Fishnets and his favourite t-shirt

Image by the genius Stuart F Taylor

She puts on the fishnets with no knickers. The tights are medium gauge, with holes just wide enough that you can easily stick a finger through to rip them. She’s never worn them like this before, and the cool air on her cunt feels strange when it’s also flimsily caged. Strange but good. Next she puts on the t-shirt he left on her bedroom floor last night. A faded black one with the logo of one of his favourite bands. If you’re joining me in this fantasy, feel free to pick whichever shirt has most resonance for you: maybe it’s the home kit from your football team, a flannel one that you wear around the house on lazy, happy days, maybe it’s merch from your favourite festival, whatever. Pick whichever you’re most likely to leave on your girlfriend’s bedroom floor. Whichever shirt you’d most like to dress your partner in before you fuck them. She puts on the fishnets and that shirt, then angles the mirror.

Kneeling on the bed holding her phone, she experiments with angles and poses until she’s got it perfect. Facing away from her reflection, balling the hem of the shirt in one fist, pulling it tight over the meat of her arse, showing just a hint of what’s beneath – those fishnet tights, no knickers. Head half-turned towards the camera, hint of a filthy grin in the profile of her face. The image screams ‘come get me’. The text she sends to accompany the photo tells him ‘finders keepers’.

When the message pings through to his phone and the picture shows up, he blushes and clasps the screen tightly to his chest. Wondering if nearby strangers can tell from his blush that the faint buzz heralded a message that literally made his dick jump.

Holy fuck.

Something about the fact that it’s his shirt on her. Something about the tension in the fabric as she yanks it taut against her full, round arse. Something about the way she’s wearing the same teasing smile that she used the last time she wound him up into aching frustration – tied his wrists to the bedframe and toyed with his dick till he begged her to sit on it. There’s something about how personal it all is. In the background, on her bedside table, he can see the water glass that he placed there just last night.

He shifts in his seat, the head of his cock brushing gently against the inside of his boxers. Then he hides the notification – saves that photo for later, when he has time to study it.


They don’t see each other for the next few days, but on each day she sends a variation on the theme. That same outfit: fishnets and his favourite t-shirt. One snap where she’s lying on her stomach, the shirt bunched up around her waist to allow full view of the smooth curve of her arse leading down to her thigh. Tattoo just visible through the flimsy black net. Her head is resting on one arm, face turned to camera: there’s that grin again.

He swallows. Shifts in his seat. This time he’s alone when he receives it, so he allows himself a squeeze of his crotch though no more than that.

The next day she wears that same outfit in the kitchen – bent over the counter, back arched, feet crossed at the ankle so that her bum, presented like that, looks a little like a heart. He can’t see her face in this one, but he knows she’s smiling in exactly the same way. It’s that smile he thinks of when he touches his dick. But he doesn’t let himself come – he knows not to. He knows her well enough now to understand that these photos aren’t the end phase of an idea, they’re the first few steps that will build to a grand finale.


When they next see each other, she greets him at the door – of course – in that outfit. The shirt that he’s so used to seeing on himself, in the mirror, takes on a whole new appeal now it’s overstretched across her full tits. Her nipples are just visible through the fabric too – he wants to run his hands over them. Feel the slight tug as each of his fingers ripples past, making them harder. When she’s standing up, the hem of the shirt just about reaches an inch beyond her cunt, as if it was made-to-measure for tease and denial.

She smiles that smile again and takes his hand, gesturing for him to close the door behind him. Leads him to the bottom of the stairs, then kisses him on tiptoe. Placing his fingers gently between her legs, so he can see how hot she is for him. The way her slickness dampens the crotch of the tights.

He moans.

She kisses him again, then turns round to walk upstairs. With each step she takes up the staircase, the hem of his favourite t-shirt reveals a bit more of his favourite arse. That delicious crease right at the bottom of the buttock, the swell as the eye is drawn upwards, occasional flashes of dark, plump labia… he’s seen this a thousand times, but never studied it as closely as he does now.

When she turns to grin at him and urge him upwards, he shakes his head: not yet. He can’t bear to miss out on the six or seven more steps of tease as she walks to the top. When she eventually makes it there, he puts his hand on the banister and begins to follow. It’s only then that he notices his hand is trembling.


