Cathy's Delivery

Cathy's Delivery: Part 1
© 2008. Not to be reposted without permission.

Cathy Salazar had heard of Mark DeSouza before she ever met him. He regularly appeared in several different sections of the newspaper. In the business section, he was the handsome reclusive millionaire, entrepreneur and fifth-generation owner of a legendary winery. In the social column, Mark DeSouza was regarded as Northern California’s JFK Jr. mixed with Howard Hughes, an eligible bachelor who mostly secluded himself in his Napa Valley Chateau.

It was, of all places, a charity event at a ballpark where they met for the first time. Not someplace glamorous or exclusive, like the skybox level at AT&T Park or the suites at the Coliseum, but a fundraiser softball game at modest, funky San Jose Municipal Stadium. Cathy was playing first base for her company team when Mark (catcher and manager for his team) hit a long rope to left, an easy single. On base, she gently razzed him about his batting stance; he told her she threw like a girl. The snatches of conversation as the game continued followed at the picnic afterwards. At the end of the evening, Mark shyly offered Cathy his personal card and rather formally asked her to dinner the next weekend.

The first dinner lead to another, then a museum opening, and soon enough Cathy Salazar, the Western District Promotional Coordinator for GB Hewett LLC, became a fixture in the social pages herself: The girlfriend of Mark DeSouza of St. Helena, President and CEO of DeSouza Wineries and Chairman of the DeSouza Charitable Trust.

Cathy couldn’t be happier. Mark was loaded, which on a purely superficial level was like striking the mother lode. But Cathy wasn’t a gold digger: She liked him for his quiet warmth, his easy humor, and his striking good looks didn’t hurt either. It was Mark’s personality that she found his most attractive attribute, a striking blend of full-blooded dynamism and quiet, intelligent intensity.

To her, the real advantage of his wealth was not the posh lifestyle (which was pretty nice!) but the silencing effect it had on her family and friends, who could not pass judgment on Mark at all.

Of course she also considered herself to be quite a good catch for him as well. She was a fair brunette, hazel-eyed, slightly tallish, with slender yet athletic physique. A high school cheerleader back in Manteca, and she worked through a rather hectic freshman year at San Jose State on the 49ers Gold Rush Cheerleader squad. Her stint as a professional rah-rah lasted just one season, but it left her with many rewarding memories and stories to last a lifetime.

As Cathy relationship with Mark deepened it became clear to her there were some odd aspects to his life. After a few weeks of dating, he invited her to his chateau. There he introduced her to Emily Harzberg, his private secretary. Cathy was stunned, because Emily was stunning. About the same age, height and build as her, but with finely chiseled, classical-looking features and straight blonde hair, cut into an intensely symmetrical bob. She was beautiful: She could probably ditch her job and model in Milan, Cathy thought. Hell of a lot less paperwork.

Initially, Cathy felt threatened by and suspicious of Emily. How could Mark, having worked so closely with her for who knows how long, not have a sexual relationship with such a beauty? But Emily’s manner was as formal as her haircut; efficient, detached, almost icy. Cathy thought she was being hostile, until she noticed she was every bit as formal to him.

When she asked Mark about her, he was quite frank: Emily was, first and foremost, a Harzberg, a family with roots intertwined with the DeSouzas from the establishment of the family business in 1880. The winery has always been owned by the DeSouza's and almost always managed by a Harzberg. Emily was picking grapes in the summer when she was 8, and at 18 was sent to Yale and Stanford Business School on the DeSouza's tab. When Mark took the reins of the business four years ago, it became his traditional responsibility to choose a Harzberg to be his majordomo, and he chose Emily. She became his most trusted and most reliable employee.

Mark was quick to add she was not his lover, nor ever had been. True, there was quite a bit of intermarriage between the families, and Emily was a distant third cousin, the child of an adopted Harzberg, but that wasn't the issue. As far as Mark could tell, Emily had been told all her life of the awesome responsibility that was her family's legacy, a trust she held as a core belief. She maintained a formal distance, almost a deference, from the ancestral heir. She's been orchestrating his personal affairs for years, he admitted, but he knew very little about her personal life.

Another puzzling aspect of Mark was the parts of his life he kept intensely private. She never saw his bedroom suite, he never offered to show it to him, nor did she in her visits to his estate ever find the rooms unlocked.

