Fishnet files

She sits back and lets the black mesh climb up her thighs, tight squares stretching over pale skin. No panties. The stockings frame everything—soft lips already parted, a hint of wetness catching the light. She runs two fingers along the seam, then slips them inside the open diamond just below her hip. One slow circle, then another. A quiet breath. She presses harder, hips tilting to meet her own touch, and her fingers come away slick. She spreads the lips, shows the glossy pink, and dips in again, deeper this time, knuckles pressing against the fishnet until the mesh creaks. She pulls out, drags the wet fingers up her stomach, leaves a faint trail, then slides them back down. Her legs open wider, stockings pulled taut. She rubs faster now, the soft slap of skin on skin filling the room. Every now and then she pauses, two fingers buried, and just clenches around them, feeling her own pulse. The stockings stay on, framing every movement, every drip that slides down the inside of her thigh.