Jeremy Edwards sent in this submission, Heels, Stockings, Girdle, Bra, Face, for The First A Slip of a Girl’s Lingerie Themed Erotica Contest.
I couldn’t understand why you suggested we meet tonight at the empty condo that your sister is in the middle of renovating. You said you wanted to give me a “tour.” Now that I’ve arrived, I understand what kind of tour you meant. A tour of you, not the condo. The condo is just a convenient, distraction-free setting–with a big-ass air conditioner in the middle of the floor. Nice. But I shouldn’t scoff. With you standing dramatically atop it in your lingerie, the air
conditioner in the middle of the floor is nice.
I’ll start with the least important. And, since you *will* insist on standing atop an out-of-commission air conditioner, the first stratum of your accoutrements to meet my eye.
Those black heels.
I call them “heels,” but in actuality they are entire shoes. You, on the other hand, call them stilettos.
I’m not the kind of guy to over-glamorize heels. Women can be sexy as all get-out without them–barefoot, for example. I don’t think anyone should feel pressured to wear heels, if they’re impractical or uncomfortable or bad for their feet.
But if you feel like wearing them, then far be it from me to argue. Far be it from me, in fact, to resist ogling them on you. Yes, I admit I very much like the way they position the erotic structure of your sassy feet. The glossy black texture is the perfect trim for your stockings. I do hope, by the way, that the “leather” is synthetic; I want you to be the only animal in those shoes. Rrrrr!
You’ve explained that they are too high, technically, to qualify as “fuck-me” heels. I maintain that any heel worn by you, standing in lingerie on an air conditioner, is a “fuck-me” heel. And I intend to prove it.
My favorite thing about these shoes is how you react when I slip a finger inside one of them and tickle your arch, with great delicacy, through the thin thickness of your stocking. You adore being gently tickled; you press your foot against my finger, wedging it tightly and inviting more sensuous strokes, while your musical giggles rain down from far above. I am looking forward to tickling you other places as well. You have so many places.
I imagine following you across a kitchen floor, as your heels go “click click click click.” You deliberately dead-end against the refrigerator, and I come to a stop with cushy precision, pressed against your own end, which is anything but dead. As I manage to give your ass a series of fabric caresses with my trouser front, I am conscious of the heels that elevate your rear cheeks to a perfect fondling height.
Of course, at the moment, since you’re posed atop an air conditioner, your behind is out of reach. It is a goal I shall later attain. For the moment, though, I caress your ankles.
You can’t give much lateral motion to your feet in these stilettos, but I can detect your erotic tension throbbing inside the shoes. My titillations travel silently, by means of your nervous system, up your legs to your pussy, whence sexual signals pulsate back down the stocking highway to your blushing feet. It arouses me to feel your passion burn against my fingers, way down here in your sexy shoes.
Though you’re standing on an air conditioner, I visualize you in a comfortable seat in a shoe department, and I visualize myself as the shoe salesman. I am fitting you for these black heels, easily coaxing the right shoe onto your foot, while you smile at me. Your foot fits the shoe like my cock fits your cunt–the tightness is pleasant but not excessively constraining, the sensation of flesh against the comfortable inner walls is luxurious, and sensuous wiggling is most encouraged. I hold your foot, in the shoe, in my hand, and gently work your heel in my palm, testing you for snugness.
As I return from this daydream, I smell woman in the air, and it is then that I notice that you have no panties on beneath your open bottom girdle, and that I have a clear view.
Your bare legs are deliciously smooth, but when you encase them in these black stockings they become impossibly smooth. Physicists tell us that a body in motion will, in the absence of friction, travel forever. This is what your legs now promise me–an infinite journey. Accordingly, they seem to stretch on endlessly, seen from my vantage point below. And yet, there is a clear place where the stockings end, and the legs become legs no more, but skin-fresh upper thighs. Above the dark stocking tops, I know we’re in a region that’s close enough to your pussy to have elements of its flavor–just as the air within a few miles of the ocean has an unmistakable seaside tang.
Your legs, in these stockings, appear like twin columns, a portico that proclaims the entrance to some hallowed place. I don’t think I need to elaborate on this. Suffice it to say that, as I stand at the base of your air conditioner mountain, I feel like I’m looking up at a glorious secular temple–a library, an observatory, or a museum. Then I smell your fragrance again, and suddenly I’m more inclined to compare you to a fine restaurant. I’m eager to park and claim my
But I feel like I could stroke your legs all night, while they remain in these stockings. The nylon makes an almost-inaudible hum against my fingers. (Is this what a zither sounds like? A gentle “Zzzzz”? It ought to be.) As I stroke up and down, up and down your leg, my cock feels like you are stroking up and down, up and down, its length. Do you notice how I begin to dance in place as I pet you? That’s my arousal dancing through me, my dear, as you knew it would when you dressed yourself in these impossibly-smooth stockings that point me to your cunt. I can travel up whichever leg I like–they both lead to the same place. (All roads lead to Rome.)