This got a bit odder after the fourth date when the after-dinner kisses turned to foreplay. They ended up having sex for the first time right on the dining room table. In the weeks that followed they went at it on couches, the floor, the back of a limo, in the hot tub, and a high-backed chair in the study but never in his bed. The few times she had Mark over to her condo in Menlo Park they had sex in her bed, so at least Cathy knew he wasn't allergic to mattresses.

One fine late spring night, after dinner when the foreplay usually commenced, Mark was strangely quiet. When Cathy pressed him, he, with some difficulty, confessed to having a slight fetish he would like to share with her. Clickety-click, thought Cathy: The puzzle pieces are falling into place. She let him feel as comfortable as possible and he opened up. He liked latex. Rubber clothing had always held a strong erotic attraction to him. He also liked leather, but not as much. The games that came in his particular fetish universe also interested him: breath control, role playing, total enclosure, sensory deprivation. He also liked some discipline and bondage, but secondarily. He had never mentioned this to anyone he ever dated before.

Cathy was a bit taken aback by Mark's torrent of revelations: the intensity of his feelings was palpable. But she now saw him as he honestly was: the passion he put into his business, the intensity with which he lead his professional life she now saw was mirrored in a deeper level.

Cathy took Mark by his slightly trembling hands and beamed. She admitted she didn't know much about the things he described, but it certainly sounded interesting. She was totally willing to try anything, she told him. Let me be the conduit for your fantasies.

She elaborated: One thing she did know was the transforming effect of clothing. She was a professional cheerleader, she explained, and experienced it herself. She excitedly told him of going into the locker room a good-looking but not exceptional woman, and don the uniform'\the slit miniskirt, the tiny, shiny top, the go-go boots, and the cleavage enhancers (for she had a modest natural endowment, smallish B-cups. Most of the girls on the squad were similarly petite. Not that anyone could tell). She would emerge onto the sidelines a goddess, the professional big-league version of an adolescent fantasy. Cathy saw the effect she had on some men, and she loved it.

Mark looked into her eyes, saw the building excitement and thought: My life is about to get very interesting!

***

In every aspect of the universe of humanity there are experts, authorities who devote a lot of thought to the development of theories and definitions of their specialty. The universe of Fetish is no exception. One of the more interesting theories propose the fetish some have for body coverings made from certain unique materials is, aside from the purely tactile and sexual elements, a sort of consumerist sexuality. Part of its appeal is tied into finding and buying new items. Fetishists enthusiastically collect fetish clothes and toys, much as some people enthusiastically collect stamps or art, and receive a similar sense of gratification from the act. Extreme clothing items-- things that restrict, inflate, or transform―may be attractive for the effects they achieve on the wearer (and the observer!) but a significant part of their attraction is their rarity and expense. In other words: Fetish ain’t just good sex: it’s good shopping.

And what can be expected from a fetishist who happens to be one of the wealthiest men in Northern California?

Mark called Cathy a few days after their evening of revelation and had her pay a visit at an exclusive couture shop in downtown San Francisco. There, under the watchful, dispassionate eye of Emily and a small team of specialists, Cathy stripped down to her underwear and her body was quantified in every conceivable way. A seamstress measured every square inch of her-- every toe, her nail widths, even the diameter and the space between her eyes and the height and girth of her nipples. An ergonomic specialist flexed all of her joints, noting the range of motion and thresholds of comfort. A dental hygienist made impressions of her teeth. Finally, a registered nurse privately examined a completely naked Cathy, measuring the shape and dimensions of all (that is, all) of her orifices.

Several weeks later, the outfits he ordered for her began to arrive at her little townhouse, where she had an opportunity to try them on and test their fit before she was limoed up to St. Helena. It was Cathy's idea, and Mark, initially petulant at the prospect of having to wait to see what he paid so much money for, soon started enjoying the way Cathy played it up. She would call him and describe each outfit, tell him how it felt it's look and aroma, narrating the dressing process until he was ready to have his helicopter land on her building's roof (it never came to that, though!).

