NEW: Mommy's Bottom Drawer [cd,femdom] 1/5
Pervitron
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NOTES:
1. Copyright (c) June 1999.
2. The persons and situations depicted in this story
are entirely fictitious. Any similarities to actual
persons or situations are completely unintentional and
coincidental.
3. Reader comments and feedback are always encouraged;
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4. This story may be copied for free distribution,
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Mommy's Bottom Drawer
By Pervitron
The door closed behind her. Dad and I sat in silence a while,
watching TV, waiting for the minutes to tick off, until it was
safe to go about our business. I'd let him go first, I knew he'd
be off to the basement any second now and that he'd be down there
for about an hour. I hadn't learned yet exactly what he did down
there, but I knew it was important - important enough to defer
the chores my mother had assigned him on her way out the door.
This was a typical weekend afternoon. Before Mom left to go
shopping, she stood there with her hand on the door knob, looking
around the house and telling him what needed to be done. He sat
in his chair and wrote down each task: dust, clean the oven, two
loads of laundry, and scrub the bathroom floor. Whatever popped
into her head. He was given a lot to do, but I knew he'd take his
hour downstairs anyway. Do what he needed to and then come
upstairs, and rush around breathless the rest of the afternoon,
catching up just in time.
I didn't know exactly what he did down there, but I had a sense.
I was twelve, and I knew a bit about what men like to do when
they're alone. I had my secret stash of Playboys underneath my
dresser. Lots of other times when Mom was out I'd be up in my
room, standing over the bed with my dick in my hand. My bed was
like an altar, I'd have a dozen or so magazines scattered about,
each open to a favorite girl. I'd take a long time arranging
them, selecting just the right type of girl, carefully matching
the look in their eyes against the mood I was in. The lingerie
was important; I found the girls far more alluring if they were
wearing something delicate - in fact I liked them best if I could
just barely see the outlines of their snatch beneath a layer of
stretched silk or nylon. When I had them arranged, I'd stand up,
and I'd start to stroke myself as my eyes danced among them.
They were my harem. I met their stares, and I loved the promise
of their big breasts, and the hint of darkness hidden in the
folds of their silk underthings. It was always the underthings
that did it, I'd always explode while I was lost in the sense of
nylon. Nylon. The thin skein of it stretched tightly against warm
buttery flesh.
I knew what I was going to do today, and I was screaming inside
for my father to get on with it. Shit! What was he waiting for?
He probably waited just the same time he always had; it just
seemed longer, because today my need was especially great, and I
wanted as much time as I could get upstairs. Finally he glanced
at his watch; he gave a quick look out the window, and he got up.
He avoided my eyes, he seemed to feel ashamed. When he got up he
looked out the window once again, as if she could sense his plans
and was waiting outside. He started down the basement steps, and
pulled the door tight behind him.
I let him get settled, it killed me, but I let a full five
minutes go by before I got up, leaving the TV on so that my
father might not hear me. I crept up the stairs, but instead of
heading down the hall towards my room, I turned right. I was
going into their room. Her room really.
The only sign of my father's presence was an unpainted wooden
dresser on one wall, as if after fifteen years he was still a
marginal occupant, on some sort of probation. The rest was all
her: it as a room covered in light pastel colors and soft
fabrics. Their bed was a large, antique four-poster with a high
canopy. The bedspread was made of pure satin, a shiny, blood red
fabric that gleamed in the sunlight streaming in from the west
window. The wall on the other side of the bed had her vanity, a
long shelf of polished mahogany with a five foot mirror in front
of her high backed chair. Her things were arranged in perfect
order: makeup on the far left, a half dozen brushes lined up
carefully on the immediate left of the mirror. To the right was
a collection of lotions and powders, and to the right of that was
a white wicker basket of nail polishes. Her chiffon robe was laid
carefully across the back of the chair.
