Pantyhose Casual Lovers

I first saw Sabina in the locker room after yoga. Fresh from the shower, she moved through the empty space half-dressed for her shoot. She had no idea I stood there, unable to look away. The pantyhose clung to every curve of her legs like they were painted on. She pulled another pair of stockings over them. The second layer caught on the first, stretching taut across her skin. Still she layered them, sliding each one higher than the last. Eventually she felt my stare. When our eyes met she didn’t flinch. She said she’d felt me watching every time, that my hunger made her wet. After that we started meeting. Once a month, always in rented rooms or borrowed beds because her husband never approved. She arrived already restless, thighs sheathed in double layers of nylon, the scent of perfume and clean skin rising with her heat. On those nights she begged for it—slow strokes against her legs until I painted white streaks across the sheer black. She watched it happen, eyes half-lidded, breathing hard, the mess cooling and shining on the fabric she’d chosen just for this.