nytklee
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Continue from part 1.
Duke's timeless fetish (m/f, nylon) (2/2)
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The storage room of the Pleasure Emporium was still, save for the soft, rhythmic breathing of Sophia, slumped on the padded bench. Her nylon-clad feet glistened faintly under the dim bulb, the ropes around her ankles loosened, though her wrists remained bound behind her, the silk blindfold loose but still draped across her eyes. Lord Edmund Strathmore stood over her, his chest tight with the afterglow of her laughter, the memory of her nylon-covered soles twitching under his fingers etched into his senses. The fabric—nylon, she’d called it—was a revelation, a modern marvel that had elevated his obsession to new heights. He adjusted his velvet cloak, its damp hem brushing the floor, and prepared to slip away. The world beyond the shop was a labyrinth of lights and noise, and he needed to navigate it before Sophia stirred.
A soft click broke the silence—the unmistakable sound of a heel on hardwood. Edmund’s head snapped toward the doorway, his hand tightening on the crimson rope still coiled at his side. A figure stood there, framed by the curtain, watching him with an enigmatic smile. The stranger was tall, statuesque, with an air of deliberate allure. A crimson dress hugged her curves, its hem ending just above the knee, revealing long legs sheathed in black sheer stockings, her glossy surface catching the light like dark water. Red high heels, her pointed toes gleaming, completed the ensemble, each step a deliberate performance as the figure stepped into the room.
“Well, well,” the stranger said, her voice a smooth, honeyed alto, tinged with amusement. “You’ve made quite the impression on my Sophia.” She gestured toward the unconscious woman, her manicured nails glinting. “I’m Jules, owner of this little haven. And you, darling, are… something else entirely.”
Edmund’s eyes narrowed, but his lips curved into a cautious smile. He bowed slightly, his aristocratic charm instinctive. “Lord Edmund Strathmore,” he said, his voice low and measured. “A pleasure, I’m sure.” His gaze lingered on Jules’ legs, the black stockings a stark contrast to Sophia’s lighter ones, her sheer weave revealing just enough to stir his curiosity. Those red heels, sharp and commanding, clicked as Jules shifted, drawing his attention to her feet—elegant, arched, promising the same sensitivity he’d found in Sophia.
Jules laughed, a rich sound that filled the cramped space. “Lord, is it? Oh, you’re not from around here, are you?” She sauntered closer, her heels a slow, deliberate rhythm, stopping just out of arm’s reach. “I saw everything, you know—cameras in the shop. Quite the show you put on. Sophia’s never laughed like that before.” Her eyes sparkled with something between admiration and mischief. “You’ve got a gift, Edmund.”
Edmund’s pulse quickened, but he held his ground, his fingers flexing around the rope. “You’re not alarmed?” he asked, tilting his head. “Most would call the constables by now.”
Jules smirked, crossing her arms, the motion accentuating the curve of her hips. “Constables? Sweetheart, this is 1998. We don’t clutch pearls over a bit of fun.” She glanced at Sophia, then back at Edmund, her gaze appraising. “Besides, Sophia’s fine—she’ll wake up dreamy and dazed, just like you planned. I’m more interested in you. You’re not just some kinkster in a costume, are you?”
Edmund hesitated, the weight of his displacement pressing on him. The lights, the machines outside, Sophia’s stockings—it was all too strange, too vivid. “I… find myself adrift,” he admitted, his voice softer now, though still laced with authority. “This world is not my own.”
Jules’ expression softened, but her smile remained sly. “Thought so. You’ve got that look—like you fell out of a painting.” She stepped closer, the scent of her perfume—sandalwood and citrus—curling around him. “Lucky for you, I know this city like the back of my hand. Stick with me, and I’ll show you the ropes—pun intended.” She winked, nodding at the coil in his hand. “I can even get you home, wherever that is. But you’ve got to trust me.”
Edmund’s eyes drifted to Jules’ legs again, the black stockings shimmering as she shifted her weight. The heels lifted her arches, accentuating the delicate lines of her feet, and he imagined them bound, the sheer fabric slick under his fingers, her laughter as sweet as Sophia’s. “And what do you gain, Jules?” he asked, his voice a velvet challenge. “A guide offers such generosity for a price, I presume.”
