The Seams After Midnight

She bought the stockings on the way home because the packet said “barely there” and she wanted to test the claim.

The colour was called midnight. In the bathroom mirror they looked black until she turned and the light caught the back seam. Then they were a deep ink that stopped just below the lace tops. No garters. Just the grip of the silicone and the way the nylon compressed the tops of her thighs. She walked into the bedroom and stood at the end of the bed so he could see the line of each seam.

“Keep them on,” he said.

She already intended to.

He sat on the edge of the mattress and ran both thumbs up the seams, slow, from ankle to lace. The nylon dragged under his skin. She felt the pressure more than the warmth. When he reached the bare strip above the lace he stopped and looked up. She nodded. He pressed his mouth to the inside of one thigh, right where the stocking ended, and stayed there until her hand landed in his hair.

“The other one,” she said.

He switched. Same careful pressure. Same pause at the edge. By the time he stood she was wet enough that the air felt cool between her legs. He undressed without rushing. She stayed in the stockings and the thin shirt she had not bothered to button. When he pushed the shirt off her shoulders the nylon stayed exactly where it was.

He laid her back and opened her knees. The seams faced him. He traced one with a fingertip, then replaced the finger with his tongue, licking the nylon itself before he reached bare skin. The contrast made her hips lift. Nylon, then skin, then the flat of his tongue on her clit. She kept her eyes open so she could watch the black line of the stocking against his cheek.

“Inside,” she said.

He pushed two fingers in and kept his mouth on her. The stockings rustled faintly when she shifted. He fucked her with his hand until she came, thighs closing around his head, the lace biting into the tops of her legs. He did not stop. She pushed at his shoulder and he moved up the bed, cock already hard against her stomach.

“Still on,” she reminded him.

“I know.”

He lined up and pushed in. The stretch was good and familiar. What was new was the way the stockings framed everything. When she wrapped her legs around him the nylon slid against his hips. He groaned into her neck and set a steady pace, one hand braced beside her head, the other gripping the top of one stocking so the seam stayed taut. She came again with her heels dug into the mattress and the nylon pulled tight across her calves.

He stayed inside her after. His thumb found the seam again and rubbed it absently while they caught their breath.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “wear the ones with the thicker band.”

She smiled against his shoulder. “Only if you lick the nylon first.”

“Deal.”

They fell asleep with the lights still on and the stockings still on her legs. In the morning the seams had left faint red lines. She liked the way they looked. She left the packet on the bathroom counter so he would see it when he went in for his shower.