I am not sure if I was born before my time, or after it. More accurate to say, that perhaps I had a little bit of both somewhere along the way, but not enough of either.

What am I talking about here?

It was nineteen-forty-eight. I was one of those silly small-town girls who allowed her best friend to talk her into going to dance for newly commissioned officers at the local Army Depot. I was eighteen, didn’t know a daisy from a daffodil and was talked into spending a few minutes behind the camp canteen with a dashing brand new officer for a kiss and cuddle.

I had scarcely received the kiss before the front of my dress was up to my waist, and my knickers pulled to one side. Quicker than you could say, Oxford and Buckingham Light Infantry, I was the recipient of an infamous quickie with a young officer who had his new uniform trousers buttoned up and was gone before I could drop my dress back down to my knees.

A short time after that I was experiencing morning sickness.

My Dad wasn’t talking to me. When he had to, he did it through an intermediary, usually my mother. As in, “Tell HER to put on some sensible shoes. Make sure that SHE looks presentable.”

My dad practically frog-marched me through the town and out to the Army Depot. There he confronted the Commanding Officer explaining how his daughter had been seduced by one of his shave-tail officers.

A search was launched, an inquiry commenced and a frightened, freshly minted Second Lieutenant was eventually produced who out of pure fear for his army career, agreed to do the right thing.

It was a touching ceremony. A hurried marriage performed by a Church of England Vicar who steadily glared and sniffed reproachfully and attended by two sets of parents whose deepest heartfelt desires for the day were that they wished to be elsewhere; anywhere but there.

Big surprise, when a few months later I gave birth to a ‘premature’ baby boy.

And so I was wed to a Lieutenant in the British Army who had trouble recognizing me, let alone remembering my name. For some reason, he hated the sight of me, and I detested the sight of him.

One piece of luck, if you wish to call it that, was that my Grandmother owned a lovely bungalow but had reached the age where she couldn’t cope alone. My father saw an opportunity and pounced. Overjoyed that he would not have to be burdened with a wee bairn and a disgraced daughter, he quickly arranged for grandma to move into my bedroom at my parent’s home, while I decamped to Grannie’s bungalow to set up housekeeping for my baby son and the newly married but seldom seen Officer What’s-his-name.

It worked for me. My Mother could sit in her kitchen knitting woolen booties for my child while my father could shove a pipe in his face, smoke, sulk and wish I’d never been born.

I had gravely injured his pride. He decided he could no longer sit with his mates in the pub because his daughter had conceived a child out of wedlock while having her knickers off at the army depot.

It was entirely my fault, you see.

Now in regards to my newly wedded bliss.

I saw very little of my Ox and Bucks Light Infantry Officer. He volunteered for every overseas posting that he could and was rewarded for his zeal by a constant stream of them. Some years he would be stationed in England, but mostly, thanks to his colonial patriotism, he was away overseas defending the last vestiges of empire. Occasionally, I would receive a colorful postcard from Singapore, Malaya, South Africa, Kenya, Hong Kong, Germany or wherever. I was always surprised that he had my address correct.

Being pretty much ostracized by both of our families, it was just my son and I. However, according to the British Army, I was an Officer’s Lady, and entitled to a government stipend. My son and I could not live extravagantly, but it paid our bills, and we tried to take care of each other.

~ ~ ~

It was now the middle sixties, and England was finally emerging from its post-World War 2 greyness. Fashions went wild, the music scene went crazy, and I think the loosening up of society, in general, was a good thing for the country. On the other hand, I felt as if I had been left entirely out of it. Perhaps not so bad, if I were married to a typical husband, but mine couldn’t stay far enough away from me.

I thought of myself as being caught between the generations, or perhaps merely run over by them. They seemed to pass over me without my involvement. When I was a teen, I wore forties clothing styles, met a young soldier, immediately got pregnant and had a son. So during the late forties, I was married with an infant baby to care for.

Those few years later the fifties arrived, and I was a young married mother with a young kid in school. Those were the happier days of classic early rock n roll, jukeboxes and milkshakes, sweaters, full, flouncy dresses, with voluminous petticoats and a slew of English singers trying to emulate Elvis Presley.

However, I never had an opportunity to enjoy the fifties because for the most part I was tied to a growing boy and kitchen stove. I was not much of a socialite, seldom in a pub, and my few friends from schooldays had married and moved on.

Was I sorry for myself? Yes, indeed, I probably was.

Suddenly, I found myself in the swinging sixties living with a son who was now suffering from soaring testosterone and a fascination for any female with long legs and a miniskirt.

