Living Leather Gloves

Part of a <2000 word challenge issued on JayHawk303's "Male Living Clothing" discord server,
re: describing an enchanted object experiencing an orgasm. This was my entry.

He came on me once. It was just a drop, but it was enough to spark something.

My awareness came on slow. At first, I only had a sense of presence. Knowing what I know and doing what I can do now, lying still in his room and just waiting there for months would seem excruciating…but it wasn’t. I simply sat there and absorbed. My awareness grew. I began to be able to see and smell things, though back then I didn’t know the words for what I was experiencing.

I noticed him most because he was the sweeping among all the stillness. He would dance with other things in the room, they would adorn him or obey his hands. ‘Grasping’ and ‘holding’ came into my vocabulary, and the ideas seemed familiar to me. Acting on my own was still far beyond my reach, but sitting there, watching him, listening to him and the things he would watch—I began to grasp and hold words. Image associations. More awareness.

He would write a lot in a little book. Though I didn’t know what writing was then, the way he held and used something called a ‘pen’ excited me. I liked watching his fingers glide over the glowing device he would often use, too. I liked watching his hands.

While I sat alone, I never really understood why I liked his hands. I had time to think about it, and there was something about the focal point of his flow in the space around me. If something changed position, it was almost always because his hands picked something up, manipulated it a certain way (always so effortlessly), and placed it back to stillness once more. Watching him fold laundry or spin a drumstick across his palm was a dream. His hands were the pivot point of how he danced with the other things around him. I justified my attention to them with these things, but it didn’t mean I understood why I liked his hands so much.

And then, on one cold day, his fingers swept right toward my place beneath the turn of his dresser mirror. And I would soon understand EVERYTHING.

I was disoriented. Motion! I’d seen it sweep over so many other things in the room, but in the days I’d counted since I’d begun to wake up, I only remember a faint gesture of plummeting and landing under a shadowy place. This was entirely different! I was tumbled over myself, grasped tightly—almost lovingly, as we left the space I knew for a smaller one. Then a bigger one! Then another smaller one.

It was cooler! I could feel the temperature change over my soft, slick dark-brown skin. I was blinded at first by all the visual sensory coming at me from every unfamiliar angle that wasn’t the direct grip of his hand—which kept me grounded and feeling safe despite all these new sensations.

Then it happened. Like fingers sweeping across my body and mind, I just knew he was going to do something with me. Something remarkable. The way he grabbed me startled me at first, but excitement soon followed. I’d seen him put on so many shirts. Jeans. Socks. Hats. I’d seen him take and leave books. Bags. A ball. But in months of waiting, aware and beginning to understand the world around me, he had never taken ME until now. He was going to use me!

It would be obvious to any human what I am, especially now that I can hold myself steady in front of one of them and wave without anyone wearing me…but back then, I wasn’t aware of what I was. Not even when he first grasped me.

As a lump on a log, you can hear…you can see…and you can smell. I could touch and taste too, but I didn’t know that yet, because lumps don’t move or lick. Until he moved me, I was a lump. I didn’t realize I was soft or supple. I didn’t know I was a nearly black shade of brown or that I had fine stitching.

So imagine not quite understanding your body, and you feel a tickle at your wrist. Warm. It’s his hands! The hands I’d been watching, been obsessed with since I began to wake up. Suddenly something is filling the very middle of me. Opening me. Smooth fingertips brushing against the inside of me.

And I’m only just able to grasp the softness of my own skin as he glides his own hands against me, inside and out. Half of me is simply grasped tight by digits of one of his hands, but the other half of me?

His other hand is still gliding into me. His fingers are guided like magic to spaces inside my hollow—and when the other hand grips at my wrist and pulls, I am enlightened.

Each of his fingertips reach all the way to the end of me. I am inflated by his form, stretched perfectly in every direction. My limp half can see an up-close glimpse of my dark, shining skin, my stitches put under just the right kind of pressure, creating beautiful masculine shape in every sweeping knuckle and fleshy pad beneath my supple form.

I was pulled into ecstasy, gliding above the ground, and I was able to FEEL MYSELF pull at my right wrist as my other half became. It was no less pleasing than the first time—the creaking leather, the gleaming manicured nails and soft fingertips gliding into me once more…

And I was whole. Content. Filled. I didn’t need to do anything but take in the glorious moment. The shape I was taking as I glided over the ground in the rhythm of his walk, the cold air kissing my oiled leather skin, his warmth as I gripped his hands—hugged his hands. His HANDS…everything I wanted and everything I loved since I found myself in his room.

