I love silk stockings on a man – the right man of course. The sheen of them, the iridescence catching the light. 15 denier max., delicate sheer and shapely, leading the eye up to up to.

When I say the right man, I mean the right legs. Muscular, but not over-emphasised: not rugby player or professional cyclist, but lean functional muscles, a calf that turns but doesn’t bulge, thighs that show definition of quadriceps, each part of the muscle clear, but not aggressively so, understated knees. 

A minimum of pale body hair – not entirely absent, but just enough to feel through the silk, the rough offsetting the smooth shimmering nylon, a feast for tender probing fingers.

Stockings, of course, not tights. With sensual detailing at the top, maybe floral lace, held by the clip of suspenders and leaving an exposed area of golden flesh, firm and inviting.

The suspenders should be high-waisted, a hint of corset holding in a firm stomach – nothing so vulgar as a six-pack, just a wall of muscled abdomen, smooth, something you would want to rub sun tan lotion into on a tropical beach.

His hair is thick, auburn, straight, begging you to run your fingers through it. He grins invitingly showing white even teeth with a hint of mischief in the smile at the corner of the mouth. His tongue moistens full lips. He is looking me directly in the eye, challenging me.

‘Come closer … You know you want to –’.

I want to. I want to fuck him so badly my stomach is in knots.

I look directly back. Into the mirror.

Peter Scott-Presland