Gromet's PlazaLatex Stories

An Autumn Night

by Unknown

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© Copyright 2003 - Unknown - Used by permission

Storycodes: F/m; latex; bondage; bodybag; cons; X

This story sent to me by Rubbersheep, thank you for sending it in.
If you are the author of this story, please let me know
An Autumn Night
by ?
An Autumn Night Rubbersheep

She always asked herself, typing away at her Mac, how many other people thought, like her, of the of the other meaning of the word. Usually it was the other meaning that occupied most of her thoughts. She had managed to write the instructions using the computer. Dry, precise, with a wealth of details that always thrilled her as she wrote, recreating the situations and images of her desires. The scene was detailed, the movements repeated often, but she had introduced innovations whose boldness still surprised her. It was to be this Friday evening. The night of Parisian evenings out, when all was discretion itself. More thrilling than Saturday, which was too rowdy. She still hesitated; grand hotel or seedy. Both had their spice. 

The last time, she had summoned her chosen one into a sad hotel near the Gare du Nord, where the caretaker of indeterminate age had given her a grimy key. No, this time it was going to be a bit of luxury. She went over them in her head. The George V - too dear; the Prince of Wales - too trendy; the NCI - too many tourists. She went for the Meridian at Porte Maillot.  A large lobby, quiet rooms, a discrete air. She waited in the great lobby, a little way from the doorman. It was agreed she would be reading Vogue, but she hadn't said anything about clothes. She had thought for a moment of being contrary. To become anonymous, an American tourist in tennis shorts, for instance. Pretending to not understand when he spoke to her in the crowd, which swarmed in the lobby around 7 pm. She would answer in English, raise her voice, and pretend to be upset to increase his embarrassment and call for help. She doubted if he had the strength to like being ridiculed. 

She decided to play the game completely. She had put on her black PVC designer suit. Admittedly it was vinyl, but of classical style and well cut, above all tasteful. She wore black patent shoes with low heels and light make up, and a black sweater under the outfit. In case it rained, she wore her black oilskin that had such an effect on the men. And then, under that, nothing. She liked to be naked under the dress, feeling at each step the material sliding over her skin. She was surprised that no one said anything in the street or on the train. Paris really is a town of anonymous madness. She had written the instructions and signed them Madame L. She found the traditions of Masters and Mistresses a bit silly and stereotyped. But she held to them. It amused her; she had sent the list of instructions to his office. Of course she added "Personal" to the envelope, but thought of a secretary opening it, through oversight, curiosity or plain jealousy, as the writing and envelope were obviously feminine. It was to be Friday. There were three days to go. 

He came into the lobby a bit earlier than the time dictated. He left the office earlier than usual under the suspicious stare of his secretary and took his car to join the rush, which on this rainy November night, was thicker than usual.  His office was only in Neuilly and the Porte Maillot was several hundred metres away, but he'd allowed half an hour for the journey, dreading to be late and miss the assignation. He had only got the letter that morning, but he taken the precaution of putting his stuff into a large heavy bag. Leaving the apartment wasn't easy with such luggage. He had a story ready, backed up by a colleague, and explained by telephone his unforeseen absence this evening. A management meeting, arranged by the boss at the last minute, the American owner was coming over, there would be a boring dinner, he would sort himself out at the hotel with washing things, these impromptu meetings were always well organised. What a complicated story, and told with such conviction. He still asked himself how to explain the early return of the bag and dreaded a confrontation over this awkward object, heavy with potential accusations the following night. No doubt he would find a believable explanation. There was all night to think of it. 

There had been the inevitable entrance scene due to the Japanese tourists, burdened with cases, a mad crush. His bag made it awkward to get near the seats spread around the entrance. It was raining and his Macintosh of black rubber, insisted upon, didn't shock anyone. He searched amongst the eyes of the women seated. No, that one won't be having an affair; too young. This one is starting to have suspicions of perversion. He saw a silhouette by the lifts, a woman in oilskins, belted tightly. It must be her. His oilskin sensors always worked well, however dense the crowd. He saw the shapely figure enter the lift, caught in a crush of Japanese. He wanted to run, but the bag slowed him down. 

He went to the desk and asked if there wasn't a message for him. But what name to use? His real name, or pretend name, a bit awkward in front of everyone. "Latex Slave" isn't easy to use in public when there are many people who wouldn't understand. He wrote these words on the back of a map of Paris and slid it across to the concierge, who without surprise or awkwardness answered with professional coolness: "Yes, Sir? You are expected in 15 minutes in room 427. The lady insisted that you would pay the sum agreed, and for the room in advance." 

