Stocking Play

Prologue

You were always very caring, very curious, about what stockings I wore... for work, for play, out socialising and even just round the house. What colour, what denier, even what kind of top my hold-ups were... plain, or lacy. I'd guessed all guys fancied girls in naughtier than usual undies but if I had realised sooner you had an all-encompassing fetish for them then maybe I wouldn't have been so cautious, and just let you revel in them.

For that's what we're doing now, secreted away in a hotel room on one of your visits to the country. You said bring saucy undies, but were more exacting when it came to stockings. "Bring a whole range," you asked, no... almost demanded of me. "All sort of colours. I might like you to model them for me... "

Well, how could a girl refuse? I know, among the many things we'll do in London, sight-seeing and shopping, that we'll probably have a smooch, a snog, even sex... who cares if it's wrapped up in some extra naughtiness between us. It's that kind of friendship...

One

But on the first morning, bringing my case up to your room, you seem uncomfortable at me in jeans. "Haven't you got a skirt?" I shrug 'okay', as it's a nice day and I've had my legs waxed so no worries. I peel the jeans off, flip open the case and stand there, in panties and t-shirt, undecided as to which skirt. You set limits, as you watch me wiggle my freshly painted pinky-red toes. "Short-ish... to show your legs off, of course, and put some stockings on. Some nice new ones... "

I find a floaty, flowered transucent skirt, not too flirty but with a hint of daring to it, and ponder which stocking to go with it. You'd like dark, black if you had your way but tsk that's a fashion faux-pas... you don't wear dark stockings with a light skirt, if you can help it. I find a pair of sheer nude ones, with a plain top, gathering one up in my fingers before slipping it over my toes, and stand, one foot on the bed, before smoothing the sheer stretchy fabric up my leg, over the knee, and stretching the silicon top round my thigh, making sure they are perfect in the mirror before repeating with my other leg. Behind me, seen in the mirror, your expression is one of wonder, as if the simple act of putting them on is a miracle, like a revelation from God.

And so we go sight-seeing and shopping... well, more shopping than sights, as it dawns on me that the hosiery section of stores are more a sight for you than Trafalgar Square, or the British Museum. Of course, myself, I'm a seasoned shopaholic, and I don't get to London much, and can revel in the fashions and boutiques. I just didn't expect, as a guy, that you would revel so much too. Only it's not just fashion... it's something much more particular, a sheer pleasure, that you want to share.

The hosiery section of one department store is almost as big as some shops back home. and I love to co-ordinate, have stockings that match each and every occasion. Different colours, shades and hues, even patterned and lacy ones. But London prices, despite the lovely styles, rainbow selection of colours and eye-opening patterns, are just beyond me, even as a treat. There's a wonderful black baroque patterned pair I eye for a long time before you decide you will buy them for me, if I make a point of wearing them tonight. Well okay! I nod eagerly... that's so very sweet of you. Then you ask what is the sheerest kind, one without reinforced toes, just 'a line' you call it. A seam, I correct you, and you mean sheer or sandal toe. I muse back and forth in the aisles of stockings, and finally find a brand that matches your description... 7 denier, that's the sheerest you'll get, and nude. I pick a pair, and your eyes say no. No, not nude? Mocha? A deep brown tan shade. Coffee? A deeper brown, I'm tempted by that rich hue... Your eyes point out a pair in the same range. Black, or 'noir' as they are French, it is then. That makes them even pricier than my 'treat' but as you say the only return on it is for me to wear them for you, I can but smile my thanks.

And so, spent by many hours wondering from shop to shop, me cherry-picking affordable fashions, you beside me, eyes lingering on more lingerie, we call it a day for dinner at the hotel. And yes I have my LBD... that's girl talk for 'little black dress'... which will show off the patterned stockings to perfection. But you would like the sheer ones, if that's okay. Well you paid for them, sweetness, I guess it's the least I can do to model for you.

Dinner is a simple affair, on the balcony, by candlelight and with plenty of wine into the night. As the air cools, we retreat back into the apartment, let the hotel staff clear up, and lie, tipsy and giggly, on the bed, cuddling.

I lift my black stocking clad leg, my toes waving at you from under the sheer thin mesh, and look at you. "Do you like them? I ask, meaning my legs. "More so in those... " You reply, tentatively reaching out and caressing my knee. The brush of your hand through the tingly, feather-light nylon and lycra is almost electric. Sensually, your fingers trace a line up my thigh, to the stretchy silicon top. Normally a guy would go beyond, to the bare skin above before finding their desire in my panties. But instead they retrace their steps, finding pleasure in the second skin covering my legs.

