tagFetishRemembrance of Thighs Past

Remembrance of Thighs Past



"We are such stuff as dreams are made of..."
Prospero, from Shakespeare's The Tempest

Prospero was much more than a magician. He was a prophet.

In our dreams we invent ourselves, for all deeds and all desires are allowed. Dreams hurt no one, no one but the dreamer.

I begin this history to confess to you, my willing and understanding readers. Yet this memoir is also bent upon revelation. Revelation of the many rousing things in heaven and earth of which Hamlet's friend Horatio never dreamt. But I do dream of such things, and shall share them with the world!

I won't deny this is obsession. It is as compelling to me as eating or breathing. Some folks are connoisseurs of wine, or lovers of nature. My passion, no less enthusiastic, happens to be a woman's thighs. As a result of my... fervor, I have become a virtuoso. A gourmet.

Thighs are enticing, a fleshy edible delicacy, and just as we carefully arrange food on plates to whet the appetite, women dress to accentuate their succulent, sexy drumsticks. They wear high boots, short skirts, fishnet stockings...

And, thank heaven, they wear knee socks!


Do you remember when first you grappled with the magnetic and mouth-watering charm of thighs? I vividly recall my first stirring for the luscious legs of Carol Ann Antonio.

It happened when I was in the fifth grade at Holy Name, a Catholic grammar school. Those uniforms! God, who dreamed up those uniforms? For eight years you spend day upon day confined with young, blooming girls in short plaid skirts, stiff white blouses and, in our case, navy blue knee socks. All the colors of the rainbow, and the only visible skin is knee and thigh! For eight years nothing but knees and thighs... knees and thighs!

At first you hardly notice. Then somewhere along the way you find yourself stealing long, curious glances when the girls sit or (paradise!) bend over to retrieve a lost pencil. You suddenly find yourself lost in a forest of thighs and knees and navy blue socks, but you don't mind at all.

Carol Ann and I were working on a project for religion class. We were to present a short skit depicting the expulsion of Lucifer from heaven (don't think I haven't grasped the irony). Naturally, I was the fallen angel, while Carol Ann played my nemesis, Michael the Archangel. We practiced our performance over and over. She was quite the choreographer, so we had many moves to get straight. It was during these rehearsals that I felt the first tectonic shift in my feelings for my dusky haired, knee-socked partner.

At the climax of our short piece Michael was to hurl Lucifer to the ground, to dramatize his fall from grace. We were both determined to make it as authentic as possible. Carol Ann wanted me to struggle hard, and to fall 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 hair as it fell forward and brushed my nose, and the warmth of her breath on my face. Best of all, during this ardent fight with my angelic tormenter my hands always ended up in the most heavenly places. Now, you must comprehend that she and I were mere children. We hadn't yet any conscious inclination toward sex or desire. Besides, we were inmates in a CATHOLIC school. Sensual drives were sinful and forbidden.

Nonetheless, when Carol Ann straddled my hips and I had my hands on her strong, tanned thighs, I knew there was something more to life. And to Carol Ann. There was racing blood, an odd shortness of breath, and the enduring heat of her legs above those dark blue stockings.

Always thighs – knees and thighs, knees and socks and thighs...


Dreamt of Dory again last night. Dory is my roomate.

I write freelance (though nothing as "free" as this diary) and earn a meager amount of money. Dory is an actress with a similarly small income, so we share an apartment. I responded to her ad in the Village Voice, and we hit it off. Artsy birds of a feather, don't you know. She is funny, bright, lively, talented...

and has the most tasty thighs!

For the record, she also has hazy gray eyes and short blond hair. She is about five and a half feet tall, and certainly has chest to spare. Dory is the kind of woman Shakespeare would have writ as a most comely wench.

And her thighs! Full, round, and firm – yet not too muscular. Fair and just soft enough. Supple and grand, like my memories of grammar school and Carol Ann.

I have lived here now for over six months, and I dream of Dory with increasing regularity. She is no exhibitionist, but over time she has become more comfortable, and intimate, around me. During the past few weeks I have been treated to views of her voluptuous body I had scarcely dreamed of... till now, of course.