He did this, but didn't feel inclined to engage the clerk in a long conversation, so he rejoined the swirl of tourists. He resented the necessity for this, as he was afraid of meeting a colleague or friend in such a busy place. What story could he make up, in a raincoat, carrying a bag, for being in this lobby? This dread took a few moments, and then he leafed through the women's magazines at the shop, always looking for pictures of women in PVC or leather, which were so plentiful each autumn. Every few seconds he cast an eye at his watch, whilst the fifteen minutes passed.  Then it was time, after an interminable wait. He steered himself toward the lifts and found himself facing room 427, his heart beating hard. He knocked quietly. No answer. Louder. Silence. Then from behind him, something that made him jump. 

"Don't turn around", said a female voice. He heard the distinctive crackle of PVC, and then a gloved hand in black PVC held out a key. "Go in!" said the voice abruptly "but don't turn on the light". He went in feeling awkward with the bag. "You are 'Latex Slave'? Don't turn around!" 

"Er - yes" he said, absently. 

"I am Madame L. You have the money?" He searched his wallet for the notes he had ready and proffered them. "Thank you, now get ready, I must prepare as well. I insist that my orders about clothing be obeyed to the letter. Hurry up!" 

She went to the bathroom, her long Macintosh glistening in the night. She also had a vinyl bag in her hand. Without light, he began to take out the latex clothing he had brought; briefs with a penis sheath, his favourite catsuit, black and very tight, with a built in hood which didn't leave much room to breathe, a pair of gloves, the large thick bag on which she had insisted, a long cape. The garments piled up on the floor, one after the other, with the dull and liquid sound of latex clothes. The aroma of latex began to spread around the room.  He took off his overcoat, then his city clothes, and was naked in the room. The beginning of an erection made it difficult to get his penis into the very tight briefs. He got it on not without difficulty, and then began to powder his catsuit, which was so tight he always took the care and the time to avoid creases and pockets of air around his feet... He struggled for some time with an awkward leg and then finally closed the zip at the back, his body rapidly warming and softening the suit.  He felt good, his nervousness had gone. 

Coming from the bathroom were similar noises, but more metallic. A PVC catsuit, he thought. He fitted the hood without trouble, and was totally in darkness. He felt for his gloves, to put them on in their turn. He was ready.  He realised with horror that he had not examined the room before shutting himself into darkness, but a sharp blow from a whip on his hand stopped him. 

"Put your arms behind you,” she ordered him, and he felt her put on a pair of handcuffs, immediately fastened. 

She put on him a large latex collar that forced his head back, and then she attached a short leash to a ring on the collar, which met the handcuffs. So he had to hold his arms up high behind him, and if he relaxed, he strangled himself with the collar. When she had finished she ordered him to him to walk forwards.  He understood immediately that he that he didn't know where he was in the room and in the darkness couldn't find his place. Deprived of his hands, he had to go without knowing. Hesitant in taking a first step, he waited, but a blow from the crop aimed precisely on his testicles made him understand that he had to move. He went forward carefully, and not finding any obstruction, continued his hesitant progress. Step after step, he stumbled over something, his bag, which he tried to go around. During this manoeuvre, he hit his knee on a low table, wanted to recoil, and completely lost in the darkness, was totally unable to go on. 

"Forward" she said. 

A violent blow from the whip in the same place as before put him back into motion, and he hit his chest hard against the wall. 

"Half turn to the left" 

With his arms pulled up, his head pulled pack, he did it. 


He heard a rummaging in his bag, a metallic jangle. She searched under his catsuit for his nipples, and when she had found them, he shrank back from the fierce bite of metal. The shock passed, the pain diminished, but he knew the ache would live on and the feeling last for many days. She then attached to his ankles and knees leather straps joined by a chain and pulled him towards her with them. He was off balance, trying to regain his footing. She took from the pile of clothing the long black latex cape, and put it over his shoulders back-to-back, taking care to put the hood over his face, and closed it at the back. Then, he had less air to breathe and the large cape making his movement even more difficult. 

"Forward again, lazy!" 

He started to walk again, an uncertain walk, trying with each inch not to fall, taking care to lift his feet so as not to stumble, fearing to fall without being able to get up again or finding himself against a wall. 