In the bedroom she strips him gently and slowly. Standing him in front of the mirror and instructing him to stay nice and still, she begins with the softest kisses. On his neck, his face, his forehead, his head – feather-light, so if he had his eyes closed he might wonder if he was really being kissed at all. Running gentle fingertips under the hem of the t-shirt he’s wearing, she lifts it over his head and tosses it aside. Making a mental note to check whether the one he wears tomorrow is that one, or the one she’s in now.

Unzipping his flies and bending down as she removes his jeans, she doesn’t need to check whether he’s watching their reflection – of course he is. He’s mesmerised by the hem of that t-shirt. Until now he’s only cared where the hem falls if it fails to cover his stomach – willing it longer in winter when he’s put on a layer of insulation through comfort food. Now he’s wishing it were shorter, even if only by an inch – he wants to see every detail of that fishnet-clad arse. Catch another glimpse of the net stretched taut over her damp cunt when she bends over further.

When she leads him to the bed and lies him down, he’s naked but for his socks. His cock is straining to be touched, but she won’t give in to that yet. Instead she straddles him, kisses him. Gentle fluttery kisses against her favourite of his tattoos – left wrist, right forearm, inner bicep… Keeping her crotch just slightly out of reach so he can’t fuck upwards with twitching hips and touch his shaft to the growing patch of wetness.

She licks his lips with the tip of her tongue softly. Playfully. Then pins his wrists to the bed either side of his head so he’s under control.

“Don’t move,” she tells him, softening the order with a grin. “I’m not going to tie you up this time, I want to see what restraint you can summon alone.”

He nods. Swallows. Squirms slightly, earning a playful tut.

“Not yet,” she says. “First let’s take off your socks.”

And with that she turns around and sits just beyond reach of his straining prick. Straddling his thighs so all he can see is the back of his favourite t-shirt riding up to display her arse. Much closer now than he was on the stairs, he can now see every detail of how the fishnet stretches across her bum, the neat black lines of net pressing into her skin. She runs those feathery touches down his legs to his feet, and delicately eases off his socks – one after the other. After throwing them triumphantly across the room, she turns to look over her shoulder at him – grabbing the hem of the shirt in one fist so it stretches taut across her bottom, grinning that playful grin as he lets out a shivery moan.

Just like the first picture.

He wants to try and fuck upwards, her arse is so close to where his dick strains and twitches. But he’s good and she told him to lie still, so he does. Hands resting exactly where she pinned them. And somewhere in the back of his mind there’s relief about that: this all feels far too scripted for him to join in with. He’s intimidated by this mischievous confidence, he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Figures fuck it – he’ll just lie back and enjoy the ride.

At the same time, he’s shaking with need to be inside her. Entertaining impossible fantasies of the fishnet bursting open and her reaching between her legs to take his dick and guide it in right now as she sits down. Fuck.

By the time she shifts position and settles down facing him, he’s started leaking precum. A glistening drop on the head of his prick, which she notices and comments upon:

“Ooh,” she says, all soft and excited. “You’re so fucking ready for this.”

He nods. He’d intended to show enthusiasm but actually it looks more like desperate panic – he nods too many times, vigorously. Has to remind himself to calm down and try to stay still. But he’s half-insensible with lust now and once he’s started moving he can’t stop. She giggles at his loss of control, dips her head down so her lips are an inch from the head of his cock. Sticks her tongue out like she’s taunting him.

Then licks.

He pulses.

As she sits back up slowly, he notices the t-shirt once again: the way it looks so different on her curves. Tight across her chest, nipples taut and obvious. He remembers when and where he bought it, and for a second the ramp up of anticipation is joined by a wave of happy nostalgia. A younger version of him handing over thirty in cash, oblivious to the fact that one day it would be worn by the woman he loved as she kissed precum from the tip of his dick and then wriggled up his body. He visibly twitches when she sits up, his cock now brushing against the wet slit of her cunt. Still caged in the fishnets, but otherwise oh-so-utterly ready for him.

It’s almost time, he can feel it, and unthinkingly he lifts his hands to try and place them on her hips. He wants to pull her down onto his cock, but she bats him away.

“No moving yet, remember?”

