Stockings

At the end of the bed they hang,
Waiting to be filled,
Christmas is their special time,
Promises to fulfil.

Black, lacy, sheer,
They slip over the curves of my legs,
I know what it takes,
To turn Bug's head.

He wears his suit,
And looks so smart,
Can't resist,
Can't wait to tear it apart!

We're due at the Party at eight o'clock,
But the door I've just heard him lock,
We're now bound to be late,
I embrace our fate.

My dress, my stockings around us fall,
So much for making it to the ball,
A few minutes late & we're not worried,
Neither of us willing to be hurried...