by Radclyffe
“A six?” she repeated, moving closer to the counter. I saw that look in her eyes, the look of the huntress, the look of the goddess, and I nodded quickly and motioned for her to follow me to the back.
She did, high-heeled sandals clicking on the wood floor, and I opened the door and ushered her in, spreading my arms to show her my private collection.
“Ohh.” A sigh. She had found Nirvana.
“Your size,” I said huskily, “Everything. All of it. Try on any piece you want.” She went quickly to the first rack, her long red nails stroking the sides of the lace-up pants, her palms caressing the velvety-soft insides of the jackets. Butter-soft leather, black as midnight, some pieces shiny, others worn with age and love.
“Where?” she asked, looking around the room. There are mirrors on the walls but no private dressing room in the back.
“You can use the rooms out front,” I told her. “Or change right here.”
She shot me a look, one that made me melt. “Here’s fine.”
In a second, her green top was on the floor, her shorts next, and panties last—no bra, she didn’t need one—and she was into the first outfit before I could fully register the concept of her body. The skin, the hide, sliding against her pale, naked body, turned me on more than anything I can possibly imagine, more than simply staring at her nude form could have done. She’d chosen one of my favorites, right from the beginning, a pair of tight black riding pants and a matching vest, worn over nothing but her pale, creamy skin. She slid into her sandals and then swung her hair out of the way to catch her reflection in the mirror.
“That was made for you,” I mumbled.
She nodded, more to her mirror image than to my statement, and stared at herself in the critical way that I’ve noticed even very pretty women do. That look never appears on my own face. I’m secure in my body, in the strength of it, the lines of it, but that may be because of my years or because my father treated his daughters and sons alike. We were given no special treatment, no coddling. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see a painted picture, a gilded reflection. I see straight to my soul.
She wasn’t sure, wasn’t totally satisfied, and she kicked off the shoes, peeled down the slacks, and went rifling through the racks, clad only in the leather top, showing me all of her charms, her golden-furred pussy when she turned my way, her pink pussy lips when she bent over.
“Do you like that?” I asked as she reached for a dress, one with laces at the sides and back. It was a dress made for a motorcycle lady, made as specifically for this woman as if she had been the designer’s muse.
She slipped off the vest for an answer, sliding the dress over her head and then stalking toward me and turning, wanting me to fasten the laces in back. I did it with shaking hands, moving her long hair out of the way so I could do it right. She was tall, at least 5’10” in bare feet, and the dress fit her like a leather glove. She moved away as soon as I was done with the laces, sidling up to the mirror and then pirouetting in front of it.
She liked this one better. I could tell. The way she pursed her lips at her image, the way she moved a few feet back and looked down, her chin tilted at an angle, taking in her entire reflected twin.
“You could try it with fringe boots,” I suggested, unsure of how much input she wanted. She seemed to be on a mission, and if she were buying to please a lover, I’d have to watch my step.
“Yeah,” she looked at me expectantly. “What do you have?”
I rushed to get the highest pair from the rack out front and grabbed my favorite motorcycle boots as well. While I was nearby, I shut and locked the front door, turning the Out to Lunch sign face forward.
When I returned, she was still standing in front of the mirror, but now she had on a pair of fishnet hose, snagged from one of the inventory boxes. “Hope it’s okay,” she said, giving me a different kind of look with those lake-green eyes.
“Sure.” Anything you want, unsaid but implied. I handed over the boots, and she slid them on. Again, a perfect fit. She walked a few steps forward and a few steps back, almost doing a dance. Then she turned to face me.
“What do you think?”
Did she want a salesperson’s opinion, or that of a lust-filled admirer?
“You’re stunning,” I said, my husky baritone going down another octave. But I was quick to correct myself, my mind working instantly, “I mean, it looks stunning on you.” I’ve never been one to stutter. As I said, I have always felt confident in my dark looks, confident in the lean, sturdy weight of my body. But this woman made me shake.
