For many years I led a life of quiet desperation. At the age of 23 I still lived with my divorced mother, and I was still a virgin. But do not think for a moment that I had no sex life, no appreciation for pleasures of the flesh. I did. I worshiped, adored, dreamed about, and was utterly obsessed with the legs of young women.
Observation or contemplation of those captivating limbs occupied most of my waking hours. I could tell you just when and where to see California’s most delectable females clad in cut-off jeans, jogging shorts, mini- or even micro skirts; whatever revealed to my admiring eyes their delightful legs.
And don’t even get me started on beaches and swimming pools.
As a product of the modern era, I accept no blame for my obsession. It wasn’t me, it was the environment I was brought up in. More to the point, my Aunt Mandy. Yes, Aunt Mandy, 32 and separated from her husband when she moved in with my mother and me for a few months. I was 14, a mere lad, tender and impressionable. And Aunt Mandy was possessed of the longest, most lissom, golden legs in Contra Costa County. I suppose it was inevitable.
It is no secret that women know precisely what is their best physical attribute, and dress to display it to full advantage. Aunt Mandy’s entire wardrobe, I believe, was selected for no other purpose but to show off her amazing legs. And she did, with shockingly brief skirts and dresses; shorts of every fabric and style provided they were short. You can imagine how she dressed at my mother’s house.
At first Aunt Mandy came to breakfast in a long T-shirt, panties, and nothing more. My mother finally laid down the law, but by then it was too late. I’d already spent several mornings studying my aunt’s smooth thighs and calves. I blushed like the schoolboy I was, but could not take my eyes off them.
I knew I was a goner that day I was lying poolside, innocently reading a Henry Miller novel. Aunt Mandy strolled out, wearing one of those high-cut swimsuits that accentuates a woman’s long legs. She sat down in the sun lounger next to me, and began to slather baby oil on her silky legs.
By then she was aware of my fascination, of course. But do you think she took pity on me, accepted her responsibility to behave modestly around her own flesh and blood? She did not.
Once she had my attention, which took about half a second, she worked her hands slowly up from her delightfully slim ankles to those full meaty calves, whose skin enclosed taut muscles and the like. Her knees were firm and well-shaped, leading to the piéce de résistance: thighs as smooth as butter, as flawless as a porcelain vase.
Helpless to do otherwise I watched. Watched as she slowly moved her hands over them, kneading the muscles, caressing her thighs as if she were making love to them. It was the most sensual thing I had ever seen in my young life.
The woman, haughty and proud, gazed at me over her sunglasses. “Are you enjoying this, junior?” she purred.
Oh, she was a heartless no-good woman! But how many times since that day have I lain in bed, caressing my manhood as I envisioned Aunt Mandy and her legs? How many stars are there in the sky?
I took my college degree at the University of Arizona. I chose that school because Tucson’s climate enables young coeds to wear shorts throughout the school year. It is a leg-watcher’s paradise.
And oh, the legs on display. The Arizona girls were no slouch, but many attractive girls from southern California also go to the U of A. Their parents gladly pay out-of-state-tuition to get them farther from home than USC or UCLA.
I loved the warm sunny days we’d have in mid-February. Wearing my Ray-Bans, I’d sit on the Main Mall, watching the endless parade of pulchritude. I fell in love with many of the girls, for example the one I called Latina doll. She had amazingly shapely legs of the most exquisite brown ochre color. And there was Barbie, blonde and from SoCal of course. Superb long legs, thighs a delicious wheat color, so lithe that you could see her muscles ripple as she pranced by. Ah, college life!
Although I was there for the leg show, the U of A insisted that I actually major in something. I chose tax law and accounting. To my surprise I was rather good at it. Eventually I had taken all the courses I needed and was obliged, somewhat against my will, to graduate.
I took a job with an accounting firm in the Embarcadero section of San Francisco, and moved back in with my mother who lived across the bay on Lois Lane in the town of El Cerrito. That’s right, Lois Lane. Always good for a chuckle.
I settled into a dreary routine of commuting on the BART to the city. Now of all months I dreaded February most. There I’d be, riding through cold rainy San Francisco, tantalized by thoughts of all those curvaceous legs on display at that very moment down at the U of A’s Main Mall. So far away now.
But in late winter the Bay Area eventually rewards you with glorious sunny days. Then, here and there, can be spotted my sole pleasure in life, a nice pair of legs on display.
It began on just such a day. I was returning home on the BART, thinking of nothing in particular. Several seconds passed before I realized that a young woman had sat down opposite me. I vaguely recall reddish blonde curls; she may even have had breasts. But what she did have, what riveted my eyes to the point of hypnosis, was the most enchanting legs a man can imagine. She was Aunt Mandy, Latina doll, and Barbie rolled into one.
