for her job; a strict dress code was enforced. As a legal secretary she was required to wear a suit or a skirt-blouse-blazer combination, heels and hosiery; this was the Seventies so pantsuits were forbidden for professional women, skirts were short and makeup was heavy. Pantyhose had replaced stockings for most women, and although a lot of men complained, women liked the convenience of pantyhose and I liked the look of sheer nylon encasing a woman's legs up to the very top of her thighs.




Mom Caught Me Looking Up Her Skirt



Sometimes Mom was so tired she didn't even bother to take off her jacket or high-heels. Inevitably she would be lying on the lounge snoring within a few minutes of getting home from work, and inevitably her skirt would ride up. I would sit across from her for hours looking up her skirt at her nylon encased legs, the gossamer hose stretched taut around her fat thighs. Sometimes she would get uncomfortable or agitated and fumble around on the couch until she was comfortable again and her skirt would ride right up so high on her hips that I had an unobstructed view of her pantyhosed legs and knickers.


I was late reaching pubity and had only just started to get erections; the erections mostly came on when I looked up mommy's skirt as she lay snoring on the lounge. I didn't know what was going on with me; and as I didn't have a Dad and was a loner at school, I had no one to talk to about sex. I decided to ask my sister if she knew what was happening to me. She was a year older than me and worked at K-Mar. K-Mart had a dress code and she wore short A-line skirts and pantyhose to work every day. She was lying on her bed reading some inane teen girl magazine when I went in to her room to ask her about these strange feelings I was getting, and about this strange thing that kept happening to my penis. Her skirt had ridden up and I could see her hosed thighs and the Vee of her panties; I stood there mesmerised by the sight; an erection growing in my pants. She saw me looking up her skirt and picked up the nearest thing at hand and threw it at me telling me that I was disgusting; just like all the boys that she knew, and to get out of her room.


My cock was now throbbing and I lowered the pantyhose back down to it. I opened the hose and pulled one leg over my cock and started to slowly rub the fabric against my erection. The feeling of the gossamer nylon of my sister's pantyhose on the nerve endings of my erect member was wonderful. With my left hand I gathered up the rest of the silky garment and began to slowly massage my scrotum. My thoughts drifted to the sight of my sister lying on the bed with her skirt rucked up; and then suddenly my thoughts shifted and I locked onto a scene from last night; my mother lying on the couch with her skirt hitched high up on her thighs. As I slid the diaphanous hosiery up and down my cock I imagined that I was sliding my cock up and down my mother's silken encased calves.


And so it went for the next few months; Mom's arse got wider and her thighs got fatter but she still wore those business suits with the short skirts, nylons and high-heels and far too much makeup. On the rare occasion that she spoke to me or we had anything like intimate contact (a birthday hug or pat on the head for passing an exam) she reeked of cheap perfume and cigarette smoke. She was doing it tough; I knew that. Sometimes I would listen to her talking on the phone to my aunt; telling her about how hard she worked and how the guys at work hit on her because she was a divorcee. She hinted that she might have given in to one or two of the senior partners in the firm to try and advance her career but she stayed in the same shitty job, working the same shitty hours, getting the same shitty wage.


And most evenings I would sit in the same shitty chair looking up her skirt as she snored on the couch, having fallen asleep in front of re-runs of American TV shows such as Star Trek or Sonny and Cher or BBC offerings such as Thunderbirds or The Avengers. I had no time for such inane distractions as they flickered on our small black and white TV; I stared in concentration at my mother's nylon encased legs, examining how her hose wrinkled behind her knees; staring at her painted toenails eclipsed by the reinforced toes of her pantyhose; at how the nylon stretched taut around her heavy thighs an