My Sweet Stockings

My Sweet Stockings

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Tags

Summary

My first attempt at erotica but at least it is a true story. My husband would faint if he knew I had written it, so I hope you like it ...

Tags

Summary

My first attempt at erotica but at least it is a true story. My husband would faint if he knew I had written it, so I hope you like it ...

Content

Submitted: July 02, 2012

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: July 02, 2012

A A A

A A A


 

Black or natural colour, it doesn't really matter; I prefer silk, but nylon will bring me off just as well,

Since we were married, we had established our signals, the little signs most couples flash at each other to express our thoughts, our anticipations, our fantasies.

In our case, what I wanted and how I knew how to get was relatively simple.  When we were dressing to head off to our respective jobs, I would make it apparent to him that I wasn't pulling on the work-a-day pantyhose; it was bikini panties, a garter belt and sheer stockings, preferably the silkier, the better.

There were a couple of times that he pulled me towards me as I clipped the stocking tops to my garter, and while I was tempted to invent an excuse for arriving a little late in the office, no, I thought, it will be much more exciting, much more delicious if we wait.

Giiven our respective careers, he normally managed to arrive home about 30 or 40 minutes before I did and fixed us both a drink before he disappeared into the kitchen and start preparing dinner – setting the table, warming dishes and getting food out of the refrigerator, in other words, doing all the little things that other husbands did not do and which in turn, I loved him so much for doing.

But again, not tonight!

The signal has been given, with a gentle smile, he has agreed to seal the contract and this evening, rather than fiddling around the kitchen, he be standing naked waiting for, perhaps, lightly fingering himself.

When I walk into our apartment, the routine is simple.   I drop my bag on the coffee table, slip my shoes off and walk towards him, he kisses my forehead, then down to my eyelids and his hands undo the clip at the top of my dress before his fingertips grasp the zip and slowly slide it down, pausing briefly to caress my spine, to undo my bra ...

... he has lifted my dress over my head, his lips and tongue are licking and sucking my aching nipples.  I feel his hands slip down to the waistband of the skimpy knickers that that I know that ten or so hours ago had started this whole delicious affair.

He sinks to his knees, pulling my panties down to my ankles and as he nuzzles his face against my groin, I lift each leg in turn to allow him to slip them free ... I pull his head harder towards me as he deftly unclips my stocking tops from my garter belt and slides them down.

Of course I knew what was coming, we both knew, it was planned, predetermined, but as always, wonderfully different.

I submissively hold out my hands, wrists crossed and he takes one of my stockings, first wrapping it around my wrists, twisting it into a slip-knot, then between them to tighten them from the other direction.

He pulls me down to join him on the floor, at the same time taking my hand in his and pushing one end of the other stocking into my fingers and the rest between my legs.

I take a deep breath in anticipation of what is to come.  He pulls his hand behind me up to the small of my back, the sheer satin stocking now tight against the base of my spine, the valley between my cheeks, across my anus and vaginal entrance, between my wet lips and over my swollen clitoris ... slowly at first he starts to pull the silky fabric backwards and forwards, and my head seems to float into an cloud of ecstasy.

Five or six times he does this, then he takes his hand from mine, letting me control the speed and pressure while the hand behind me alternately pulls the stocking straight out and then back up to my back, the variation of angle making each stroke of the silken fabric subtly and delightfully different.

I try and hold back, to savor this sensation for as long as possible but rarely can I last more than ninety or so seconds before I feel the waves starting to mount and know my orgasm is irresistibly building.

As I start to shudder, he lifts his hand and turns my face towards me and kisses me hard on the lips, our tongues searching and I moaning, then almost screaming into his sweet mouth as I come.

Again, the moves, the signals are unspoken; perhaps they would not be as exciting if they were.

As the contractions and flushed from the orgasm I have just had slowly recede, I sometimes pull the now-sodden silk back up against me and this time it is his hand that controls the pressure and speed until another wave of pleasure crashed through me, not as strong as the first, but perhaps slower and somehow warmer.

At other times, I just let the stocking slip from my fingers, letting him know that I am totally sated and now it is his turn, to control me, to take me anyway that he wants, and I will comply with whatever that is.

Usually he lifts my hips up onto the edge of the sofa and legs high into the air, his mouth and tongue exploring and teasing me from my now relaxed anus all the way up to my clitoris before he enters me; others he takes my tied hands and presses them hard down against my mound before he enters me and we both come quickly, me with the pressure of my fingertips massaging myself, the feel of the back of my pulsating fingers against his groin bringing him quickly and I sigh as I know he has reached his climax after ll he has done for mine.

Three or four times after I have let the silk slip my fingers, I have felt him grope for it, pulling away from me slightly so I can lift my arms and place them around his shoulders as lifts up on his knees and begins to stroke his erection. 

When I hear him start to sigh, I pull him up against me, feeling the head of his wet penis rubbing just below my navel and him arch forward as his cum spurts all over my lower stomach.

Maybe we give each other the signal once a month. More than that, and it could never be the same.

Afterwards we rest in each others' arms, we wonder exactly what we do next.

More often than we stay at home naked, sharing a simple, quick dinner, pasta or a stir-fry, others we slip out to our favourite local deli when we know it won't be crowded; once warmish day when I just slipped my light cotton dress back on and just sat there, squirming with delight as I felt his cum seeping out against the wooden chair.

Almost inevitably, a few hours later, we will finish up in bed slowly making love, usually with me on top.  Whether either of us reaches another orgasm is unimportant – if happens, great, but we just enjoy being together, and sometimes I fantasize over some great sculptor carving  an image of us as one from a lump of stone or marble.


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