It is a dark and stormy night, just beginning to drizzle. The wipers smudge the dirt on my windshield, and the defroster isn’t working. My field of vision is so blurred it’s scary. Huge headlights suddenly appear in the rear-view mirror, right on my tail. Not used to an autobahn’s 100-kilometers-per-hour traffic flow, I’m no doubt going slower than I should.

Instinctively – though it is exactly the wrong thing to do – my foot touches the brakes. The tractor-trailer swerves to the left, then right, and begins to pass me. I’m so scared I’m mad: I switch my tiny VW’s overhead light so the trucker can see me flipping him an unladylike bird.

But now that I’m on my well-lighted stage, I don’t do that. Instead – I can’t tell you why – my hand that’s not on the steering wheel hikes up my skirt and runs its freshly manicured nails suggestively up the inside of my pantyhosed thighs. The trucker goes crazy, flashing his lights, honking his horn.

I respond, rubbing the hem of my silk-lined skirt sensuously against my hose. The skirt is pleated, beige, highlighting my smooth, black, luxurious legs. His lights blink faster; his horn, now in a seductive staccato. The rain’s dribble on the windshield turns to pre-cum, as my hand becomes his, lasciviously stroking the tightly woven fabric, black as the enveloping storm.

This flirtatious game goes on for kilometers. High up in his perch, he can see me, I can’t see him. The spotlight is on my legs, alone in the darkness, my hosiery and me. I slow down; he slows down; I speed up; he speeds up – always staying abreast of my window. He’s big, I’m small; he could squash me. He may have the horsepower, but I’m in charge. The power of pantyhose, whether sheer, silky, or textured. Yes, I think I’ll show him some more of my Wolford’s.