Lust in Latex

by Rachel Bussel

  But the scent of tire rubber always spelled sex to me. One whiff of a delivery truck on a summer day could take my cunt straight back to my favorite interstate parking lot, and I’d have to head for the nearest ladies’ room to do something about it.

  The house I rented after I gave up the road life came with a small, shady backyard. And one of the first things I’d done after moving in was install a tire swing on the biggest oak. Recycling, you know. I had total privacy back there, and that tire was my favorite place to jill off. Gently swinging and underwear-free, with the evocative perfume of the rubber wafting into my face, I’d let my fingers find my groove slot, and I’d soon be pounding my ass up and down against the thin air that tickled me from below.

  So it wasn’t just my environmental conscience that made me an early adopter when those sandals, belts, and other accessories manufactured from recycled tire rubber came on the market. The only problem was that I couldn’t wear, carry, or even look at these items without getting instantly horny. I’m a girl who can smell old tire rubber from across the room.

  It’s remarkable that I didn’t smell Mitch from across town, given his usual attire. When he walked into my neighborhood granola-crunchy café, I practically creamed my favorite junkyard-rescued couch. The dude had tire tread all over his slim, hipster body, from his sandals all the way up to his fucking fedora. Did I mention creaming the couch?

  He had obviously crafted most of the outfit himself. (Believe me, if tire-tread jeans, shirts and fedoras had been available through the normal retail channels, your girl would have known about it.) Yep, this guy had lovingly assembled slivers of used tread into a jersey and a hat and an ass-glorious pair of thirty by thirty-six pants—how, I couldn’t even imagine. The thought that he had personally created this costume made me even hornier, and I could feel my bud twitching like a tiny, excited animal. Even as he stood magnificently at the counter in his ensemble, I could see him naked on a wooden floor, surrounded by fragrant rubber, diligently tailoring his masterpiece. I wanted to suck him and fuck him on all that rubber, in all that rubber, around all that rubber.

  I decided it was time to order another espresso.

  “Your clothes smell great.” I couldn’t believe I’d blurted that out, right at the counter. Well, yeah, maybe I could.

  “Thank you.”

  I wasn’t sure whether or not I should be surprised that he didn’t look surprised by my abrupt compliment. Did he hear this stuff all fucking day, from tire-crazed vixens in burnt-rubber heat? I had thought this was a quiet town.

  “I’m Mitch.”

  As always, I was fascinated by the fact that the tire rubber, which looked so black from a distance, revealed itself to be a handsome gray when viewed up close.

  “Hi, Mitch. I’m Ruth. Do you mind if I feel your tread?”

  He smiled. “Why not? After all, I don’t have any biceps to speak of.”

  He bent an elbow and offered me a forearm. I ran my finger, with slow ecstasy, along one of the sensuous grooves. The soft, squishy sound of my fingertip dragging along the rubber seemed thunderous in my ears, and I could swear I felt his skin warming through the rubber, beneath my touch. My panties were so damp I was sure they’d soon start dripping like a percolator onto the black-and-white checkerboard floor.

  “There are empty seats back there where I’m set up,” I said, cocking my head in the direction of my knapsack and my novel and the couch I’d nearly anointed with my arousal. Thank God, I thought, for cafés that are conveniently crowded in the front and attractively empty toward the back.

  “I have a thing for rubber,” I confessed after he’d settled into place next to me on the couch, at my invitation. My gaze was locked on the artificial six-pack created by the texture of his industrial-strength shirt.

  “You don’t say,” Mitch replied affably. He took a sip of his coffee, then he laughed. “I knew we had something in common.”

  I’d been so fixated on his clothes that I hadn’t given enough attention to his face. Now I saw how his brown eyes glowed at me from beneath the brim of the fedora and how his smile sang boyishly from inside the confines of his Vandyke.

  So I helped myself to two handfuls of tire-clad torso and kissed Mitch, hard, breathing a cocktail of rubber and aftershave. Within moments, we were giving new meaning to the term rubberneckers.

  As our bodies heated up, I could smell the sweetness of his fresh perspiration leeching the essence of the tires. I could imagine the slick sensations he must be feeling across his skinny chest as the warm rubber suckled his skin. I was making his entire body wet, the way my own ravenous sex was wet, and the only thing I wanted in the world was to jam his cock inside me while our senses snaked together in a rubber-infused fog of pleasure.

