A Cougar And Her Cub free porn video

Have you ever known a cougar? Have you ever been a cougar's cub? You haven't? Then you have no idea what you've been missing! A Cougar And Her Cub By: Simonne Danielle © 2010 All Rights Reserved Me?!?! Sonny St. Angelo? On the very brink of gettin' it on with an older woman? It would have been a totally preposterous idea if you had asked me that three months ago. Up 'til then I could never have envisioned such a possibility. Not a chance! Okay, okay! Maybe, like they say, two chances -- slim and none. Slim and none, anyway, until I met Ginny. I mean, I'd never even dated that many girls my own age let alone someone as sophisticated as Ginny. The dates I'd been on with girls my own age hardly lasted beyond the first date. And those were few and far between. Heck, the only older woman I'd ever been remotely close to was Mother. And let me assure you -- Mother and I did not have 'that sort' of intimate relationship -- definitely NOT! My relationship with Mother was nothing like where I could see my relationship with Ginny heading -- at least where I was hoping it was heading. Don't get me wrong. Mother and I had a great relationship, though not always your typical 'mother and son' one. After all, it was just the two of us from the time I turned five. I'd do anything for Mother. And she for me. She was a stern taskmaster when it came to my schoolwork and even got herself elected president of the P.T.A. so she could keep abreast of things there. Beyond all that, we went to dinner at the country club. We played tennis together. We shopped together. We cooked together. We shared household chores. And we enjoyed lots of other typical mother-son activities as well. Also, some not-so-typical activities. Activities that some might see as highly unorthodox. Yet, for the two of us, they were activities that we found so mutually gratifying. And no, I don't mean 'that' type of gratification! Mother ... well, Mother was always just ... Mother. Ginny, I soon discovered much to my immense joy, was like Mother in so many important respects. I felt sublimely comfortable -- like coming home after a long journey -- whenever we were together. It's hard to explain, really. But a relationship with an older woman like Ginny, especially a relationship with potential 'benefits', was an intriguing prospect and definitely worth pursuing. Having turned twenty-one and of legal drinking age, I was just beginning to sow my proverbial 'wild oats'. 'Wild' in the sense that I'd impulsively gone and had my ears pierced and sprouted one of those shoulder-length ponytails I always thought made guys look so urbane. Plus, I started frequenting the upscale restaurant and lounge only two blocks from the condo Mother and I had shared for so long. It was the perfect watering hole since I wouldn't have to concern myself with drinking and driving or spend a ton of money on cab fare. Not only that, it featured a killer Happy Hour from four to seven daily. Although 'regulars' -- a status to which I was quickly elevated -- enjoyed extended Happy Hour prices courtesy of the accommodating bartenders who were never adverse to engaging in the time-honored tradition of hustling for tips. Among the many important things Mother taught me was that generous tipping reaped generous rewards. Anyway, it was in that upscale lounge, my home away from home as I liked to think of it, where I first met Ginny. Or, more accurately, where Ginny boldly planted her perfect size-six figure on the barstool next to me with an assertive, "Mind if I join you?" -- though it really wasn't a request -- and introduced herself. Oh yes! Beautiful (and older) -- Voluptuous (and older) -- Sexy (and older) -- Outgoing-in-that-take-charge-way-that-I've-always-found- so-appealing (and older) -- Ginny. Oh! And did I mention she's older? Just in case you haven't figured it out, in no time flat I found myself youthfully and impetuously infatuated with Ginny. And eager to do anything for her -- as I had always done for Mother. Whether or not Ginny felt the same towards me was still a matter of constant internal debate. The fifteen years difference in our ages didn't seem to phase her in the slightest -- not one iota. If anything, it seemed inexplicably appealing to her. Not that I picked up on that glaring oddity in the beginning. Our relationship hadn't progressed even remotely close to the stage where either of us were proclaiming 'undying' romantic declarations -- we weren't even 'officially' dating. Just a couple of barflies flirtatiously enjoying each others company several nights a week. It wasn't until we'd known each other for three months that Ginny took it upon herself to candidly confess her attraction to me -- or, as she so indelicately phrased it, her attraction to a 'younger boy'. A 'younger boy' indeed! None of the bartenders or any of my fellow barflies made the slightest reference to the fact that a 'younger boy' was tipping so generously or happily 'buying the house a round' on more occasions than I care to count, thank you very much. As you might imagine I was somewhat miffed at first -- being referred to as both 'young' and 'boy' all in the same breath. Especially by someone as worldly and as mature and as vivacious as Ginny. Despite my over-the-moon giddiness on first hearing her make such an out-of- the-blue confession I blushed deep crimson as she chose to proclaim her attraction to my youth and my boyishness loudly -- AND in the presence of my fellow barflies. My all-too-obvious embarrassed blush seemed not to concern her in the slightest. If anything, she seemed ever-so-pleased that her comment had so roundly embarrassed me -- as if that had been her intention all along. "You do know I'm a cougar, Sonny, don't you?" she explained with a matronly and possessive grip on my thigh and with her voice rising another few decibels. The soul-piercing way she looked me directly in the eyes over the rim of her Cosmopolitan was disconcerting to say the least and clearly designed to throw me off balance. "A cougar?" I questioned, red as a beet and still reeling from her 'young' and 'boy' reference. I'd never heard the expression before, although the way she said it and the way she looked at me with a predatory grin caused a shiver to ripple along my spine. Even still, I could feel the initial stages of a familiar stirring 'down there'. "Yes, my sweet young thing, a cougar," she repeated with a smile that exuded her unwavering pride and confidence. "A cougar," she explained as if lecturing a child, "a woman unapologetically attracted to younger boys -- my cubs, I call them. In my case, being a cougar of the first magnitude, I'm particularly attracted to younger PRETTY cubs ... like you," she added as she scraped one of her tantalizingly long nails -- her claw? -- across my cheek. My embarrassingly hairless cheek. Great! Not only was I a 'younger boy' -- a cub -- but I was PRETTY to boot. Her proprietary caress of my smooth flesh was meant to call everyone's attention to the fact that I hadn't attained that manly stature of requiring a daily shave -- and that I probably never would. And that she found my silky-smooth complexion PRETTY! We were both a little tipsy at the time -- a condition conducive to the shameless public flirting in which we had been engaging for the past couple of weeks. Flashing me that blazingly bright smile and repeatedly re-crossing her legs in that slow and seductive way she has went a long way towards alleviating the miff I felt at being so publicly described as PRETTY. When her skirt, seemingly with a mind of its own, rose enough to reveal just a hint of stocking top and the silvery garter tab holding it taut I was over my snit in a nanosecond. Watching her smile accusingly as my eyes bugged out at the sight of her shimmering legs, the way they always do, made me blush guiltily. I tried to