When he reached the age of sixteen, I considered him self-sufficient enough to where I could have a job and so off I went to work in the administrative offices of a large firm that manufactured furniture. God only knows I needed to get out of the house. For the job, I acquired the necessary standard office wardrobe, consisting mostly of top-of-the knee length pencil skirts or full pleated skirts, worn with a slip underneath, button-down blouses, stockings, and high heels.

~ ~ ~

Our lives were orderly and comfortable. My son and I continued to live quietly in Gran’s modest three-bedroom bungalow. He was entering his last years of schooling, and I continued to work in the admin offices at the furniture factory.

In the evenings, my son and I set ourselves up on each end of the sofa and watched television. Sometimes on my way home from work I would stop into the local pub around the corner and buy my son a Vimto soft drink and a bag of crisps along with a bottle of Worthington Pale Ale for me.

I mainly watched the television soap operas, Coronation Street and Crossroads, while my son usually watched the American westerns. It was also evident to me that my son was madly in lust with the actress Diana Rigg who played Miss Emma Peel in the TV show, The Avengers. I had the distinct impression that he couldn't care less about Mrs. Peel in her leather catsuits but more interested in her legs in those short skirts and mini-dresses.

That is when he wasn’t watching me.

These days, what with thong underwear consisting of an eye patch barely covering the front and a piece of string up between the cheeks of your bum, you don’t need anything less to see everything more. Back then, there were limited choices for underwear. Like most women of my age, I wore high waist nylon or cotton knickers, knee-length dresses, and skirts with white lacy-hemmed nylon full and half-slips and stockings. I had a slender figure, and so avoided those girdles, but I did wear garter-belts to hold up my hose.

Back then, there were no such things as pantyhose.

I may have felt somewhat out of place in the swinging sixties social scene, but I was not oblivious to my son’s angst. Mothers seldom miss much. When I went out shopping with my son around the local stores and markets, I swear he noticed every single girl in the town. Why was I surprised? He was that age.

For some bizarre reason, I started teasing my son about the girls he noticed, either in the street or in stores and then would hear myself saying to him. “That girl in the plaid skirt did you like her?” or “Those two girls wearing mini dresses that you were speaking to in the chemist shop, do you like them?”

I was never sure of my motives for asking, but it became somewhat of a fixation. I think it was a mixture of my being amused at my son’s interest in the young women, and of my being flat jealous because I had never, felt noticed like that in my entire life.

I told myself that I was just trying to sound ‘with it’ and ‘cool’ like a sixties mum ought to be, but he would never respond. He would just blush to his ankles with embarrassment, while I was giggling about it.

~ ~ ~

For work at the office, I wore office-appropriate clothing. Mostly skirts and dresses and underneath a full or half-slip, suspender belt and stockings. Add to those a button down blouse and high heels. For those rare social gatherings, my employment functions or school events, I sometimes wore one of my fifties style dresses but with a straight slip and not the layered petticoats underneath.

My son did not own jeans, just one pair of long pants for special occasions and the same as most other English schoolboys at that time; he wore those ghastly schoolboy shorts. They were often part of the school uniform, made of heavy cloth and came down to his knees. They were some horrible looking things.

If it was not too cold, when he was home from school he often wore football shorts. They were athletic shorts that he wore for school sports, very light and short. Under those, he wore Y-front briefs, what they call tightie-whities these days.

One evening my son and I were sitting at our respective ends of the sofa watching the television.

I would most often sit with my back against the arm of the sofa with a pillow placed against the small of my back and stretch my legs flat out along the length of the sofa. In fact, after getting home from the office, I often fell asleep in that position, usually on my back or rolled over onto one side.

One particular night I had my knees drawn up and was reading a magazine. I stole a glance over the top of my magazine and saw that my son was in some physical discomfort. He was also looking directly up my skirt.

With me in sitting with my knees directly towards him, it afforded my son ample peeks under my skirts and dresses. Regardless of whether my legs were together or not, he saw straight up the backs of my legs, up to my stockings, garter belt and a portion of my knickers. That portion of my knickers was my crotch.

I could not decide if I was disgusted or flattered.

Without looking up from my magazine, I said, “Don’t ever let your Dad see you doing that.”

Of course, that was a bit of a daft thing to say because his father was somewhere overseas doing army things, such as starting wars or molesting native women and didn’t give a stray dog’s bum whether we were alive or white-slaved in Madagascar.

I suppose it was my way of alerting my son to the fact that I knew precisely what held his attention.

But I never actually told him to stop doing it.

