It wasn't that he wasn't listening—he was. Julie's voice was one of his favorite sounds. But his brain seemed to have split in two, one part engaged in conversation while the other fixated entirely on the fact that Julie—sweet, perfect Julie—was wearing stockings that matched her dress exactly. She had coordinated them. Purposefully. For him.

The realization hit him with surprising force. She'd done this for him. She'd remembered his reaction to the pantyhose, had gone out and purchased actual stockings—not just any stockings, but ones that precisely matched her dress—and worn them tonight, knowing what they did to him.

Throughout the meal, Nick found himself growing increasingly distracted. The wine didn't help. It warmed his blood, loosened the tight control he typically maintained over his thoughts. Every time Julie shifted in her seat, crossed or uncrossed her legs, leaned forward to emphasize a point in her story, his eyes would track the movement, hungry for another glimpse.

"Is everything okay?" Julie asked eventually, her voice tinged with concern. "You seem distracted."

Nick flushed, embarrassed to be caught. "Everything's perfect," he said, forcing his eyes to remain on her face. "You're perfect."

Julie smiled, but there was a knowing edge to it that sent heat crawling up Nick's neck. She understood exactly what was happening. She'd dressed this way deliberately, and now she was watching him fall apart over it.

The thought should have embarrassed him further. Instead, it thrilled him.

Dessert arrived—something chocolate for Julie, espresso for Nick. She was mid-sentence, describing a problem with the office printer, when it happened.

Julie shifted in her seat, uncrossing and recrossing her legs, and her stockinged foot brushed against Nick's calf.

It was accidental—Nick could tell by the slight widening of her eyes, the momentary pause in her story—but the contact sent a jolt through him that was almost painful in its intensity.

"Sorry," Julie murmured, moving to pull her foot away.

Without thinking, Nick reached under the table and caught her ankle.

His fingers circled the delicate bone, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin nylon. The texture was intoxicating—smooth, slightly textured, warm from her body heat. He could feel her pulse fluttering beneath his thumb.

Julie's breath caught, her eyes locking with his across the table. She didn't pull away.

Emboldened, Nick slid his hand upward slightly, running his fingers along the curve of her calf. The nylon created the perfect friction—not quite skin, but more intimate somehow, a barrier that heightened rather than diminished the sensation.

"Nick," Julie said softly, her voice barely audible over the ambient restaurant noise. It wasn't a protest. If anything, it sounded like a question.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice low and rough.

She nodded, her cheeks flushing a pretty pink that matched the wine in her glass.

Working on pure instinct now, Nick stroked higher, his palm cupping the back of her calf, fingers exploring the dip behind her knee. The stockings were impossibly soft, impossibly smooth, clinging to every curve of her leg with perfect fidelity.

Julie's eyes fluttered half-closed, her lips parting slightly. To anyone else in the restaurant, it would appear they were simply having an intimate conversation. But beneath the tablecloth, Nick's hands were indulging in what felt like the most erotic experience of his life.

His fingertips traced small circles behind her knee, feeling the slight dampness where her skin had begun to perspire beneath the nylon. Something about that—the evidence of her body's heat trapped within the stocking—made him dizzy with want.

"They're beautiful," he murmured, low enough that only she could hear. "The stockings. The color. Everything."

Julie smiled, a shy, pleased expression that transformed her face. "I'm glad you like them."

"Like isn't a strong enough word," Nick admitted, his fingers continuing their slow exploration of her calf, memorizing the contours through the silky fabric.

The waiter appeared with the check, and Nick reluctantly withdrew his hand, feeling oddly bereft without the contact. He paid quickly, barely registering the amount, his entire awareness centered on Julie and the magnetic pull she exerted.

As they prepared to leave, Julie stood first, smoothing her dress down over her thighs. The movement was innocent enough, but Nick couldn't tear his eyes away from the way the fabric clung to her curves, the way the hem stopped high enough to make him wonder exactly how far up the stockings went.

"Ready?" Julie asked, a hint of nervousness in her voice.

Nick stood, moving close enough that only she could hear his next words: "I want to see how high they go."

The flush that spread across Julie's cheeks and down her neck was answer enough.

The winter chill had settled over Phoenix—not the bitter cold of northern cities, but a gentle coolness that kissed their skin as they walked the three blocks from the restaurant to Julie's apartment. Street lamps cast long shadows across the sidewalk, their yellow light turning Julie's burgundy dress almost black in the darkness.

Nick walked beside her, hands stuffed in his pockets, occasionally stealing glances at the way her legs moved in those stockings, how the fabric caught the light with each step. The silence between them wasn't awkward, exactly, but charged—electric with possibility, with unspoken desires.

They turned towards Julie's apartment, a mid-rise building with a modern facade. Her voice sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet street.

They rode the elevator to the seventh floor, standing slightly apart, not touching but acutely aware of each other's presence. Julie fumbled with her keys at her door, the metal clinking against her burgundy-painted nails.

"Do you want to come in?" she asked as she pushed open the door. For the first time in 3 months, Nick relented.

As Nick stepped into Julie's apartment for the first time, he was instantly struck by how perfectly it embodied her. The space was modest in size but thoughtfully arranged—a small one-bedroom with an open concept living area. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the far wall, offering a stunning view of Phoenix's twinkling skyline, the city lights mirroring the stars above.

