A movement so subtle, and yet it sends a tremor through you. My foot lifts towards you. Not touching you, but closer. Close enough for you to inhale the intoxicating scent of my perfume, mingling with the clean aroma of the sheer fabric and my warm skin.
The stocking-clad arch of my foot hovers above your face; a dark, silken cloud. Your eyes close in anticipation. You receive the barest brush, the softest caress of the sheer fabric against your cheek. It's not the pressure of my flesh, but the exquisite friction of the stocking itself. Cool, and then warming, like a feather-light sigh.
A slow, teasing journey. Every nerve ending ignites, electrified by the delicate weave, the sensation amplified by the knowledge that it is my foot, that I am the one who wields this silken instrument of pleasure. A testament to the power held within these simple, elegant adornments.
The ball of my foot presses gently, fleetingly, against your lips, and you inhale deeply, tasting the clean essence of the nylon, the faint scent of my skin beneath. It is a kiss, a promise whispered through the finest veil. I move to your temple, then down the side of your neck, each brush of my foot is a deliberate stroke of enchantment.
They are an extension of my will, a conduit for my touch; the barrier that makes the longing more potent, the touch more exquisite.
When at last my foot settles, lightly, on the head of your hard cock, it is a gentle weight that acknowledges your position, your devotion. A silent benediction.
As I fan my silken toes around you and begin to stroke, you see the gleam of my crimson toenails beneath the black silk. I raise my other foot to your cock, so that I can feel you, hard between my arches.
The world, for this moment, is held entirely in the shadow and light of my legs and feet in their sheer black stockings.
Your cock belongs to me . . . and your orgasm is mine.
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