Lost and Found

A sort of homage to jvalet45 and pilot4029, I guess. Usual contents apply: femdom, mind control, people saying "mommy", some leg/foot stuff. If that's not your cup of tea, then somebody served you mine by accident. Give it back!

*****

"Hey!" Tom's sneakers crunched on the asphalt as he galloped down towards the retreating figure. "Hey, wait! You dropped this!" For an old lady, she sure could move, he thought, feet pounding against the pavement. Her grey curls were wild, bobbing gently while she made her way out of the parking lot.

"Jeez, stop already!" He shouted. "You dropped something!" On the sidewalk, she stopped, and turned. Tom skidded to a halt, arrested in the heterochromatic gaze burning gently under her grey curls.

"Yes?" She asked, her voice inflected by an accent the college track star couldn't place.

"Sorry," he said, brushing his brown hair out of his eyes. "You dropped this, ma'am." He proffered a cellophane-wrapped rectangle. Her weathered features split into a grin, revealing a brilliant white smile.

"Thank you." She took the package from him, inspecting it for a moment, then handing it back. "But it's not mine."

"What?" Confusion marred Tom's otherwise-fine features as he took it back. "I'm sure it's yours, I saw you drop it outside the store."

"Not mine," she repeated, curls bouncing. "See, it's pantyhose." The old woman tapped the package. "I don't wear 'em." To prove her statement, she reached down and hiked up the hem of her skirt, revealing bare, skinny chicken legs that fed down into an ancient pair of Birkenstocks. "No hose." The skirt dropped again. "Are you sure they're not yours?"

"Mine?" Tom was taken aback. "No, I don't wear- I mean, mom sent me down to buy- I mean, she's gotta go to work and she asked me to-"

"Thank you." Warm fingers reached up to caress his cheek. "You are a very good boy. I'm sure you'll make your momma very happy."

"What?" He said. "Listen, are you sure-"

"Aren't you late?" The old woman asked.

"What? I-" Tom glanced down at his watch. 8:19. Fuck! His mom was waiting for him back at the house; he was probably going to make her late for work. Desperately he looked back at the drugstore, then back at his watch, then down at the package in his hand. He poked his nose in the opened end. They *looked* black, anyway. That would have to do.

"Fuck. Fuck! I've got to go! Bye!" With a wave, Tom was off again like a shot, galloping back towards the house. If these things turned out to be the wrong size or color or whatever, she'd just have to deal.

--

Amanda Werner checked her watch for the tenth time in as many minutes, tapping her foot impatiently. She never should have sent him. She should have just gotten in the car and gone herself and been late or just sucked it up and gone without. But he'd been so damn eager to please, hadn't he?

"He must be angling for something." She said to herself, checking her watch again. The car, probably. Home between semesters, Tom didn't have transport and had taken to borrowing hers at every opportunity; after finding a third used condom underneath the driver's seat, she'd put a pretty quick stop to that, but that didn't stop him asking, wheedling, bargaining or buttering her up like earlier.

"I don't know why he didn't just drive." Amanda paced back and forth. "He doesn't actually *have* to run everywhere." Now she was stuck waiting. She probably *could* leave, but didn't know if he had his house key, and didn't want to lock the kid out.

"It's not *that* far," she said, checking her watch again. Then there was a clatter downstairs as somebody blew through the front door; heavy feet thudded up the stairs.

"Got 'em!" Her son shouted as he reached the top. "I got 'em, mom! Here!" He thrust a package into her waiting hands.

Amanda turned it over. "This isn't my usual brand. There's nothing on this. Did you even get the right size?"

Tom shrugged. "I just asked the lady at the store. She gave 'em to me."

She pulled them out of the package. Black nylon hung limp from her fist. "Well, they're the right colour, anyway." He was watching her, expectant. "Thank you." She said, then drew herself up to her full five-foot-nothing height and looked up into her tall, lanky son's hazel eyes. "Get out so I can put these on, will you?"

"Shit! Sorry mom, sorry." Tom wheeled around and clomped down the stairs. She shut the door behind him, and sat down on her bed. Amanda stuck one hand inside the hose and stretched out her fingers; they looked like mid-denier opaques with just a hint of sheen and-

"What the hell?" She bent close to her hand. In the weave of the fabric, there appeared to be a subtle, winding pattern, almost like snakeskin. It was barely visible, but definitely there. She huffed. There was no way the old bag at the office would let her get away with patterned damn hose. She closed her eyes and imagined the snide, barely-heard comments about side-stepping dress code and a certain local manager's upcoming promotion. But going without would be worse. Amanda flexed her fingers in the hose experimentally; they *felt* good, anyway. Better than her usual cheap l'eggs stuff. Much better.

8:34, read the clock. Fuck it, she decided, easing one foot into the waistband of the hose. A shiver ran through her body. Whoa. They felt even better going on; as she drew them up her leg, Amanda felt as though the nerve endings in her skin were coming alive for the first time.

