Nylon Conquest Ch. 01

Author's Note - Welcome to my first full-length novel for Literotica. This story has tie-ins to my previous works "The Contest" and "Mated for Life", but they are not required reading for Nylon Conquest. Hope you enjoy.

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After the operation, my doctor ordered a full week of bedrest. Thankfully I didn't have to use a bed pan - that was the sole exception to my sentence of immobility. But even so I need a wheelchair just to manage the twenty feet or so to the bathroom.

I'd had a minor paralysis in my right leg. The doctors told me that without an operation, it would be progressive. Walking would become difficult, and by age 40 I could be in a wheelchair. Permanently. So the operation was a no-brainer and I was equally committed to following my doctors' orders to the letter. In particular, I can only bend my legs a little at the waist. I'm really not even supposed to bend my knees much. So I'm mostly stuck.

I had prepared well for the ordeal of my recovery. I'd ordered a special bed, lower than my normal king size. The mattress was level with the seat of my wheelchair to make everything as easy as possible. I could swing my legs over the side of the bed and ease myself into the chair. But that was it. No exceptions. My future mobility demanded it.

The TV remote is on the bed table. I can control the lights and air conditioning with my phone. There are snacks and MRE's close by. Ditto towels, water, and facecloths. I'm set. One week to go.

One thing though. A side effect from the operation I'd never expected. A side effect the doctors never warned me about. I wish they had, but I guess it wouldn't have made a difference in my decision to go ahead. But had they known about it, I might have been able to prepare.

You see, my sense of touch has been amplified. But not equally everywhere. My hands are incredibly sensitive now. Before, when I would pick up a piece of cloth material for example, I might describe it simply, like "soft", or "scratchy", or maybe "stiff".

No more. Now, when I pick up a bit of fabric, I can feel every stitch, every imperfection. Take my sheets, for example. My wife bought them for me before the operation. She said because I'm going to be lying on them (and them on me) during my recovery, that she'd get me the softest, most supple ones available. And she did. She said they were 800 thread count. I guess that's good, because when I touch them, they feel so luxuriously fine, almost chiffon-like to my fingers. I can feel the stitching, the tiny cross-hatching of the weave, the infinitesimal hairs of cotton emanating from each tiny strand.

It's uncanny. I asked my doctor about it. He had to consult a specialist, who wrote to him to say, and I quote:

"The sense of touch is mediated by mechanosensory neurons that are embedded in skin and relay signals from the periphery to the central nervous system. Usually, the effect of spinal procedures is to desensitize patients, who may feel no pain, with some examples of patients burning themselves without even realizing it until they smell their flesh. However, in extremely rare cases, particularly involving the spinal cord, the pathways from the embedded neurons in the skin can be enhanced and sensitized. Your patient appears to be an extreme example even for this phenomenon, which I can only describe as a scientific miracle. I would be honored for the opportunity to study this patient in person."

So no to that. I have no interest in being a test subject for some egghead who wants to get famous studying the remarkable me.

But how can I take advantage of this gift? Is it even a gift? It could be curse. Probably I'll get hurt a lot. I can't imagine what it'll be like if I cut my finger. I may have to wear gloves all the time. Shit.

But surely something good will come of this.

Oh. There's something I haven't mentioned yet. Partly because I'm kinda worried about it. It's not the sort of thing you talk about to just anyone. I haven't even mentioned it to my wife.

Larissa. She is a goddess. 5 foot 11, with a thick black mane hanging in loose curls to her tiny waist. Beautiful jade eyes, high cheekbones and full lips, made for kissing. Her breasts are perfect, full and round (I'm not embarrassed to say those gravity-defying size D's have probably been surgically enhanced. She's not saying, but no woman with 5% body fat can have magnificent breasts like that without a little help).

