Leather

My relationship with Corrie started with an innocent complement: "I like your boots."

She was in line ahead of me, shuffling into a preschool performance of Mary Poppins. I only found out later that she was single. Like I said, it was innocent enough.

"Thanks. They're new."

They were black leather thigh-highs with tall heels -- the kind that can only be pulled off my fashionistas or porn stars. She was gorgeous enough to be either.

"One of these darlings yours?" she asked, motioning to the empty stage as we sat down four rows from the front.

"No, you?"

"A chimney sweep. He's three. Been practicing constantly. She makes me play Dick Van Dyke" She said this with a roll of her hazel eyes but also, I thought, with a tinge of something else. Pride in her son, probably. Or, I imagined, a little thrill at saying the words "dick" and "dyke" to a stranger.

"Cute."

"So you just watch preschool performances as a hobby then? You're super creepy."

"My niece is Winifred. Been practicing constantly. She makes me play the dog."

"Cute."

The boots which started things reach up her legs nearly to the hem of a floral-patterned skirt that slid gracefully off of her crossed knees revealing a little piece of smooth, golden skin on her thigh. It was more than enough to get my attention. I tried hard not to stare -- or at least to get caught staring. But after sneaking a peek once, she seemed to change the course of our conversation, shoehorning in the fact that her son's father was out of the picture -- in California becoming someone else's mistake.

The play turned out to be a disastrous failure -- not because of any kid's performance but because I failed to get Corrie's number. I had to step out to take a phone call in the second half and when I came back, the curtain had fallen and she was gone. I searched, was disappointed, and went home to let Madison Ivy soothe my disappointed loins.

I couldn't believe my luck about three weeks later when I spotted her at a coffee shop. Corrie, that is, not Madison Ivy. She was wearing the same boots but this time with a black, short-sleeved dress that hugged her figure tightly and revealed significantly more of those golden thighs. Her hair was in a shiny pony tail and she wore a leather choker that, along with the boots, hinted at a dominatrix motif.

I paid for her coffee and stood near the counter. When the barista told her it was paid for and she started to look around for her benefactor, I said, "I like your choker."

"Isn't that the line you used last time?" She smiled.

"Different leather item last time. I get to keep using that line as long as you keep putting on new pieces of leather clothing."

"I'm glad to see you," she said, blowing across the top of her steaming Americano. "You abandoned me with a chimney sweep last time."

"I'm sorry. It was a work call. For the record, I did come back to look for you."

"That's sweet."

In two meetings, she had called me cute and sweet. I felt that was a good start, though I hoped we could progress to pet names more akin to "love god" or "sex beast." I would take what I could get.

I asked for her number right away, before circumstances could separate us again. I walked her back to her office and then called her the next day. We went out that weekend. Again she wore the boots and the choker, but this time she added something else. When I got into the car after opening the door for her and walking around, she made a show of sliding her skirt up her left thigh to reveal a black leather garter with red lace fringe.

"I like your garter," I said on cue.

"I thought you might."

That date was terrific fun. I learned that she had once been into competitive fencing, and made clumsy jokes about swordplay. She laughed freely when I was funny and politely when I was not. When she pulled her black pony tail across her shoulder, it fell across the cleavage revealed by the white blouse that was buttoned only about halfway up her curvy torso. She caught me staring -- for sure this time -- but didn't seem to mind. In fact, she smiled and pulled back her narrow shoulders as if to press her bust toward me.

But again, our time together ended in tragic failure -- not because we didn't like each other, but because I'm not used to dating moms. I had told a college buddy -- Warren -- that he could crash at my apartment for the weekend. I hadn't even thought about him being in the way when I made the date with Corrie. When she dropped a hint about my place after dessert, I confessed what I had done. She recovered with a lame joke about getting home early and saving money on the babysitter. And I went home and jerked off to Madison Ivy again.

We met for lunch a few days later, and then lunch again on the following Friday. As I was paying the bill, I said, "So are you free this weekend?"

"As a matter of fact, I'm very free. My mom has the kid for a whole week."

I tried not to show the level of excitement that was causing immediate and severe tightness in the crotch of my pants. "So, dinner?"

"How about my place?" She asked.

I knew it might have been overkill, but I brought flowers. I rang the bell at her trendy 12th floor apartment promptly at 7pm. After a brief pause, she swung the door open and greeted me with a bright smile. She wore the same leather thigh-high boots that hugged her slender legs. She wore the same black leather garter very high on her left thigh. She wore a black leather half bustier. And she wore the black leather choker.

And she wrote nothing else.

Her hair billowed over her bare shoulders and across the top of a pair of swarthy, round tits with nipples already erect and reaching for me. The bustier accentuated her hourglass waist, below which nothing covered her narrow, tanned hips and a tiny patch of pubic hair trimmed into a friendly arrow directing me to the gap between her thighs.

I looked her up and down.

"I like your corset," I said.

"It's a bustier."

"What's the difference?" I tried to sound casual, as if I was interested in the intricacies of women's garments and not enduring dick-swelling heart palpitations over the gorgeous flesh she was showing off.

"A bustier lifts my breasts. A corset squeezes my waist."

"I don't think you need lifting or squeezing."

"I think you're sweet." She made no motion to open the door wider or invite me in, and no concern about a passers-by in the hallway.

"Can I come in?"

"To the apartment?" She smiled again.

"Yes-- er, well..."

She took a half step forward, grabbed my shirt and pulled me up against her luscious half-naked body. I dropped the flowers and put both hands on her tight, smooth ass. I kissed her. She smelled terrific.

"You can come wherever you want," she said, and closed the door behind us.