Leather’s Kiss (The Full Story) - Sex Stories

Leather’s Kiss (The Full Story)

... I didn’t know how much. And that thrilled me the most.

Plush crimson drapes covered two of the walls. Precisely what they covered piqued my interest, but he led me to another wall lined with an oversized couch with rolled upholstered arms.

I stood still, unsure what to do next, and he walked up behind me. His warm breath raised the tiny hairs on my neck. “Bend over,” he ordered.

Oh my, it’s happening…

I bent at the waist and allowed my arms to dangle in front of me before deciding to grasp my ankles for support. I saw his feet moving around me. He circled like a hawk who’d seen a tiny bird in a bush below.

He dragged the hem of my dress up my thighs and over my bottom and then placed it around my upper body. Exposed, I waited. And waited. I peeked through my legs and saw him crouched behind me. The weight of his gaze on my bottom almost threw me over. My face scrunched, and my cheeks clenched for the strike. It never came.

“Rise. Bend over the arm of the couch,” he ordered.

As instructed, I draped my body over a thick arm that lifted my bottom. I tasted blood as I bit my lip, anxious for what would come next. He made no move to remove his belt; instead, he adjusted my hips and scooted me forward, then backward, as if I were some sort of prop. Doubts crept in. Insecurity erased the erotic pictures previously occupying my mind.

Am I not suiting him? This is a mistake!

I was planning my escape, and then his voice broke my cowardly train of thought. ...

... “That’s all for today,” he casually remarked, as if he’d commented on the weather.

Wait… what?

I opened my mouth to protest, and he shot a finger to his lips, reminding me not to speak unless asked. He repeated, “I said, ‘That’s all. For today.’”

I’m not sure how I drove home. Confused. Rejected. Angry. Tears clouded my vision, endlessly streaming until I collapsed in bed and then awoke the next day.

The sun peeking through my blinds failed to brighten my brooding mood. My mind was a tortured mess for the next several days, much like the sticky mess between my legs. I refused to bring myself relief, convinced I had somehow caused him to reject me. Yet, he didn’tentirely reject me, telling me to return the following week.

My brain, trained to unearth the “whys” behind actions, hitched to “why” he abruptly ended our arranged session.

Over the next week, I tried to remove myself from the equation and focus on the man. Had he simply lost his nerve? No, that wasn’t the answer. Replaying the scene in my head, he’d remained unwavering and confident, never hesitating, even when he ended our session.

I entertained the notion that he was a sociopath. Hadn’t he exhibited the classic pull-and-push behavior with his target?

But, with my hurt feelings and shame over my fetish, I kept reverting to the notion that it was somethingI’d done wrong. I had caused his rejection.

I agonized over every detail of our encounter. What was it about me that didn’t suit him? How ...