Fabric and flesh–a contrast of both textures and colors. Your skin happens to be pale, so the contrast lies in the interplay of your white thighs and your black stockings. The nylon is synthetic, and you, of course, are deliciously organic–another contrast. The stockings have a uniform hue and tone that do not change, whereas your upper thighs grow slightly pinker as our situation arouses you, and their texture becomes, in places, slightly slick with a discreet
trickle of lubrication from above. Yes, I can see them from here, places on the private side of your picture-frame of thighs where the light sparkles just so, dancing with your stickiness in a rhythm that I mimic with my gentle samba of male horniness.
I’m at the point where I feel the compulsion to take further action. I can reach your stocking-tops and the garter clips that attach them to your girdle, and I unfasten each clip, caressing you behind your knees all the while. Then I peel you like a fruit, slithering each
stocking down and following its progress with a trail of kisses along and around the corresponding leg. The sudden nakedness of each leg shouts at me–to see them uncovered feels, at this moment, more boldly carnal and explicit than looking straight into your pussy lips on a
typical Friday night.
It’s not practical to remove your shoes, so I leave the stockings bunched around your ankles. You look so happily exposed now, my smiling, bare-legged, bunched-stocking girl. Oh, how I’m going to fuck you.
When you told me about the garment you’d purchased, my tongue was probably hanging out in anticipation. Red silk (PANTONE 192) all over your ass . . . peekaboo laces to commemorate where your butt cheeks meet . . . the hem open like the bell of a trumpet, so that your pussy can feel the delight of every warm breeze and invite wandering fingers (either yours or mine, depending on whose are handy). What more could I ask for from an article of lingerie?
Well, I could ask that you save it for a special occasion–which you did. I could ask that you invite me to inaugurate it with you–which you have. Mine shall be the first fingertips that stroke the silk across your firm cheeks and sturdy mound. Mine shall be the first thumbs that fumble with its laces, in my haste to unwrap you. Mine shall be the first drop of precum that streaks across the smooth feminine fabric, while I press myself against you.
The girdle fits you almost like gym shorts, so tight against your tight but womanly but tight but feminine little ass. It grips you like I want to, and plan to, grip you exactly there. Now I climb onto the air conditioner with you to do so. Here at your level, I will squeeze your cushion in its silk pillowcase, unthread its laces and lick across the pillowy flesh in broad, sensuous strokes . . . left cheek, then right cheek, etc. You get the idea.
Ah, but before I do that, I must take advantage of the open girdle’s opening. Your legs part and my face enters the cozy place within your silken tepee. While you stand open for me in your open bottom girdle, I tongue the parts of you that panties would have concealed. I will make you so glad you’re not wearing panties, darling. Perhaps you’ll talk to me about the advantages of going without panties while I lick and lick you, explaining to me between heavy breaths how what I’m doing and what you’re feeling make a strong case for the panty-free approach to lingerie.
Just the name “open bottom girdle” makes me drool. These words seem to positively proclaim your interest in having me visit pleasure upon your feminine regions. “Open bar” means unlimited drinks. “Open road” means limitless horizons. “Open door” means opportunities await within; no need to knock. And “open bottom girdle” means my head between your thighs. This garment was made for you . . . for us.
Its hem feels so delicate between my fingers. Yet I am clutching it firmly, like I might hold onto the corners of waxed paper while I devour a many-layered sandwich. I am about to make a meal of you, and you’re even generating your own sweet condiment. I can literally taste your excitement.
It feels intimate and joyfully secret to know that the orgasm you’re having is happening inside your girdle. I’m right in there with you, dancing with your cunt, miles above your distant heels, which rock sensuously as you writhe. I love feeling like an insider, where female orgasms are concerned. I could stay in here all day, lips to your lips, listening to your thighs reverberate with pleasure as they clamp against my ears.
I feel an extra spasm jolt through your thighs as my fingertips once again find the space between the laces on your ass. It’s as if there’s a direct erotic line from your ass crack to your clit, an express train of pleasure that makes my caress at your rear trigger juicy ecstasy in my face, quicker than lightning.
I’ve never thought of myself as a “breast man.” But there are breasts and there are breasts. Anyway, it’s the woman behind the breasts that really makes a pair of breasts exciting. In this instance, the breasts are modest in size, aesthetic in curvature, and flirtatious in attitude. And the woman behind them is . . . you. If clutching these breasts will make pleasure course through your sweet little body, then I am all about clutching these breasts. And how could I resist, for that matter? They fit perfectly in my hands. They have a fresh, gentle, fleshy fragrance. And they’re displayed in a classic black lace bra.
