Posted at 12:19 on 12 Nov 2009 by Pandora / Blake
D and I had finished work last night and just ordered pizza to reward ourselves. I headed upstairs to fetch my fantasy novel so I had something to read while we waited for it to arrive. I exclaimed as I entered my bedroom: D had picked up all my kinky shoes from their heap on the floor, and arranged them in a neat row on top of my wardrobe. He called back up to me: "while you're up there, you can choose a pair for later."
Well, I knew what that meant.
Grinning all over my face, I skipped back down the stairs a couple of steps. "Or ... I could put them on now? We probably have time to kill while we wait for food to turn up."
He raised an eyebrow at my impatience, then remembered that I prefer not to play immediately after eating, and gestured I should go ahead. "Why don't you put your leather thigh-high boots on? I've laid them out with the others."
I didn't need asking twice. I dashed back upstairs, had a sudden thought, and started scrabbling around in my wardrobe for the lacy fetish dress I bought at BoundCon. I wanted to surprise him, but it took me a while to find it: I was only just reaching for the boots when I heard his tread on the stairs. He flicked his eyes over me, taking in the black scraps of lace barely covering my breasts and hips. "Pretty." I looked up at him, cheeks already slightly flushed with anticipation. He was topless - my heaters were working for once and the flat was warm. But he'd pulled on the black Italian leather gloves I bought him a couple of Christmasses ago.
My heart started beating faster at the sight. I love, love, love being topped by someone wearing leather gloves: the warm sleekness of the leather on my skin contrasts with the sense of authority and distance commanded by someone covering their hands. Black leather gloves carry associations of booted officers undertaking secret interrogations: svelte European men wearing them to drive beautiful vintage cars. Soft leather gloves on a man can be like heeled shoes: sharp, fashionable, sexy, and ever-so-slightly androgynous. At a party last Saturday I found myself flirting outrageously with an old friend who'd accessorised his dapper suit with a pair of leather gloves, even though our friendship is definitely platonic. I look at them and imagine cool, smooth hands closing around my throat, idly caressing my skin. I shivered.
He reached out and stroked my neck as he slipped past me, and lounged against the wall by the bed, watching me zip the leather boots snugly over my thighs. I couldn't take my eyes off him; I felt giddy with excitement. "That looks kind of strange," I laughed, "the gloves and no sleeves. Like wearing socks and nothing else." I meant to be affectionate rather than insolent, but his expression of detached amusement didn't alter.
I was still trembling with anticipation when we heard a knock on the door. We hadn't even touched yet. "I think that's our dinner," D said.
"Oh, man!" I couldn't believe it. I was laughing even through my disappointment as he sprinted downstairs and pulled his shoes on. I stayed where I was while he hunted for keys and opened the door, aware of the slipperiness in my cunt, aware I was wearing only thigh-high boots and a few scraps of black lace. I shook my head and started getting changed into something more comfortable.
I joined him downstairs. "I can't believe that timing."
"Yup," he said, piling pizza boxes in front of me, "that's it. Chance gone. The moment is lost forever."
I couldn't quite tell if he was joking or not.
(to be continued...)