  He had somehow sewn a zipper into the front of his pants, and I was on it, with little concern for the fact that we were, technically, in a public place. I hadn’t done anything this brash since my I-95 days, but I was officially a woman out of control at this point. And I wasn’t hearing any complaints from Mitch.

  Whenever time constraints force me to choose between eating and being eaten, I’ll usually vote to have my pussy tongued till I scream. But I’d known from the moment I first saw Mitch that I wanted to snack on his dick, to lick along the length of it like my saliva was a dribble of mustard and his cock a sizzling hot dog, protruding trigonometrically from a charcoal-tinted rubber roll.

  As I went down on him, it made me feel ticklish to sense the contrast between his naked flesh—so delicate yet so rigid—and the rugged lewdness of the pants. The treads looked like cartoonishly exaggerated corduroy wales, and I gripped them for stability as my head bobbed and kissed and nurtured its way up and down the pale, stiff prize. He was sensitive, and he cooed for me like a tweepop singer as I brought him closer, moment by delicious moment, to delivering a coffeeless cream into my mouth.

  “Are you guys done with your drinks?”

  Frankly, I was glad we’d been thrown out right after Mitch’s pretty dick exploded for me, because the café was beginning to cramp my style. I wanted to sprawl naked for him on my futon, to feel him roll softly over me in his tire treads, to sense the chemistry of flesh and rubber fusing me to him and melting my entire body into Campbell’s cream of cunt soup. While Mitch glanced backward into the place we’d been ejected from, I was looking forward to all of this.

  I may be an unapologetically promiscuous adventurer, but it’s a quaint social nicety of mine that if I bring a boy home to fuck him silly, I make a point of exchanging full names. After the café, it felt a bit anticlimactic, but a rule is a rule.

  “I should tell you that my birth certificate says ‘Ruth Ober-gard,’” I volunteered a little shyly, just as we were crossing under the local I-95 overpass.

  “Mitchell Lynne,” he responded, extending a hand with mock formality.

  We walked on quietly. My Michelin Man, I thought inanely. I laughed without explaining, and he seemed to like that.

  I’d been jonesing for the futon, but it was a beautiful day, so I decided to introduce Mitch to my tire swing first. He sat for me there, his cock proud as a stick shift in its glossy black condom, and I peeled down my juice-stained panties and straddled him. Under my flimsy skirt, my naked thighs rode a tarmac of cheeky rubber. I loved feeling how it was sort of hard and soft at the same time when I pressed into it.

  Once I was sure our positions were stable, I let myself go wild on him. As my flesh slapped down more and more frantically, I could no longer tell where Mitch’s pants ended and the tire swing began. All I knew was that rubber kissed my soft ass with every thrust of my hips. And while our combined momentum made the swing move faster than I was used to, my crazy snatch gushed onto the rubber-sheathed prick and the rubber-clothed lap. When Mitch released his come and daintily touched my clit, the little backyard spun around us faster than tractor-trailer wheels.

  In my bedroom, Mitch was soft in his rubber pants. So he simply rolled over and over me, like I’d
imagined, and his kind eyes watched my face as I fucked myself beneath him—relishing his texture, absorbing his smell, practically crying because I had what I craved and craved what I had. I came like a romantic—now actually sobbing with joy—and I fell asleep beneath a blanket of masculine rubber.

  For all those years, I had come again and again on the interstate. Now, at last, the interstate had come home to me.

  And I didn’t even need a fucking car.

  JUSTINE, IN LATEX

  Lillian Ann Slugocki

  In the beginning there was Justine.

  Preternaturally meticulous Justine.

  Justine in her gray skirt and matching vest, a gold pin on her blue blouse, a strand of pearls around her neck, sensible pumps in the fall and one-piece bathing suits in the summer, expensive leather handbags and gold watches. Blunt cuts and herringbone. A woman out in the world.

