Leather, Humiliation and beautiful girls

"You ever notice how therapists always have that chair?" Linda muttered under her breath, fingers tapping nervously against the armrest of the stiff leather seat. "The one that looks like it was stolen from a 1970s detective’s office?"

I chuckled despite the knot in my stomach. "Maybe it’s a power move. ‘I’m the one asking questions here, pal.’"

The waiting room smelled like lavender air freshener and old magazines. A single potted plant in the corner looked like it had given up on life weeks ago. The receptionist—a bored-looking woman with cat-eye glasses—hadn’t glanced up from her crossword since we checked in.

Linda shifted beside me, her knee bouncing. She was wearing the black leather skirt I loved, the one that hugged her hips just right. Normally, that would’ve been enough to distract me, but today it just made me more aware of how weird this whole thing was. "Do we really need a marriage counselor?" she whispered.

The receptionist finally called our names—"Mr. and Mrs. Hargrove?"—in a voice that suggested she’d rather be anywhere else. Linda’s hand tightened around mine as we stood, her nails digging just slightly into my palm. The leather of her skirt creaked softly with each step down the hallway, a sound that usually sent a thrill through me. Today, it felt like an accusation.

Kirsten’s office was exactly what I’d feared: dimly lit, with a too-large desk that made her look like a judge presiding over our failures. She was younger than I expected, sharp-featured, with dark hair pulled into a bun so tight it seemed to stretch her smile thin. "Sit," she said, gesturing to the couch across from her. Not an invitation—an order. Linda sank into the cushions, her skirt riding up just enough to make me swallow hard. Kirsten’s eyes flicked to it, then away, like she’d caught me doing something dirty.

The session started innocuously enough—how long we’d been married, our jobs, the usual small talk designed to make us drop our guard. Then Kirsten leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and asked, "Tell me about your intimacy." Just like that. No warning. Linda stiffened beside me. "I—what?" she stammered, her fingers twisting in her lap. Kirsten’s smile didn’t waver. "Your sex life. Frequency. Preferences. Problems." Each word landed like a hammer.

Linda’s face flushed scarlet. My mouth went dry. "We’re… fine," I managed, but Kirsten’s gaze had already zeroed in on Linda’s skirt. "Interesting choice of attire for therapy," she mused, tapping her pen against her notepad. "Is this typical for you?" Linda’s breath hitched. "I—I like leather," she admitted, so quiet I barely heard her. Kirsten’s eyebrows arched. "Do you?" She turned to me. "And you enjoy seeing her in it?" The heat crawling up my neck was answer enough.

Kirsten’s pen scratched against her notepad, the sound unnervingly loud in the silence that followed. "So," she said, tilting her head like a bird eyeing a worm, "this isn’t just a fashion choice. It’s a dynamic." Linda’s grip on my hand turned vise-tight, her knuckles whitening. I could feel the pulse in her wrist hammering against mine. Kirsten leaned back, tapping the pen against her teeth. "How many pieces of leather clothing do you own, Linda?"

Linda’s throat worked. "I—I don’t know. A few skirts. Some dresses." Her voice frayed at the edges. Kirsten’s smile widened. "A few." She wrote something down, then circled it slowly. "And where do you wear these… items?" The way she said it made my stomach twist. Linda’s answer was barely a whisper. "At home. Sometimes out. Just… for him."

Kirsten’s eyes flicked to me, sharp as a scalpel. "And you approve of this?" The question was a trap. I cleared my throat. "I don’t approve—I mean, she doesn’t need my permission. She wears what she wants." The lie tasted bitter. Kirsten saw right through it. "Mm. And what do you want her to wear?" The air between us thickened. Linda’s thigh pressed against mine, warm even through the leather.

Kirsten stood abruptly, pacing behind her desk with predatory grace. "Here’s what I think." She stopped, looming over us. "This isn’t healthy. Leather isn’t clothing, Linda. It’s a prop. A fetish object." Linda flinched. Kirsten’s voice softened, syrupy with faux concern. "You’re reducing yourself to a fantasy. And you—" She pointed the pen at me. "You’re enabling it."

Kirsten’s pen clicked once, sharply, like a judge’s gavel. "Next session," she said, "I want you to bring every piece of leather clothing you own. All of it." Linda’s breath caught audibly, her fingers digging into my thigh. Kirsten’s smile was clinical, detached. "We’re going to address this dependency head-on."

