The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It was late spring in the year of 1958, and the weather in the Midwest was unseasonably cool. This was particularly true in St. Louis, Missouri. Thus, the two women waiting at the passenger terminal at Lambert Airport had been obliged to wear light jackets when venturing from home.

The two woman varied widely in age, yet there was a definite similarity in their appearances that spoke mute testimony to their being related. And indeed they were. The tall, statuesque, gray-haired elderly woman was Agatha Etheridge, wife of the late, renown chemist, Dr. Percival Etheridge, and now the sixty-four-year-old matriarch of the Etheridge family. Beside her, the buxom, forty-two-year-old brunette was Martha Etheridge, her daughter-in-law, the widow of her son, the late, noted psychologist, Dr. Fenton Etheridge.

Clearly, the two women were awaiting a visitor. They were standing at Gate 12, where the deplaning passengers of Flight 201, from Frankfurt via London, would emerge. They were waiting for the only surviving male Etheridge. This was Frank Etheridge, twenty-four-year-old son of Martha Etheridge and grandson to Agatha Etheridge. His plane had just arrived.

Frank had been gone for two years after finishing medical school at Washington University. He was going to be a psychiatrist like his father, and he had opted to study abroad in Europe. He had attended courses at prestigious universities in Vienna, Austria, and Cologne, Germany, and had earned his advanced degree in psychiatry. Now, he was finally returning home to open up a psychiatric practice.

Thus, grandmother and mother were quite excited at finally being reunited with their beloved grandson, son, and nephew after so long an absence.

The elderly society matron, Agatha, whose lined face beneath her heavy makeup bespoke her old age, but whose carriage was queenly and whose heavily buxom, still shapely form was shown off to advantage in a clingy, black evening dress, misty black hose, and black pumps, now said, “Where is the dear boy? I see the passengers coming from the holding area now.”

Her busty daughter-in-law, well turned out in a gray skirt and blazer, smoky gray hose and dark gray pumps, not to mention a fawn sweater that was stretched tightly over a bosom of simply mountainous proportions, despite the restrictive brassier she wore beneath, replied, “Patience, mother-in-law...it’s a big plane...one of those new Boeing 707s. We’ll have to look sharp for him in that mob of passengers.”

Then Martha cried, “There he is—there’s Frank!”

Agatha looked in the direction Martha was pointing. Neither grandmother nor mother at first recognized the burly, black-haired, chisel-featured young man walking toward them attired in a charcoal gray double-breasted suit. His complexion was dark, like his mother’s. His eyes were dark and oblique with a peculiarly piercing power in their gaze.

“It is my Frank—but how he’s grown!” Martha Etheridge cried, staring at her approaching son. “He’s a man now—and the image of dear Fenton. The very image! For a moment...I thought...”

“I know,” her elderly mother-in-law finished for her, her eyes too fixed on the figure of her grandson. “I too thought my dear Percival had come back from the dead. I miss him so—just as I know you miss Fenton. But at least we have a reminder of them in young Frank.”

“Oh, we do!” Martha replied, gushing, staring at her son who was rapidly closing the distance between himself and his three womenfolk. “I’m so glad he’s home!”

“As am I,” replied her gray-haired mother.

“Hello, Mother...Grandmother...” Frank smiled.

“Come here this instant, young man, and give your mother a kiss,” Martha said with a mock frown, opening up her arms.

“And don’t forget your grandmother, either, when you’re passing out those kisses,” Agatha lovingly admonished her grandson as he now embraced and kissed his mother.

For a time, hugging and kissing his two female relatives, grandmother and mother completely consumed the young man’s attention. Finally his mother handed him a handkerchief. “Now, dear, wipe that lipstick off your face,” she told him, maternally. “My, I guess we did overdo the welcome, dear. You’re all flushed!”

“Now, now,” Agatha admonished. “Frank has had a long trip, and he’s just tired.”

