Dinner Scene

Penny turned the evening into a seduction. She asked a colleague and his wife over for dinner, and the moment Laney crossed the threshold in sheer pantyhose, Penny stared like she’d been waiting years. Every compliment landed low and hungry: the cling of the nylon, the soft sheen on Laney’s thighs, the way the waistband sat tight beneath her blouse. Laney blushed, smiled, let it wash over her. At the table Penny never let the heat fade. While her husband droned on beside her, Penny’s napkin slipped to the floor. She ducked beneath the cloth and resurfaced with one hand already gliding up Laney’s stockinged calf. Laney’s fork paused mid-air. She felt the fingers slide higher, tracing the seam at the back of her knee, skimming the warm stretch of nylon that hugged her inner thigh. She pressed her lips together to hide the tremor, crossed her ankles, and let Penny keep touching. Later Penny murmured some excuse—coffee, a lost earring—and Laney followed. Behind the closed door they met without words. Hands found waists, mouths found necks. They sank onto the bed still dressed, pantyhose whispering as thigh slid over thigh. Penny’s full breasts pressed into Laney’s; Laney’s hands roamed the slick fabric over Penny’s ass. They rolled, tasted, licked the taut nylon stretched across quivering skin until every inch of each other had been claimed.