MILF Chronicles - Pantyhose

by Misti Love-Fitzpatrick

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© Copyright 2021 - Misti Love-Fitzpatrick - Used by permission

Storycodes: F/m; fpov; spandex; lingerie; milf; bond; pantyhose; straps; hood; blindfold; latex; tease; slow; feet; climax; cuffs; bedtie; facesit; femdom; cons; X

My husband kissed me lightly on the lips.

“Heading out to the airport, baby,” Kevin whispered. “I’m running late.”

I checked the clock — 5 a.m. Ugh.

“Make a lot of money, honey,” I replied, struggling to say something coherent. My husband was en route to Dublin for a long business trip. He pulled back the bedsheet to reveal my lingerie; a lace baby doll chemise in deep grey. It was what I had put on several hours earlier, hoping we would have steamy sex. But Kevin had to work late and he said he was too tired to fuck by the time he returned home. He was very apologetic.

My husband used his smart phone to snap a picture of my nearly-nude body. “This will help me deal with being apart. I’ll see you in two weeks. I love you, Carrie.”

“Love you, too.”

I went back to sleep, waking up seven hours later as my alarm clock erupted. There were three texts from my best friend, Kelsey.

<Carrie, it’s the big day -- and long night. At least we hope they’re big and long:.) LOL>

<There’s been a change of plans. The Hard Boys can’t make it. They have sent their regrets. But they’ve been replaced by the Bash Brothers. IMHO, this is a serious upgrade!!!>

<Call me when you’re free (or awake)>

Kelsey and I had booked the trip to Las Vegas months ago to hook up with two young hunks. We had visited Vegas five times over two years and followed one rule above others: be safe and have fun, in that order.

My husband and I have an open marriage. So when he told me about his business trip, I said I planned to spend the long weekend in Vegas with Kelsey and likely would enjoy a dalliance. We were open about how we spiced up our loving marriage. Monogamy never seemed like an option for both of us.

I dialed Kelsey’s cell.

“Carrie, you’re alive,” she said.

I joined her laughter. “I just got up. When is your flight?”

“5 p.m. Central,” Kelsey replied. “Direct flight from Dallas. We’ll be packed in there like sardines, especially on the Friday of a three-day weekend.”

Before our first visit to Vegas, when Kelsey told me that we would hang out with two guys in their late 20s known as the “Hard Boys,” I rolled my eyes. She had found them on a website for those searching for sexy, no-strings-attached fun.

“Cheesy nickname,” I said.

Kelsey answered with a smile: “It’s a funny nickname, refers back to those old books, you know, the Hardy Boys, the guys who solved mysteries."

I love a good cliché. There’s a reason why people say “What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas.” It’s true. And the Hard Boys lived up to their billing. Say what you will about their nickname, but there was no mystery about the quality of their erections. I asked Kelsey why they couldn’t make it.

“One of them broke his foot playing basketball. And they don’t play solo. If one is on the injured reserve list, the other is. They referred me to the Bash Brothers. I thought that was nice of them.”

“So tell me about them. Are they really brothers?”

“No, but I hope you don’t mind robbing the cradle,” Kelsey said.

“How old are they?”

“They’re both 21 years old. College boys. And smart. University of Chicago. They’re relatively new to Vegas. Hot. Like to have fun. Energetic. Mature for their age, I hear," she said.

Kelsey and I had recently celebrated our 40th birthdays. Both of us had teenage children. Of the guys we had played with, the oldest was 28. The Bash Brothers would be our youngest paramours.

I asked if she had any pictures.

“Only one. Here it is.”

The picture Kelsey texted me was of two handsome guys, one with short hair and the other one long. Both possessed chiseled bodies. One was Black and the other was Japanese-American. It looked like the picture had been taken at a swimming pool. The Japanese-American guy, with black hair hanging nearly to his shoulders, was wearing a pair of white swim trunks. The bulge in the front grabbed my eye.

“Are you driving?” Kelsey asked.