The vanity wall on either side of the mirror was covered with a
half dozen mahogany shelves; They covered the wall from the
vanity surface almost to the ceiling. These held her shoes. She
had almost fifty pair of the finest dress shoes, each pair was in
its assigned place, and they were maintained carefully, as if
they were precious items in a museum collection. All of them were
kept free of dust, so that nothing would obscure the surface of
the soft scented leather, and the thin buttery straps and slings
that clasped her feet. I loved these shoes, whenever she came
home at night my eyes fell on them first, I was fascinated by the
differences in style and mood, from the classic elegance of her
tan pumps to the brilliant, unrelenting hardness of her black
stiletto heels.
I walked over towards her dresser, feeling as if I was in a
dream. I opened the drawer, her bottom drawer, and the feeling I
remembered from those other times came flooding back. Oh! The
loveliness of her smell, the aroma of her preserved lovingly in
the scalloped laces and shiny fabrics. The smell powered its
way through me like an electric current, rushing to my privates,
and giving me an instant, intense hard on. Christ! What a
feeling! I reached my hands into the drawer, and pulled a handful
of her things up close to my face. I felt the softness of them
against my cheeks, and drew the sacred aroma they held deep into
my lungs.
It was only then, after I paid homage to the primal senses of
smell and touch, that I was able to draw back and look at the
precious items before me. Each was lovelier than the next. I
could tell that red and black had some intimate pull for her - or
my father? - because these were the colors that were favored. I
felt the loveliest, most erotic tingle, and I knew that I had
some childlike remembrance, some reminisce from long ago. Some
were on the edge of consciousness: I remembered the straps of her
garters, the way they looked under her dress, as seen from a
child's vantage point. Perhaps while camped under a table at
which she sat. I remembered the way her toes looked within their
stocking, the curl of them, reacting to the talk and laughter
above. There was an intensity that only the most basic instincts
could explain, and I knew in my balls that I had been held naked
against fabrics just like these. Yes, once I had felt them
against my skin as I pulled my earliest life from her breast. I
was coming home, again, and my pulse was racing.
I had enough sense about me to check the time before I started.
I had almost 45 minutes left, more than enough time to what I
planned. In the weeks since I discovered her bottom drawer an
irresistible idea had taken shape. I had to put these things on,
to feel what she felt like when she wore them. I looked among
them and chose. My eyes fell on a pair of panties, a special
pair that seemed to call to me. What caught my eye first was the
color, a light black lace, that had the softness of nylon to the
touch, and when I picked it up and stretched it in my hands I
noticed that the lace work had a series of kisses knitted into
the pattern. I imagined matching my lips against these, while my
mother was wearing them, and I knew that this was the pair I had
to put on.
I looked around me as I held them. Why, I don't know: my glance
to the left and right was an instinctual sign of shame, of guilt.
But I was going to do it anyway. I pulled my clothes off, and
stood naked in the bedroom, looking at myself in the mirror over
on the back of the door, feeling the gentle fur of the white rug
between my toes. I knew I was about to do something I'd never be
able to tell anyone about, but the secrecy, the illicitness of it
only added to the erotic charge.
So I bent over and stepped into her panties, pulling them up my
legs, and over my thighs like they were a magic cloud that would
disappear. Finally, I pulled them tight up to my pelvis, and my
cock and balls danced in a thrill they'd never felt before. I
looked down and saw myself, thick and throbbing against the silky
essence of them. I was struck with wonder: how could women STAND
to wear these things all day? The thrill was so compelling, it
was a feeling deeper than all thought.
There was no turning back. I could feel my cock pounding as I
bent over the drawer again, selecting the next treasure. A pair
of stockings. I found the pair I loved, the dark ones with the
long, slender rose near the ankle. I picked them up, along with a
sexy garter belt and brought them all over to her bed. The garter
belt was black with numerous red hearts speckled about it, and
red bows on the end of each strap. I sat on the bed and put the
stockings on first. I guess I remembered watching my mother do
this long ago, because I slipped naturally into the right way to
put them on, the gentle feed from the hands as the body was
pulled upwards. I never knew that legs were an erogenous zone
until I put these things on. I stood and pulled each stocking
tight as I hooked it to the garter belt. My entire lower body
seemed to be fired with an electric glow.
