Another longer take on one of @saragirlsissyconfessions stories. This time the story is SHARE HIM
I came into the bedroom, saw my wife and her boyfriend kissing passionately. I wasn't sure what to do; she'd told me to check with them to
Shopping for the Pantyhose
Earlier that day, I found myself in the upscale Wolford boutique, the air scented with luxury and a hint of nervousness as I browsed the racks of sheer hosiery. Monica had sent me here with specific instructions: pick out matching pairs of pantyhose for us both, something elegant and sheer for her date tonight. I felt a mix of excitement and humiliation, knowing I’d be wearing mine in secret submission while she flaunted hers for her lover. The saleswoman, a poised woman in her own flawless stockings, approached me with a knowing smile. “Looking for something special?” she asked. I stammered, my cheeks flushing, “Uh, yes, I’m looking for some pantyhose—something sheer and natural.” She nodded and pointed me toward the Sheer 15 collection. “These are our bestsellers—ultra-sheer, 15 denier, perfect for a matte look,” she said, then left me to browse.
I took a minute or so flipping through the options without assistance, carefully selecting a nude shade that would match both our skin tones—a soft, natural color that blended seamlessly, making legs look endlessly smooth and inviting. I picked out one pair in medium for her and one in large for me, imagining her legs in them… and mine, a feminizing touch to remind me of my place. As I checked out, the saleswoman noticed the different sizes and raised an eyebrow. “Two pairs in different sizes? Did you make a mistake with the sizing?” she asked with a curious tilt to her head, making me blush even deeper. My hands shook nervously as I paid, mumbling awkwardly, “N-no, they’re… um, for me and my wife… we like to match sometimes,” my voice trailing off in embarrassment as she smiled knowingly. The receipt burned in my pocket as I hurried home to prepare.
Getting Ready
When I got home, Monica was already in the bedroom, laying out her outfit for the evening—a sleek black dress that would hug her curves perfectly. She glanced up as I entered, holding the Wolford bag, and smiled knowingly. “Did you get them?” she asked, her voice laced with excitement. I nodded, handing her the medium pair. “They’re perfect,” she said, unwrapping the sheer nude pantyhose and holding them up to the light. “Nude Sheer 15—subtle, sexy. Good choice, sweetie.”
She sat on the edge of the bed, motioning for me to help her. “Come on, help me put them on,” she said, her tone playful but commanding. I knelt in front of her, my heart racing as I gathered the nylon at her toes, slowly rolling it up her smooth leg, feeling the silky material glide over her skin. My fingers trembled slightly, the intimacy of the act stirring my submission, especially knowing these hose were for her lover. As I reached her thigh, she parted her legs just enough to let me smooth the fabric into place, her eyes locked on mine. “You like this, don’t you? Getting me ready for him,” she teased, running a hand through my hair. I repeated the process on her other leg, my cheeks burning as I adjusted the waistband, ensuring a flawless fit.
Once hers were on, she stood and admired herself in the mirror, the nude shade making her legs look impossibly long and flawless. “Your turn,” she said, turning to me with a wicked grin. I hesitated, but she tugged at my robe, encouraging me as I slipped into my large pair right there, the nylon hugging my legs in a feminizing embrace. “Oh, look at you, all feminized and matching me.” I blushed deeply as she helped adjust them, her hands smoothing the nylon over my thighs, the sensation both arousing and humiliating. “There, now we’re twins—except mine are for pleasure, and yours are for… well, waiting.” She laughed softly, applying her makeup while I fetched her jewelry, the air thick with anticipation. “He’s going to love these,” she murmured, “and you’ll love knowing I wore them for him.” By the time she was ready, the tension had built to a fever pitch, my jealousy simmering as I imagined the night ahead.
His Arrival
As the evening approached, I busied myself in the kitchen, preparing light appetizers as Monica had instructed—a simple spread to set the mood without filling them up too much. I arranged a platter with artisanal cheeses, fresh grapes, thinly sliced prosciutto, olives, and crisp crackers, drizzling a bit of honey over the brie for that touch of sweetness. My hands still trembled slightly from the earlier excitement, the nylon of my pantyhose whispering against my skin under the robe as I moved, a constant reminder of my role tonight. I set everything out on the coffee table in the living room, along with a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and two glasses, making sure it looked inviting.
