Nylon

She slides onto the stool like she owns the air around it, dark hair, darker lashes, and that cool gaze that says she’s already decided what she wants. Gianna Dior doesn’t wait for him to speak. She slips off one heel and drags her nylon-covered foot along Isiah Maxwell’s thigh under the table. The light from the bar catches the sheen, tight and glossy, rising all the way to the dark bush beneath her skirt. They leave mid-drink. In the hotel room she strips only halfway. Panties gone, blouse open, stockings stay on. She climbs over him, mouth on his cock while his tongue works between her thighs. Sixty-nine at full tilt—her lips wet and relentless, his hands gripping the lace tops of the nylons. She moans into him, bush brushing his chin, every breath heavy with heat and salt. When she can’t take it, she turns, drops onto him in one motion, nylon thighs clamped tight around his waist. He fucks her hard, the fabric squeaking between skin and sweat. She takes every inch like she paid for it, eyes locked on his until he pulls out and paints her bush, her stockings, the pale stretch of her belly. 2023, raw, no apologies.