Michele And The Predator

Michele looked in the mirror and admired her transformation. 'I look quite attractive' she thought; 'I bet Michael would like to fuck me' (she giggled to herself at the absurdity) and reached for her wine glass.

Michele went to the closet located on the right-hand side of the bedroom; Michele's closet. The closet on the left was Michael's closet and contained his suits, shirts, ties and boring male underwear, socks and shoes. Michele's closet contained the soft, luxurious, feminine attire that so excited her. She rummaged through the lingerie draws and threw a pile on the bed; next she took down half a dozen ensembles and threw them in the centre of the bed amid the strewn underwear. It looked like a messy, awkward way to select an outfit but it worked for her. She would often get nearly fully dressed and then change her mind and she had found over the years the best method for her was to take a selection of clothing and throw it on the bed and then once she had finished dressing, put away whatever clothing she had decided not to wear.

The predator at this time was just leaving the bar having been unsuccessful in locating a suitable woman as his prospective next victim. He had drunk more than usual, and frustrated at not finding his next target, stumbled to his car and took off towards the better part of town to prowl for a fitting quarry to stalk.

Michele tore open a packet of cheap flesh-toned sheer to the waist pantyhose. She wore pantyhose as a foundation garment to help flatten her tummy, hold her male genitalia out of the way between her legs, and to help cover the small nicks and varicose veins on her forty-year-old thighs and ankles. She felt a small tingle of excitement as she smoothed the pantyhose up her legs and over her tummy and buttocks. She carefully manipulated the sheer toes around her painted nails ensuring she didn't ladder the cheap hose.

Michele selected a pair of red nylon full-cut panties from the midden of lingerie on her bed. She stepped into them and slid them up her nyloned thighs, savouring the rustling sound of nylon on nylon.