A Chelsie Christmas

S – Stockings

December 19th, 1926

Life would never be the same again.

Bells had rung. Clouds shifted across the globe. Somewhere in the universe another star born.

And Charles Carson had seen his wife in her stockings.

It was purely accidental of course. He would never have intended to invade her privacy. They had wordlessly made certain arrangements and bedroom bathroom privacy was part of it.

Yet he hadn't realised she was still in the bedroom that morning, and neither had she realised he was there, as he pushed the door – still in his pyjamas, going in to get his clothes for the day, and she was leaning against the bedframe without a dress on. His breath had stopped. Not caught in his throat, not quickened or deepened, but stopped. Everything stopped. His blood held its position, settled and fluttered before beginning its progress around his body.

There was something in the air, some stinging sharpness that landed in his lungs and filled him with sensations he hadn't allowed to enter his consciousness before.

Black stockings. Creamy pale skin. Her legs, coated in the thin material, her hand trailing up them as she went to clip them to the suspenders. Oh lord. Heavenly blessed lord that had created this most perfect of moments.

He had seen stockings and suspenders before of course, back in his stage days, girls kicking their legs up as part of their performance. And the cramped changing spaces, flimsy curtains that didn't hide much, and he was young, he had wanted to see and know even if he hadn't touched.

But this, well, this was different. This was his Elsie.

She was stunning, quite simply, and his immediate, unquestioning response was to touch. To find out what that material felt like against her legs, to unclip them, to kiss her there, right there, at the top of her thighs where material left skin bare and unclaimed. He would claim it.

She let her leg down from the bed, stood straight and her slip fell down covering the tops of her legs.

Guilt kicked in as she reached for her next garment. She didn't know he was there and he was invading her space when she hadn't asked for it, and that was unfair. He backed out as silently as he'd arrived and tiptoed back downstairs.

There were eggs for breakfast, and thick cut toast, strong tea. It was snowing outside again and they sat in the warmth of their dining area as white filled the air.

Afterwards, when she went to clean the dishes, he had sat staring at her back for the longest time. Sucking on his tongue like a petulant schoolboy with a score to settle.

"Are they new?" He suddenly asked and she twisted to look back at him.

"What?"

"There are lines, on your… your things…" he waved his hand towards her legs.

She glanced down, "They're seams dear, all the fashion now. And yes, they are new."

He cleared his throat, reached for his tea cup, "I am not sure they're appropriate for church."

"Oh… aren't you? Well all the women wear them now, even your beloved Lady Mary."

"That's different."

"How so?"

"Because she's… and you're… Well, my wife."

She dried her hands on a towel and turned to face him, breathing deeply, lips pursed.

Charles puffed out his chest and got to his feet, "I am not sure I can approve."

"Luckily, you don't have to." She said defiantly. "I like them, and I'm wearing them today."

He was frozen in church. It was painful to sit beside her, physically painful, keenly aware now of what was beneath the dress. There was a world of wonder beneath that dress.

When they rose to sing the morning hymn he closed his eyes and imagined those suspenders moving with her. He thought of her secret places saved just for him.

She was looking up at him curiously when he opened his eyes, and she pointed out where they were in the hymn book so he could catch up. Shaking her head, clearly annoyed with him.

He hadn't meant to sound so commanding, and he knew she wouldn't like it, but sometimes his tongue bit out words before he'd had chance to think them through. He was far from angry with her. He wanted nothing more than to…

He sighed heavily and she glanced at him again, eyes squinted, confused.

"What's wrong?" She mouthed as he fussed with his collar, suddenly feeling very hot. He shook his head, he knew better than this. He was an upright, smart, well-turned out professional man who held a respectable position in society, in the village, there was no room to be fixating on his wife's damned stockings.

"I won't be late back," she said, putting her gloves on outside of church. "We can eat when I get home. If that suits you, of course," she said pointedly.

"It does," he was equally as cold. How had he managed to upset her when all he wanted to do was ravish her? "I get things back to front," he said softly, away from other ears.

She frowned, "You're in an odd mood this morning, what happened? Was it last night, the hospital?"

He shook his head, "Nothing."

"What did you mean?"

He swallowed, "Nothing." He touched her arm, "Have a good day."