And what outfits they were! Each hand-made to her micrometer-accurate dimensions, with workmanship never seen even in the finest off-the-peg brands. The first costume came from a Canadian latex manufacturer, a simple black catsuit. But it was made as if Christian Dior got a taste for rubber. It fit like a second skin: Cathy marveled at her reflection as she wore it, for when she stood with her arms at her sides not a wrinkle was visible. The collar tapered from the base of her skull to the top of her neck, framing her lovely face. The breast cups had outward dimples the exact place and height for her erect nipples. A fine-toothed plastic zipper was installed on the tight latex over her crotch. When she opened it, it outlined her slightly protruding vulva perfectly and it never caught her pubic hair once (though just to be sure she started shaving close). She wore the suit under a navy-blue floor-length coat for the ride to the chateau. She didn't pack any street clothes for the weekend: she soon found out she didn't need to.

A few weeks later the next items arrived, each more powerfully erotic, more adventurous, and more expensive than the next.

A musky package was hand-delivered from a leather shop in San Francisco. They usually catered to the gay leather scene but made a big exception for Mr. DeSouza (and his money). Inside was a two-piece leather discipline suit. A severe collar topped the upper half, with laced arms and bust cups, all over a wicked corset. The arms ended in kidskin gloves, attached beneath heavy wrist cuffs. The bottoms were laced from hip to ankle, which ended in attached kidskin socks. Sturdy D-rings were attached all over, from collar to ankle.

The huge heavy-mustached deliverer of the package explained to Cathy it was not an outfit that was designed to be put on by the wearer, but rather to be laced into. He helped her into it, explaining how the laces could be drawn loose for comfort or tight for restriction, and showed her how the D-rings could be used to immobilize. The leatherman from the shop initially set her lacing for max comfort: When he finished securing her in, bucking the top half to the bottom half at the bottom of the corset, Cathy walked around and marveled at the fit. She was wearing maybe ten pounds of black leather, but it fit so perfectly and conformed so well to her normal ranges of motion she felt as if she was wearing her Sunday morning sweats.

By the end of that particular weekend Cathy experienced every possible permutation the leather discipline suit had to offer: after dinner she danced with Mark in his massive ballroom with the laces loose, wearing 4-inch heels. Later, She struggled to cross the living room in ballet ankle boots, the laces on the suit drawn so tight each tiny movement made the leather squeak, her arms pinioned to her sides, wearing a leather hood so tight she could hear her pulse thunder in her ears. Later still, she hung suspended by at least a dozen straps, spread-eagled and almost immobile, her kidskin-encased feet a foot above the stone floor of the wine cellar. Her weight was so evenly distributed by the straps and suit that she could have taken a nap if only Mark's little remote-control devices would let her!

More outfits arrived: some inflatable, some restrictive, along with off-the rack latex underwear and accessories of every description to round out their collection.

Cathy even got into the act and had an outfit made, as a big surprise for Mark. She pulled a few strings at the front office of her old employer, and she treated Mark to the first exhibition game of the 49ers season in a private skybox. She played hostess, dressed in a skintight latex Gold Rush uniform, a perfect replica, except for a few delightful extra access panels down below. It was a good thing the windows were mirrored for the occasion!

Two months to the day from the delivery of her first suit, a specialist designer in London FedEx'ed an ensemble Cathy could not have even imagined before she met Mark: A red latex demon costume. The detail was astonishing. Inflatable, delectable breasts, horns spiraling over a hood with devilish features, a built-in corset, complete with a matching red flogger and 7-inch platform boots. Best of all, when she zipped it closed, the seam was almost undetectable. She almost panicked looking for the zipper handle, thinking it might be some sort of permanent suit (it wasn't, but anyone who tried to remove it from her would have a difficult time doing so).

It was that particular weekend, when Cathy arrived at the chateau as a towering succubus, when Mark finally revealed his bedroom to her. It was a large, dark chamber decorated in Regency style, with a curtained bed and heavy drapes over the windows. It looked more or less like an average posh bedroom until she ran her hand over the draperies and inhaled deeply, for all the room's fabric was made from fresh black latex. As she stalked the room in her impossibly tall heels, squeaking on the latex short-pile rugs, he explained he had all the rubber items replaced once a month to maintain the fresh aroma.

From behind her demonic latex mask Cathy smiled mysteriously at him.

"I now know just how much you love me, Mark," she intoned. "You've bared your soul to me, and now you've shown me the one place I can tell is closest to your soul."

