Nylon Feet Mega Bundle

by Ella Ford

  At once, her fingers were on me, plunging into my dripping lips, pulling my labia through her slender digits until I lifted my head and cried out, begging her to stop, pleading with her to continue. Her bold exploration found my clit, pressing down on that throbbing nub with her fingertips, moving them in tight circles, every rough manipulation causing waves of pleasure to ripple through my body.

  After the endless torment of the last few hours she had no trouble whipping me up into a wild frenzy. The fireball inside me ignited anew, sending creeping tendrils of flame into my arms and legs. My heart began to pound and I tugged aimlessly at the tight ties around my wrists; something, anything to relieve the torturous tension inside my body.

  Then her hand left my pussy, and seconds later she entered me. There was no warning, no tease, no hint of what was approaching. She simply forced the enormous plastic dildo into my tight hole, slowly impaling me on its rigid length, meeting no resistance in my dripping sex.

  I threw my head back, eyes wide and mouth open with a frantic howl. The shock of entry was total. First the rude coldness of the plastic on my burning pussy, then the sensation of being stretched, a never-ending escalation as the bulbous tip penetrated me. Finally, an exquisite feeling of fullness, of being complete.

  No sooner had she reached the limit of my penetration, she began to withdraw. Again, she moved slowly, prolonging this sensation as long as possible. She pulled back until the tip had nearly left me, then quickly rammed it forwards again, then out, then in, driving it home like a piston. I screamed out with every insistent entry, first in pain, then in pleasure, begging her for more.

  “Yes Mistress, oh yes,” I shouted, not caring about who heard me, no longer fearing disturbing this quiet corner of suburbia. “Harder, harder!”

  She gripped my hips tightly and thrust herself into me, pounding her black cock home with every rhythmic grind. Then she slapped my ass, riding me like a rodeo bull. My body bucked and writhed, struggling frantically at the straps that bound my wrists together, animated by a force that I could no longer control.

  My pussy was wild now, molten waves of pleasure spreading through my body, intoxicating pulses that made every nerve ending sing. It was intolerable, it was unfathomable. I felt like a ragdoll, thrown around and helpless, fucked hard until I begged for more. And I did beg, oh yes, I begged like I’d never begged before. I begged her to pound me deeper, harder, quicker. I begged her spank me, to call me a bad girl, to treat me like her pet. I begged her to take me, to own me, to use me. My words were like a stream of lustful profanity, barely conscious ramblings of a pleasure-drowned mind. And all the while she rammed her insatiable dildo home, making my body ache with the need for release, granting every sordid wish that spilled from my mouth.

  Without warning, my sex exploded. From a thousand miles away, I heard a woman scream - a high, shrill, piercing cry of release - and I realized that it was me. My climax broke like a crashing tsunami, washing away any hint of rationality that remained in my tired brain. Every inch of my body burned with the fire of orgasm, every fibre of my being sang out in glorious harmony. My spine arched, lifting my chest off the sofa, propelled upwards by the infernal energy of desire that was my animating force. I kicked back against her, pushing my pussy deeper still onto the insistent black length. She gripped me hard, pulling me toward her, sinking her nails into my flesh causing sharp stabs of exquisite pleasure and pain. The difference between the two no longer mattered, only sensation remained.

  The maelstrom left me as soon as it had arrived, releasing my body as it soared upwards into the stratosphere. I plummeted down, energy departing like water from a burst dam, leaving me wrecked and deflated, a shattered husk in woman shape. I collapsed forward onto the sofa, sliding off the slick dildo as she slowly withdrew it from my aching pussy. I allowed myself, forced myself to breathe, eyes squeezed tightly shut as the fading warmth left my body like the rigid cock before it.

  Mistress Tasha rose to her feet behind me and, barely aware of anything else, I sensed her intense stare on my naked back and exposed ass.

  “Welcome to Vegas honey,” she purred.

  Epilogue

  The great American road trip. Ain’t nothing like it! New sights, new places, new people. What’s not to love?