"Turn around, like a whirling dervish!" 

He started to whirl, and the blows from the crop over his whole body told him not to stop. He whirled faster, he knew had lost control, stifling in the cape, he inevitably fell, hitting his head on a corner of the table, he fell towards a dark whirlpool which dragged him in, and the crop blows came faster. Suddenly he abandoned the struggle; nothing mattered... he continued to whirl, awaiting the final thing would fell him. 

"Faster!" she said. 

He went still faster, and suddenly caught his feet in the cape, lost his balance and fell, his body collapsed. But in this fall that seemed to take forever, he was fiercely pushed by a violent kick and landed on a soft surface, headfirst. The bed.  At once stunned and reassured, he tried to catch his breath, but it was impossible to find a normal rhythm for breathing. The latex had stuck over his mouth, and each breath stifled him. This was real punishment. She didn't help him, she let him struggle under the layers of latex, panting and struggling stupidly on a hotel bed. Roughly, she lifted the hood at the moment he thought his spirit would leave him. He took several minutes, in this uncomfortable position, to regain his breath. She helped him get up and balance unsteadily. This effort had worn him out. He didn't feel the pain in his nipples, nor the blows, but the sweat poured into his catsuit. Then he felt her tightly against him, and enjoyed the coolness of her PVC catsuit that he supposed she wore. He wanted to take her in his arms, to hold her. At the moment he felt brave enough, she pulled at both nipple clamps at once. The pain was shocking, unexpected and he could not rub his nipples to ease them. 

"Well, that was a good start. I am going to refresh you". 

She undid all the ties, lifted the cape and led him by the hand into the bathroom. 

"Get into the bath!" 

Guiding his movements, she helped him get into the large bath.  She followed him into it, and started to wrap him in the large one-piece bag. With difficulty she fitted his legs, then his arms into the inner sleeves, which held him tight, and finally his head into the hood of the sack. Checking that the holes in the hood were over his nostrils, and he could breathe comfortably, closed up the bag completely. Then she fitted a collar round his neck, and put two small rubber tubes into his nostrils, fixed to the collar. These preparations completed, she helped him lie down in the bath, which wasn't comfortable. When he was finally there, she turned on the taps to fill the bath. 

Totally immobile in the bag, but having found a comfortable breathing rhythm, he wasn't worried at the feeling of the level of water rising slowly. She rubbed his cock gently through the two layers of latex, and stroked his sore nipples. The water continued to rise, up to his neck, over his chest ... he felt gradually submerged in the fluid he could not see. Then the water reached the level of his nose. To his great surprise, she did not stop the flow of water that continued to rise. But the tubes were well attached, and were above the water level. He continued to breathe without trouble, happy in his rhythmic breathing. 

The water still rose, he was completely submerged. He felt fine in this liquid environment, warm, and abandoned himself to the feelings. The water stopped pouring. Then nothing. He heard the distant sound of the closing of the door, and suddenly started to panic. No, she wouldn't leave him like this, in the bath, without supervision, against the strict SM safety code. But he could hear no movement in the room. He tried to calm himself and breathe evenly. He would be all right soon enough, he thought and quietened his rapid heart. But all of a sudden, there was no more air. Why? What was happening? Had the tubes fallen into the water? 

He could find no explanation, but struggled against the feeling of panic, which filled him. Don't move, control your breath, don't turn over which would be fatal. But these good resolutions didn't hold. He gave a fierce effort to raise his head out of the water, but slid and fell back into the bathtub. But the air returned as if by magic. Then he heard the noise of water running out of the bath and felt the level drop. He had his head above water. He could breathe freely. 

She had probably stayed at his side, let him think she had left him on his own, and had deliberately interrupted his air. 

"Well, this management meeting took place under curious conditions, "Latex Slave". The big boss from the USA missed his plane?" 

A familiar voice, from the beginning ... it was her - his wife, of course. But how, her, here, to do this, what about the Mistress? 

"Surprised? You were looking for a Mistress in latex, slave? Yes, I am that... but it was necessary to go over your Minitel records. I read with interest three replies to you before you read them. You understand, those who search for a latex Mistress are many, but I finally had the upper hand. Your three collaborators left me a little hint that allowed me to dress, as you prefer! The drama for you, which I have taste for. To punish you, I will let you stay here all night, and I may look for you tomorrow, if I don't forget. Good night, slave! She put heating on full, and this time, really left the room and closed the door loudly. 


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