Chapter 7: First Touch

The text I sent her the night before was short and commanding: Wear the black stockings and church heels you wear to service. Nothing else under the robe. Be ready at two. I hit send and spent the next twenty hours half-hard, replaying the way her body had looked on camera—red satin clinging wet to her folds, thighs shaking as she came for the lens while staring straight at me. Now, stepping onto her porch in the bright afternoon light, my cock was already straining against my jeans, thick and urgent, the head brushing damply against the fabric with every step.

She opened the door before my knuckles touched wood. The white terrycloth robe was tied tight again, but this time the hem rode higher, revealing the tops of sheer black thigh-high stockings that hugged the smooth strength of her legs. The matching black heels—low, sensible church style—made her calves flex and her posture shift, pushing her hips forward just enough to hint at what waited beneath. Her eyes met mine for half a second, then dropped. A faint tremor ran through her shoulders.

“Come in,” she said, voice already fraying at the edges. She closed the door and locked it without being told. The living room was the same sealed sanctuary—blinds drawn, lamplight low and golden, the faint vanilla of her lotion mixing with something warmer, more animal. The couch still held the faint shadow of yesterday’s wet spot if you knew where to look.

I set my phone on the side table, already recording on silent, and dropped into the armchair. “Drop the robe. Let me see how you followed instructions.”

Her fingers worked the belt loose with deliberate care, as if delaying the moment could change what was coming. The robe parted and fell away in one smooth glide, pooling around her heels. The black stockings clung to her like a second skin, the lacy tops biting gently into the softer flesh of her upper thighs. The heels lifted her just enough to make the curve of her ass rounder, higher. Between her legs, nothing but smooth, bare skin and the narrow landing strip already glistening with the first reluctant dew of arousal. Her full breasts rose and fell faster now, the pale undersides catching the light, nipples drawn into tight, dusky points.

“Put on the black lace pair,” I told her, voice low. “The one from your listings.”

She bent to retrieve them from the silk bag on the coffee table, the motion making her breasts sway heavily, nipples brushing the cool air. The lace slid up her legs inch by inch, the delicate fabric whispering against the stockings until the crotch settled snug against her mound. The material darkened instantly where it touched her heat.