It was hot in Modena. I walked through town in shiny black pantyhose, knowing that evening I would take them off in front of the man who had come specifically for them. He didn't want a new pair from a shop. He wanted the tights I had spent the whole day in: walking the streets, sitting in cafés, sweating. My scent, the nylon and the thought that it had been against my body all day turned him on.
Men come to me with all kinds of desires. Some say plainly that they want sex. Others play the respectable gentleman for ages before they dare name their fetish. This client told me in advance what he wanted. He liked my legs and the fact that I'm trans, but the worn pantyhose mattered most. He paid for them and didn't pretend they were a romantic keepsake.
That morning I put on a black 60 DEN pair. The fabric hugged my legs and caught the light. By evening the tights held the whole day: the heat, the long walk, the warmth of my skin. I deliberately didn't change before he arrived. I wanted him to see them on me.
When I opened the door, he greeted me and almost immediately dropped his eyes to my legs.
“Are you wearing them today?” he asked.
“Since this morning, darling. Just as you asked.”
He smiled but stayed by the door, as though he was afraid to show how much those words had turned him on. He took out the money quickly. Then we went into the bedroom, where his composure began to slip.
I didn't take the pantyhose off straight away. He watched every move I made, and I could see how badly he wanted to hold them. This normally calm man couldn't take his eyes off my legs. At last I slowly pulled off the nylon, turned the tights inside out and handed them to him.
He took them in both hands and pressed them to his face. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, then did it again. He didn't want perfume or the smell of fresh laundry. What excited him was that the pantyhose smelled like me. He stopped hiding his desire and how much this dirty fetish aroused him.
Our sex ended with him coming on my body, still clutching my pantyhose. He was quiet for a while afterwards. Then he folded them carefully and slipped them into the inside pocket of his coat. The way he handled them told me he would be back.
A week later I had another pair ready for him: thin red pantyhose, 20 DEN. After the thick black nylon, they looked almost provocative. I put them on again that morning and wore them all day around Modena.
He stopped in the middle of the room when he saw the red pair. This time I knew exactly what was going through his head. It wasn't just the colour or the sight of my legs through the sheer fabric. He was looking at something I had worn since morning and would soon get to take away.
I said it to him plainly. He blushed, although we both remembered our last meeting perfectly well. It amused me that talking about my scent embarrassed him more than sex. When I gave him the red pair, he handled it with the same care as the black one.
He came back again after that. Every time he wanted tights I had actually worn, never a new pair bought especially for him. I liked his honesty. He didn't dress up his lust in pretty words, and I didn't pretend I didn't know why he had come.
That is how I remember the client from Modena: polite and reserved, but completely undone by my scent and worn nylon.
IVI. 🖤