Indeed, the young man’s manner was visibly agitated from the experience of kissing and embracing his mother and grandmother. As he wiped their lipstick from his lips and cheeks, he took a deep breath that seemed to settle him somewhat.

A close and impartial observer would have noticed that the young man was quivering slightly—and that he carefully buttoned the bottom button of his suitcoat to prevent his female relatives from espying the state of his trousers. But his paternal grandmother and mother were oblivious to anything but the joy of reuniting with their sole male family member.

“It’s a shame your Grandmother Edna couldn’t be here to greet you as well,” Martha mentioned. She referred to her own mother, Frank’s sixty-two-year-old maternal grandmother. “But she’s at a Daughters of the American Revolution convention in Baltimore. She sends her love.”

“Well, I’m sorry to miss her,” Frank said, returning his mother’s handkerchief to her.

“Are you hungry, Frank?” Marthe asked changing the subject. “Your grandmother booked a reservation at the Chase Park Plaza Hotel restaurant!”

“That’s wonderful!” Frank smiled his appreciation to his paternal grandmother, who smiled back.

“I thought for your first night back home we’d celebrate a bit,” she told him. Now, she consulted a thin, expensive gold wristwatch. “In fact, we’d better collect your bags and be on our way. We only have twenty minutes until our reservation.”

In fact, it was nearly a half hour later before the four Etherideges were able to arrive at the hotel restaurant. However, Agatha was well-known in St. Louis society and the mater d’ was most understanding. Soon, Frank, his mother, Martha, and his paternal grandmother, Agatha, were seated around a table in the hotel’s main dining room, enjoying a festive repast.

Unnoticed by his womenfolk, Frank had been covertly eyeing them. His covert stares were oddly intense.

There was his middle-aged mother, a brunette whose slightly olive complexion bespoke some Mediterranean blood somewhere in the family. Instead of a hat, she wore a fashionable red satin and lace turban that covered most of her hair, which was raven black with just a trace of gray. Her face was angular, with high cheekbones and a dimpled chin. Her eyes were deep black and large, with heavy lips, giving her a slight gypsy-like appearance, while her thick, bee-stung lips were sensual. Most noticeable about her was her extraordinarily large bosom—his mother’s breasts were two massive mounds stretching her thin sweater. Those magnificent breasts were shaped into twin cones by her brassier—a 44D-cup at least. Frank’s eyes lingered at his mother’s big bosom.

Then there was his elderly grandmother—and Frank seemed most agitated when he covertly eyed her. Her face was lean, and lined, with an aristocratic nose and sharp chin. But her lips were full and ripe, and her eyes, as blue as the sky, were lively and well as lovely. She wore her hair, once black but now dark gray, in an attractive coiffeur atop her head. Despite the lines on her forehead, and crow’s feet at her eyes, and slight double chin, hers was still a striking visage. Like her aunt, she had a large bosom, only even larger, a 48-D cup at least. His grandmother’s massive mounds seemed ready to burst out from her somewhat low-cut gown.

The young man, who seemed oddly agitated by his mother and grandmother’s caressing words and looks, spoke. “Well, I brought back presents from Europe for both of you.”

“Well, I think it’s just the loveliest thought,” Martha said.

“I agree,” Agatha added, beaming at her grandson. “It’s a very tender thought—giving each of us our own little reunion.”

Strangely, the buxom elderly matron’s words seemed to agitate her grandson. But he managed to suppress his reaction. “So, Mother,” Frank said, changing the subject adroitly, “is the old house still standing?”

With that, his mother replied. In the middle of her talk, Frank dropped his fork. With a muttered apology, he dived under the table to retrieve it. His mother and grandmother had moved on to other topics, and ignored the incident.

But the fork-dropping was no accident. It was quite deliberate.

As his grandmother and mother talked above the table, beneath the table, hidden by the red velvet tablecloth, Frank was not searching for his fork. He was instead staring avidly at two pairs of shapely female legs in sheer nylon stockings and high heeled pumps—the nylon stockinged legs and pump-shod feet of his middle-aged mother—and his elderly grandmother...