"It's true, Cathy. I love you. Even more, I trust you entirely. I trust you with my desires, I trust you with my secrets, I trust you with all my heart."

Cathy was truly touched, but didn't let on. Instead, she grabbed a pair of handcuffs. As she locked them onto his wrists she said, "And while we're on the subject of trust!"

***

As fall turned to winter, every passing week for the couple was a new adventure. Mark's fetishistic creativity was boundless; Cathy enthusiastic willingness became something deeper. She not only wore the costumes and enjoyed the scenes; she was learning about herself, and constantly amazed herself with her abilities. She could changes roles from top to bottom, dominated to helpless, cruel to submissive, easily and convincingly. She could spend hours with her elbows bound together, an entire night breathing through nose tubes while encased in an inflatable rubber sack, an entire weekend in a latex catsuit and hood.

Their relationship deepened in other areas as well. They appeared more frequently in the society page, and Cathy was gaining a reputation for her sensational looks and keen fashion sense. She and Mark would read the paper and share a private laugh. Sure, sometime she would accompany him to the opera wearing Vera Wang or Viviene Westwood but underneath more often than not she was enduring the constant stimulation of a nubbed latex bra and latex panties, sometimes with a small but insistent remote vibrator.

Society's observers also noted is the fact he had not proposed to her. It was never overtly written, but the innuendo always leaked through the columnist's sometimes-condescending tones. Northern California is absent of the burdens of aristocracy, but there are some fine old family names, heirs to the industrial barons and great landowners who shaped the Golden State. The DeSouzas are one of them, and Mark was the sole bearer of a lineage prominent for 120 years, a fact some traditional standard-bearers in the Fifth Estate brought up repeatedly. It never bothered Cathy much, such upper-crust concerns were never really a part of her world. But it was starting to bother Mark.

One rainy Friday in late January Cathy came home and waited for Mark's call. It was something of a ritual with them, a way to establish a theme for the weekend's fun.  She could listen to Mark recap his week and by his tone tired, triumphant, busy, bored, calculate what sort of erotic outlet he needed. She was always able to create the perfect scene. She hadn't missed yet.

But there was no call, just a voicemail. "Hi, Cath. I don't know how to break this, so I'll just say it. I kind of need a weekend off to figure things out. Nothing bad! It's not about you at all! I'm just thinking about us, and taking it, taking us-- to the next level. So take it easy this weekend. Visit your family, I'm sure they miss you!"

Cathy shock slowly rose as the message continued. "I'm headed for Germany Monday, and I won't be back until next Wednesday. I'll call you before I leave. Honey, don't worry about a thing, everything's going to be better than ever!"

Cathy stood in her kitchen, perplexed. His tone was both grave and playful, loving yet dismissive. She couldn't read him at all.

She did take his advice and visited her family in Merced, but not after she spent a Friday night at home-- just Cathy, a bottle of 1992 DeSouza Merlot, her favorite catsuit and two of the largest dildos in her collection.

***

The last Friday in January, the weekend after Mark's return from Europe, Cathy drove to her townhouse. Mark had talked to Cathy several times over the fortnight, and she was still a bit puzzled by his inscrutable mood but secure with her place in his life. As she pulled into her garage she saw a cube van parked outside her door, and two men waiting.

"Ms. Salazar? We have a delivery for you from Mr. Mark DeSouza. Please sign for it here, and we'll move it in for you."

She grinned wolfishly as they lowered a tremendous steel and fiberglass case, fully seven feet high and three feet wide and deep. She had them place it in her living room.

Now alone, she was so excited she hugged the crate. She thought, whatever is in there it's gotta be great! But first, let's set the mood. She closed the drapes, turned off her phone, retreated to her room and returned dressed in her favorite catsuit.

Cathy removed the instruction sheet from a pocket on the front, and quickly figured out where the front was and how to open it. She also noticed the prominent "THIS END UP" stickers on every side. She thought: What the hell? If it's some sort of costume it shouldn't matter which end is up. She undid the heavy latches, pulled open the door and stepped back.

