Telephone Tease

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A phone-chat session with a "sheer nylons" theme.
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A Kinky Catriona story

Synopsis

Miss Catriona, an experienced phone-chat specialist, arranges a session of booked chats with the theme "Sheer Nylon". She invites a gentleman to her flat, to be used as her "plaything" during the session. A pleasurable time is enjoyed by all. A Kinky Catriona story.

*

My name is Catriona. I'm a highly experienced provider of personal phone-chat services, based in central Scotland. I have established an impeccable reputation for quality and dependability in the services I offer.

I pride myself on creating an intimate, personal and intensely seductive atmosphere for conversation, and I offer my clients the opportunity to explore an almost limitless range of aspects of the erotic.

I take extreme care to ensure that I have fully understood each client's individual requirements, before we proceed with our booked session. I adapt my approach accordingly, depending on how subtle, or how outrageously explicit, my client wishes me to be.

It so happens that I am also a successful independent businesswoman, and my professional life could keep me fully occupied, if I allowed it to. Because of my inordinately high sex drive, however, I choose to place strict limits on the amount of time that I spend on work and related matters.

As one element of an enormously varied range of sexual pursuits, including some of the more extreme, my phone sex services continue to flourish. I'd go so far as to say that for me they've become something of an obsession. I advertise a relatively expensive menu of options, aimed at the more discerning client, and I have built up a select and enormously loyal client base.

Some time ago, I decided to base some of my phone-chat sessions around specific themes. One reason for trying this was that I sometimes like to get into a particular sort of mood, to run a session. Now, in practice, I can "switch" easily enough between dominant and submissive roles, but on occasion I take pleasure in creating an intense mood of a particular kind, and in sustaining that mood, throughout the evening.

The theme that I've chosen for this evening's session is "Sheer Nylon". That's a favourite of mine, as I get to wear some of this delightfully erotic material, pampering myself, putting on tights of the most luxurious and outrageously provocative kind. I also have the perfect excuse to stand in front of a full-length mirror, posing, and pouting, as I gaze at myself, admiringly, dressed to excite the most committed fetishist, beyond his highest expectations.

For a phone-chat session, with no camera involved, that may strike you as illogical, but I always insist on creating the highest possible level of authenticity. That, after all, is the whole point of my "themed" sessions: I can group my calls around a single category of requirement, and that way, I can immerse myself in the details. That's fun for me, as I get very involved, and every session has its unique atmosphere. Looking at it from my clients' point of view, though, I'm sure it's no more than they would expect. They're paying premium rates, after all.

To enhance the authenticity still further, I like to invite at least one gentleman to join me in my apartment, for each of these sessions. The way this works is simple: whatever I'm talking about, with my phone client, I like to be able to act it out, or something like it, with my visitor, there and then, in my room. The lucky man I'm with becomes my "phone-chat plaything" for the duration of the session. He earns this privilege through proving his complete obedience to me, and through demonstrating an alert, active responsiveness to my sexual aura.

With a specialist requirement, such as a fetish of some kind, a companion can be even more useful. If I make my selection carefully, I can benefit from the expert guidance of a "specialist adviser", a facility which can prove invaluable. Much as I'd like to think that I'm fully conversant with all aspects of erotic gratification, there's invariably some obscure nook or cranny, of almost any fetishist pursuit, that I've yet to explore.

These nylon-themed sessions are among my favourites, for the simple reason that I get very aroused, without having to do very much. All I do, most of the time, is stand around, or sometimes just sit or lie around, while a man runs his hands over my legs, thighs and bottom. Sometimes I choose to take the lead, perhaps by sitting on him, or stroking him with my feet. It's all very intimate, in an oddly kinky kind of way, and I always find it incredibly relaxing.

This evening, my outfit is a fairly close approximation to my usual office wear, and I feel supremely self-confident. If I turned up for work like this, though, some eyebrows might be raised, or at least, gently arched. I'm wearing a neat, understated pinstripe suit in charcoal, which is marvellously comfortable. It's well tailored, and not so close-fitting that I can't let the skirt ride up, effortlessly, when the time is right for that.