Three couches arranged in a U-shape dominated the living room—one full-sized sofa flanked by two loveseats, all in a soft cream fabric that contrasted with the rich hardwood floors. A glass coffee table sat in the center, holding a few art books and a small potted succulent. Beyond the living area, a round dining table with four chairs occupied the space near another window.

The kitchen was partially separated from the main room by a wall, with entrances on either side—one by the front door and another closer to the dining area. Nick could see gleaming countertops and hanging copper pots through the opening.

Everything was clean, organized, but lived-in—throw pillows slightly askew on the couches, a cardigan draped over one of the dining chairs, a half-empty wineglass on the counter. This wasn't a showpiece; it was Julie's actual life.

"It's beautiful," Nick said, meaning it. "Really nice place."

Julie smiled, setting her purse on a small table by the door. "Thanks. Do you want something to drink? I have wine, beer, water..."

"Water's fine," Nick replied, still taking in the details of her space—the framed photos on the walls, the small bookshelf filled with paperbacks, the scented candle on the coffee table.

Julie disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later with two glasses of water. She set them on the coffee table and gestured toward the main couch. "Sit. Make yourself comfortable."

Nick sank onto the sofa, the cushions yielding pleasantly beneath him. Julie settled beside him, leaving a small gap between their bodies. She kicked off her heels with a sigh of relief, flexing her stockinged toes.

"God, that feels better," she murmured, rolling her ankles. "Heels are torture devices."

Nick smiled, his eyes drawn to her feet, to the way the burgundy nylon stretched over her arches and toes. Almost without thinking, he reached out, placing a hand lightly on her thigh. The stockings felt even better now—warmer from her body heat, slightly damp where she'd been sweating in the restaurant.

Julie didn't pull away. If anything, she seemed to relax into his touch, her body angling slightly toward him.

"These can't be comfortable either," Nick said, fingers tracing small circles on her thigh through the nylon.

Julie laughed, the sound unexpectedly bitter. "They're fucking awful, actually. The tops cut into my thighs like tiny tourniquets. I've probably lost circulation to half my leg by now."

Nick's hand stilled, surprised by her candor.

"Sorry," Julie said, glancing at him. "That wasn't very sexy of me."

"No, it's okay," Nick said. "I'm just... surprised. If they're so uncomfortable, why wear them?"

Julie continued, warming to her topic. "It's not just the stockings. It's everything. The uncomfortable bras that push your boobs up and together so they look bigger. The thongs that ride up your ass all day. The heels that destroy your feet and back. Spanx that squeeze your organs until you can't breathe." She gestured down at her legs. "These stockings are basically the physical embodiment of every stupid thing women are expected to do to look sexy."

There was real frustration in her voice, a genuine resentment that made Nick's hand twitch where it rested on her thigh.

"They're impractical, expensive, and designed to be destroyed," she went on. "You know how much these cost? Almost forty dollars. For something that will probably tear the next time I wear them. It's insane."

Nick was silent for a moment, his thumb moving slowly back and forth over the silky fabric. Then he asked, his voice quiet but clear: "So why are you wearing them?"

The question hung in the air between them, simple but devastating.

Julie opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again. Her brow furrowed, and she looked down at Nick's hand on her thigh, at the burgundy nylon that encased her legs.

She had no answer. Or rather, she had one answer, but it stuck in her throat, refusing to be spoken aloud: Because you like them. Because I wanted you to look at me the way you did tonight. Because I'm willing to be uncomfortable if it means you'll want me.

The realization settled over her like a weight. She'd spent nearly two hundred dollars on stockings she hated because a man had touched her leg once and looked at her with hunger in his eyes.

Nick watched the emotions play across her face—confusion, realization, something like resignation. He saw the exact moment she understood her own motivation, and it sent a thrill through him so intense he had to suppress a shiver.

"I love you in stockings," Nick said, his voice low, almost reverent. His hand traveled higher on her thigh, approaching the lace top hidden beneath her dress. "Will you keep wearing them for me?"

It wasn't quite a command, not yet. But it wasn't really a question either. It existed in that liminal space between request and expectation, and they both felt the weight of it.

Julie didn't answer with words. She just looked at him, her eyes wide and dark in the dim light of her apartment, and nodded once.

Nick's breath caught. "Stand up for me," he said, the words coming out before he could consider them.

Julie hesitated, just for a moment, then rose to her feet. She stood in front of him, between his knees and the coffee table, looking down at him with an expression he couldn't quite read.

"Lift your dress," Nick said, his voice rougher now. "I want to see how high they go."

Again, that momentary hesitation, that flicker of uncertainty—and then Julie's hands were at the hem of her burgundy dress, slowly drawing it upward. The fabric slid over her thighs, revealing the full length of her stockings, the delicate lace tops that bit into her soft flesh, leaving angry red marks where they'd been squeezing all evening.

Nick's mouth went dry. The contrast was exquisite—the rich burgundy against her pale skin, the clear demarcation between covered and bare, the way the lace pattern imprinted itself on her thighs. Above the stockings, he could see the thin strip of her matching thong, the fabric stretched taut across her pelvis.

"Turn around," he said, the words barely audible.

