Whether covered or exposed, there is something deeply sensuous about thighs.
The skin on thighs is special – it is really soft and sensitive, especially the inner thigh. Even more exciting erogenous zones are just a finger’s length away. And thighs reside at the top of legs, and – as far as my male perspective of women is concerned – legs can really drive sexual expression like nothing else.
Thighs also mark, very clearly, a transition area. This is where the leg connects with the torso. Stocking tops could not be better located. They are the clearest of demarcation zones: an erotic line on the flesh. They almost beckon a hand to run up them and to feel the texture change from smooth nylon to the softest of skin, and perhaps explore further.
While stocking tops are delightful, thigh-high boots are delicious. And it is these that occupy my most favourite of fantasies. But it is a fantasy very much based on fact.
I can pinpoint the very first time I saw thigh-high boots for real, not in a photograph in a magazine. I was sitting at the back of a double-decker bus. I was on one of the bench seats that face inwards and straddle the back wheels. I was eighteen, just out of school, on holiday with some friends celebrating the end of exams, with a bag of shopping recently bought at the Co-Op plonked on the seat next to me. I was staring, daydreaming probably, out of the side window when the bus stopped a bit too abruptly at a request stop. I had to grab my shopping to stop if tumbling off the seat.
I didn’t notice the passenger pay climb on board, I think I was picking up a can which had fallen out of the carrier bag. But I can remember hearing a very confident and precise clip of a heel as she walked down the bus. Looking up from the floor I saw something totally stunning walking towards me. Perhaps being so low down and gazing up at these incredibly long, leather-clad legs fired up something deep inside me; legs seem so much longer when viewed from below. Possibly a thought of being dominated – I was virtually grovelling on the floor as such a beauty walked up to me – touched a nerve. Whatever, I was totally in awe of this woman. And what happened next simply intensified these feelings.
Though there were plenty of empty seats around, this most sensuous of women walked down and stood opposite me. I don’t think I had moved much from the floor. I was simply transfixed by what she was wearing on her feet. They were, without doubt, the most erotic boots I had ever seen. They were lightly tanned, in the softest of leathers, which came up over her knee. Well over her knee. They reached the place where stockings might end. But there was no sign of flesh on this woman’s legs – her jeans were tucked into her boots. She span round. Her stiletto heels were magnificently high. And she sat down, directly opposite me, and crossed her legs.
She sure had some long, slender legs; the thigh-high boots accentuating their length and shapeliness. This woman was clearly very secure in her own skin, and especially in those tan leather boots. Her confidence only added to her sensuality.
It was summer, and not really the season for boots, let alone boots like this. Her look could have been tacky and misfired. But it was a touch on the chilly side, boots were not a bad idea I supposed (well, I know I am making up excuses for her). Moreover, this woman really could carry off her attire, regardless of the season. She looked great.
She had shoulder-length, brown curly hair, a denim jacket over a blue chequered blouse tied in a knot to reveal her navel (though this might sound very dated, this was all the rage back in those days) with more than a hint of cleavage showing higher up. Her make up was immaculate and her fingers perfectly manicured.
In fact, I only noticed her hands when she ran one along the top of her boots – along with that magic divide at the top of her thigh – and then slowly down the side of her boot towards her ankle – following a seam. She appeared to be doing this consciously – enjoying the feel of the boots herself, almost caressing them. Perhaps she was also daring me to follow her finger with my gaze.
But the most amazing thing was that she was sitting – had chosen to sit – right opposite me. Me. Me, with my Co-Op bag of shopping, scruffy jeans and an un-ironed shirt.
She got off a stop or two before me and I do recall turning my head to watch her walk off, which she did with the skill of a fashionista on a catwalk.
I often wish I had more courage at the time to compliment her on her boots and to strike up a longer conversation. I so wished that I had invited her back to where I was staying (let’s forget the fact that my mates were waiting for me to bring their supper back with me). To open the door and let her walk in first, and then to ask her to sit down so I could watch, once more, her cross her legs and hear the sound of soft leather-clad thighs brushing together.
I would make her a mug of tea, perhaps only to find that on my return she had removed her jacket and undone another button or two on her blouse. I would hand her a mug of tea, and then sit next to her. After a few sips I would take her mug and put it on a table, and then run my hands through her curly hair and then lean forward and kiss her on the lips. And then I would repeat her action on the bus, only in reverse, and run a hand from her leathered-covered ankle slowly alongside her calf, over the knee and up to the very top of her boots.
Surely a further unbuttoning of her blouse would be followed by her removing her bra and easing her jeans down. I would pull her knickers to one side and go down on her, feeling the rub of her boots on either side of my face. Before we made love, she would take off her boots and jeans and knickers, and then – this is the most important part for me – put her boots back on again. And when I slowly slid my prick into her a bit later, I would feel them wrap around my back.
Of course, she simply disappeared into the distance and I headed back to cook supper. But I would like to thank her for sitting opposite me and for giving me the most wonderful thrill. It is a memory I cherish and I hereby challenge Anna to work this scenario – and certainly a pair of leather thigh boots – into one of her films.