I shrank last night without warning. One minute I was standing in the bedroom doorway, the next the world had exploded upward and I was staring at the weave of the carpet like it was a forest. My wife, Lena, had just come home from work. She was still in her black skirt suit and sheer black pantyhose, the ones that always made her legs look like polished obsidian. She didn’t see me at first. Her heels landed like thunder. Then her foot came down right beside me, the nylon stretched tight over her toes, the faint scent of her day hitting me like perfume and sweat mixed together.
“Fuck,” I whispered. My voice was tiny.
She heard something. Her head tilted. She crouched, and the world tilted with her. That beautiful, cruel face filled the sky. A slow smile spread across her lips when she spotted me.
“Well, well,” she said, voice low and amused. “Look what we have here.”
Her fingers, each one thicker than my torso, pinched me up. She held me in front of her face, studying me like a toy she’d forgotten she owned. Then she carried me to the bed and sat down, crossing her legs. The pantyhose whispered as nylon slid over nylon.
She set me on her thigh. The fabric was warm, slightly damp from the day, and the texture was impossibly fine yet rough against my bare skin. Every tiny movement of her muscle sent ripples through the sheer material. I could see the faint sheen of her sweat trapped inside the nylon.
“Stay,” she ordered, and her voice vibrated through my entire body.
She reached for the waistband of her pantyhose and slowly peeled them down, one leg at a time, until they were bunched around her ankles. Then she picked me up again and dropped me inside the warm, damp cup of the toe section of one leg. The scent was stronger here—her feet, her arousal, the faint musk of nylon and skin. She pulled the pantyhose back up, trapping me inside.
The world went dark and tight.
Nylon pressed against every inch of me. I was sealed against the sole of her foot, the ball of it pressing me flat as she stood. Each step she took crushed me into the insole, then released, only to crush again. The friction was maddening. The heat built fast. Sweat from her foot mixed with whatever moisture was already inside the nylon, and soon I was sliding in a slick, filthy film.
She walked around the apartment like that for a while, deliberately pressing harder on certain steps so I could feel the full weight of her. My cock was rock hard and trapped against the nylon. Every rub, every slide, sent jolts through me. I couldn’t help it—I started grinding against the sole of her foot, desperate for friction.
Lena laughed, the sound muffled but still huge. “Already humping my foot like a little pervert? I haven’t even started yet.”
She sat again and peeled the pantyhose down just enough to free me. I was soaked, panting, my skin shiny with her sweat. She brought me up to her face again, then lowered me between her thighs. The skirt was gone now. She was naked from the waist down except for the pantyhose still clinging to her calves and feet. Her pussy was right there, glistening, and she pressed me against the crotch of the nylon, right over her clit.
The fabric was stretched thin. I could feel the heat radiating through it. She rubbed me up and down in slow circles, using my entire body like a living toy. The nylon grew wetter, stickier. Her scent changed, grew thicker, more sexual. Every time she dragged me over her swollen clit she moaned, low and throaty.
“You’re going back inside,” she said after a few minutes. “And you’re going to make me come while you’re trapped in there.”
She worked the pantyhose back up her legs, this time positioning me directly against her pussy, sealed inside the sheer prison of nylon and heat and wetness. When she stood and started walking again, every step ground me against her. The friction was relentless. Her juices soaked through the fabric and coated me. I licked and sucked at whatever I could reach, tasting her through the nylon, and she rewarded me with deeper, rolling presses of her thighs.
By the time she reached the bedroom again she was breathing hard. She lay back on the bed, spread her legs, and pressed two fingers against the outside of the pantyhose, pushing me harder into her. The nylon stretched and rubbed. I was drowning in her, crushed and used and loving every filthy second of it.
She came with a long, shaking groan, her thighs clamping around me so tight I thought I might break. The nylon pulsed with her orgasm, flooding with fresh wetness. I kept licking, kept grinding, until she finally relaxed and peeled the pantyhose down again.
She lifted me out, dripping, and brought me to her mouth. Her tongue, huge and hot, licked me clean in slow, deliberate strokes.
“Next time,” she murmured, voice still husky, “I’m wearing the reinforced toe ones. The really sheer ones. And you’re spending the whole day sealed against my sole while I go about my life.”
She dropped me onto her stomach and stretched out, one hand resting lightly over me like a blanket.
I lay there in the afterglow, tiny, soaked, and already aching for the next time she’d trap me inside her pantyhose again.
