“Green like coming,” I said, not really sure what it meant, but like a synesthete, picturing the exact color as his cock entered my lips. I swallowed, taking his entire length down my throat, as my fingers dove into my hole, sliding in and out as I encouraged him to fill me with his come.
“Yeah,” he breathed reverently, his voice gone as soft as his dick was hard. I looked up into his eyes, those malleable eyes that can appear any one of a number of colors, and saw Randy’s green, the green I would paint him with. I came then, staring into his eyes, brown on green on ecstasy, as he spurted into my mouth and shut his eyes, taking his green gaze with him. In truth, they’re more like a dusky hazel, but I know what I saw.
After breakfast, I took him with me on my errands, saving the best for last. He drove the familiar streets with ease, not asking any questions until we reached our final destination. It was a store that specialized in the kind of clingy, sensual, shiny fashions I needed. A high-end rubber and latex pleasure dome, where the staff specialized in handcrafted, body-clinging treasures. They’d made latex wedding gowns and see-through stripper outfits, couture costumes for celebrities and kinky hoods, harnesses, and bodysuits.
The staff all knew me but hadn’t yet met Randy. We’d been so busy with our other adventures, I hadn’t found the time to get him properly trussed up, but I was about to fix all that. I tugged him along behind me, and he shyly said hello when the bell clanged. His age was all the more apparent as he hovered back, deferring to me. “Well, who is this fine specimen of manhood?” asked the over-the-top, wickedly sexy, and very gay Jaime as he got up to kiss me on both cheeks before moving on to inspect Randy. I’d let him wear whatever he wanted, and he’d settled for an old Violent Femmes T-shirt and artfully ripped jeans. A fine look, but one at odds with the rest of the shop. I was wearing a black, low-cut sweater-dress, black Wolford tights with stitching up the sides, and killer black heels, ones I’d slipped into in the car; no need to torment my feet with these five-inchers unless I was in front of a crowd. Especially when I had someone else I wanted to torment.
“Hi, everyone,” I said, smiling at the assembled crowd. “This is Randy. He’s mine, so don’t go getting any ideas.” I never really knew what to call him—boyfriend was inadequate, slave also not quite right, lover too pretentious, and boy toy too diminishing for public use. But mine, was a sure thing, a truth neither of us could dispute. If I wanted to break up with him, I’d be in for a tough fight at that point. I’d cultivated the perfect level of devotion in him, one so strong he’d put up with my occasional excesses and adventures.
“We’re here to get him suited up. Randy, take off your clothes.” He looked at me, his eyes panic stricken, beseeching. He’s what I’d call a reluctant exhibitionist; he can’t plan for it or get into talking dirty about it, but once he’s in front of a crowd, his inner ham comes out usually. I walked closer and cupped his ass through the jeans, rubbing my crotch against him to simulate fucking him. I whispered in his ear: “Baby, they need to get a good look at you to figure out just how the suit’s going to fit you. I’m doing this for me, yes, but also for you. You’re going to love seeing yourself—and touching yourself—in this outfit just as much as I do. Trust me. Have I ever steered you wrong?”
I knew he couldn’t come up with a single example of me leading him astray, and I watched him keep his eyes down as his clothes came off. Even flaccid, his cock is beautiful, and I made sure to fondle it in front of everyone, once again emphasizing that it was mine. “Now go let Jaime take your measurements. I’ll be right here,” I told him. Sure, I could’ve watched, but I liked the idea of sending him off with strangers, making him squirm, naked, as they figured out just how to coat him in the green shiny slickness. Besides, I only wanted to see the end result, not the making of the sausage-like enclosure.
And off he went. I gossiped with the other clerks and tried to act nonchalant, but I actually was thrilled that Randy was submitting to this process. Sure, you could say he had no choice, but of course he always has a choice, and should he ever tire of my dominance, he is free to go. But knowing that he allows himself to enter situations where he may find himself uncomfortable, all for my pleasure, brings me such joy. I’m not quite the heartless bitch I may sometimes appear to him or others, and I know that pushing him beyond his boundaries is not only good for me, but for him. As we traded talk about people in the local fetish scene, time flew by, and soon my boy toy was emerging looking hotter than I’d ever seen him before. Amazingly, they’d had a suit in the perfect green made for a guy with just about Randy’s build, who never came in to pick up his purchase, and on Randy it looked exquisite. Grand. Divine. All those superlatives and then some.
