Stockings

Eleanor’s stockings lie undone on the bed—silky, black, cool against her skin. She lifts one leg, calls her boyfriend over. He kneels, takes the thin fabric in his hands, slides it up her calf. His fingers trace every inch. The silk clings to her ankle, then higher, but something snaps. He stops, leans in, and his mouth finds her bare foot instead. Tongue and lips press hot against her arch, the nylon forgotten at her thigh. She watches him, breath short. The other stocking stays in his fist, crumpled, useless now that his hands cup her heel, thumb stroking slow circles along the sole. He sucks each toe through the half-rolled silk, teeth grazing gently. Her foot flexes, answers him. When he pulls back, a wet shine catches the light; he goes right back in, breathing hard, lost in the taste of her. The stockings never make it past her knees.