Lust in Latex

by Rachel Bussel

  Giving up on trying to follow the story line, my mind drifted to the first time Robert and I met, in a fetish clothing shop in Kensington. I had just moved down to London, a city where anything is possible and almost any sexual fantasy can be indulged, from a small northern town where you were considered a failure if you weren’t married and pregnant by the age of twenty-one. I had been fascinated by rubber ever since I had seen one of my favorite singers wearing a shiny, formfitting black dress in the weekly pop music magazine I had on order from our corner newsagent. One day, I determined, I too would wear a dress like that, but even having tracked down the shop from which my heroine had bought hers, according to the interview that accompanied the picture, I must have walked past it about half a dozen times before finally plucking up the courage to step inside.

  When I did, the smell of rubber assaulted my nostrils, stronger and more pungent than I could ever have imagined. It repulsed me, and yet it drew me in. I couldn’t imagine ever getting used to it, but I had to have more. I was admiring a rack of rubber dresses, trying to imagine how the cold, shapeless and slightly clammy latex would look as it molded itself to my curves, when I heard a voice behind me.

  “We’ve got a dressing room at the back, if you want to try it on.” I turned to see a gray-haired man looking me up and down with a knowing smile.

  “I wouldn’t…I’ve never…” I stammered.

  “Ah, a rubber virgin, eh? My favorite kind of person. Let me show you…”

  And that was Robert, the shop’s assistant owner, who took me in hand and made my rubber dreams a shiny, slippery reality. He taught me everything I needed to know about caring for my dress: how I needed to coat my body in talcum powder before pulling it on, how I could use silicone spray to buff the dull rubber to a stunning mirrored shine, and how, even if I had staggered in from a club at three in the morning, I had to wash the dress before I could go to bed, to make sure sweat and smoke didn’t destroy it.

  As rubber quickly became my demanding mistress, Robert became my strict master. If I knew very little about dressing for pleasure, I knew even less about domination and submission. Robert was my guide, my mentor, my silver fox. When my friends mocked me for being with a man who looked old enough to be my father, I just smiled, knowing that calling Robert “Daddy” could make him as hard as wearing rubber made me wet.

  When I wore the rubber dress for him, I was never allowed to wear anything beneath it. He told me it was because the lumps and bumps of my underwear would show through and spoil the line of the garment, but I knew it was really because he got a thrill out of parading me around the scene clubs in nothing but a thin coating of rubber and a pair of outrageously high heels. I was always nervous about going out in public dressed like that; the dress finished a few inches below the cheeks of my bottom, and I was sure that if I sat carelessly or walked upstairs, I would be treating anyone who cared to look to a view of the pink, shaven lips of my sex. That, of course, was all part of the attraction to Robert, and he loved to whisper in my ear how he would buy a spreader bar and use it to secure my legs wide apart, so I had no choice but to display my pussy to the world. Though I protested, I was sure he knew that inwardly I thrilled to the idea of being forcibly, blatantly exposed. And when he embellished the fantasy, telling me he would invite passing slaves, male or female, to crouch before me and lick me out for his pleasure, I would have to bite my lip to stop myself from begging him to do it.

  But what had always turned me on most was when he said he would find a way of making me wear rubber in a more respectable setting. Strutting around dressed to impress in a club where everyone was wearing some kind of fetishy costume was one thing, but sitting behind my desk in the office where I worked, with no one knowing I had rubber on beneath my neat little skirt suit, would be a new game altogether, and a deliciously spicy one. It would make it hard to concentrate on my work, I was sure, but for the thrill of spending a whole day with rubber next to my skin, feeling its sensual caress, it was worth risking the wrath of my boss.

  So I shouldn’t have been entirely surprised when Robert presented me with the indecently brief panties and told me I would be wearing them tonight. But now, with the film still showing no sign of finishing, and my pussy captive and wanting inside its black rubber prison, I was realizing the true price of indulging my fetish in public.

  At that moment, Robert leaned over and casually draped an arm around me. The most innocent of gestures, but it enabled him to lightly touch my breast with his fingertip. My nipple stiffened in response, and as he carried on stroking me, I felt little twinges of desire flaring in my crotch. I wriggled in my rubber panties, feeling them rub against my sensitized skin, stimulating me beyond endurance. I stifled a whimper; there was no one sitting next to us, but I didn’t want to alert anyone in the rows in front or behind to what was happening.

  I knew that Robert was perfectly prepared to keep toying with me till the credits rolled, teasing me, and though he normally had no interest in the names of the location unit, camera crew or production assistants, he would be prepared to sit there and read every single one before he even thought about giving me the satisfaction I needed. I didn’t think I could take much more; his stroking had become light pinches of my nipple, and I was squeezing my thighs together, desperate for relief. I knew it wouldn’t take a great deal of this treatment for me to go over the edge, and I knew Robert wouldn’t be happy if I did. But he had to be aware that I had been horny and wet ever since I had put the panties on, and that I had almost reached the point where the last of my self-control had evaporated and I would beg him to let me come.

  Finally, I did just that. “Please, Robert,” I whispered. “I have to come. Please let me come.”

