The overcast light does something unfair to the material. It swallows every ray that touches me and gives nothing back, so I stand out against the drifting red and gold leaves like a hole cut in the autumn. The wind moves through the trees in a low rush and lifts the hem of the dress against my thighs. I let it. I can see you watching it happen, and the little curve at the corner of my mouth is because I’ve been waiting for you to catch up.
“Walk with me,” I say, turning on my heelless platforms, balancing on those impossible soles over a carpet of dead leaves like the uneven ground was put there for my amusement. “You look like you need the exercise. And I look like I need an audience, so really, everyone wins.”
I start down the trail and you follow, because of course you follow. The platforms lift me so my calves stay flexed, the black dress gripping my hips with every careful step, and the latex creaks softly when I move, a quiet sound that sits under the rustle of the canopy. The wind pushes at my blonde hair, strands of it catching across my face, and I leave them there, letting you see me looking at you through it.
“You’ve been staring at my ass since the bend,” I say without turning around. “I counted. That’s fine. Staring is the point. If I didn’t want eyes on my ass I’d have worn sweatpants, and I don’t own sweatpants.”
The trail opens slightly where the trees thin, and I stop in a scatter of bright maple leaves. There I give you the first real pose. One hand on my hip, the other sliding slowly up my side, and the latex follows the motion like a second skin, because it is one. I arch a little and the dress shifts with me, the material straining over my tits, the neckline dipping just to the edge of decency and holding there.
“Comfortable?” I ask, and there’s a low laugh in it. “I’m not. This dress doesn’t breathe. It doesn’t let anything breathe. Every step I feel it hugging my tits, sliding against my thighs, and the wind keeps trying to get a look at my pussy like it’s got as little self-control as you do.” I tilt my head at you, headband holding my hair back. “You’re doing the polite thing where you look at my face. You can stop doing that. Nobody’s grading you out here.”
The wind picks up again, colder now, and the trees let go of a fresh fall of leaves that spin down around me. I tip my face up into it, eyes closed, arms rising so my hands slide into my hair, and the dress rides up my thighs with the stretch. When I open my eyes again they find you immediately.
“Say something,” I tell you. “Or don’t. Honestly, I like you better quiet. Quiet men stare harder.”
I start walking again and the leaves crunch under those platforms, a slow deliberate crunch per step, and I can hear you keeping pace a few feet behind because I haven’t told you to walk beside me. I know exactly what my ass is doing with each stride, the latex catching it, releasing it, catching it again, and I reach back with one hand and smooth the dress over it, purely so you have to watch me do it.
“I wore this for the weather,” I say. “Black latex under a grey sky. Everything else just looks washed out next to me.” Another crunch, another step. “The leaves try, though. I’ll give the leaves that much.”
Where the trail dips into a hollow full of copper-colored beech leaves, I stop and lean back against a birch, one tall shoe grinding slowly into the dirt. I look at you the way a cat looks at a moth it has decided not to kill yet.
“Come closer,” I say, and when you take a single step I hold up one finger. “That’s close. That’s far enough. You can look at anything you want from there. Tits, ass, whatever you like. Looking is free today.”
Then I show you what looking is worth. My hands go on a slow tour of myself, starting at my collarbone, sliding down and cupping my tits through the latex, thumbs dragging slow across where my nipples push at the shine. I watch your eyes the entire time, reading exactly where you land and lingering there. The dress is short enough that my hands resting on my thighs is already a statement, and when the wind shoves the hem up another inch I catch it, hold it a beat, and let it fall.
“You want to know what’s under the dress,” I say. It isn’t a question. “Everyone always wants to know what’s under the dress. Whether my pussy’s bare under here. Whether the latex is the only black thing I’m wearing.” I smile. “Nothing’s free in these woods. Down here, you only get what falls off the trees.”
I peel myself off the birch and walk the circle around you once, slow, so the whole shape of me passes in front of you and past you and behind you, and I can feel you turn before I even allow it.
“You can turn around,” I murmur at your ear. “I’ll allow it. I know the view from behind is the good one. My ass has never once let me down.”
The trail climbs out of the hollow and I take the slope easily on these tall shoes, strong thighs doing the quiet work, and I let you follow me up through the grey afternoon while the wind combs the branches overhead and drops leaves in my hair. I leave them there too, gold against the blonde, decoration I don’t need.
“Here’s what I like about you,” I say, glancing back. “You haven’t touched. You haven’t grabbed. You just walked half a mile in the cold with your eyes doing all the work.” My voice drops a register. “That’s the correct way to want something. Now watch how it feels when I don’t give it to you.”
I stop on the rise of the trail, backlit by the flat silver sky, and I run both hands down the front of the dress, over my tits, over my stomach, all the way to the hem. My fingers play with the edge of the latex while the wind tries to take it from my grip. I lift it one inch. Two. Just enough that you catch the barest shadow between my thighs, the suggestion that there’s nothing under here but me, and then I drop the hem and laugh at the sound you make.
“Later,” I say. “Maybe never. The not knowing is the part you’ll keep. You’ll be lying in bed tonight thinking about whether you actually saw my pussy, and I love that for you.”
Then I’m walking away from you down the trail, hips swinging, leaves crunching under my platforms, the whole grey forest parting for me in black latex. I get about twenty steps, then I stop, and without turning around I reach back and smooth the dress over my ass one more time, taking my time about it, because I can feel your eyes from here.
When I finally do look back at you over my shoulder, hair wild in the wind, leaves caught in it, I just smile.
“Coming?” I say, and I don’t wait for your answer before I disappear around the next bend.
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