Herbert Foster stood looking out the thick glass doors at the back entrance to
Heatherby's, the posh department store where he was employed as a sales clerk in the
Jewelry Department.  It had been a trying day.  When he had taken his car into the
dealership for routine servicing that morning, he learned that he would have to
leave it overnight while out-of-stock parts were ordered.  The service
representative told him that the dealership would send a shuttle to Heatherby's to
pick him up and drive him home at the end of his workday.  It was a courtesy for
which Foster was most grateful.  He dreaded taking the bus home in the evening.

As he peered into the late September evening, an SUV with the dealership logo on its
doors pulled up to the back entrance.  The driver stepped out to open the door for
Foster.  Foster sighed as he noted that he was the only passenger.  But as the
driver sat down behind the wheel, he turned to Foster in the back seat and said,
"Mr. Foster, we'll be stopping two blocks from here to pick up just one more
passenger."  Again, Foster sighed.  Just one other passenger was not bad at all. 
Foster reflected that he might even be able to climb into bed by nightfall and get a
good night's rest.  

The SUV pulled up in front of Darling's, an art gallery that specialized in the
bizarre and avant-garde.  While Foster read his evening newspaper, the driver got
out to open the door.  When the new passenger stepped in through the door on
Foster's right, Foster suddenly put his paper down.  The passenger was a woman - a
remarkable woman.  She was perhaps in her early thirties and had light brown hair. 
She wore a smartly tailored business pantsuit and a broad-brimmed Stetson hat pulled
low over her face.  As she crossed her legs, Foster glanced down at the black
spike-heeled fashion boots that went up under each of her pant legs.  But suddenly
Foster's eyes were drawn to the woman's hands.  They were sheathed in skintight
black kidskin gloves that went up under the sleeves of her business jacket.  Foster
tried futilely not to stare, but he could not help but notice that her gloves
buttoned at the wrists in the mousquetarie style.  As the beautiful woman smoothed
each finger of her gloves to an even snugger fit between each of her own fingers,
Foster was forced to place his newspaper over his lap to cover his rapidly
stiffening erection.  He shut his eyes for a moment to try to collect himself.  But
the subtle scents of the woman's musky cologne and kid leather were intoxicating. 
As Foster helplessly tried to make his boner subside by shutting the woman's
presence from his mind, he heard her say in a quiet voice, "Oh, darn."

Foster opened his eyes and looked her way.  She was closely examining the middle
finger of her left glove.  

"Would anyone happen to know," she asked, "where I could go to get a glove repaired?"

"What's wrong?" asked Foster.

"Oh, the stitching is just starting to come undone on the end of my middle finger,"
said the woman.  "And these are some of my favorite gloves.  You men wouldn't
understand, but gloves get to be almost like old friends.  These gloves fit
perfectly - and, of course, that's part of the problem.  If I didn't like to wear my
gloves so tight, my finger wouldn't be starting to poke through like this.  See?"
she asked as she held her middle finger up for Foster to look at.

Foster saw where the stitching at the end of the middle finger of her glove was
coming loose.  Her fingertip was just starting to poke through the end of its black
leather sheath.  

"That's a shame," said Foster, trying to conceal the telltale trace of lustful
excitement in his trembling voice.  "But I know where you could get that fixed.  I'm
a salesclerk in Jewelry at Heatherby's, but I often work in the Ladies' Gloves
Department, too - you know, to help out when things are busy."

"Yes, of course," said the woman with a strange smile that made Foster uncomfortable.

"I'm sure that, if you brought them in, we could have that finger restitched as good
as new.  After all, the leather, itself, is in perfect condition, and those really
are beautiful gloves," said Foster.  "You can tell the fine workmanship by looking
at the V-shaped pattern of stitching in the crotch between each finger.  Only the
finest gloves have that.  It helps the glove fit the hand perfectly whatever
position your fingers are in.  Men's gloves usually aren't made with that level of
attention to detail, and that's part of the reason that men's gloves tend to look so
clumsy.  It's almost not fair, in a way.
 
"It was never intended to be fair," said the woman.  The import of this simple
statement sent thrills coursing up Foster's spine.  The conspicuous mound under his
newspaper seemed to grow another inch higher.  Glancing at it, the woman continued,
"You seem very knowledgeable about ladies' leather gloves.  My name is Carolyn
Chadwick.  I run a finishing school for young women just out of college.  May I ask
if you would care to come to our school and assist me with a presentation on glove
etiquette this weekend?"