But her best feature, without a doubt, is her legs. She has the shapeliest, most gorgeous legs I have ever seen. Long, lean, muscular, and athletic. Thirty-eight inches of legs so sexy and hot they should showcase them in the Smithsonian. She puts ten hours a week in the gym working on those legs and her core. Never underestimate the power of those legs. They've paid for our apartment and a lot more. I worship them. She knows it and she loves that I do. For her birthday, I bought her a mixed case of the highest quality nylons so she'd never have to do without. She wears them eagerly and proudly. I bought her pantyhose in nude and black, dore and brown, seamed and unseamed. I bought her stockings. I found a source for vintage silk stockings too, with elaborately detailed seams and complex heel stitching. She ooohed in delight when she got those. But the most daring thing I got her was so sexy, so transfixing, that I get hard just thinking about it. I was nervous when I gave them to her, but she screamed in delight and stripped off her black holdups and pulled them on without delay. They were oil-shine sheer nude stockings with a red seam up the back. They drew the eye immediately to the greatest pair of legs in the history of humanity. And they're all mine.

The best part is she knows how sexy she is. And she flaunts it. She knows exactly the effect her legs have on men (and women as I've noticed more than a few times). I walked with Larissa into the Campbell Apartment bar at Grand Central just before my operation. At six-foot-four in shiny black 5" Louboutin's, wearing a curve-hugging cashmere minidress with at least twelve inches of thigh clad in those stockings, she silenced the whole place, with just her entrance. She loved every second of it. Obviously, so did I.

After she'd opened the packages of stockings I'd bought, she went into the kitchen and brought out a box of sandwich bags. She kneeled on the floor and sorted through the scores of nylons strewn about the room. With loving care, she opened every precious little package, carefully unwrapped its diaphanous contents, held it up to feel its silky texture, sometimes bringing one to her face for extra sensory feeling. Some she'd try on then and there, giving me a little show. Then she'd strip them off, reverently roll up each pair, and place it into its transparent bag, labelled for quick access. I watched her work, silently biding my time, waiting for her to finish so she could satisfy our building libido and wrap those luscious legs around my body and fuck me senseless.

The way she lovingly caressed each stocking, each pair of silky pantyhose, I knew. Larissa has a powerful fetish for nylon. She's mentioned it a few times. I love this about her.

She loves to experiment. Last month, when I came home she was wearing an ankle-length silk robe, with a silk cammy underneath and five-inch shiny red Jimmy Choo heels. She proudly showed me her vintage silk seamed stockings, pinned securely with four garters on each leg. But under the stockings she wore an oil-shine pantyhose that seemed to glow under the stockings. The layering effect was stunning. I love that she puts so much thought into making herself so sexy at home. I fell to my knees to worship her legs, bending low to kiss her feet. She laughed delightedly, then like the queen she is, she took my chin into her fingers and raised my head to look up at her. As my gaze slowly swept up her magnificent legs, tightly embraced in the finest silky nylon, my eyes landed where she'd intended: that her pantyhose was crotchless. I looked up into her eyes.

Larissa has this look about her when she wants to fuck. I see that look a lot. I love to describe it as slutty. I walked her back to the couch, sat her down and fell once again to my knees. Kissing the nylon up and down her silky thighs, and knowing she was more than ready, I moved up to her dripping sex and kissed and licked her beautiful pussy. When I do that, she loves to wrap her legs around my head and rest her feet on my lower back, holding me fast, sometimes pulling me deeper, giving herself the illusion that I'm her slave to do her bidding.

Funny how women think, isn't it?

Anyway, we're both so turned on by that point that it's no problem to set her off, taking her over the edge to oblivion in short order. She always gushes from her delicious cunt, drowning me in her femcum. And when Larissa cums, it's a glorious thing. She cums like a goddess. Long, violent, and messy.

As I've said, at home Larissa loves to dress in gorgeous designer silk and nylon. Silk stockings, garters, silk robes, body stockings. She dresses about the same for her job, but of course she wears skirts, dresses and tops over the nylon. She's a TV weather girl. She's been pushing the limits of her on-set wardrobe for a few months now. From the day she wore her micro-mini black leather skirt with oil-shine stockings, coupled with five-inch shiny black Louboutin's, the network ratings started to soar. As more advertisers began to clamber for air time during the weather report, the ad rates climbed too.

Larissa is the most focused person I know. She knows what she wants and she goes for it, all the way. She is a true force of nature. Don't ever get in her way. She always, and I mean always, gets what she wants. It helps enormously that she one of the sexiest women on the planet. No man that I've ever met has had the power to say no to Larissa (certainly not me). So when she saw the ad rates climb at the station, she negotiated a contract that any pro athlete would be proud of. Thanks to Larissa, we have an expansive, four-bedroom Tribeca apartment, completely paid for.