Julie swallowed visibly, her fingers tightening on the fabric of her dress. Then, with a grace that belied her nervousness, she pivoted slowly, presenting her back to him.

Nick nearly groaned aloud. Her ass was magnificent—full, round, perfectly framed by the lace tops of her stockings. The burgundy thong disappeared between her cheeks, leaving her ass essentially bare, the globes of flesh quivering slightly with her shallow breathing.

He hadn't planned what happened next. Hadn't even realized he was doing it until the rasp of his zipper cut through the silence of the apartment. His cock sprang free, achingly hard, and his hand wrapped around it instinctively.

The sound made Julie look over her shoulder, her eyes widening as she saw what he was doing. A small gasp escaped her lips.

"Nick—"

"Please," he interrupted, his voice strained as he stroked himself. "Don't—don't move. Just... just let me look at you. Let me cum looking at your filthy fucking ass."

The crude words hung in the air between them, shocking in their rawness, their desperate honesty. For a heartbeat, Nick thought he'd gone too far—that Julie would drop her dress, would tell him to get out, would end whatever this was becoming.

Instead, she stayed perfectly still, her dress still hitched up around her waist, her ass still exposed to his hungry gaze. Her cheeks burned with mortification, but she didn't move, didn't protest, didn't do anything but stand there and let him look at her like she was nothing but flesh.

Nick's hand moved faster, his breathing harsh in the quiet room. He couldn't believe this was happening—that Julie, sweet Julie, was standing in front of him with her ass exposed, letting him jerk off to the sight of her like some kind of living pornography.

"Fuck," he groaned, his hips lifting slightly off the couch as tension built at the base of his spine. "You're so fucking beautiful. So perfect. So—"

His words dissolved into a choked moan as an orgasm crashed through him. Cum spurted over his fist, some landing on the floor, some on his jeans. His entire body convulsed with the force of it, his eyes never leaving the magnificent curve of Julie's ass, the delicate lace of her stockings, the thin strip of her thong.

For several seconds, the only sound in the apartment was their breathing—Nick's harsh and ragged, Julie's quick and shallow.

Then reality crashed back in.

Nick fumbled for tissues from a box on the coffee table, hastily cleaning himself up, tucking himself away with shaking hands. Julie slowly lowered her dress, still facing away from him, her shoulders tense.

"Julie, I—" Nick began, but the words died in his throat. What could he possibly say? He'd just masturbated while staring at her ass. There was no script for this.

Finally, Julie turned to face him. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with something that might have been tears or arousal or both. She smoothed her dress down with trembling hands.

"I should probably go," Nick said, standing awkwardly, unable to meet her eyes.

Julie nodded, her arm crossing over her stomach in a protective gesture. "Okay."

The walk to the door was excruciating. Nick stumbled over his own feet, hyper-aware of how strange, how wrong this moment should feel. At the door, he turned to face her.

"I'll call you tomorrow," he said, knowing it wasn't enough.

"Okay," Julie repeated, her voice small.

Nick leaned in and kissed her cheek—a chaste, almost brotherly gesture that felt absurd after what had just happened. "Goodnight."

And then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that sounded final somehow, like the period at the end of a sentence neither of them had meant to write.

Nick lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, his mind replaying the evening in endless, excruciating detail.

He should feel ashamed. He should feel like a pervert, like the kind of creep who exposes himself to women and gets off on their discomfort. He had jerked off in front of Julie without warning, without permission, had called her ass "filthy" and begged her to let him cum, looking at her.

But mixed with the shame was something else—something warm and almost like relief. Because Julie had let him. She had stood there and allowed it. She hadn't run away or kicked him out or looked at him with disgust.

After three months of dating, most women would have been asking why he hadn't tried to sleep with them yet. Most women would have pushed, would have initiated, would have taken his reluctance as rejection. But Julie hadn't. She'd accepted his slow pace, his careful distance, without question.

Maybe, Nick thought, she somehow understood. Maybe she sensed what he couldn't bring himself to tell her—that his body betrayed him when it mattered most. That with previous girlfriends, he'd failed at the crucial moment, gone soft when he should have been hard, disappointed when he should have satisfied.

Tonight had been different. Tonight, he'd been rock hard, had cum harder than he had in years, all without the pressure of actual sex, of potential failure. Just looking at her, just seeing her dressed exactly how he wanted, posed exactly how he needed—it had been enough.

Maybe he should tell her the truth. Explain his issue, his fears, his failures. Ask if they could keep doing this instead—this strange, twisted version of intimacy where he looked and she showed and neither of them had to face the terror of actual sex.

But the thought of that conversation, of putting his inadequacy into words, made his stomach clench with dread. Not yet. Not when this—whatever this was—had only just begun.

For now, he'd see where this went. He'd push a little further, ask for a little more, see how far Julie was willing to go for him. And maybe, just maybe, he'd found someone who could satisfy him in ways that bypassed his broken sexuality entirely.

The thought made him hard again, and Nick reached down, stroking himself slowly as he remembered the perfect curve of Julie's ass, the angry red lines where the stockings had bitten into her thighs, the way she'd stood so still and let him look at her like she was made for his pleasure.