“Yes,” she turned to regard the mirror again. “I like this one best.”
I pulled together my nerve. “Is it for a special occasion?”
“No. Just for myself. I needed a lift. And leather always makes me feel...sexy. Something about the scent, the smell of it.”
I nodded.
“You understand,” she asked, “Don’t you?”
“It’s why I have the store,” I told her, wanting to touch her, restraining myself from taking her in my arms and stroking her through the soft leather, feeling the place, the wondrous place where her skin ended and the hide began. The leather and the skin, the hide on the hide. Circling it, sniffing it, getting down on the floor and pressing my face to her body, wrapping my arms around her waist and smelling her animal scent through the musky odor of the hide.
“What’s your name?” she asked then, breaking me from my daydreams.
“Patrice.” My voice sounded so deep to my own ears. Deep and filled with longing. I wanted to own her.
“I’m Diana.”
Of course she was. Diana, goddess of the moon. The queen and the huntress.
She walked a step closer, clicking in those fringed boots. “Why do you keep all of the best back here?”
The honest reason is that I don’t want it to appear on just anyone. You need to love leather to wear it right. I’ve only found a few people I considered worthy of owning the best. This lady was definitely one of them.
“I don’t like to waste it.”
Now she was the one to nod. Another step closer. “Patrice?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to feel?”
Another step.
I bowed my head. Was she teasing me? “Yeah.”
She moved quickly then, into my arms, and I rested my head on her shoulder and breathed in the smell of her body, right at the underside of her neck, that secret, haunting she-woman smell. Then, with her scent still tickling my nose, I went down to my knees and pressed my lips to her sex, kissing her there, smelling her there, getting wave upon wave of the mingling perfumes, the leather and the lady, the sweet smell of the old leather, the fresh scent of the woman.
I stroked her body through the skin, dragging my palms firmly along the sleek lines of her hips, over her thighs. She moved away from me, dancing away, sliding free from the dress and returning to the rack, completely nude, choosing another pair of pants and a tight jacket with zippered sleeves. She never took her eyes off me as she pulled on the pants, wriggled into the jacket. She zipped into the second pair of boots, the cycle ones. Then she came back, wanting me to feel her again.
I grabbed her lower this time, moving my hands down her calves to her ankles. Holding her tightly here, through two layers of leather, the slacks and the boots. Gripping into her body firmly enough so that she could feel my strength. My desire. In my mind, I could hear a poem (hundreds of years old) that could have been written for her specifically. A poem for a huntress:Lay thy bow of pearl apart.
And thy crystal-shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever
Thou that mak’st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.
I suddenly knew what it would be like to have her riding behind me on my Harley, her arms tight around my waist. Knew what it would be like to reach our destination at the top of the Hollywood hills in a secret grove of
Eucalyptus trees, where we’d be alone except for the moon and the wind. I’d turn her around, bend her over the seat, and slide those leather jeans over her hips and down.
“Down,” she said, again pulling me out of my fantasies. “Lie down.”
I followed her order immediately, going quickly from my knees to my back on the wooden floor, watching wide-eyed as she straddled my legs and slid down my thighs until she was sitting sex-to-sex on top of me.
She could tell that I was packing, I was sure of it, the synthetic cock pressing at her through two pairs of leather jeans. She could feel the ache of it, wanting her, and she smiled as she reached out and stroked it, stroked me through the hide, caressing me. I could tell from her look of ecstasy that I had met my match. Finally, after many years of searching, many more laying in wait, I had found my leather lady.
She didn’t touch the button fly, didn’t make a move to undo my pants. She only stroked, and teased, and played with me through the worn leather.
But she denied me.
Her hands continued to work, her fingers to dance their intricate steps up and down the crotch of the jeans. Then, without saying a word, she began moving her body forward, taking over from her fingers with her sweet little pussy, rubbing in circles, endless circles of her hips against mine. Around and around. I helped her, grabbing onto her waist and finding that fast, pounding beat. Moving her up and down, then a quick circle, up and down the rigid shaft of the molded cock. Wanting nothing more than to rip open the buttons, tear off her slacks, and slam it into her. But then, wanting nothing less than losing the feel of the leather, the softness of it, the slender caress of it tight on us both.