  Well I loved my road trip, that’s for certain. It was eye opening and exhilarating, a life-changing experience that I’ll never forget. I made new friends, visited interesting venues and got myself into all kinds of adventures. And I got fucked. Roundly, solidly, unrelentingly fucked. What more could a girl ask for?

  But seriously. I went on this trip because I needed to get away. I needed to get away from my insatiable boss, my curious client and the two eager actresses who were never more than one text message away from a sordid threesome. I needed to get away to find myself, to take a break from the endless sex that was driving me wild and crazy at the same time.

  And what did I find on the road? Horny hitchhikers, sultry strippers and a relentless dominatrix that wouldn’t take no for an answer. Some break huh?

  But you know what - each one of these women confirmed, in her own special way, what I’d suspected all along. They confirmed what I knew from my job, what I’d known in college, what I’d suspect in elementary school. It was the reason I always wore pantyhose, the reason I knew I could find company for the night with a single flick of my dangling shoe. The single unassailable truth that I’ve yet to find any reason to doubt.

  Everyone. Likes. Feet. And so do I!

  THE END

  Lesbian Pantyhose Secretaries

  by Ella Ford

  Prologue: An Ocean of Feet and Legs

  In every direction, all I could see was flesh and hair and black nylon-covered legs; a sea of female bodies covering the floor of the play room. The air was alive with a thousand mingled scents and sounds: perfume and sweat and raw desire, the sound of moaning, of pleading, of frantic gasps of lustful crescendo.

  How many times had I come already? The question rose in my mind like a bubble from the deep sea, an idle consideration. My body rocked and ached, hot muscles still quivering from the times before, yet yearning for more stimulation.

  I shifted slightly, rolling over to my left to place my head between the legs of the girl beside me. I glanced up, over her stomach and her heavy breasts. It was Kim, a redhead from Brooklyn. I turned back to her sex. Her pantyhose were already ripped, ruby red lipstick smeared on the wet flesh of her pussy. I dived in, hungry for the taste of her and the taste of the girl who’d been there before me. I felt a hand slide over my ass, gripping my buttock and making me gasp.

  The sensation of Kim’s lips in my mouth made me dizzy, amplifying the effect of the wine we’d been allowed to drink that night. It was only a glass, but it had affected each of us like a steamroller, reducing our inhibitions to the nth degree, as I’m sure was the intent. As the dizzying euphoria overwhelmed me, I’d wondered briefly if the wine had been spiked, laced with some narcotic to induce such animalistic passions. But as the other girls had paired off into intimate clinches, filling the room with the heat of their mutual desire, I knew that no drug was needed to induce this state within us. Will alone was enough to provoke the desired carnal obedience; good girls did as they were told.

  The carpet of naked, writhing bodies shifted and a participant broke free from a triangle of three women. I recognized her as Kelly, a new recruit. A shy, reluctant girl at first, fighting against her new life as a pantyhose sex slave, almost as much as she was embracing it. The orgy was binding her to us though, as it often did, melding her into this sinful sorority with the power of desire.

  She crawled over to me and licked my back, then kissed her way over my bottom and down my legs. As she worked, another girl parted her legs and dived down to Kelly’s sex, devouring her like a thirsty woman in a desert. Kelly cried out as she reached my feet, then wrapped her lips around my toes, soaking my pantyhose with her spit. I tried to focus on Kim’s cunt, tried to control my
tongue as it worked her clit, but the feeling of Kelly on my toes was intoxicating. From nowhere, a leg lay across Kim’s stomach, the twitching foot resting inches from my face. I studied it as I ate Kim’s pussy, trying to following the long length of the dark nylon-covered limb to its owner, but her face was obscured by another girl’s bottom. The toes flexed back, stretching in their nylon prison as the girl’s muscles tensed. I felt myself longing to reach out and touch it, to bring it to my mouth. But Kim needed my attention. What a strange new obsession this love of female feet, I pondered idly, still novel enough to be exciting yet it seemed like a perfectly normal thing to me now.

