August in stockings

August Ames moves like smoke in black lace. Stockings hug her legs, sheer and tight, and they catch the light when she stretches. She smiles without hurry, then slides her soles around him. The fabric drags warm across skin, and her toes tighten with purpose. She works him slow, a steady squeeze that pulls a low sound from his throat. He thickens under the steady rhythm, the head slick, each stroke dragging the nylon a little tighter. She watches every twitch. Only when the first heavy pulse gathers does she draw back, spreading her thighs instead. She wants her own edge first, and she takes it, hips rolling until the wave breaks through her. After that she gives him what he has waited for, stocking feet locking once more, coaxing every drop across her pretty toes until they glisten.