Jules laughed again, stepping past him to check on Sophia, her heels clicking sharply. She brushed a curl from her face, ensuring she was comfortable, then turned back to Edmund. “Oh, I like you,” she said, her tone teasing. “Let’s just say I’m curious. You’ve got tricks I’ve never seen, and I’ve seen plenty. Plus, this city’s got places that’ll blow your mind—clubs, boutiques, people who’d eat up that lordly vibe of yours. Come with me, and we’ll see what trouble we can stir.”
Edmund considered, his gaze flickering between Jules’ confident stance and the world beyond the curtain. The shop felt like a cocoon, but outside was a chaos he couldn’t yet master. Jules’ offer was tempting—not just for survival, but for the promise of more. Those stockings, those heels… they hinted at pleasures he’d only begun to explore. “Very well,” he said, straightening his cloak. “Lead on, my… enigmatic guide.”
Jules grinned, turning toward the door, her hips swaying with deliberate grace. “That’s the spirit. Let’s get you cleaned up first—can’t have you wandering London looking like a drowned prince.” She paused, glancing back, her eyes glinting. “Oh, and Edmund? Try anything funny, and I’ve got tricks of my own. Fair warning.”
Edmund followed, his boots soft against the floor, his mind alight with possibilities. The dawn outside was breaking, painting the street in hues of gold and pink, the city alive with sounds he didn’t yet understand. Jules’ heels clicked ahead, the black stockings catching the early light, a beacon in this strange new world. He didn’t notice the subtle glance Jules threw over their shoulder, nor the faint smile that suggested they knew more than they let on. For now, Edmund was content to follow, his hunger sharpened by the promise of what lay ahead—new games, new laughter, and the endless allure of nylon-clad feet.
The dawn had given way to a vibrant London evening, the city pulsing with life as Jules led Lord Edmund Strathmore through its neon-lit veins. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of street food and exhaust, and the streets thrummed with laughter and music spilling from open doorways. Jules strode ahead, her crimson dress catching the glow of passing headlights, her black sheer stockings shimmering with every step. The red high heels clicked like a metronome, drawing Edmund’s gaze to their legs—long, elegant, a tantalizing promise wrapped in nylon. He followed, his velvet cloak a stark contrast to the modern crowd, his eyes alight with curiosity and hunger.
Their first stop was a boutique tucked in a narrow Soho alley, its sign a discreet Nylon Dreams in cursive neon. Inside, the shop was a shrine to stockings—racks of silk, fishnet, and every shade of nylon, from glossy black to delicate nude. Mannequins posed in stilettos, their legs draped in sheer fabrics that caught the soft lighting. A saleswoman in seamed stockings and platform heels greeted Jules warmly, eyeing Edmund with intrigue. “New friend?” she purred, adjusting a garter display.
“Something like that,” Jules replied, winking at Edmund. “Show him the good stuff, darling.”
Edmund’s breath caught as he wandered the aisles, his fingers brushing rolls of nylon—some smooth as water, others textured with delicate patterns. He imagined each pair stretched over soft soles, amplifying every ticklish twitch. Jules watched him, her smile sly. “See anything you like?” she teased, extending one leg to show off her own stockings. “These are custom—feel like a second skin.”
Edmund’s hand twitched, but he only smiled, his voice low. “They suit you… exquisitely.” The shop was a treasure trove, and he left with a small bag of samples, his mind racing with possibilities.
Next, Jules guided him to a nightclub, Velvet Pulse, its entrance a black door pulsing with bass. Inside, the air was electric, strobe lights painting the crowd in flashes of color. Women in tight dresses and towering heels moved to the music, their legs sheathed in stockings—fishnets, thigh-highs, glossy nylons that gleamed under the lights. Edmund stood at the bar, a whiskey in hand, his eyes drinking in the sight. A blonde in red stilettos laughed nearby, her nylon-clad toes peeking from open-toe heels. A brunette swayed past, her fishnets catching his gaze. Each woman was a spark to his kindling desire, their boldness a far cry from 1798’s demure modesty. His fingers tightened around the glass, the memory of Sophia’s laughter mingling with the promise of these new muses.
