It's tights. It's always tights.

Summer continued her confession. "I would wear tights every day, (except when it was the middle of summer, when even my 5 denier hold-ups were too much for me ─ or if I was wearing open toe shoes, obviously; though I did find a pair of seamless tan tights that actually worked with a par of strappy sandals ─ they were the exception that proved the rule.)

I took note of how long my husbands eyes would linger on my legs. I found that black 15 denier were his weakness. On the other hand, glossy seemed to be a turn off for him, except for special occasions, when we were going to a fancy restaurant.

I would take every opportunity to let a shoe dangle, or kick them off and rub my legs together, as if I didn't know what I was doing to his mind. I would wear them with skirts and dresses, under jeans, while working out at home. I even found some stockings with an attached garter-belt that was comfortable to wear while sleeping, and that didn't feel like I was cooking of suffocating my vulva.

I was going to suggest that he try a pair when he was hanging up the washing, but it never seemed like the right moment.

I didn't have to wait long. He came to me one evening and suggested we do an experiment, to see if it would feel nice for us both to wear pantyhose, (as he called them), while we kissed.

I wasn't remotely interested in the idea. I just wanted him to fuck me, or let me climb on top and ride his cock, but, the idea of continuing his decent into full submission turned me on like a leaky facet. Just climbing onto our bed while I watched him undress and try on my tights, I could feel the wetness already leaking all the way out and down the crack of my bottom.

I undressed on the bed and just threw my clothes over towards the laundry hamper. I retained my tights and underwear, because I knew how much he enjoyed removing my bra.

The make out session was unremarkable. He had unclasped my bra with one hand, and I'd held the cups in place, with my arms crossed, as if I was a stripper pretending to be coquettish. He was still a better than average kisser, but due to my hurt feelings I just wanted to knee him in the crotch hard enough to pop his testicles. I wanted to slap him and point down and tell him that the place for his tongue was between my thighs, not in my mouth.

I suspected that he might even enjoy being put in his place, but I didn't want to risk it. As he became more and more turned on ─ rubbing his nylon covered legs against mine, I somehow found the courage to suggest: Maybe you should investigate how this is going, on the inside of my pantyhose.

I thought that he was going to shoot his messy load inside of the tights that he was wearing, but he just slithered down me and took hold of both articles of clothing at my hips. I lifted my hips to help, as he started to slide them over my bottom and down.

I expected that I would feel my own wetness as he pealed my clothing from me; I didn't expect to also be able to hear it! The embarrassing squelching noise was mortifying and I could feel his cooling pre-cum drying on my left thigh. He must have produced a lot for it to soak through two pairs of tights.

I lowered my pelvis back onto the bed, wondering if I should tell him to put a towel down, or verify that I wasn't having a surprise interstitial bleed. I reached down to stop him, before the nylon reached half way down my thighs: I have an idea. I informed him, and then turned over to kneeling: Here's a little challenge for you, lover. See how well you can lick my slit, and how much of my clit your tongue can reach with my legs held close by my nylon prison.

As I turned over I slid my middle finger between my thighs, to check that my wetness didn't have a reddish hue. I surreptitiously rubbed the sample against my thumb and then smelt it. It was all pussy juice ─ I was enjoying it even more than I realised. This was the first time in my life that I felt like I couldn't benefit from any lube.

There was something empowering about being ridiculously wet. Like that moment when you have been out in the rain long enough that you just accept that you can't get any wetter and just embrace the experience. I found myself, for the first time ever, giving orders. The more I talked the more comfortable I became.

I started out with simple directions: a little lower; longer strokes; use the flat of your tongue like you're licking the most delicious and enormous ice cream, before it all melts.

And I was melting. I've never been a dominant person, but I was enjoying the thought of his submission so much that, in the moment it gave me some sort of power trip. It was a little strange taking charge when my entire life, everything had expected me to be meek and passive. I still knew that I didn't want to lead, but by the same measure I could feel that I out ranked him on the sub/dom scale.

It isn't until you are actually commanding someone to keep licking and saying: don't stop! That it becomes clear how easy it was to just be taken for all of my life. If I hadn't been determined to have at least one orgasm from just oral, I would have capitulated and just said: take me!

Eventually I came and while rubbing my face against the pillow and griping the top edge of the mattress like I was trying to rip it, I realised that I wanted more: oh. Fuck me. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

I felt my hips sway as he scrambled up to take position behind me. I didn't feel him slide into me, but I could feel my cunt being gently and smoothly stretched ─ and it felt glorious.

I wriggled my knees and pushed with my hands to get my tights off. I wanted to be opened up, to feel him slam into me without my thighs getting in the way. He continued some sort of rhythm as he noticed my struggle and helped me pull my right foot out. I wanted to feel completely free, but at the same time I knew that he would enjoy being able to look down at my left leg still covered in nylon.

Getting my leg free felt like escaping from a badly fitted bra. I felt like I wanted this rhythmic undulation of pleasure to continue for ever and ever. Then it occurred to me that I didn't know how he was, what he, was he still wearing the pantyhose? Had he torn a hole and just poked through. Had he pull the waistband down and now had nylon keeping his balls pressed against him? Had he taken them off?

I suddenly needed to know. I let my body rolled forward just enough to look back between my legs.

Balanced on the top of my head, I first noticed the dangling inside-out right leg of my tights hanging on the inside of my left knee. It looked messy and silly to me, and my first instinct was to stop and take them off. Before I could do that my focus reached the nylon covered legs in the middle of my triangular view.

He was still wearing them! (If he's torn them I'm going to spank him.) My body must have reacted to the discovery of the two narrow nylon covered columns, framed between the delta of my thighs, because he suddenly doubled his pace: Yes! Faster! I was sounding my encouragement and approval, but he must have taken it as a command, as his fingers tightened on my hips and he managed to speed his thrusts to the fastest that he could manage."