  Time passed in a blur of tongues and lips and pussy and hair. Every time someone moved, I felt a touch against me, a soft friction of nylon on skin or skin on nylon. Every touch made me moan and cry out, sensitive flesh responding to every slight stimulation. All of a sudden, Kim’s climax arrived, soaking my face. Her body curled up into a tight ball as the orgasm raged through her, setting me free. I rolled over, hungry for more, desperate to find another pussy to eat. But before I could reach my next target, a hand grabbed my leg and forced my knees apart. I gasped and looked up, eager to see who it was, but all I saw was a blonde head bobbing between my legs and the sensation of a hot, wet mouth on my sex.

  Waves of pleasure raged through me in an instant. I pushed my head back, forcing it into one of the soft cushions that lined the floor of the play room. As I did so, a solitary figure caught my eye, sitting on the armchair at the side of the room, sipping from a glass of wine, watching us play. We were always watched, always performing, either together, as sapphic ensemble in one of these grand orgies, or performing solo or in pairs. I felt a curious sensation: affection.

  This was the life of a pantyhose sex slave. Always performing, always watched, always controlled. I glanced away from the watching figure, back to the floor of writhing, naked bodies. My mind wandered, even as the pleasurable attention of the girl between my legs intensified. How did I get here? How did I end up like this? How did these women become my sisters and my lovers? How did my life change from bland mediocrity to obedient servitude?

  It all began six months ago. A stormy night in a city not very far from here, and a stressed legal secretary called Sarah...

  1: I Wasn’t Always a Pantyhose Sex Slave

  It was nine thirty at night and I was still at work. I could scarcely believe it. This was the fourth day in a row, including the weekend, where I’d found myself basically alone in the sprawling offices of J.Whitman and Sons, equity and finance. I hated my life.

  I glanced around at the cavernous expanse of the open office area and sighed. The huge room was empty and dimmed, lit only by the orange glow from the distant corridor and the faint radiance of my desk light. All around me monitors looped through their pre-programmed screensaver cycles, lazily scrolling J.Whitman’s fanciful logo for the attention of precisely nobody. I shifted in my seat and frowned, glancing down at the pile of reports that I was proofreading; a pile that seemed to be unchanging in height, despite the effort I was putting in.

  With another sigh, I stood and took hold of my coffee cup. “If I’m going to be here till midnight, I’m sure as heck going to need some caffeine,” I said, to no-one in particular. I glanced around, suddenly perturbed by the sound of my voice in the empty space. Even the cleaners had left already. Not for the first time, I wondered if I was the only person in the whole building.

  I shrugged and set off walking.

  As I stepped across the office, my legs made a soft swishing sound as my thighs brushed together, a noise that seemed curiously at home amongst the slow drone of computer fans and the low hum of the air conditioning. Turning into the corridor, I made my way past the darkened offices of the partners, the associate attorneys and, finally, huddled in the corner, the small office of Lucy Cummings, the head of the secretarial team, my boss, the reason why I was working so late.

  My face made an involuntary scowl as I passed by, a muscle memory reaction to a woman whom I feared and hated in equal measure. Lucy Cummings was a ball breaker, a real force of nature who terrorized myself and the other secretaries with her strict discipline and her old fashioned ways.

  She had a particular way of doing things, a particular style that sat well with the partners, but was hell on her team. But despite her icy manner, she got results so she had power and we all danced to her merry little tune like good little girls. “Yes, Miss Cummings,” became a familiar mantra to myself and my colleagues as we absorbed her endless directives and wishes and struggled to meet her exacting demands. When Lucy Cummings asked you to “go the extra mile” to get a pile of reports out of the door by month’s end, you did it. When Lucy Cummings issued a department-wide directive on dress code standards, you followed them, no matter how much you hated pencil skirts and pantyhose and medium heeled shoes.

  I sighed and gazed at my reflection in the large glass wall of Lucy Cumming’s office. I was twenty one, barely out of college. But the edgy, arty, alternative princess that had strode the halls and dorms of university life was nothing but a distant memory. I was a clone now, a corporate robot, the very epitome of everything I once claimed to despise. Crisp white blouse, honey blonde hair held back in a sensible ponytail, fashionable glasses with a thick, serious rim. And pantyhose, always pantyhose. Always black, always sheer, never opaque. The centerpoint of Lucy Cumming’s Fall crackdown on office standards.