  See Justine as she walked down a crowded street, the blue sky, like a slice of turquoise, the sun just beginning to set. See her carrying two big bags of groceries, paper not plastic, her cell phone, and her laptop slung over her right shoulder. Watch her sigh as she approached her mother’s house. Note the strong jaw, the full lips, the deep wide-set eyes, the long muscular legs, the tightly constrained yet luscious breasts.

  “Yes, Mother, yes. I said yes. I will be there when I get there and the longer you annoy me about how long is it going to take until I get there, the longer it’s going to take. Love you, good-bye.” She snapped the phone shut, gave the finger to a car that almost cut her off, then called her assistant, Amanda. “Make sure you email me the latest draft of the contracts. Make sure you notate every change in red ink, not black ink or blue ink and by the way, my coffee was cold this morning, and who is that new secretary, who sent her over, who? Who? Well, tell them to send me somebody with half a brain next time, and fire her ass.”

  Sometimes Justine could be a bitch.

  She arrived at her mother’s house, a neat suburban ranch, beige brick covered in ivy, with pink azalea bushes by the front door. Impatiently, she knocked, then knocked again. Through the octagonal window she saw Sally, her mother, wearing men’s boxers, a long white T-shirt, her cat-eye glasses hanging from a white chain around her neck and black kitten-heel pumps. As if this were not enough, Sally, mother of Justine, wore bright red lipstick, and long dangly earrings. Was she always going to dress like a biker chick? Was there no hope, no redemption for this woman?

  “Ma,” she hollered impatiently, “answer the door, will ya? My arms are killing me.”

  Sally flung open the door and said, “You know what your trouble is Justine? Do you?”

  “What, Ma, what is my trouble?” Justine advanced into the living room, dropped the groceries off in the kitchen, and came back.

  Sally replied, “It’s been ages since you’ve had a boyfriend.”

  “Stay out of my sex life.”

  “What sex life?”

  Justine sighed and plopped down on the brown velour sofa, put her feet up on the ottoman, and congratulated herself for escaping, barely, with her life. This might’ve all been hers, the silk floral arrangements, the family pictures in silver-plated frames, the deep pile rug, the ratty old armchair, all the dust and detritus of suburban life. The sunlight slanted through the bay window, framed by faux silk drapes tied back with heavily tasseled gold rope. Justine shuddered. Her mother planted herself before her daughter and repeated, “What sex life?”

  Justine closed her eyes, “Ma, please. Just—just don’t.”

  “I think it’s time to bring out my secret weapon.”

  “Ma!” Justine implored and sunk lower onto the sofa.

  But it was too late. Sally was off on a mission. Justine wondered whether she could have a beer. She still had to get those reports finished by tomorrow morning, and tonight was the night she did her hair and nails. Better not, she thought sadly. Sometimes it was all too much—being the modern woman, having a career, paying the bills, putting the food on the table, bringing home the bacon. She had watched her one and only true friend, Jennifer, marry a lawyer, quit her job and now prance around seven months pregnant. What kind of life was that? Barefoot and pregnant? Where was the power, the glory? Before she could answer herself, Sally marched back into the living room cradling a box in her arms.

  “What are those?” Justine asked. “Christmas decorations?”

  Sally sat across from her, the box now on her lap.

  “Now, darling, I know that you think I’m a middle-aged hausfrau, past my prime, but in my younger days, in the seventies, when I would go out catting, I would wear this—” And with a flourish she opened the box and pulled out latex panties and a matching bra. Bright red. Fire-engine red. Hot. They glinted obscenely in the sunlight, jarringly and shockingly out of place in this suburban landscape with its box hedges and sprinklers and girls’ bicycles strewn across lawns already riddled with soccer balls and rosebushes.

  In shock, Justine stood. “Mom, put those away. Okay? In fact, I forbid you to show me any more of your underwear.”

  Sally was insistent, “Put these underneath that stuck-up gray suit of yours and men will be falling at your feet. Trust me, a mother knows.”

  “How much acid did you do in the seventies?”

  “I’m serious.” Sally sat down next to her. “All work and no play makes Justine a very boring, uptight girl.”

