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Black leather isn't supposed to be my style.

I was raised in a conservative family, in a conservative neighborhood in a relatively conservative city in the unquestionably conservative midwest. My wardrobe consists of muted blues, greys, and browns, and my skirts all fall well below the knee. I even vote Republican, though I'll admit that Ronald Reagan was just a little bit too far right for my tastes. I voted for him anyway.

If you'd known me in high school, you would've immediately labeled me as a "brain." I got good grades. I was in the National Honor Society and the concert band, and I worked on the school newspaper. I was even in the math club, which is certainly home to masochists, but usually doesn't house deviants. I even graduated from high school as a virgin.

These days, I'm the stereotypical suburban wife. I work as an engineer, come home to my conservative husband, cook nice dinners for him, and tend the flower beds. If I didn't work, I'd probably organize charity dinners and read to the children in the hospital. I ooze propriety from every pore. And I'm certainly not the type to fool around.

So why am I wearing a black leather bra and fishnet stockings, holding a peacock feather in one hand, and fucking my boss?

Sometimes life's strange.

It all started with a purse. I'm pretty hard on purses, and my old one was on the verge of splitting its seams (for which I can't blame it; I carry everything but my computer in there), so I was shopping for a new one. I'd searched the mall from one end to the other, but I couldn't find anything I liked. They were all either geared to sixteen-year-olds, ready to fall apart before you even bought them, or just big enough to hold your keys, providing you only had one car. We have two, so that was out.

I'd sworn to myself that I wasn't going to leave empty-handed, so I was making yet another pass, looking for anything that I might have overlooked. Selling one of the cars was beginning to look like a plausible option, when it occurred to me that the leather store might have something. I normally don't go in leather stores, since they remind me of Hell's Angels and whores, but I was desperate.

The minute I walked in the door, it hit me. That smell. It was raw, animalistic, and powerful. It reminded me of crowded gyms, and horses, and sex. Oh, yes. Sex. I was turned on before I got past the anti-theft system.

I told myself to calm down. "It's only a store. Cool it, you're here on business. Take a deep breath and get on with it."

The deep breath was most assuredly not a good idea. Yow!

I did find a purse in there. It's black leather, just big enough to hold both sets of car keys, and probably designed with a sixteen-year-old in mind. And I get turned on every time I get a whiff of it. It's most unladylike.

Oh, yes, I was telling you about my boss.

He's thirtysomething, single, and grew up in a different conservative city in the same conservative midwest that I did. He's probably Catholic too, but I've never asked. I don't think he was on the school newspaper, though, since he doesn't write very well. I have no idea when he lost his virginity.

I wouldn't have expected this from him, either, but the clues were there. One Monday he came into work pretty bruised up, apparently from falling off a ladder while he was cleaning his gutters. When I saw him, I told him it looked like he'd spent the weekend in a leather bar. He just laughed, but the next day, there was a black leather jacket hanging in his office. Hmm.

It turned out to be one of those weeks that would've been better off not happening. I did everything but take a magnifying glass to the CPU in pursuit of a bug. Friday morning, I found it. Friday afternoon was spent explaining the mechanics of the language to the authors of the compiler. You'd think they could read the standards documents themselves. Oh, and did I mention the monitor that stopped working on Tuesday, or the toilet that overflowed while the inlaws were over? Yes, one of THOSE weeks.

My husband was out of town, and I was in no mood to weed the vegetable garden, so I joined the group that was celebrating Friday at the bar. It seemed like a good way to relax, and relaxation was just what I needed.

I know better than to drink on an empty stomach, but sometimes I forget.

Time flies when you're having fun, and I was having a great time drinking away the frustrations of the week. The next thing I knew it was midnight, the crowd had thinned, and it was down to just Ken (the boss) and myself. I was sober enough to know that I was too drunk to drive, and he wasn't in any better condition. There's no taxi service in this town, and there was nobody I could call at that hour. Thank heavens for comfortable shoes. Four and a half miles is a short drive, but it's a long walk.

As we headed toward the door, Ken asked me how I was getting home.

"Nike express," I slurred.

"But you live on the other side of town. Can't you call Tony?"

"He's in, umm, New York, I think. Somewhere east." The brain was definitely fogged.

"Well you can't walk that far at this hour. C'mon, you can sleep on my couch. It's right around the corner."

He was right. There had been reports of street gangs on the news lately. I didn't think they'd be out in suburbia, but taking chances probably wasn't smart.

"You sure you don't mind?"

"I've got plenty of room. It's no problem."

That was all the arm-twisting it took. As we set off toward his house, my feet offered a silent thank you.

It was one of those spring evenings when the mood is warm, but the air is still chilly. I'd worn a light blouse, and I was shivering noticeably.

"Here, take my jacket. I've got a sweater on."

"Mmm, thank you. That feels better." It was warm and cozy and smelled wonderful. It reminded me of something, but I couldn't quite place it. Through the alcohol-induced haze, it took me a minute to realize that I was wearing his black leather jacket. My body noticed right away, though. By the time it clicked, I was noticeably aroused. This was NOT supposed to happen to me. I desperately hoped he wouldn't notice.

Ken's house had a distinctly masculine flair. It was decorated in mostly cream and black, and the furniture was simple and contemporary. It was comfortable, I noted approvingly, as I sank into the sofa. A glass of scotch appeared in my hand as Ken headed toward the other end.

