It was several years into their marriage when Amelia discovered her husband's fetish for vinyl and leather. They'd watch movies together, and every so often Michael would look at some villainess and say, "she's hot." It was a while before Amelia began to notice that all of these women were wearing latex, leather, or pvc. On a hunch, she went through his computer one day while he was out. She knew he looked at porn, and it never bothered her, but she'd always supposed he was looking at garden variety sex scenes. Now, after him having mentioned how hot the leather clad villainess in last night's action movie was, almost thirty times, she figured he might have a little fetish.
Boy, did that turn out to be an understatement. His search history was a blizzard of latex and leather images, searches for dominatrix videos, femdom gifs, anything with women in tight, shiny clothing. Often the women were simply posing seductively on their own, other times they had men bound to beds or kneeling at their feet. There were thousands of them. This was more than a little fetish; this was an obsession. For a moment, she thought about asking him about it, but she quickly changed her mind. She pulled up her Ebay account and started searching for just the right outfit. When it arrived, he'd get the surprise of his life, and Amelia would receive a very grateful fucking.
For the next week, she could barely keep the wry smile from her face whenever she looked at him. He asked why she was looking at him funny, and she just smiled and said, "because I love you." He had no idea what he was in for. Whenever she had time alone at the house, she logged online to "research" for the big day. She watched femdom video after femdom video. At first, she was a little unnerved; after all, could Michael really want her to be cruel to him? But over the course of the next week, as she began to see the appeal. Michael wanted to surrender, and she was beginning to see the empowering side of taking control.
She got home early on the day the final piece of the outfit arrived and could barely wait to try it on. She'd never had a thing for leather herself, but the anticipation of surprising her husband with his fantasy and her own growing interest in taking over in the bedroom were really starting to turn her on. She slid into the slick, tight, black pleather pencil skirt and stood in front of the mirror for a moment admiring how it hugged her hips and round ass. She put on her black lace bra -his favorite- and over that put on her tightest, fitted, blood-red blouse. Next came the buckled pleather underbust corset, which was a pain to get on, but looked amazing, hugging her slim waist and framing her breasts. She had a pair of trashy black high heels from her bachelorette days, and she fished them out of the closet and strapped them on, then went back to the master bathroom to survey the final product in the mirror. She looked fantastic; easily the match for Michael's internet dominatrixes.
She ran her hands down the sides of the corset and over her hips and ass. She was beginning to see why he was so turned on by this. The feel of the tight pleather was one thing, but the view of herself in the mirror as one of her husband's dominant fantasies was beginning to have strange effect on her: she felt in control, dominant. It wasn't quite perfect, however. On a sudden whim, she pulled her long brown hair back into a tight, low ponytail, then took out her contacts, placing them in their overnight containers, and put on her glasses, the "sassy secretary" pair she'd selected when her optometrist was having a buy-one, get-one sale. That was it; the missing element. She shifted her stance and her hand went to her hip as she felt herself drifting into "character." She felt as though she were watching herself transform before her very eyes. This was going to be even more of a surprise for Michael than she had originally planned.
By the time Michael got home, she'd been admiring her new look for almost ten minutes, and her eyes narrowed as she heard the front door close. She turned and headed out to the foyer where Michael was just hanging up his jacket. Though it had been years since she had worn them, she stalked confidently down the hallway in her trashy black heels. Michael lifted his head to the unfamiliar clacking noise on the hardwood floors and found himself staring dumfounded at his fantasy come to life. Where he expected to see his loving wife, perhaps in jeans and a t-shirt, smiling and welcoming him home, instead he saw a stern-faced mistress sheathed in skin-tight pleather. He just stared, his mouth opening slowly to simply hang there agape.
Somewhere inside of herself, Amelia smiled; this was the shocked reaction she had so hoped for. On the surface, however, that smile did not register. She was fully in character now, and she looked down at her paralyzed husband with open disdain.
"Get up here," she commanded, then turned and stalked off down the hall toward the bedroom. Michael hurried after her, not saying a word. By the time he had fumbled off both of his shoes and stumbled into the bedroom, he found Amelia standing by the bed, looking irritated. His eyes immediately went to her breasts, her cleavage showing from the opened buttons of her tight red blouse framed perfectly by the corset. His glance drifted down her slim, corseted waste, past her curvy hips sheathed in the clinging pleather skirt, and down to the tall, black, stiletto heels. Slowly, he lifted his head and looked into her eyes, his look one of utter confusion. He was still dumbfounded, but whether that was from her transformation or his inability to realize that his fantasy was materializing in front of him, Amelia couldn't tell.
Nor, she suddenly realized, did she particularly care. She was becoming cognizant of the fact that, while this had started as a sexy surprise for Michael, it had already grown beyond that. Flush with anticipation from her "research" and the sense of power and control that her adopted persona was instilling in her, Amelia found that a part of her, this new part of her, didn't care what Michael felt or wanted at all. This wasn't about him anymore; it was about her. It was all about her.
"Don't move," she snapped, "don't talk, and definitely don't touch unless I give you permission. Do you understand?" This last she said with her head tilted down, her blue eyes staring at him over the rims of her secretary glasses, the way one does to a disobedient child. It took a moment for Michael to register exactly what was going on, but he nodded eagerly, saying nothing.
She walked to him slowly, deliberately emphasizing the sway of her hips, and stood inches from him, her eyes locked on his, her breasts just barely touching his chest. Never dropping her gaze, she reached down and felt the bulging front of his slacks, his hardon already straining. A surprisingly feminine gasp escaped Michael's lips and his hips began eagerly rocking his trapped cock against her hand. Amelia smiled, and she could see Michael flinch at the touch of real wickedness that the new persona had inserted into that smile. He was helpless in the grip of her hand, in the grip of his own fantasy, and that smile foretold exactly how much that helplessness would cost him. Slowly, she knelt, unbuckled his belt, opened his pants, and freed his hard cock, yanking his slacks and boxers roughly down around his ankles.
His cock was fully erect and standing just inches from her face. She exhaled on it, and watched with satisfaction as he shuddered.
