Her Boy Comes Home


99% of this story is credited to Mary Anderson because this a lift of it with my twists/ tweaks/ amendments whatever, as the subject Lingerie Mom grabbed me and it’s in the genre I like to use. I have informed Mary Anderson but to date 5th Jan 2017 I have received no response. If it must be deleted I will do so.

Her Boy comes Home

I had worked hard, made great progress, and – two weeks early I’d immodestly add – reached my weight and BMI goals. Over the last couple of years, I learned there was a lot more to sex than in the bedroom, at night, lights off, man on top. I invested in some toys and studied a lot on the web, having been given some tips and URLs from my pals at the gym, many in the same, still randy widowed state as I.

My lingerie drawer was much the same as Frank’s days, he being a clever, tasteful – sometimes not, buyer of it for me. Some items were still packed in their exotic shop wraps; I just felt whatever they were, as I hadn’t opened them all, I could still use most of it for a special occasion, whenever that happened. Perhaps something would come along. Come, cum – the word lingered but I had found my level with stuff in the bedside drawers.

Other than Skype, Bob my only son and I hadn’t seen each other in nine months and I hadn’t told him about my commitment to the gym, at first because I wanted to avoid the embarrassment if I failed, later because I thought it would be fun to surprise him. Wanting to show off the new me, but not go over the top, I dressed for the airport in a white blazer, worn over a tee-shirt, dark skinny jeans, and knee-high suede black boots. I wore my brown hair, which I’d grown out to my shoulder blades, up.

I saw him moving though the airport with the confident stride of someone who, on a trip to the other side of the planet and a culture and world wholly unfamiliar, had learned a lot about himself. And while he’d kept his good looks – dirty blonde hair, smattering of freckles, bright blue eyes – he’d added a few beefy pounds. I stepped from the group at the end of the concourse, waved my arms, and shouted, “Bob.” Gawd, he was a handsome looking brute.

A broad smile splitting his face, he reached me in measured but eager steps. We embraced kissing, then he stepped back, placed his arms on my waist, a longish reach for him and scanned me up and down, from what seemed a lofty height, he had grown so much, or was it the long time I hadn’t seen Bob in the flesh.

“Mum, not that you haven’t always, but you look amazing.”

“You like? I decided to take advantage of your trip and get back in the shape.”

“Very much, I’m so proud of you.”

I knew I had needed to and obviously our Skype sessions had shown it up.

I smiled, ran a hand across his shoulder and down his arm. “It appears you’ve been busy too.”

“Maybe some,” he chuckled

We collected his luggage, both showing off a bit by demonstrating how much we could carry to the car, eschewing the trolleys, and on the way home stopped for fish, chips and mushy peas- good old English food he said, having requested it in his emails – and provided each other a quick summary of our months apart.

When we pulled into the garage, Bob yawned and said what he really needed after his international flight was a long hot shower. As he spoke I realized I’d forgotten to buy the necessities – soap, shampoo, etc. – to restock his bathroom. I’d been so busy after work, excited to see him again and itching to get changed into smart gear ready for his return.

“You’ll have to use my shower,” I explained.

He leaned over, kissed my cheek, said, “Sure Mum,” and pulled his overnight bag and a suitcase out of the car boot, deposited the suitcase in the hall, then headed along the corridor with his bag. It was only as he walked through my bedroom door that I remembered that my panties, some pretty daring, were hanging in my bathroom, drying. Oh well he’s seen them loads of times, I mused.

As I hung up the blazer and dragged off my boots, slipping into a pair of loafers, it was good to hear other, than mine, activity in the house. I heard him exit the shower. Time dragged, then he came out of my bedroom with a towel around his waist. He hadn’t taken a change of clothes with him to the bathroom.

My earlier supposition had been correct, Bob had filled out; my son was a good looking,hard bodied, slender young man. He pulled out a chair, turned it around so it back faced me, straddled it, and nodding his head towards the bathroom.

“Don’t worry Mum, I’m sorry but I moved your stuff, then hung them back up to dry.”

“Thanks.” My eyes were rivetted, not to his.

The thing that did merit an apology was that – and maybe his living alone had blurred his inbuilt family etiquette, I could see straight up to a magnificent……… listen to me – it’s my one and only son for fucks sake! display of cock and balls.

