nylonmaniac
TMF Novice
- Joined
- Jan 22, 2006
- Messages
- 62
- Points
- 18
Thursday Night — 8:47 PM
The hum of the ancient office printer sputtered its last few sheets of payroll before dying in its usual dramatic fashion. Meredith barely noticed. She was staring at the corner of her monitor, watching the digital clock inch closer to 8:50.
Her hands hovered over the keyboard, wrists aching slightly from too many double shifts and tip counting. The office, a windowless little box behind the walk-in cooler at the bar, smelled faintly of printer toner and fryer oil. Her ice water had gone warm beside her.
She exhaled—slow, shaky—and smoothed her palms down the front of her shirt.
The black button-down clung to her. It had been a gamble this morning, picked in a haze between laundry and coffee. But now, at the end of a long shift, it clung tighter. The outline of her bra was faintly visible when she leaned forward, damp with sweat where her cleavage met the fabric.
Her pants were mustard-yellow with a hint of stretch, tailored just enough to show off her ass and strong thighs. They weren’t meant to be seductive—but somehow, the way they curved around her hips and tightened behind her knees gave them a little power. They whispered something she wasn’t willing to say out loud.
And under all of it, her secret.
Nude nylons.
Thin, barely-there, the kind she only ever wore when socks were missing in action and laundry had failed her. The control top gripped just below her belly button, hugging the softness there, and the nylon clung to her calves and ankles like a second skin.
She shifted in her chair. They felt smooth against the lining of her pants. She could feel the slide of the fabric when she crossed her legs. The gentle pressure on her toes where they met the insides of her heels.
God, the heels.
They were black, polished, simple—but her feet were aching in them now. She’d been on her feet for ten hours. She flexed her toes, tried not to think about where they’d be in less than an hour.
She grabbed her phone and stared at it.
Sean — 9:30
I’ll be at your place.
She hadn’t responded yet. Just looked at it a dozen times, lip caught in her teeth.
She took a long sip of tepid water. Then she texted back:
Meredith: I’m clocking out now. I’m sweaty, sore, and still wondering what the hell I’m doing.
The response came fast:
Sean:Sounds perfect. See you soon.
She stared at those three words like they were a challenge.
Perfect.
Her? In her end-of-shift, swampy-feeling state? Her hair was still pulled up in a lazy top knot. She’d meant to take it down, meant to at least dab her neck and reapply some deodorant before heading home.
But she didn’t. She wouldn’t have time.
She leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling.
“You’re absolutely insane,” she muttered to herself. “And probably about to regret this.”
But she stood anyway. Grabbed her bag. Slid her aching, nylon-clad feet back into the black heels.
The click of them echoed across the empty bar as she walked out the side door and into the night—sweaty, tired, pulsing with nerves…
And already burning with curiosity.
⸻
9:29 PM
The elevator creaked its way to the third floor like it resented every inch. Meredith shifted her bag on her shoulder and tapped the button for her floor five times in a row, like it would make it go faster. It didn’t.
She was sweating. Not lightly. Not “glowingly.” But in that very specific way a woman sweats after a ten-hour shift and a last-minute payroll crunch. The black shirt she had put on that morning now hugged her with damp insistence, stretched over her chest like a second skin. The top button had come undone somewhere between payroll reports and cursing out the broken receipt printer.
Her feet were throbbing in her black heels. She’d cursed them walking out of the bar. And she cursed them again now, as she walked down the hallway of her apartment complex and caught a glimpse of him through the big window by the stairwell.
Sean.
Leaning casually against his dark sedan. One ankle crossed over the other. Hands in the pockets of his jacket. The porch light cast a warm halo over his face, highlighting the stillness in him. Unbothered. Not impatient. Like he had nowhere else in the world to be.
Meanwhile, she felt like a whirlwind in a bra.
She reached her door, key already in hand, and waved at him through the glass with an awkward, apologetic kind of half-smile. He nodded once—slow. Cool as ever.
Meredith yanked the door open and called over her shoulder, “Sorry!
Everything took forever! The printer jammed and I had to—whatever, you don’t care, you look like a damn cologne ad, get in here.”
Sean was already pushing off the car. “You’re right. I don’t care.”
He smirked. “You’re here. That’s all I need.”
Meredith rolled her eyes hard enough to rattle her skull, but her chest fluttered anyway. She pushed the door open wider and gestured him in.
“My place is a mess. I’m a mess. I smell like fryer oil and desperation,” she muttered, toeing off one heel the moment she stepped inside.
