Fishnet

The fishnet clings like a whispered promise. Nothing underneath, just the teasing rasp of threads against bare skin. She gets home and her breath catches. Already swollen. Already wet. Every step sends sparks up between her thighs. The need hits fast and hard. She doesn't waste time. One quick yank and the net parts, cool air kissing her hot, slick center. Her fingers find it at once, sliding through the mess she's made. She works herself open, hips rolling against her own touch, chasing that sharp, sweet sting that only the right kind of friction can give. Nothing else matters. Just the throb, the rush, the hot release she’s been craving since morning.