Well, I guess I've been rather lucky with my body. Gifted, even. Just short of 6 feet tall in bare feet, slim, pert ass, blond slightly frizzed hair nearly to my waist, and then my crowning glory. My breasts, immense, enormous, far too big for the rest of my slender frame, and shapely, not an ounce of silicone in them and not an ounce needed.

Then I've got this passion. Leather, shiny, tight, iridescent, reflective. I've got on a black lamb-skin catsuit which hugs every bit of me. Tightly. Don't ask how long it takes me to get it on, and that long long zip up the back done up! Just to say that there's often a lot of talc on the floor, after I've finished wriggling in. This catsuit encloses my feet, and it's got four-inch wafer heels -- the shoemakers call the heel style full-breasted -- about right for me! It covers my hands. Soft supple glove leather, the whole outfit. And my favourite designer Jules K and I came up with this magnificent built-in bra. It's got two separate tubes made from heavier cowhide and a clever bit of padding, and some gorgeous soft leather lining, all stitched inside the lamb-skin so that it holds my forthright figure, well, very very forthright. And the leather at the front is soft and supple like the rest, so that my nipples push it out when I'm aroused. There's a zip at the front and when it's undone it shows black leather cleavage. The more I unzip, the more mysterious, shiny, secret leather becomes visible. And the top of the glossy leather catsuit comes right up over my slender throat, where there's a shiny gold logo at the front. My boots come up to my neck!

What do I call myself? Will Shakespeare called his fairy queen Titania. Well, the fairy and queen parts are a bit ambiguous if you're male, but then I'm not male. Not even nearly. So Titania's my name, and Titania's on my gold logo, and on the gold bracelet round my left leather-clad ankle because Tit is what I do. It's a bit crude, but then when your leather tits enter the room ten inches before you do, there's not much point in trying to be shy.

What do I do? Well, sometimes I'm an escort. I escort overweight businessmen in return for a small fortune charged to an innocuous
business on their credit cards. I sit close and they can gaze at the ceiling downlights reflected from my beautiful equipment. With my supple shiny leather gloved hands and my glossy black tits and the highlights refelcting in my long, shapely leather thighs, I get to work and earn my small fortune. Doesn't always take long. Then I can go and find someone I really like and really enjoy myself and my leather.

So, I'm there in my local bar. They're used to me there, so I don't get too many unwelcome approaches. Or glares from the other women. I don't want to upstage them all the time, but with a super-shapely leather figure like mine I just can't help it.

And the crowd clears a bit and there's this guy. He's big and he's black, real black, shiny black. And I can see his shoulders. Huge.
And gorgeous great muscles. He's half naked! I see more -- he's only wearing a pair of black leather shorts and some short boots. Tight ones. And they match the rest of him, so he hardly needs them. Well, there's a good bulge there, so in the interests of decency, perhaps...

I've got to have this guy! Already I'm in a lather. Me! Calm, collected, businesslike me, usually, with my clients and my leather.
I squeeze over to him, and a couple of his friends. 'Hi gorgeous,' I try. What a lousy line! This isn't me. A non-committal grunt is
all I get. Grunts is not the reaction I'm used to. Not when I'm in this outfit. Not when there's enough of me to make front-on kissing
a bit of a challenge!

No! He's not going to waste that splendid bod by being gay?

Well, I sit down, and push my leather breasts into the middle of their conversation. The other two are looking decidedly uncomfortable with desire but I don't care. I want this beautiful shiny black muscular Atlas, and I want him now. I'm just about wet with desire. Happily it doesn't show through black leather. I make conversation. A bit one-sided, this. Not much scintillating wit on my side. Even less on his. The friends try a bit, though I suspect they are a bit overwhelmed by a 6 feet 3 inch black leather princess. I put a shiny
leather-clad leg over his, so he can see my black metallic heel and my gold ankle bracelet. Not a twitch. Not that he seems to mind me
being there.