“What do you want?” I managed to whisper, the image of her on my cycle still burning in my head, the feel of her skin where it showed, at her wrists, at the neck of her jacket, at her throat, the bits that I saw inflaming me. The leather of her body, the hide and the hide, engulfing me.
“What do you want?”
If she needed me inside her, I would. I would take down her slacks, unbutton my own, and plunge the phallus into the wet heat of her pussy. I could smell that wet heat, knew what it would feel like as it dripped down the plastic dildo and matted against my fur. But if she wanted to come in the leather, come through the leather, I’d do that too.
She surprised me.
“Shh, Patrice. Don’t say anything. Let me.”
In a flash, she was up and grabbing the motorcycle gloves from the edge of my desk. Then she motioned for me to stand and undo my fly. I did it, my fingers slipping only once in their hurry to loose the buttons.
Her gloved hand reached in, took over, freeing the flesh-colored cock and bringing it to her lips. The leather-covered fingertips reached lower, probing, trying to find my cunt beneath the harness. I didn’t need her to touch me there, simply watching her mouth around the head of the cock drove me crazy. She worked me hard, worked me well, sliding the cool leather across the feverish skin of my flat belly, bringing me to a boiling point with the inferno of her mouth as she deep-throated the cock and pressed her lips all the way to my body. She knew...she knew everything. The two sensations, skin on skin. The slickness of her glossy lips, then the smooth leather caress, the heat of her tongue trailing lower to tickle my thighs, then the heavy weight of her gloved hand going back between my legs to tickle my asshole.
I stroked her fiery curls while she worked, faster and faster, the glove and her tongue, the leather sliding on the wetness of the cock, the oiled-up feeling as her hand moved piston-fast on the shaft. But then suddenly she settled back on her heels and looked up at me with a mixed expression of lust...and anticipation. I did not let her down.
I drew her to her feet, lifted her into my arms, and brought her to my heavy wooden desk. Quickly I peeled the gloves from her hands and slid them on my own, delighting in the warmth left by her body heat. Then, just as quickly, I unzipped her leather slacks and pulled them down, only to her thighs, giving me the perfect access to her pussy and asshole. Lovely. Perfect. I parted her ginger-furred kitty lips with two fingers and found her clit, teasing it with my gloved hand. Brushing my fingertips against it until she cried out from the intensity.
Then I went to work with my mouth, treating her as she had treated me. My fingers and my tongue. The leather and the love. I could not get enough, tickling her with my thumb and forefinger until her juices ran down the sweet silken slit between her thighs. Then I lapped every drop, breathing in deeply to catch the most haunting woman-smell, musky and sublime, mixed with the scent of the leather, warm, dark. Living.
The combination of it: the smell of her, the taste of her, the mingling scents together had my pussy dripping sweet juices down my thighs. Before she could come, I stood, grabbed her around the waist, and impaled her with the cock, slamming into her, pressing my body hard against hers. Poetry in motion, this time written by yours truly.
Sinful. Dangerous. Wild. Alive.
The skin on the skin. The hide on the hide.
UNBUTTONING
Kay Jaybee
Laura looked at her reflection in the mirror. The short summer dress highlighted her newly slimmed-down waist and flattered her hips. The open-collared neckline suggested a hint of cleavage, and the plain cornflower blue fabric was lifted by the presence of thirty tiny white buttons that ran down its entire length.
“Do you like it?” Jenny sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her partner. “It’s a ‘Congratulations on getting back down to a size twelve present.’ ”
Staring at herself, Laura nodded silently. It had taken twelve months’ hard work to get this new figure, and without Jenny’s support she’d never have done it. She ran her hands through her freshly highlighted chestnut hair, causing it to sway around her shoulders. “I love it. Thank you.”