Distracted by the image -- was he erect or just that hung -- I looked away from the picture and asked Kelsey to repeat her question.

“Yes. Hubby got me a red Lamborghini for my birthday. Thought I’d test it on the open road,” I said.

Kelsey said she needed to pack and get to the airport. We had arranged to meet at the casino/hotel at 8 p.m.

“Have a great flight,” I told her.

“Enjoy the ride.”

“Freudian slip?” I followed up. “You’re already thinking about your Bash Brother, aren’t you?”

I slipped off the baby doll chemise and took a long, hot shower. Toweling myself off, I studied my reflection in the mirror. I'm modest and don't have a big ego -- but up to a point. I know I'm pretty. Some say I’m beautiful. I have long, dark red hair and hazel eyes. Tall with long legs, I possess a body at 40 years old that most 20-year-old-girls would sell their soul to have -- large, natural breasts and an ass honed by exercise. I really am modest, I promise.

I had packed the night before – two suitcases; one black and a smaller pink one. Lighting a stick of incense, I entered my large walk-in closet and headed for the Vegas section. It was a collection of bodycon dresses.

One hundred percent spandex in black. Skintight. Sleeveless. Cut low in the front. Cut low in the back. Side cuts at the waist. Short hem. Did I say skintight? LOL. I literally couldn’t wear a bra – even if I wanted to -- because of the plunging neckline. And panties looked ridiculous. So no underwear needed when I pulled the dress on and stepped into a pair of black high-heel pumps with five-inch stiletto heels. I grabbed the suitcases and headed for the garage. After winding my way through our subdivision in Los Angeles, the engine of the Lamborghini roared to life as I accelerated onto the freeway ramp.

A four-hour drive to Vegas. I usually made it in three. On this day, I didn’t see any highway patrol officers. Enjoying the open road, my mind wandered about what lay ahead in Vegas.

Kelsey and I played a game when we were there. After dinner, we would go our separate ways with our dates. There would be some entertainment and gambling, naturally. We would work with the gentlemen on what the final bet would be. And whoever won that bet would have the power to choose what unfolded in the bedroom of our hotel room.

Gambling for high stakes. Winner takes all. I had lost most of my bets, which is how I was introduced to some serious kinks.

I used the valet parking at the casino/hotel. It was a few minutes after 8. I checked in and the bellboy carried my suitcases up to my room, which actually was a suite. I texted Kelsey.

<I’m here. Just getting into my suite. I’m on the 34th floor.”

Her response arrived within seconds.

<Hi there. Suite? You came to play. I’m one floor down. Drying my hair and wondering which outfit I should wear. Should I come up in half an hour?>

<Sounds good, girl>

I had known Kelsey for 18 years. A southern California native and natural blonde, she introduced herself to me at a neighborhood party. We were both new mothers with infants – mine a girl and hers a boy. A few years later, I had a son. Kelsey had a girl – and then another boy after that. Our husbands became friends, playing golf regularly. I was the dark red-headed version of Kelsey and people often asked if we were sisters.

As our children got older, bitchy women would refer to us as “cougars,” because of our age and rumors about our interest in younger guys. Then the acronym MILF became popular and stuck. Kelsey and I wore it as a badge of honor. We were mothers. Young guys did want to fuck us. And some of them did.

I poured two glasses of wine when I heard the knock on the door. I handed one to Kelsey as my greeting.

“Look at you. You’ve outdone yourself – again,” I declared.

Kelsey wore a silver sequined mini-dress in spandex. Sleeveless, it had a halter top, an all-over sequined bodice, a string back, and V neckline.

“Showing off those boobs again,” I said with a sly smile.

“You know it, bitch. Among my best assets, other than my ass. Check this place out,” Kelsey said.

I gave her a tour – the large living room, an equally big bedroom, and even a dining room.

Kelsey found the picture of the Bash Brothers on her phone.

“Time for the coin flip,” she said. She handed me a silver dollar. She said heads as I flipped the coin high into the air and it landed – on tails.