The young man’s eyes glittered strangely as he ogled his mother’s—and his grandmother’s—shapely knees, curving calves, and trim ankles, all smooth and glossy in sheer nylon stockings, their stockinged feet arched prettily in high heeled pumps. The sight of those shapely female legs in sheer hose and high heels galvanized him.

For, in fact, Frank was in the grip of a intense sexual excitement, a fetish, for nylon stockings, high heels, garters, and lingerie, a fetish he had accidentally formed as a boy spying on his mother and grandmother dressing. As he ogled his his mother’s and his grandmother’s legs in nylon stockings and their feet in high heels, he analyzed his fetish reaction professionally and clinically, as his psychiatric training had taught him to. Even so, he still felt the hot fever of his fetish for hose and high heels rise in him.

His middle-aged mother’s legs, were lusciously, heavily curved. Those maternal legs glowed in sheer, smoky gray shaded nylon stockings, her alluringly curved dark hosed legs rendered even more shapely by the high heels of her black pumps.

Then, his elderly grandmother’s legs in sheer hose and high heels...

Frank felt his heart pound in his chest as he stared at the legs of his own gray-haired grandmother, beautifully shaped legs despite her age, legs that glittered darkly in the ultra-sheer, misty black tinted nylon stockings she wore, her stockinged feet arched exquisitely in stiletto-heeled black opera pumps. The very thought that those glossy, sheer stockinged legs were those of his own elderly grandmother made the young man almost sick with a strange, bizarre arousal.

Beneath the table, Frank gazed at his elderly grandmother’s legs in the sheer nylon stockings...

Beneath the table, Frank gazed at his elderly grandmother’s legs in sheer nylon stockings. His temples pounded with his depraved, fetishistic arousal. Yes...after years overseas, he still was aroused by his own aunt’s, his own mother’s, even his own grandmother’s legs in hose and heels...only now it was different...he could do more than just secretly ogle them...he would possess them...he had found a way...a very special way...

Then, suddenly, his elderly grandmother crossed her nylon stockinged legs before his eyes. The confined space beneath the table filled with the electric whisper of those elderly legs in those sheer stockings rubbing together. It was a cock-hardening sound. His elderly grandmother’s dress hem slipped on the smooth film of her stockings and suddenly Frank could see high up his grandmother’s dress, could espy her heavy, nyloned thighs, up to the very tops of her stockings, and even beyond...her snowy upper thighs above the dark stocking tops....

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he stared at the taut, welted tops of his grandmother’s nylon stockings so high up her thighs. He could even see the chrome buckles of her garter belt suspenders clipped to those stocking tops. The sight of his grandmother’s elderly upper thighs in stocking tops and suspenders made the young man tremble, hard. Almost involuntarily, his right hand rose and began to reach toward his grandmother’s crossed nyloned knees...

“Son?” his mother’s voice floated down to him from the table above. “What are you searching for down there—buried treasure?”

The young man popped up into his seat, fork in hand. “I just found it,” he explained.

“Frank, are you all right, dear?” his mother asked him. “You’re flushed and sweating.”

“Well, it’s a bit warm down there,” Frank temporized.

“Well, dear boy, you need a new fork,” his grandmother intervened, signaling to the waiter.

The three resumed their meal.

At the home of Martha Etheridge, the grandfather clock in the foyer chimed eleven times.

In the guest bedroom a floor above, Frank heard those chimes, for he was still wide awake. He had tossed and turned for hours, and finally gave up and switched on his bedside lamp.

The young man was suffering from a combination of jet lag from his transoceanic plane travel and excitement...excitement over his re-awakened desires and obsessions, desires and obsessions he had thought he’d left behind two years ago when he left this house to study in Europe...desires and obsessions that seemed even stronger in him now. He tossed and turned in bed for hours, while visions of his aunt, his mother, and his grandmother danced in his head, especially visions of how their legs in nylons and high heeled pumps had looked under the table...finally, Frank clicked on his bedside table lamp and slipped out of bed.