  For a moment, I thought he would refuse my request and leave me frustrated. Then the corners of his mouth curved in a wicked smile. “Very well, but only if you do it to yourself and you do it here.”

  I swallowed hard. I had been wanting to feel Robert’s thick cock inside me as I came, and I had been hoping he might drag me out to the toilets in the foyer for a quick fuck, my skirt up and my rubber panties down around my knees as he took me hard from behind. Playing with myself here, where I might be noticed, was more of a risk than I had expected to take. But Robert was in charge, as he had been from the moment we left the house, and so I had no choice but to obey him. “Okay,” I said in a small voice.

  “Right, I want you to take your panties off and give them to me.”

  I glanced around briefly to make sure we hadn’t attracted the attention of a nosy usherette, then quickly hooked my fingers in the waistband and hauled them down my legs with a slightly inelegant shuffling of my bottom. Somehow, it felt like a wrench to take them off; they seemed to have become part of me while I had been sitting there. Robert took them, still warm from my body, and clutched them as I began to touch myself. My cunt was hot and slick, as though it had been marinating in my juices within those panties, and I almost moaned aloud as I slipped two fingers up inside myself. In the half-light of the cinema, I didn’t know exactly how much Robert could see of what I was doing, but I was sure he could hear the obscene squelching noises as I thrust those fingers in and out.

  Growing increasingly oblivious to my surroundings, I sprawled my legs apart and sank down in my seat, strumming my clit.

  “Tell me how it feels,” Robert murmured.

  “Good—it feels good,” I told him, though I was finding it hard to form the words in my excitement.

  “Do you like your new panties?” he asked.

  “Love them,” I said. “Love the way they feel, love the way they look.” The pleasure was building in me, and I was breathing hard and rubbing my bare bottom against the plush fabric of the seat.

  “How about the way they smell?” And as the first spasm of orgasm hit me, Robert thrust the crotch of the rubber panties under my nose. I couldn’t help but take a breath rich with the powerful scent of latex and my own spicy cunt aroma, and I came like I’d n
ever come before.

  Robert said later that it was only a series of gunshots on the film soundtrack masking my squeal of pleasure that prevented anyone from realizing what I had been doing. Before the lights could come up, we snuck out of the cinema, me on slightly unsteady legs and Robert chuckling to himself and wondering aloud how my endurance would stand up to wearing those wonderful panties through an all-night Fellini retrospective the art house had planned for later in the year.

  EXCHANGES

  Stella Hunter-Smith

  It would be a simple exchange, one garment for another. It would be quick, effortless, harmless even, and after all, Elise would be getting something in return.

  Still, there were tingles in my belly as I stood in front of her closet. I looked over my shoulder like a bandit, expecting her to round the corner and foil my plans, though she wasn’t due home for another hour.

  I opened the closet door. What sat on display before me was dark and lifeless. And there were mounds of it, on hangers, on shelves, even piled in corners.

  Stepping inside, I pushed aside jackets and pants, waded through thick, heavy material until I found exactly what I was looking for. It hung in the rear of her closet much like it hung from her body, plain and drab.

  I grabbed at it quickly, snatching it down. I held it out in front of me.

  How could anyone find this attractive, see it hanging in the store and consider it something to add to her wardrobe?

  But Elise loved it. And, of course, she wasn’t looking for attractiveness. She hadn’t set out for sexy. This shirt, like everything else in Elise’s life, had its purpose.

  For one thing, it was practical, she had told me. It was good for protecting her pale, yellow arms from the sun when she was working in the yard. Many times I stood by the window watching this horrid shirt go floating by. I had seen it lying damp at the bottom of the hamper, had pulled it out of the dryer and hung it neatly in its place.

  Yes, Elise would miss it for sure.

  So, I took it. I stuffed it into a plastic bag and tossed it aside. From another bag, I pulled out its replacement.

  And it was a fine replacement indeed.

  I had seen the garment hanging in a window when I was on my way to lunch. It was enough to make me halt, cock my head, and ultimately go inside.

  Elise would look good in it; there was no question. The stretchy latex would cling to her; the red would look wonderful with her golden skin and honey-brown hair. The halter would rest perfectly around her long neck.

  It would be everything that godforsaken flannel shirt was not, and that was all I needed to know.

  My task complete, I stepped back and folded my arms. I smiled, imagining the look on Elise’s face. I closed her closet door and hid the bag with her discarded shirt in my own closet.

  I went to the living room, where, sipping a glass of red wine, I waited for her.

  If I knew nothing else, I knew that Elise was a simple girl. She was methodical. She appreciated routine and little disruption.

  Me, I was a wild child, had lived on the edge all my life. It was what made us work, she had told me many times before, and this night, I intended to remind her.

  She walked in at precisely twenty past five. Her baggy pants made a loud rubbing noise as she walked. A white T-shirt rested beneath her starched button-down shirt.

  Her clothes swallowed her. Her shirt gave her the appearance of being flat-chested when in actuality what lay beneath were the most perfect breasts I had ever seen. What were hidden beneath those baggy pants were strong, beautiful legs that extended from wide, round hips. Stuffed inside those plain shoes were soft, pretty toes.