Jules leaned close, her perfume cutting through the smoky air. “Exciting, isn’t it?” she murmured, sipping a martini. “This world’s made for indulgence.” Her heel brushed his leg under the bar, deliberate, and Edmund’s pulse surged. He met her gaze, seeing the challenge there, but said nothing, savoring the game.
Hours later, Jules led him to a sleek townhouse in a quieter part of the city, her home a blend of modern chic and vintage charm. The living room was all velvet couches and art deco lamps, but Edmund’s eyes followed Jules’ legs as they crossed the hardwood floor, the black stockings catching the soft glow. Jules poured two glasses of wine, handing one to Edmund with a teasing smile. “You’re handling 1998 pretty well, Lord Strathmore,” she said, settling onto a couch, one leg extended to show off the sheer nylon. “But I’m not like Sophia, you know. These feet?” She wiggled her toes, the stockings taut over her arches. “Ticklish as hell, but I’m not careless. You’d have to work for it.”
Edmund’s lips curved, predatory yet polished. “A challenge, then?” he asked, his voice a velvet purr. He set his glass down, stepping closer, his cloak falling open to reveal the lean strength beneath. Jules’ confidence was intoxicating, her boldness a match for his own.
Jules laughed, standing to show him the guest room, her heels clicking up the stairs. “Don’t get any ideas,” she warned, but her tone was playful, inviting. The guest room was simple—white linens, a mahogany dresser—but as Jules turned to point out the ensuite, Edmund moved. Swift as a shadow, he pushed her gently but firmly onto the bed, his hands already working with the rope from the shop, looping it around her wrists with expert precision. Jules gasped, cursing under their breath as a silk scarf—snatched from a nearby chair—became a blindfold, plunging them into darkness.
“Damn it, Edmund!” Jules snapped, her voice sharp but laced with a laugh. “You sneaky bastard!” She tugged at the ropes, her heels scraping the bed as Edmund secured the ankles, leaving her nylon-clad feet exposed at the edge. The black stockings gleamed, the sheer fabric accentuating every curve of her soles, and Edmund’s breath hitched, his hunger sharpened by their defiance.
He knelt, his fingers grazing her arches, featherlight, coaxing a startled giggle from Jules. “You warned me,” he murmured, his voice dark with delight. “But you didn’t say how sweet this would be.” He tickled with purpose, tracing the nylon’s slick surface, his touch alternating between soft scratches and firm strokes. Jules’ laughter erupted, rich and unrestrained, her body squirming against the ropes.
“Stop—haha—oh, God, you prick!” Jules gasped, their giggles breaking into pleas. “Hahaha...I’m too ticklish for this! Mercy...hahaha...please!” Her toes curled, the stockings amplifying every sensation, turning her laughter into a desperate symphony. She thrashed, but the ropes held firm, and Edmund’s fingers danced relentlessly, savoring the texture, the power, the music of Her surrender.
“Hahaha...are you trying to kill me?” Jules choked out, echoing Sophia’s words, her voice raw with laughter and strain.
Edmund leaned close, his lips brushing her ear, his fingers pausing just long enough to heighten the tease. “Not yet, my dear Jules,” he whispered. “But I’ve a proposition. This nylon—it’s a marvel, a muse for my desires. Agree to be my… mannequin, as it were. Let me explore every pair, every reaction, and I’ll spare you oblivion tonight.”
Jules wheezed, her laughter fading to breathless chuckles as she caught her breath. “Mannequin?” she managed, her voice weak but defiant. “You’re—haha—insane. Fine, you win, I’m holding you to it!” She tugged at the ropes, her heels clicking faintly, a reminder of her fire even in submission.
Edmund smiled, easing his touch to a gentle caress, letting Jules relax. He untied the blindfold, meeting her flushed, sparkling eyes. “A deal, then,” he said, standing, his cloak sweeping as he stepped back. “This world has much to teach me… and you’ll be my guide in more ways than one.”
Jules lay there, catching her breath, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “You’re trouble, Strathmore,” she muttered, but her tone held a spark of intrigue, a promise of games yet to come.