We fell into a comfortable conversation. One of the nice things about our company is that things are pretty informal, and manager/employee relation- ships are left in the office. It means that friendships can span all layers of management, and it helps us get things done.

I don't know if it was the alcohol, the stress of the week, or the walk home, but to my immense surprise, I found myself flirting with Ken. I suspect that he was equally surprised, but he kept up pretty well. We were talking about X-rated movies, and I mentioned that I'd never seen one. Quick as a flash, Ken was up and sorting through his videotapes. He popped one in the VCR, poured us fresh drinks, and then settled into the couch with the remote control.

At first I was uncomfortable, but I soon found myself entranced by the images on the screen. The plot seemed to be about a training facility for male sex slaves. The women used the men only for their gratification, and punished them if they didn't perform well. It was extremely hot, and so was I. More than once, I found myself squirming in my seat.

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Somewhere along the line, Ken had started massaging my feet. I looked up and caught him smiling at me.

"You like?"

"The movie or the footrub?"

"Yes." That smile again.

Lie about it? Not possible. "Yes."

I'm not quite sure what happened next, but we wound up in each others' arms, kissing like there was no tomorrow. There was more passion in that kiss than in the average romance novel. I could probably spend pages describing that kiss, and still not convey the combination of emotions it held. I give it a 9 on the wow scale.

Ken abruptly pulled away, looking for all the world like someone who had just remembered that he'd committed a murder. He didn't look at me when he said, in a voice so low it was almost a whisper, "Tony."

So that was it. I lifted his chin, so that he was looking me in the eye. "We have an agreement. 'No diseases, no deceit, don't hurt anyone, and try to make sure everybody has fun.' I've never actually exercised my options before, but it's nice to know that neither one of us has silly outdated ideas about fidelity."

"And do you want to now?" He really looked concerned. "I could get fired for this, you know. We probably both could."

"Only if I was a convincing liar, which I'm not. I'm not doing this against my will, and I'm not the type to sue somebody just for fun. But we can stop now if you'd like; I'll just forget anything happened."

With a gleam in his eye, he answered, "I'm going to give you a night you can't forget." And then he started laughing. "That was a really corny line, wasn't it?"

I couldn't help laughing with him. He took one look at me and started laughing harder, then I started laughing even harder, and the whole thing spiraled until we were both out of control.

After a few minutes Ken managed to pull himself together, and I followed suit. He sat up straight and tried to look serious, but only managed to look silly. So I started laughing again, and we both laughed so hard we had tears in our eyes.

Finally, we both managed to pull ourselves together. At some point during the tumble, Ken had managed to pause the VCR. Now he picked up the remote and turned everything off, and then turned to me. "You liked the movie?"

"I didn't like the idea of punishment and torture, but I liked the outfits." I found myself explaining about my purse, and the trip to the leather store, and even about wearing his jacket home.

"Come with me." He led me into his bedroom while explaining, "I've sort of got a thing about leather, and my old girlfriend did too. Remember Diane? Well, I bought these things while we were dating, and she left them for me when she moved out." He opened a dresser drawer to expose a jumble of black.

Slowly he began to pull things out and lay them on the bed. There was a corset, a bra, a garter belt, what seemed to be wrist and ankle belts, and a lot of accessories. "If you'd like, you can wear them. I'd enjoy it."

He seemed serious, so I shooed him out of the room. "I'll be out when I'm ready. And no fair peeking."

"Yes'm," he said with mock meekness, as he headed for the door.

I discovered that there were fishnet and regular (black) stockings, as well as several things I didn't recognize. I discovered a whip, too, but I put that back. I wasn't sure beating was something I wanted to get involved with. To each his own, but that works both ways.

It was lucky for me that Diane was about my size. I quickly chose a bra, garter belt, and fishnet stockings, and put everything else back. Shoes? I was wearing low-heeled black pumps. Not quite the stereotype, but they were better than sneakers. I can't walk in extremely high heels anyway, and I look ridiculous trying.

After I'd changed, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I didn't have enough makeup to pass for a streetwalker, but I couldn't use the word prim either. I practiced alluring looks for a minute, took a deep breath (still not a good idea, I learned), and headed for the living room.

Ken looked like a kid who was expecting a lump of coal for Christmas, but got a bicycle instead. "You look fantastic!"

I gave up on the alluring look and just smiled.

I could describe the rest of the evening, but it would only sound like one of those letters to Penthouse. I may not be as proper as I seem, but I'm not going to write about his hot throbbing manhood or my dripping love box. I don't even enjoy reading the gory details.

I do have to talk about the feather, though.

Next to his bed, Ken has a large vase filled with peacock feathers. It sounds tacky, but they complement the room nicely, and fill up a corner that would look empty otherwise.

I was on top of him, and gently running my fingernails along his chest, and the sides of his body. When I got to his waist, he started giggling.

"Don't! I'm ticklish!"

"Oh, really?" An idea struck. I lunged for a feather, and then held it over his head, out of his reach. "Remember that statement in my last review about not being aggressive enough?" I can do devilish looks without practice.

"You wouldn't! Please don't!" he pleaded. A look of panic settled on his face.

"If I wasn't aggressive, I wouldn't do this, would I?" I passed the feather very quickly across his belly button -- just enough for him to get the idea.

"Stop! Please! Don't tickle me. Anything but that!"

Ken's stronger than I am, and he's also more devious. The only person that wound up on the receiving end of the feather that night was me.