Slow Sunday

Late light filled the sofa. I had the black turtleneck on, and the stockings, and nothing else below the hem. The worn slippers sat on the rug where I had dropped them. Hugh brought water and then sat at the far end until I crooked a finger. I am fifty-two. He is fifty-five. We had all Sunday. I wanted the stockings on the whole time. I wanted his mouth on the nylon and then on the skin, in that order, with no clock.

He lifted one foot into his lap. The stocking was sheer and slightly shining. Kiss through it, I said. He did, heat muted by the weave, which makes me impatient in a delicious way. He spent a long time at the sole, the arch, the painted toe under the nylon. My clit throbbed. I let it. I touched my own breast through the turtleneck and let him watch. You are in no hurry, I said. Good. Neither am I. My cunt can wait and still want the fuck.

When I was ready I said, roll the left one down to the ankle. Leave it there. He did, careful not to snag. Then he kissed the bare calf, the bare heel, the bare arch. The right leg stayed stockinged. I like the pair uneven. I opened my thighs. Lick my cunt, and hold the bare foot. He knelt at my cunt and licked my cunt in long slow passes while his hand cradled my heel. I came with my head on the sofa arm, a long quiet crest, saying yes, Hugh, just like that.

I pulled him up and guided his cock into my cunt. The stockings brushed his hips. Slow, I said. I want to feel every inch of your cock. He fucked me in deep lazy strokes, kissing my mouth, my throat, bending to kiss the bare ankle when I lifted it. The light went honey. I did not close the curtain. I came again around his cock, clutching his shoulder, telling him he could fuck me a bit faster now. He did. Still not a sprint. A tide.

I told him to cum in my cunt and keep hold of my bare foot. He came, holding it. We stayed. He massaged the naked sole. Later he rolled the other stocking off and kissed that foot too. The slippers stayed on the rug.