Barely covered by an eyelet miniskirt, spread apart more than is decent, were the legs of my dreams: cream-colored perfection, firm and muscular but at the same time so very silky-smooth and feminine. Some might think them too long. But I say that just as you can never be too rich, a woman’s legs can never be too long.
My obsession was such that everything around save those legs somehow just faded away. My eyes were filled with that sweet object of desire, soft woman’s flesh so delightfully formed.
The girl looked out the window for a while, but soon realized that the man across from her was staring at her legs with unbridled lust, his eyes glazed over, his jaw slack.
I glanced up and saw that she was watching me. Blushing intensely, I tried to look away. But how can you ask a man to ignore legs so enchanting? Helpless, feeling like a marionette, I drew my eyes back to her flawless limbs.
The girl sighed in vexation, and the temperature in the car dropped about ten degrees. Then she got up, glanced at me and hissed, “Asshole!” With that remark she strode down the aisle and disappeared into the next car.
I was embarrassed, but not as much as you might think. It wasn’t the first time I’d been caught in the act of ogling a woman’s legs and called asshole or worse. It comes with the obsession.
And so the days went on in dull sequence as the weather gradually warmed. About a week later I was returning home on the BART, reading the Chronicle as we whooshed under the bay. I looked up and there was the same girl: sitting across from me, looking directly into my eyes.
Her eyes, I saw, were a pleasing cornflower blue. Now they were dark with contempt but also curiosity. Of course I looked down to her legs, on display today below cotton shorts in a floral print design. Somehow I mustered the willpower to meet her eyes again.
Then I spoke. “Look, you’re a very attractive woman. And I’m really sorry my behavior offended you. Will you please accept my apology?”
That softened the edges around her a bit. She smiled, but there was the cool look of a minx about that smile too.
“So,” she murmured, “you like my legs?” There was no one near us in the car. She could speak freely.
“They’re very lovely,” I answered, thinking, I should know.
The cat regarded the mouse. “I’ll bet you’d like to touch them. Slide your hands over my thighs, hmm? Wouldn’t that be nice?”
I gulped and said nothing.
“Maybe even kiss them? How do you suppose that would feel, placing your lips on this soft skin?” With that she raised one leg up so that her foot rested on the seat.
I swallowed, beads of sweat now on my forehead. She held her leg so that the back of her thigh was on full display, not to mention a glimpse of white panties under the shorts.
“Why are you doing this?” I whispered.
“Because I can, my love, because I can.” Was Aunt Mandy ever so cruel?
I took several deep breaths. “There’s a better place to torture me.”
“Yes. Chez Collette restaurant on Bancroft Street. Seven o’clock this Saturday.”
She blinked in surprise. “You’re asking me on a date! You, a pervert!”
“Yes. You know what I am. But you can also see I’m good-looking and well-dressed. I’m also respectful of women and a good conversationalist. Just ask my mother. I think we’d both enjoy the pleasure of each other’s company. You could do worse.”
The girl shook her head, a grin on her face. “Nice pitch,” she said. “But you can’t just date my legs, you know. The rest of me is attached.”
“I’m willing to accept that if you are.”
She laughed, and then so did I. I wasn’t sure it was enough, breaking the tension like that. And I would have to wait some time to find out.
“The Chez’s really uptown and pricy for a first date.”
“You’re worth it.”
“Because of my legs.”
“That and your pretty blue eyes.”
“What if I decide to wear an ankle-length dress?”
“I’m betting you won’t.”
She stood up, and I allowed myself one last worshipful glance at her legs. “This is my stop, downtown Berkeley,” she said, then went on. “I’ll have to think about it. Tell me, would you make the reservation and go there on the off chance that I’d show?”
“In a heartbeat.”
Without a word she moved to the door as the car slowed. I watched as she got off. She turned and glanced back over her shoulder at me, an impish smile on her face. A smile that said, maybe I’ll be there and maybe I won’t.
I collapsed into my seat, stunned that I’d had the audacity to ask someone out, she of all women. But did I sense something about her, something telling me that instead of merely looking, that I should pursue her? Yes, I thought, there’s more to her than just beautiful legs. Much more.
Saturday night was cool and foggy, one last winter storm hanging over the Bay Area and Berkeley. Chez Collette was packed as usual. I expected her to be late even if she did come, and so it was. But just moments before they gave our table to the next couple, I caught a glimpse of flesh out of the corner of my eye.