The doorbell rang, and my stomach twisted with a mix of nerves and anticipation. I opened the door to find him standing there—tall, confident, dressed in a sharp button-down shirt and slacks, with that easy smile that always made me feel small. We paused for a moment, our eyes meeting, and I saw his gaze flicker down to my robe, where the sheer nylon of my pantyhose peeked out at my calves and ankles, contrasting sharply with his masculine attire. A subtle smirk crossed his face, acknowledging the feminized state I was in compared to his poised, dominant presence—it was a silent, charged moment that heightened my humiliation. “Hey,” he said casually, stepping inside as if he owned the place. Monica emerged from the bedroom, her black dress accentuating the sheer nude pantyhose I’d helped her into, and greeted him with a warm kiss on the cheek. “Come in, make yourself comfortable,” she said, leading him to the couch. I hovered nearby, feeling awkward in my robe with the feminizing hose peeking at my ankles. “I prepared some appetizers,” I mumbled, gesturing to the platter. He nodded appreciatively, popping an olive into his mouth. “Looks good—thanks,” he said offhandedly, while Monica poured the wine. They chatted lightly, nibbling on the food, their conversation flowing easily as I stood there, dismissed after a moment with Monica’s gentle wave. “You can head downstairs soon, sweetie, but check in later if we need anything.” I nodded, retreating to the kitchen to clean up, the sounds of their laughter echoing as I descended to the basement, my mind racing with what was to come.
The Evening Unfolds
I came into the bedroom, feeling the smooth, silky embrace of the Wolford Sheer 15 pantyhose clinging to my legs—the same style I’d bought for both of us earlier that day at the Wolford store, in eager preparation for her date, a little feminizing touch to heighten my submission for the night. I was wearing a robe over them, but my nylon calves and ankles peeked out from under the hem, embarrassing me deeply as I stood there. There she was, perched on his lap, her identical sheer nude-colored pantyhose shimmering under the dim light, the nylon clinging smoothly to her toned legs as they wrapped around him. I wasn’t sure what to do; she’d told me to check with them to see if they needed anything before I went to the basement for the night, but I wasn’t supposed to interrupt them either. I was about to back up quietly when she sensed me, broke off the kiss, looked over at me.
“What?” she asked, a hint of irritation in her voice.
“You…you told me to…to check in before I…before I went to the basement,” I said.
He looked over at me then back at my wife. “You want some wine?” he asked.
“Sure,” she said.
He looked back at me. “Why don’t you get us a bottle of wine,” he said, “that Sauvignon Blanc she likes.”
“O…okay,” I said, backing out of the room as she watched me, her pantyhose-clad thighs shifting slightly against him, the nude color blending seamlessly with her skin.
When I came back with the opened bottle of wine and two glasses, she had shifted position, now reclining on the bed beside him, naked except for those sheer nude-colored Wolford pantyhose, the nylon stretched taut over her skin, accentuating every curve of her legs and feet. His pants were discarded on the floor, his thick cock fully exposed and erect. She was giving him a slow, teasing nylon footjob, her hose-encased soles and toes wrapped around his bare shaft, sliding up and down rhythmically as she flexed her arches, the sheer nylon gliding smoothly against his skin. He leaned back, his hands resting on the bed for support. She was moaning softly, her pantyhose whispering with each stroke along his length, the friction building as she worked him expertly with her feet.
I wanted to stay, to watch, but knew he didn’t allow that, knew I was pressing my luck just the extra moment I lingered, my eyes tracing the way the pantyhose hugged her calves and feet as they moved. A twinge of jealousy hit me hard—pantyhose footjobs were my absolute favorite, something intimate we’d shared before all this, and now she was doing it for him, right in front of me, in the very hose I’d bought for us.
It was hours later I heard soft footsteps coming down the basement stairs, the faint swish of nylon accompanying each step. I looked up and saw my wife, naked still except for her pantyhose—now slightly torn at the crotch from their passion, the sheer fabric damp and glistening where his cum had leaked onto her leg, and the soles and toes sticky with dried remnants of his earlier release from the footjob. I felt a slight frustration at the sight—they’d ruined an expensive pair of Wolford hose I’d just bought. She held a glass of wine in her hand. “M…Monica,” I said, looking down, afraid at being chastised for staring at her mostly naked body, the pantyhose making her legs look endlessly seductive, so similar to how mine felt under my robe, where my nylon calves and ankles still peeked out embarrassingly.
“Sweetie,” she said, holding the glass to me like a peace offering.
“Is…is he gone?” I asked.
She shook her head. “He fell asleep,” she said, “I assume he’s spending the night.”
“Oh,” I said, my voice betraying my emotions.