avert my eyes in a gentlemanly way, but I couldn't. How this worldly woman sensed that I had such a 'thing' for garters and shimmering nylon stockings was way beyond my inexperienced and youthful mind to comprehend. My 'thing' for those most feminine of garments, quite naturally, dates back to my childhood. I mean, where else would the malleable mind of a child find itself so irrevocably influenced by such things if not at the knee of his mother? Mother, besides being simply Mother, was a seductress of the first magnitude. Not that, during those tender years, I had any inkling what a seductress was. And during my most vulnerable and formative years she relentlessly honed her seductive skills at my expense. Skills like subjecting me to the vision of her perfect size-six figure as she strutted about half-dressed in her incredibly sexy La Perla lingerie, including her ever-present nylons and garters. Mother adored her La Perla collection. Seeing her parading around the house in those frothy confections was a vision that was commonplace but left me putty in her hands. Even in spite of the fact that, out of modesty, she always 'covered up' in one of the dozens of incredibly sheer and oh-so tantalizing peignoirs in her collection -- even, on occasion, one of her super-short baby-doll nighties. In short order her not-so-subtle seductions had me eagerly catering to her every request and wanting nothing more than to pamper her at every opportunity. Mother loved being pampered. She began innocently enough. First by engaging me in casual conversations about how well I thought her outfits coordinated as she perused the racks of designer clothing in her huge walk-in closet. Or whether I thought a dress or skirt was too short. A silly question, really, since Mother loved showing off her legs as much as she loved everyone staring at them. Or how well her hair and make-up looked before she even dared leave the house. Mother force-fed me a diet of uniquely feminine knowledge that not many sons will ever ingest. "What do you think goes better with this skirt, Sonny -- It's not too short, is it? Is my slip showing? -- my rose cashmere sweater or the yellow chiffon blouse?" she'd ask. "If you guess right I'll let you decide which heels I should wear." It became a fun game. My reward for guessing right was being allowed to choose her shoes or her purse or some other accessory. She cunningly escalated my education by asking me to lay out whatever outfit she planned to wear, lingerie and all, so everything would be there waiting after she bathed. Eventually, after I showed an eager willingness and definite flare for such exclusively feminine tasks, she'd simply tell me where she was going and ask me to select what I thought would look best. In between salon visits she had me washing and conditioning her hair like her stylists at the salon did. She taught me how she wanted her hair done by washing and conditioning my own hair so I'd learn how to do hers properly. Then offering me the opportunity to return the favor. The ritual of putting her hair up in curlers each night, with me watching intently by her side, was almost a religious experience for both of us. When, in my youthful exuberance, I asked her to roll my hair in curlers too, she laughed and pointed out the obvious -- that my hair was far too short. However, she quickly seized the opportunity my enthusiasm provided and had me rolling her hair in curlers -- a task I took to like a duck to water. Taking her curlers out and brushing her hair into soft waves became a morning ritual for me and was so relaxing for Mother. And then, when I expressed even greater interest, she taught me how to paint her nails during the many quiet evenings we spent together with what eventually became her signature ruby-red polish. As I said, not your typical mother-son activities. "You know, Sonny, since you've started doing my hair and nails, I'm seriously thinking of giving up my salon appointments," she'd tease. "I adore this polish you convinced me try. You do have an eye for these things." As I meticulously painted her nails while we sat side by side at her vanity, she'd casually comment, "I can't believe how soft your hands are. I told you my hand lotion would keep them just as smooth as mine. Don't want you snagging my nylons, do we?" Then coyly inquire, "Do you really think auburn highlights will look good on me? If you really think so then let's try it tonight." As a toddler and pre-teen shopping with Mother in all the high-end boutiques she frequented was nothing out of the ordinary. Insisting that I tag along after I was well into my teens was sometimes embarrassing but it made her so happy. And she never failed to let all those saleswomen know how much she valued my 'advice' by making a point to ask my opinion about the newest styles we'd find in the dozens of fashion magazines she subscribed to. In no time at all she had me selecting outfits I thought would look best for whatever particular event was on her busy social schedule. "Be a dear, Sonny, and pick out something sophisticated I can wear to the annual children's charity dinner. You know I trust your judgment." Shopping with Mother became fun and she did make me feel like some sort of fashion guru. "You wouldn't believe how the girls at the club raved about the dress I wore today. Weren't they impressed when I bragged that you picked it out for me," she'd compliment. "You have such a keen eye for fashion. Everyone thinks I have my own personal shopper. Well, I suppose I do, in a sense," she'd titter. "I don't know what I'd do without your help. I swear, you're more familiar with my wardrobe than I am. I tell you, there aren't very many boys who can brag that they know which lingerie their mothers should wear with this or that dress? Not like my Sonny can." If I balked in the slightest, which I did before I realized how happy my help made her, she'd simply give me a 'tut-tut' and gently admonish, "You know, Sonny, a boy as gentle as you will be far better off in life by learning what it really takes to make a girl happy. And that includes knowing how to make girls look their best by being able to select just the right outfit for them, complete with the proper make-up and accessories, like you've been doing for me. One of these days you'll fall in love and want to pamper your special someone the same way you pamper me. She'll love you all the more for it, believe me." By 'gentle' she was subtly referring to my undeniable lack of 'manly' physical traits. She never went so far as to call me 'unmanly' or 'pretty' or any of the other descriptors generally reserved for men and boys some might ridicule as being less than macho. No. In Mother's world I was simply 'gentle'. Her seductive manipulations left me feeling thoroughly convinced that a son attending to most of his mother's uniquely feminine needs was perfectly normal -- even something to be proud of. Although having to explain to my friends that I couldn't play ball because I had to do Mother's hair subjected me to lots of teasing. Once, when I joked that she was doing her eyeliner all wrong -- at least according to an article I had read in Cosmo -- she didn't take offense. "If you think you can do it better, Sonny, go ahead," she challenged. And with that gentle nudge she subtly introduced me to the mysterious world of cosmetics and how to expertly apply them so they would emphasize her best features and downplay others. In all modesty, I really became quite the 'artiste'. I know it sounds like I'm bragging but I introduced her to lip liner. Not that she hadn't heard of lip liner before. She was simply too impatient to bother lining her lips the way someone as fashion- conscious as she should. I was the one who convinced her that lining her lips before putting on lipstick was a fashion necessity. When she discovered that I could line her lips and