Stockinged feet

I had hurt him already, opened him up to me, and was gentling him in bed, holding him curled into me, wrapped up close, cuffed and kissed, some beautiful expanse of soft bruised skin. Him naked, me, with shirt thrown aside in the heat of earlier physicality, in bra and jeans, boots off eons ago to leave stockinged feet.

My legs wrapped over him, I licked and sucked at his mouth, stroked his body with my stockinged feet, smooth, silky nylons sliding over his skin. From the back of his knees, up his thighs, over his arse, pressing against him insistently before slipping down over his balls and cock, and then back down his legs.

He moaned into my mouth, a sound of surprise and arousal, his hips moving involuntarily against me, his legs parting as the silky fabric covering my toes reached his arse and slid against him, his breathing quickening. It took me a moment to realise that this strong reaction was to my stroking him with my stockinged feet, delicious, surprising, unwarranted as I kept it up, slow and deliberate.

It hit a trigger, this stockinged foot stroking, and he started, unexpectedly, to make a sobbing sound into my mouth, I drew back to see his face contorted as if he was going to cry… he couldn’t tell me what was going on, it came out in gasps, whispered, cracked and broken, into my mouth,

“I feel ashamed… it’s horrible… it’s so good… what does it mean?… I can’t…”

I continued to stroke his body with my stockinged feet and kiss him.

“It’s ok baby, it’s ok…”

He nodded, somehow both kissing and sobbing into me, aroused and distressed, scared and confused, hot and so laid open, needy and exposed like a helpless little bitch.

You are so fucking beautiful, and thank you.