The End
Duke's timeless fetish (m/f, nylon) (2/2)
------------------------------------------------
The storage room of the Pleasure Emporium was still, save for the soft, rhythmic breathing of Sophia, slumped on the padded bench. Her nylon-clad feet glistened faintly under the dim bulb, the ropes around her ankles loosened, though her wrists remained bound behind her, the silk blindfold loose but still draped across her eyes. Lord Edmund Strathmore stood over her, his chest tight with the afterglow of her laughter, the memory of her nylon-covered soles twitching under his fingers etched into his senses. The fabric—nylon, she’d called it—was a revelation, a modern marvel that had elevated his obsession to new heights. He adjusted his velvet cloak, its damp hem brushing the floor, and prepared to slip away. The world beyond the shop was a labyrinth of lights and noise, and he needed to navigate it before Sophia stirred.
A soft click broke the silence—the unmistakable sound of a heel on hardwood. Edmund’s head snapped toward the doorway, his hand tightening on the crimson rope still coiled at his side. A figure stood there, framed by the curtain, watching him with an enigmatic smile. The stranger was tall, statuesque, with an air of deliberate allure. A crimson dress hugged her curves, its hem ending just above the knee, revealing long legs sheathed in black sheer stockings, her glossy surface catching the light like dark water. Red high heels, her pointed toes gleaming, completed the ensemble, each step a deliberate performance as the figure stepped into the room.
“Well, well,” the stranger said, her voice a smooth, honeyed alto, tinged with amusement. “You’ve made quite the impression on my Sophia.” She gestured toward the unconscious woman, her manicured nails glinting. “I’m Jules, owner of this little haven. And you, darling, are… something else entirely.”
Edmund’s eyes narrowed, but his lips curved into a cautious smile. He bowed slightly, his aristocratic charm instinctive. “Lord Edmund Strathmore,” he said, his voice low and measured. “A pleasure, I’m sure.” His gaze lingered on Jules’ legs, the black stockings a stark contrast to Sophia’s lighter ones, her sheer weave revealing just enough to stir his curiosity. Those red heels, sharp and commanding, clicked as Jules shifted, drawing his attention to her feet—elegant, arched, promising the same sensitivity he’d found in Sophia.
Jules laughed, a rich sound that filled the cramped space. “Lord, is it? Oh, you’re not from around here, are you?” She sauntered closer, her heels a slow, deliberate rhythm, stopping just out of arm’s reach. “I saw everything, you know—cameras in the shop. Quite the show you put on. Sophia’s never laughed like that before.” Her eyes sparkled with something between admiration and mischief. “You’ve got a gift, Edmund.”
Edmund’s pulse quickened, but he held his ground, his fingers flexing around the rope. “You’re not alarmed?” he asked, tilting his head. “Most would call the constables by now.”
Jules smirked, crossing her arms, the motion accentuating the curve of her hips. “Constables? Sweetheart, this is 1998. We don’t clutch pearls over a bit of fun.” She glanced at Sophia, then back at Edmund, her gaze appraising. “Besides, Sophia’s fine—she’ll wake up dreamy and dazed, just like you planned. I’m more interested in you. You’re not just some kinkster in a costume, are you?”
Edmund hesitated, the weight of his displacement pressing on him. The lights, the machines outside, Sophia’s stockings—it was all too strange, too vivid. “I… find myself adrift,” he admitted, his voice softer now, though still laced with authority. “This world is not my own.”
Jules’ expression softened, but her smile remained sly. “Thought so. You’ve got that look—like you fell out of a painting.” She stepped closer, the scent of her perfume—sandalwood and citrus—curling around him. “Lucky for you, I know this city like the back of my hand. Stick with me, and I’ll show you the ropes—pun intended.” She winked, nodding at the coil in his hand. “I can even get you home, wherever that is. But you’ve got to trust me.”
Edmund’s eyes drifted to Jules’ legs again, the black stockings shimmering as she shifted her weight. The heels lifted her arches, accentuating the delicate lines of her feet, and he imagined them bound, the sheer fabric slick under his fingers, her laughter as sweet as Sophia’s. “And what do you gain, Jules?” he asked, his voice a velvet challenge. “A guide offers such generosity for a price, I presume.”