Just as he was drifting off into another fantasy, his phone buzzed on his nightstand. He picked it up, his heart skipping a beat as he saw Julie's name on the screen.

"Had a great night," her message read. "Looking forward to seeing you again soon."

Nick's eyes widened in surprise. He hadn't expected that. He'd been bracing himself for discomfort, for awkwardness, for some kind of fallout from what had happened. But this... this was the opposite.

A wave of relief washed over him, followed by a warmth that had nothing to do with his recent arousal. Julie wasn't angry. She wasn't upset. She was... okay with it.

As he typed out a response, Nick's mind was consumed by a mix of confusion and curiosity. He couldn't reconcile the fact that Julie had ranted about how degrading and uncomfortable her stockings were, only to willingly display herself to him in an even more intimate way. 

Not only had she endured the discomfort, but he'd taken it a step further by objectifying her in the most explicit manner. And yet, despite all this, she'd messaged him to say she'd had a great night. The disconnect between her initial reluctance and her subsequent message was jarring, leaving Nick both intrigued and perplexed. 

Was it possible that Julie was more into this twisted dynamic than he'd initially thought? Or was she simply trying to be kind, to reassure him that everything was okay? The uncertainty swirled in his mind.

"Me too," he sent back, trying to keep his tone casual. "Can't wait to see you again."

The exchange was brief, but it was enough to ease Nick's tension. He set his phone back on the nightstand, feeling a sense of hope he hadn't felt in a long time.

Across town, Julie curled on her side in bed, her thoughts just as tangled as Nick's.

What had happened tonight? How had she gone from criticizing the patriarchal expectations of feminine attire to standing with her dress hiked up, letting Nick masturbate to the sight of her ass? What did that make her? What did that make them?

She should be angry. She should feel used, objectified, reduced to body parts. And part of her did—the part that had spent years fighting against being seen as nothing but tits and ass, nothing but flesh to be consumed by male desire.

But another part—the part that was throbbing between her legs, that had been wet since the moment Nick touched her stockinged calf under the table—that part felt something different. Something like power, like satisfaction, like the twisted pleasure of being wanted so desperately that a man lost control just looking at you.

Julie's hand slipped between her legs, finding herself slick and swollen. She closed her eyes, but the images that came weren't of Nick. They were of her ex-boyfriend, the one who used to push her face into the mattress and call her filthy names while he fucked her from behind. The one who'd told her she was nothing but holes to fill, nothing but tits to grab, nothing but ass to slap.

She came hard, biting her pillow to muffle her cry, shame and pleasure mingling in her veins.

Afterward, staring into the darkness, Julie tried to make sense of the contradictions within herself. She was a modern woman with feminist values who had just willingly displayed herself like a piece of meat. She was an independent adult who had just spent two hundred dollars on uncomfortable underwear to please a man.

But Nick wasn't like her exes. He was gentle, considerate, respectful—at least until tonight. He looked at her like she mattered, listened when she spoke, remembered the things she told him. He was the best thing that had happened to her in a long time.

And if wearing stupid, uncomfortable stockings made him happy, made him look at her like she was the most desirable woman on earth... was that really such a high price to pay?

Julie decided to let things flow, to see where this strange new dynamic took them. She'd indulge Nick's fascination with her legs, with stockings, with looking at her. It wasn't traditional intimacy, but it was intimacy nonetheless. And after years of men who took without giving, who used and discarded her, who saw her as nothing but her body parts... maybe this strange middle ground with Nick was exactly what she needed.

She reached for her phone and typed out a quick message to Nick, her fingers moving with a newfound sense of purpose.

"Had a great night," she sent, smiling to herself as she hit send.

Julie realized that Nick probably felt awkward and bad about what had happened, and she wanted to make sure things were good between them. She was happy to alleviate his stress and let him know that she was okay with what had happened.

As she drifted off to sleep, Julie felt a sense of excitement and curiosity about what the future held for her and Nick.

The gifts and the grope

The morning after their date, Nick woke with a sense of euphoria he hadn't felt in years. The memory of Julie's text—"Had a great night"—replayed in his mind, dissolving the knot of anxiety that had formed in his stomach after he left her apartment. She wasn't disgusted. She wasn't angry. She had enjoyed their evening together, bizarre masturbation session and all.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his cock already hard from the memory of Julie's perfect ass encased in that burgundy thong, the angry red lines where her stockings had bitten into her soft thighs. He'd replayed the scene countless times through the night, each recollection more vivid than the last. The way she'd stood so still, so compliant. The way she'd turned around without being asked, as if she'd known exactly what he needed.

Nick reached for his phone and reread her text for the hundredth time, searching for any hidden disgust or reluctance. Finding none, he typed out a message: "I can't stop thinking about last night. When can I see you again?"

---

Three days later, Nick stood outside Julie's favorite restaurant, a small jewelry box burning a hole in his pocket and a modest bouquet of lilies clutched in his sweating palm. His heart hammered as he spotted her walking toward him, and his breath caught in his throat.

She was wearing a simple black dress that hugged her curves, modest enough for dinner but snug enough to showcase her spectacular figure. Her long legs were encased in sheer black stockings, the kind that made his mouth go dry. She'd styled her hair differently tonight—loose waves that framed her face—and her lips were painted a deep, inviting red.