“You’re not supposed to linger,” she said.
“I…I know,” I said, taking a sip of the now room temperature wine. “I just…seeing you like that, I…I tried not to, but I…it’s so erotic, it’s like watching…watching a movie. The way your pantyhose look on you, all shiny and tight…the ones I bought us today. But…you tore them, Monica. They were expensive—brand new Wolford, and now they’re ruined, all ripped and sticky.”
She laughed softly, glancing down at the ruined hose with a mischievous glint in her eye, running her fingers along the tear at the crotch. “Oh, sweetie, don’t be so frustrated about that. It was absolutely worth it—he got so worked up, he just couldn’t wait, grabbed the nylon and tore right through to get inside me. The sound of it ripping… god, it was hot. And the cum on the soles from the footjob? That’s just a bonus mark of how good it was. Besides, you can always buy us another pair tomorrow.”
“He saw me?”
She nodded. “Of course; we both did. He was about to say something but let you have your little voyeur moment. And I, well, that’s why I was stroking him with my feet like that, feeling the nylon rub against his bare cock. After you left, I kept going until he came all over my hose-covered feet—it was so hot, the way it shot up and soaked the nylon.”
“You look so…so pretty in his arms,” I said, “especially with those pantyhose hugging your legs.” I tried to push down the jealousy again, knowing that footjob had been to completion for him, something that used to be just ours, now enhanced by the feminizing match of our hose.
“Move down,” she said.
“Down?”
She nudged me, I moved flat on the couch, moved to the side to give her room next to me. “Sweetie, no, I told you, he’s spending the night. If I fall asleep down here with you, he’ll be furious.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“It’s okay, he’s out, so I have a minute if you want to…” She took a step forward so she was standing next to my head, her pantyhose-clad thighs framing my view, the torn crotch of the nylon exposing her directly, practically in my face, the sticky soles hovering nearby.
“Monica,” I gasped, realizing what she meant, inhaling the musky scent mixed with the faint nylon aroma, my own hose shifting slightly as I adjusted.
“Don’t worry, he said it was okay,” she said.
“Monica,” I said again as I blushed deeply, horrified my wife was discussing my deepest, darkest fantasy with her lover.
“I told you, he likes power things,” she said, climbing on me, hovering over my face, her pantyhose brushing against my cheeks. “What’s more powerful than sending me back to you full of him, still in these hose he fucked me through—after I already made him cum with my feet. And you in your matching pair, all prettied up for the occasion.”
“Mon…” I started to say for the last time, silenced as she carefully maneuvered the torn nylon and lowered her cum-filled pussy to my mouth.
“Shhhh,” she said, “open, love, open…be careful, there’s so much. It soaked down my leg.”
She wasn’t lying about it, for when I licked her, tasting the salty mix of him mingled with the subtle texture of nylon fibers that had caught some of it, when she relaxed her inner muscles, thick gobs of his cum fell from her pussy into my mouth and I wondered how he could produce so much—even after cumming from the footjob earlier.
When I was done, when I’d licked her to orgasm, when I’d licked everything she offered—my tongue occasionally grazing the soft, stretched edges of her pantyhose—she climbed off then kissed me as she’d kissed him, but different, one a prelude to sex, this a sharing of the aftermath.
“This is better than watching, isn’t it?” she asked.
“M…maybe,” I said.
“Cleaning my lover’s cum from me…with my pantyhose still on, all messy from him…”
“Monica…”
“Shhh,” she said, “I know it’s humiliating, but it’s so erotic, tasting him together…feeling the nylon on your face while you do it, especially with you in yours too.”
“Monica…”
“I like it,” she said, “looking down, seeing your face as you eat cum, buried between my hose-covered thighs, my little feminized hubby.”
“Oh god, Monica…”
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“M…Monica…”
She reached back, touched me through my boxers and the sheer pantyhose beneath, lightly stroked my erection straining against the nylon. “Do you like the taste of his cum, love, do you like licking him from me, do you like tasting it, swallowing it, with my pantyhose teasing you the whole time—and yours making you feel so pretty?”
“Monica, I…I shouldn’t…”
“Shhhh,” she said, “I want to think about it when he’s fucking me, I want to think about it when he’s filling me, I want to think about how much my husband wants to eat my lover’s cum, right through these sheer hose.” She moved her hand, stopped touching me.
“Mon, please,” I begged, “don’t…don’t stop…”
“No, love, no, I’m his now, his, but we can share him like this again.”