I gulped and had to avert my gaze and change the subject, moving away from the grand exposure. I am not convinced izmir escort it was a mistake on his behalf. Something wasn’t right.

“You don’t think they’re too much – my undies?” I giggled girlishly, knowing he had handled them. But hang on, I was trying to ease our brains away from a sexual connotation.

“Not at all. You’re a beautiful woman, you should celebrate it. I just hope I don’t cramp your style.”

“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say to you, now a big se…I nearly said sexy, boy like you is home and free?”

“Maybe.” He stood grinning, had he spotted my near mistake? and joined me, kissed the top of my head, said, “Oh, I almost forget,” found and opened his suitcase, timely much needed moments passed – whew! and pulled a box from it at the same time finding a pair of underpants and pulling them on, actually turning his back on me to do so.

“A gift from China.” Inside the box was a blue night gown. I held it up – knee length, it was decorated with peacocks and flowers – and pressed it to my face. Unbelievably soft and delicate, it glided across my cheek.


He nodded yes. I held him in my arms loving his bare, sparsely haired chest. He smelled fresh and clean.

“It’s beautiful.”

“I was worried it might be too personal, but after seeing what’s hanging in the bathroom, well I’m happy to see you developed a taste for the luxuriant,” he chuckled cheekily.

“Oh son, it’s perfect. Thank you.”

I fondled the garment. Frank shot through my mind as it would have been just the thing he would have sought out for me.

“How ’bout you and I get in our pj’s and celebrate my return home like the old days, a film and drinks, maybe something stronger that lemonade.” Bob suggested, did I detect a mischievous note?

“I’d like that.”

In my bedroom I stripped, put on the night gown, then started to take it off in favor of my pyjamas, but stopped. I looked in the mirror. It felt so good on my softly tanned skin and covered everything, just about. I decided to wear just the gown – wow! What’s got into me? Combing my hair and applying a bit of lipstick, I joined my son, slightly concerned about the way my tits jiggled about, in the kitchen where, wearing shorts and a tee-shirt, he was pouring two gin and tonics. That was always my favourite and he must have acquired the taste too, he had been a plain water lover once. I settled on the couch, told him to pick a movie and, as he bent over the discs, studied him. The girls at the gym might be in for a treat, but tonight he was all mine.

He held up Shakespeare in Love.

“You know nothing blows up in that film.” I advised him, remembering his crash bang wallop themed favourites.

“I have more refined taste these days Mum,” he snickered, settling down next to me on the sofa.

He turned down the lights. I leaned into him – as a mother does. He rubbed my neck and shoulders, working the muscles with surprisingly strong fingers. I thought about my time alone since my husband Frank had died two years back. While self sex had been amazing, I’d learned a lot on the internet, finding really disgusting stuff sometime, it had been devoid of perfect evenings like this. I also found, as the silk slid across my skin and nipples, I was getting turned on. The vibrator in my bedside table would maybe get a work-out tonight. We watched the film.

Bob shut down the TV, poured more drinks, turned on the light, and we chatted about his trip the people he had met – yes even some Chines girls and I aimed to press that on him later. There were fleeting moments his eyes left my face for my chest. What had distracted him? My robe had slid open, exposing acres of bosom and a deep cleavage, my hard nipples were clearly outlined in the fabric, like chapel hat pegs, as Frank used to say. Then we decided it was past the witching hour and was bedtime so he headed for his room, after a goodnight kiss and embrace. I lingered a few minutes basking in a strange inner glow.

Waking the next morning, I was in a wonderful mood. Bob was home and he was no longer a boy, but a good-looking, handsome and yes, a damn sexy young man, the kind of child that would make any mother proud – but no no, not lust after. It was a casual day at the office. I showered, stood naked in front of the mirror, held my hair atop my head, deciding whether to wear it up or down, settled on down, then looked at myself, liking – to some degree, what I saw. There were 120 pounds on my five foot seven inch body and my D cup breasts, although not the perfect round, upturned boobs I’d dreamed of as a teenager, had lost their firmness, retaining their swooping shape, capped with protruding, dark brown pimpled nipples surrounded by even darker two inch areolae, but now pointing to the carpet. I thought about my conversation with Bob last night. He was right, it would be fun wearing something a little bit naughty underneath.

Pulling a robe round me, I selected a lacy black bra and matching escort izmir panties, modelled them in the mirror, picked out a pair of jeans, and a red flannel shirt. I hung all this on the back of my chair. I was doing my make-up when Bob knocked on my door.