"Holy shit," she muttered, pulling them up over her thighs and pert little butt. As the waistband snapped into place, a tiny gasp escaped her mouth. Amanda looked at herself in the mirror. At her diminutive height, her legs weren't long, but they had been sculpted through a tireless regime of morning runs and yoga. They looked great even on a normal day, but today they looked spectacular. She flexed one leg, turning this way and that. There was a slight glimmer in the morning light, and she could have sworn she saw something, the pattern crawling up her toned thigh. Now it was gone.

She shook her head, brushed her auburn hair out of her eyes, slipped into a pair of black flats and down the stairs.

In the kitchen, Tom was bent low over a bowl of Cheerios, reading the sports page.

"Hey," she said. "I told you *plain* black pantyhose. These are patterned or something."

"Sorry mom." Milk dropped out of his mouth to splatter in the bowl.

"Can you see it?" She asked. "Is it obvious? Look at me!" Amanda extended one shapely leg toward her son. He glanced up from his cereal, or tried to, as his gaze locked on his mother's leg. Amanda watched as his eyes lost focus for a moment. "Hey, wake up! Can you see anything?" She waggled her leg back and forth. The subtle sheen glimmered.

"Uh," he said, vaguely. "No?"

"You're sure?" She said again; she could have sworn she *just* saw the pattern shimmering along her calf.

"Yeah," Tom replied, not looking away. "I'm sure."

"Good." Amanda straightened up, adjusting her modest, below-the-knee skirt. Tom's face still a little far away. She looked around the kitchen, where stacks of discarded bowls and spoons and spilt milk greeted her. "I'm out of here. Try to clean this up, will you? And wake up, for god's sake!"

"Sure, yeah sure." Tom said, then he seemed to wake up. He blinked, sat up straight, then: "hey mom, if it's alright, I was wondering if I could borrow the car Sat-"

The front door banged shut. She was already gone.

--

Work turned out to be pretty good that day. If anybody noticed the pattern in her hose, nobody mentioned it, not even that old bag at the top. In fact, if anything, everybody seemed just a little bit nicer to her, just a little bit more willing to accede to her requests. She really would have gotten a lot accomplished if she hadn't been so distracted. It wasn't her fault, really. It just so happened that every time she sat down in her office, her thighs would rub together with that delicious swish, and the sensation of nylon on nylon would send a little thrill up through her; so she'd rub them together again, just a little, and that wonderful woken-nerve-ending feeling would ripple up and down her legs, from her toes on up to her thighs. Next thing she knew, fifteen minutes would pass and there she'd be, just rubbing her legs together.

They just felt so *good*! Amanda couldn't help herself; and it's not as if she had missed anything she couldn't catch up on tomorrow.

She was in a happy daze when she got home, coming in through the front door, not hearing Tom's shouted greeting as she leapt up the stairs. Really, she it was almost *too* happy a daze; she realized, coming in through her bedroom door. There must be something going on with the pantyhose.

Amanda kicked off her flats, and stood in front of the mirror again. She turned her leg back and forth, watching the subtle gleam. The 43-year old mom lifted up the hem of her skirt, raising it up until it was dancing around her thighs, and watching herself in the glass. Her legs shimmered and there- was that it? Was that the pattern, crawling behind her knee? She turned, as the gleam twisted around her thigh, heading upwards. Her hem followed.

"Hey mom, I wanted to-" Tom walked in through the door. Amanda scowled at herself in the mirror. Not at her legs, though. They looked even better now than they had this morning, all wrapped up in their clingy nylon, dark fabric shadowing every hollow and curve of her stems. Tom's mom perched up on her tiptoes, watching the muscles bunch. Maybe heels tomorrow?

"I didn't thank you for getting me these this morning," she said, turning this way and that. "They're not what I asked for, but they're great. *Really* nice. So, thank you. You're a good boy, Tom."

"I know," he said, distantly. "That's what the lady sa-"

Another gleam around the tops of her thighs.

"Do you really not see that?" No answer from Tom. "I mean, *I* can see it, but nobody else-" Amanda glanced over at her son, who was staring at the mirror, eyes slightly glazed. "Tom! Wake up." She let the hem of her skirt drop. Tom blinked once, slowly, shaking his head.

"Sorry mom, just tired I guess." He said, coming back to life.

"Did you clean up the kitchen like I asked?" Her voice was stern but soft.

"Hm?" His eyes focused on hers. "Oh yeah, yup. All done."

"Good," she said, pleased surprise breaking through her stern facade. "Did you have something you wanted to ask in return?"

"No, I don't think so," he shook his head. "Just...just happy to do it for you." He blinked.

"You're sure?" Amanda asked, confused.

"Yeah, I'm sure." He smiled.

"Uh okay," she said. "Well, keep up the good work, and maybe you can use my car again. Now, you head on down, and I'll come start dinner, okay?"

"Sure thing, mom!" Tom enthused, clomping on back down the stairs.

Amanda turned back to the mirror. Had he been staring at her legs? Her thighs rubbed together, sending a little frisson of pleasure up her spine. No, it couldn't be. He was just, tired or something, pent up after she'd cut him off from getting the car. That had probably put a pretty serious kink in his sex life. That must be it.

She looked down at her feet, wiggling her toes in their cobwebby wrap. Maybe it was time to paint them again.