then fill them in as perfectly as any operator in her salon could, she drafted me into performing that task, as well. As I became more and more proficient -- How could I not since she had me 'practicing' daily? -- she began referring to me as her 'personal beautician'. Even bragging about my expertise to her girlfriends. That was pretty embarrassing, let me tell you. I didn't mind being her 'personal beautician' in the least -- in fact, I rather enjoyed those quiet evenings of mother and son bonding. But she didn't have to go bragging to all her friends about it. Regardless, by the time I turned sixteen our relationship had morphed from 'mother and son' into something more like 'salon client' and 'beautician-confidante'. Mother loved sharing all the delicious 'salon gossip' with me as much as she loved gossiping with her other gal-pals at the salon -- usually over flutes of ice-cold imported Champagne she loved sharing with me before dinner or while I created colorful floral arrangements with the vast variety of flowers she enjoyed growing on our patio garden. Ginny reminded me a lot of Mother. Smart, sexy, seductive, and incredibly wealthy. We're talking total financial independence -- just like Mother. And, like Mother, Ginny had come by her wealth in the only 'honest' way possible -- through a skillfully negotiated divorce settlement. In addition to Ginny's cougar-like determination to have a 'cub' cater to her every desire, combined with my own carefully calculated training at Mother's knee, we had our wealth in common. Following Mother's premature demise I became sole beneficiary to the fortune she acquired through her own skillfully negotiated divorce settlement. And, like Ginny, I'd never have to work a day in my life. Don't think for one second she didn't recognize and seize the opportunity to have a 'cub' like me at her beck and call. Yes indeed, we had a lot in common. Her attraction to a 'young boy' like me and my own magnetic attraction to a mature woman like her perfectly complimented each other. You should have seen the way her eyes lit up when, in my tipsy condition, I blurted out how much I loved pampering Mother -- and how much I missed doing so. She really couldn't believe I was as proficient in the feminine arts of cosmetology and haute couture as I bragged or that I had learned all my skills by pampering Mother. "Sonny," Ginny challenged loudly as another night at our favorite watering hole began to wind down, "you're gonna to have to put your money where your mouth is before you'll ever get me to believe you're as talented as you say. You really did all that for your mother?" In my tipsy condition I proved I was just as young and impetuous as she claimed -- I bragged. "Hand me your purse, and I'll show you," I slurred. "Right here?" she asked in a skeptical tone. "Right here at the bar?" "Sure," I replied. "Why not? Your lipstick needs a touch-up anyway. There's more on your cocktail glass than on your lips. Whatsa' matter, 'fraid I'll make you look like a circus clown?" I challenged. In her own tipsy state Ginny handed over her purse -- daring me. There were only a few people still hanging around the bar so near closing time. Mostly girls around my age not feeling any pain and the ever- present studs lurking and hoping to get lucky. They started laughing when I rummaged around in Ginny's purse and pulled out her lip liner, lipstick, and the sable brush she uses to apply it. Ginny had a dubious look on her face as I began lining her lips. She was watching intently for any slip-up through the mirror in her compact. After I finished brushing on a perfectly bow-shaped coat of ruby-red lipstick she became a true believer. To show her appreciation of my talents she threw her arms around my neck and planted one of her patented juicy kisses smack on my lips. I love the way she kisses -- forceful, demanding, proprietary. Even if the infrequent kisses we had shared to this point had been patently platonic. Not at all like the air kisses Mother graciously gave me to show her appreciation after I'd done her make-up particularly well. And I love the cherry flavor of Ginny's lipstick. I made no attempt to wipe it away. Instead I licked the waxy gloss she had tattooed on my mouth as I savored the sweet flavor. "Mmmmm," I cooed with a smile and ignoring the titters and guffaws my ruby-red lips spawned. "Tastes good." "It sure does, Sonny," she laughed. "And it looks as good on you as it does on me. I think we've found your 'signature shade'," she teased. Her remark embarrassed me. Hearing the hushed mocking jeers and taunts from the few remaining barflies was even more embarrassing. So I grabbed a bar napkin and began wiping my lips. "No! No!" she screeched a little too loudly. "Don't wipe it off! It looks so pretty on you. Here, let me. What's good for the goose is good for the gander, after all." She grabbed the lip liner and lipstick from the bar and began applying a fresh coat to my lips -- right in front of everyone! Like she was marking off her territory. Aarrgghh! Finally satisfied, she giggled like a kid in a candy store, "Much better! Although, you could use a touch of mascara. Heck, put you in the right outfit and people might take you for my teenage daughter," as she rested her arms on my shoulders and reached behind my head to fluff out my ponytail. Her 'teenage daughter' remark hit home in an embarrassing way -- once again calling attention to my youth and, err ... prettiness. As for being mistaken for her teenage daughter -- well, that just seemed silly. But I could see where some might see a family resemblance. We're about the same size -- not counting that she towers over me in her high heels. Some would call her size-six figure petite and svelte. While a guy like me would be called puny -- the proverbial ninety-eight pound weakling. Our hair color is similar -- although hers falls in soft waves to her shoulders and is streaked with auburn highlights. Given our facial features, bone structure, and overall slim figures anyone might take us for brother and sister were it not for our difference in age. Not that she showed her age in the least. It was her worldly maturity and take-charge self-confidence that was the obvious major difference between us. And she used all that to keep me heeling like a trained pup -- or, as she had dubbed me -- her cub. She waived the wand of mascara in my face in a playfully threatening manner. "Maybe some other time," I laughed in an attempt to fend off her attempt to plaster my lashes. "Don't be such a wuss, Sonny," she whispered breathily and with a glazed look in her eyes. "There's no one here but us drunks. Who's in charge here anyway, you or me?" Her perfume, as always, was intoxicating. She gripped my chin firmly and started swiping thickening and lengthening coats of her black mascara over my lashes, miraculously managing somehow to not smudge it. Lucy, the bartender, and several young women gathered to gawk at Ginny's efforts -- and to titter at the way she so thoroughly dominated the young cub sitting meekly by her side and fluttering his lids as she directed. "Your lashes are so long! I'm almost jealous," she complimented as she went for a third application. "I could do a lot with eyes as pretty as yours. Do a little something with your hair, put you in a sexy mini skirt, a pretty top, some spiky heels -- you'd be a knockout." In all my years of pampering her, Mother had never suggested putting make-up on me -- or painting my nails -- or styling my hair -- or dressing me in any of her clothes, even though just about everything in her wardrobe would probably fit me to a tee. It never occurred to me to do anything like that either. I was simply Mother's ever-obedient 'gentle' 'personal beautician'. That Ginny chose such a public forum to suggest doing all those things was decidedly humiliating. I wanted to bolt from