"You look incredible," he said, the words coming out embarrassingly breathless.

Julie's smile lit up her face. "Thank you," she said, ducking her head slightly in that way he found utterly endearing. "You clean up pretty nicely yourself."

Nick handed her the bouquet, watching her face soften as she buried her nose in the fragrant blossoms.

"They're beautiful," she said, meeting his eyes with genuine appreciation.

"I have something else for you," Nick said, pulling the small box from his pocket. "It's nothing extravagant, but I saw them and thought of you."

Julie's eyes widened as she opened the box to reveal a pair of delicate silver earrings, each with a small teardrop pearl dangling from a simple chain.

"Nick," she breathed, "they're gorgeous."

"I've really enjoyed these last few months," he said, suddenly nervous. "I know we're still getting to know each other, but I can't remember the last time I felt this comfortable with someone. I'd like to spend more time with you, if that's something you'd want too."

Julie's eyes glistened, and for a terrifying moment, Nick thought he'd said too much, moved too fast. But then she was smiling, and the warmth in her expression melted his anxiety.

"I've been having an amazing time with you," she said, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "Better than I've had in a very long time. I'd love to spend more time together."

Throughout dinner, Nick couldn't stop stealing glances at her, noticing the way the earrings caught the light when she moved her head, the way her stockinged legs crossed and uncrossed under the table. She seemed to be sitting differently tonight, shifting in her seat occasionally, and he wondered if the stockings were uncomfortable.

The thought sent a jolt of arousal through him. She was enduring discomfort, for him. Because she knew he liked it.

---

The drive back to her apartment was charged with anticipation. Unlike last time, Nick didn't wait for an excuse to touch her. As soon as they were on the highway, he placed his hand on her thigh, feeling the smooth nylon beneath his palm.

"Are those stockings?" he asked, his voice low and rough despite his attempt at casualness.

Julie glanced at him, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Yes," she said simply.

His fingers flexed involuntarily against her leg, and he felt her muscle tense under his touch.

When they arrived at her building, Julie turned to him. "Would you like to come up?" she asked, the question loaded with significance after their last encounter.

Inside her apartment, they settled on the couch, closer this time. Nick didn't waste time with pretense. He leaned in, cupping her face in his hands, and kissed her deeply. Julie responded immediately, her lips parting under his, her tongue meeting his with equal hunger.

Minutes stretched into an eternity as they made out like teenagers, hands roaming, breathing becoming ragged. Nick's fingers tangled in her hair, cradling the back of her head as he devoured her mouth. Julie moaned softly, the sound sending a bolt of electricity straight to his cock.

Emboldened by her response, Nick's hand slid from her waist to her breast, cupping the generous weight through her dress. He broke the kiss, staring down at his hand on her chest, mesmerized by the sight.

"Fuck, they're huge," he blurted out, immediately regretting his crude phrasing.

Julie froze, her expression shuttering slightly. Nick could have kicked himself for his tactlessness.

"I'm so sorry," he said quickly. "I didn't mean... It's just that you're so beautiful, and I'm in awe of you. I hope I didn't make you feel bad."

The tension in Julie's face relaxed slightly, and she offered him a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "It's okay," she murmured.

He kissed her again, trying to recapture the moment, but something had shifted. Julie was still responsive, still kissing him back, but there was a new hesitancy in her movements.

Nick felt the familiar anxiety creeping up his spine—the fear that soon she would expect more, would want him to take her to bed, would discover his shameful inadequacy. He couldn't let this continue, couldn't risk exposing his dysfunction.

Breaking the kiss, he looked into her eyes, his pulse thudding in his ears. "Stand up for me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

He saw recognition dawn in her eyes— disappointment as he'd feared, but also understanding. She rose from the couch, smoothing her dress down over her hips.

Before he could even form the request, Julie reached for the hem of her dress and slowly pulled it upward, exposing inch after inch of stockinged leg. The black nylon hugged her thighs, ending in wide bands of lace that bit into her flesh just as the burgundy ones had days before.

Without prompting, Julie turned around, bending forward slightly at the waist. Her black thong disappeared between the perfect globes of her ass, the contrast of the dark fabric against her pale skin making Nick's cock throb painfully against his zipper.

"Jesus Christ," he groaned, fumbling with his belt. "Your ass is fucking amazing, Julie."

He freed his erection, wrapping his hand around his shaft as he stared at the offering before him. Julie remained perfectly still, her back to him, her dress bunched around her waist, her thighs squeezed by the unforgiving lace tops of her stockings.

Nick stroked himself frantically, his eyes never leaving the curve of her ass, the tantalizing glimpse of her pussy barely contained by the thin strip of fabric. He came embarrassingly quickly, groaning her name as he spilled over his fist.

When his breathing had returned to normal, he tucked himself away and zipped up. Julie let her dress fall back into place and turned to face him, her expression unreadable.

Nick stood and pulled her into his arms, kissing her deeply, trying to convey with his lips what he couldn't say with words—his gratitude, his desire, his growing feelings for her.

"I had a great night," he said when they finally parted.

Julie smiled up at him, her eyes warm again. "I did too."

They stood there for a moment, smiling at each other like fools, before Nick reluctantly took his leave, already counting the minutes until he could see her again.

