Stockings

I am wearing stockings more and more these days. Because Sir has asked me to.

But I like wearing them too. They make me feel womanly, sensous; their silkiness hugs my skin with a secret.

I hadn't worn them for years until Sir asked. Well, told me to really, in a task he had texted to me.

The first time I couldn't be bothered really, they seemed such a faff. I wore them and yet, perhaps deliberately, took hardly any notice. Afterwards, I felt that I had cheated myself more than him.

The next time he asked I did. I wore suspenders. Sir had been surprised by that. I think he believed I would wear hold ups, but I wanted the real thing. His instructions were clear and I sat on the leather driving seat of the car and spread my dress out just as he had told me to, the soft glove-like feel of the leather hugging the tops of my thighs, me just holding off a shiver.

I was to pull my skirt up an inch each time I came to a red light. It took at least six before I even remembered and, when I finally did, I yanked the skirt up in one thrust, irritated at this silly game.

By the time I arrived at my destination my lower body and thighs felt alive, as if woken from a deep slumber. I turned off the engine and sat there, just experiencing the moment. I decided that I liked wearing them actually.

And then I cried. Big dollops of salty sorrow dropping onto my outspread skirt, soaking through to the lace of the stocking tops beneath. The silent tears almost turned into heaves, my body shuddering with grief.

Grief for all the years when I hadn't worn stockings.