Two

As you stroke my sheer-clad thigh, our lips meet and in no time at all we're enjoying a silly, smoochy, giggly wine-drenched snog on the bed. I hug you to me, cuddle you, while I'm all too aware that while one arm embraces me, the other hand stays on my thigh, savouring the touch of nylon.

I peel you off me. "This is all about the stockings, isn't it?" I sigh. I'm not that disappointed, but if you actually came out and said it, mebbe it would be fun for us both, instead of you hedging around the fact.

Shamefaced, you blush and nod. I hold your chin and lift your face so I can look you in the eyes. "It's okay," I say, "You know I love wearing stockings too, so if I wear and you look and touch, I say it's okay. Just... don't be so coy around it."

A smile breaks out on your face, relieved to be free of such a weighty confession. Now, knowing this, our fun can begin.

If stockings are what you like or love, then that's what I can bring. That, and a nice pair of pins to model them on... I hope! I kneel up on the bed and peel my dress off. Well, it's not like that is going to be appreciated is it? With no bra on, I'm just in panties, as sheer, stretchy and black as the stockings... feminine intuition told me you'd mebbe appreciate those instead. I take your hand and place it tween my thighs, close gently on it and wiggle my hips so you're caught, caressing the sheerness over my skin. Then I guide your fingers higher, letting them swirl over the stretchy nylon covering my most intimate, now softly damp and tantalisingly hot, of intimacies. My excitement soaks the fine mesh into a wet smoothness as I let your wonderment of the nylon, the lycra, arouse me further. Like static on synthetic fabric, the tender touches shoot sensual sparks up through me, and I begin to see why you find them so erotic.

I let your hand fall from me, and jump of the bed to get something from my case... a bag of assorted stockings I dump out on the sheets, letting your gaze and expression turn to joy, like a lil boy given free reign in a shop of sweets. All colours, shades, deniers and patterns... a sampling from my drawers, too many years a shopaholic co-ordinator par excellence. You're in a sheer seventh heaven, and I'm your nylon angel, your stocking saint, your denier darling... or devil.

And so I begin a personal, private, stocking show... you choose a pair, letting your hands caress and savor the sheerness, asking their denier, colour and make. So as I peel off slowly, and sensually, for you, each pair and smooth on as seductively the new choice, I give you a running description as I swirl and twirl up and down the room for you, each stride bringing rapturous applause and gasps of admiration from you. And I find it as exciting and arousing as you too... the star of your fantasies.

Eventually, worn from my wearings, I plop on the bed beside you. I feel so very sexy in my stockings, knowing how very much you appreciate me in them. I've got quite horny, and I can see you are too, if that bulge in your trousers is anything to go by. Your hands wonder to my thighs again, and this time your fingers reach my panties, find my folds through the fine feather-soft fabric, feverishly fluid from your fumblings.

Your face close to mine, you whisper, uncertainly, "Would you... give me a foot job?" I frown, knowing I've heard that, or read it, somewhere before. Cosmo mag, or Scarlet perhaps? Like a hand job but using your feet. Sometimes but not always in stockings, but I can guess which you'd like.

I undo your trousers and let you pull them off, before peeling off your boxers, a stain of appreciation already soaking through from the bulging tip beneath. I tug them down so you can kick them away, my own appreciation of your super-sized stiff shaft in my gaze. I lean back on the pillows, and let you sit back facing me, and bring my feet, sheer-clad soles, softly together on the huge hot hardness. With slow deliberate, denier-dressed decisiveness, I let my feet wonder up and down your burning tight skin, letting it tickle my soles in return. My toes tingle over the tip, oozing whitish wetness, and swirl it back down, letting the sticky mix cling over the fabric as I draw it back down, coating you.

You let out a low moan, the elastane sending you into ecstasy, a nylon nirvana.

Three

I let my sheer stocking-clad soles wonder up and down your trembling cock, trailing warm cum that spurts in lil hot white eruptions from its tip, like a mini volcano. I tense my toes on its tight tingling skin, making sure you feel every fibre of the fine fabric, my pinky-red toe nails dark under the night blackness of the stockings. Deliberately, I push the long single seam that smiles along the ends of my toes into your firm fiery flesh, so you not only see it, but can imagine its imprint on you...

It doesn't take long before I send you over that first edge of erotic ejaculation. I can feel your taut skin rippling over the hot hardness underneath, stretched like the stocking on my legs. Can sense the lil spasms and jerks within are a prelude to your first cumming, and then...