“Finally, I win the toss. I’m picking Ken,” I said, referring to the Japanese-American guy.

“And I get Thomas, who is what I wanted – win-win, yay for us,” Kelsey added, finishing her glass of wine. “We’ve got some time. We’re meeting them for dinner downstairs at 9.”

I poured her a second glass. We caught up on our lives; nothing heavy, just some changes at Kelsey’s job in Dallas. Hovering slightly above the conversation was anticipation about the night ahead. I felt a real need to let go and enjoy myself.

Kelsey broached the topic first.

“Can’t wait. I’m feeling thoroughly un-fucked these days. Hubby is more of a workaholic as each year passes; great for the bank account, but it’s a strain on our relationship. It’s almost nine. We better get going,” she said.

We took the elevator to the mezzanine, where Ken and Thomas were waiting for us. The restaurant was upscale, featuring French food. My first impression of the guys was positive. They were polite and courteous. They also were good conversationalists. They were interested in our careers and they talked about their plans to become investment bankers without bragging.

Kelsey explained our game over dessert.

“It’s a bit like strip poker. There will be a final bet of the night. Whoever wins gets to decide what happens in the bedroom. Are you in?” she added.

Ken and Thomas flashed wolfish smiles and said they were. When dinner ended, Ken asked me if I was interested in seeing a show. He said he had scored two tickets to a K-pop concert, which sounded like fun to me. Thomas already had asked Kelsey if she wanted to go clubbing. So, as planned, we went our separate ways.

Our tickets were in front of the stage, in a large area without seating. Ken and I danced, surrounded by people, for the entire show. He was a great dancer, which made it even more fun. When the show was over, I asked if he wanted to gamble a bit. We played blackjack and poker and then took a stroll. Ken made his move, holding my hand. It thrilled me; his decision showed confidence and poise, especially for a young man.

“So what’s the final bet of the night?” he asked.

I noticed the sports book.

“How about this place?” I asked, acting like I never had seen it before.

I knew exactly what I was going to bet on, but don’t ask me why I felt so confident. There are some secrets that should remain that way, including betting tips. I scanned the multiple television screens.

“I’m going to bet on that team in purple winning by less than ten points,” I told Ken. He laughed.

“Seems kind of random. Are you a sports fan?”

I said “not really.” It was a white lie.

Ken ordered us beers and we watched the final ten minutes of the basketball game. My team won by only five points. He gave me a high-five to celebrate my successful bet.

Ken wore a dark blue suit with a light blue tie and a silk handkerchief in the suit jacket pocket. As we ducked into a small alcove near an empty ballroom, he placed his hands on my waist and kissed me. I loosened his tie and moved closer so our bodies touched. Lowering his hands, he lightly caressed the spandex hugging every curve of my ass. Dipping under the skirt, he felt skin.

“Are you not wearing panties?” he asked.

I grinned devilishly and told him we should go up to my suite. As we closed the door, he kissed me again, lifting the hem to reveal my shapely but toned ass. I suggested he take a shower. I sat on the couch as he emerged from the bathroom, his torso wrapped in a white towel. I unwrapped it as I looked up into his eyes. His cock was rock-hard. I took it into my mouth and slowly sucked it for a minute or so; not being a tease, well, kind of, playing a fun game. But I really wanted to see how he tasted and his pre-cum gave me the answer. Delicious. I took his shaft out of my mouth.

“Do you have any fetishes, Ken?” I asked as I stood up and lowered the hem of my spandex dress.

He said “many.” I led Ken to the master bedroom, beautifully decorated in turquoise and pink. By the large bed, I found a sheet of resort-hotel stationary and wrote the following.

  1. silk stockings
  2. pantyhose
  3. latex
  4. fishnet stockings
  5. leather
  6. spandex
  7. other

I handed him the piece of paper and pencil. He circled b: pantyhose.

“That didn’t take long,” I said.

“Lie back, Ken. I’m going to bind you. Do I have your consent?”

