My Love Story

My older sister is a nurse. She works very hard every day so that I can have a good life.
My sister and I depend on each other for survival. Our parents passed away when I was eight years old,
and my sister was only sixteen.
But even then, she started working.
Every day, my sister would cook me lots of delicious food, do my laundry, tidy my room, and tutor me.
My sister gave up her favorite high school and chose a vocational high school
instead. My sister doesn't have any particular hobbies.
What she loves most is stockings. My sister has many beautiful stockings.
Each pair has a special meaning.
Unconsciously, I also fell in love with stockings.
Looking at those dense, soft stockings,
I've been fascinated by them since I was little.
When I was little, I loved it when my sister did laundry.
When she washed stockings, I would secretly watch.
Those soft stockings, so beautiful, being kneaded in my sister's hands, I felt a pang of heartache. After
my sister hung up the stockings to dry, she went to work.
I liked to come down to the bottom of the stockings and look up at them.
I loved touching those stockings with my face.
So soft, so delicate, as warm and safe as my sister's hands.
I started biting my sister's stockings, tasting the inside.
And then, I started doing what every teenage boy does:
I became even more obsessed
with my sister's stockings, imagining what she would look like wearing them.
When I was little, I loved sleeping with my sister.
I loved hugging her legs while sleeping.
It was a childhood habit of mine.
Sometimes, when my sister took a nap, I'd see her still wearing stockings.
I'd sleep with her, hugging her stockinged legs, and it felt like I had the whole world.
My sister's legs were incredibly beautiful, full and elastic, glossy and smooth.
Long legs, soft stockings—my sister was beautiful.
When my sister was working, she loved wearing white stockings because it was her job.
My sister also had a pair of very pretty, light purple stockings with little flower patterns; these were her favorites.
I rarely saw her wear them because she wore them specially for her first love.
My sister, panting, went through her first love, through the transition from girl to woman, wearing those stockings.
Then, she became rarely seen in my life.
My stocking-wearing sister was heartbroken.
From then on, whenever she was with her boyfriend, she always wore brown stockings.
It was a deep color, and it made her look more mature.
When I went to university, my sister surprisingly started wearing black stockings, which she had never liked before. My sister began to change.
She came home very late every day, always smelling of alcohol.
At first, I complained about her, but later I learned that she had gone to nightclubs to pay for my proper university tuition.
My sister never allowed any man to come to our home, including her first love.
Actually, what I liked most about my sister was her wearing flesh-colored stockings; although ordinary, they felt very familiar.
But good people often can't live happily.
One day during my junior year of university, when I came home with my scholarship money, all I found was a blank piece of paper.
My sister had left home, and I didn't know where she had gone.
In her letter, my sister said that the reason she didn't want any men to come to our home was that she wanted this place to belong only to the two of us; we were family who depended on each other.
I cried, I cried for a long time.
While tidying up my sister's things, I found that she had only kept one pair of flesh-colored stockings.
From then on, every day, I wore my sister's stockings to school and to work.
To protect my sister's stockings, I specially bought many more flesh-colored stockings. When I wear my sister's stockings, I feel that my sister is right beside me, protecting me and loving me.

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