The silence in the car ride home was thick enough to choke on. Linda stared out the window, her reflection blurred by the rain streaking the glass. The leather skirt she’d worn so confidently that morning now seemed to weigh her down, the creak of it against the seat like a guilty secret. I reached for her hand, but she pulled away, tucking her fingers under her thigh. "She’s wrong," I said, but the words rang hollow. Linda just shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "What if she’s not?"

The next week passed in a tense haze. Linda avoided the closet where her leather pieces hung, wearing sweatpants and oversized shirts instead. Every time I tried to broach the subject, she’d shut down, turning away or busying herself with some mundane task. The night before the appointment, I found her sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the pile of folded leather garments on the dresser. Her hands trembled as she traced the edge of a particularly tight dress, the one she’d worn on our anniversary. "I can’t do this," she murmured, but when I touched her shoulder, she didn’t pull away. Just leaned into me, her breath uneven. "We don’t have to go back," I said. She laughed, a brittle sound. "Yes, we do."

Kirsten’s office felt colder this time, the air thick with something unspoken. Linda clutched the bag of clothing to her chest like a shield until Kirsten gestured to the couch. "Set it down," she commanded. Linda obeyed, the bag landing with a soft thump. Kirsten didn’t waste time. She upended it, letting the garments spill across the coffee table—skirts, dresses, a pair of gloves, all in various shades of black and deep red. The sight of them laid bare like that, under the harsh office lights, made my stomach twist. Kirsten picked up a skirt, holding it between two fingers like it was contaminated. "This is what you think makes you desirable?" she asked Linda, who had gone pale. "It’s just clothing," Linda whispered, but her voice cracked.

Kirsten’s fingers tightened around the skirt, her knuckles whitening. "No," she said, her voice dripping with condescension. "It’s costume. A performance." She dropped it back onto the pile and reached into her desk drawer, pulling out a pair of scissors with a metallic snick. Linda recoiled as if struck, her breath hitching. "What are you doing?" she demanded, her voice shaking. Kirsten didn’t answer. Instead, she grabbed the nearest dress—the deep red one Linda had worn on our anniversary—and, with deliberate slowness, dragged the scissors along the hem. The sound of tearing fabric was obscenely loud in the silence.

Linda made a noise like a wounded animal, her hands flying to her mouth. "Stop!" I snapped, surging forward, but Kirsten held up a hand, her gaze icy. "Sit down, Mr. Hargrove." Her tone left no room for argument. "This is therapy." My fists clenched at my sides, but I sank back onto the couch, my jaw so tight it ached. Kirsten smiled, serene, as she continued cutting, the dress falling apart in her hands. "You see?" she murmured, addressing Linda but staring straight at me. "It’s just material. Nothing sacred about it."

Linda was trembling now, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. Kirsten tossed the ruined dress aside and picked up the gloves next, slicing through the fingers one by one. "You’re not a fetish object, Linda," she said, her voice softening into something sickeningly paternal. "You’re a woman. A wife." The gloves hit the floor with a dull thud. Linda’s shoulders hunched, her breath coming in shallow gasps. I reached for her hand, but she flinched away, her fingers curling into her palms.

Kirsten moved on to the skirt—the black one Linda had worn to their first session—and this time, she didn’t bother with precision. She hacked at it, the scissors biting through the leather with jagged, uneven strokes. Linda let out a choked sob, her face crumpling. "Why are you doing this?" she whispered, her voice raw. Kirsten paused, tilting her head. "Because you need to see how empty this is," she said, her tone eerily calm. "How small it makes you." She held up the mutilated skirt, letting it dangle from her fingers like a carcass. "Is this really what you want to be?"

Linda’s breath hitched as Kirsten dropped the shredded skirt onto the pile. The sound was too loud—like a body hitting concrete. She reached for another piece, but Linda lurched forward suddenly, her fingers digging into the edge of the coffee table. "No," she said, her voice cracking but clear. "Stop."

Kirsten’s hand hovered midair, scissors glinting under the fluorescent lights. She blinked, as if surprised Linda had spoken at all. "Excuse me?"

