Lady Amber turns Slave Mila into her Leather Gimp to Worship her Feet

Lady Amber pulls leather over her skin like a second set of instincts. Trousers first, then the vest, heels, the long coat, finally those red gloves. Every motion drags her hands across the hide, testing how it tightens and creaks and gives. She breathes it in until the scent settles on her tongue. The cage door clicks. Mila’s been kneeling inside, naked except the thin scrap of panties, waiting without a word. Amber yanks her out. No ceremony, just a fistful of hair and the promise that Mila is about to disappear inside leather. They cross the room to where the rest of the outfit waits. First the leather trousers slide up Mila’s legs; Amber works the zipper slow so the teeth bite together loud enough to count. The top comes next, then the jacket, the gloves. Mila’s hands vanish inside them. Last, the heels click into place, forcing her arch. Amber points at the floor. Mila drops. She presses her masked face to Amber’s boots, palms gliding over the leather before she buries her nose and drags in the heat trapped inside. The heels come off. Bare feet now. Sweat. Salt. Amber’s toes flex while Mila’s tongue follows every crease, every ridge. Meanwhile Amber’s gloved fingers stroke the tops of Mila’s own feet, almost tender, almost cruel. When the hunger is fed, Mila slips Amber’s heels back on. Amber does the same for her. They stand, leather against leather, nothing left to say.