the bar -- truly I did. Instead, I remained glued to my barstool. The fact that she still had a firm grip on my chin and that no-nonsense, predatory grin on her face probably helped keep me obediently perched in place. Ginny was holding her mirror in front of my face to show me just how long my lashes were. I didn't need a mirror to see that. I know how long they are. I'd been hearing about it from girls I'd known all my life -- including Mother and her friends. Seeing the skillful results Ginny achieved in only a matter of seconds, especially in such a public forum, brought back memories of all the taunting and teasing I'd had to endure growing up. My lashes looked longer than they ever had -- though now perfectly thickened, combed, and separated as they extended almost to my barely-there eyebrows. "Like what you see?" Ginny interrupted my thoughts. "I certainly do." "They look so long," I whispered, now oblivious to the gawkers. "They'd look even prettier with a little shadow. I have a whole palette of shadows in my make-up bag. Let's see what some deep lavender and yellow look like. It'll really make your eyes pop," she suggested. "And bring out the colors of your new top, err ... shirt. Silk, isn't it?" as she fingered the billowing sleeve of the silk paisley shirt I had bought just that day. "Oh come on, Ginny!" I complained, suddenly snapping back to the here and now. "Not in here." "Not in here?" she teased. "Are you suggesting we go back to my place then?" "I didn't mean it that way!" I grumbled, suddenly incurring her wrath. "It's getting late, Sonny," she snapped with no small amount of irritation in her voice. That signaled her no-argument end to our evening. She did pay the bar tab over my objections. "A pretty young cub like you should never have to pay for drinks," she teased loudly as she hooked my arm in hers and led me out. We exited the bar to the sounds of hoots and wolf-whistles ringing in my ears. I tried to convince myself they were meant for Ginny. Two days later my phone rang. Ginny was calling to invite me to dinner at her place -- a first and definitely welcomed escalation of our budding relationship. There had been a long dry spell since I'd been on an actual date. Naturally I'd dated a few girls my own age -- very few. Mostly because Mother had always kept me so busy pampering her. And none of the girls I dated had ever called to ask ME out. That a woman of Ginny's worldly stature had called to ask me to dinner left me giddy with excitement yet feeling a bit inferior all at once. I was definitely glad she had waited two days to call. It had taken that long for the last remnants of her lipstick and mascara to wear off. I don't keep make-up remover in my medicine cabinet -- Why would I? -- and was too embarrassed to buy any at the drugstore. I got a lot of strange looks at the grocers, the dry cleaners, and just about every other place I went during those two days. I felt especially self- conscious at the curious way the saleswoman at Saks looked at me when I stopped in to pick up a few things. "Sure, Ginny," I pleasantly agreed. "I'd love to come. Can I bring anything? What should I wear?" I asked automatically. At least I had learned the all-important social niceties from Mother. "It's only a casual evening, Sonny. Just bring your pretty self." she said. "Unless you've gone out and bought your own lipstick and mascara. You could wear that if you like," she laughingly teased. "Ginny!" I screeched like an embarrassed teenager. "Stop it! You're embarrassing me! And no, I haven't bought my own make-up." "Well," she continued teasing, "I suppose I could lend you some of mine just for tonight. But, sooner or later, you're gonna have to buy your own." 'This woman is evil with a capital E,' I laughed to myself. I arrived at her condo precisely at seven, as she had instructed. The doorman announced me and I rode the private elevator up the thirty stories to her penthouse feeling quite pleased with my appearance as I examined myself critically in the mirrored paneling. The beige linen slacks, my powder-blue button down oxford shirt, and my tan tassel loafers looked really stylish. I was particularly pleased that I had gone out and bought a 'man-bag'. It hung smartly over my shoulder to hold all my personal stuff so no unfashionable 'lumps' would spoil the lines of my tightly-fitted slacks. It had all sorts of compartments for things like a cellphone and my wallet and keys. Even a separate zippered pouch which the saleswoman informed me was included to hold make-up. "Make-up?" I questioned. "It's a unisex bag," she quickly explained after she saw my skeptical look. "We also carry it over in Shoes and Handbags. Women adore this bag. This pouch is for keeping make-up separate and apart so it doesn't spill out and soil everything. I'm sure you can understand that. You could use it to protect something like a pair of sunglasses, I suppose," she suggested. "Or your own make-up," she giggled, staring knowingly at the faint ruby-red stain on my lips and the slight hint of mascara still adhering to my lashes. "In any event, it is the latest style. We're offering it with a 'GWP' -- gift-with-purchase," she continued her sales pitch. "This matching alligator belt." Despite my obvious embarrassment she made a lot of sense and besides I really liked the style. The medium-tan alligator bag coordinated perfectly with the rest of my outfit. I liked its soft, supple texture and its shapeless, modern- art-like form. A stark contrast to the rigid, boxy man-bags I'd seen other guys carrying. Throwing in the fashionably thin matching belt with its bejeweled buckle sealed the deal. If nothing else, all the education I had been force-fed while pampering Mother was enough to make me obsessively conscious of my own sense of fashion. I thought, in addition to my stylish appearance, the bouquet of mixed florals I brought with me would impress Ginny. As the private elevator deposited me directly into Ginny's foyer I was taken aback and definitely stunned when she greeted me wearing a floor- length peignoir -- not unlike the peignoirs Mother was prone to lounge about in. It did nothing to conceal the mint-green bikini panties, the matching garter belt, and the ivory nylons she wore underneath. I could spot La Perla from a mile away and was certain she would have purchased the matching lacy bra that I knew came with the set even though it was missing in action at the moment. Even with her hair still in curlers and sans make-up she looked ravishing. A 'casual evening' indeed! Regardless, she wrapped her arms around my neck and smothered me with another one of her delectable kisses. Mother NEVER greeted me this way! I immediately began furiously licking my lips. Even though I savored the cherry flavor, I wanted to strip my lips of any color and avoid a repeat of the other night. "Ooooh! For me?" she smiled sweetly as she took the bouquet I offered. "Thank you, Sonny, you're so sweet. How pretty they are! Just as pretty as you. They remind me of the new lingerie I bought just yesterday. And look how these ruby-red roses perfectly match the lipstick WE wore the other night. Aren't you the clever one." Her comparison of my bouquet to her new lingerie left me perplexed. It really didn't seem relevant. And I can assure you that when I made a quick stop-off at the florist on my way to her place -- almost an afterthought, really -- I hadn't considered for a split-second that the bouquet so perfectly matched her lipstick. Why on earth would a thought like that even enter my mind? Her teasing observation that the roses matched the lipstick 'WE' wore the other night embarrassed me. I quickly changed the subject. "Am I early?" I questioned, taking in her state of undress and thinking Mother had a pair of marabou-trimmed mules exactly like the ones Ginny was wearing -- three-inch heels and all. "Only