Woooosh! A glistening fountain shoots into the air from it, splashing down on my stockings, covering my toes and dripping over my feet and shins... a sparkling contrast of whiteness, like big stars in the jet black sky. It sizzles and burns like fat, the hotness exciting me more, as I see your wonderous wide cock, still gripped in sheerness tween my toes, writhe with wild wakening.

"Oh god," you gasp, "Oh my god... I'm sorry." You try and apologise but I just smile my forgiveness. It's nothing to be ashamed of, my lips say, in fact, it's so very hot and horny, to be the focus of your fetish, the one who gives you such pleasure, such sheer and fine delight...

And to show I mean it, I wiggle my toes, now covered in a double layer of slender mesh and sticky, steamy semen, letting it ooze through the fine fabric and between them, warming like a soothing hot bath. It kinda tickles too, in a sensual way. Slippery, I smooth your cum with the stockinged soles over your depleted dick, dragging such daring dirtiness down with more denier-dressed decisiveness. You luv my stockings but the sight of your cum, the nasty nylon naughtiness of it all turns me on too.

I'm now wild too, possessed of this passion you share with me, and which I want to feel in a more intimate way. I reach over and grab another dark stocking, drawing it up on my fingers then stretch it over your still slightly stiff shaft.

"Fuck me with one of my stockings." I say. You need no second bidding. Suddenly, you're as hard and eager as you were moment before, almost saluting to attention. Yes sir! it seems to say.

I lift my bum and slip off my sheer panties, almost as soaked as my clinging cum-covered collants, lean back half-sitting up against the pillows, thighs parted and knees raised, waiting for your impassioned penetration. You shuffle forward on your knees, holding the stocking tight over your cock, gripping it round your base so it doesn't fall off. And slowly, gently, you ease it inside my wet warm wetness, and we both gaze down as the barely-black stocking surrounding your stiff shaft slips and sinks into the softness of my sex.

Unlike the ultra smooth warmth of your naked cock, the stocking has the coarseness of nylon, the roughness of elastane, like fine sandpaper on the sensitivities of my labia and beyond. As it soaks in my stimulation, becomes wet from my wildness, it feels like a strange over-sized condom, separating your cock from me, which I can feel pushing back and forth. But unlike a condom, which would be stretched skin-tight over you, would stay on you, your cock has pushed the stocking deep inside like a cap, and with each slow sensual thrust you give, you pull and push the nylon this way and that around the vividness of my vagina, with unfamiliar feelings and different desires. And I'm sure you are enjoying it too, your fetish must always have dreamt of fucking someone in stockings, and now you get that wish - plus fucking a stocking itself - in a way you never could have hoped.

Four

Impassioned, you suddenly reach down and grab my stockinged ankles, and bring them up over your shoulders. It's so suddenly animal of you, I'm aroused more by your wildness, quivering round your nylon covered cock like hot jelly. You keep hold of my ankles as they drape near your neck, caressing the fine fabric, and I let you, cos having you hold me high excites me even more, knowing the meshy microfibre make you even harder and larger, if that were possible.

Slowly you begin to rock me, grind me, with a rolling rhythm, stretching and swirling the sheer sensuality of your stockinged shaft inside me. Gasping with your thrusts, I reach out and grab another pair of stockings, slipping a hand in each, pulling them up past each elbow, like long gloves. I caress your chest, nylon on nipple, letting you relish the sensation. Then stroke up your neck, chin, letting the lingerie linger on your lips. A soft kiss through the feather-fine fabric on my fingers. My other hosieried hand brushes your cheek then runs through your hair. And blissed out in a stocking heaven, captive in clinging gossamer cloth, you're suddenly sent over a sheer edge, cumming inside me. A gushing jet, caught in the fine netting but which slowly percolates through the petite perforations, warming me with its heat and making my deep wetness softer and more supple than ever.

And your coarse climax sends me into orgasm too, rippling round you, caressing and massaging the stocking back over you. Every fine fibre, each tingling texture, is mapped by our intimacies as they rub raw against the other's sheerness.

Epilogue

Eventually, spent twice in as many moments, you drop out of me, leaving the hollow hosiery hanging inside. Daringly, I gather up the end in my still-stockinged hand and slowly, sensually, ease it out from my damp depths, soaked through with my own juices, and there, held prisoner, at the very end where my toes would usually be, your own colossal contribution of clingy cloudy cum. A white wet flag of surrender contrasting inside the dark denier.

You're in awe of my nylon naughtiness, my denier dirtiness, and sheer shocking sensuality, as I swing the humidly holding hosiery in front of your hypnotised eyes.

"So..." I purr, knowing you've just had the finest, the filthiest, of your fantasies fulfilled, "Where do we go from here...?"

The question, like the stocking, hangs in the air...