  “It has come to my attention that some of you are failing to respect the company policy on dress code,” her all-team email had opened. “Might I remind you that one’s appearance is a reflection on the company as a whole, and failure to present oneself in an appropriate manner paints a very poor picture indeed. Starting on Monday, every member of the secretarial pool will present herself in an appropriate blouse, pencil skirt and elegant shoes, with sheer pantyhose - not, I hasten to add, hold-ups or stockings. We are a respected legal practice, not a bordello. Check the HR website for permitted colors.”

  I grinned to myself as I remembered the dismay and disbelief in the team as we’d each opened the HR website to find that the list of permitted colors was scarcely a list at all, and may as well have been limited to a single word and a single word only: bland.

  Oh well, I thought to myself, a job is a job.

  The break room was on the other side of the building, beside the secretarial area for the team that worked on J.Whitman’s more salubrious clients. A large, plush space with a small kitchen area, the break room offered gloriously comfortable seating and a spectacular view over the city. It was one of the perks of working in a firm like Whitman’s, but sometimes seemed like a cruel taunt, given how little we were able to use it, thanks to our excessive workload.

  To my surprise, as I wandered past the darkened reception desk, the light in the break room was already on and I could hear the faint sound of singing from inside. I poked my head through the doorway, hoping that it wasn’t one of the partners working late. To my relief, it was one of the other secretaries. A girl named Kristy Lloyd whom I barely knew. Kristy had been part of my intake, both of us starting work at Whitman’s about a thousand years ago, or so it seemed. I remember her from the orientation days; a quiet, mousey girl who seemed intelligent and capable, but who barely said a word to myself or the others. Kristy was about my age, but blonde where I was brunette; shorter where I was tall, but still dressed in the same corporate uniform as myself and every other secretary on the fortieth floor.

  She must be a victim of Lucy’s late-night push as well, I thought to myself as I stepped into the break room. Kristy didn’t notice, she was idly tapping a spoon against the countertop to some unheard drumbeat as she listened to her MP3 player, lightly crooning away while the coffee machine gurgled in the background.

  I cleared my throat. “Hi,” I said, keen not to scare the other girl. “Kristy, is it?”

  Kristy spun around with a look of shock on her pretty face, a sudden flush lighting up her cheeks. She bl
inked quickly and pulled the earbuds from her ears.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you!” I said with a friendly smile. “Lucy has you working late as well?”

  Kristy sniffed and nodded. “Ha, yes, she does,” she said, recovering from her fright quickly. “Hi Sarah! Coffee?” she added.

  I sighed. “I’d love a coffee. I feel as though I’ve been here since the beginning of time.”

  Kristy smiled back at me. “Take a seat, I’ll bring it over. Is that yours?”

  I glanced down at the cup I was holding in my hand. “World’s best secretary,” it proudly and boldly claimed. A present from my mother. “Yeah,” I frowned and handed her it.

  “That’s weird, my mom told me I was the world’s best,” Kristy quipped and we both laughed.

  Kristy finished making the coffee and we both sat down on the comfortable sofas in the middle of the room. Kristy sighed and sat back.

  “What a week,” she said, gazing off through the large picture windows. Far below, the nighttime city went about its business. Theater-goers and diners enjoying the freedom of leisure; long lines of cars forming the last queues of the homeward-bound commute. It was a captivating spectacle of muted radiance. I loved the view from up here.

  Kristy sighed and sat back, kicking off her shoes, stretching her toes in their thin nylon prison.

  “You too, huh?” I said and did the same. There was something wonderful about taking off heels, feeling your feet return to their natural shape, feeling the freedom of unconstrained toes.

  “Yeah, it’s never ending,” said Kristy with a sigh. “Just when I think I’ve got to the bottom of another pile of reports, Lucy gives me more. It’s like she’s testing me or something.”

  I nodded, I knew exactly what she meant. Lucy Cummings never seemed to demand such extreme levels of work from the other girls. I had taken this as a good sign, that she saw potential in me. If only I’d known…