by about two hours, pretty boy. You certainly are the eager little cub, Sonny," she informed me much to my dismay. "I told you cocktails at nine, dinner at nine-thirty," she said in a way one might lovingly scold a child. "But, Ginny," I stammered, "you said seven o'clock." I was sure she had said seven. I pride myself on being punctual and knew I couldn't have misunderstood her very precise instructions. First she calls me a 'young boy', then pretty, then publicly brands me with her lipstick and mascara while teasing how I could be mistaken for her teenage daughter -- if she could 'put me in the right outfit'. Now she greets me practically in her nightclothes and scolds me for being two hours early. The ways she was finding to keep me off balance were becoming more and more disconcerting. "It doesn't matter," she assured me, hooking her arm in mine and leading me purposefully further into her lair. "In fact, it's just as well. Since you're SO early you can help me dress. You know, start pampering me like you used to pamper Mother," she hinted. "And, for heaven's sake stop trying to lick your lipstick off. I still think it looks pretty on you. Relax, there's no one here to tease you like they did at the bar the other night. Although, for the life of me, I don't understand why they did. You really looked so pretty, I mean." "What are you gonna do, make me wear lipstick for the rest of my life, Madame?" I asked with a slight bow, trying my best to make light of the situation. "I told you, Sonny, I'm a cougar," she reminded me with a definite tone of authority creeping into her voice. "A cougar who thinks you happen to look pretty with lipstick. And a cougar always has her way with her cub. Especially a petite and pretty cub like you," she teased as she planted another juicy kiss, along with more of her flavorful lipstick. "Now this time just keep away from your lips," she insisted as she pointed to an empty vase sitting on a sideboard. Taking her cue, I dutifully filled the cut-crystal vase and, out of habit, quickly arranged the colorful flowers. "I see you're just as talented a florist as you are a make-up artist," she laughed as she handed me a flute of ice-cold imported Champagne. "Such a treasure! Now it's time to pamper me." She hooked her arm in mine and led me to her boudoir. "What a lovely purse, Sonny. Alligator, isn't it? I have one just like it. You got it at Saks, right?" "Yes," I replied. "But it's NOT a purse. It's a 'man-bag'," I added defensively. "Men don't carry purses," I laughed nervously. "Whatever," she laughed warmly, "bring it along. We girls NEVER let our purses out of our sight. I see you're wearing the pretty belt that came with it. I got the same belt and wear it with my beige linen skirt. I love that skirt. Although it's not quite as snug as your slacks." I considered the possibility that I didn't get the dinnertime wrong and that she had tricked me into arriving two hours early so she could judge for herself just how talented I was in the 'pampering' department. On reflection, I wouldn't put it past her. Ginny's boudoir was just as well-appointed as Mother's. Somehow that didn't surprise me. It was just as ultra-feminine in every respect -- even more so, if that was possible. I actually felt right at home. Her custom-built French Provincial dresser was almost an exact duplicate of Mother's -- ivory finish, gold leaf trim, and all. The surroundings were so familiar, in fact, that I was certain I knew in exactly which drawer of her triple dresser her panties, her brassieres, or any of her other La Perla intimates reposed. I knew, without a doubt, she was just as big a fan of La Perla as Mother. "Are you up to doing my nails, Sonny?" she smiled seductively. "After the way you did my lips I'm dying to see what you can do with my nails." The way she asked brooked no refusal. Not that I was inclined to refuse. Ginny reminded me so much of Mother. The difference in our ages was about the same as the difference between Mother and me and only served to heighten my excitement at being invited to pamper Ginny. If nothing else, reliving the pleasant memories would be a pleasant diversion. "If you insist, Madame," I agreed cavalierly with another slight bow. She sat at her vanity, looking quite regal, and handed me a bottle of ruby-red polish. I began shaking it vigorously but couldn't tear my eyes away from her legs as her peignoir splayed open to show off the naked flesh above her stockings and the garters straining to keep them taut. 'God! She's so much like Mother,' I thought, taking another sip of the bubbly. "Before you begin, my pretty boy, let me slip this on you," she insisted. "I wouldn't want you to splash polish on your slacks. In fact, take off your slacks. Why take any chances?" She zipped me into a nylon smock with a floral print that barely covered my upper thighs. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. "This isn't really necessary, Ginny," I tried to convince her. "I'm not gonna spill anything." "Now just shush and do as I say, my pretty little cub," she insisted. "You can hang your slacks and purse over there." "It's a 'man-bag'!" I continued to insist. I hesitantly reached up under to modestly remove my slacks. Despite my embarrassment I followed her instructions and folded them along the razor-sharp creases and draped them neatly, along with my 'man-bag', over the back of the chair where she had indicated. I didn't want her to think I was a slob. If she noticed my embarrassed blush she didn't let on. "Nice stockings," she smiled, gazing at my summer-weight, cream- colored, knee-high dress socks. "They're dress socks," I said defensively. "Not stockings." In fact, they were a little long for someone my height, extending to above my knees. It was necessary to draw them up that high to avoid wrinkles. I thought the sheer look was quite stylish although the light peach-fuzz on my legs showed through despite the fleur de lis pattern stitched into the filmy fabric. They kind of reminded me of the knee-highs Mother preferred on the rare occasions she wore slacks. But I hadn't given it a second thought when I bought them. Besides they were comfortable. When I had purchased the two dozen pair in various colors to coordinate with the rest of my wardrobe the saleswoman in the men's department at Saks insisted they were the latest style and a perfect fit. The wide elastic at the top -- the welt, she called it -- would prevent unsightly sagging, she had assured me. "Well they're sheer enough to be stockings," Ginny teased. "I'd certainly wear stockings like these under my slacks. If they were any longer you'd have to wear garters to hold them up." My blush couldn't have gotten any more crimson. "I don't need garters," I argued. "They stay up all by themselves. "We girls call them thigh-highs," she laughed. "They can be very comfy. But you already know that, I'm sure. Never mind. Do my nails." Thigh Highs? They didn't come up to my thighs! They were barely three inches over my knees, for heaven's sake. Thigh highs, indeed! She held out a hand expectantly. At least she had already removed her old polish. Even without polish her long acrylic nails looked sexy -- and a little intimidating -- like the nails of a cougar stalking her prey. It only took me five minutes to apply two perfect coats of ruby-red polish even with the added distraction of Ginny's leg swaying rapidly to and fro and my hand resting lightly on her silken stocking. It had been quite a while since I'd last polished Mother's nails but I hadn't lost my touch. Ginny was ecstatic, to say the least. She stood to examine her nails in a better light as she heaped effusive praise on me. "Even my manicurist couldn't have done them more perfectly, Sonny!" she exclaimed over and over. "If you can do my hair and make-up just as perfectly I'll have to seriously think about giving up my