Jules laughed again, stepping past him to check on Sophia, her heels clicking sharply. She brushed a curl from her face, ensuring she was comfortable, then turned back to Edmund. “Oh, I like you,” she said, her tone teasing. “Let’s just say I’m curious. You’ve got tricks I’ve never seen, and I’ve seen plenty. Plus, this city’s got places that’ll blow your mind—clubs, boutiques, people who’d eat up that lordly vibe of yours. Come with me, and we’ll see what trouble we can stir.”
Edmund considered, his gaze flickering between Jules’ confident stance and the world beyond the curtain. The shop felt like a cocoon, but outside was a chaos he couldn’t yet master. Jules’ offer was tempting—not just for survival, but for the promise of more. Those stockings, those heels… they hinted at pleasures he’d only begun to explore. “Very well,” he said, straightening his cloak. “Lead on, my… enigmatic guide.”
Jules grinned, turning toward the door, her hips swaying with deliberate grace. “That’s the spirit. Let’s get you cleaned up first—can’t have you wandering London looking like a drowned prince.” She paused, glancing back, her eyes glinting. “Oh, and Edmund? Try anything funny, and I’ve got tricks of my own. Fair warning.”
Edmund followed, his boots soft against the floor, his mind alight with possibilities. The dawn outside was breaking, painting the street in hues of gold and pink, the city alive with sounds he didn’t yet understand. Jules’ heels clicked ahead, the black stockings catching the early light, a beacon in this strange new world. He didn’t notice the subtle glance Jules threw over their shoulder, nor the faint smile that suggested they knew more than they let on. For now, Edmund was content to follow, his hunger sharpened by the promise of what lay ahead—new games, new laughter, and the endless allure of nylon-clad feet.
The dawn had given way to a vibrant London evening, the city pulsing with life as Jules led Lord Edmund Strathmore through its neon-lit veins. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of street food and exhaust, and the streets thrummed with laughter and music spilling from open doorways. Jules strode ahead, her crimson dress catching the glow of passing headlights, her black sheer stockings shimmering with every step. The red high heels clicked like a metronome, drawing Edmund’s gaze to their legs—long, elegant, a tantalizing promise wrapped in nylon. He followed, his velvet cloak a stark contrast to the modern crowd, his eyes alight with curiosity and hunger.
Their first stop was a boutique tucked in a narrow Soho alley, its sign a discreet Nylon Dreams in cursive neon. Inside, the shop was a shrine to stockings—racks of silk, fishnet, and every shade of nylon, from glossy black to delicate nude. Mannequins posed in stilettos, their legs draped in sheer fabrics that caught the soft lighting. A saleswoman in seamed stockings and platform heels greeted Jules warmly, eyeing Edmund with intrigue. “New friend?” she purred, adjusting a garter display.
“Something like that,” Jules replied, winking at Edmund. “Show him the good stuff, darling.”
Edmund’s breath caught as he wandered the aisles, his fingers brushing rolls of nylon—some smooth as water, others textured with delicate patterns. He imagined each pair stretched over soft soles, amplifying every ticklish twitch. Jules watched him, her smile sly. “See anything you like?” she teased, extending one leg to show off her own stockings. “These are custom—feel like a second skin.”
Edmund’s hand twitched, but he only smiled, his voice low. “They suit you… exquisitely.” The shop was a treasure trove, and he left with a small bag of samples, his mind racing with possibilities.
Next, Jules guided him to a nightclub, Velvet Pulse, its entrance a black door pulsing with bass. Inside, the air was electric, strobe lights painting the crowd in flashes of color. Women in tight dresses and towering heels moved to the music, their legs sheathed in stockings—fishnets, thigh-highs, glossy nylons that gleamed under the lights. Edmund stood at the bar, a whiskey in hand, his eyes drinking in the sight. A blonde in red stilettos laughed nearby, her nylon-clad toes peeking from open-toe heels. A brunette swayed past, her fishnets catching his gaze. Each woman was a spark to his kindling desire, their boldness a far cry from 1798’s demure modesty. His fingers tightened around the glass, the memory of Sophia’s laughter mingling with the promise of these new muses.