His body seemed to glow from the inside out, the extra-thin latex seeming to capture all the light in the room. I walked over and immediately ran my hands up and down his glorious body. I had to work hard to pretend that I wasn’t the needy one in this relationship. He felt incredible, like some kind of sexy alien coated in a supernatural skin. I pinched one nipple, watching it pucker beneath the fabric.
“Turn over,” I barked. I hadn’t been prepared to see him suited up so soon. I’d thought we’d custom-order the suit, then have it ready to debut, but here he was, and the situation just demanded that I make good use of it, and him. “Bend over and wrap your hands around your ankles.” The suit was so snug that his asscheeks looked truly obscene when he obeyed me, more so than if he’d been naked. Sure, we couldn’t actually see his gaping asshole or hairy buttocks, but the fabric clinging to his curves left little to the imagination. I lifted my hand and gave him a firm swat.
“Ow, thank you, Mistress,” he said, immediately correcting his faux pas. I looked pointedly at the others in the room, glad to see all eyes were on us. “Everyone’s watching you, Randy, so you better behave,” I said, before delivering another sound smack. I kept going, working up a rhythm, breathing heavily as I went. Someone handed me a paddle and I immediately began slapping his ass, hard. This was harsher than what we usually leapt right into, and I knew from my former bottoming days that being spanked with the aid of latex against one’s skin only made the rush that much stronger. When I chanced a look at his face, I saw that Randy’s cheeks were flaming red. He loved and hated that all these people could see not only his entire body, but how I treated it. If he’d thought the latex would somehow protect him from their gazes, he soon saw he was wrong, and the more I watched, the more I knew that this outfit would be in constant rotation in his wardrobe. I spanked him until I got tired of it.
“Stand up and face me,” I said, looking down at his cock. It was thick and hard, swelling against the latex, pushing it out grotesquely. I toyed with the zipper going up the front of the latex, the only thing marring its ultratight perfection. I pulled it down very fast, and he flinched, rasping out something that sounded like “Please.”
“What?” I asked, letting the zipper drop midway down his chest. Half-open, the suit did not have anywhere near the same appeal, its symmetry broken, its glamour marred by his hairy chest.
I pinched his cheek, hard, then cupped his hard cock through the latex. “No, don’t speak. I heard what sounded like a request, when you should know better than that, especially in front of my friends. You’re going to wear this home, and keep it on as long as I tell you to.”
I could see that he wanted to say something, but I didn’t let him. I just told him it was time to go, to the grumblings of the staff. It was a slow day and they had nothing better to do than observe our little tiff. He had little to do but zip the suit back up. He hadn’t been polished yet, so I bought a bottle of polish in addition to the suit and thanked Jaime for doing such a fine job. “Anytime, my dear, anytime,” he said, his voice dripping with lust. I knew that anytime I wanted Randy to experience some man-on-man action, I could send him to Jaime. But now I wanted him all to myself.
I took what I called the scenic route, grateful for the nice weather that allowed me to put the convertible top down. “Love
ly day, isn’t it?” I said as we stopped at a red light. I reached over and fondled his cock, and he shifted, torn between his desire and embarrassment. “You look beautiful, do you know that? Like a model,” I said truthfully. He did, as incongruous as a man in full-body dark green latex might look driving down a sunny street in the middle of the day. Knowing that the fabric had to be baking his skin caused me a special kind of pleasure. I like to make him squirm, make him suffer, all in the name of cementing my rule over him. Plus, he was pretty to look at, shiny and glistening, like an edible sculpture.
As I drove, I started to fantasize about other outfits, ones just like this but with a hole for his cock, so he could fuck me while he wore the outfit, or, even better, a hole at the back, so I could fuck him. What I wound up doing to him that day was much more mundane. I’d originally envisioned taking him to some grand fetish ball and showing him off to all and sundry, but the contrast between my rather basic goth all-black attire and his glinting gorgeousness was too delicious. For my own amusement, I made Randy vacuum the entire house, watching as he lunged forward with the vacuum, then back. When he was done, I saw he was covered in sweat. I brought him a glass of water, which he drank immediately.