salon appointments. Do you do acrylics too?" Her high praise was so reminiscent of Mother's. "Acrylics, manicures, pedicures, make-up, facials, and hair -- even waxing," I assured her. "I am a full-service salon, after all," I bragged with yet another exaggerated bow at the waist. "Such a respectful bow, Sonny," voicing her approval. "We should really work on a proper curtsy, though," she taunted, causing me to blush an even deeper crimson. "In any event, I think I might just keep you on as my own personal beautician. I swear," she said with a fond glint in her eyes, "seeing you in this pretty smock and having you doing my nails reminds me of the fun sleepovers when I was a little girl. I'd love to have a sleepover with you. I'd even lend you one of my baby-dolls. My little girlfriends and I loved our baby-dolls. They were all the rage back then. I'll just bet Mother loved hers too." How could she possibly know that Mother loved lounging about in a baby- doll during those many quiet evenings we shared? Hearing her proclaim me her personal beautician made me feel just as proud as when Mother 'officially' appointed me hers. Yet it brought back all those embarrassing taunts I was forced to endure as Mother's friends teased me relentlessly. I desperately hoped she didn't intend on bragging I was her 'personal beautician' to everyone at Happy Hour. But the idea of being invited to a sleepover with Ginny sounded very appealing -- even if she preferred me in lipstick and a baby-doll. "Oh dear, I'm afraid I've come undone," she suddenly exclaimed as she poked a leg out of her peignoir and glared down at her garters, one of which had become detached leaving her nylon sagging indelicately. "Be a dear, Sonny, will you? Do something about this," she whined. "My nails are still wet." I stood there staring with my mouth agape. Notwithstanding the fact that I found Ginny to be the most exciting woman I'd ever known -- since Mother, that is -- the thought of reaching for the offending garter was nothing less than intimidating. She had clipped her stocking so tautly that it had come undone and snapped back violently to nestle inside her panties. "You want me to ...?" I gasped. As I said, we weren't romantically involved -- not even 'officially' dating. Now here she was asking me to reach in and to possibly touch her most intimate flesh in order to re-attach her garter. Doing her nails was one thing. Becoming any more familiar than that hadn't even entered the equation. "Yes, my pretty cub," she interrupted. "Reach in and do up my garter properly. There's nothing to be embarrassed about. It's just us girls here," she laughed. "And be quick about it, please. You still have to do my make-up, take my curlers out and brush my hair, then help me finish dressing before I can start dinner." Great! Now, besides being her young cub, and a pretty one at that, I was just one of the girls! This was getting too weird! I gingerly plucked at the lacy waistband of her panties. In her three- inch mules she towered over me. It was easier to drop to my knees to more effectively reach in and reattach the offending garter. "You look so cute down there on your knees, Sonny," she giggled to further exacerbate my embarrassment. "Don't look so embarrassed. I love my pretty cubs on their knees." As the silkiness of her panty and her naked flesh brushed against my hand I gasped audibly. It was all-too obvious that she went to great pains to denude herself 'down there' -- just like Mother had always done. I recognized that feeling right away. "Mmmm," she cooed softly. "Your hand is so silky-soft. At least I won't have to worry about you snagging my stockings. I can tell you use lots of lotion. Which do you prefer, Sonny?" "I use Oil of Olay," I mindlessly confessed. "It was Mother's favorite," I explained lamely as I managed to retrieve her garter and thread it underneath her panty. "Your panties feel silky-soft, too. La Perla, right?" 'There I go bragging again!' I thought. "Silky like Mother's La Perla panties?" she taunted knowingly. "My, my, my! How well-versed you are to recognize true quality." "Better than Mother's," I admitted shyly as I clipped the garter to her stocking and adjusted the tension so it wouldn't detach again. Not really thinking about what I was doing, I absently caressed the front of her panties, thrilling to their silken feel and sensing the beginnings of a tell-tale tingling 'down there'. I could feel her skin twitch and ripple involuntarily. On my knees and face to face with the juncture of her thighs, I could sense her dampness and smell that womanly scent that was so reminiscent of Mother. Ginny was becoming decidedly aroused! "If you think they feel so silky-soft, Sonny, why don't we pick out a pair for you?" I heard her taunting me. "You'll find they feel so much silkier when you're wearing them. Didn't Mother ever tell you that?" "Never!" I gasped. "Well, shame on her," Ginny commented casually. "Having a child as pretty as you, and having you catering to her most intimate needs, I'm surprised she never offered you your own silky undies. Didn't she ever suggest that someone as pretty as you was born to wear silks and lace? I certainly think you were." "She never did," I muttered mindlessly as if the fact that Mother never suggesting I wear her panties was somehow insulting to me. "First you get me to wear your lipstick and now you want me to put on your panties," I half complained. "What's next, Ginny?" "Why don't we start with a pair of silky panties first?" she said, brooking no argument. "Then we'll see what's next." She strode purposefully to her nine-drawer dresser. As I suspected her panties were in the top, upper left drawer -- the same drawer in Mother's dresser where she kept her panties. I was sure Ginny stashed her brassieres in the drawer just below her panties and her camisoles and slips in the center top drawer. That's how Mother had me organize her things, anyway. This was getting weirder by the second. Ginny walked back across her lushly carpeted boudoir with a pair of shimmering silk, lace-trimmed bikini panties -- La Perla, of course -- dangling from her index finger. She had been right. Their floral pattern was a perfect reflection of the bouquet I had so thoughtfully brought her. Her blazing, all-knowing smile was a clear indication that she knew I wouldn't refuse her offer to don them. She quickly undid my smock and slipped it off my shoulders, leaving me standing there in just my button-down dress shirt, knee-high socks, and my underwear. "Oh my!" she exclaimed as she playfully lifted my shirttail to peek. "How perfectly adorable! You're already wearing panties! Rather plain, though, if you ask me -- for someone as pretty as you." "They're not panties!" I argued. "They're Jockey's For Men!" I could understand why she might think I was wearing panties, though. The Jockey's For Men had been thoughtfully suggested by the same saleswoman who convinced me to purchase my knee-high dress socks and 'man-bag' -- a hip-hugging bikini style in sheer comfortable silk. Tonight I was wearing beige to coordinate with my slacks and socks. I had purchased two dozen pair in a variety of solid colors -- white, black, red, forest-green, navy-blue, and of course beige. Although, at my saleswoman's insistence, I bought several pair with more racy and exotic patterns -- leopard, zebra, and colorful stripes. In my opinion, all quite manly. "If you ask me they're no different than these," she argued while dangling the panty she had plucked from her dresser in my face. "Yours don't even have the y-front normally found on every other pair of MEN'S underwear. Okay. Okay. Maybe these are a bit more feminine -- like the pretty flowers you brought. I told you those flowers looked like these panties." "My underwear isn't La Perla and doesn't have lace trim," I pointed out. "And they certainly don't