nylonmaniac
TMF Novice
- Joined
- Jan 22, 2006
- Messages
- 62
- Points
- 18
Sean stood and nodded toward the couch.
“Lie down for me. Face down. Arms stretched above your head.”
Meredith arched a brow, but didn’t argue. “Like I’m about to get a massage or a mugshot?”
“Whichever helps you cooperate.”
He said it without missing a beat, already moving to the side of the couch with one of the leather cuffs in hand.
She sighed dramatically, muttering something about ‘being way too sober for this,’ but turned around and sank into the cushions. The fabric of the couch was still warm from the day, and it sighed beneath her as she stretched her arms forward. Her black button-down creaked
at the shoulders as she reached out, long and slow, pressing her cheek into the armrest.
Sean gently took her wrists, crossing them neatly, then pulled them toward the far couch arm. His grip was confident but not rough. Just enough to let her know she wasn’t getting out of this without help. The restraint clipped on with a muted snap. Her forearms now angled diagonally, wrist bones nestled in the soft leather, fingers flexing on instinct.
She tested it immediately. A gentle tug. Then a harder one.
“You do not mess around,” she said over her shoulder, already sounding half amused and half tense.
“Nope,” Sean said, circling to her legs.
Her pants stretched tight across the curve of her hips and thighs as she laid fully prone. She heard the sound of him crouching near her ankles and felt the shift of her pant leg riding up as he worked.
“Keep your legs straight.”
“I am straight,” she quipped into the cushion.
“You’re also nervous,” he replied, without judgment.
“Fair.”
He looped the soft ankle cuffs just above where the nylon ended and her skin began. The warm tone of the stockings melted into the golden hue of her pants, but her soles—bared by her heels earlier—were now fully exposed, sheer and unmistakable. The nylon clung to every curve and wrinkle of her meaty feet, the subtle sheen of lotion still catching the lamplight like sweat on silk. Her toes fidgeted constantly.
Sean stretched her ankles toward the opposite side of the couch and secured them there. She was now held in a wide diagonal—arms long and reaching, legs straight with her nylon-clad feet aimed up toward the ceiling, helpless.
Completely open.
Completely his to explore.
“Still comfortable?” he asked calmly.
“No,” she muttered. “But I think that’s the point.”
He chuckled once.
“Then we’re off to a good start.”
———
Sean didn’t move right away.
From her stretched-out position, Meredith couldn’t see him — only heard his slow, steady breathing somewhere behind her. The leather restraints creaked faintly when she tugged at them, almost on instinct, and then she felt the weight of his attention settle on her legs.
More specifically—her feet.
He was crouched again, silent, close enough that she felt the warm whisper of his breath near her calves. The air seemed to thicken.
Then, finally, his voice.
Measured. Even. Curious.
“You know, it’s… interesting that you’re wearing nylons tonight.”
Meredith blinked into the armrest. “Uh… yeah? Why’s that?”
A pause. She could almost feel him looking at them — at the way the nylon hugged the shape of her arches, how the faint reinforced toe seam hugged just under the pad of each toe.
“Nylons,” he said slowly, “change everything.”
He reached out and lightly ran two fingers just above her sole. Not touching. Just a whisper through the air, close enough that her toes flinched in response.
“They smooth out the skin. Reduce friction. But they also trap heat. Moisture. Heighten sensitivity.”
Another pause. A fingertip barely grazed her heel — through the sheer fabric, it was like a feather. She gasped and yanked slightly at the restraints.
“They make the nerves easier to manipulate. They dull the bite, but they amplify the buzz.”
Meredith squirmed. “Okay, well… that sounds awful.”
“Awfully effective,” he murmured.
She clenched her toes. “Goddamn it.”
His voice was gentler now. Thoughtful. “It’s funny… you didn’t check that box on the intake form.”
And that hit.
Meredith’s mind flashed back. The online form. That question that made her do a double-take. She’d hovered over the options for a full minute before clicking “Not sure / other.”
She hadn’t thought anything of it after that.
Now she did.
“Yeah, well,” she muttered into the cushion, “maybe I didn’t think I’d show up dressed like a human banana split with a death wish.”
Sean chuckled. “You chose the outfit.”
“Barely. I wore these because I had no clean socks. I didn’t think it was gonna be a plot twist.”
He touched her foot again. This time, just a little more firmly—two fingers tracing the curve of her arch through the nylon. The silky barrier made it all worse somehow. She flinched hard.