Padding on bare feet in his striped silk pajama bottoms, Frank crossed the bedroom to where his luggage sat. Only his suitcase had been opened; his trunks were still securely strapped. Frank planned to spend only a little while at his mother’s house; he had already made plans to go apartment hunting soon. Of course, he also needed to go office-hunting as well, unless he received a good offer from an established psychiatric firm...

Frank quickly unstrapped one of his large trunks. He heaved the lid open. He pressed a hidden button, and the solid-looking inside lid popped open to reveal a commodious interior. Rummaging in that secret compartment, Frank withdrew a coffee-table-sized hardbacked volume and returned to bed with it.

Frank stared at the cover of the book. It displayed a large colored illustration of an elderly woman wearing only a black garter belt, black nylon stockings, and black high-heeled pumps standing beside an ornate canopy bed staring down at a naked adolescent boy with a loving smile on her face. The naked boy was staring at the elderly woman in garter belt, stockings, and pumps, her sagging, elderly breasts and gray-haired pussy all exposed to him, with wonder on his freckled face. The title of the book was in German; it’s English translation was Grandmother’s Garter Belt.

It was a pornographic, photo-illustrated novel that was sold openly (along with many others) in liberated, freewheeling Germany and Austria. Frank had bought it at an “Erotik-Shop” in Hamburg. It had caught his eye due to its graphic emphasis on stocking and lingerie fetishism and on incest and gerontophilia—the perverted sexual desire of the young for the elderly—topics Frank found intensely interesting.

Now, staring at the color photograph of the dark gray-haired matron wearing only the black garter belt, nylons, and pumps, Frank felt his already erecting cock stir in his pajamas. He sighed and opened the book.

Inside, the text, in German, described how naughty young Hans had been caught peeping at his elderly grandmother, as she undressed for bed. It struck a chord. As a young boy, Frank, himself, out of childish curiosity, had spied on his mother and grandaunt and grandmother as they dressed; indeed, his studies in psychology convinced him it was the sight of them in their lingerie and stockings that had fostered his current fetishes. Thus, this particular tale hit quite close to home...

Caught, the boy was scolded by his imperious, aristocratic grandmother. There was a highly erotic photograph of the haughty, aged matron wearing nothing but a shiny silk dressing gown over glossy seamed nylon stockings and glittering black high-heeled pumps, scolding her abash grandson.

Staring at the photograph of the elderly but voluptuous woman, Frank felt himself suddenly have an erection. He read the text, which described how the lad was made to confess his sins to his grandmother. Trembling, the boy admitted he often spied on his grandmother to see her wearing garters and hosiery. Imperiously, the elderly woman decreed that her grandson required a spanking then and there. She ordered him to bend over her laps—her nylon stockinged lap. She helped her grandson strip and patted her nylon stockinged thighs, ordering him to bend over for his spanking. Then she took up a paddle.

Frank read:

He envisioned the bizarre fetish tableau, the naked boy draped over his grandmother’s nylon stockinged thighs...

With a groan and a shiver, the adolescent boy leaned his naked body over, holding onto the side of the bed. Slowly, he assumed the spanking position, easing his tummy and childish loins down until they were resting on top of his Grandmother’s nylon stockinged thighs. His weight rested on his Grandmother’s nyloned thighs now. He quivered as he felt his boyish phallus press against his Grandmother’s sheer stockinged thighs. His Grandmother’s thighs were warm beneath the filmy stockings. Involuntarily, his cock begin the throb with arousal as it pressed again his Grandmother’s smooth, silky nylon stockings sheathing her thighs.