She was wearing a waist-length suede jacket, and beneath it a midnight blue eyelet dress that was within half an inch of being scandalously short. On her it was stunning, displaying to perfection her magnificent bare legs. A faint shockwave went through the whole restaurant. You knew that both men and women were aware of this creature with such breathtaking long legs now among them.
She walked up to me. Just that simple act, the most gorgeous woman in the room greeting me, filled me with a kind of male sense of triumph. Those moments happen so seldom in life.
“I’m Tara Lake,” she smiled. The smile was still a bit impish, still a touch of the minx. It was a portent of what was to come, but at the time I did not know.
“Owen Fisher,” I responded, taking her hand for a second. Then they seated us and from the sommelier I ordered the 2001 Stag’s Leap merlot; Tara smiled, more than satisfied with my choice.
I must admit that the part of her that was not leg was attractive too. In the restaurant’s warm candlelight those reddish blonde curls just glowed. Her blue eyes danced as she regarded me.
Over our first glass of merlot she said, “Now Owen, you’re cute and all, but what fascinates me about you is what fascinates you. Girls’ legs. So tell me your story. I want to hear it all.”
So through the escarole and fresh herbs salad I told all. Starting with Aunt Mandy, and my sojourn at the U of A.
By the time the rack of lamb arrived she had moved to a related topic, my sex life. “But for all that you never really date women very much, do you?”
“No,” I said glumly. “And you probably know why, too.”
“Uh huh. It takes a girl about ten seconds to notice your leg obsession, and it creeps them out.”
“Yes. So why didn’t it creep you out?”
“It did at first. But there’s a look of innocence, a little boy lost air about you. Some women are drawn to that, I think.”
“Is that’s why you came and sat across from me on the BART the second time?”
“Of course.” She looked away out toward the street, waxing philosophical. “This town’s full of guys that are better looking than you. But sometimes a girl has a yen for the, I don’t know, outré. Something out of the ordinary.”
“That’s me all right, outré. Look, I think I’ll wash my hands before dessert. Will you excuse me?”
I washed my hands and came out of the restroom into a short tiled hallway that was out of view of the dining room. Tara was standing there, her eyes gleaming with that look of the minx again.
“What?” I asked.
Drawing close to me, she murmured, “Take my thighs. Touch and caress them, the way I know you’ve dreamed of.”
“Here! Are you crazy?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice now with a guttural undertone. “Hurry, before someone comes!”
Once again helpless in the face of my addiction, I bent down, placed my hands on her right knee, and for the first time in my life drew my hands over that which I had dreamed of for years: a woman’s soft thigh.
But never, not even in my most fervid dreams, had I imagined that mere mortals could experience such ecstasy. I gasped in shock at the sublime velvet feel of Tara’s inner thigh. “Omigod,” I whispered, “I can’t believe it, I never knew! This is heaven!”
“Yes!” she said excitedly, a rose flush spreading across her face. “You like that, don’t you!”
“Oh sweet Jesus!” My hands flowed over sheer perfection in those inner thighs, compared to which a baby’s butt is industrial sandpaper. They glided up to her silk panties as she hoisted her dress to her hips. Take it from me. There is nothing in this earthly realm that can bring such ineffable pleasure to your fingertips as a woman’s inner thighs.
I was not the only one feeling bliss. “That’s nice,” Tara cooed, her eyes half closed. “Oh yes, soo nice!” A faint sheen of perspiration was on her brow.
Breathing heavily, we looked at each other, sharing this rapturous moment. But then we heard footsteps, and Tara’s dress dropped just milliseconds before a distinguished looking matron rounded the corner and saw us.
Tara quickly turned and entered the women’s restroom. I walked, or perhaps staggered if you like, back to our table, my hands still tingling as if I had held a thousand volt wire.
She returned to our table a moment later, her eyes gleaming in a way that was exciting yet scary at the same time. In hindsight I know she was surprised by how my touch had inflamed her.
We gazed at each other, trying to finish the meal, but now another appetite was aroused. Tara leaned across the table and whispered, “I took my panties off in the restroom. Now there’s nothing under this dress but me.”
“Please, that’s not fair!”
I swear the woman was possessed. “My thighs and my sweet pussy await you, love. Thighs aching for a man’s touch. Wouldn’t you like to stroke me now? Right here?”
“Here? You’re psycho!” I gasped. “I thought I was the pervert!”
In a hypnotic voice, she said, “You know you want to do it. You can’t resist. What does it matter if others see? You’ll be enjoying my warm smooth thighs. Think about it.”
The witch moved her chair around until she was beside me. She turned to me, tousling my hair, whispering, “Do it … do it here.”
I was weak, now in the thrall of this moment and this madwoman.