“So what do you think of your new outfit?” I asked. Of course it was a test; should he say he didn’t like it, he’d be insulting my decision. But if he did like it, I’d want him to wear it all the time.
“I like how it makes me feel safe, like it’s protecting me, and I like the way it looks, I guess,” he said, not sounding so sure. I ran my hand along his belly, a body part I love—and love to torment. “But most of all I like how you look at me when I’m in this,” he said, in a soft voice that made me melt. He was my toy, but I was his, just as much, and whether he knew it or not, he’d just touched the soft mushy center lurking not so far beneath my sneer. I pulled the zipper down slowly, grateful the removal process wouldn’t take too long, because I couldn’t wait for long. I kissed his chest, then took his nipples in my mouth. He moaned, and I tugged harder as I stroked his cock through the latex. When I was done with the first nipple, I moved on to the second, biting harder, getting off on the pressure. Then, that belly, that sweet sweet belly. I twisted the slight bit of skin there between my fingers, tugging and jerking it as I pumped his cock through the latex. I wasn’t letting him out of his most expensive item of clothing that easily!
I wanted him to come, but in the suit, and when he realized I wasn’t going to budge on that, he surrendered to my teeth and claws: my nails dragging over his nipples, my teeth dipping into his stomach flesh, my fingers tapping against his cock. I inhaled the smell of the latex, inhaled him. Then I had an idea. “Stay here,” I ordered him, “and don’t touch yourself.”
I was gone for less than a minute, returning with a bottle of lube, one safe for use with his new outfit, which I was starting to see as a sex toy in and of itself. I poured some inside the suit, onto his cock beneath the latex, like some people do with condoms. I zipped him up to his belly button, then went back to jerking him off. He groaned as the latex slipped up and down his dick while I bit my lip and pressed my legs tightly together. Seeing me crouched down before him, an observer might have thought I was the submissive in this relationship, but we both knew differently. “May I?” he asked, ever so polite.
“Yes, Randy. You may come. You may shoot a huge, hot load into your new suit that I expect you to then clean and keep shiny and perfect. I hope you like it, because you’re soon going to have a closet full of these, ones that bind you just as well as cuffs, that show off this cock of yours to perfection. I think we’ll have to shave you next.” The more I talked, the more frantic he got, and soon I felt him come inside his garment. It must have felt strange to him, yet wonderful, too. I let him take off the outfit, and his skin looked wet, slick with sweat.
“You made a mess—now clean it up,” I said, ordering him to lick his own come off the smelly green latex. He flinched at first, though, as with almost everything we do, he really liked it. When he was done, I handed him the list of instructions for caring for the new suit to study, while I snuck off for a quick solo masturbation session, the smell of latex on my fingers and in my nose. Now I’m determined to tell all the Dommes I know that they should really think about this when they’re dressing their subs. Next on my list for him is a black suit with a hood and sexy little ears, a real catsuit. I plan to paint whiskers and lipstick on him, but instead of snarling, he will purr for me as he crawls around. Oh, yes, the catsuit is ripe for reinvention, and I know just the boy for the job.
BUTTERFLY’S KISS
Thomas S. Roche
If you take a left off of Figueroa and then a right, right, left, down to the corner of a street without a name, and pull past the sign that says PARK-A-LOT, you’ll see it: the entrance to the right side street leading to the wrong back alley. Pay the attendant, give him an extra twenty, and you might still have a stereo when you come back. If you’re one of those cats with an AM radio, you just saved a Jackson, but go ahead and leave your doors open if you like your windows.
You’re wearing something you shouldn’t be, so I hope you’ve at least brought a raincoat or a cover-up, or things are going to get interesting before their time.
Down the side street, which I won’t tell you the name of, you’ll spot a few sleepers at the edge of the alley, maybe. There’s a Dumpster at the far end stenciled with Bob the SubGenius, tagged with yellow Kanji, and drunkenly sprayed over it all is FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING FU, which is the point at which the boozer ran out of Dumpster and presumably lost interest.
