You are walking along a leafy promenade, climbing on to a bus, sitting in a restaurant or gazing around a party. Then you spy a glimpse of stocking, maybe an inch or more, oh yes! Please more, of thigh. Your heart leaps, your stomach turns. Why?
Because stockings are both a vision and a promise of heaven. You know that if you follow the road indicated by the seam there will be, underneath that floating, swirling dress, a delicate garter belt, lacy suspenders sneaking their way down a creamy thigh, and sensuous knickers that send your hand skating over valleys and mounds of pure joy.
Those stockings, the belt, the suspenders frame a promised land. It is not only access to that wonderful country that sets your pulse racing, your heart afire and your thoughts aflame. It is the sight of the country, in itself, a vista on whose delights one may joyfully gaze, before seeking entry to its abundant riches.
There is in stockings femininity and frolic, delicacy and debauchery, images to make you weep with pleasure. Indeed there is no sight in the world calculated to create so many and such diverse instant fantasies as that of a high-heeled ankle, a stockinged leg and of course the thigh as it emerges into its own glory as a sunrise bursts from the mysteries of the night (and the stocking top.)
No matter how beautiful the woman, none of these delectable and tantalising fantasies ever has even the chance to surface if you know she is wearing tights. Tights enclose, they promise but never deliver, they imprison, they defend.
As the hand makes its way slowly past the knee, along thigh, feeling the soft flesh begin to give, how can one do anything but give thanks for the sight and the feel of what is presented. First the darkness of the stocking top that tells you that bliss is near, then the suspender and finally the top of the thigh comes into view. The dress is pushed back, the belly, with its frame of lace and promise, rises more urgently to meet your exploring hand. Then you know you are in heaven – stocking heaven!