"I would love to!" exclaimed Foster, nearly out his mind with excitement.

"And we would glove to have you cum," replied Carolyn Chadwick.

"What?" asked Foster.

"I said we would love to have you come.  What did you think I said?"

"I-I don't know," said Foster.  He could hardly believe that she had offered the
invitation.  Nothing like this had ever come Foster's way before.  As a bald little
salesclerk, shorter than all of the female salesclerks at Heatherby's, Foster found
that everything that he truly desired in life had always seemed just beyond his
reach.  He was not at all sure where Carolyn Chadwick's invitation might lead, but
he leapt to accept it.  

"I would be honored to assist you," replied Foster.  "By the way, my name is Herbert
Foster."

Extending her black leather-gloved hand, Carolyn Chadwick replied, "How nice to meet
you.  May I call you Herbert?"

"Of course, Ms. Chadwick.  Please do."  Foster nearly passed out when Carolyn
Chadwick clasped and shook his naked hand with her leather-sheathed hand.  As Foster
released her gloved hand, the shuttle turned a corner.  Lurching toward Foster,
Carolyn knocked his newspaper to the floor and went to place a gloved hand on his
lap to steady herself.  But, instead, her leather-sheathed hand gripped the head of
his boner as though it were a four-speed stick shift.  

"Oh, my god!  I didn't mean to do that!  You must think that terribly rude of me! 
But the car lurched.  Oh, look - there's a wet spot on your trousers!  I don't think
I could have done that.  My glove is dry.  Or wait, the palm is a little moist, but
I think that's from the spot on your pants," said Carolyn.  "Here, see what I mean,"
she said, placing her gloved palm over his mouth.  "The leather is just ever so
slightly damp."

"HUMMMMMMMMRUUMPH!" said Foster, as he suddenly came unassisted.  His cock thrashed
about wildly as he shot a load of cum into his underpants.  The wet spot on the
scratchy material of his business suit trousers rapidly spread out around his
crotch.  

"Are you okay?" asked Carolyn.  "You look like you're having a seizure of some sort.
 Perhaps you should get medical attention."

"N-No, I'm fine," replied Foster, struggling to keep drool from running out the
corner of his mouth.  

"Okay, then," said Carolyn.  "By tomorrow, my chauffeur should be out of the
hospital.  I'll send him for you around 10:00 am.  Would that be all right?"

"Y-Y-Yes, that would be fine," stammered Foster, mortified beyond words.  

Carolyn Chadwick replied, "I hope you're not too embarrassed by our little accident.
 It's not as though that sort of thing doesn't happen all the time."

Again, Foster's mind reeled as he took in the import of her words.  All his life,
Foster had been fascinated by women's leather gloves.  The mere sight of a woman's
hand sheathed in tight kidskin would take his breath away and leave him helplessly
enthralled.  Foster never knew whether he was the only male on earth who responded
to gloves in that way.  He had kept his lustful fetish a dark, closely guarded
secret.  It was something he felt that he would never be able to explain to anyone -
especially not to a woman.  But he also sensed a certain something about women who
wear leather gloves - an underlying arrogance that he was never sure he was not
simply imagining.  Such women seemed very aware of their own attractiveness.  They
seemed to sense their power over men and seemed to have certain expectations of
them.  Yes, thought Foster, it was definitely a type of arrogance.  But did they
wear gloves because they were arrogant - or were they like that because they wore
gloves?  Foster reminded himself that all his thoughts on the subject were nothing
more than imaginative conjecture.  What he would have given to be able to step into
a woman's mind and know how she thinks and feels as she sheaths her hands in fine
kidskin!  

As the shuttle pulled to the curb in front of Foster's apartment, Carolyn Chadwick
said, "Tomorrow then at ten.  And bring a change of clothes just in case you decide
to spend the weekend."

"Yes, certainly, Ms. Chadwick," replied Foster, stepping out of the car.

"Please call me Carolyn."

"Yes, of course, Ms. Chadwick - I mean Carolyn."

Foster watched as the shuttle pulled out into traffic.  Walking the steps to his
apartment, he almost choked with tears from the embarrassment of his 'accident'. 
The approaching night, he thought, would seem like an eternity.  

To be continued............