Patent leather turns me on.

Not a little, but a whole lot.

Most of the year, I keep my fetish zipped up tight. Nobody would guess that what makes me harder than steel is a bendable, malleable fabric. It would be different, I suppose, if I was into feathers or tickling or wearing a head-to-toe gimp suit. Those fetishes are more difficult to keep under wraps, while the enjoyment of patent leather is easy (for the most part) to hide.

But on Halloween, my girlfriend dressed to thrill. She knows all about my fetish, and she had clearly decided to make my Halloween a night to remember. When I arrived home from work, she paraded in front of me — dressed entirely in patent leather.

“What are you supposed to be?” I asked, feeling almost winded by desire.

“Guess.”

“A sexy witch?” My voice was a croak.

She shook her head.

“A vampire goddess?” I asked, thinking that I’d let her bite me.

Another head shake.

“A kinky cat?” She was definitely a pretty pussy.

She laughed at that. “I was sure you’d guess on the first try,” she said.

She was wearing patent leather leggings. They were practically painted onto her colt-like legs. On top, she wore a patent leather bustier, formfitting and revealing at the same time, like a fashionable magic trick. The upper curves of her breasts showed above the sexy neckline. She has pale skin, and the contrast between the black material and her alabaster breasts was astonishingly erotic. Although she generally wears her long brown hair down past her shoulders, her curls were up, revealing  a patent leather choker.

I made a deep groaning sound. I couldn’t help it. Then I moved forward.

She shook her head. The look in her eyes was severe. My cock felt like it was vibrating like a tuning fork.

“On your knees,” she demanded. I ought to have guessed that an outfit like that would come with its own set of rules and regulations. I would behave however she craved. I’d sign on the dotted line. I’d even use my dick if she desired.

“Follow me,” she said, and she spun on one shiny stiletto and headed toward our bedroom. The clicking sound of her high-heeled boots was like a carnal drum beat. I crawled after her, thinking of all the ways I wanted to worship her. With my palms. With my tongue. With my cock.

In the bedroom, she waited until I was kneeling directly in front of her. Then she spun around so that I could take in her glossy gorgeousness from every angle. Oh, she was a vision. A shimmery, shiny, mystical vision. Would she let me start with the tips of her pointy boots? Could I lick her all over?

She shot me a half smile and then said mischievously, “Trick… or treat?”

What did that mean? What was she offering? Which answer would win me what I most craved? I took a chance, and after a moment’s thought, I replied, “Treat!”

“Good answer.” She grinned before pulling me to standing and rubbing her perfect body against me. My hard-on was something to be reckoned with, but she was not ready to take me for a ride. Just as quickly as she’d teased me, she stepped away so that there were several feet between the two of us.

“Tell me what you’re going to do to me,” she insisted.

“I’m going to lick you all over.”

“Really…”

“I’m going to stroke you with the palms of my hands. I’m going to undress and press my body against yours, so that you can feel my heat through your outfit. Then I’m going to come all over you, my cream coating your clothes.” It was a rush of words, an urgent mouthful, but I meant every statement.

Her eyes burned brightly. She clearly was into what I was stating. But still we were at an impasse.

“Now, what am I dressed as?” she demanded again. This was the most tantalizing torture. She made it clear that I had to guess her identity before we got down to the business of fucking. It was like a dirty, twisted version of Rumpelstiltskin. What if I was wrong? What if I never figured it out? My mind whirred.

Was she an evil queen?

A wicked fairy?

A dungeon master?

I stared at her with a mix of equal parts adoration and desperation.

My cock was so hard I could imagine it ripping through my slacks. I was dying to feel her again. My heart started to race, and my face flushed hotly. I nearly begged her to tell me.

“Guess,” she murmured, and now she started to do what I was yearning to do. She stroked herself with her palms, touching her breasts, then moving lower to her pussy. I started babbling. Guessing this thing, that thing and the other thing. Failing. Fumbling. What was she? Not a cat. Not a bat. Not a witch. Not a bitch.

“Please,” I said. “Let me touch you while I think.”

She hesitated, and then she nodded. Sweet relief washed over me as soon as I made contact. I rubbed my palms against her. I stroked her all over. I kissed her and licked her. As I touched her, I tried to figure out who or what she was supposed to be.

“Are you a panther?” I asked.

She shook her head.

I unzipped her bustier slowly, so that her beautiful, bountiful breasts were free for me to kiss. I tugged her nipples between my teeth and she cried out my name.

“Are you a wet dream?” I asked.

“Closer,” she said. “You’re getting closer…”

I ran my hands along her backside and squeezed her cheeks tightly. And then a nasty idea occurred to me. I decided I would turn the tables on her, heat her up the way she was doing to me. Maybe if I brought her to the verge of orgasm, she would spill her secrets. I started to rub her pussy and her ass through her leggings. I worked her the way I know she loves, a little on the rough side. She closed her eyes and started to whimper.

I moved quicker, rubbing faster, touching her clit the way that sends her spiraling into ecstasy. Right when I could tell she was on the cusp, I stopped what I was doing. My hands were on her, but they weren’t moving any longer.

Her eyes flashed open. “Davey!” she demanded.

“What are you?” I asked her. “Who are you? Tell me, won’t you?”

She unzipped my slacks, and she freed my cock. I stroked her as I had before, but this time I made her come. I felt her quiver and quake in my arms as she let me do all the things to her I had been so desperate to do, and as I shot my load all over her shiny figure, she murmured, “You want to know what I am, Davey? You want to know who I am? I’m your number-one turn-on.”

And she was. And she is. And she always will be.

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