Underneath the jacket is a crisp white short-sleeved blouse. My shoes are my Pigalle stilettos, by Louboutin of Paris, in gleaming jet black. For the benefit of connoisseurs of nylon tights, I'm wearing a pair especially imported from the USA, the very best that I could get my hands on.

These tights are amazing. They're so sheer and light that they seem barely visible, yet they impart an exquisite pale golden tan to my skin, and they have a subtly inviting sheen when they catch the light at certain angles. They feel exquisite, with a soft, silken texture which is so inviting to the touch that I could spend all day caressing my legs and thighs. The sensation of that taut smoothness, as I run my fingertips over my ass cheeks, is simply indescribable. On top of all that, the fabric is reassuringly strong, and would, I feel sure, withstand the coarsest of groping fingers, without coming to any harm at all.

My first phone client has requested an "office" scenario, and so, when he calls, my visitor and I will be in my dining room, where the large table will take the place of my executive desk, and where there's also a spacious armchair, close by. My phone client will wish to imagine that he is attending a formal interview, for a position with my company.

He already understands that my selection procedure is - shall we say - unconventional. My legs, and in particular, my sheer nylon tights, will be the focus of attention throughout. This gentleman has established himself as one of my most devout admirers. Because he has such a kinky imagination, I call him Mr K.

My visitor this evening has arrived in plenty of time for our appointment. Interestingly enough, since I've been offering these sessions, I've never had anyone show up late. He and I have met a number of times before, always at my "nylon" theme sessions. To describe this gentleman as a fetishist, though, would be a serious understatement. He's driven by a deep-seated compulsion to enjoy direct contact with sheer tights or stockings, stretched taut over female flesh, whenever he can. He lives to touch nylon, and would spend every waking minute doing so, if he could. In view of the hardcore nature of his obsession, I call him Mr H.

Mr H is the ideal choice for my phone-chat plaything this evening. He becomes very aroused, when in fetish mode, and his cock, which is of more-or-less average dimensions I'd say, feels reassuringly weighty and solid in my hand. Moreover, he's compliant to a fault, terrified that he'd miss out on something by failing to obey one of my instructions to the letter.

When he arrives, I follow my usual procedure, sending him to the bathroom, to undress, and then inviting him to join me in the living room. He's naked, except for a fresh white towel, which he will remove as soon as the telephone rings. I'm relaxing with a glass of wine. I pour him a glass, and indicate that he should sit at my feet.

Still following my usual sequence of events, I share some ideas with him about this evening's session. I tell him a little about my first booked phone client, Mr K, so that he'll have some idea what to expect, as the session gets under way. Then, after we've chatted like this for a while, it's time for me to install my plaything in the required position for my first booked phone chat. As we start, he must be on all fours, underneath the table.

The phone rings, and the conversation begins. Now, I invite you to imagine the scenario, just as my phone client is doing. I'm seated at my office desk, the door securely locked, my "interview in progress" notice prominently displayed on the door. My PA has left, a little while earlier, after refilling my coffee pot for me.

My phone client, Mr K, assures me that he is smartly dressed for his "interview". As the process begins, he is with me in my office. I direct him to get down on his hands and knees underneath my desk, so that he can look up my skirt. I insist that he is to stay there until instructed otherwise. I open my legs very gradually, allowing my skirt to ride up slowly, and as I do so, he becomes bolder. He reaches out to stroke my legs, moving his hands tentatively upwards, exploring my sleek inner thighs with wary, delicate fingertips. His gradual progress continues, until, at last, he's got his face buried deep in my crotch.

Mr H, meanwhile, is already under the dining-room table, engaged in the very same kind of tentative exploration, all the while paying close attention to my phone commentary. I permit him to remain there for a while, in this fully subservient position, letting him lick and sniff to his heart's content. From time to time, he runs his hands gently over my upper thighs. I find this extraordinarily pleasurable, and surprisingly relaxing.

What's more, it's quite a boost to my self-confidence - even though I don't really need one - to have this handsome, mature and highly successful professional gentleman paying homage to me, in this perverse but intensely gratifying manner. I'd feel quite content to leave him there indefinitely, while I sip my coffee, and carry on writing my reports, and make a phone call or two. Every successful female executive should have one!