We stay like this a bit, and the three guys fnish their beers. Then my guy gets up quickly. I clutch his shoulder so as not to go over
backwards. You've got to be a bit careful with heels. Someone might get hurt. He goes out and I follow, almost in a daze. I've got to have this man! Outside's a superbike -- a chunky Harley. Clean and shiny like it was out of the showroom today. He gets on. He doesn't say anything when I climb on behind him and press myself against his broad back.

We're off, at speed. A naked motorcyclist! Well, it's fairly warm, but foolhardy. And his trophy leathergirl, me, pillion. And almost before we've settled we're at a secluded house. I follow him in. First words, nearly, from my hunk, 'well, ya can make yaself useful. Polish the bike'. I push close to him and whisper, there's a condition. OK.

So I'm out there with damp rags, wax polish and dry rags, and learning how this bike is kept in such beautiful condition. He gets his girls to work for him. But it looks stunning when I've finished. I drape my beautiful, outrageous leather-clad body over it. Shame there's no-one to take a photo or two. I could show those skinny models a thing or, well, two!

And here he is out again. He looks with approval at my handiwork, and at me and my glossy second skin, highlights reflecting from the bright autumn sun. 'My turn' I say, 'Now I've polished the bike you've got to polish me.' Without further ado he picks up the wax and the rag. I stand with my legs apart and he gets to work on my four-inch black metallic heels. Forty inches higher up my shapely legs, polishing, caressing, rubbing, exciting, and he's at my crotch. 'Here next', I breathe and unzip the tits. Round each of my huge beautiful leather breasts he goes, again and again, polishing again and again. My nipples are erect again, pushing hard against the thin supple leather at the front. The cowhide bra holds my endowment erect, protruding, immense. I can't stand it any more, and grab the rag. I get to work on his tight leather shorts, up and down. Soon the bulge is immense, and I unzip him. What a shaft!

I'm down on him, tits either side of this amazing dong. I zip my shiny deep black leather cleavage closed as far as I can - not very far. Top zipper too, so that I'm tight around him. His prick reaches my breastbone! I've never had a man as big as this before. I work in and out, my forty-seven-inch leather bust enclosing his manhood tightly. Again and again, the sunlight glinting from every one of my leather curves. And he moans, and suddenly the friction between my leather and his member ceases.

But it's not over yet. He's still massively erect, and I pull my leather tits off him. I undo the short zip over my cunt, still wet, and now
throbbing with desire. I mount him. My well-polished tits with their errect nipples trying to push through the thin leather press hard against his splendid black glossy pectorals, and we work together, more, more ... He holds my tiny waist - big black hands round it entirely. You don't know how good that feels. My freshly-polished leather thighs make a satisfying whap! against his massive muscular ones as my tight shiny ass does its daily exercises. Whap! At the same time, his fluid is leaking out from my cleavage, running over his shapely pecs, between them. Whap! How can there be so much of it? How much is he pumping into me now? Whap, Aaahh, Whap .... Whap, Ooohh! Ooooooooooooohhhhh!

And then he's off, started the Harley and disappeared. I pick up the damp rag and start to wipe off some of the mess. One of the good things about being well-polished is that you can clean up pretty easily. I walk up to the house, my black metallic high heels clacking on the path. It's open, I find a phone and call a taxi. I'm not walking through this neighbourhood dressed like this! Whose house is this? Doesn't look like the residence of a taciturn black Greek god.

Back home then, shower, powder, wriggle, writhe and zip back into that black shiny lamb-leather bootsuit that makes me six feet three inches tall, gold ankle bracelet on, and off to work. Just about to close the front door when I realise I've forgotten my pocketbook. I pick it up, put it between my megatits and zip my deep cleavage half closed. Can lose things down there. Into my black open-top sports car with its black leather seats and trim. I'm invisible! Not! Now to work to make polite conversation to a besuited gent who's not paying attention to a word that I say.

Who was this guy? I still drink at the same bar, but I never saw him again. Somehow life is missing a little bit. Well, not so little, actually!