Lorraine looks good in stockings. She always has. She has great legs. I guess that might have something to do with her running the best part of twenty miles a week, week in week out, which she has done since college and throughout our marriage, even on our honeymoon. The locals in Goa loved watching the white woman with long, jet black hair, running each day along the beach in just a thong and sports bra, but there was no way that Lorraine was going to let that put her off, and she is still out running around our London four times a week, giving me the chance to write this without her knowing.
So when I say that Lorraine looks good in stockings, that is English understatement. She looks fantastic. Stockings really compliment her legs, with her well defined musculature, perfect calves and thighs, and tight, awesome white butt. Before she started wearing them regularly, I used to regret that they were reserved for special occasions, but I loved those occasions, going out to restaurants, concerts, jazz clubs, and staying in for wine in the bedroom, and sex with stockings and suspender belt. Lorraine's stockings were a subtle signal, that on those nights she wanted to be on top. With stockings, my wife likes to be in control.
Not that I ever minded. Lying back on our bed, with Lorraine squatting on my cock, trimmed black pubic hair contrasting with milk white flesh, framed by black suspender belt and black stocking tops, is sheer, sexual heaven, as sheer and as sexual as the stockings themselves.
It also provides the best view that God has created. Forget all the rivers, lakes and mountains, and all the coastal scenery on this good earth. There is no better view that that of my wife's cunt stretched around the solid shaft of my cock, whether as she lowers herself over the head, or when she is resting on my groin, and every inch of my erection is lodged inside her.
Resting my hands on her thighs and sensing the taut nylon, while she raises and lowers herself, at the rhythm and angle that gives her the most pleasure, is simultaneous bliss and torture. Something about the way she does it is all but unbearable, and my semen inevitably rises against my will, jetting with a delicious intensity through my shaft and flooding her. She seems to love that I cannot control my ejaculation when she is on top, while I can fuck her for ever when she is beneath me. But this is about Lorraine starting to wear her stockings for another reason than to be on top, not about my inability to hold back when it is she who is fucking me instead of the other way around.
We get dressed at the same time in the morning, and leave our flat together. I cycle to my office, the ten mile round trip keeping me fit, instead of running twenty miles a week. Lorraine takes the tube into the city, to the corporation where she works in finance. She walks to the station. By the time I get my bike out from the underground garage, she is on the high street, and moments later, I pass her with a wave.
Most of the year round, Lorraine used to wear tights, sometimes a trouser suit. On a hot day in the summer she might go bare legged, ignoring the assumption that legs should be tanned, and staying with dark business skirts, black or slate grey, that emphasise the whiteness of her calves, but apart from those warm summer days, that my wife always wore tights.
It was a Monday in autumn that her routine changed. It was already too cool to go bare legged. I was bringing through two mugs of freshly brewed Columbian coffee, stark naked - myself, not the coffee - and Lorraine was standing beside our bed, left foot on the ground, her right foot on our duvet cover, easing the stocking top up the rest of her thigh and clipping the two suspender straps in place, front and back. The nylon was black, the only colour she ever wears, if black can be a colour. When it comes to stockings, black is more an absence of colour, a deep, erotic darkness.
I put Lorraine's coffee on the leather place mat on the chest of drawers beside her.
"Thanks," she said.
"Stockings?" I asked. "That's new."
Lorraine put her right foot on the ground, did the careful fingering thing that women do to prepare her second stocking ready to put on and raised her left leg, sliding the nylon onto her foot, her ankle, and her perfect calf. She looked up through her jet black mane of hair.
"It makes a change," she said. "What do you think of them?"
"They look good," I said. "But I guess it helps to have legs like yours."
I have always been a leg man. Lorraine has a slender torso, with a slim waist, a well defined rib-cage, and neat breasts that do not really need the sports bra that she wears for running, or any other kind of bra, except to soften the outline of her dark, cherry nipples beneath her clothing - but it is her legs that I really love, especially when they are up and pressed against my shoulders.
Just the same, Lorraine wearing stockings on a weekday, heading off to work, set my alarm bells ringing. Making a change did not seem quite enough of an explanation. In the nine years that we had been married, she had never worn stockings to the office.
Stockings, in our relationship, meant the 'I want to be on top' kind of sex that I have just described. When Lorraine wore stockings to bed, it meant that she wanted to pass on all of the tender closeness, gentle kisses and loving touches that were the prequel to meaningful love making. She just wanted hard cock that she could ride for her own, personal pleasure.
Not that Lorraine had only ever worn stockings when it was time for bed. We might be heading for a concert, or going to dinner with some friends, and having a romantic evening in our favourite restaurant, and Lorraine would put on stockings instead of her daytime tights, but even then, they were a signal, telling me what she would want when we got back, and keeping me hungry in anticipation throughout the evening.
So Lorraine sliding on a pair of stockings on a Monday morning, getting ready for the office, was a turn on, but also was a cause for serious concern, because if she was not going to climb onto my cock and ride it every which way in the next few hours, just maybe she was wearing her stockings for someone else.
That thought gave me some serious discomfort, not just in my head, but right in the pit of my gut. I thought of saying something, but making an accusation purely on the evidence of a pair of black nylon stockings seemed too much like risking our relationship. You have to know for sure, before you call it as it is. Maybe it really was just that my wife felt like a change, exactly as she said. If that was the case, an accusation could be seriously damaging.
So I let it pass.
Lorraine walked to the station in her stockings. I got on my bike and cycled to my own place of employment. I worked through what I needed to, slower than I usually do, picturing her in her office, thinking of the bare white flesh above her stocking tops, hidden by her skirt, but just maybe visible when she sat.