“Feels like a twist from here,” he said calmly.
“Fuuuuuuck,” she groaned.
But her voice trembled.
And her toes didn’t unclench.
Sean had barely started, and she was already starting to sweat again.
He was still.
Just watching.
Just waiting.
“What?” she barked into the cushion, unable to take the silence anymore. “You gonna lecture me into losing my mind?”
“I could,” he replied evenly. “You seem to be responding just fine to that.”
“Oh, bite me.”
“Not my thing. But this…” She felt the pad of his finger brush the ball of her foot, just once. “This is my thing.”
She gasped and jolted, letting out a half-laugh, half-snarl.
Sean gave a low, amused hum. “Nylons are a weakness. Most women don’t realize how vulnerable they become in them.”
“Well maybe that’s because most women don’t sign up to be hog-tied and psychologically profiled on their living room furniture.”
“You’re not hog-tied.”
“You’re splitting hairs, my guy.”
He chuckled at that, finally leaning in again. She felt a warm hand settle gently on the back of her calf.
“You’re still in full control,” he said, quieter now. “You can say stop any time. You know that, right?”
Her response came a beat late. And softer than expected.
“…I know.”
He brushed two fingers gently over the center of her sole again. Even lighter this time. The nylon hissed softly under the motion, and she gasped like she’d touched an electric wire.
“Oh fuck you,” she spat, breathless.
Sean smiled.
“Let’s find out together, Meredith.”
And just like that, both hands came down—light as air, slow as smoke—on her exposed, nylon-wrapped feet.
Her toes flexed. Curled. Clenched. Anything to avoid what was coming.
But Sean was in no rush.
He traced the pads of his thumbs up along her heels — deliberate, thoughtful movements over the nylon’s surface. Meredith's muscles tensed on instinct, her fists clenching at the top of the couch where her wrists were restrained. She didn’t scream — not yet — but her mouth was already open
A low breath hissed between her teeth.
“Jesus, that’s already awful,” she muttered, voice tight.
Sean barely looked up. “Not awful. Specific.”
He kept his motions methodical — just thumbs and fingertips skimming the sheer fabric, learning the map of her feet through the nylon. Every twitch was recorded. Every jolt catalogued.
“Your arches are ridiculously responsive,” he observed, as if reading a weather report.
“Yeah? Well your face is gonna be responsive when I get my hands free,” she barked.
But there was already laughter behind the threat — strained, clipped, like it was trying to punch through her throat. Her feet jerked as he swept upward again, this time dragging both index fingers in light, spiraling motions from her instep to the base of her toes.
“Nnghh—f-fuck off!” she gasped, thrashing once.
Sean just kept going. He wasn’t rough. He was precise. This was no playful attack. It was a goddamn study.
A few minutes passed. Then five.
Then ten.
He worked with nothing but his fingers — fingertips, pads, even the edges of his nails in gentle, maddening little flicks along the balls of her feet. And the nylon made it worse — slippery, silken, amplifying even the softest touches into hot sparks that zipped straight up her legs.
By minute twelve, Meredith was sweating. Again. Face flushed. Breathing like she’d run a mile uphill. And swearing like a sailor who missed a turn.
“MotherFUCK— why do people do this?!” she howled, twisting violently in her bonds.
Sean didn’t answer.
Instead, he reached down and slowly — calmly — unclasped a small black case by his knee.
She heard the click.
She froze.
“What the hell is that?” she demanded, already kicking her heels uselessly against the restraints.
Sean opened the lid. Inside: a small collection of tools. Innocuous.
Curious. Terrifying in context.
There were long-handled makeup brushes. A few stiff detailing brushes like the kind you'd use to clean electronics. A couple of rounded styluses. A vibrating scalp massager. One ominously simple electric toothbrush.
He looked down at her nylon soles.
“I thought we’d test a few things.”
Meredith’s head dropped into the cushion with a loud thud.
“Oh my God.”
Sean selected the stiff bristle detailing brush first.
“Let’s see how these nylons handle pinpoint friction,” he said simply.
The moment the bristles dragged in small, steady circles across the center of her right arch, she screamed.
“YOU PSYCHOPATH—FUCK!”
The sensation was sharper now. More concentrated. The nylon added glide, but the tiny bristles caught just enough to send jolts of nerve fire up her legs and into her spine.
He moved to the left foot. Same motion. Same circling pattern. He didn’t talk, didn’t taunt. Just worked.
