Author's Note:
After getting some feedback on the forum from
Annie of The Writing Group
I realized that I wasn't happy with the original story. First, I fucked up and forgot to remove the tags from the original document when I submitted it for publication. Second, and more importantly, there was a massive exposition dump at the end, the contents of which should have been spread across the entire series in a more organic manner. So I decided to rewrite Hosiery Holiness Chapter One into something I hope is much better written, and modify the title to something I think sounds better.
I apologize to anyone who enjoyed the original story.
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"Reservation for two, under the name Heather Macintosh," She told the waiter staffing the front. He looked at the reservation list, then looked back up.
"Follow me, ma'am," the waiter said. Heather followed, heels clicking on the hardwood floor. As she walked, she enjoyed the feel of her nyloned thighs rubbing together. She was taken to a two-person table at the front, right by a large window through which she could see the city street.
"Thank you," she told the waiter, before taking off her purse and jacket. Heather glanced at her watch. It was seven fifty-one. It was late for dinner, but Harold, her son, had gone to the gym after work. He kept his fitness up even though he no longer wrestled or kickboxed.
Immediately, a waitress stopped by, pen and pad in hand. "May I get you anything to drink, ma'am?"
"Just water for now. No ice, please." Heather told the waitress, who obediently went to get it. Heather looked through the window. Outside the street was bustling with pedestrians, going to and from wherever it was they were going to and from.
To Heather's disappointment, she only counted four women who were wearing hosiery and high heels like herself. Otherwise it was all pantsuits, jeans, leggings and bare legs.
One day that will change,
Heather thought to herself.
As she waited Heather adjusted her outfit. She unbuttoned her cardigan and ensured that the chocolate brown blouse underneath was properly tucked into her skirt. As she did so Heather's fingers ran between the top of her tights and her skin. No panties got in the way, since she never wore them anymore.
Heather closed her eyes and breathed in. She loved the silken sensation of the top-quality tights on her legs and fingers. It was a second skin, one much more attractive and sensual than her bare flesh. She continued to rub her tights under the guise of fixing herself, and she started to tingle.
No, Heather, now is not the time for that.
She stopped rubbing and buttoned her cardigan up. The waitress came back with a jug of water and two glasses. "Thank you," Heather told the waitress, who smiled at her and went off to another table. Heather poured herself a glass and drank.
After a couple more minutes, Heather saw Harold walk by, wearing a dark blue business suit. She got up and walked towards the entrance. She had been lucky. Now there was a giant line-up waiting to get tables, that extended outside.
Harry is going to wait a while standing here,
Heather realized. She pulled out her cell phone from her skirt pocket and sent a quick text:
I've already arrived, dear. Just go past the line and come to the front desk. I'll be waiting there for you.
7:58 PM
She closed her phone and put it back, then turned to the full-length mirror standing opposite the desk. Heather gave herself one last look over before Harold came in. She wanted to ensure she looked good for tonight.
First, her hair and face. Heather's glossy brown hair had been neatly tied into a low bun. Her pretty oval face was still perfectly smooth and unblemished, the skin a pale ivory tone. She wore no makeup, since she preferred her natural beauty. Framing her face was a pair of rectangle-framed glasses. She moved down to her lower half, since she had already fixed her tops.
The pleated skirt she was wearing matched the heather grey of her cardigan. The pleats flared out in a full silhouette, and the hemline reached to mid-calf. Her legs were sheathed in opaque tights the same colour as the blouse. On her feet were Oxfords made of patent brown leather, complete with three-inch heels.
Looking at me most people would think me prudish and old-fashioned,
Heather thought to herself.
But that doesn't matter. What matters is what these clothes represent to Harold and I. It was what I was wearing on the most important day of our lives.
Satisfied that her appearance was in good order, Heather turned back to the restaurant entrance. She saw Harold walking up to her, bypassing the line and receiving glares for it. Heather couldn't help but notice his eyes were focused on her legs.
Harold embraced his mother. Heather hugged him back, feeling his firmly toned arms, chest and back through the suit jacket. She looked at his face. Harold was a handsome looking young man, sharing Heather's hair and skin colour.
If he didn't have his father's blue eyes, he would be me as a man.
She thought.
"You look beautiful, Mom." Harold told her. Heather could hear nervousness in his voice. He broke off the hug, looking up at her.
Heather smiled at him."Oh, stop it, you're just flattering me. I'm an old hag."
No, I am beautiful, and we both know it.
