Oksana arrived ten minutes early. Her voice was soft, her smile hesitant. She was delicate, almost elfin—long, slender legs, fair complexion, ash-blonde hair. Her Ukrainian roots were evident in her accent, which sounded like a whisper. “Is it okay if I don’t talk much?” she asked. I nodded. She appeared vulnerable—but not weak.
She wore a light blue, soft wool dress that only hinted at her slender contours. Her movements were deliberate, almost shy, as she undressed. Under the dress: only a razor-thin, pearl-white pantyhose that felt like a second skin over her hips. No panties. No bra. Only her—and nylon.
I set the lighting soft, almost cinematic. She lay on the old leather sofa, bent her legs, and drew one knee slowly to her chest. The crotch of her tights stretched, revealing the outline of her wet labia—I held my breath. “Just take photos,” she whispered. “And then—maybe—more.”
After a few shots she sat up, reached into her small cloth bag, and pulled out a tiny pair of scissors. “I learned this at a shoot in Odessa,” she said. With a steady hand she cut a small, oval hole in the crotch—and lay back again. Her fingers slid through the opening, caressing herself. Her lips parted slightly, her gaze went to the ceiling. I knelt beside her.
“Do you want to taste me?” she asked suddenly, completely calm. I nodded. She took my hand and guided it to her wetness. Then I leaned forward, slid my tongue through the hole, and licked her slowly, carefully. Her entire body trembled under my lips; she moaned softly, then louder. “Ne zupynyaisya… please don’t stop.”
She came quietly, trembling, her fingers digging into the leather beneath her. Then she sat up, kissed me gently—and then bent down herself. Her hands opened my pants, bringing out my cock. She took it slowly into her mouth—gentle, devoted, as if offering a gift. Her tongue circled me, her lips closed tightly around me. I held her head, stroked her hair.
When I came, my body jerked, and my cum filled her mouth. Some crawled down her chin onto her chest, a drop landed on the nylon between her legs. She looked up, then began gathering it all—carefully, deliberately—with her fingers and tongue. “I like it when it stays on me,” she said. “It feels like you.”
She slipped two fingers through the hole in her tights, spread the cum inside her. Then she licked her fingers clean. “Dlja mene ce spohad – a memory,” she whispered. And then: “If you want, I’ll come again tomorrow.”