“Oh my GOD—OH my god—STOP THAT—” she wailed.
Still, he continued.
Then he added a second tool — a rounded stylus that he traced across the tops of her toes, sneaking under the seams of the nylons, dragging slow lines along the sides of each digit.
“FUUUUUCK, okay okay okay—Jesus CHRIST, you’re a robot, you have no soul—” she shouted, kicking into the air again, but it was all heat and panic and laughter, rising up her throat like it was boiling inside her.
Then came the toothbrush.
He didn’t even warn her.
She only heard the soft buzz as he clicked it on — and then it was at her heel, and she convulsed so hard she nearly tipped the couch.
“NOOOOO—no no no no no—WHAT IS THAT—GET IT OFF—”
He didn’t. He moved it slowly up to the curve of her arch. Then her instep. Then the soft spot under her toes.
Each spot got its own moment. Each spot broke her a little more.
By minute thirty, Meredith was soaking in sweat. Hair stuck to her temple. Voice hoarse from laughing, yelling, cursing. The nylons were damp now — sticky against her flushed skin, making every brush and glide twice as unbearable.
She was a mess.
And Sean hadn’t even used the scalp massager yet.
Sean closed the toolbox slowly, deliberately. The soft click of the latch was like a gunshot of mercy.
Or so Meredith thought.
She barely had a chance to breathe before his hands were back on her feet — and this time, they didn’t creep or glide.
They attacked.
“OH NO—FUCK YOU, NO—NO TOOLS DOESN’T MEAN THIS—!” she screamed, jerking hard in her bonds.
Sean said nothing. Just clamped both palms around her upturned soles and let his fingers fly.
Ten digits moving in perfect sync — skittering, scratching, dancing along her nylon-covered arches with a speed that felt impossible. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t slow. And it was infinitely worse.
Meredith lost it.
“AAAHH—YOU ASSHOLE—YOU FUCKING BASTARD—!” she howled, thrashing like a caged animal, but laughing now — ugly laughing, loud and raw and pouring out of her like fire.
He wasn’t even looking at her face. His focus was pure. Clinical. His fingers dug in just enough — not hard, but focused, like he was trying to play chords on a piano made of nerves.
“Don’t be mad,” he finally murmured, deadpan. “This is the organic part.”
She cackled like a woman possessed. “I WILL END YOU—I SWEAR TO GOD—!”
Then he switched.
His left hand slid up to grip her right big toe, pressing it gently but firmly back to stretch her foot tight — the nylon drawn taut like a second skin.
Her breath hitched. “Oh no. Oh no. Don’t you dare—”
But his right hand was already in motion, fingers fluttering across the stretched sole with maddening speed. The motion was focused now — smaller, tighter circles and darts, all along the ball of her foot and the tips of her toes.
“YOU MOTHERFUCKERRRRRRR—!!” Meredith exploded, slamming her fists uselessly into the couch cushion above her.
Sean was still calm. Still perfectly composed. “This section is where I get to test endurance.”
“You’re testing my sanity!”
Her laughter was ragged now, nearly breathless. She couldn’t hold still. Her thighs flexed. Her toes splayed and clenched and twitched in his grip.
He switched feet.
Same position. Left hand now on her left big toe. Right hand dancing again, fast and merciless, like he was typing code into her damn soul.
“You maniac! You absolute—ghhhhaaaa FUCKING DEMON!”
Sean just smiled faintly — a flash of something warm but professional.
“Most people crack at this point,” he noted casually. “But you’re holding up.”
“I’m not holding SHIT—!”
But even as she cursed him, her laughter wouldn’t stop. It bubbled, poured, screamed out of her like it was tearing her apart.
Her nylons, now slick with sweat, made the sensation all the more excruciating. Every flick of a fingertip sent little electric shocks up her calves and thighs. The fabric betrayed her — slippery and soft and unforgiving.
Sean switched back again — now both hands, both feet, fingers crawling up from heels to toes in wild, randomized patterns.
“AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH GODDDD—NOOOO—!”
And then — finally — the storm began to slow.
His hands eased. The fluttering softened. His fingers grazed instead of scratched.
Meredith, drenched in sweat, was howling with laughter, cursing under her breath, and panting like she’d just run a marathon. Her button-down clung to her back. Her pants, soaked at the waistband, pinched her hips as her body slumped.
But she was smiling.
Somewhere in the mess of it all — under the outrage and the teasing and the absolute hell he’d put her through — there was a glint of something undeniable in her flushed, open-mouthed grin.