Frankly, I don't know how I'm married to this goddess. It was kind of a whirlwind. Believe it or not, she picked me up in an uptown bar. We talked for hours. I was almost suspicious of a con when she took me into her bed that night. I guess that must have sealed the deal with her, because we screwed the whole fucking night and she came six times. Six.

I've always wondered why Larissa picked me up that night. I'm just an average tech worker. I make decent money, nothing extraordinary. I'm no Greek god, that's for sure. I'm pretty fit, I like to play sports, I'm pretty widely read, good education. But with all the wealthy, handsome, successful men she sees every day in the New York television business, why me?

I remember it like it was yesterday. I was sitting along the back wall at Bemelmans Bar. The place was crowded, the piano player was playing, and the mood was upbeat and lively. I saw her immediately as she climbed the steps to the entrance. She was alone. She was wearing a sparkly crimson top cut just enough to reveal her spectacular cleavage. Her hair was loose and unadorned, with massive volume and length. She had the lean hollow cheeks of the super fit. Her eyes sparkled and seemed to glow in the dark. They were adorned with smoky nightshade and thick eyeliner. Her lips were full and blood red - glossy in the lamp-shade light of the classic bar. She wore a dark blue miniskirt cut an incredible twelve inches above her knee with nude pantyhose, but she was so tall she could pull that length off and still look ultra classy. She wore sky-high bumblebee yellow heels; clearly she was not shy about her height. Every man who was able turned to look at her as she entered the room. I couldn't take my eyes off of her, of course.

The thing was, she was staring directly at me from the moment she appeared at the entrance. Never wavering her gaze from my face, she headed directly to my table. She stood there and gestured the empty banquette seat next to me. The hem of her silk skirt brushed the top of the table; those legs were staring at me at eye level. I looked up at her, tongue-tied.

"You going to buy a girl a drink, handsome?" she said.

I scrambled to my feet and blurted out something like: "Of course, please sit down."

As she settled herself in the tight space beside me on the banquette, a waiter appeared immediately. "Vesper, please," was all she said as she crossed her legs towards me with an audible swish of nylon. The rest of the night was a blur of drinking, conversation, flirting, and later, sex.

Three months later, we were married. There was a great sigh of exasperation among every single male (and not a few females) in the New York television scene when she announced our engagement. And not a few whispers on social media in the vein of something like: Why him?

I don't care. All I care about is that she is mine. All mine.

The sex is great. Better than great. Mind blowing. And that's completely mutual. Just as I worship Larissa's legs, she worships my dick. Without ego, I can justifiably say it's a beauty. Larissa has told me I have the most beautiful dick she's ever seen. A full eight inches and thick enough that she has to use both hands to hold it all the way around. And hold it she does. In every way imaginable. I'm in heaven when those pillowy thick lips of hers kiss my cock with gentle fast licks and kisses and sucks, little bites here and there, working her hands up and down and around my shaft as she prepares to slide it deep inside her hot, wet mouth. She works that narrow, long tongue of hers around and around as she slowly bobs and slides her mouth along the length of my shaft. When she's really in the giving mood, she takes her time, sometimes drawing it out for twenty, even thirty minutes. When she wants me to finally cum, she knows exactly how to push the tip of her tongue firmly into my glans, making me blast uncontrollably into her mouth as she drinks it all down and massages me for more.

My worship of her gives me great incentive to satisfy her every sexual need. While I did well on that first night, I've managed to learn my way around her body pretty damn beautifully. I know every little erogenous zone, every little pleasure point. When she's in the mood, which is usually, I can make her cum with my tongue in two minutes flat, or I can torture her for an hour, if that's what she wants.

It's pretty glorious thing when we sixty-nine. We're just a steaming pile of squirming flesh as we cum together.

Of course that's not why we're married. I think. Other than fantastic sex, I don't actually know what she sees in me. She's an extreme extravert; I'm an introvert. She makes millions; I have a job that I like, but it only pays about $150k. In Manhattan, that's sort of average. I have very few friends; she has a boatload. Mostly women, thankfully. She doesn't trust the men around her, even as she bends them to her will.

