Suspenders are to women as cape is to hero.
They amplify powers; seduce harder, tease longer, open wider, bend further.
Exhibiting the spirit of womanhood. Framing your honey pot.
Holding your waist like a mythological guardian, superfluously defending sheer stockings. Motionless, right where they started. But this was never about the hosiery.
Appreciation gushes from my body. His kryptonite. Eyes narrow with anticipation when he watches me. No one else exists in that moment except us. His gaze follows the path of my hands as they caress my legs. His stare blurs the world.
I provoke each breath from his lungs. Taking my time. The rise and fall of his chest quickens but I’m urged to move faster.
Eyes feast on unapologetic indulgence. I relish this game.
Up I move to my silky knee. Over my heroine hips, across my clean, smooth, purse; opening my legs and exposing myself proudly. I am Paladin. On display for his senses.
My carriage is framed by black lines of lace laurels; at the center is vulnerable exposed me, my purest. He cannot look away as duty binds me to touch myself.
He dares not blink.
Oh, how marvelous I feel.
Harder, longer, wider, further down my hands go...
If this is my superpower, I win.
My suspenders, his eyes and his hero.