Frank sighed, feeling his own cock throb hotly as he feverish read on—he envisioned the bizarre fetish tableau, the naked young boy draped over his grandmother’s nylon stockinged thighs. Naturally, the poor lad had a huge erection within a few spanks. But his loving grandmother knew exactly what to do to relieve the boy. Frank turned the page and beheld a full-page colored illustration of the naked boy laying on his grandmother’s bed, with the matron, now wearing nothing but a black lace garter belt, black-tinted nylon stockings, straddling him. The young boy’s erect cock was thrust up into his grandmother’s pussy.

Frank read:

“Yes, my sweet boy,” his Grandmother moaned to her youthful grandson as she rode his stiff, throbbing cock pole, “isn’t this a nice game...a lovely game...oooohhhhh, your hard cock fits perfectly in Grandmother’s old pussy...does it not...? My darling boy... ooohhhhhhhh...yes, darling...I feel you going deep in me...deep, my darling...oooohhhhhh...

“Oooohhh, Grandmother—I’m going into you...deep into you...it feels so good...” the young lad gasped as he upheaved his callow naked hips and bottom, plowing his boyish cock deep into his Grandmother’s elderly pussy-furrow. The boy also began to stroke the silky, taut nylon stockings encasing his Grandmother’s big, heavy thighs, those stockings pulled tautly smooth over those matronly thighs by the taut suspenders of her garter belt.

“Yes, my sweet darling,” his Grandmother moaned to him. “You love me to wear the sexy stockings for you...feel my stockings on my legs...whilst I take you deep in me...so deep...oooohhhh...my darling boy...ooooohhhhhhhhh...”

“Yes, my sweet grandson...feel my sheer stockings...whilst I take you deep into me...so deep...”

Frank sighed, long, and louder this time. The tableau of the elderly matron fucking her young grandson while wearing the fetishistic garter belt, seamed stockings, and high-heeled pumps, galvanized him.

His erect cock throbbed hotly beneath the bedcovers. He closed his eyes...hot flashes suffused him...he opened his eyes again...

...Frank stared at the erotic pornographic photograph again...again, he saw the boy on the bed, his elderly grandmother straddling his naked body...the boy’s stiffened cock thrusting up into that old pussy...the boy’s naked hips held firmly in the slick-smooth embrace of those elderly nylon stockinged thighs...

The pornographic image made Frank’s head swim. The sight of that stiff, boyish cock pole thrusting into that elderly, gray-haired pussy galvanized him...his perverted desires were fully arosed now, secret, forbidden incest desires, desires spiced with the mysterious allue of sheer stockings and silken lingerie. Frank sighed, soulfully. Sheer nylon hose...high heels...and hot pussy...the fantastic fetish combination—shapely legs in sheer nylon stockings...those nylon stockinged legs spreading for him...revealing the furry pussy...the mount of Venus...

Frank felt the hot flush radiate throughout his body...

Sheer stockings...furry pussies...entering those pussies...

His heart pounded.

He imagined his own grandmother, Agatha, with her dress off...wearing only a black garter belt, nylon stockings, and pumps...

Hot, hot fucking...fetish fucking..incest fucking...deep, deep thrusts into hot pussy Paradise...lovely legs in sheer nylon stockings wrapping around him as he thrust and thrust...

Hot fucking...

His own mother...

His own grandmother...

Slowly, the image before him changed...now he was the little boy and it was his old grandmother, Agatha, in black garter belt, nylons, and pumps straddling him...

Yes...It was his stiff, swollen cock his own grandmother was riding...his hands were stroking his elderly grandmother’s slick-smooth sheer nylon stockinged thighs as his throbbing cock thrust up into her hot, steamy, gray-haired pussy...it was he fucking his own gray-haired, sixty-year-old grandmother, hard and deep...

In his mind’s eye, Frank pictured his own elderly paternal grandmother, Agatha...how she had looked tonight...how it had been ogling her nylon stockinged legs beneath the table that evening...how her legs had glowed in those bewitching black nylons. Those elderly, but shapely grandmotherly legs so smooth and glossy in those whisper-sheer, black-tinted nylon stockings...