–

Nick sat in his car outside Julie's apartment, fingers tapping the steering wheel absently. The scent of her perfume still clung to his shirt—something floral and expensive, the kind of fragrance that lingered. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. 

She let me do it again. No arguments, no demands. Just... let me take what I needed.

The memory of Julie standing there, her dress hiked up, the black lace of her stockings cutting into her thighs—Christ, it sent a fresh wave of heat through him. But beneath the arousal, guilt gnawed at his gut. He'd seen the flicker of disappointment in her eyes when he asked her to stand up. The way her smile didn’t reach her eyes when he kissed her goodbye. 

She wanted more. She wanted me to take her to bed. 

His fingers tightened around the wheel. He wanted to. God, he wanted to feel her under him, hear her gasp his name, but the old fear slithered in—the dread of fumbling, of going soft at the worst moment, of seeing that look of pity in her eyes. 

I can’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

But Julie... Julie was different. She didn’t push. She didn’t make him feel broken. She just understood, even if she didn’t know the full truth. The way she’d looked at him—like he was something precious, not a disappointment. 

I’ll make it up to her. More gifts. More time. She deserves that much. But I'll continue down this road to see where it leads 

He started the car, clinging to the memory of her smile. 

---

Julie leaned back against her front door, the wood cool against her spine. The apartment was too quiet now, the air still thick with the ghost of Nick’s cologne. She closed her eyes, replaying the night—his hands on her waist, the reverence in his voice when he called her beautiful, the way his breath hitched when she’d turned around for him. 

He stopped. Again. 

The script was becoming familiar by now. The moment things got too close, too intimate, he’d freeze. She’d seen it in the way his hands trembled, the way he’d pull back like he was afraid of his own desire. 

Is it me? 

The doubt slithered in, unwelcome. But no—his kisses were too hungry, his gaze too heated. It wasn’t lack of want. It was something else. Fear, maybe. 

She sighed, walking to the kitchen and pouring a glass of wine. The earrings he’d given her glittered on the counter—delicate, expensive. A lover’s gift. 

He cares. I know he does. 

And that was the cruelest part. Nick was sweet. Attentive. He listened to her stories, remembered her favorite flowers, touched her like she was something rare. But the one thing she ached for—the one thing she needed—he couldn’t give. 

I can wait. 

The wine was bitter on her tongue. 

I’ll wait as long as he needs. 

Because for the first time in years, someone looked at her and saw more than a body. And if that meant swallowing her frustration, if it meant letting him take what he could give—she’d do it. 

For now. 

The Unspoken Agreement

The next month saw Nick and Julie falling into a comfortable rhythm—almost a ritual. Dates every other day, sometimes just for coffee, other times lingering over candlelit dinners. Nick listened intently as Julie spoke about growing up in a small town where dreams were often smothered by expectation, about her quiet ambition clawing its way past dismissive nods and condescending remarks. In turn, he shared his own vulnerabilities—his social awkwardness, his preference for the quiet precision of code over the unpredictability of people.  

But the true script of their relationship played out in the dim glow of Julie’s apartment.  

Nick’s pattern had solidified:  

The Deep Kiss – He’d press her against the couch, their mouths hungry, his hands roaming just enough to make her breath hitch.  

The Request – "Stand up for me, beautiful."  

The Display – Julie would comply, dress lifting, showcasing the lace-topped stockings and thong he couldn’t resist.  

The Release – Nick’s groan, the sharp scent of his cum in the air, his devout gratitude as he kissed her afterward.  

And every time, Julie let him.

---

One evening, Nick’s restraint fractured.  

They were tangled on the couch, Julie gasping into his mouth as his hands—previously loyal to the safe zones of her waist and hips—finally, finally slid up to her chest. His thumbs brushed the underside of her tits through her silk blouse, testing. When she didn’t stiffen, didn’t pull away, his grip grew bolder.  

He broke the kiss, panting.  

"Julie," he murmured, his fingers kneading her with a reverence bordering on desperation. "Don’t mind me saying—" (a slow squeeze, her nipple hardening between his fingers) "—but fuck, these are amazing."  

Julie’s breath hitched. The words were pure objectification, yet Nick’s tone was awed, almost shy. He wasn’t leering like other men. He was apologizing for his own hunger.  

"I’ve been afraid to touch them," he admitted, still squeezing, thumbs circling her stiff peaks. "Didn’t want you to think I was... pushing for more. But god, Julie. I had to."  

Her lips parted—objectively, she should have been irritated. But Nick’s smile was boyish, disarming. The mix of reverence and raw lust in his eyes undid her.  

"It's okay," she heard herself say, softening under his touch. "I understand. I’m... glad you like them."  

Nick’s exhale of relief was audible. He’d been scared. Scared she’d reject him, scared he’d ruined their careful game. But here she was, letting him grope her, accepting his worship.  

So he didn’t stop.

He kept his hands on her, kneading, shaping her tits in his palms like he was memorizing them. No kisses now—he didn’t want her mistaking this for foreplay. Just touch.

When his fingertips finally stilled, he exhaled shakily.  

"Stand up, baby."  

And Julie, flushed and aching, obeyed like she always did.  