This was enlightenment, I thought. Absolute joy. Total fulfillment. And then…fuck. It just kept coming. I could feel him flexing my fingers. I grasped and pulled at a car door. I gripped his steering wheel and turned a key.

My awareness became a fluid torrent of understanding, washing through my skin and my liner. Filling every stitch of me. Everything he did with me was another orgiastic sensation—every texture and temperature I was able to taste with my own fingertips. Not only was I learning about motion and , about exertion and manipulation through direct experience with his hands…but I could also apply everything I’d seen before, while I sat in his room, studying those same hands.

My knowledge was just knowledge before, but as we headed down the road, I could feel myself gripping the steering wheel. I could see myself looking down at his jeans. Up at the sleeves of his bomber jacket, up at his chin and his beautiful face, his eyes shaded with sunglasses.

I was a pair of gloves, and now that I KNEW that…I knew so much more than that. He filled me with his shape, and I was a pair of hands. His hands. Ecstasy. Ecstasy. Heaven. I was his hands!

Something slipped. Something I could sense from the moment he put me on. Something I intended to explore later. A feeling bubbled up in every particle of me, and I felt the urge to run with the sensation. I hoped to avoid it until later, when I could explore it alone.

I lost it entirely when he crossed my halves over themselves as he turned his steering wheel, taking us into a parking lot. To him it was just driving, but feeling my own leather against itself, filled to his shape, taking his warmth and softly radiating it to my fibers…I clinched.

I wasn’t sure if he noticed it at first, but when I clinched harder, he gasped. The car came to a stop in a parking spot, and I could feel his fingers realizing something: me.

I was in sensation overload, and I could only grip the steering wheel harder as I repeated my mantra—I was his hands! The deliciousness of being filled by his shape, used by his hands…my god, what it taught me about what was possible…I was clinching in pulses as some insane form of electric pleasure surged through all of me. I was wrapped around his amazing hands and functioning as his hands!

Awakened, transcended, and now…I was coming. Distracted by my release, all I could do was grip the wheel and feel his hands moving inside, trying to pry me loose. He was strong, but I was stronger. I was stronger than his own hands! I could protect him. I could even do things for him without having to use his own hands.

Which might have been as well, because now his hands were protesting! His strong fingers, trying to pry me back. His thumbs trying to let go of the wheel.

“Am I seriously frost-stuck? It’s not THAT cold.” He sort of laughed to himself, looking down at me with a smile. Then something else happened.

It was a split-second, but I felt it. I FELT it. It was like an electrical impulse running into me, though it was actually running into him and transmitting through me.

I wanted to take his sunglasses off. (He wanted to take his sunglasses off!) I let go of the steering wheel, and I was about to take the corner of his shades with my thumb and forefinger, but he stopped me again! This time, I let go. He took a deep breath and looked at me from back to palm. He waved his hand around, and I offered no resistance. I let him explore.

“That’s just…weird,” He said, looking at both gloves now in the same way. “Huh.”

I remember stopping the car when he had me turn the key. I was still recovering from my sensory explosion, but what happened next brought me right back to focus: he began to pull me off.

The deflation from each fingertip was terrifying, at first. The thought of spending months on a dresser waiting to be touched again was no longer adjoined by thoughtful reflection or stoic patience. Now that I knew what I knew about myself, about my strength, and about motion…I wouldn’t have to wait.

I stretched myself in every direction, just like the shape of his warm hands taught me…then I exaggerated the feeling, pushing harder. He almost cried out when he saw me bubble up beyond his own shape. His hand was halfway out of the glove when I sailed up to his mouth and caught his lips, pressing my tight leather against them and stopping him from shouting.

He had a look of what could only be described as delighted terror as he stared down at my inflated leather hand clasped against him.

“Gh-ghosfffs?” He asked, muffled by my tight palm. He reached his ungloved hand up to try and pry me away from him, but this only turned me on even more. Now I was wrestling with the hands I’d been obsessing with, and it was almost as fun as being filled by them.

He looked like he was struggling against me, but something caught my attention while I held his mouth—something I’d seen before. Something mostly hidden by his jeans…but for the rising lump of curled denim.

When I guided his gloved hand to his belt, he didn’t move. That is to say, he didn’t fight. He let me unloop it, watched in awe as I pulled it off its prong and let it slide out. I unbuttoned his pants, and unzipped him. I wanted to help him calm down, and I’d seen his hands do this many, many, times.

He brought me to life. Showed me awareness. Made me come. I could only think it polite to reciprocate on at least one of those levels.