“I’m not decent.”

“I can slip it through the door.”


While he passed the coffee through, after he cracked open the door, his beautiful blue eyes – he’d got those from his father, mine were hazel – darted to the left and behind me, then returned to mine.

“Here it is m’lady,” he chuckled merrily.

“Thanks son,” I replied in mock graciousness.

I closed the door. What had distracted him?

Placing my head in the position his had been, the answer was obvious. There in the mirror, was my loosely robed torso, my lacy rather large bra in full view on top of the pile of clothing I selected. I finished dressing, drank my coffee. He’d remembered the way I like it: a little bit of skim milk, a little bit of sugar.

Joining him in kitchen, I slapped his bum.

“You’re not supposed to peek at your mother.”

“Sorry Mum, couldn’t help it. A sexy woman half dressed, it takes a better man then me to at least not glance. Do your panties match your bra?”

“That is none of your business.”

“Aahh, very good, they do.” he snickered naughtily.

Bob called me at the office and asked if I would meet him after work at the gym. We could do some weights and I could sign him up for the family plan. I protested that I’d not packed the right clothes, but he said he’d bring them. It didn’t occur to me until later that I’d given him permission to go through my drawers.

While the black leggings and matching sports bra he brought were on the skimpy side, they were appropriate. The plain white big panties were ideal; what I would have chosen myself as skimpy stuff rides up my crack and creates a wedgie. He’d forgotten to bring towels. Unfortunately our work-out was oft interrupted by my contemporaries asking to be introduced to my son and younger girls wanting to meet this good-looking addition to the place. I found myself growing annoyed. These girls would have their shot at him, but he’d just returned from the far East. Right now he was mine – no intentions like they would have, just a loving mother.

We decided to shower at home, since the gym towels, I had warned him, were getting quite worn with the new operators and felt hard. Driving from the gym Bob told me he had a little surprise for me that evening and on getting home, he asked to take the first shower, reappearing from his own room this time in a red polo shirt and shorts, then snaked an arm around me to kiss me. I protested I’d yet to shower, that I was sweaty and nasty, but he smiled and said he liked his mother that way. With no conviction in my voice, I told him he shouldn’t talk to me like that.

In my own, now deliciously shared home, I showered and selected a mid-thigh front-wrap kimono over minimal lace, peach coloured panties and matching bra. I hoped he didn’t look too closely at my podgy knees, but my ankles are good. Recalling how good the silk had felt on my body yesterday, I contemplated going braless, but didn’t need a repeat of yesterday’s hard nipple moment. I left my bedroom and followed an intoxicating smell to the kitchen. There Bob gestured to the counter, where a glass of Pino Grigio was waiting, and said, “You look good, that’s a beautiful robe.”

I pirouetted in a full circle. “Thanks, it’s a kimono, you like?”

“Very much.”

It was a short sleeved version and I hoped he wouldn’t notices the flab of my bingo wings, the scourge of middle aged women everywhere. I picked up the wine, leaned into him and gazed up to his handsome face.

“Whatcha cooking?”

“Gong Bao Chicken, a professor at the university taught me how to make it. Grab your plate, its ready to go.”

It was delicious, vastly superior to the town’s best Chinese restaurant. When done I poured a third glass of wine and deciding to leave the dishes for later, said, “Let’s go sit on the couch. I want to hear all about your time in China.”

While sitting and chatting, he rubbed my neck and shoulders, and recounted his classes, the friends he made, and the differences in the culture and people: the Chinese over the top politeness, the drive to succeed, the spitting in the streets, concerns about the US government in the forthcoming Donald era, the endless questions about Brexit. Occasionally, my kimono would slide open and I’d pull it closed. He finished with his trips to the Forbidden City, the Great Wall, the Terracotta Warriors of Xi’an, the Hongcun Ancient Village, and Mount Huangshan. I wondered, why hadn’t he mentioned any women. He could always rustle up a date.

“Do they have any girls over there?”

“About six hundred million.”


“You really want to know?” His tone said I didn’t, which only convinced me I did.


“There izmir escort bayan was a tutor at the University, Chunhua – her name, it means spring flowers. She is forty one, pretty, not as pretty as you, but pretty. I had been there about a month when she – amazing that, asked me if I was enjoying myself. I told her I was still getting my feet wet, expressed some interest in learning more about the community. She offered to show me around. By the end of the week we were an item. Very unusual for her to quiz me and then so soon – to become lovers. My pals were stunned and very very jealous,” he chuckled.

