TRAINED BY MOM by alien_ov@yahoo.com One night, Mom came downstairs unexpectedly and caught me red handed (so to speak) looking at one of her lingerie catalogs, my pants unzipped, and well, you know. As she put her hands on her hips and looked down at me with a smirk, I could tell she was a little bit angry with me, but also amused by my vulnerable embarrasment. "Don't even try to deny what you were doing," Mom laughed. "Just pull up your pants, go wash up, and go to your room. I'll be up in a bit and we'll discuss this." I waited nervously in my room for over half an hour before I heard Mom's footsteps coming up the stairs, causing my heart to race. She came in and sat on the edge of my bed, gesturing for me to sit next to her. "I want you to know I'm not really mad at you for what you were doing," Mom said in a soft, sincere tone of voice. "That's what boys your age do. "But I'm concerned, because those little habits can give a boy ideas about women that are disrespectful. For starters, it was disrespectful of you to take my catalog, don't you think? Those women in that catalog didn't have their pictures taken so that a teenaged boy could have nasty thoughts about them. And some boys aren't satisfied just looking at photos of panties and stockings -- they start looking at magazines or pictures which are MUCH more degrading and disrespectful. Do you understand what I'm talking about?" "I think so," I muttered, blushing and shifting uncomfortably. "Uh huh, I think you know perfectly well what I mean," Mom lectured. "I'm concerned about you; I know you're growing up, but I don't want you getting any funny or improper ideas in your head. "I know that little boys want to touch themselves," (here I blushed about ten times harder) "and that's okay. I just think it's important that I guide and oversee this part of your development." "What do you mean?" I asked nervously after an uncomfortable silence. "What I *mean* is that when you get those urges to touch yourself, I don't want you to hide it, and steal my magazines, or go look at dirty pictures on the computer. I want you to come talk to me about it. I want you to learn to use those urges and feelings to become a better person, and not have your head filled with a lot of nonsense." "I'm not sure I understand." "Well, for instance, lets talk about why you were looking at my underwear catalog. I saw you were looking at my underwear catalog, at pictures of ladies wearing pantyhose and stockings. Why did you choose those pictures to look at?" "I dunno know," I mumbled, fidgeting uncomfortably. "I guess because I thought those women were sexy or beautiful. There was just something about them." "Do you like looking at their legs? Maybe their feet?" I swallowed nervously but nodded my head. "Mm hmm, I thought so," Mom smiled. "Do you get excited looking at women with smooth stockings and painted toenails?" "Moooomm," I whimpered, blushing. "It's okay, sweety," Mom said softly, putting a reassuring arm around my shoulder. "Women dress up like that and get their toenail painted because it DOES look pretty. A woman likes to be noticed and looked at, as long as it's done respectfully." I shrugged my shoulders, wanting this strange and embarrasing conversation to end. "Why don't you sit on the floor," Mom suggested, shifting gears and puzzling me further. "C'mon," she urged, and not knowing what else to do, I sat cross legged at the foot of the bed. "Do you like my shoes?" Mom asked, very matter-of-factly. She wore low-heeled black leather pumps (I knew what they were from looking at the catalog) with tan nylon stockings underneath. "They're okay I guess," I answered, afraid to meet Mom's eye. "Just okay?" Mom teased, pretending to be offended. "I like your shoes," I confessed; my voice was soft but I was practically trembling with excitement (mixed with more than a little confusion and fear.) "Good," Mom smiled pertly, straightening her legs and flexing her feet at the ankles so they were just inches from my face. "Why don't you help me off with them though?" Mom was clearly enjoying the sight of my nervously fumbling to slip off the black leather pumps whose toes she wiggled teasingly before my eyes. Soon enough I had removed her left shoe, and wrinkled my nose in surprise at the strong warm odor that radiated from Mom's stockinged foot. "You didn't think about that part, did you little boy?" Mom chuckled, wiggling and flexing her polished nylon-encased toes. "When ladies wear all those nylonned stockings and high-heeled shoes, their feet get all hot and stinky and sweaty. I know my feet smell bad. Good thing I have a little boy who will take care of them." Mom spread her toes and pressed them up against my nose, and I instinctively inhaled. Her foot smelled sweetly rank. It was the most humiliating and most wonderful moment of my life. "You better get used to that smell," Mom ordered, sounding more dominant and enjoying the power she -- and her feet -- now had over me. "You'll be smelling it a lot. Anytime you get those nasty thoughts and want to touch yourself, you'll be smelling your Mother's nasty feet. You'll smell them in any case, any time I've had a hard day and my feet are tired, or just when I want to tease my little boy. Smell that foot, little boy. Sniff and smell your Mama's nasty old sweaty foot. Smell my foot odor." And I did. I gave myself over to my inner urges, and to Mom's commands from above, and inhaled the hot stinky scent of her foot, hungrily pressing my nose underneath her toes to breathe in the horrible smell even more deeply. "That's what I want to see," Mom laughed triumphantly. "Now open your mouth." I did so automatically, and was shocked as Mom pulled her toes from my nose, pointed them, and pressed them between my lips. "Now suck them. Lick them. Worship my stockinged toes with your mouth, with your tongue." I moaned with excitement, the feel and smell and taste of Mom's foot more awesomely delicious and pleasurable than I had ever imagined. I eagerly moved my head as Mom worked her toes in and out of my grateful mouth. "The first rule of serving my feet," Mom announced after some time, rhythmically pumping her sweaty toes into my mouth, "is that your worship -- and your fantasies -- will *always* revolve around my stockinged feet. That is your place. My feet rule over you and you will never be allowed to touch them or kiss them or massage them when they are completely bare. I will not allow my own son to touch my feet with the same hands used to rub that ridiculous thing between your legs. Do you understand?" I moaned and nodded my head as best as I was able. "Good. Now take it out of your pants. Show me that silly little thing, play with it for me." I blushed in embarrasment, but did not hesitate a moment to unbutton my shorts, my erection springing out into the air, already rock hard. "Rub it like a good little boy," Mom hissed lustfully. "Rub it while you suck your Mother's stinky stockinged foot. Stroke it while you lick my sweaty nylonned toes, while you drool over your own Mother's hot sweaty foot, fresh out of ten hours in heels. Stroke that ridiculous thing while you sit at Mommy's feet and let her turn you into her own personal foot massager and toe sucker. Show Mommy you're a good boy; a good little boy who wants to be Mama's foot worshipper and stocking slave." I moaned hungrily, filled with shame but driven onward by lust, and a pure indescribable worship for Mom and her feet, just like she said. I couldn't hold back any longer, and with a grunting animal-like trembling, I exploded onto the floor as stars filled my eyes; Mom thrust her toes into my welcoming throat as I gagged to accept them more deeply. I was dimly aware of Mom's pleased laughter as she teasingly applauded me. "Goood boy," she laughed at last, soothing me by slowly pulling her toes out of my mouth and gently stroking my face and hair with them. "You make me very proud. "Of course," she continued seriously, some moments later after I had mostly regained my breath, "from now on, you *never* do that unless Mommy says so. You ALWAYS beg Mommy to be allowed to do that. You ALWAYS ask Mommy's pretty stockinged foot for permission to touch yourself, to rub your silly little boy part." Feeling incredibly vulnerable and embarrased, but wanting all this more than anything, I nodded my head eagerly. "Yes Mommy," I whimpered softly, "I understand." "Good boy," Mom beamed proudly. But don't look so worn out; there's my whole other foot you haven't even touched yet."