You love stockings, don’t you? The way the sheer fabric clings to my legs, the slow glide of my fingers tracing up my thighs—it’s enough to short-circuit your brain. You can’t look away, can you? Every inch I reveal, every little adjustment I make, just winds you tighter. I tell you exactly when to touch yourself, how fast, how deep. You follow every word, desperate for my approval, aching for release. You think you’re doing this for yourself, but we both know better. Every stroke belongs to me. Every gasp, every shiver, every drop. I make you edge, make you wait, make you tremble on command—because you don’t cum for yourself anymore. You cum for my stockings. For the smooth fabric wrapped around my legs, for the sound of my voice telling you exactly what a good boy does when he can’t control himself. And when I finally give permission… when I reach the end of my countdown… you lose it completely. Your mind goes blank, your body obeys, and you cum hard—for my stockings, for me.