---

Nick later in the car thought, “She let me touch them. She enjoyed it. The realization sent a thrill through him. Now, he had two privileges—her ass and her tits. And she hadn’t demanded sex in return.” Guilt prickled—he knew she wanted more. But her patience, her smile... it soothed the jagged edges of his fear.  

That night, Julie lay in bed, fingers working her clit furiously around the girth of her dildo, imagining Eric’s cruel voice in her ear: “Look at you, you desperate little slut. Letting a man use you like a fucking toy." She came with a muffled sob, half from pleasure, half from the twisted comfort of old echoes. Nick was kind, but the craving for degradation still hummed in her blood.

The Measurement

The lights in Julie’s apartment were dim, casting soft shadows across her cream-colored couch. She had dressed carefully for the evening—a tight-fitting navy-blue sweater that hugged her curves, a black pencil skirt that stopped just above her knees, and, of course, her stockings. Black again, sheer with a delicate lace trim at the top. She knew Nick would notice. She wanted him to notice.  

They had fallen into the familiar rhythm of their dates—dinner at a cozy Italian place, a shared tiramisu, Nick’s hand resting on her thigh as he drove her home, fingers tracing the outline of her stocking top through her skirt. But the date after the one where he touched her tits for the first time was somewhat different. 

The moment her front door closed behind them, he pulled her close on the couch, kissing her deeply. His tongue swept into her mouth, urgent and hungry. 

But then, abruptly, he broke the kiss. His hands didn’t leave her body—instead, they moved to her chest, palms molding over the soft weight of her breasts, thumbs brushing over the stiff peaks of her nipples through the fabric. His touch was firm, deliberate, like he was memorizing every curve.  

"How big are they?" he asked suddenly, his voice rough.  

Julie blinked. "What?"  

"Your breasts," he clarified, squeezing gently, his gaze locked onto them. "What their size baby?"

She swallowed, momentarily thrown by the bluntness of the question. "Uh… 34F."  

Nick’s fingers stilled. His eyes flicked up to hers, disbelieving. "F?"

The way he said it—like he couldn’t comprehend something so hot existing in front of him—sent a pulse of heat between her legs. He squeezed again, then shook his head in awe. "I’ve never been with… I mean, Christ." His thumbs rubbed slow, drugging circles over her nipples, making her arch slightly. "I can’t believe how soft they are."  

Julie bit her lip but didn’t stop him. The way he looked at her—like she was a revelation—made it impossible to protest.  

Nick didn’t kiss her again. He just kept touching her, kneading her breasts in his palms as if he were testing their weight, his breath coming faster, lips slightly parted in concentration. The longer he did it, the more Julie’s embarrassment faded into something else—a quiet thrill at being examined like this, reduced to nothing but a pair of perfect tits in his hands.  

Finally, Nick exhaled sharply. "Stand up," he murmured, voice thick.  

She didn’t hesitate. Rising from the couch, she turned, already lifting the hem of her skirt. Nick groaned at the sight—the dark lace of her thong, the sheer nylon stretched taut over the curve of her ass, the reddened lines where the stockings dug into her thighs.  

His zipper was down before she’d even fully turned around.  

And just like every time before, Julie stood perfectly still, listening to the wet slap of his hand working his cock, the way his breath hitched when his thumb teased over the head. She didn’t need to look to know he was staring at her ass, imagining things he wouldn’t—couldn’t—do to her.  

When he came, it was with a choked-off curse, his cum splattering on the floor.  

Nick took a moment to catch his breath before tucking himself away. Then, as always, he stood, pulled Julie close, and kissed her deeply, his tongue sweeping possessively into her mouth.

When he left that night, Julie stood in the quiet of her apartment, fingers absently tracing the damp spot on her panties. 

Finding Balance

By the fourth month, Nick and Julie had settled into a rhythm that felt almost like a relationship milestone. Their dates continued with increasing emotional intimacy - weekend brunches where they shared childhood stories, long walks through the city park with hands intertwined, movie nights where Julie would rest her head on Nick's shoulder as he absentmindedly traced patterns on her stockinged knee.

The pattern at her apartment had evolved into something both predictable and thrilling.

***

Tuesday Evening

Julie wore a cream-colored blouse that night, the silk material thin enough to reveal the lace outline of her bra beneath. Her pencil skirt hugged her curves, stopping just above her knees, and her legs were encased in nude stockings, the seam running up the back in a perfect line. Nick had noticed them immediately when she crossed her legs at dinner, his eyes following the seam as it disappeared beneath her skirt.

As always, they ended up on Julie's couch, lips locked in a passionate embrace. Nick's hands found her thighs, fingers tracing the delicate lace tops of her stockings, feeling the contrast between smooth nylon and warm skin.

After a few minutes of this, he broke the kiss and leaned back slightly, his hands moving upward to cup her breasts through her blouse.

"God, these feel amazing," he murmured, his thumbs circling her nipples through the layers of silk and lace. "I think about them all the time, you know."

Julie flushed, a mixture of embarrassment and arousal coloring her cheeks. "You do?"

"Mmhmm," Nick nodded, his eyes fixed on his hands as they kneaded her flesh. "When I'm at work, when I'm driving... just thinking about how they feel in my hands."