There was only one thing missing: shoes. I wanted some elegant
pair of heels on my feet to complete the feeling. I looked over
to the vanity wall, and I looked for the pair of pumps that Mom
had worn yesterday. I loved all her shoes - ever since I started
having these feelings her shoes seemed so attractive to me.
They seemed the most visible emblem of her station in life, so
impractical, they could only be worn by someone who never needed
to do anything physical, other than look sexy and enjoy the
stares of strange men. I wanted yesterday's pumps. Like a dog I
always hovered nearby whenever she got home from work at night.
Seemingly to offer a kiss, but really to catch that first, almost
imperceptible scent of woman that drifting upwards as she kicked
off her shoes. The simultaneous kiss on her soft cheeks together
with the almost earth smell thrilled me deeply.
So I selected the pair, I took them down from the shelf, and held
them up to my face, and I became almost dizzy in the full aroma
of soft flesh and nylon. Such wonder! She loved especially high
heels, they were so impractical, so awkward. I remembered the
effect on me when I first noticed them, they seemed so hard, so
unforgiving in their polished brilliance. It was this hardness,
contrasted with the soft, smelly feet that interested me, for
some reason I didn't understand.
After a moment I brought them over to the bed, and slipped them
onto my feet. Of course, they were a little too large, but this
only made my first game easier. I leaned back, crossed my legs,
and let the pump hang from my outstretched foot. I almost cried
from the sheer thrill of it. Oh! To be watched while I did this!
To have a pair of needy eyes watching me! I understood then how
my mother and the other woman I'd seen do this felt. I knew why
they put me in such thrall. This was an almost self-conscious
dance, the shoe dangled just on the edge of their consciousness,
lilting on the playfully clenching big toe. A dangling heel is a
sign of self absorption.
It was difficult to get up; difficult, but unbearably exciting.
I just stood there a moment, and my first step was a halting one.
I had to fight to keep my balance. Small steps. Yes, keep the
back arched, and my legs apart. Try not to think of the sensation
of the panties and stockings. I stepped over to the full length
mirror on the back of the door, rocking my hips like a doll as I
did so.
When I got there, the sight took my breath away. There I was,
all dolled up like one of them, those ... sluts I liked.
Unconsciously I turned sideways, giving myself, no ... her, a coy
look. I saw that if I turned sideways, I looked really good. I
had shoulder length blond hair, and the still androgynous soft
features of a twelve year old. I looked so... so...pretty! I had
to do it, I had to reach down and rub my throbbing cock. I kept
as much of it as I could inside the stretched panties, because
the strokes felt better through that delightful material. It
didn't take long to get there; my knees started to wobble, and
while I was fearful of slipping from my perch on my heels, I
couldn't stop. Not until I was finished. Finally, I was there,
I exploded and my spunk burst out. Some of it flew through the
lace and dropped on the rug, but most of it was caught inside the
panties.
I just stood there for a moment with my eyes closed, catching my
breath, and straightening up on my heels. It was then, at the
worst possible moment, that I heard someone by the bedroom door.
It was my father! I heard the door open, and when I turned
around and looked at him, I saw his eyes scanning my body,
jumping back and forth as if disturbed at what he was seeing.
"Dad, I ... I" I started to talk, even though I had no idea what
to say.
He walked towards me, as if to get a closer look, and as he
approached I could see his gaze focus on the large mess I made in
the panties. His eyes flew open. "Look at what you did!" pointing
at the offending stain.
I was so shamed, I wanted to melt into the carpet. But after a
brief moment, I had a strange realization. The look in his eyes
wasn't anger - it was fear! I felt a chill as I stood there in
my stockings and panties, because I recognized that he wasn't
really surprised at all at what I was wearing. As if it was he
most natural thing in the world for a twelve year old boy to put
his mothers underthings on, and prance around in her bedroom.
No, he wasn't surprised at what I was wearing. He was shocked at
what I had done. I had soiled her panties, and he was terrified
that she would find out.
He looked at his watch, seemingly undecided about something.
