Amélie arrived at my studio on a clear early afternoon. The Parisian spring was in the air, mild and promising. She wore a slim-fitted trench coat, her blonde hair tied into a loose knot, lips lightly tinted – French class, reserved yet palpably charged. Her skin was fair, almost alabaster, and her steps were soft but determined.
“Bonjour, Marc,” she said with a slight accent that sounded like a whisper. Her voice had depth, calmness, but also a hint of challenge. I handed her a bottle of water. No small talk – she was professional. And yet, something in her gaze promised more than routine. As she surveyed the studio space, her coat swayed, giving a fleeting glimpse of smooth nylon and nothing beneath.
While I adjusted the lights, she began undressing slowly. First, she unbuttoned the coat. Beneath it: no blouse, no bra – just a glossy, anthracite-colored pantyhose stretched like lacquer over her hips. Her small, firm breasts moved with each breath. “Is this okay?” she asked. I nodded. The camera clicked.
The shoot started quietly. Amélie moved elegantly, every pose like a still from a dream. She let herself sink onto the velvet sofa, lifted one leg, then the other, playing with her toes. Her eyes stayed locked on my lens – demanding, yet with a trace of innocence. Then she slowly spread her legs, her hand gliding between her thighs, sliding over the nylon.
“Do you want to see more?” she whispered. Her fingers paused briefly before she said, “But the nylon is taut, you know…” – I understood immediately. She pulled a small nail-scissors from her coat pocket, which she had set beside the sofa within easy reach. “I prefer a clean opening,” she said. With surprising precision, she cut a small hole into the crotch of her pantyhose, just large enough to expose her delicate, wet slit.
I stepped closer. The sight was electrifying. Her rosy skin glistened through the nylon’s frame. Her fingers now ran directly over her clitoris as she began to moan softly. I felt my cock stiffen in my pants. Amélie noticed. “Show it to me,” she said in German – gentle but firm.
I loosened my belt and let my pants drop. She sat on the edge of the sofa, licking her lips, her eyes never leaving my shaft. Her hand gripped me, her slender fingers cool, her movements slow and almost playful. Then she lowered her head.
Her mouth was warm, soft – her lips enveloped me slowly, pulled back, then took me deeper. Her gaze remained upward, alert and challenging. Her tongue traced around the head, while her hands stroked the nylon on her legs. The combination of heat, eye contact, and the subtle sucking sound nearly made me lose control.
“Slow,” I whispered as I felt my body begin to spasm. But she only sped up. Her lips took me deeper, her head moving in rhythmic thrusts. I moaned loudly as I came – hot cum filling her mouth, running down her lips, a drop falling onto her taut pantyhose.
Amélie pulled back and swallowed with relish. Then she slowly licked her lips, as if savoring a dessert. Her fingers wiped the droplet off the nylon and guided it back into her mouth. She smiled: “French girls waste nothing.”
She spread her legs again and showed me the small hole in the pantyhose, now darkened from her own wetness. “Now it’s your turn,” she said. She turned around and knelt on the sofa, her ass raised high, the nylon stretched smooth and glossy over her cheeks. Her fingers slipped between her thighs, widening the opening further.
I knelt behind her and guided myself in. She moaned softly as I entered her – through that tiny hole, the nylon forming a dark frame around us. The friction was intense, wet, tight. I held her hips as I thrust deeper, steadily at first, then faster. Her fingernails scratched at the upholstery. She pressed back against me, hungry, demanding, fully present in the moment.
When we both came a second time, my cum shot deep into her, the last drop running down her thigh over the nylon. She turned to face me, slid her fingers between her legs, gathering the fluid and licking it off. She looked at me: “Next time… we’ll fuck outside.”