Sexy stockings - part II.

Fishnet stockings—pink ones—Sheila and I bought a pair each last week. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed right now, watching me tug at the tiny waistband like she always does, half smile, half dare. Fabric whispers down calf, knee, thigh. I ball the stockings and set them aside. Bare soles meet bare soles, her arch rolling slowly over mine, toes splaying, sliding. The skin on our feet is warmer than silk and softer than either of us remembers. A heel presses, circles; I curl my own toes along her ankle bone, tracing the hard edge until she sucks in a breath. We tease each other open, heels together like leaves touching, arches together like mouths meeting. She tastes the air with her tongue, pushes once—then twice—pressing her entire foot flat against my flexing toes. We stay like that, still, silent except for the slow, wet sound of skin dragging on skin. Every press, every release, exact, unhurried. Nothing between us but pulse and heat and the soft click of ankle against ankle.