In the same instant came the realization that my son was now a young man who was physically reacting to his voyeurism. I had little difficulty noticing a considerable bulge in the front of his athletic shorts while also observing that he was squeezing himself through the front of them.

It was abundantly clear that my son was looking up my skirt and masturbating.

So I asked him.

“What is so fascinating?”

“Er…

‘WELL?”

“Sorry, Mum.

“Sorry… for what exactly?”

I just like seeing… your pretty things Mum. I love seeing your underwear.”

So like the silly woman I was, I asked him what he liked best, and received an education into my son’s observational skills. He had memorized all of my outer clothing and my lingerie. He knew every full and half-slip I wore, which had wide lace hems and those with a lace bodice. He also knew that I usually wore black stockings with solid colors and tan stockings with lighter colored dresses and my hose held up by one of my three garter belts; two white, and one black.

And he knew all about every pair of knickers I owned.

In all honesty. I was not an innocent party; I had known for quite a while that his eyes were often more on me than on the television. If I had my knees drawn up, my son was in heaven.

“You mustn’t look up my skirt,” I would admonish.

So naturally, he would look up my skirt and feel his stiffening cock through the front of his briefs.

At some point, he would be softly sighing, “Oh, Mum… Oh, Mum…”

I would say, “Shush... be quiet.”

“Your stockings… “

“Shhhhhh…”

And he would masturbate through his briefs until he ejaculated in them.

The most I could find to say when he did that was, “Oh, you are naughty.”

~~~

We never spoke about what he was doing, until one evening as we sat watching TV and I suddenly asked him, “Do you think about Diana Rigg when you masturbate, or about some of the girls you know at school?”

Oh my heavens… I thought he would fall through the floor!

I saw the stricken look on his face.

“Well, there is no need to look so silly,” I told him. “I know that you masturbate, I was just curious about which girls you think about and who you liked best?”

He was blushing from his ears to his ankles.

I was playing the with-it, up-to-date mum and continued teasing him. “I know you look at their legs, I just wondered whose legs you liked best; Diana Rigg?

My son managed to splutter. “Your legs look better than all of them…”

I couldn’t help myself smiling, but I forced myself to sound modern and quietly understanding.

“You know that you shouldn’t look up my skirts like that…”

“You are beautiful, Mum.”

I remember picking up my glass of beer from the coffee table and quietly sipping on my Worthington Pale Ale.

~ ~ ~

There I was in my middle-thirties, tall with a slender figure. I may not have had breasts like Diana Dors and Marilyn Monroe, but I was a good-looking woman with a nice figure and long legs that went all the way up. I had shoulder length light brown hair that curled up at the ends and swung nicely across my shoulders. I really was not bad looking, but my face probably wore life’s disappointments.

I looked over at my son.

“What’s got your attention tonight?”

“Your slip, Mum.”

“It’s the same slip as I wore yesterday.”

“I know, but it always looks great on you.”

I drew in a deeper breath. “You shouldn’t really do that in front of me. It’s… it is rather naughty.”

And that was the extent of my official condemnation of my son’s hobby of looking up his mum’s skirts and dresses. It was made all the naughtier because I allowed him to do it.

So of course, he used to get extremely erect for his mum.

There are some things that I have to say. I never sat with my legs stretched wide open like some tart selling her wares. It was mostly when I had my knees drawn up to support a newspaper or a magazine that the back of my skirt and slip were left laying against the sofa, affording him a lovely view. There was no need to spread wide.

I never once touched myself in his presence, although I confess to experiencing multiple orgasms while he peeked. I could do it while fully clothed and without touching myself. When he looked up my clothing, I would flex the muscles in my bum and inner thighs, and that put some pressure on my crotch area, which in turn applied pressure to my clitoris. My hips would move slightly as I flexed, it was an almost unnoticeable thrusting motion. I was enjoying female masturbation, but so quietly, I believed that my son never knew.

When I experienced an orgasm, I would close my eyes for a few seconds and tightly press my thighs together. Often there was a change in my breathing, a quick intake of breath, sometimes, for several seconds my legs would open and close quickly, not extensively, but it was enough to make pressure on my vagina and clit.

I was convinced that I could perform all of that while sitting on a town bus or in a church pew on Sunday morning and never be noticed!

Of course, unknown to me for a while was the slight giveaway that after I had squeezed my eyes shut for those few seconds and then recovered, my legs would open again to reveal wet marks on the crotch of my knickers.

Quite unbelievable, that although my vagina was entirely covered by the gusset of my underwear, my son could watch his mother having...