“Clearly I do,” Tori agreed, again looking directly at Patrick, who looked so fucking hot tonight with so much of his muscular chest and abs on display.
“I need some more wine,” Christine said, and looked around to see that everyone’s glasses were empty. “Looks like we all do.”
She went to her kitchen to grab another bottle, then came back to pour drinks for all of her guests… realizing her costume made performing this service ironic.
Patrick said, “Thanks.”
“Your humble maid is simply here to serve,” Christine joked.
“I just bet you are,” Tori quipped.
“You wish,” Christine shot right back.
“Yes, I do wish for that,” Tori agreed, then after a beat she added, “So who’s next?”
“Not I,” Tracy said.
“Patrick, then,” Christine decided.
“Why not you?” Patrick countered, nervous to read the story he’d written.
“Because it’s my house, my rules,” Christine shrugged.
“That’s not very hospitable,” he joked, as he pulled a few pieces of paper out of his trouser pocket.
“Read,” Tori ordered.
“Fine,” he said, shaking his head. “This isn’t as detailed or as nasty as Tori’s.”
“If it gets too boring, we can add some details for you,” Tori teased.
“Then why don’t you just write it for me?” Patrick complained.
“Just read,” Christine said, her pussy still quite wet from the first story, and looking forward to hearing another.
Patrick sighed, “Okayyyy… here goes nothing.”
I was mowing my lawn when Erica pulled into her driveway. She opened her trunk to a bunch of groceries, so I asked, “Need a hand?”
“Sure, darling,” she said, dressed in a fun flowery dress and mocha-colored pantyhose… which made her dark black legs glimmer.
I grabbed half of the groceries and followed her inside. I placed the bags on the table in her kitchen, and she offered, “Thirsty?”
“I little,” I said, wiping a little sweat off my forehead. The day was 90 degrees, and the sun was pounding.
“I bet that sun won’t be the only thing getting to do some pounding,” Tori interjected, thinking she’d happily spread her legs for him.
“Hey, this is my story,” Patrick objected.
“Sorry, just saying,” she shrugged.
She poured us each a cold lemonade and said, “Thanks for the help, you sweet man.”
“Oh, it’s no problem,” I said, automatically glancing down at her nylon-clad legs and feet as she slipped out of her heels.
“Sorry, but my feet are killing me,” she apologized.
I offered, “They are? I can give you a foot massage if you wish.”
“Really?” she asked, surprised.
“Yes, I’ve taken some reflexology courses, so I not only know how to massage sore spots away, but also how to make all your various organs and other parts of your body feel better just by addressing your feet,” I said, which is true.
“Why have you never told us that?” Tori interrupted again.
“Yes, my feet are always sore after a long day at the bank,” Christine added.
“I always love a nice foot massage,” Tracy said, something her husband had used to do back in the good old days.
“I’ll give you each one if you wish,” Patrick offered, administering three hands-on massages to these three hot nylon-clad women being a pretty inviting idea.
“Me first,” Tori said.
“Me second,” Tracy said.
“Let him finish the story first, you vultures,” Christine said, before adding, “and since I’m hosting, then I’m the one who gets the first massage.”
“Bitch,” said two soft female voices in unison.
So, we went into her living room, I sat down on the couch, and she sat down, placing her feet in my lap.
I massaged her feet for a few minutes as we chatted about life, before she asked out of the blue, “So Patrick, you have a nylon fetish, right?”
“What? Um, what?”
“You’re pretty obvious about it,” she said. “My last boyfriend had one too. That’s why I started wearing them every time I could.”
“They do enhance a woman’s legs,” I said.
“Agreed,” she nodded. “They really help at work, too.”
“I bet,” I said. “I bet those tips just come flying in.”
“Exactly. Ever had a nylon-clad foot job?” she asked, as she moved a foot to my crotch and rubbed my hard-on through my shorts.
I groaned, “Nooooooo.”
“Mmmmmmm,” she said, as she spun around and fished out my cock, “I bet you’d really like one.”
My eyes went wide as this black beauty grasped my cock and said, “Such a nice cock,” before she took it in her mouth.
I groaned, as a woman other than my wife took my cock in her mouth for the first time in over two decades, and nobody at all had for five years.
She bobbed for a couple minutes before she backed away and wrapped both of her nylon-clad soles around my throbbing cock and said, “Relax and enjoy, Patrick.”
“Okay,” I agreed, in awe of both the feeling of her nylons feet on my penis, and who was doing it… someone half my age.
“It’s either a dick or a cock,” Tori interrupted his reading for the third time.
“Unless it’s really small,” Christine added. “Because small ones aren’t very sexy and neither is the word ‘penis’.
“It’s not small,” Patrick informed them.
“So give us some specific details in your story, and call things by their appropriate names,” Tracy added, just like the other two, curious to know how big their lone male was.
“So size matters?” Patrick joked.
“Definitely,” all three responded in unison.