have roses printed into the fabric." "Never mind all that," she directed. "I'm dying to see you in these. Let's get your nylons off first." "They're not nylons," I continued to complain. "They're dress socks. MEN'S dress socks!" She had already rolled down my socks, leaving them in little donuts on the carpet, and was lowering my Jockey's. When she held her panties open expectantly I stepped in without further objection. I gasped involuntarily as she settled her panty about my loins. It wasn't so much the incredible feeling of pure silk caressing my most intimate flesh -- heck, I was used to that. It was the reflection I saw in her full-length mirror. Seeing myself adorned in the sexy floral pattern - - with all that lace trim -- was making me decidedly aroused. "I'm afraid, Sonny," she teased, "if you wear these panties underneath linen slacks as sheer as yours the pretty floral pattern will show through. How deliciously naughty!" as she lightly tickled the very tip of my growing excitement. "At least when I wear my skirt -- you know, the one I told you matches your slacks -- at least when I wear that I have the option of wearing a slip underneath so I won't be showing MY panties to the whole world," she laughed. "Too bad you can't you can't wear a slip under your slacks. Of course, if you're going to wear pretty panties like these, maybe you should be wearing a skirt and slip." Ginny was not one to let my embarrassing condition go unnoticed. Or to take full advantage. "Sonny," she laughed warmly, "I think you enjoy wearing my pretty panties even more than you enjoy wearing your own. Look how you're growing ... down here!" She continued caressing the front of my panties to emphasize her point. Then ran her hands up and down my legs before cupping my bottom and pulling me in to playfully plant a proprietary peck right where I was 'growing'. Sitting back on her haunches she gazed at my legs. "You have very pretty legs, Sonny. These legs would make any girl envious," she whispered. "I suppose next you're gonna make me trade my dress socks for a pair of your stockings," I suggested with as much sarcasm as I could muster. Seizing the unintended opening my impulsive comment allowed her, she gripped my growing excitement and said matter-of-factly, "Not until I rid you of all this peach-fuzz. And not unless you're willing to slip into a pair of heels. Now that will really show off these pretty legs!" "What about dinner?" I asked, begging the question of donning nylons and heels. "Tell you what, my pretty cub, while you put this to good use I'll start tossing the salad," she smiled as she handed me her Lady Schick electric razor. That she had it so readily available made me question if she hadn't planned to ensnare me in this feminine domain all along. I groaned in good-humored resignation but took the razor. I scratched my head in wonderment as it donned on me that less than thirty minutes after first setting foot inside this cougar's ultra- feminine lair she had me half-naked, wearing her panties, and shaving off what little peach fuzz I used to be so proud of. "And don't forget to get super close, you know ... 'down there', Sonny. When I come back I want to see you just as smooth as I am. And, while you're at it, lose this silly shirt and do under your arms. I'm sure there's a nice crop of unsightly fuzz under your arms, as well. Let's try to make this a really fun 'girls-night-in' shall we." She playfully lowered her own panties and teasingly stroked herself 'down there' to display exactly how smooth she kept herself and just how smooth she expected me to be when she returned. With her peignoir flaring she made a royal exit and left me standing in the middle of her boudoir fumbling with the buttons on my shirt wondering just what I had gotten myself into. Well, to tell the truth, I was coming to realize exactly what I had gotten myself into. This cougar of a woman was demonstrating her ability to keep her cub -- her very young and very pretty cub -- caged. It didn't take all that much to whisk off the light peach-fuzz on my legs and underarms. There was never very much there to begin with. And none anywhere else on my body, other than 'down there'. Getting a close shave 'down there' was another matter. It was a little scary. I love my equipment and was deathly afraid of chewing things to bits with the electric razor. In the end though, all went well -- except for being unable to see or reach in back between my cheeks. I was assessing my handiwork in the mirror, looking for any strays, when Ginny returned twenty minutes later. "Nice job, pretty girl," she complimented as if she were praising a pet. She ran her hands over every square inch of my silky-smooth flesh. "Couldn't reach back here, eh? I can help with that," she observed as her fingers tickled the light peach-fuzz I hadn't been able to reach. "If you want to remove this peach-fuzz permanently I could set you up with my electrologist. No girly-girl wants to have to worry about unsightly hair growth. Especially a girly-girl as pretty as you." She was relentless in her teasing ways. But I accepted it all in good humor with no other thought in my mind than to continue pampering this cougar as I had Mother -- and thanking my lucky stars that I had been meticulous enough in my toilette to have soaked in a bubble bath for an hour to insure I was squeaky-clean all over. With just a few deft passes of her razor while she continued her teasing rant she had me silky-smooth back there as well. "In case you haven't noticed, Ginny," I half whined in a feeble attempt meant more to convince myself than her, "I'm not a girl! And I'm certainly not a pretty girl. This should prove that I'm not a girl! I'm a Man!" I argued while gripping myself and waiving it in her face to lighten the mood. "Yes, yes, my pretty cub. Of course you are," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "A man who prefers wearing what he euphemistically calls 'dress socks' that look suspiciously like women's thigh-highs. Or Jockey's For Men underpants that are stylishly identical to women's bikini panties. And a MAN who carries a woman's purse he wishfully calls a 'man-bag'. Even in your linen slacks, button-down shirt, and tasseled loafers, I could pass you off as my girlfriend. "And, don't think for one second that I haven't noticed the delightfully feminine lilt that suddenly crept into your voice the instant you stepped into my panties. All that's left is to add the right make-up and hairstyle. Just give me a little more time, Sonny," she laughed, exuding her incredible self-confidence. "I'll make you over into the prettiest girl you've ever seen. I love pretty girls -- demure, sweet, attentive, anxious-to-please, talented, young, and pretty ... girls! Young and pretty girls with that something extra 'down there'." She was tenderly caressing my naked flesh even as her words so summarily and efficiently stripped away every last vestige of what little manliness I'd ever cherished. If she kept caressing me I wasn't going to last very long. "Stop! Stop," I squealed girlishly and without giving a second thought to how thoroughly Ginny was emasculating me. "You're gonna make me wet my panties!" "Not just yet, Sonny. I don't want you getting all wet before I finish what I started." "Finish what you started? Just how far are you intending to take this, Ginny?" "I already told you, Sonny, I love young and pretty girls with that something extra 'down there'. You, my pretty cub, thanks to all the experience you gained from pampering Mother, are eminently qualified. By the time I'm finished you won't recognize yourself. A cougar of my caliber always gets her way." "Oh, for heaven's sake, Ginny!" I grumbled. "The next thing I know you'll be calling me 'MARY'!" THAT comment certainly lit a fire under her. "Sonny, my sweet young miss, I can guarantee I won't be calling