"Candid Camera"
The Massage
I
"We are such stuff as dreams are made of..."
Prospero, from Shakespeare's The Tempest
Prospero was much more than a conjurer.
In our dreams we discover ourselves, for all deeds and all needs are allowed. Dreams hurt no one, no one but the fantasist.
I begin this description to confess to you, my prepared and understanding readers. Yet this journal is also bent upon revelation. Revelation of the many inspiring things in heaven and dirt of which Hamlet's supporter Horatio never dreamt. But I do hallucination of such equipment, and shall impart them with the planet!
bubble but
I won't deny this is obsession. It is as compelling to me as ingestion or breathing. Some those are connoisseurs of lavender, or lovers of quality. As a answer of my... fervor, I have become a genius.
Thighs are enticing, a fleshy not poisonous delicacy, and merely as we gently arrange food on plates to whet the appetite, women dress to play up their succulent, sexy drumsticks. They grind high boots, undersized skirts, fishnet stockings...
And, express gratitude heaven, they erosion knee socks! I acutely recall my first stirring for the succulent legs of Hymn Ann Antonio.
It happened when I was in the fifth grade at Holy Name, a Wide-reaching grammar school. Those uniforms! For eight being you spend time upon day confined with young, blooming girls in short plaid skirts, stiff pallid blouses and, in our set of circumstances, navy blue knee socks. For eight existence nothing but knees and thighs... knees and thighs!
At first you by a hair's breadth notice. Then somewhere along the road you find yourself stealing lengthy, curious glances when the girls be placed or (paradise!) bend over to retrieve a at sea pencil.
Carol Ann and I were effective on a scheme for religion seminar. We were to donate a short sketch depicting the discharge of Lucifer from heaven (don't weigh up I haven't grasped the irony). Naturally, I was the fallen seraph, while Carol Ann played my adversary, Michael the Angel. We practiced our feat over and over. It was during these rehearsals that I felt the first tectonic lift in my feelings for my hazy haired, knee-socked partner. Carol Ann sought after me to struggle tricky, and to reduction even harder.
Fall I did.
As we praticed and pretended I began to relish the weight of her body on top of mine, the thickness of her mane as it chop down forward and brushed my nose, and the love of her breath on my tackle. Now, you must comprehend that she and I were plain children. We hadn't yet any conscious inclination toward sexual characteristics or desire. Besides, we were inmates in a CATHOLIC drill. Sensual drives were sinful and forbidden.
Nonetheless, when Chant Ann straddled my hips and I had my hands on her brawny, tanned thighs, I knew there was something more to living. There was racing blood, an out of the ordinary shortness of breath, and the lasting heat of her legs above those gloom blue stockings...
I write freelance (though nothing as "emancipated" as this diary) and earn a insufficient amount of wealth. Dory is an artiste with a similarly small income, so we carve up an apartment. Artsy birds of a feather, don't you be knowledgeable about. She is pun, bright, lively, talented...
and has the most yummy thighs!
For the pick up, she also has hazy bleak eyes and short blond hair. She is about five and a semi feet tall, and unquestionably has chest to spare.
And her thighs! Full, around, and firm – yet not too strapping. Fair and immediately soft enough. Supple and fine, like my memories of grammar train and Carol Ann.
I have lived here now for over six months, and I marvel of Dory with increasing regularity. She is no exhibitionist, but over period she has become more comfortable, and intimate, around me. During the history few weeks I have been treated to views of her voluptuous quantity I had scarcely dreamed of... till now, of course. The sharp contrast in affect, between the darkness of the robe and the fairness of her skin, almost beckons me to rip it off her body.
Fortunately, Dory's stunning thighs are not among the not there.
In my most new dream:
Dory was session next to me on the white couch while I read aloud from a book (I'm not certainly what book – and there are more focal details to memorize).) I developed a marble hard-on. Concentrating on the paperback became equally hard, so I revelled as an alternative in the mauve scent of Dory's facial hair and the smoky, seductive fog of her gray eyes.
I lowered my fix your eyes on, to spy the thigh resting on my impatient prick. As in the style of a marvel, there before me was an answered prayer – a black, woolen knee sock on that delicious limb! Dory must have noticed the reponse from down below.
"Mark, do you deem my legs are in receipt of fat?" She asked, as ?blas as if she had asked the schedule.
"Fat? These legs? Dory, they're spectacular!
"You like the socks, huh? Saw them at Bloomies and for some wits, don't ask why, I HAD to have them." As she asked she shifted herself and united the reasonable leg with the other. She also offered a full smile with this inquest, obviously enjoying the riot raging in my pants.
"Your legs are awe-inspiring," I croaked.
"I'm wretched Mark, I must be crushing you. You look a bit... distressed. She replaced the hand that had been on my chest, only now it was under the shirt, gliding over my nipples.
"Boy, Stain, you are priii - ty hairy..." She noted sweetly, before switching to the other side. She tucked her gone hand into my sweats and wrapped it around my oppressed and beating member.
"Mmmnnn... nice and hard... and sticky," This was gently whispered into my chest mustache. She ran her guide finger over the head of my tortured prick.
"Oh Gohhhd... Dorrry..." was my groaned refrain. Her robe had come completely open, so my sight was awash with knees and thighs and socks, along with flushed pink skin, a neatly trimmed run off with, and a team up of bounding tits. I slid my furnish underneath her ass to itch that hole with a finger, and to give my thumb a wander in her wet pussy.
She congested pumping my bar, to pull the sweats down over my hips. My puncture leapt out like a thoroughbred at rush time. Then Dory smothered my bubbly horse between the pliability of her legs.
"Fuck my thighs, Symbol... fuck my thighs," she demanded.
I complied.
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