There was a new maturity to my son. That he’d spent the last several months with a sophisticated older woman offered an explanation. My face must have expressed surprise and he quizzed that.

“No, you’re a grown man,” I explained. “You can make your own choices. I didn’t know you had a thing for older woman.”

He said, “Neither did I, but I developed one,” then, kissing the side of my head, added. “Speaking of sexy older woman, you should cover up.”

The front of my kimono was open again. My tits, although encased in my lacy white bra, were on full display. I pulled the top closed.

“You must think your mother an awful woman.”

“No. My mother’s a beautiful woman who happens to enjoy nice clothes underneath. There’s nothing wrong with that. I’m partial to lingerie myself.”

“Take after Dad you do,” I simpered. “He loved buying me stuff and when went out to a party, knowing I was wearing it.”

“I love it too Mum,” he responded gently, not taking up the conversation about Frank.

“I know.”

“What do you mean?”

“My catalogues were always disappearing before you left.”

“You knew about that? I always waited for the new one to come in.”

“You’re not as sly as you think.”

I had much fun with my vibrator that night.

The next morning, feeling frisky and sexy, I opened my lingerie drawer. My clothes would be conservative, why not have some fun underneath? I picked out a red, lace Victorias Secret bra, underwired for support, and a matching stretch lace thong. I put them on, checked myself, trying to ignore the overhanging bulge of my belly over the elastic, in the mirror and slung on a grey tracksuit. Remember to trim your pubes Wendy I reminded myself.

Bob was in the kitchen. He handed me a cup of coffee, sat down across from me, and said, “Mum, I’ve been thinking about your birthday, wanting to do something special. I went on-line last night. The Welsh National opera are doing La Boheme, that’s your favorite, isn’t it?”


“Good, because we’re going Saturday night, got some excellent cancellations.”

“Ohmigod, you shouldn’t have, the tickets must have… you shouldn’t have…”

He flashed that winning smile, happy to see me so happy.

“Thank you,” I was blushing, me at my age.

As we cleaned the dishes Bob said, “Are you wearing something sexy underneath?”

“You are way too interested in your mother’s underwear.”

“Well I tried to keep it a secret, but you outed me last night. You’ve only got yourself to blame. “

“You still shouldn’t ask.”

His hand on my waist, he said, “I guess I’ll need to be more pro-active.” His pinkie dipped inside my pants, hooked my thong, pulled it up until a tiny section, just enough so the bright red colour was visible. Damn! I’d have to sort out that wedgie.

“Very nice.” he murmured, getting a playful slap, my eyebrows lowering as if to discourage him which it did from further ideas. It was exciting although the gusset pulled up so high pinched my rather large labia.

Saturday arrived and I woke up feeling coltish, the way you do the morning after giving your self a monumental orgasm – I wonder why? I scanned my wardrobe, but my mind was on dressing up for the opera. In the mood, I decided to wear something dressy, it was a big theatre with a posh crowd, but which would raise the bar a bit. I aimed to cover my black strapless bra and barely-there lacy panties with a black off-the-shoulder maxi-dress with lace lining its bodice. Just for the day ahead, including a shopping trip, I wore a simple white, loose, flowing shirt and skinny jeans, not skinny on my ample body just close fitting.

When I heard Bob stirring upstairs I sent him a text.


He texted back: “Sure, you’re keen……down in a minute.”

I was finishing the omelettes when he bounced down the stairs, came up behind me, kissed the back of my head, and, as his arms circled my waist, growled into my ear, “Wow, you look nice. You’re gonna class up the supermarket.”

It was exactly what I wanted to hear.

“Thanks son,” I simpered, was that too stupid a reaction?

“That is so…..simple an..annndd and seeeexy Mum, white shirt and…and…and jeans, you’re hot.” he stuttered, as I wondered if he could see my panty line.

Bob, having declared all the right triggers, but before we both wondered who moved next, sidled away, letting me finish my coffee, rinsed our plates, put them in the dishwasher, then turned to me and with eyebrow raised said, “Well?”

Well, what?” but I knew what he meant. He stared at me.

“Have to say, you’re hot too my darling handsome son,” I snickered, there – I said it

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