Here and now, though, our time is limited, not least because my phone client is paying a premium rate for his offbeat pleasures. For the rest of our chat, I invite him out from under the desk, so that he can have more space to express his enthusiasm for what I'm offering him.

I tell him that I'm going to stand up, and I invite him to spread himself out in my padded leather executive chair. I describe how I remove my jacket, and whip off my skirt. I step out of my shoes, and then I lie across the desk, on my back, in front of him. It's a big desk, clear of all clutter, and I can lie across it comfortably, with room to spare.

As I lie down on top of the living-room table, I slip a cushion under my head. I tell Mr K that he now has full, unrestricted access to my legs, thighs and crotch, and straight away, I know his hands will be everywhere! Mr H, meanwhile, responds to this invitation as though it had been meant for him, and makes his approach accordingly.

I lie flat on the table, and close my eyes, giving myself up to the delicate strokes of Mr H's inquisitively probing fingertips. If he happened to glance across at my face, he'd see an expression of the deepest contentment. Just for the moment, though, he remains utterly engrossed in examining the gossamer membrane of sheer, pale gold nylon that separates my skin from his.

He slides a finger around the top of my tights, running his fingertip provocatively along the edge, following my waistline. Of course, he's trying to tell me that he wants to slide his hand inside, to make contact with my succulent pussy, and to feel the thrilling sensation of warm, sticky moistness on his skin. That's forbidden territory though, in this particular scenario, anyway, and how well he knows it!

My phone client knows it, too, and I admonish him firmly for his impertinence. He'll have to make do with examining the patch of wetness in my tights that's forming in between my legs, as the juices ooze out of me, and soak into the nylon. I'm very wet now, and even though he can't make contact with my skin, I let him know that he can touch, smell and taste my juices, to his heart's content.

Stretched out across my table-top like this, I could happily drift off, succumbing to the waves of exquisite bliss rolling languorously through me - but for Mr K, the clock is still ticking! I ask my visitor for another cushion - a nice large one this time - and I keep my running commentary going for my phone client. As I roll over on the table, I slip the cushion under my tummy, so that my ass is raised a little. Now, I tell Mr K that he can explore the whole of my smooth, wide ass, and the backs of my thighs and knees.

As for Mr H, he needs no prompting, before getting to work. I wriggle close to the edge of the table, to give him the easiest possible access. He needs no further guidance from me, and the touch of his fingertips seems to have become even more deft and delicate, as he traces my ample curves. Could things get any better than this? I'm tempted to offer the good Mr K some extra time on the phone, at no charge! That's not part of my business model, though, and in any case, he's a busy man, with other deadlines.

Chiding myself for such laxity, I roll over again, and sit up, indicating to Mr K that he should sit back in the chair. Meanwhile, Mr H continues to follow my instructions, compliantly taking his cues from me, all the while, and sits down as well. I sit on the edge of the table, and work my nyloned feet deftly into his groin. He runs his hands over the upper surfaces of my feet, as delicately as ever, as he writhes ecstatically in the chair.

At last I decide that the preamble has lasted long enough. I direct Mr K to show me how well his erection has developed. Once again, Mr H - correctly - takes this instruction to be meant for him, and complies forthwith, gripping his cock at the base to hold it steady for my inspection.

Simultaneously, two solid, meaty cocks are presented for my approval, both fiercely erect. Each of these fine specimens of mature manhood - one that I have to imagine, the other all too sensuously real - is immediately pressed tightly between a pair of exquisitely nyloned feet as I stroke and slide, squeeze and squash, mischievously, demonstrating thoroughly-honed footwork skills and quickly generating an encouragingly high level of arousal in response.

I have my next move clearly in mind, but quickly realise that, for Mr K, no further intervention will be necessary, after all. Taking over the directions for his scenario, he implores me to lean back and spread my legs wide. He's breathing heavily, and I can tell from his indistinct utterances that he's masturbating vigorously. I tell him that I want him to shoot his spunk for me, right now, between my legs and all over my thighs.

