Sizzling stockings

Spring bursts everywhere. Petals climb walls. I slip into these flower-printed sheer stockings. They cradle my legs, wrap around skin like a second layer. My fingers trace the weave, glide higher, pause at my knees. I stretch out on the bed, legs up, toes pointing. The light hits the fabric, makes the flowers glow. My breath catches when my palm meets the lace edge, higher, until heat spreads between my thighs. I press. I rub. Slow circles, then faster. The stockings stay on. My free hand slips under the top, finds my breast, pinches. Legs fall open. The nylon pulls tight over my ankles. I grind against nothing, then two fingers. A gasp slips out. My hips lift, fall. Every stroke is wetter. The fabric stays smooth, cool, until it sticks. I bite my lip and push harder, legs shaking, flowers trembling with each thrust of my hand.