“You mean like BDSM consent?”

I said yes and smiled.

“This is a first for me, being asked for consent,” he said.

“There’s a first time for everything. Is that a yes or a no, Ken?”

“It is a yes,” he said.

I pulled the first black leather strap over his stomach, looping it from under the bed. I attached two more straps – one across his chest and the other over his thighs. Like the first one, I ran them under the bottom of the bed. I easily could adjust them.

The black leather hood was a challenge. I piled his hair into a man-bun and placed the hood over his head, with holes for his eyes and nostrils, and a zipper over his mouth. I left it unzipped. I covered his eyes with a black leather blindfold.

“I’ll be back after my shower,” I told Ken. I picked up the pink suitcase, opening it on the bathroom counter.

Why pantyhose? I had developed the fetish years before, back when they were more common. It wasn’t complex. It was the sensation against my skin and how great they looked on my long legs. Pantyhose are sensuous. They enhance the appearance of your legs and offer a tantalizing barrier to men who desperately want to undress you.

But my husband didn’t share that predilection. Said it reminded him of his mother, who often wore hose. I got it. It’s not for everybody.

The outfit I had chosen was a black latex bra and caramel-colored pantyhose, which actually were tights because they were thicker than hose. Made out of nylon and spandex – 10 denier -- the ultra-shiny pantyhose-tights had a dyed-to-match gusset.

I laid next to Ken on the bed, but not close enough for us to touch. The only sound in the bedroom was the gentle hum of the air conditioning.

“You have a great body,” I told him, running a finger over his abs. “You must work out a lot.”

“I do. Five times a week. Lots of weight lifting.”

I didn’t know the extent of his strength. He possessed a muscular body, but I was thinking more of what effect adrenaline might have. As a redundancy, I attached black leather cuffs to his wrists and ankles to make sure they could not move.

“I'm going to take you on a journey," I whispered in his ear. “Has a woman ever fed your fetish for pantyhose?”

Ken said no. The natural follow-up was how he developed the fetish.

“I had a teacher in the third grade in New York City who wore them every day in the fall and winter. She was hot, like you, and had a great body, like you. Pantyhose symbolized sex to me – and that never changed. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve masturbated to pictures of women in pantyhose.”

I smiled at his thoughtful and honest answer. I suspended my left foot, encased in the pantyhose-tights, above his face. He struggled to move his arms, but he could not. He later told me he was aware of movement from the shift in my body’s position and the slight sound from the bed. I decided to close the zipper over his mouth.

The digital clock showed 1 a.m. I placed my left foot near his left ear and held that position for twenty minutes or so. I tapped the leather over his nose for a second with the ball of my foot. It was the lightest of taps and by design, not long enough for him to smell the fine scent of my pantyhose. I repeated this action several times, separated by 20 minutes. Each time, he struggled to move and stopped when he realized that he could not.

I turned on the light at the other end of the bed. It brought out the gleam of my pantyhose-tights, but was not too bright. I had chosen a position that I knew would be challenging. Placing pillows on both sides of Ken’s head, I straddled his body. No part of my body was in contact with his. Ken’s arms were bound tightly to his sides. I made sure the blindfold was in place. I added a thin black leather strap across his neck so he could not move his head, other than slightly upward or to the side.

“Is your breathing OK?” I asked. He nodded.

Encased in the nylon-spandex fabric, my pussy was about four inches above Ken’s mouth. My plan was simple, but ambitious; to lower myself one inch every half hour by removing the pillows.

Thank God I do aerobics three times a week.

Halfway through, I told Ken I was going to take off my bra. I knew the latex would be ear candy for him. I removed it slowly, reaching the hidden zipper in the back and the swan hook. The double thickness of the black latex rustled as I carefully peeled it off. I placed the bra on his chest and heard a groan from under the leather hood.

Returning to my previous position, straddling Ken’s head, I lowered myself so my pussy was two inches above his mouth. His breathing quickened. I sensed he had picked up the subtle scent of my pantyhose-tights.