Now, he imagined his own grandmother, Agatha, with her dress off, wearing only black garter belt, nylon stockings, and pumps...her elderly legs glossy and smooth in sheer black nylons...laying before him on the bed...her stockinged legs spread wide...her gray-haired pussy exposed to his eyes...

Yes...He could imagine his cock, stiff and swollen, lunging into the d gladly assented.

But, unknown to Dr. Weinberg, Frank had mastered a very special hypnotic technique, one he had discovered whilst researching historical papers on hypnotism. It had been an obscure, originally banned, pamphlet on mesmerism published in the Eighteenth century by an equally obscure occultist where Frank had stumbled on the secret of what he termed ultra-hypnotism.

This was a technique in which subjects are hypnotized with both mesmeric technique and the force of the hypnotist’s mind. In short, mind control. By forcing the will of the mind on the subject, the hypnotist could force the subject to bend to the hypnotist’s will. This turned the hypnotized subject into the complete slave of the hypnotist...the subject could be made to do anything the hypnotist commanded...and the subject would do so slavishly, with total and abject obedience...

Of course, this was contrary to all accepted theory on hypnotism-that the subject couldn’t be made to do anything he or she was not willing to do while awake. But Frank’s secret research proved that the technique worked...and worked incredibly well.

Frank had stared out hypnotizing test subjects and having them do things that were contrary to their natures-having a religious man curse God, having a young mother spit on a photograph of her child, and so on. And then Frank had realized that he would use ultra-hypnosis to mesmerize subjects-certain, special subjects-to act out his deeply supressed, bizarre and fetishistic sexual desires.

He could make any woman his slave...his secret sex slave...

Laying in the bed, glancing at a passage on using hand gestures to transfix the subjects eyes and hypnotize them, Frank recalled his experiment on his landlady’s mother, a busty, sixty-five-year-old matron who tidied up his rooms in Vienna. After Frank mastered ultra-hypnosis, he made it a point to be in his residence when Helga, the landlady’s mother, a gray-haired, sixty-one-year-old grandmother of six, arrived one day...

The elderly grandmothe, Helga, was the first...

“Yes. Helga,” he had said, firmly. “You are completely in my power...you will obey me...”

“Now, Helga...take off your panties...” Frank commanded the elderly hypnotized woman...

The sixty-one-year-old matron stood before him. The busty old woman was wearing only her white brassier and panties. Her dress, stockings, girdle, and pumps lay draped over a nearby chair.

“I am your Master, Helga...and you will obey your Master...”

Frank was making slow, magnetic passes before Helga’s half-closed eyes. Her eyes were glazed, unblinking. She was deeply hypnotized.

Frank had hypnotized the elderly matron and had commanded her to undress. Helga had obeyed her young hypnotist...totally under his power now...and totally unable to resist...

“Now, Helga...take off your panties...” Frank commanded the elderly hypnotized woman.

“Yes...Master...” the mesmerized matron murmered.

Frank’s heart had hammered as he watched ther old woman’s lined hands slip down to grasp the waistband of her white satin panties. Awake, the respectable matron, grandmother of six, and wife of a goverment official, would not so much as take off her coat in Frank’s presence. But now she was his abject, hypnotized slave...

Slowly, those elderly, age-spotted hands pushed the white satin undies down her wide, fleshy hips...at sixty-five-year-old, Helga was quite buxom with a Rubenesque, overripe figure, reminding him of his grandmother, Agatha...Frank felt his blood boil...Now those scanty undies slipped down Helga’s elderly legs...long, heavily curved legs...legs that also resembled his Grandmother Agatha’s legs...

Now Frank satred at the elderly matron’s exposed pussy. Her mount of Venus was covered with soft, curly hair the same steel-gray color as the hair on her head. Frank could make out the scalloped pink lips of the old woman’s labia peeking beneath the gray pussy hair.