Sean followed her in without comment, letting the door close quietly behind him.
Meredith peeled off the other heel and stood in her living room in just those damp nylons, the heels discarded like war casualties beside the couch.
“Okay,” she said, tugging at the hem of her shirt and wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “I haven’t even had a second to, like, decompress. So if this is a test in patience, you’re about to watch me fail.”
Sean was already pulling the small canvas bag off his shoulder, setting it down beside the ottoman she’d moved earlier that afternoon, like some part of her knew this moment was coming.
“I’m not here to test your patience,” he said simply. “I’m here to get you out of your head.”
That shut her up.
She blinked at him.
Then gave a dry, breathless laugh.
“Well shit,” she said. “Good luck with that.”
Sean just knelt down by the couch, wrist restraints in hand, and gestured calmly.
“Let’s get you situated.”
Meredith hesitated by the couch, one hand hooked on her hip, the other twisting the tail of her damp black shirt between two fingers. Her chest rose and fell a little heavier now—not from the rush in the hallway, but from the sudden stillness in her apartment.
Sean had unpacked his bag with quiet, practiced movements, laying out the wrist and ankle restraints with a sort of surgical calm. It made the whole thing feel more real. More about to happen.
She glanced down at herself—shirt clinging to her back, pants hugging every curve, nylons now marked faintly by the indents of her heels. The shiny nylon toes peeked out where her heels had compressed them.
Everything about her felt too used. Too end-of-day. Too real.
She cleared her throat and tried for casual.
“Should I, um… change?”
Sean paused—just slightly—and looked up at her.
Then his gaze dropped.
Slow.
Unapologetic.
It lingered for a breath too long on her feet. The sheer shimmer of her nylons catching in the lamplight. The way her toes twitched unconsciously when she realized he was looking. That expression on his face—somewhere between curiosity and calculation—made her toes curl on instinct.
When his eyes met hers again, there was a flicker there. Something unreadable. Cool and calm, but with a weight that made her spine straighten.
“You’re perfect,” he said simply.
Then he turned back to the restraints like he hadn’t just said something that made her stomach flip.
Meredith stared at the side of his face for a beat.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Ran a hand down her thigh.
“Well… alright then.”
She stepped forward, her bare nylon soles making a soft whisper on the hardwood.
And just like that, her Thursday night became something else entirely
The hum of the ancient office printer sputtered its last few sheets of payroll before dying in its usual dramatic fashion. Meredith barely noticed. She was staring at the corner of her monitor, watching the digital clock inch closer to 8:50.
Her hands hovered over the keyboard, wrists aching slightly from too many double shifts and tip counting. The office, a windowless little box behind the walk-in cooler at the bar, smelled faintly of printer toner and fryer oil. Her ice water had gone warm beside her.
She exhaled—slow, shaky—and smoothed her palms down the front of her shirt.
The black button-down clung to her. It had been a gamble this morning, picked in a haze between laundry and coffee. But now, at the end of a long shift, it clung tighter. The outline of her bra was faintly visible when she leaned forward, damp with sweat where her cleavage met the fabric.
Her pants were mustard-yellow with a hint of stretch, tailored just enough to show off her ass and strong thighs. They weren’t meant to be seductive—but somehow, the way they curved around her hips and tightened behind her knees gave them a little power. They whispered something she wasn’t willing to say out loud.
And under all of it, her secret.
Nude nylons.
Thin, barely-there, the kind she only ever wore when socks were missing in action and laundry had failed her. The control top gripped just below her belly button, hugging the softness there, and the nylon clung to her calves and ankles like a second skin.
She shifted in her chair. They felt smooth against the lining of her pants. She could feel the slide of the fabric when she crossed her legs. The gentle pressure on her toes where they met the insides of her heels.
God, the heels.
They were black, polished, simple—but her feet were aching in them now. She’d been on her feet for ten hours. She flexed her toes, tried not to think about where they’d be in less than an hour.
She grabbed her phone and stared at it.
Sean — 9:30
I’ll be at your place.
She hadn’t responded yet. Just looked at it a dozen times, lip caught in her teeth.
She took a long sip of tepid water. Then she texted back:
Meredith: I’m clocking out now. I’m sweaty, sore, and still wondering what the hell I’m doing.
The response came fast:
Sean:Sounds perfect. See you soon.
She stared at those three words like they were a challenge.
Perfect.
Her? In her end-of-shift, swampy-feeling state? Her hair was still pulled up in a lazy top knot. She’d meant to take it down, meant to at least dab her neck and reapply some deodorant before heading home.