I opened the zipper of his hood so he could talk.

“What do you smell, Ken?”

“Your pantyhose. They must have come right out of the wrapping.”

“Yes, I just opened them in the bathroom. You are so observant, Ken.”

I slightly loosened the strap that restrained his arms. I felt his big biceps brush against my inner thighs. He groaned again, this time more guttural as I teased him, rising up so his arms could not touch me and then lowering myself again so his skin could reach my pantyhose-tights.

“Oh please, Carrie,” he begged.

Ken couldn’t move his neck much until I loosened that strap. Even so, he could not reach my pussy encased in pantyhose-tights. Each half hour, he got closer until the gusset was half an inch away.

He used his nose because it was his sole way to reach me. The buttery leather of his hood was soft against the nylon-spandex fabric. The friction accelerated my arousal, making me wetter than I had ever been in my life. I told Ken to go slow and he obeyed. I told him he was “a good boy.” Glancing at the clock, I timed him, the tip of his nose brushing against my pussy for ten seconds – once a minute. The pace was perfection. I told him so.

“Two hours of this,” I cupped my breasts, my nipples erect from his pursuit of contact with me.

“Yes, Carrie.”

I knew what he craved. Like all masculine men, he was an aggressor, the physical power and force of his gender manifested through his erect cock. But that power, for at least one night, was transferred to me. My femininity possessed the masculine form of power through my pussy. The submissive, my nature for all of my life, had become the dominant.

Loosening the strap across his chest after the two hours of his nose stroking my cleft, I felt Ken caress my legs with his arms. I removed the cuffs around his wrists and his blindfold. I lowered my pussy to his mouth, sitting on his face.

"I want to come on your face," I said.

I felt his tongue against the gusset. For an hour, he licked and looking down into his dark eyes, I watched him inhale the intoxicating scent of my pussy. He looked almost desperate, as if at any moment I could take away this sensation that he craved. And I could do so if it pleased me.

But I chose not to do so. The last shred of rational thought disappeared for both of us. His attentiveness felt like the highest gift I could receive. I sensed that he was in a long tunnel that he never wanted to exit. I soared above him, my body receiving waves of pleasure with deep gratitude from my young lover. I came heavily as Ken’s tongue slid repeatedly over my inner lips and clitoris through the pantyhose-tights.

Resting against the headboard, I looked into Ken’s dark eyes. His eyes moved over my body in repose.

“Do you like my French pedicure?” I asked and he nodded. “Suck on my toes.”

Ken held my right ankle and took two of my pantyhose-covered toes into his mouth. Slowly, he added more, until he sucked them all.

“That’s right, baby. Do you like having my foot in your mouth? Do you have a foot fetish too?”

“Yes, I do, Carrie.”

He sucked on my right foot. I slid it up his leg and then down his chest to his engorged penis. “Your cock is so fucking hard, Ken.”

He spread my long legs, caressing them with his hands and lavishing them with all of his attention. Arriving at my gushing pussy, he kissed and licked it through the pantyhose-tights.

“Fuck, that’s so good,” I sighed, as I orgasmed again.

Using both legs, I wrapped the nylon and spandex covering my feet around his cock. I gave Ken a long foot job. His stamina did not surprise me. After half an hour, his body was coated with perspiration. Ken moaned as his orgasm shot waves of cum all over my foot. We embraced and cuddled in post-coital bliss. He removed my pantyhose-tights and we nuzzled in the luxurious bed until we fell asleep in each other’s arms.

The Vegas sunrise warmed our nude bodies. I went down on Ken several times in the morning, hungry for his hard, light brown shaft and mushroom-shaped cockhead. We took a long bath together, a prelude to an afternoon filled with romantic foreplay and lovemaking. The evening was filled with intense fucking, his playful red condoms filled with the fire I need from a man.

“What will our second night together bring, Carrie?” Ken asked me.

“Well, Ken…”


Continues in

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