Jules leaned close, her perfume cutting through the smoky air. “Exciting, isn’t it?” she murmured, sipping a martini. “This world’s made for indulgence.” Her heel brushed his leg under the bar, deliberate, and Edmund’s pulse surged. He met her gaze, seeing the challenge there, but said nothing, savoring the game.
Hours later, Jules led him to a sleek townhouse in a quieter part of the city, her home a blend of modern chic and vintage charm. The living room was all velvet couches and art deco lamps, but Edmund’s eyes followed Jules’ legs as they crossed the hardwood floor, the black stockings catching the soft glow. Jules poured two glasses of wine, handing one to Edmund with a teasing smile. “You’re handling 1998 pretty well, Lord Strathmore,” she said, settling onto a couch, one leg extended to show off the sheer nylon. “But I’m not like Sophia, you know. These feet?” She wiggled her toes, the stockings taut over her arches. “Ticklish as hell, but I’m not careless. You’d have to work for it.”
Edmund’s lips curved, predatory yet polished. “A challenge, then?” he asked, his voice a velvet purr. He set his glass down, stepping closer, his cloak falling open to reveal the lean strength beneath. Jules’ confidence was intoxicating, her boldness a match for his own.
Jules laughed, standing to show him the guest room, her heels clicking up the stairs. “Don’t get any ideas,” she warned, but her tone was playful, inviting. The guest room was simple—white linens, a mahogany dresser—but as Jules turned to point out the ensuite, Edmund moved. Swift as a shadow, he pushed her gently but firmly onto the bed, his hands already working with the rope from the shop, looping it around her wrists with expert precision. Jules gasped, cursing under their breath as a silk scarf—snatched from a nearby chair—became a blindfold, plunging them into darkness.
“Damn it, Edmund!” Jules snapped, her voice sharp but laced with a laugh. “You sneaky bastard!” She tugged at the ropes, her heels scraping the bed as Edmund secured the ankles, leaving her nylon-clad feet exposed at the edge. The black stockings gleamed, the sheer fabric accentuating every curve of her soles, and Edmund’s breath hitched, his hunger sharpened by their defiance.
He knelt, his fingers grazing her arches, featherlight, coaxing a startled giggle from Jules. “You warned me,” he murmured, his voice dark with delight. “But you didn’t say how sweet this would be.” He tickled with purpose, tracing the nylon’s slick surface, his touch alternating between soft scratches and firm strokes. Jules’ laughter erupted, rich and unrestrained, her body squirming against the ropes.
“Stop—haha—oh, God, you prick!” Jules gasped, their giggles breaking into pleas. “Hahaha...I’m too ticklish for this! Mercy...hahaha...please!” Her toes curled, the stockings amplifying every sensation, turning her laughter into a desperate symphony. She thrashed, but the ropes held firm, and Edmund’s fingers danced relentlessly, savoring the texture, the power, the music of Her surrender.
“Hahaha...are you trying to kill me?” Jules choked out, echoing Sophia’s words, her voice raw with laughter and strain.
Edmund leaned close, his lips brushing her ear, his fingers pausing just long enough to heighten the tease. “Not yet, my dear Jules,” he whispered. “But I’ve a proposition. This nylon—it’s a marvel, a muse for my desires. Agree to be my… mannequin, as it were. Let me explore every pair, every reaction, and I’ll spare you oblivion tonight.”
Jules wheezed, her laughter fading to breathless chuckles as she caught her breath. “Mannequin?” she managed, her voice weak but defiant. “You’re—haha—insane. Fine, you win, I’m holding you to it!” She tugged at the ropes, her heels clicking faintly, a reminder of her fire even in submission.
Edmund smiled, easing his touch to a gentle caress, letting Jules relax. He untied the blindfold, meeting her flushed, sparkling eyes. “A deal, then,” he said, standing, his cloak sweeping as he stepped back. “This world has much to teach me… and you’ll be my guide in more ways than one.”
Jules lay there, catching her breath, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “You’re trouble, Strathmore,” she muttered, but her tone held a spark of intrigue, a promise of games yet to come.
The End
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