Linda’s knuckles whitened against the table. "I said stop." Her voice didn’t shake this time. The air in the room shifted, thickening like storm clouds before lightning.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Kirsten lowered the scissors slowly, her lips pursed. "Interesting," she murmured, her gaze locked on Linda’s flushed face. "You do have a voice after all." The words were honeyed, but her fingers tightened around the scissors handle. "Tell me, Linda—what exactly are you stopping me from doing? Or is this about stopping yourself?"

Linda’s breath came fast, her chest rising and falling under the loose cotton shirt she’d worn instead of leather today. The absence of its usual creak made the silence louder. "You don’t get to decide what’s empty for me," she said, her voice low but steady. Her fingers uncurled from the table’s edge, leaving behind faint crescent marks in the wood.

Kirsten’s smile flickered. She set the scissors down with deliberate care, the metal clicking against the desk. "Ah," she said, folding her hands. "So this is about control. You like feeling powerless in those skirts, don’t you? Letting him look at you like a—"

"Shut up." Linda’s interruption was sharp as the scissors’ snick. She stood abruptly, the couch cushions sighing under her movement. "You don’t know anything." Her hands trembled, but she didn’t clasp them this time—just let them hang at her sides, fists loose.

Kirsten’s eyes narrowed, but Linda didn’t back down. Instead, she reached for the ruined skirt still dangling from Kirsten’s fingers and yanked it free. The torn leather flapped limply in her grip, the jagged edges catching the light. "You think this fixes us?" Linda hissed, shaking the skirt like a flag. "You think cutting up my clothes fixes anything?" Her voice cracked, but not from fear—from fury.

I’d never seen her like this. The Linda I knew blushed at dirty jokes, folded herself smaller in crowded rooms. This Linda? This Linda was a wildfire.

Kirsten leaned back, her chair creaking. "I think," she said slowly, "you’re reacting exactly as predicted. The fetish has emotional hold. That’s what we’re treating."

Linda laughed—a sharp, broken sound. She tossed the skirt onto the pile of butchered leather, then grabbed the nearest intact dress, the one Kirsten hadn’t reached yet. It was the deep green one, the one that made her eyes look like emeralds. She held it up, running her thumb over the seam. "You want to know why I wear these?" she asked, her voice eerily calm.

Linda’s fingers curled around the green leather dress, knuckles whitening. "Because it feels like armor," she said, voice low and steady. "Because when I wear this, I’m not just Linda who forgets to pay the electric bill on time. I’m her—the one who makes you lick your lips when I walk past." Kirsten opened her mouth, but Linda barreled on, stepping closer. "And yeah, maybe that’s fucked up to you. But it’s mine." She thrust the dress toward Kirsten, leather glinting under the office lights. "You don’t get to take it."

Kirsten’s gaze flickered—just for a second—before her smirk returned. "Interesting metaphor," she said, reaching for the dress. "Armor implies fear, Linda. What are you protecting yourself from?" Her fingers brushed the material, but Linda yanked it back.

"Not from him," Linda snapped, jerking her chin toward me. I sat frozen, pulse hammering in my throat. "From you. From every smug asshole who thinks they know what’s best for me." She turned the dress in her hands, running her thumb over the waistline where it had hugged her hips. "This isn’t about power. It’s about pleasure. And you just ruined half of mine."

The room went still. Kirsten’s pen hovered over her notepad, ink bleeding into a pointless blot. Outside, a car horn blared, distant and irrelevant. Linda exhaled sharply, then tossed the green dress onto my lap. "Hold this," she muttered. I caught it automatically, the leather warm from her grip.

Kirsten's fingers drummed against her desk, the rhythm slow and deliberate. Her smile had hardened into something brittle. "You're mistaking destruction for liberation, Linda," she said, voice smooth as polished stone. "This"—she gestured to the pile of shredded leather—"isn't about taking anything from you. It's about giving you back yourself."

Linda didn't flinch. She reached down and scooped up the ruined red anniversary dress, holding it out like evidence. "Bullshit," she said, voice raw. "You didn't ask. You didn't care. You just wanted to win." The dress trembled in her grip, the jagged edges of the tear catching the light.

