Legs are legs and feet are feet, thank you very much. In other words: I love feet, but I’m obsessed with legs. You see the difference? Gorgeous legs make me vulnerable, desperate, gullible, speechless and sky-high submissive. It’s pathetic, I know, and I often tell myself to stop being such a wimp, but I won’t listen. Because legs are so wonderful, so powerful and so mesmerising. I’ve studied them as long as I can remember (did a lotta legwork, so the speak), studied them as if they were fragments of the lost tomb of Cleopatra. Take the shape of the knee for example. A knee can fuck up or lift up the beauty of a leg entirely. And don’t get me started on ankles, mate! I could write a book on that alone! A beautiful leg is a delicate balance between the upper- en lower leg, the knee, ankle, the muscles and the smoothness of the skin. The loser’s truth is that I find it impossible not to stare and even more impossible to control my dick. That thing rises in my pants like a volcano that’s ready to rumble. In short; legs are my Glory-Glory-Hallelujah fetish, my Winner-Takes-It-All desire, my All-Time-Greatest-Hits longing.