What is it about black stockings on a pale white woman’s legs?
Is it the delectation they invite me to imagine, at their top? Where, if they are thigh-highs, they meet creamy flesh just out of my view? That tantalizing expanse that lies between their top and where the (black, again?) cotton or silk once again begins to hide?
Or where there is no further material shielding my (hypothetical) view?
And if they’re tights, the obscured view they would offer, if only circumstances were just a little different, of the curves and flesh they contain, obscuring but yet revealing?
I think so. They make me think, imagine.
And honestly… what could possibly be hotter than my imagination?
How hotter you want your imagination to be?