Girl on the Net

Fishnet tights.

I know, they’re obvious. They’re easy. They’re prone to laddering. But they’re hot. And I can’t wear fishnets to this day without thinking about urgent, spit-lubed buttsex. Here’s why.

I’m on my way home from a work do – some posh awards ceremony thing. Not one of the good ones that you actually care about winning – one of the ones where companies pay two grand a table to guarantee they’ll get nominated, and if you win the boss gets her picture taken with some twat from an agency who’s only there because he sponsored it. Still: there’s free dinner and free booze if you’re willing to dress up. And while I hate dressing up, angry bears wouldn’t keep me from free booze, so I’m in.

It’s been a long night. Politely smiling when people say ‘strategic partnership’ is hard enough when sober but now I’m pissed it’s killing me. As are my shoes. As is my dress, which is tight enough that I’ve spent the evening holding my stomach in and angling my tits away from anyone who could pass as senior management. The only good thing about my outfit is the fishnets. Lovely, slinky, give-me-enough-confidence-to-wear-a-dress fishnets. Fishnet tights that looked awesome at the start of the evening but which have now laddered halfway up my calf, and are digging into the balls of my feet like I’m walking on chicken wire.

And, obviously, they’re making me horny. Because I associate fishnet tights with sex, and kink – getting dolled up so I can get messed up later.

When the evening eventually ends I hobble to the bus stop, stagger onto the night bus, and settle in for a journey that’s far too long to do at 2 am.

Horny horny horny so horny. Why did I wear them? They’re really only suitable for fetish events, or lounging around the house when I want to get fucked. They’re the ‘yes I want sex now please’ cherry on top of an outfit – impossible to put on without thinking about tearing them off, so I’m buggered if I’m going to remove them in my flat all on my own.

I press the ‘stop button’ and change buses. Miraculously, all it takes is a short lunge from one stop to another and I’m on my way to his house. A quick text to tell him I’m coming, and a second to reiterate that it’s late, I’m horny, I don’t want to fuck about. If he’s awake, I’d be ever so grateful if he’d treat me to a rough hard fuck.

My cunt aches, and my feet aren’t far behind. The shoes come off at the bottom of the stairs, and I tiptoe up to the door of his flat. He’s opened it and is grinning. Pyjamas tented with the thick erection that, at the time, I’d only just become accustomed to. I wrap my hand around it and moan with relief. He does similar, except it’s my arse he grabs – leaning forward to bury his face in my neck, and sliding his hands down so they’re gripping my cheeks hard. Fingers digging into the crack of the fabric.

I moan again. I can’t walk very steadily – partly the blisters, partly the booze – so he leads me to the sofa and pushes me down.

“I like your dress,” he tells me.

“I like your cock,” I reply – or something to that effect. I’m not great at seduction at the best of times, so I moan again. The kind of stroppy ‘get on with it’ moan of the desperately needy. I’m wet and aching, because I realise I’ve waited all night for this – to show him the fishnets and have him slide them down, burying his head in my arse as he exposes it and pushing his face deep into my cunt.

“Lift your skirt up then,” he’s a gem. “Show me your knickers.”

And I do. I kneel on the sofa, bending over the arm of it, and I slide the tight cocktail dress up and over my hips, showing him my fishnet-clad arse and a pair of knickers that have slipped up and almost inside me.

He touches me. Rubs his hands all over my thighs, my arse, my cunt. Rubs fingers into the warmth of my crotch and makes a dark moaning sound at the back of his throat. I want him to pull them down. I picture him pulling down my fishnets and pushing his cock up against me, and until that moment it’s been all I’ve really wanted since the tedious evening began. All the way through the speeches and the chat and the token efforts to dance, I know I’ve been waiting for the moment when he pulls down the tights, pulls my knickers to the side, and slides his dick into my tight wet cunt.

At least, I thought that’s what I wanted, until he went one step better.

“Your tights are ripped.”

One swift movement. Fingers digging into the crack of my arse to get purchase on the material, then – rip – a hole wide enough for him to fuck through.

He pushes my knickers to one side as I’d wanted, then lowers his pyjamas just enough to get his cock out.

He spits on it.

He fucks me.

He grunts.

I lean further over the edge of the sofa, arching my back to meet him as he pulls my hips further back onto his cock. My head spinning with lust and happiness and booze and the fulfilment of a wish I hadn’t even known I wanted. Aching, stretching tightness.

And as he pushes himself hard into my ass, every now and then he makes a fresh tear in the tights. Increasing the hole he was fucking me through, putting a new hole through one cheek, or another around the thigh.

Rip, thrust.

Rip, thrust.

Pause, fuck harder, rip again.

Fucking me and tearing at my outfit until my tights were in tatters and his dick was twitching spunk inside me.

A ragged mess of smeared makeup and panting satisfaction. Torn clothes and blistered feet and sweat and spunk and spit.

And fishnet tights: what was left of them.

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