‘Wherever he saw a hole he always wanted to know the depth of it. To him this was important.’
– Jules Verne, Journey to the Center of the Earth

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I push my toes into the soft folds of the tights that are crumpled up in my hands and start to pull them up my leg. The sheer, black fabric stretches over the curves of my calf, gliding over my smooth skin and up to cover my thighs. I usually wear opaque tights because my skirts tend to be on the shorter side, but occasionally I want something thinner. Something more suggestive.

Well, that’s the plan anyway. Except that as I pull up the second leg, a hole appears above the knee and a ladder starts to snake up my thigh. Shit. It is very small and thin – maybe I can get away with it? I throw my dress over the top and the ladder is completely covered. Maybe I could get away with it…

Because seeing the ladder has stirred a memory. A memory that makes me feel sexier than any piece of clothing ever could.

‘So they’re completely ruined already?’

I run my finger gently around the inside of the hole, testing its strength, and my short nails scratch on the exposed skin beneath, making it crackle and tingle. Goosebumps spring up all over my legs and are almost painful as they rub against the tights that conceal them.

I cannot help but remember another day, another ladder, another ruined pair of tights; and I am gasping for air, blinded by brutal and beautiful images that flash in front of my eyes.

He laughs at me as he runs his hand up my leg, climbing up the ladder and letting his fingers linger on the threads that somehow still hold the tights together. As his hand slips under my skirt, however, his smile changes. The humour has gone; there’s now a darker, more challenging look instead.

With a strong grip on my hips, he spins me around and pushes me so that I am bent over the bed. Holding me down, he lifts my skirt and runs his other hand over my arse, picking at the top of the ladder where it meets the waistband. I can’t see what he doing, but I can hear him; the clink of his belt unfastening and soft popping as he unbuttons his jeans.

And then both his hands are on my arse, fingers digging into my flesh until, with one violent tug, he rips the tights apart at the seam. Pushing my knickers aside, my slick cunt barely has time to register the sudden chill of exposure before he is pushing inside me. Both hands braced on the table, knees buckling, the ragged edges of the tights bite at my skin as he fucks me harder and harder, slowing occasionally to widen the tears or to rip new holes until the tights aren’t tights anymore. They’re just scraps of fabric, clinging to me and decorating my body as I bend deeper, opening up to him and for him and around him…

All day I wear the not quite ruined tights. No one notices or comments. The hole is only visible when I sit and my hem rides up a little higher. Every time this happens, I cannot hide a smile as the memories crash over me all over again. Occasionally, when I bend over, I can feel a sudden, soft release of tension as the ladder extends, higher and around, up over my arse, and I shiver.

And when I get undressed in the evening, I don’t throw the tights away. They’re not completely ruined after all.

Not yet anyway…