“Thank goodness for that.” Jenny leapt up and came to stand behind Laura. “I was afraid you’d hate it.”
“Why?” Laura looked at her lover’s face, noting the slightly creased furrow of her brow that always indicated she was worried about something. “I didn’t want you to think that I only love you because you’re a size twelve now. I loved you at sixteen, and fourteen as well, you do know that don’t you?”
“Of course I know that,” Laura turned and embraced her girl, placing a tiny kiss on the end of Jenny’s nose. “Now, why don’t you go downstairs and put the kettle on; I’m gasping for a drink.”
Having reassured Jenny, and successfully made sure she was out of the way, Laura hurriedly jumped into action, for it wasn’t only Jenny who’d been to town. Dragging two small bags from under the bed, she hid the contents of one in her bedside drawer and emptied the other onto the floor. Glancing again at the reflection of the dress’s white buttons, she grinned wickedly and formulated a plan.
Jenny hollered up the stairs, “Coffee’s ready.”
“Thanks, babe,” Laura called back at her, making sure her dress was back in position. “Actually, can you help me a moment?”
Jenny headed back to the bedroom. Recognizing the unmistakable glow of desire on Laura’s face, she stopped dead in the doorway and automatically ran a correcting hand through her curling ginger hair.
“I went shopping, too.” Laura held her arms out to Jenny.
“Really?”
“Yes. I have presents for you, well, for us.”
Jenny didn’t say anything, but her heartbeat stepped up a notch as she approached her partner.
Laura ran her small hands down the length of Jenny’s green floral mini dress, feeling her nipples spring to life beneath the satin bra that kept them captive.
Breaking away, Jenny reached out to pull Laura’s new dress open, but Laura put out a restraining hand. “I can’t remember who it was that said unbuttoning was the sexiest word in the English language, but I think he was right.” Laura trailed a single violet fingernail across Jenny’s cheek. “So how about I open these buttons one at a time, as a reward?”
“A reward for what?”
/> “You’ll see.” Laura teasingly dipped her head to one side and kissed Jenny’s breasts through her dress. “So, will you play my game?”
“How could I refuse?” Jenny felt her body stir with the tension of excited uncertainty. It had been a long time since Laura had wanted to play the dominant partner, and the mere idea made her pulse quicken as she listened carefully to the rules of the game.
“No moving, no speaking. If you manage two minutes without reacting to whatever I do to you, I’ll undo two dress buttons. If you last more than two minutes, I’ll undo four buttons. If you fail, move or talk, you will be punished.” Laura regarded Jenny sternly. “Yes?”
Jenny opened her mouth to reply, but Laura put a finger up to her lips to indicate that the game had already begun, and she should remain silent.
“Each session will be timed by the wall clock.” Laura turned Jenny around so that they could both clearly see the clock face before yanking the flimsy green dress over her lover’s head.
Using only her palms to press against Jenny’s turquoise satin bra, Laura rotated them slowly, feeling the hidden nipples grow harder against the pressure. As the tension built in her, Jenny’s eyes fixed themselves on the clock’s red second hand. The continuing agitation of her nipples was making her mouth go dry, and she struggled not to make a sound, while the remainder of her breasts tightened with neglect. The instant the hand of the clock indicated that two minutes were up, Jenny exhaled in relief.
Laura dropped her hands, took a step backwards, and with unbearably slow fingers undid the first two buttons. Jenny stared at the tiny area that had been revealed, which was little more than the top of Laura’s cleavage, but already she was desperate for the next buttons to be opened. Licking her lips, she waited for Laura’s next move.
Ignoring Jenny’s chest this time, Laura knelt and began to slowly lap her tongue around the neat belly button. Over and over again she licked and nipped at the pale toned flesh, concentrating on just that one square inch of skin. The clock hands seemed to be ticking by even slower than before, and Jenny barely made it to the 120th stroke before biting back a whimper and pulling away from Laura’s intense attention.
