Below are two quickie stories written for Desdmona.com’s latest erotica contest. The subject was “stockings,” and that’s what these are about. 300 words each.

Mine didn’t win, but I’m being philosophic about it. The winners were pretty good, too.

Customer Service

“Why do we get so many weirdos?” Jen said, surrounded by latex and lace. Her last customer, an old man who sniffed everything but never bought, was shuffling out the door.

Her coworker Chantra hugged her. “Lingerie shops get obnoxious perverts. But you get to wear the inventory. Whoo,” she said. “There ya go.”

Jen suddenly felt 10 degrees hotter, everywhere. The new customer looked like Pierce Brosnan’s younger, handsomer brother. “Oh my God…”

Chantra pushed her forward. “It’ll make up for the creep. Git!”

He had a dazzling smile. “Hi, I’m looking for some stockings for my wife.”

“What size is she?”

To her horror and delight he looked up and down her body. “Very close to yours,” he said. “Very beautiful.” He said it like a mathematical fact, without a hint of flirtation. “What you have on is incredible. What is that?”

Flustered, she lifted her skirt slightly to show him the moire pattern that danced across her sheer hose.

“Amazing! May I?”

Jen nodded, clueless and uncaring. He knelt and ran a strong hand up the inside of her leg, as if examining a horse.

She shivered as he stroked her legs from ankle to thigh, his thick knuckles just barely, innocently, grazing her heat on the upswing. She looked down at wavy black hair and broad shoulders and, moaning, she pushed down to meet him.

Long, steel-hard fingers cupped and stroked the wet silk. Her brain melted away and she rode his hand, gasping and laughing and groaning with the joy of it.

He stood quickly, his pants bulging. “Thank you. I, um…” He turned abruptly and left.

Jen was still shuddering when Chantra put a hand on her shoulder.

“Last week I was his wife’s size, too,” she said. “Not all our perverts are obnoxious.”

Stocking the Night Fantastic

Oh dear God, Camille was wearing fishnets.

Leering at your employees is tacky and I prided myself on my professionalism, but this was torture. The women in my office never wore stockings, never. Believe me, I’d know. Yet my secretary lingered by the copier, giving me ample time to gaze at the lines down her calves…

I trembled and thought about my wife.

Dear Lisa. She knew all about me and loved me anyway. After she discovered my appreciation for hosiery (and after we bought a stronger bed) she delighted in buying new stockings for our pleasure.

Like the silky white ones that… jesus… Madeline, my programmer, was wearing. She’d taken her shoes off and was slowly stretching her legs under her desk. I could see her bright pink toes extended, wiggling, inside the sheer fabric…

I rushed out of the office, dizzy with misplaced desire that only increased with every woman I saw. Coffee shop Jenny had lace tops that didn’t — quite — reach her skirt. Mrs. Hannuman at the dry cleaners playfully modeled her new nylons. The girl at the front desk of my building insisted I look at the thin gold ankle bracelet she was wearing over her thigh highs.

It was all I could do not to masturbate in the elevator.

Panting, I burst into the apartment and almost lost it immediately. Lisa was waiting, gloriously nude but for black crotchless hose. I leaped at her, yanking my clothes off to revel in the indescribable feeling of silk-clad legs sliding around my waist and against my thighs. She was dripping, ready for my thrust, and I lost myself in the maddening, electric sensations.

When I could think again, she was nuzzling my ear. “The girls all said to say hi,” she said. “Happy anniversary.”