Anyway, about my problem. Remember what I said about not mentioning something to my wife? Because I'm kinda worried about it? Well...that incredible sense of touch I've gained is not restricted to just my hands.

I noticed it immediately. Even the weight of the sheets on my cock was almost too much. I have gained an extreme sensitivity in my cock since the operation. My worry is that I'll cum too fast, that she won't be able to take her time with her spectacular blowjobs because I won't last. Or when I'm deep inside her gloriously tight pussy, I'm afraid I won't be able to satisfy her before I cum. At some point, I'm going to have to talk to her about it, and when I've recovered, we'll see if it's true.

Larissa's in the bathroom getting ready for work. When she was done, I called her over.

"Sweetheart, there's something I've got to tell you. Something that might be good, and it might not be so great."

Larissa sat on my wheelchair to listen, concern sweeping over her face. She absent-mindedly caressed the small tattoo on her shoulder, a stylized "L" in curvy script the size of a silver dollar. When I first saw the tattoo, I admired it and told her so. She asked me if I would get one too, just like hers to symbolize my devotion to her. Of course I agreed.

Remember I said the mattress of my special bed is the same height as the seat of the wheelchair? When Larissa crossed her legs towards me, her thighs and her knees were right at eye level, not four inches from my face. The glossy silk swished with silk upon silk and despite my infirmity, my dick began to grow. Larissa reached down and patted it under the sheets. It was like an electric jolt to my sex.

"Oh, sweetie," she said. "I'll have to take care of that as soon as I get home."

I reached over and placed a hand gently on her knee. The silk was fine and even, with only the slightest glossy imperfections that no other human could possible detect. The silky touch of her legs raced down my nervous system directly to my cock. It twitched.

"Oh," she smiled. "You are glad to see me."

I told her all about my fears. My worry that I'm so sensitive that I'll never be able to last inside her vagina, let alone her mouth. It could ruin our sex life.

When I was done, she said "But do you know? Have you tested your theory?"

"No," I said. "I just wanted to be open with you, so we could hopefully solve the problem together."

"Look," Larissa said. "I have a breakfast meeting at the office, but I'm going to cancel it. I've got an idea." Larissa made a quick call and snapped the phone shut. "I've got forty-five minutes. I think you're going to enjoy them."

Mysteriously, she picked the upper sheet off my body to expose me to the daylight. I was naked underneath, my cock at full mast. She just does that to me.

Larissa stood and my eyes were level with her knees and lower thighs. She put a hand on the mattress beside my waist, and slid the black Louboutin off her left foot and gently placed it on my left shoulder, just so that I could turn my head and smell the inside of the shoe where her stocking foot had just been. She repeated with her right foot and placed it on my other shoulder. I was now surrounded in her foot pheromones, which I can attest, are pretty damn intoxicating.

My wife was wearing a dress, cut conservatively (for Larissa) about four inches above the knee. She reached down to the hem of the dress and pulled it up to expose the tops of her stockings. One by one, taking her time to show me every detail, she unfastened those little garters. Each one popped off and fell loosely below the top of her stocking as she moved on to the next one. I put my near hand around her leg and ran it slowly up and down her calf, loving the feel of her silky skin. Electricity coursed through my hand and directly to my loins where my cock ached to be touched and caressed.

"That's one, my sweet," Larissa said as her left stocking was now free of its bonds. She turned then and put her right knee on the bed so close that I could nuzzle it if I wanted, but I was too transfixed by what she was doing with her stockings. Just inches from my face, Larissa began to loosen the right stocking from its clips until it too was free.

"Come lover, help me here," she said. "Help me get these off." I carefully reached over and slid both hands up the proffered left thigh, slowly and sensuously feeling every bit of Larissa and her stockings, up the lean muscular length of her fabulous thigh until my fingers reached the top of her stocking. I curled them around the lacy fabric and felt the silky nylon of the oil gloss pantyhose below. She was layering today. So sexy.

This made getting the stocking off her foot so much easier and more enjoyable. Smoothly and gently, the near frictionless silk upon silk slid down thirty-eight inches of glorious leg to her foot. I pinched the mesh about her toes and gave a gentle pull, and the silk stocking swished off in one smooth motion.