Caught in the net

She stretches one leg, toes pointed, and the black fishnet clings like a secret she almost forgot to keep. No panties—just that open-weave lattice sliding over bare skin. A finger traces the diamond holes, slow, until it slips inside and finds how warm she already is. She parts her thighs wider for the camera, the pale glow of her hair catching the light while her free hand cups a breast and squeezes. Her breath hitches; the net stretches when she pushes two fingers deeper, slow and deliberate. She pulls them out glistening and drags them over the mesh, leaving a wet streak that catches the lens. The pattern hugs her hips like it was made to frame exactly this: the slow, deliberate rhythm of her wrist, the quiet catch in her throat, the way she bites her lower lip when the pleasure climbs. She keeps going, lazy and greedy, until the fishnet glistens and her breathing turns ragged.