Whoever figured out that black lace sets off white breasts deserves the applause of the generations. The opaque leaves play across the hazy, breast-flesh background like blue designs on white china. It drives me wild to know that the background of the lace design is, in fact, your soft, round flesh, the flesh of a zone so erogenous that my merest touch or tickle makes fruit juice moisten your sex lips. And when I touch a nipple, it’s like I’ve pressed a button that sends you rocketing into feminine joys that are impossible to conceive. I can’t wait to be inside you, clutching you from ass to shoulders, these lace-wrapped breasts pushing themselves against me like puppies, your head thrown back as if all your being were consumed in a nurturing
bath of pleasure.
It’s lewdly delicious that you would leave your cunt exposed in an open bottom girdle while modestly enshrouding your breasts in a lace brassiere. I think about this as I trace the elegant lace leaves, curly stems, that little bud . . . Oh! my mistake. It was a female nipple, not a lingerie bud, and you’re clutching my elbow for support because the pleasure of being touched there has made you almost unable to stand on your fuck-me-till-I-can’t-stand-up heels. Before the night is over, we’ll climb down from this air conditioner and head for the futon, so you can properly fall on your ass with delight when I touch you certain places. There’s a feather duster somewhere around here, and I can already visualize the way you’ll grind your bottom into the futon if I chance to brush inside that open girdle with the hint of a feather. By then, I think we’ll have to remove the delicate bra, because your precious nipples will be hungering for my kisses while your wild behind squirms against the bed.
As I undo your bra clasps and the lace garment falls far below, beyond the air conditioner, your naked breasts present themselves to me. “Present” is an apt verb, because I feel like I’m being handed twin presents, i.e. nouns, gifts from your beauty to my appetite. All the physical softness that is woman is distilled into these beautiful, round attributes, so precious that you wrapped them up in fancy lace until I was ready to enjoy them. Your feet have enticed me, your legs have engaged me, your behind, as always, has lured me and your pussy has already, for the first but not last time tonight, enfolded me. But there’s one thing that your breasts offer which these other attributes do not–proximity to your face. It’s a special kind of bliss to make love to your breasts with my kisses and squeezes and see your face looking down on me, transfixed by the sensations I’m bestowing.
I think the thing that impresses me the most about your face, when I’m sculpting your body with erotic touches, is its air of concentration. It’s as if you’re not only experiencing but also studying every sensation, memorizing each tiny bubble of pleasure and every detail of the orgasms big and small, as if you were going to be tested on them later. I know that you live your life so as to get the most out of things–savoring each morsel of food, sensuously swirling every drop
of wine around your mouth, giving the striking things you find in the natural and artistic world that extra moment of attention, so as to thoroughly milk their beauty into your soul. And this is also how you approach sex. You are completely aware of the height, breadth, depth, shape, texture, color, density, specific gravity, molecular weight and favorite ice cream flavor of each sexual sensation, and your extraordinary gift for concentration allows you, paradoxically, to
swallow each moment of ecstasy in one piece and yet taste every ingredient before it has vanished.
It blows my mind that it’s *my* touches, *my* erotic contact, and *my* desire that you devote all this attention to. Nobody else has ever paid the level of attention to anything of mine that you give to every taste of my lips or stroke of my fingers. As you clutch my cock, I feel like you’re reading a novel’s worth of detail in every centimeter of my flesh. I can see it in your eyes, those focused, impossibly-deep eyes, which reflect all my lust, all my love, and a richness of sensation that dwarfs my own self-awareness.
The expression in your face now comprises the frank provocativeness of your shoes, the sleek seductiveness of your stockings, the pussy-bare willingness of your girdle, and the demure ripeness of your bra. All of that, and so much more. An immediately-nearby mirror of my
passion, and an infinitely-deep window into your own.
We’ve finally cleared your ankles of the stockings and your feet of the stilettos, and I’m inside you now, with your legs wrapped around me. Your face is as close to mine as it could be without becoming invisible to me. Sensuality creeps outward from your mouth, across all your other features, as your lips form the beginnings of phrases such as “Oh my god” and “Fuck me.” You don’t have to actually say them for me to know what you’re feeling. I’m feeling it, too, after
all. As you scream orgasmically into my face and I lose myself in a stand-up explosion of froth from my tip into your core, a roomful of lingerie seems to spin around me. From atop a retired air conditioner, the whole world smells like your pleasure, and I appreciate more than ever why you chose every detail so carefully, to orchestrate this moment so flawlessly. In dressing yourself, you have in fact dressed an occasion, an event–and, in the timeless world of ecstasy, an eternity. Well done.
© Jeremy Edwards, a pseudonymous sort of fellow who likes to spin libido into literature.