She hadn’t had that much release in years.
“Lie down for me. Face down. Arms stretched above your head.”
Meredith arched a brow, but didn’t argue. “Like I’m about to get a massage or a mugshot?”
“Whichever helps you cooperate.”
He said it without missing a beat, already moving to the side of the couch with one of the leather cuffs in hand.
She sighed dramatically, muttering something about ‘being way too sober for this,’ but turned around and sank into the cushions. The fabric of the couch was still warm from the day, and it sighed beneath her as she stretched her arms forward. Her black button-down creaked
at the shoulders as she reached out, long and slow, pressing her cheek into the armrest.
Sean gently took her wrists, crossing them neatly, then pulled them toward the far couch arm. His grip was confident but not rough. Just enough to let her know she wasn’t getting out of this without help. The restraint clipped on with a muted snap. Her forearms now angled diagonally, wrist bones nestled in the soft leather, fingers flexing on instinct.
She tested it immediately. A gentle tug. Then a harder one.
“You do not mess around,” she said over her shoulder, already sounding half amused and half tense.
“Nope,” Sean said, circling to her legs.
Her pants stretched tight across the curve of her hips and thighs as she laid fully prone. She heard the sound of him crouching near her ankles and felt the shift of her pant leg riding up as he worked.
“Keep your legs straight.”
“I am straight,” she quipped into the cushion.
“You’re also nervous,” he replied, without judgment.
“Fair.”
He looped the soft ankle cuffs just above where the nylon ended and her skin began. The warm tone of the stockings melted into the golden hue of her pants, but her soles—bared by her heels earlier—were now fully exposed, sheer and unmistakable. The nylon clung to every curve and wrinkle of her meaty feet, the subtle sheen of lotion still catching the lamplight like sweat on silk. Her toes fidgeted constantly.
Sean stretched her ankles toward the opposite side of the couch and secured them there. She was now held in a wide diagonal—arms long and reaching, legs straight with her nylon-clad feet aimed up toward the ceiling, helpless.
Completely open.
Completely his to explore.
“Still comfortable?” he asked calmly.
“No,” she muttered. “But I think that’s the point.”
He chuckled once.
“Then we’re off to a good start.”
———
Sean didn’t move right away.
From her stretched-out position, Meredith couldn’t see him — only heard his slow, steady breathing somewhere behind her. The leather restraints creaked faintly when she tugged at them, almost on instinct, and then she felt the weight of his attention settle on her legs.
More specifically—her feet.
He was crouched again, silent, close enough that she felt the warm whisper of his breath near her calves. The air seemed to thicken.
Then, finally, his voice.
Measured. Even. Curious.
“You know, it’s… interesting that you’re wearing nylons tonight.”
Meredith blinked into the armrest. “Uh… yeah? Why’s that?”
A pause. She could almost feel him looking at them — at the way the nylon hugged the shape of her arches, how the faint reinforced toe seam hugged just under the pad of each toe.
“Nylons,” he said slowly, “change everything.”
He reached out and lightly ran two fingers just above her sole. Not touching. Just a whisper through the air, close enough that her toes flinched in response.
“They smooth out the skin. Reduce friction. But they also trap heat. Moisture. Heighten sensitivity.”
Another pause. A fingertip barely grazed her heel — through the sheer fabric, it was like a feather. She gasped and yanked slightly at the restraints.
“They make the nerves easier to manipulate. They dull the bite, but they amplify the buzz.”
Meredith squirmed. “Okay, well… that sounds awful.”
“Awfully effective,” he murmured.
She clenched her toes. “Goddamn it.”
His voice was gentler now. Thoughtful. “It’s funny… you didn’t check that box on the intake form.”
And that hit.
Meredith’s mind flashed back. The online form. That question that made her do a double-take. She’d hovered over the options for a full minute before clicking “Not sure / other.”
She hadn’t thought anything of it after that.
Now she did.
“Yeah, well,” she muttered into the cushion, “maybe I didn’t think I’d show up dressed like a human banana split with a death wish.”
Sean chuckled. “You chose the outfit.”
“Barely. I wore these because I had no clean socks. I didn’t think it was gonna be a plot twist.”
He touched her foot again. This time, just a little more firmly—two fingers tracing the curve of her arch through the nylon. The silky barrier made it all worse somehow. She flinched hard.
“Feels like a twist from here,” he said calmly.
“Fuuuuuuck,” she groaned.