But she didn’t. She wouldn’t have time.
She leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling.
“You’re absolutely insane,” she muttered to herself. “And probably about to regret this.”
But she stood anyway. Grabbed her bag. Slid her aching, nylon-clad feet back into the black heels.
The click of them echoed across the empty bar as she walked out the side door and into the night—sweaty, tired, pulsing with nerves…
And already burning with curiosity.
⸻
9:29 PM
The elevator creaked its way to the third floor like it resented every inch. Meredith shifted her bag on her shoulder and tapped the button for her floor five times in a row, like it would make it go faster. It didn’t.
She was sweating. Not lightly. Not “glowingly.” But in that very specific way a woman sweats after a ten-hour shift and a last-minute payroll crunch. The black shirt she had put on that morning now hugged her with damp insistence, stretched over her chest like a second skin. The top button had come undone somewhere between payroll reports and cursing out the broken receipt printer.
Her feet were throbbing in her black heels. She’d cursed them walking out of the bar. And she cursed them again now, as she walked down the hallway of her apartment complex and caught a glimpse of him through the big window by the stairwell.
Sean.
Leaning casually against his dark sedan. One ankle crossed over the other. Hands in the pockets of his jacket. The porch light cast a warm halo over his face, highlighting the stillness in him. Unbothered. Not impatient. Like he had nowhere else in the world to be.
Meanwhile, she felt like a whirlwind in a bra.
She reached her door, key already in hand, and waved at him through the glass with an awkward, apologetic kind of half-smile. He nodded once—slow. Cool as ever.
Meredith yanked the door open and called over her shoulder, “Sorry!
Everything took forever! The printer jammed and I had to—whatever, you don’t care, you look like a damn cologne ad, get in here.”
Sean was already pushing off the car. “You’re right. I don’t care.”
He smirked. “You’re here. That’s all I need.”
Meredith rolled her eyes hard enough to rattle her skull, but her chest fluttered anyway. She pushed the door open wider and gestured him in.
“My place is a mess. I’m a mess. I smell like fryer oil and desperation,” she muttered, toeing off one heel the moment she stepped inside.
Sean followed her in without comment, letting the door close quietly behind him.
Meredith peeled off the other heel and stood in her living room in just those damp nylons, the heels discarded like war casualties beside the couch.
“Okay,” she said, tugging at the hem of her shirt and wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “I haven’t even had a second to, like, decompress. So if this is a test in patience, you’re about to watch me fail.”
Sean was already pulling the small canvas bag off his shoulder, setting it down beside the ottoman she’d moved earlier that afternoon, like some part of her knew this moment was coming.
“I’m not here to test your patience,” he said simply. “I’m here to get you out of your head.”
That shut her up.
She blinked at him.
Then gave a dry, breathless laugh.
“Well shit,” she said. “Good luck with that.”
Sean just knelt down by the couch, wrist restraints in hand, and gestured calmly.
“Let’s get you situated.”
Meredith hesitated by the couch, one hand hooked on her hip, the other twisting the tail of her damp black shirt between two fingers. Her chest rose and fell a little heavier now—not from the rush in the hallway, but from the sudden stillness in her apartment.
Sean had unpacked his bag with quiet, practiced movements, laying out the wrist and ankle restraints with a sort of surgical calm. It made the whole thing feel more real. More about to happen.
She glanced down at herself—shirt clinging to her back, pants hugging every curve, nylons now marked faintly by the indents of her heels. The shiny nylon toes peeked out where her heels had compressed them.
Everything about her felt too used. Too end-of-day. Too real.
She cleared her throat and tried for casual.
“Should I, um… change?”
Sean paused—just slightly—and looked up at her.
Then his gaze dropped.
Slow.
Unapologetic.
It lingered for a breath too long on her feet. The sheer shimmer of her nylons catching in the lamplight. The way her toes twitched unconsciously when she realized he was looking. That expression on his face—somewhere between curiosity and calculation—made her toes curl on instinct.
When his eyes met hers again, there was a flicker there. Something unreadable. Cool and calm, but with a weight that made her spine straighten.
“You’re perfect,” he said simply.
Then he turned back to the restraints like he hadn’t just said something that made her stomach flip.
Meredith stared at the side of his face for a beat.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Ran a hand down her thigh.
“Well… alright then.”
She stepped forward, her bare nylon soles making a soft whisper on the hardwood.
And just like that, her Thursday night became something else entirely