Inside was what appeared to be a black figure. Cathy turned a floor lamp on the interior of the crate, and discovered what appeared to be a voluptuous woman made entirely of shiny black leather. Generous hips, enormous breasts, and a tiny waist, a fantasy fetish Marilyn Monroe. Its feet were shod in big thick ballet heels, toes pointed straight down; the arms ended in mittens, pointed down and slightly outward; the head was an oversize featureless oval, tapering to a point on top. There were thick black nylon laces starting at the top of the head, running down the center seam, over the enormous shelf of the breasts, all the way to the bottom of the crotch. There were also laces down each limb.

Cathy was almost disappointed. She had a leather discipline suit very similar to this already, and this one looked like it was a tad too big for her―and appeared to be far too stiff to move in. She continued looking and saw the suit was suspended inside the crate―there were heavy chains attached from the inside of the box to the top of the head, at each shoulder, at the end of each flat, fingerless hand, and the instep of each boot, tightened by huge turnbuckles.

She was examining the―what was it, a suit or a manikin or a statue? ―Very closely when she got the shock of her life, so stunned she almost fell over backwards. For when she had her head close she noticed the chest almost imperceptibly rising and falling.

Someone was inside.

It took almost a minute for Cathy to regain her composure. She again approached the―what, or who is it? ―And examined it again. She then noticed a few details she missed during her initial inspection: a pair of black corrugated tubes emerging from the top of the head behind the top suspension chain. They lead to funnels attached to the top of the crate. Cathy hauled a chair over and stood up next to the box. She saw two screened vents marked “DO NOT BLOCK-INLET” and “DO NOT BLOCK-EXHAUST.” She put her ear to the screens: Fresh air was being sucked into the inlet and warm humid breath was coming out of the exhaust.

Almost panicked, she clambered off the chair and shouted at the encased figure. “HELLO! Can you hear me? Try to move if you can!” There was no obvious reply.

Cathy started looking around the inside and found another instruction sheet inside the door. It showed how to loosen the turnbuckles “to enable the proper removal of the cargo.” Below was a steel wrench. Following the instructions she started wrenching the turnbuckles on the feet first. It took a lot of strength to get the turns started but soon they were finger-loose and she unhooked the chains from the instep mounts. The arms were next: when she released one, the arm started waving, slowly and rhythmically, straining against the tightly laced leather. After the chain to the top of the head was loosened and removed, the instruction told her to simply “dead-lift the cargo off the shoulder hooks and set it just outside the crate, taking care not to let it fall over”. She bear-hugged the figure around its tiny waist, her head under the shelf of its huge leather tits, and lifted up and back. She stood it up, and undid the hoses that still tethered it to the crate.

The encased figure, now freed after God knows how long from severe suspension, stood stock-still steady on heels that, although impossibly high and angled straight down, had thick heels and flat toe-caps, providing a stable standing platform. It then bent over slightly, flat, useless hands resting on thighs, breath whistling rapidly from the opening on top of it’s head.

Cathy didn’t know what to think as she watched the figure try to stretch, restrained by the tight, stiff suit. There are two possibilities here, she surmised: One, there’s a professional submissive inside and it’s Mark’s way of making up for giving her that scare last fortnight. She really didn’t swing that way, and wasn’t all too thrilled at the prospect. Two, that’s Mark in there-- Who knows, maybe he was shipped that way from Germany― Oh my God!

Cathy sidled up to the leather figure, putting an arm around its shoulders. She started walking it around the living room in a small circle. The figure, blind, dumb and probably deaf as well, walked stiffly, but seemed to give off an impalpable impression of relief.

After a few minutes Cathy again started to examine the figure as it stood passively. She then noticed the tiny padlocks on top of the head lacing-- there was a zipper underneath the laces. That’s almost fiendish design, she thought: you have to completely unlace the suit before the zipper can be opened and the person inside can be released.

The keys were attached to the inside of the door, clearly marked “Outer Suit Keys.” She started unlacing the head first, down to between the giant breasts. She then unlocked and unzipped the suit to the base of the neck and peeled it away from the head of the person inside.

She was surprised when a mass of curly red hair tumbled out! Cathy revealed the head: An exceedingly beautiful woman with pale skin, her eyes closed. A flat, hard respirator was strapped to her face, the inlet and exhaust tubes snaking up either side. Cathy stripped off the mask and was confronted with a vision of serene sexiness. Big red lips, slightly parted, shone over her prominent cheekbones. Her eyes, made up with blue-green shadow, remained closed. She seemed in a trance as she took deep breaths of fresh air through her nose.