But her voice trembled.
And her toes didn’t unclench.
Sean had barely started, and she was already starting to sweat again.
He was still.
Just watching.
Just waiting.
“What?” she barked into the cushion, unable to take the silence anymore. “You gonna lecture me into losing my mind?”
“I could,” he replied evenly. “You seem to be responding just fine to that.”
“Oh, bite me.”
“Not my thing. But this…” She felt the pad of his finger brush the ball of her foot, just once. “This is my thing.”
She gasped and jolted, letting out a half-laugh, half-snarl.
Sean gave a low, amused hum. “Nylons are a weakness. Most women don’t realize how vulnerable they become in them.”
“Well maybe that’s because most women don’t sign up to be hog-tied and psychologically profiled on their living room furniture.”
“You’re not hog-tied.”
“You’re splitting hairs, my guy.”
He chuckled at that, finally leaning in again. She felt a warm hand settle gently on the back of her calf.
“You’re still in full control,” he said, quieter now. “You can say stop any time. You know that, right?”
Her response came a beat late. And softer than expected.
“…I know.”
He brushed two fingers gently over the center of her sole again. Even lighter this time. The nylon hissed softly under the motion, and she gasped like she’d touched an electric wire.
“Oh fuck you,” she spat, breathless.
Sean smiled.
“Let’s find out together, Meredith.”
And just like that, both hands came down—light as air, slow as smoke—on her exposed, nylon-wrapped feet.
Her toes flexed. Curled. Clenched. Anything to avoid what was coming.
But Sean was in no rush.
He traced the pads of his thumbs up along her heels — deliberate, thoughtful movements over the nylon’s surface. Meredith's muscles tensed on instinct, her fists clenching at the top of the couch where her wrists were restrained. She didn’t scream — not yet — but her mouth was already open
A low breath hissed between her teeth.
“Jesus, that’s already awful,” she muttered, voice tight.
Sean barely looked up. “Not awful. Specific.”
He kept his motions methodical — just thumbs and fingertips skimming the sheer fabric, learning the map of her feet through the nylon. Every twitch was recorded. Every jolt catalogued.
“Your arches are ridiculously responsive,” he observed, as if reading a weather report.
“Yeah? Well your face is gonna be responsive when I get my hands free,” she barked.
But there was already laughter behind the threat — strained, clipped, like it was trying to punch through her throat. Her feet jerked as he swept upward again, this time dragging both index fingers in light, spiraling motions from her instep to the base of her toes.
“Nnghh—f-fuck off!” she gasped, thrashing once.
Sean just kept going. He wasn’t rough. He was precise. This was no playful attack. It was a goddamn study.
A few minutes passed. Then five.
Then ten.
He worked with nothing but his fingers — fingertips, pads, even the edges of his nails in gentle, maddening little flicks along the balls of her feet. And the nylon made it worse — slippery, silken, amplifying even the softest touches into hot sparks that zipped straight up her legs.
By minute twelve, Meredith was sweating. Again. Face flushed. Breathing like she’d run a mile uphill. And swearing like a sailor who missed a turn.
“MotherFUCK— why do people do this?!” she howled, twisting violently in her bonds.
Sean didn’t answer.
Instead, he reached down and slowly — calmly — unclasped a small black case by his knee.
She heard the click.
She froze.
“What the hell is that?” she demanded, already kicking her heels uselessly against the restraints.
Sean opened the lid. Inside: a small collection of tools. Innocuous.
Curious. Terrifying in context.
There were long-handled makeup brushes. A few stiff detailing brushes like the kind you'd use to clean electronics. A couple of rounded styluses. A vibrating scalp massager. One ominously simple electric toothbrush.
He looked down at her nylon soles.
“I thought we’d test a few things.”
Meredith’s head dropped into the cushion with a loud thud.
“Oh my God.”
Sean selected the stiff bristle detailing brush first.
“Let’s see how these nylons handle pinpoint friction,” he said simply.
The moment the bristles dragged in small, steady circles across the center of her right arch, she screamed.
“YOU PSYCHOPATH—FUCK!”
The sensation was sharper now. More concentrated. The nylon added glide, but the tiny bristles caught just enough to send jolts of nerve fire up her legs and into her spine.
He moved to the left foot. Same motion. Same circling pattern. He didn’t talk, didn’t taunt. Just worked.
“Oh my GOD—OH my god—STOP THAT—” she wailed.
Still, he continued.