"OK, OK, just take those things off!" He was beside himself,
unable to catch his breath because of his agitation. Again, he
looked at his watch, he was confused. His mind was racing,
searching desperately for the way out, as if he that was in
trouble. "Come on! Take them off, so I can get them washed
before she comes home."
So I started to undress. I started by unhooking the garters from
my stockings, bending my knee and standing on my toes to get the
rear straps. While I did this my father went over to her drawer,
and he got down on his knees and started refolding the things I
had disturbed. He kept looking at the clock, and the window.
"Dad, can't we just dry the panties off, why do we have to wash
them?"
"No!" He looked back at me, shocked that I would even think of
such a thing. "She'll know, believe me." And I saw then how
pitiful he was, as he was kneeling there, arranging her drawer,
getting it back the way he knew it belonged. I knew then that
her drawer was very familiar to him as well.
When I unstrapped my garters, I pulled the panties down off my
legs, somewhat reluctantly, as if I was parting with an intimate,
deeply private part of myself. Even as I did it, I knew I would
do this again, some other time, when I could really take my time.
The panties dropped to the floor, I stepped out of them and
walked over to the bed and sat down on it, so I could take the
stockings off. When I sat, and felt the softness of the satin
bedspread against the underside of my scrotum, I felt the tingles
start again. My father had his back to me, still kneeling at her
drawer, and I got hard again, notwithstanding my recent release.
I was imagining what the bed spread would feel like if I lay on
it face down, so my cock was in contact with its softness. I
started to take her stockings off. I still had things to learn
about women's undergarments. I crossed my leg and tried to take
the left stocking off by pulling it from the toes. It wouldn't
come, it just snapped back like a rubber band. My father kept
glancing back at me. "Come on! Just get them off!" Finally,
growing careless in my desperation, I grabbed the stocking toe
with both hands, and then pulled with my hands while I pushed
with my foot. And then it happened. My toes pushed through the
stocking, leaving a gaping hole. Shit! "Umm, Dad?"
He turned, and his face turned white. His mouth hung open in
shock. "Timmy, what did you do?" He looked at the clock again,
his nervousness was approaching a frenzy. "Oh shit!" He looked at
the drawer, and the clock again, standing stock still, caught in
a trap. Overload. He didn't know what to do.
"It wasn't coming off, Dad." I looked at the clock too, I'm sure
my face was red as a beet, I felt so small, having gotten the two
of us in such trouble. Why did I do this? I felt so ashamed, so
angry at myself. "Maybe, if we get the other one off OK, we can
put them in the drawer, she might think she did it."
He didn't even answer, he just came over and knelt down in front
of me. I uncrossed my leg, and he reached for the top of my right
stocking. He almost touched my cock. I was obviously still
excited, my mind was racing from stress, but my body still
derived a malicious thrill from all this exposure. He glanced
at my cock while he slid his fingers under my stocking. I was
hard as a rock again; my stiff member arched out from its nest of
sprouting boy hair. He drew a quick, short breath: he was still
for a brief moment, looking at my erection. He was about to say
something, but he hesitated, and the moment passed. I raised my
leg off the spread and he drew the top of my stocking down
towards him, gathering it carefully in his hand as he did so. The
process seemed to take a long time; he did it so slowly and
deliberately. Only one hand gathered the stocking - for some
reason he kept the other hand open against the underside of my
leg, as if it was needed to hold my leg aloft. As he rolled the
stocking into one hand, the open hand trailed down the underside
of my raised leg. I could feel the tips of his fingers gently
brushing all along me. And yes, a shudder passed through me: I
realized the sheer joy, the sacred power a ceremony like this
would have for a woman. I might even have thrown my head back, so
intense was the surge. I had already ruined the other stocking
in my haste to get it off. But he went to work on the other leg
with the same, intense ritual, and I made no move to rush him,
the feeling was so exquisite. When both stockings were bare, I
stood up in front of him, and pushed my garter belt down. I
pulled my hard cock through it, and shimmied it down my legs.
My father watched me do this. He was still on his knees.
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