Sexy stockings

My stockings whisper when I move, sheer enough to catch every shift under soft lamps. Toenails glint ruby-red through the silk. You tilt your head like you can't help it. So here. One black pump hits the carpet. Then the other. Bare toes press cool air. Nylon stretches over each inch while I stand. My heel lifts, letting you watch the tension at my arch—fabric kisses tight, no wrinkles. I curl the ball of my foot and the stockings hiss, glinting. You inch closer. Fine. Sole to mouth, sole on tongue, sole stamping that pretty silk around warm skin. I peel the ankle first. One slow roll and thigh-high barely fights back. You track every peeking stretch mark I wear like a grin. They slip down. They pop off. Shimmery pile sits at my ankle. Naked foot meets your lips—cool silk flavor still kissing you as you taste skin. Smile wide. Swallow the tease. Then I give the same routine to the other leg, slower, daring you to blink. Stockings whisper surrender as they crumple. Two silky ghosts lie discarded, but their ghost-slides cling in taste on your mouth while I step away barefoot and leave you grinning over your little obsession.