  “I’m a woman, Mother, not a girl,” Justine replied, moving away from her, “and this is not an appropriate conversation for us to be having. We should be talking about recipes and chicken and the high cost of milk. Not your”—and here her voice dropped to a deep whisper—“your rubber underwear! Furthermore, if you’re prancing around in kitten heels in the middle of the day drinking beer, one may safely assume that you’ve recovered from your toenail surgery and can get your own groceries.”

  See Justine, miserable, chastened by her mother, walking ten blocks to the nearest train, the red latex underwear hidden in the bottom of her bag. It seemed as if they were burning a hole, as if they were on fire. Justine was sure that every Tom, Dick and, yes, Harry knew her shameful secret. But in point of fact, Justine knew that her mother was right. She had rejected every model of womanhood given to her—her mother’s, her friends’, the ridiculous women on TV, the women on the soaps and gracing the covers of the latest self-help books. Justine wanted none of that, but what she wanted and how she wanted it remained a mystery. So she took the underwear just to shut Sally up.

  Back at home, deep in the dark heart of the city, in her towering glass-and-steel high-rise, she ran the water for her bath. She had ten minutes at the most, then there were the reports already stacked up on her minimalist Scandinavian desk to be done, the blue pens and the red pens neatly arrayed to the right of the stack. Stripped down and now naked, Justine pondered for a moment the red latex underwear still languishing at the bottom of her computer bag. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to take them out, even though she couldn’t for one instant fathom herself wearing them under any circumstances.

  Tentatively, she unzipped the bag, slightly averted her head, and pulled out the panties. In the dim glow of the apartment, the red shiny fabric glistened wetly like a pair of lips. Justine dropped her towel. What was this? What was happening? Somewhere deep inside of her, she began to vibrate. Was it her heart, was it her brain, was it her pussy? None of her previous lovers had ever ignited this fire inside her. Not Fred, the junior accountant, who trembled so violently with desire he actually passed gas. Not Gus, the handyman, whose strong forearms masked a penis the size of a string bean, and who had the temerity to announce, “I don’t eat pussy.”

  She set the panties down on the kitchen table as if they might be radioactive, but then approached them again, fingering the surprisingly silky texture, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. Then an image formed of her mother, decked out in her leather gear, astride a Harley, wearing these underneath—no, it was too much, too retarded, almost incestuous. She retreate
d quickly and had her bath. Justine luxuriated in the hot water, in the gleaming stainless-steel fixtures, the marble sink, the order and precision of her potions and oils. To her relief, the vibrating diminished, subsided, until it was barely a tremor.

  She rubber herself raw with a rich Egyptian cotton towel, lush and luxurious, and sprinkled her body with baby powder and thought of how easily the panties would slide up over her ass now that it was shining clean and dusted with a light layer of talcum. Where did that come from? Justine looked around the room, almost expecting to see someone else, but she was alone. The voice rose up again. It would be so easy, they would slide like silk—stop. No. The year-end projections, the budget cuts, the board members all waiting, poised like chickens in a henhouse, an army of men and women wearing somber gray, decorous navy, kelly green accents, gold hoops, clucking over their imported coffee. Waiting for her, Justine, to begin the meeting, at 8:00 a.m. sharp.

  See Justine as she hovered between a precipice of responsibility and desire; sweat dripping from her brow, trailing down her neck, drop by drop onto her spine; her nipples now completely erect.

  See her fall.

  Once again, she approached the panties splayed out like a mouth on her kitchen table. At the very least, she could wash them out, remove all traces of Sally, and try them on. What could it hurt?

  See the sun as it rose on a glorious new day, the golden-hued light glittering from the sky, a slight breeze. Read closely and see that the Farmer’s Almanac recorded it as one of the most perfect days of the century. At 7:15 a.m., Justine stood in her kitchen, wearing a coral suit, her waist cinched with a brown leather belt, three-inch platforms, pouring coffee in her ultramodern kitchen with the slate countertops and marble floors, moving as if choreographed.

  At her office, at 8:00 a.m. sharp, she was focused and diligent—she double-checked the status of the boardroom, returned her emails, blithely arranged for a complex series of documents to be shipped from the London office, then consumed a leisurely breakfast of a bran muffin and half a cantaloupe at her glass-topped desk. Once finished, she surveyed her kingdom, breathed in and out, then stopped at her assistant’s desk minutes before the board meeting,