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."