  I kept wishing she would wear something that fit her, something that would show her glorious shape and curves, but along with everything else, Elise was a fan of comfort.

  And comfort was the expression she wore on her face when she came to me and kissed me on the forehead.

  “Why didn’t you tell me the lawn looked so awful?”

  That was my Elise.

  It wouldn’t have done to tell her that the lawn looked perfectly fine, so I simply said, “I guess I hadn’t noticed.”

  She began unbuttoning her shirt. She stepped out of her shoes. “I’ll hop to it, then, so I can get done by dinner.”

  I nodded.

  I nodded and I smiled because Elise had disappeared into the bedroom. Her closet door creaked open. Hangers slid across the wooden bar.

  I absentmindedly flipped the pages of a fashion magazine, throwing glances at the bedroom door, waiting.

  Then she emerged. She took long bowlegged strides in jeans cut off just below the knee. She wore black work boots and long socks, and on her torso was a green flannel shirt unbuttoned with a tank top underneath.

  Without missing a beat, Elise threw her straw hat on her head. She ruffled my hair and kissed me softly on the lips.

  I forced a smile as I watched her walk toward the backyard.

  I waited for the sound of the door slamming, the lawnmower cranking up.

  I entered our bedroom and headed straight for her closet.

  There, pushed aside, lost in a sea of baggy trousers and button-down shirts was the red latex halter.

  I pulled it out and pressed it against my cheek. I breathed in its scent and hoped beyond hope that later, when Elise and I lay close, when she was touching me and I was touching her, I would imagine her in red, and I would be content.

  I drummed my fingers on my lap. Impatiently, I listened to Elise kick off her shoes and drop her bag on the floor. She unzipped her pants and kicked them aside. Her shirt would be next.

  She would want something comfortable to watch television in. She would look for stretchy pants and an oversized shirt. She would reach for her men’s slippers.

  Elise opened her closet door.

  I waited and listened.

  She cleared her throat.

  I looked behind me at her leaning against the frame of the door. Her bare feet had made no noise and now she stood in white bra and panties, arms folded across her chest.

  She had noticed—and why wouldn’t she? All her clothes were gone, after all, and what remained in her closet was a variety of leather and latex, rubber and vinyl.

  It was Elise’s own fault, really. She had been constantly oblivious to subtle hints, so I had no other choice but to take a more direct approach.

  And anyway, it wasn’t like I was leaving her with no choice at all. She could wear the blue leather corset or the long black dress. She could wear a mini or a pair of leather pants.

  “Rona?”

  She called my name softly and sweetly, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Yes?”

  “Babe, some things seem to be missing out of my closet.”

  I almost grinned, but instead I asked, “Are you sure?” “Yes, I’m sure, honey.”

  I shrugged. “That’s strange.”

  Elise cocked her head. “Well, what’s even stranger is what seemed to find its way into my closet.”

  I turned toward her and pulled my legs up on the chair. “So, you gonna show me or what?”

  And for the briefest moment I watched her, nearly trembling, afraid she would say no, afraid she would demand to know the hiding place of her flannel shirt and khaki pants.

  But Elise winked and disappeared inside the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

  I watched the door, wondering which piece she would choose. I wondered how it would look, how it would feel against my body. I wondered how long it would take me to get the fucking thing off her.

  Then it came, the beloved sound of zippers and the firm snap of elastic against skin.

  Then silence.

  Sick with anticipation, I called out to her.

  “Elise, you okay in there?”

  From the other side of the bedroom door came a heavy sigh.

  “No,” she said. “The thing is too damned tight.”

  But I wasn’t about to let her give up that easily. “Wel
l, let me see, maybe with some adjusting—”

  The door opened and Elise walked out. “No.” She held the long black latex dress in her hand, the one I had just picked out, the hot little number with the split clear up the thigh.

  She handed it to me and placed her hand on her hip.

  “They’ll take it back, won’t they?”

  “I guess. But for now why don’t you try something else? I bet you’d look dynamite in a pair of those leather pants. How about it?”

  Elise shook her head. She looked almost disgusted.

  “It was hard enough trying to get into that thing,” she said. “How the hell does anyone breathe in that stuff, anyway?”

  I folded my lips. “I don’t think breathing is the point, Elise.”

  She shrugged. “Can I have my clothes back now?”

  Just like that, without giving it another thought.

  And I’d had it.

  “Sure, Elise,” I said, getting up from the chair. “You can have’em all back. But first we’ll have to make room in that closet of yours.”

  I ran into our bedroom and snatched open her closet door. I glared at the perfect row of garments I had spent months searching for, picking up and stashing.

  It had all been for nothing. The thing may as well have been empty for all the good it had done me. So, with one sweep of my arm, I cleaned out Elise’s closet.

  I pushed pants, shorts and tops aside. I grabbed a fistful of thick, stretchy fabric and pulled. Hangers rattled. Garments fell to the floor. I threw what remained into a pile on the bed.

  “There you go, Elise,” I called out, “it’s all gone. Your closet is wide open to be filled again with lounge pants and bathrobes.”