it had been raining and the sun was shining hotly on wet pavement as we wandered past the tiny boutique up the south end of King Street that afternoon stroll after lunch. the shimmer of dark velvet in the window, the deep shadows within were too tempting to pass - I’d always hated the sun straight after rain, smarting my skin as it burned all the wet from the air and making the world too bright to stand.
she held the door and then my elbow as we stepped inside, passing from the street into the cool dimness like mirages that glitter, then fade away, the folds of my red skirt undulating against the flannel of her trousers, grey and worn softer over time. I could see straight away this shop was too expensive for me, racks of delicate frocks set sparsely against the walls, gleaming antique furniture housing display cabinets and wicker baskets filled with old jewelry, gloves, and other aged miscellany. this was a boutique, coasting on the trend for retro fashion, carefully teasing out aspirational desire in luxurious fabrics and the evocation of post-war femininity.
but we lingered, admiring the pretty dresses with impossible price tags, new repro alternating with true vintage, a butch and a fem in a suit and a dress in styles that harkened back to the earliest days of our culture. I glanced at her, the precise part in her brylcreemed hair, the knotted-tie at her neck, the way her handsome features seemed carved in relief against the velvet wallpaper. she made me catch my breath, like a picture. she smiled at me and reached out to a dress printed in red roses against black, drawing a panel of taffeta between long, blunt fingertips.
“this would suit you,” she said, and I preened, glad that she thought so, but turned away. I had already looked at the price tag - over two hundred dollars. I didn’t like to look too long at things I couldn’t have. I had felt a little that way when she appeared first at the Femme Conference, pristine and polished in perfect suits she had sourced over decades in vintage shops and second hand markets. suits made for men who had been slight in stature, fitting her perfectly, time worn but immaculate - their acquisition a labour of love and patience, perfectly accessorised with shirts, cufflinks, ties, handkerchiefs, socks and even shoes, none of them new, all of them an eloquent statement to who she was. then she had seemed symbolic of everything I was sure I couldn’t have, handsome and reserved, attending the panels and parties with appreciative composure.
she pressed her fingertips against my back, in the hollow above the curve of my buttocks. her touch rippled through me and my nipples pricked, a pulse throbbed deep in my groin. I was looking at old jewelry; faceted crystals sparkling against lead backing, ropes of pearls turned rosy with age. looking and thinking about what I would look like wearing them, wearing them for her maybe, with nothing else but the glow of candlelight on my skin.
“here,” she said, and drew from a jumbled knot of colour in a nearby basket a pair of gloves, long, white leather.
they were buttery to the touch, the leather skin creased over time with a thousand spidery lines, criss-crossing and weaving over and under each other. I turned them over in my hands to look at the slits that ran the length of the wrist for ease of donning, fastened with tiny pearl buttons. late 1950s - a lady’s evening gloves, a vestige of true glamour laying across my palms, luring me with the promise I could be what I dreamed, could be the fantasy I fantasised about being through the conduit of adornment, if only I could -
“oh they’re gorgeous,” I gushed, holding them up to breathe them in, the pleasant, earthy scent of old leather. the pearl buttons seemed impossibly dainty, adding to the allure. “I’ve been looking for white gloves - “
the fluttering tag read forty dollars. too much, but they were so pretty.
“let’s see if they fit,” she said, and took them from me, leather sliding supply from my hands. I watched as she readied one, nimbly unfastening the buttons, cufflinks winking as her wrists turned. the pad of her thumb rubbed the curved cheek of one pearl and my cheeks got hot. she proffered the glove towards me, holding the mouth of it open, her fingertips curled around the edges. my breath was shallow as I slid my hand in, the velvety lining like a caress across my knuckles.
slowly, carefully, she eased the snug leather up my arm. turning it over in her grip, she bared my wrist, pale as moonlight in the dim, to her gaze as the slender sleeve caught across my knuckles. breathless and still, I waited, watching as her fingers dimpled the delicate leather, light as kisses against my skin beneath.
another tug and abruptly the glove slid home, the slit winking on my wrist as it shifted into place, the press of her hands warm through the hide. at once I was struck by a bolt of intense arousal, my groin turning molten as she cupped my gloved hand in hers, almost swaying where I stood. I lifted my gaze and her grey eyes were shadowed when they met mine. I knew she felt the same heat between her thighs, and flushed.
“oh, those lovely gloves!” the attendant flitted out of the shadows, heedless to what was going on between us. “they fit perfectly - are you going to get them?”
I had pulled my hand away from my lover’s quickly, as though we had been caught doing something obscene. I could feel my cheeks burning as I glanced down into my skirts, fumbling the glove off while my panties got damp.
“yes,” my lover said coolly, only the tremble of her fingertips as she took the gloves from me betraying her. “we will.”
I tucked my arm through hers while the attendant wrapped the gloves in sheets of tissue paper, pressing against her like she could feel the pulse that throbbed hard in my veins, welling straight up from my cunt. she didn’t look at me as she paid and thanked the attendant, taking the small bag with her free hand. but she ushered me out of the shop with a palm pressed urgently to my back.
I wore the gloves while she fucked me, the press of her hands hot against my wrists as she pinned them to the bed, her skin kissing mine where the slits winked open and shut in rhythm with her thrusts. I had never felt so decadent, lying beneath her like that, naked but for those delicate leather gloves and their pearl buttons rubbing beneath the heel of her palms, and understanding in one glorious revelation that it could be this simple to have everything I dreamed of - I was already everything she desired.
kianamaiart
prguitarman
dailybridgerton
2087
turnnoffyourmind