Over the open doorway, red curtain shrouding the inside, there’s a sign but no words, just a stylized spider, Latrodectus hasselti if you give a flying fuck, red hourglass on a black body. Under that there’s a cat in a derby, always a derby, impeccable, his mug impassive underneath, eyes watching as you approach. His name is Regentine, or more commonly Reg, but don’t call him that unless he introduces himself, which he’s not going to unless you’re Trent Reznor or the Marquis de Sade.
Walk up to Reg and say your name, either first and last or scene name. He’ll give you a look like he just scraped you off his shoe. He’ll fish in the pocket of his waistcoat, pull out a reporter’s notebook.
He’ll find your name, because you won’t be there if you’re not on the list.
He’ll check your ID, maybe pat you down, take your double saw, jerk his thumb at the red curtain. At that point you’ll either come to your senses and go home, watch made-for-Skinemax softcore and relax with your thoughts, or you’ll hit the darkness like a lush hitting bottom. If you’ve gotten this far, like I did, you’re going to hit bottom anyway, and the only question is if you’re going to get up again. So walk, my friend, and let me tell you what happens, if you’re me and this is last night, Walpurgisnacht, the day the music died.
When I last brushed by Reggie twenty shekels lighter, not sixteen hours and a thousand years ago, it was a dark warm night in April and my digital watch was striking twenty-three. I nervously unclasped it, stuffed it in my raincoat next to my camera phone—not allowed. The velvet brushed my face as I slipped through; it smelled of cigarettes and cheap perfume.
I walked through the alcove, shadow black but lit in overwrought UV where the club cards were stacked and the Plexiglas showed the blue-white face of the girl who accepts the chit you received last time you attended, maybe looks at you funny for whatever reason like she did at me, then hands you a piece of paper to sign. You hand the waiver back with your Grant, or two Jacks and a Hammy, or whatever, and she picks out a stamp: spider or butterfly.
I stuffed my paw through the little hobbit hole and she spanked it with that wet stamp, hard, maybe harder than usual, fixing me through the glass with a supreme look of self-satisfaction. I drew back my fist and looked at it, glowing faintly phosphorescent in the UV: eight legs, big ass, and plenty of fang.
Next stop was the coat check—another wicked girl looking disgusted. I shrugged off my
raincoat and she looked me up and down, her disgust fading to a neutral sort of acceptance. I was one of the crew, maybe, at least with my rubber hot pants and tank. She handed me a claim check and drew an ankh on it. I glanced back as I left; she was eyeing my knee-high boots with the lust of the fashion victim.
I brushed through a second curtain, this one black leather, heavy like one of those lead aprons you wear getting X-rays at the dentist. The scent beyond was the first that hit me, just like always, but each time it’s a little different and each time it’s intoxicating. If you’ve got a predator’s sense of smell, which I often fancy I do, you can detect the night’s cocktail just by drawing a deep breath. Tonight, people were drinking a lot of Johnny Walker Black Label and fucking a lot of ass. The beat from the twelve-foot speakers hit my breastbone like a hammer.
The crowd was tight, pushed up against the dance floor, watching selected bodies grinding together. People were dressed like I was, rubbered, or leathered, or PVCed, second skins in evidence on both genders but the balance running about seventy-five percent women, which is the finest gift Ulysses S. Grant could give me.
I squirmed my way through the crowd, spent twenty minutes waiting to order a Maker’s from the tranny bartender, who pointedly ignored me a couple of times before finally begrudgingly serving me. I ordered two because I knew I’d want a second one and fuck this shit. She wanted to see two hand stamps. I ordered one neat, gave her a twenty, slammed it before she could bring me back my change, and told her to keep it and bring me another on the rocks. She did with a scowl. I backed my ass away from the bar and wriggled my way across the edge of the dance floor, looking for the spiral stairs.
The place was a warehouse, then a loft, then a club; the spiral stairs are a cheap industrial-looking sheet-metal hack job probably put in by the latest owner. They squeaked as I climbed them. I panted a little and sipped my drink at the midpoint, then climbed the rest of the way.
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