you Mary -- or Sue or Jane!" she firmly announced. "Way too plain. Really now! Don't you think someone as pretty as you should have an exotic name -- a name that reflects your radiant beauty and a name everyone will remember? We'll have to see the finished product before deciding something so important. But, first things first." I stood there mentally kicking myself for putting my mouth in motion before my brain was in gear. Mother had always warned me about that. She reached for a large tube of body lotion and squeezed out a large dollop into my palm. "I know this isn't your mother's Oil of Olay but I think you'll adore the fragrance. Even more, you'll adore how silky-smooth it leaves your skin. Besides, Red Door is my favorite. You do want to wear MY favorite fragrance, don't you? You know, like you used to wear Mother's favorite. Not that I would ever want to take Mother's place, or anything. But, who knows, maybe you can think of me as an imperfect surrogate for Mother." Her self-effacing comment was offered to elicit a compliment. "Oh Ginny," I stammered, "I think you're just as perfect as Mother! Even more perfect," I added looking down at my floral panties and silky-smooth skin. "Oh you!" she tittered. "You only think I'm more perfect than Mother because I've put you into pretty panties and she never did. You like your new panties! You really like them! I can tell. If you like your new panties, you'll simply adore how perfectly decadent a pair of real, honest-to-goodness stockings makes you feel," she assured me. "Second drawer down in the center," I stated confidently as I finished massaging her silky-soft lotion into my flesh. "Where you keep your nylons and garter belts, I mean," I added when she looked at me quizzically. "You've been peeking in my dresser!" she accused warmly as she continued to caress my panties. "Were you going through my things while I was out of the room? Couldn't resist a sneaky peek at all my pretty dainties, eh? Wondering just which of my goodies I might wrap you in?" "No, no, Ginny, that's not it," I stammered guiltily. "Your dresser is just like Mother's. That's the same drawer where I put her nylons after she had me organize everything. Right underneath the drawer where I'm guessing you keep your slips and camisoles," I foolishly bragged once again. "I'll have you organize my wardrobe another time, my little cub. If you keep comparing me to Mother, Sonny, I just might decide to magically transform you into my daughter. I always wondered what it would be like to have a daughter -- a very young and very pretty daughter. Would you like to be my daughter? Maybe call me 'Mommy'?" Her relentless teasing and her incessant caresses had me almost to the boiling point. "If you make me over into your daughter then it would be incest if I do this," I giggled as I reached into her panties and slid my finger against her tender flesh. "We could get arrested for doing this ... 'Mommy'," I teased. "Mmmm, someone's getting very wet." "If we do get arrested," she laughed, "I certainly hope the authorities show enough compassion to at least lock us up together in the same WOMEN'S prison." 'God, she's relentless!' I shuddered. "Enough! Enough!" she squealed as she backed away and walked to her dresser. "You know me so well," she laughed as she reached into the second drawer down in the center and pulled out an unopened packet of suntan nylons and a garter belt in the same floral pattern as my panties. Then a bra that completed the La Perla set. "Nylons AND a bra?" I giggled. "I don't have anything to fill out a bra." Her audacity knew no bounds. "Not yet, you don't," she laughed back with the assured confidence of a woman who had a very specific agenda. "And, for your information, missy, these stockings are imported pure French silk. Not nylon. Nothing but the very best for my pretty little cub. Think you can you manage these stockings and garter belt by yourself? God help you if you put a run in them." "Sure," I smiled. "No problem. But I'm surprised you haven't insisted I paint my toes first -- like yours." Oh god! What was I saying? "Well, well, well. Look who's all full of HERSELF! Go ahead, pretty girl. I don't mind waiting." Her offer -- a dare, if you will -- was yet another chance for me to show off -- to brag. At least that's what my youthful and impetuous mind was compelling me to do. She watched intently, arms akimbo, as I took all of five minutes to apply two coats of her ruby-red polish to my perfectly manicured toenails. If nothing else, pampering Mother had taught me to pay as much attention to my own personal grooming as I did hers. Of course my fingernails, though just as perfectly manicured as my toes, were mannishly short. I might have become decidedly metrosexual in my style of dress and by allowing myself the luxury of growing out a lengthy ponytail, which was all the rage. But I hadn't gone so far off the deep end as to grow out longish nails, buffed to a high shine, like some guys were doing. Mine were barely peeking out little more than a quarter-inch beyond the tips of my slender fingers. The way my relationship with Ginny was developing I wondered how long it would take her to 'suggest', in that insistent way she has, that I begin sporting acrylics like hers. Ginny pulled my feet towards her face and began blowing on my toes to speed the drying. While she huffed and puffed I deftly slipped her garter belt around my waist. Then slipped into her bra and fastened it like I'd been wearing one all my life. Ginny was duly impressed. I even impressed myself at just how much had rubbed off on me from pampering Mother. Like a kid with a new toy, she skipped to the bathroom and came back with a large cellophane bag of cotton balls to pad out the cups. She fussed with the stuffing until she was satisfied. Inside the sheer lace cups of her pricey La Perla bra the cotton balls looked decidedly out of place -- almost comical. By that time my toes were dry enough to slip into the stockings she offered. The feeling of the silken sheaths caressing my now denuded legs was nothing less than electrifying. I mean, wearing Ginny's panties wasn't that different from wearing my own Jockey's For Men, notwithstanding the Chantilly lace and decidedly feminine floral pattern of hers. The silken caress about my loins felt the same. But wearing Ginny's imported pure French silk stockings ...! Oh my! As I reveled in the feeling of my first pair of nylons, err ... silk stockings, Ginny prattled on. "This cotton will pad you out nicely until we can find more life-like substitutes. Maybe tomorrow," she mused. "You know they have a marvelous selection of the most realistic silicone breast forms available these days. Unless, of course, I decide you should go under the knife for implants," she laughed. "Having my own implants might be fun to play with. As long as they look as perfect as yours," I teased, reaching out to playfully tweak her nipples and trying to prove that her threats were falling on deaf ears. "All it would take is one teensy phone call and tits like these could be yours, Sonny. Be careful what you wish for," she warned as she cupped her breasts and jiggled them temptingly before my bugged-out eyes. Ginny's uncharacteristic use of the vernacular was both menacing and seductive at the same time. I shivered at the thought she might actually make the phone call and that I'd wind up sporting tits, err ... breasts, like hers. This woman seemed bent on making me over in her image. As I began to thread the garters through my panties she slapped my hands away. "Oh no you don't, missy," she chastised. "What's good for the goose is good for the gander. Let me do that. A 'mother' deserves the pleasure of helping a 'daughter' into her first garter belt." "Yes, Mommy," I giggled with the spirit of cooperation this tender moment demanded. When she reached into my