Her words infected me. They reached up from the pages and seductively caressed my eyes while extending teasing fingers back into my mind. My body reacted as her essays identified the nameless, shapeless obsession that had been percolating deep inside me longer than I could remember. Her enticing description of her shoe worship conjured only one image in my head... leather.
Something about leather had always fascinated me. Its texture sent chills racing from my fingertips down the length of my body; something about how it felt like skin. The smell was intoxicating. It filled my nostrils and made my head hazy; something about how it smelled like skin.
Leather mesmerized me even in the most innocuous, nonsexual situations. I found I had a fixation with it in every form. My eyes traced it on the bodies of others; my hands sought it out in stores. Perhaps it even explained my brief obsession with bikers in leather jackets; I had always told myself it was the danger inherent in motorcycles. But her beautiful, human words spawned a shattering epiphany that resonated through me. Suddenly, it all made sense. Suddenly, all my enduring lust for this inanimate material was exposed as something defined and recognizable. I was a fetishist.
I felt liberated in my realization. I felt free to explore my desire unreserved. My attraction had a name, and I plunged headlong into it. Embracing my love of leather allowed me to enjoy it even more.
I filled my toy drawer with the objects of my fixation. I let my fetish wander and began to gather the items it begged for; leather clothes, leather handcuffs, leather furniture, leather collar, leather whip, leather dildo. I let my love consume me to its appeasement. I wanted to be surrounded and wrapped up in that seductive material.
I combined my fetish with my sex; it seemed like the perfect erotic marriage. I could amplify the sensuality of sex with my deep infatuation for leather. I wanted to blend the excitement I felt when in contact with leather with the throbbing energy of my sexuality.
With the feeling of the material latched firmly around my neck, encompassing my airway, my body began tingling and trembling. My nerves raged blissfully as I became warmer and wetter. The leather was perpetually against me, hugging me in such a vulnerable place, keeping constant contact with my begging skin.
My partner teased me, bare and exposed, with the whip. Those thin fingers of hide caressed my anxious body, as if another hand wandered the landscape of my flesh. I bucked against the overwhelming sensations. The excitement was blinding. I felt like I was going to explode and tear free of my body.
The leather dildo blanked out the world. There was nothing except the leather inside me, being filled by my obsession. That other skin rubbed my against my heightened, receptive nerves, and came into contact with my most intimate, hidden part. It became an undeniable part of me, as undeniable as my fetish itself.
The New Intimacy