Fishnet

These fishnet stockings trap men as neatly as any net snags trout. I yank mine up my thighs and—bam—you're already halfway hooked. The holes don't hide a thing. Crotch wide open, I spread just enough to flash the pink between the weave. One heel hooks over your shoulder, the other toes your zipper down. Wet clings to the mesh and drips in tiny beads that sparkle under any light. Lean in; the nylon burns soft against your tongue while I laugh and tug you closer, daring you to swallow the bait. Two fingers push through a rip, stretch me wider, then hook back to drag you in by your belt. Sweet, stupid, predictable—my victim, the second you drop to your knees.