I stood abruptly, the green dress still clutched in my hands. "We're done," I said, voice tighter than I meant it to be. Kirsten's gaze flicked to me, amused. "Are you? Or are you just scared?" Her pen tapped against her notepad. "Because Linda's finally speaking her mind, and you don't like how it sounds."

Linda made a sound halfway between a laugh and a snarl. She dropped the ruined dress onto Kirsten's desk, where it landed with a soft thump. "No," she said, turning to me. Her eyes were bright, furious—alive. "He doesn't care if I yell. He cares if I stop." Her fingers brushed mine, quick and electric. "Let's go."

The door to Kirsten’s office slammed behind us with a finality that made my ears ring. Linda didn’t let go of my hand until we reached the parking lot, her grip so tight it left crescent moons in my palm. Rain had started again—thin, needling drops that clung to her eyelashes like tears. She blinked them away, staring at the green dress still crumpled in my arms. "You kept it," she said, voice rough.

I smoothed a thumb over the waistline where the leather had stretched to fit her hips. "Yeah." The word came out hoarse. Linda exhaled sharply, then yanked open the car door. "Good."

We didn’t speak on the drive home. The silence wasn’t the choking thing from before—it was charged, like the air before a storm breaks. Linda drummed her fingers against the window, her wedding band clicking against the glass. At a red light, she reached over and grabbed the dress from my lap, bunching it in her fists like she was testing its weight.

Our apartment felt too bright when we stepped inside, all yellow lamps and white walls. Linda kicked off her shoes and headed straight for the bedroom, the green dress trailing from her hand like a banner. I followed, stopping in the doorway as she rummaged through the back of the closet. She emerged with a shoebox, dust clinging to her fingertips. Inside were the scraps Kirsten hadn’t gotten to—a lace-edged garter, the matching set of thigh-high stockings I’d bought her last Valentine’s Day.

Linda dumped the contents of the shoebox onto the bed with a clatter of metal clasps and the whisper of nylon. The garter landed atop the green dress, the contrast of delicate lace against stiff leather making my throat tighten. She stared at the pile for a long moment, her fingers twitching at her sides. Then, without warning, she grabbed the dress and shook it out with a sharp snap of fabric. "Help me," she demanded, already stepping into it.

The zipper stuck halfway up her back—the dress wasn’t meant to be worn over a cotton t-shirt. Her breath hitched when my knuckles brushed the bare skin between her shoulder blades. "Harder," she muttered, arching into my touch. The zipper teeth finally gave with a metallic whine, the leather sealing around her like a second skin. She turned abruptly, nearly knocking me back with the force of it. "Look at me," she ordered, voice rough.

I did. The dress was slightly wrinkled from being balled up in the car, but it still clung to every curve, the emerald hue deepening the flush on her cheeks. She looked like a storm given shape—all coiled energy and crackling edges. Her hands fisted in the material at her hips, stretching the seams. "Still think it’s just a fetish?" she challenged, chin lifted.

I reached for her, but she stepped back, the sharp click of her heels on hardwood louder than any slap. "No," I said, letting my hands fall. "I think it’s you." The admission hung between us, raw as the torn edges of the red dress still crumpled in the car. Linda’s breath stuttered. Then she lunged.

Linda’s hands seized my collar, dragging me forward with a force that sent us stumbling into the dresser. The mirror rattled behind us as her mouth crashed into mine—no hesitation, no tenderness, just teeth and heat and the faint taste of salt from the rain still clinging to her skin. The leather of her dress creaked under my grip as I pulled her closer, the sound like a gasp between us. She bit my lower lip hard enough to sting, then pulled back just far enough to hiss, “Prove it.”

Her fingers yanked at my belt buckle with frantic precision, the metallic jingle drowned out by the pounding of my pulse in my ears. The garter from the bed slithered to the floor as she kicked it aside, her stockinged foot hooking behind my calf to drag me onto the mattress. The green leather stretched taut over her thighs as she straddled me, her palms flattening against my chest like she was measuring the hammering beneath my ribs.

“Look at me,” she repeated, but this time it was a whisper, frayed at the edges. The dress’s high collar framed her throat, still flushed from yelling, from running, from fighting. I traced the seam where the leather met her pulse point, feeling the wild thrum under my fingertips. Her breath hitched when I pressed my thumb there—not to soothe, but to feel the evidence of her alive, untamed.