Hell For Leather

Ruby Mae perches on a stone ledge in a dimly lit room of rough-cut walls and dark furniture, her golden-blonde waves spilling over the glossy black PVC bodysuit that zips from navel to throat and criss-crosses her chest in a web of thin straps. Black lace-top thigh-highs disappear into pointed stilettos, and the warm, low light from a hidden source turns the vinyl to liquid shadow against her skin. A round mirror hangs on the stone behind her, a dark wooden chest with ring-pull handles sits to one side, and a white porcelain tea set adds an incongruous touch of domesticity that only makes the leather look more dangerous. Hell For Leather is not a set that asks for permission.

Ruby unzips the bodysuit in one slow pull, the black PVC splitting apart to reveal the warm, honeyed tone of her skin underneath, the weight of her chest pressing the fabric aside as she stands before the mirror with her hips cocked and her chin raised. The stockings stay, their lace bands gripping her thighs like a frame around the softest part of the picture. In the closing frames she stands barefoot of the heels but still wrapped in those sheer black thigh-highs, everything else gone, her body catching the amber lamplight while the stone walls close in around her. Ruby wears darkness the way other women wear silk, and in this room, at this hour, she is the only source of heat.