Stockings

I sat on a storage stool in the navy dress, one heel off, the stocking foot pointed, the other shoe still on. The clipboard lay face-down on a crate. Aaron stood in front of me with his sleeves rolled, waiting on the text he had sent at four and I had answered. Worship. Your stockings. Your pace. I want to be told. He is not my staff. He is the man I picked. I set the bare stocking foot against his chest.

Hold the ankle. Kiss the arch. He did, mouth warm through the nylon, eyes up. The other heel, I said, and he eased it off without a second order, which pleased me, and he kissed that foot too before I offered the calf, the knee, the clasp. He freed one stocking from its garter with careful fingers. Leave it on. I want the friction. He left it. I stood, moved the stool, and bent over the clear end of a work table. Underwear aside. Tongue on my cunt first. He knelt behind me and licked my clit until I was gripping the wood.

Stand up and fuck me. Hands on the wood, where I can see them. He put his cock into my cunt and fucked at the speed I named. Slow. Deeper. Stop. Again. The stockings made my own thighs feel bright. I reached under, rubbed my clit, and came fast, a sharp cry the room was built to swallow. He shook with the effort of not following. Good, I said, and I meant the wait, nothing grander. I looked back at him. Cum in my cunt. Now. He did, hips uneven, forehead dropping to my spine, breath hot and open. His hands stayed on the wood until I told him he could hold me.

We stayed there only a breath. Then I had him bring the heels and leave the clipboard face-down, and I sat to fix the stocking he had half undone. He knelt again without the order and kissed my knee, a brief worship after the main one. I touched his hair. You were exactly where I wanted you. He closed his eyes as if the sentence fed him. We killed the lights in the proper sequence.