Then he added a second tool — a rounded stylus that he traced across the tops of her toes, sneaking under the seams of the nylons, dragging slow lines along the sides of each digit.
“FUUUUUCK, okay okay okay—Jesus CHRIST, you’re a robot, you have no soul—” she shouted, kicking into the air again, but it was all heat and panic and laughter, rising up her throat like it was boiling inside her.
Then came the toothbrush.
He didn’t even warn her.
She only heard the soft buzz as he clicked it on — and then it was at her heel, and she convulsed so hard she nearly tipped the couch.
“NOOOOO—no no no no no—WHAT IS THAT—GET IT OFF—”
He didn’t. He moved it slowly up to the curve of her arch. Then her instep. Then the soft spot under her toes.
Each spot got its own moment. Each spot broke her a little more.
By minute thirty, Meredith was soaking in sweat. Hair stuck to her temple. Voice hoarse from laughing, yelling, cursing. The nylons were damp now — sticky against her flushed skin, making every brush and glide twice as unbearable.
She was a mess.
And Sean hadn’t even used the scalp massager yet.
Sean closed the toolbox slowly, deliberately. The soft click of the latch was like a gunshot of mercy.
Or so Meredith thought.
She barely had a chance to breathe before his hands were back on her feet — and this time, they didn’t creep or glide.
They attacked.
“OH NO—FUCK YOU, NO—NO TOOLS DOESN’T MEAN THIS—!” she screamed, jerking hard in her bonds.
Sean said nothing. Just clamped both palms around her upturned soles and let his fingers fly.
Ten digits moving in perfect sync — skittering, scratching, dancing along her nylon-covered arches with a speed that felt impossible. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t slow. And it was infinitely worse.
Meredith lost it.
“AAAHH—YOU ASSHOLE—YOU FUCKING BASTARD—!” she howled, thrashing like a caged animal, but laughing now — ugly laughing, loud and raw and pouring out of her like fire.
He wasn’t even looking at her face. His focus was pure. Clinical. His fingers dug in just enough — not hard, but focused, like he was trying to play chords on a piano made of nerves.
“Don’t be mad,” he finally murmured, deadpan. “This is the organic part.”
She cackled like a woman possessed. “I WILL END YOU—I SWEAR TO GOD—!”
Then he switched.
His left hand slid up to grip her right big toe, pressing it gently but firmly back to stretch her foot tight — the nylon drawn taut like a second skin.
Her breath hitched. “Oh no. Oh no. Don’t you dare—”
But his right hand was already in motion, fingers fluttering across the stretched sole with maddening speed. The motion was focused now — smaller, tighter circles and darts, all along the ball of her foot and the tips of her toes.
“YOU MOTHERFUCKERRRRRRR—!!” Meredith exploded, slamming her fists uselessly into the couch cushion above her.
Sean was still calm. Still perfectly composed. “This section is where I get to test endurance.”
“You’re testing my sanity!”
Her laughter was ragged now, nearly breathless. She couldn’t hold still. Her thighs flexed. Her toes splayed and clenched and twitched in his grip.
He switched feet.
Same position. Left hand now on her left big toe. Right hand dancing again, fast and merciless, like he was typing code into her damn soul.
“You maniac! You absolute—ghhhhaaaa FUCKING DEMON!”
Sean just smiled faintly — a flash of something warm but professional.
“Most people crack at this point,” he noted casually. “But you’re holding up.”
“I’m not holding SHIT—!”
But even as she cursed him, her laughter wouldn’t stop. It bubbled, poured, screamed out of her like it was tearing her apart.
Her nylons, now slick with sweat, made the sensation all the more excruciating. Every flick of a fingertip sent little electric shocks up her calves and thighs. The fabric betrayed her — slippery and soft and unforgiving.
Sean switched back again — now both hands, both feet, fingers crawling up from heels to toes in wild, randomized patterns.
“AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH GODDDD—NOOOO—!”
And then — finally — the storm began to slow.
His hands eased. The fluttering softened. His fingers grazed instead of scratched.
Meredith, drenched in sweat, was howling with laughter, cursing under her breath, and panting like she’d just run a marathon. Her button-down clung to her back. Her pants, soaked at the waistband, pinched her hips as her body slumped.
But she was smiling.
Somewhere in the mess of it all — under the outrage and the teasing and the absolute hell he’d put her through — there was a glint of something undeniable in her flushed, open-mouthed grin.
She hadn’t had that much release in years.