Oh fuck yes. OK. He remembers. He puts his hands back on the bed, wrists pointed towards her in submission. She grins again in that flirty way, and whips the t-shirt up briefly, to show him her tits. Making eye contact and smiling, she jiggles at him like she’s flashing strangers from the back window of a coach. He can’t help but laugh, though it doesn’t quite break the tension – he’s straining to be inside her. Even moreso when she giggles too, then wiggles her hips from side to side a little, teasing his aching prick.

It really is nearly time, though. There’s only so long she can toy with him before she loses patience herself. She’s utterly throbbing for a fuck, and he is so tempting and solid. The kind of erection that needs no gentleness – you can slide down it quickly, slamming it in to the hilt, if that’s what you want, or take your time with that gorgeous first stroke, teasing the head with the wet entrance to your cunt and steadily easing yourself down. Enjoying every single second of the sensation of being stretched out and filled up.

But there’s still the matter of those fishnets.

With the first two fingers of one hand, she pinches the fabric – low down on her right thigh, to the left of her favourite tattoo. She watches his gaze as it follows what she’s doing, satisfied that he understands she’s giving a demonstration. Carefully, deliberately, she pushes her thumb through a hole in the net and tugs outwards. Gently. The tights stretch but they don’t break just yet. She gives another tug, then a harder one.

When she sees him swallow in anticipation, and feels his cock jerk beneath her, that’s when she knows it’s time. She pulls again – hard – and the tights rip. Now there’s a gaping hole, her bare skin exposed. She does it again, a little higher up – pinch, tug, tug… rip. And he watches it as if hypnotised.

Then the left hand, left thigh. Pinch, tug, tug, tug…

Long pause while she looks him right in the eye, noting how short and shallow his breaths, how urgently he wants her to tear it…

…then rip.

Once again, this time with a longer pause in between each tug to really build his want. It’s probably unnecessary – in this moment he is so focused on those fishnets and the tearing and the way her tits stretch out his favourite shirt and the promise of what comes next that nothing else exists in his mind in this moment. It’s just him and her and their unbroken gaze. Their shared desire to break through that last section of fishnet. It’s the only thing preventing her from sliding all the way down his rock-hard dick – relieving the agony of their urgent, mutual need.

At this point she reaches forward and takes one of his hands in her own, pulls it towards her and presses it up to her crotch. She’s so slick now he can barely get a grip on the fishnet to tug, but she’s patient.

He’s trembling.

“Go on,” she urges, clasping him tenderly to her, urging him to make one final hole.

Pinch – the fishnet is slippery in his grasp. Pull – his fingertips brush against the head of his cock. Tug – he’s quite gentle, and there’s just too much give in the fabric.

Then he finds it, a hole in the net, pushes his forefinger through and curves it like he’s beckoning ‘come here’.

“That’s it,” she grins as he yanks hard and tears a new opening.

“Fuck yes that’s it,” she urges him on as he tugs a little harder, one more time, till the hole gapes wide enough to fuck through.

“That’s absolutely it,” as she buries him inside her.



  • TKMax says:

    Insanely hot!

  • fuzzy says:

    just “RAWR”

  • Alix Fox says:

    “He remembers when and where he bought it, and for a second the ramp up of anticipation is joined by a wave of happy nostalgia. A younger version of him handing over thirty in cash, oblivious to the fact that one day it would be worn by the woman he loved as she kissed precum from the tip of his dick and then wriggled up his body.”

    This segment is so headily intoxicating to me. Often, the idea of being reminded of or deliberately reminiscing about the past during sex is written off as unhealthily or even deceptively yearning for something, somewhere or someone else. In fact, I find those moments where I’m vividly aware of and savouring the present, whilst simultaneously channeling beautiful fragments of my past…they feel like zeniths: such high points of next-level pleasure that they almost feel out-of-body, like I’m floating (and gloating) over all the beauty I’ve ever known.

    • Girl on the net says:

      “like I’m floating (and gloating) over all the beauty I’ve ever known.” well that’s me wiping a tear from my eye <3 You're so right, these moments of nostalgia can be so powerful and I think sex can be massively heightened by these kinds of associations. We're human and our minds often wander to all kinds of gorgeous things, and they serve to emphasise the fact that human beings are basically just a collection of all our stories and experiences.

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