“How’s that? Better?” Cathy asked the mystery redhead. “So you’re my present, I suppose. Hello?” The woman was still unresponsive, her massive chest heaving. Cathy shrugged. Perhaps this is part of the scene as Mark imagined it, thought, but at this point I’m baffled.

Cathy backed up to the kitchen counter, turned the phone back on, and called Mark. She heard Emily’s recorded message―the one used when she and Mark were deep into a weekend’s fetish play. His cell phone was set to voicemail. I suppose I have to figure this out myself, she thought. She sensed the best thing to do is to get the suit off of this woman―maybe then she’ll snap out of it and explain what Mark has in mind. She went to work, unlacing the suit all the way to the crotch, loosening the arms and hauling the stiff suit off the woman’s shoulders, revealing her amazing buxom torso. Two huge DD breasts, perfectly round and punctuated by nipples as big as thimbles, were covered by a filmy, Frederick’s of Hollywood style see-through bra. Her waist, which Cathy thought was compressed by the outer suit, was still unbelievably small.

Cathy grabbed the woman's warm, very soft hand and led her into the bedroom, her still-encased legs only able to walk in small steps. She laid her down on the bed and started loosening the lacing on the legs. The still-mute woman started running her hands over her own belly, then her own huge, perfectly round breasts, pressing them and moving them around. Finally, Cathy grabbed the suit from the metal loops on the insteps and managed to pull it free from the woman's legs. Cathy picked the empty leather suit off the floor, God, it was heavy! She saw the inside was crisscrossed with heavy sewn-in straps, to distribute the tension from the chains through the suit and not the wearer's limbs.

The woman, passive except for the slow movement of her hands, suddenly drew in her legs and sat up on the bed. She brushed her tousled mane of auburn hair out of her face and ran her hands over her eyes. When she uncovered them they were piercing and green, and staring right at Cathy.

Cathy yelped in surprise. "Whoa! You're okay!" She tried to break the ice a little: "So, what's a gorgeous woman like you doing in a suit like that?"

The woman did not reply. She remained expressionless and unblinking as she slowly crawled out of bed and stood up. She luxuriously stretched her curvy, voluptuous body, ignoring Cathy's increasingly exasperated glare. She adjusted her underwear, pulling her see-through panties out of the crack of her generous derriere and hauling up her sheer stockings, then padded out of the room.

Cathy, almost seething, followed her. "Enough of this silent treatment bullshit! Who the hell are you? What the hell were you doing in that suit, in that crate? What the fuck does Mark want?!?"

The woman was bent down at the crate, opening a built-in storage bin situated on the base between the bottom chain mounts. She took out a pair of red pumps and placed them on her feet. Then, with her back to Cathy she attached something to her waist, reaching down to snap the crotch belt to the back. She turned around and Cathy gasped again.

She was pointing right at Cathy's latex-covered sex with a huge red hard rubber strap-on penis. The woman face was still blank and expressionless, but her body language changed. She jutted her hips out, delicately running a finger on her huge faux shaft, and then circled her nipples through the thin red bra. She sauntered over to Cathy and began caressing her black latex-covered body.

Cathy almost recoiled. This total stranger was going to try to fuck her! A woman yet, a beautiful, impossibly sexy one, but still! Cathy then thought: Perhaps this is a weird test. Mark never asked if I was into women or threesomes, and maybe this is his way of asking. Should I go along with Mark's obvious wish for me to have sex with this woman, or show fidelity and send her away?

She thought these thoughts as the woman was nuzzling up to her, her face next to Cathy's. As Cathy stood frozen in indecision (and maybe, just maybe, some new feelings of arousal, she allowed herself) she glanced at the woman's shoulder. Running along the top of her shoulder to the back of her neck she noticed a very thin, very faint welt. Was it a seam?

Cathy pushed the woman away and looked her over with laser intensity. The hairline, the glossy hair, the glassy eyes! Cathy pinched the side of the woman's neck and gently pulled. It resisted for a moment, then with a soft sigh it stretched impossibly far.

Another suit!