“You have a big pussy, Helga,” he had told her, the blood boiling in him. “A big old pussy. I am going to fuck that pussy, Helga...and you will submit ot me...”

“Yes, Master...” Helga had murmered, eyes glazed, deeply hypnotized.

“Now remove your brassier, Helga,” Frank commanded the old woman. “Then put on the items on the bed...”

Frank glanced at the bed. His heart pounded with anticipation as he gazed at the items draped on his bed...a black satin corset...sheer, seamed, smoke-black tinted nylon stockings...and glittering black pumps...

Soon, on the bed, Frank’s experiment with ultra-hypnosis had tuned out fabulously...

At that moment, he was upheaving his now-naked hips between Helga’s heavy thighs that were sheathed in the sheer, seamed stockings-his naked hips slid up that smoothed stockinged way-as he thrust his stiff, swollen prick to the bods into Helga’s sixty-five-year-old pussy-

Above him, the elderly matron groaned, helplessly, as he lunged his steel-stiff prick deep into her old pussy...

Above him, the elderly matron groaned, helplessly, as he thrust his steel-stiff prick deep into her old pussy-he went deep, deep, shudderingly deep into her elderly cunt-

“Oooohhhh-ooohhhhh—” Helga groaned, her elderly body strapped in the tight black satin corset quivering from the body-killing thrust of the young man’s turgid prick into her elderly depths. With another groan, she spread her nylon stockinged thighs even wider, allowing the young man to penetrate her old pussy sheath even deeper-

“Take my big cock-into your old pussy-take it-take it—”

His heart swirling with horny heat, Frank upheaved his naked hips again, naked hips rubbing prickly hot against those smoothly stockinged elderly thighs, thrusting and thrusting his super-stiff prick to the deepest depths of Helga’s old but now pliant pussy-

“Oooohhh-oooohhhhhh—’ the elderly woman groaned feebly, nearly prostrate from the young man’s breathtakingly deep lunges into her, unable to do anything but take his hard, devastating fucking of her old, defenseless pussy-

Frank was in a hot haze, gloating at his masterful fucking of the hypnotized, totally subjugated elderly woman...his hypnotized, captivated, elderly sex slave...she had submitted to his hypnotic power...now she was submitting to his hard cock...

At his command, the hypnotized, busty old German matron wearing the tight black satin corset, seamed, smokey grey nylon stockings, and black stilleto pumps, had straddled his naked body on the bed. He had compelled her to mount him. With a powerful thrust, he had entered the old woman, masterfully, magnificently. Now the old woman, at his command, was rising and falling atop him, riding his stiff, swollen prick.

It was glory...pure glory...his depraved fetishes for elderly women and sheer stockings and erotic lingerie being sated in this superb manner...The respectable, gray-haired matron had looked fantastic in the black satin corset...especially her elderly legs had glowed bewitchingly in the sheer, seamed nylon stockings...his thrusting cock surged hotly in the old woman’s deep, hot pussy at the thought of herold but shapely legs so glossy and smooth in those smoke-black tinted nylon stockings...his hands moved from the elderly matron’s satin corseted middle down...down...his hands began to stroke the elderly matron’s heavy thighs sheathed in those slick, smooth stockings...his naked hips tingled hotly as they rubbed and rubbed against those sheer stockinged elderly thighs as he kept lunging and lunging into her now warm, slippery, compliant old cunt...The gray-haired grandmother had yielded totally to his conquering cock...she moaned and groaned with seething passion as he thrust deeper and deeper into her bubbling, gray-haired pussy...

Yes...sixty-five-year-old Helga had proven to be a fantastic fuck...she so resembled his grandmother Agatha...would Grandmother Agatha be a fantatsic fuck, too...?

With a start, Frank awoke from his fevered wet dream. He lay down the volume and switched off the bedside lamp. The room plunged into darkness.

Tomorrow... he would begin his carefully planned campaign...and his busty middle-aged mother would be the first conquest...

But not the last...