"You too." She kissed his cheek. "Careful in the snow, don't rush. Why not go see Jack?"

"I will, I have jobs to do, don't worry, plenty to fill my time."

It had driven him to distraction.

No matter the time, the job, the people he was conversing with, there it was – her legs in stockings. There were clearly some things created as a means of torture, this was both mental and physical. The long, dreary hours, the hot heaviness in his loins.

Dear Elsie. Elsie. Elsie. Elsie.

He walked home to the rhythm of her name and the beat of it in his heart. Through the snow, a couple of inches now, the quiet Sunday streets.

He wondered if Tommy watched it through the hospital windows, whether the lad would ever be brave enough to play in winter weather again.

He wondered if it would be a white Christmas. If it would dampen spirits or attendance at his organised event.

He wondered if perhaps it would snow all day and she'd be at the abbey for the night, leaving him to sleep alone.

That made him stop. His shoes melting prints into the snow.

"Silly old man," he muttered to himself before setting off again.

By the time the clock struck nine he had given up hope of her returning for the night. It made his chest ache. He supposed he might as well make cocoa, change for bed, eat toast by the fire and shortbread and dwell on the loss of a day spent mulling on something so ridiculous as female undergarments.

He had lived a life without the knowledge of such things. He had lived and coped. Oh but how sweeter life seemed now.

When the back door opened and she came in, flustered and covered in snow, his blood paused again.

"Heavens it's coming down," she said, unpinning her hat, shaking the snow loose. "Didn't think I'd make it."

"Did you walk alone?" He asked then cursed himself for even asking a question and not taking control of the situation. "How was the day?"

"Fine, busy obviously, you know this time of year. The younger staff are getting giddy."

"Thomas needs to stamp it out. I would."

"I'm sure."

He frowned, inwardly cringing, clearly the ice hadn't melted.

"Are you quite alright today? Whatever's the matter, you don't seem yourself?"

"Something happened," he said, still rigid by the fire, hiding behind his chair.

She removed her coat, hung it in the hall and came back to him, "Now, tell me what happened. Nothing we can't work through together."

He tilted his chin, closing his eyes, "It isn't appropriate."

"Whatever is it, Charlie, goodness?"

"I saw you."

"When?"

"This morning, getting dressed – I hadn't meant to," he added quickly. "It was all a rush, I walked in and you were dressing and I saw."

"That's nothing scandalous, you've seen my body before."

"Stockings…" he exhaled, long and slow. "You were in your stockings."

She bit her lip, suppressing a smile, "Oh. And you disapprove of my seams."

"Quite the contrary, I've been fascinated by them all day."

She laughed at that, "Oh my dear."

"I'm quite distracted," he admitted, "they've filled my mind."

She laughed again, covering her mouth. "Well, who would have thought?"

"I know it's wrong."

"Why?" She shook her head, pressing her palms flat against his chest, "You're my husband. And I am flattered that you're so enraptured by something as ordinary as my stockings."

"I am absolutely enraptured, and there is nothing ordinary about them."

"Charlie, have you never seen stockings before?"

"Yes, but never on you, never close up. I'm fascinated by how they fit, how they work." He grasped her arm, "How they looked on you."

Her eyes flashed – excitement, desire. "I'm going to change." She said, giving him a knowing look and heading towards the staircase.

"Ow!" She yelped as the belt snapped against her leg.

"Sorry, sorry," he pressed a kiss to her leg.

"How I showed you, use your thumb underneath, hold it still and flip it out."

"Very fiddly for hands as big as mine."

She gazed down at him as he concentrated and focussed on the device. "Wondrous," he observed, kissing her again.

Elsie lay back on the bed, allowing him to unclip her stockings and slide them down her legs.

"Be careful," she instructed. "They easily snag."

"I will," he was reverent, worshipping as he kissed her knees, her ankles, lifted her leg and kissed the sole of her foot. "My beautiful wife," he whispered, "in beautiful stockings."

"You know I've worn them each and every day that we've known each other."

He pressed his hands to the bed, staring down at her with wide dark eyes, "That is not fair."

"To me they are normal."

"To me they are torture."

She giggled, "Are you done now? Shall we go have cocoa?"

He loosened his shirt collar, "Not just yet…"