So there in the dining room I closed my eyes and once again felt rapture as my hand glissaded from her knee to the top of her thighs. And there was her bare pussy, now soaking wet. I was lost in the feel of her luscious thighs; her warm juices wetting my hand. Several quiet moans escaped my lips.
I’m afraid we were not very discreet. A murmur of disapproval swept through the dining room, and like a tiger the maitre d’ was on us. “Excuse me, what’s going on here!” he demanded with a scowl.
“I .. I’m sorry,” I stammered. “We were just about to order the lemon cream puffs for dessert, see, but she wanted me to caress her thighs first. It’s a little game we play, and it’s heaven! If you don’t believe me, try it!”
“Get out! Out now!” he ordered in a loud voice. And out we went, in total disgrace as I paid our bill to the frowning manager. Every eye was on us, emanating malice. But who knows, perhaps entertained as well by our outrageous breach of decorum. Not the sort of thing one often sees in a five-star restaurant, I grant you.
The wild woman awaited me in the street. Laughing and giggling, Tara pirouetted, saying, “That was so much fun! There are dozens of nice restaurants around here, Owen. We can get thrown out of them all!”
Her lunacy was infectious. I had to laugh in spite of myself. “What a night!”
A little while later we were in her apartment bedroom. I watched as Tara’s dress dropped to the floor; there was indeed nothing but woman under it. A crazy beautiful woman.
Never expecting them to be seen, I had worn polka-dot boxers, but she just laughed and said, “Owen, they’re soo perfect for you!” After a pause she said, “But not now.” She removed them.
Then she handed me a bottle of leg and body lotion and said with her minx smile, “Enjoy, my love, enjoy.”
Again scarcely believing that such sublime delectations could exist, I filled my hand and lovingly massaged her ankles and calves, moaning with pleasure every bit as ecstatically as was she. Recalling Aunt Mandy’s poolside spectacle years ago, I deep-massaged Tara’s thigh muscles. My eyes closed, I focused entirely on the divine sensation of my hands making love to her thighs.
But more carnal pleasures awaited. “You haven’t kissed them yet,” Tara murmured. “Do it!”
I began to slowly kiss her inner thighs. The feel of her velvet skin on my lips, together with the rich aroma of her pussy, left me literally faint with desire. I realized that I was within seconds of climaxing.
“Tara!” I gasped, “I’m going to do it! I can’t help it!”
“Then take me! You know what to do!”
And that is how a 23-year-old leg man lost his virginity. I plunged into her waiting pussy just seconds before savoring the longest and sweetest climax a man could ever hope to have. What can compare with the feel of your cock enveloped by a woman’s warm wet body? It was and remains a perfect blend of the carnal and the divine.
As I came and even afterwards, I looked into Tara’s eyes in shock. She returned my gaze, her face damp with perspiration. “See, love,” she murmured, “there’s more to a woman than her legs.”
“Oh jeez, Tara!” I whispered, unaware that I was still thrusting into and out of her. “I’m … I’m sorry I didn’t give you time.”
“I’m closer than you think,” she breathed. “Just don’t stop what you’re doing!”
I didn’t, and moments later she came. And what was I thinking at that most intense juncture? I was relishing the feel of her thighs squeezing my torso, once again marveling at the myriad pleasures a woman can render with her legs.
Later, in the afterglow of lovemaking, we lay together. Tara caressed my hair. “Do you want to be my lover?” she smiled.
“Is that a trick question?’
She chuckled. “A lover named Owen who wears polka-dot boxers! My friends are going to die!” She looked into the future for a second, then back to me. “You’ll never get over your leg obsession, will you?”
“No. But look at it this way. I may look at other women’s legs, but yours are the most amazing, perfect legs in California and maybe all the western states. And when a guy like me says that, you can take it to the bank. I’ll worship yours most of all.”
“Another thing, women’s faces and breasts sag in time, but legs, well, they can be marvelous on women even into middle age. I’ve seen them. So you never have to worry about me growing tired of yours. Or you.”
“You don’t have to pitch me, love. You know when you were stroking me in the restaurant, and just now rubbing body lotion on my legs?”
“I distinctly recall it.”
“God, Owen, that turned me on more than any guy ever did kissing me or playing with my boobs. Maybe ours is a match made in heaven.”
So that is my story: two people whose relationship is based on fabulous legs. But remember, this is California. For Tara, I’m uncool, yet my leg obsession makes me kinky as well. She likes that in a man.
And I love being with her because she’s wild and impetuous. She still likes to tease and seduce me in public with her legs. As of today we are no longer welcome in three Berkeley restaurants, one museum in San Francisco, and a coffee house over in Walnut Creek.
Tara’s penchant for shocking behavior is for me her second most charming feature. You already know the first.