--

When Tom woke up the next morning, it was from a fitful night's sleep of half-forgotten dreams. The harder he tried to remember the details, the faster he forgot them, though he definitely remembered something silky and gauzy and warm against his face. There had been a woman there too, right? A woman's voice, anyway, whispering something, telling him he was a good- a good- it was gone in the morning light.

What wasn't gone was the enormous erection he'd woken up with. Lying in his bed, Tom looked down at the massive tentpole in his sheets. At 20 years old, he was not unfamiliar with the experience of waking up with morning wood, but he'd never seen it quite like this before. Keeping a weather eye on the door, he let his fist wrap around the throbbing meat, and began to gently stroke it. It must have been a hell of a dream, he decided, fist sliding up the sensitive shaft, trying to remember what it had been about. There had been a woman, he knew, a woman who had- a woman who-

Down the hall, there was a crash. Tom squeezed his shaft and tried to ignore it.

"Fuck! Damn, fuck!" His mom shouted. "Tom!"

Gritting his teeth, the young athlete sprang out of bed, yanked on the nearest pair of shorts, and padded down the hall to his mother's bedroom.

When he walked in, Amanda was sitting on the edge of her bed, holding her left leg tightly. She was wearing the pantyhose he'd "bought" her yesterday, her right leg stuck straight out, bare toes wriggling in discomfort. She'd painted them red, he noticed.

"Um," he said, carefully. "Mom?"

"Goddamn that hurt like a sonofabitch," she complained, then unfolded her knitted hands. Underneath, a laddered run in the nylon scored her shin, revealing a scarlet mark where she'd barked it against something. Amanda extended her left leg, surveying the damage. "Fuck," she muttered under her breath. "Another pair gone. Goddamnit I *liked* those." Looking up, she caught Tom's distracted gaze. He was looking straight down at her legs, his sculpted bare chest heaving.

"Tom," she began. "I'm going to have to ask you to run back to the store, honey." Without thinking, Amanda stood, hiking her skirt up and hooking her thumbs in the waistband of the hose. She turned her back to her son as she wriggled them down her thighs to kick them off her foot.

Tom got a good long look at the black cotton briefs that were wrapped tightly around his mother's pert buttocks, cradling those tight little spheres, before he realized he should be looking away. Blushing hotly, he looked straight down at the carpet, where her scarlet toenails dug deep into the thick pile. He was suddenly very aware that his morning wood hadn't really gone anywhere, and jammed his hand in the pocket of his shorts to grab the shaft and keep it under control.

"Throw these away before you go, will you?" She said, holding them out. "Hang on. I'll get the pack-" Tom took the wad of black nylon while his mother scooped the discarded package they'd come in off the floor. "Put 'em in here and just chuck it-" Amanda looked inside the pack, then looked again.

"What the hell?" She said, wondering. Tom watched as she pulled another wad of nylon from the depths of the packaging; they were a smoky grey, this time. Amanda tossed the package on the bed, and unrolled them. A smile spread over her features as she slid a hand inside, feeling the fabric. "I guess they were tucked away in the corner."

"I...guess?" Tom said, not sure it was the right time to tell her how he'd gotten them in the first place. His fingers absently worked the discarded pantyhose in his fist.

Amanda thought for a moment. "Okay, I can work with this." She shrugged her suit jacket off and began to quickly unbutton her blouse. Suddenly remembering her son was in the room, she addressed him. "You can go. I'm getting dressed."

"Yeah, yeah," Tom said, backing up a step. "Obviously. I'm not hanging around for that. Pfft. Did you still want me to, uh-" he held up the old pair.

"Chuck 'em," his mom said with a dismissive shake of her head. She opened her closet and pulled out a red skirt.

'Yup, sure." Tom stuffed the pantyhose into his other pocket and backed away. He shut the door behind him. In his shorts, his hand hadn't let go of his cock; the whole time he'd been in her room, it hadn't flagged an inch. Feeling the head rubbing gently against his thigh, Tom made a snap decision and ducked into his own bedroom.

Before the knob had even clicked, he was lying on his own bed, one hand inside his shorts, furiously working his swollen member. Tom grunted, and lifted his ass off the mattress, wriggling the gym shorts down his legs to his knees, kicking them off. As he did, Amanda's pantyhose fell out onto his stomach, landing between his rigid pectoral muscles. Tom stared at the empty, reinforced toe of them as they unrolled, one long black leg unfurling across his stomach and onto the bed.

He froze. The toe lay just at the apex of his sternum. If he craned his head down, he'd be able to kiss the-

Tom shook his head. What was he thinking? The image of his mother's red toenails, all wrapped up in nylon flashed across his vision. Tom blinked, then wriggled a little, trying to get the pantyhose to fall off all on its own. The nylon was warm. Up close like this, Tom realized that he could *almost* see a pattern in them, like snakeskin almost. He shuffled a little, and the nylon glimmered in the sunlight pouring in through his window. He stared a moment, watching the light dance, eyes trying to trace the pattern as it snaked away from his vision. Meanwhile, the pantyhose refused to dislodge.

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.