I hear a jubilant shout, which can only mean one thing. Imagining a generous shot of semen, I congratulate him on a quite awesome result. He murmurs a characteristically appreciative response. I follow through by telling him that I'm delighted to have taken his spunk on my tights, and that I'm not going to wash it off, or change my clothes, oh no, I'm going to re-live that moment, over and over, until late into the night, as I run my fingers over the moist, sticky nylon.

Now, my usual approach to these sessions is to try to manage the proceedings so that both my partners would reach orgasm in the same moment. It's a little game that I always love to play, aiming for what I call a "photo finish". Today, however, my phone client got a little ahead of himself, and he still has a little of his booked time left.

I make a point of commenting positively on his performance at interview. I also take a moment to ascertain that he enjoyed the experience. I'm delighted to learn that it met his expectations, and that, whether or not his application were to prove successful, he would be keen to have further conversations with me, in due course. I thank him for joining me this evening, and bid him a formal but friendly goodnight.

Meanwhile, Mr H is still engrossed in who-knows-what nylon fantasies, enjoying the spectacle as I lie with my legs spread wide, stroking myself contentedly. He doesn't know it yet, but he is in for a treat. Now that I've so clearly visualised Mr K shooting his ample load, and spattering my luxuriously sheer tights with his semen, I'm keen to experience the real thing, right here in my own living room. Mr H no doubt has exactly the same thing in mind.

The next move that I'd planned to make with Mr K had been to slide off the desk and onto his lap, for some more nylon-fetish naughtiness. For that, he'll have to wait for another time. Bringing the focus of my attention back to Mr H, I move to the edge of the table, and swing myself over onto him, while he's still in the armchair, shifting round so that I'm facing away from him, and pushing my ass into his face. I hold that position for a moment or two, smothering his face between my ample cheeks. Then I lower myself carefully down onto his lap.

Mr H is a rather small man, but fortunately, he has a strong preference for full-figured women. As I sit down, he takes my full weight, and for my part, I have the pleasure of feeling his robust erection pressing against me. In this position, I can wriggle about very easily, and I take enormous pleasure in slithering around, tantalisingly, over him. I'm bearing down heavily on that helpless cock, and then easing the pressure, so that I'm sliding over it with the lightest possible touch.

I know that the friction of my silk-smooth tights against his skin will be sending him absolutely crazy. It's the sensation that he yearns for, as soon as he wakes in the morning, and I know that there's scarcely a moment when it's not on his mind.

The briefest glimpse of a woman's legs in stockings or tights is enough to distract him from whatever else he might be attempting to think about, and so he goes through life in a perpetual state of torment. For him, this fleeting, electrifying contact with the tautly-stretched, barely-visible membrane, that's sheathing me from waist to toe, is the ultimate prize.

Perhaps it's because the experience is so intensely pleasurable for him, that he's holding out so long. That's fine by me though, because I'm having my fun, too. You might say I'm a bit of a nylon fetishist myself. I love to be able to envelop myself in it, and the frisson of excitement, as I put on a brand new pair of luxury tights - rolling them skilfully up my legs and thighs, and then feeling the waistband hugging me closely as I draw them around my hips - is a unique and very special pleasure.

As soon as I've got the tights on, I have to slip my feet into a pair of elegant stilettos, and gaze at myself in a full-length mirror. I love the way the immaculate smoothness of the nylon flatters my curves. The subtle warm glow of the pale tan shade does wonders for my skin tone, and for my self-assurance.

It seems such a shame to cover up even a part of this awe-inspiring picture. That's why, when I've invested in the highest quality nylon that I can buy, I always wear the shortest skirts, and the highest heels, that I can get away with. When my legs look this good, I've no choice, I've got to flaunt them!

I'm just as thrilled by the magical friction between nylon and skin, when I make contact with a man's naked body, while wearing stockings or tights. Perhaps it really is simply a matter of static electricity, and there are thousands of tiny shocks tickling those nerve-endings, whenever the fetish-fabric brushes across them. Perhaps that's why I imagine a barely audible rustling as I slide my nylon-sheathed backside across Mr H's solid erection. In pitch darkness, we'd see sparks, I'm certain of that.

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