His touch was reverent, almost worshipful, as he unbuttoned the top three buttons of her blouse to reveal the cream-colored bra beneath. The cups strained to contain her, creating a deep valley of cleavage that Nick couldn't tear his eyes from.

"34F," he said, as if reminding himself. "I still can't believe it."

Julie had grown accustomed to this—the way Nick would stop kissing her to focus entirely on her breasts, the way he'd talk about them like they were separate from her, a treasure he'd been granted special access to. There was something oddly soothing about it, the predictability, the certainty that this was as far as they would go.

When he finally asked her to stand, she did so without hesitation, lifting her skirt to reveal her matching cream thong and the tops of her stockings digging slightly into the flesh of her thighs.

***

Friday Night

Another evening, another variation on their ritual. This time, Julie wore a royal blue dress with a V-neck that dipped just low enough to be tasteful but enticing. Her stockings were black again—Nick had mentioned offhandedly that they were his favorite.

Their kisses were brief that night, Nick quickly transitioning to what they both knew he truly wanted. His hands cupped her breasts, thumbs stroking her nipples to stiff peaks through the material of her dress.

"I love how responsive you are," he told her, voice husky. "The way they stiffen up for me. Like they know they're mine to play with."

Julie's breath caught at his possessive words, her body responding with a surge of wetness between her thighs.

Nick pulled down the V-neck of her dress, exposing the tops of her breasts above her black bra. "Look how perfect they are," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "So full. So soft." His fingers traced the lace edge of her bra reverently.

Julie had stopped feeling self-conscious about these moments. Nick's admiration was so genuine, so free of malice, that she found herself enjoying his attention, even as she yearned for more.

When he finally zipped himself up after coming to the sight of her bent over, stockings stretched tight across her ass, she felt a curious mixture of disappointment and satisfaction.

***

Wednesday Evening

It happened on a rainy evening when they'd rushed from the car to her apartment, laughing as droplets soaked through their clothes. Julie's white blouse had become partially transparent, her black bra clearly visible beneath. Nick couldn't take his eyes off her as she hung up their wet jackets.

Their ritual began as usual—passionate kisses that gave way to Nick's focused attention on her breasts.

"Christ, Julie," he breathed, weighing them in his palms. "They're fucking perfect. Do you have any idea what these do to me?"

As if to emphasize his point, he stood suddenly, turning her to face the back of the couch. Julie bent forward slightly, hiking up her skirt to reveal the black thong sandwiched between her ass cheeks, her stockings clinging to her damp skin.

This time, instead of turning away, Julie glanced over her shoulder, curiosity getting the better of her.

Nick had his cock in hand, stroking furiously as he stared at her ass. It was the first time she'd seen him—average length, decent girth, certainly nothing to be ashamed of. The head was flushed an angry red as he worked himself, his breath coming in short pants.

The sight sent a shock of heat through Julie. There was nothing inadequate about Nick's equipment. Why, then, did he never take things further?

She turned her head forward again, not wanting to embarrass him, but the image stayed with her long after he'd left.

***

Later that night, Julie lay in her bed, frustration and desire coiling hot in her belly. The memory of Nick's cock in his hand, the reverent way he'd touched her breasts, the gifts he continued to lavish upon her—all of it swirled together in a confusing mix of satisfaction and yearning.

She reached for her nightstand drawer, pulling out the thick dildo that had become her nightly companion. Slicking it with lubricant, she positioned it between her legs, closing her eyes as she pushed it inside.

But it wasn't Nick she imagined as she began to fuck herself. It was Eric.

Eric, her ex from three years ago. Eric, with his cruel smirk and rough hands. Eric, who had used her body with a casual disregard that had both humiliated and thrilled her.

"You fucking love this, don't you?" The memory of his voice was crystal clear as she worked the dildo in and out of her sopping pussy. "Just a set of holes for me to use."

Julie turned onto her hands and knees, the position allowing the dildo to penetrate deeper as she thrust it backwards into herself. In her mind, Eric was behind her, his hands gripping her hips tight enough to bruise, his cock slamming into her with punishing force.

"Look at those tits swing," she imagined him growling, one hand reaching around to twist her nipple painfully. "Fucking cow tits bouncing while I pound this tight cunt."

Julie's breath came in ragged gasps as she fucked herself harder, the dildo making obscene squelching sounds in her soaked pussy. She imagined Eric's hand in her hair, yanking her head back, forcing her to arch her spine.

"This ass was made for fucking," Eric's voice snarled in her fantasy. "Gonna fill your greedy pussy with my cum, you desperate slut."

Her movements became frantic, the dildo pistoning in and out as she chased her orgasm. In her mind, Eric was relentless, calling her every filthy name he could think of, treating her body like it existed solely for his pleasure.

"Take it, whore," she imagined him growling as he slammed into her. "Take every fucking inch of my cock in this slutty cunt."

Julie came with a muffled scream into her pillow, her pussy clenching around the dildo, her body shuddering through waves of intense pleasure. As the aftershocks subsided, she collapsed onto her stomach, the dildo still buried inside her.

The guilt she once felt at fantasizing about Eric instead of Nick had faded. She understood now that what Nick gave her—tenderness, admiration, affection—was separate from what she craved in her most private moments: to be used, degraded, taken without pretense.

And for now, that balance seemed to work.