Her favorite lounging outfit is a tiny black silk robe, a gift from a former boyfriend. The sharp contrast in color, between the darkness of the robe and the fairness of her skin, almost beckons me to rip it off her body. The flimsy nature of the garment, how little it manages to cover, makes me ache all the more for what remains hidden.

Fortunately, Dory's stunning thighs are not among the missing.

In my most recent dream:

Dory was sitting next to me on the white couch while I read aloud from a book (I'm not sure what book – and there are more important details to remember). Dory had on her scanty midnight robe, while I wore sweatpants and a t-shirt.

As I read she rested her head on my shoulder, placed her hand on my chest, and slowly stretched her left leg across my lap. Quick as a stroke (ahem!) I developed a marble hard-on. Concentrating on the book became equally hard, so I revelled instead in the lilac scent of Dory's hair and the smoky, seductive fog of her gray eyes.

I lowered my gaze, to spy the thigh resting on my itching prick. As in the manner of a dream, 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 think my legs are getting fat?" She asked, as nonchalant as if she had asked the time.

"Fat? These legs? Dory, they're spectacular!" I answered. My agitation drummed against her with each word.

"You like the socks, huh? Saw them at Bloomies and for some reason, don't ask why, I HAD to have them. You're sure they don't make my legs look chunky?" As she asked she shifted herself and united the right leg with the other. She also offered a full smile with this inquiry, obviously enjoying the tempest raging in my pants.

"Your legs are sublime," I croaked.

"I'm sorry Mark, I must be crushing you. You look a bit... distressed." Dory shifted again, leaning in, pressing her thighs against me. Her tits poured out of the robe. She replaced the hand that had been on my chest, only now it was under the shirt, gliding over my nipples.

"Boy, Mark, you are priii - ty hairy. And pretty hard. Your nipples I mean," She said with a giggle, whilst running her thumbnail around and lifting my shirt with her other hand. When her mouth replaced the thumb I moaned. Her tongue detonated an electric charge from my chest to my balls. I was sure my dick had been blown right out of its skin.

"Ooh, sensitive..." She noted sweetly, before switching to the other side. She tucked her left hand into my sweats and wrapped it around my oppressed and pounding member.

"Mmmnnn... nice and hard... and sticky," This was gently whispered into my chest hair. She ran her index 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 snatch, and a pair of bounding tits. I slid my hand underneath her ass to tickle that hole with a finger, and to give my thumb a ramble in her drenched pussy.

She stopped pumping my shaft, to pull the sweats down over my hips. My prick leapt out like a thoroughbred at race time. Then Dory smothered my lathered horse between the softness of her legs.

"Fuck my thighs, Mark... fuck my thighs," she demanded.

I complied.

I jacked my hips and watched the glistening head of my rod appear and disappear inside her thighs. Dory settled against the back of the couch so she could match my thrusts. My hand continued to gambol in both her holes, while Dory stroked her clit and bucked her hips.

I was adrift in a sea of Dory, driving my cock back and forth, ogling her knees, rubbing against that tender, downy skin... seeing those socks, hearing her irresistable cries...

"Fuck, ohhh fuck me... harder... harder..."

How could I refuse?

My surges were more rapid and urgent – incited by the sound of Dory's commands.

"Ohhh... uhh... cum all over me... don't be shy... oh yessss..."

Her head tilted back, lips puckered in a shivery, climactic smile. My fingers wriggled, wildly frigging her ass and pussy. Her own hand rubbed in small, instinctive circles...

I felt the scalding load roaring up from the base of my balls, and as a seismic wave tore through my lower body, a thick string of cum ripped across her thighs. The second spurt flashed over the knuckles of her frantic hand.

"Uhh – uhhhh – uhhhhh..."

I woke then, with a start, right before she came. I do hope she will forgive me for that... and for this month's dry cleaning bill.

Getting late. Almost time to retire.

Ah, to sleep! Perhaps to dream...

Of knees and socks and thighs, knees and socks and thighs!

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