Cathy was bug-eyed in amazement. It was so perfect, so lifelike! She reasoned it was made from some sort of silicone or foam rubber, and was crafted and colored to astonishing detail. There was even a modest patch of reddish bush showing through gauzy knickers. Whoever was wearing this did not need to be delivered here in a box, give her some clothes and she could have taken the bus, with nobody the wiser.

All right, it’s a suit, Cathy thought, not a woman. I think. Unless―“Mark? Is that you inside there?”

The woman remained impassive, caressing Cathy’s gloved hands and ebony arms.

“Wait, It can’t be you. You can’t be Mark. You’re not tall enough.” Cathy grabbed the woman a little roughly by the shoulders and stood her up. Even with the heels, she was… actually just about the right height.

Cathy started to laugh out of exasperation. “I give up! Whoever you are, you win!” There was some fear mixed in with her frustration, which expressed it self as a single tear which ran down Cathy’s face. The red-haired mystery woman reached out and with her lifelike fingernail caught the tear at her jaw line. She drew it close to her impassive face, and then reached into her own mouth with her thumb and forefinger. From what appeared to be inside of her upper lip she produced a slip of paper, which she offered to Cathy.

Cathy read it. “Trust me. –M”

She led the person wearing the perfectly crafted silicone rubber skin of a beautiful, voluptuous woman into her bedroom.

***

Cathy threw her down on the bed and started passionately exploring the silicone rubber body with her tongue. The auburn-haired woman writhed in pleasure. She didn’t mind having her huge fake nipples sucked, but when Cathy started kneading her very firm breasts she made it clear she didn’t like that. So be it, Cathy thought, maybe whoever is wearing this suit has got new implants or something, and her breasts are sensitive. Wait, if her breasts are sensitive there can’t be a man inside! immediately tamped down that notion. Too late for second thoughts now, mused as she kneeled up and slowly unzipped her suit’s crotch-- enjoying, as she always did, watching her freed vulva open like a flower.

She was about to spear herself on the huge phallus when she was pulled to her side, then on her back. Her woman-suited sex partner slowly, almost gingerly, began to slide the shaft into Cathy. The motion was slow, delicate, precise. The nubs and ridges on the hard rubber cock sent sparks of ecstasy through Cathy's latex-covered body. In a surprisingly short time Cathy shook with several powerful orgasms.

The suited stranger, seemingly satisfied as well, lay down next to the blissfully dazed Cathy. She let Cathy rest a few minutes, then sat up on the edge of the bed. She looked back at her, grabbed Cathy's hand and placed it her own shoulder, then looked away, down at her feet. Cathy thought it was a gesture of warmth, but through the glove of her suit she felt something hard inside the soft material of her shoulder.

Sitting upright, Cathy straddled the woman from the back, turned on the bedside light and examined the hard spot; it was just below the surface, square and tan. She dug in and managed to open the thin membrane covering it. It was the zipper!

Cathy thought: Wow! The suit's closure ran from shoulder to shoulder, like a diver's dry suit. She started moving it slowly, watching it open like a suture in the skin. The skin was glued closed over the zipper, nobody would have ever discovered it.

The seam grew wider as she pulled, exposing red flesh. She stopped and felt it, with a sudden irrational fear she was exposing raw muscle or something equally gory. It was slick semi-transparent latex, hot and damp to the touch. She could see dark patterns of sweat under the smooth surface and smell a pungent mix of perspiration and rubber.

Cathy had the zipper open all the way when the suited person suddenly stood up and turned around to face her. Cathy stood up as well, fascinated. The suited person reached over her own head with both hands, grabbed the upper seam, and slowly pulled. Cathy heard the faint wet sound as the suit broke adherence to the innermost suit and came off. She leaned forward, red hair cascading over the expressionless face as the lifelike suit peeled off. The face was turned inside out, and finally the head was hanging empty between her huge tits, the red hair sticking to the still-wet phallus.

The head of the wearer beneath the suit was still encased! It was completely covered by semi-transparent red latex, the face covered by a harness-like mask of a type Cathy had never seen before. As the wearer grabbed her own hand and with some considerable effort pulled one arm, then another out of the suit's arms Cathy stood back, taking in yet another transformation.

The facemask transfixed her. Three thick latex straps secured it: one around the base of the neck, one around the temples, and one over the top of the head. The mask itself seemed like it was made of hard black plastic, molding very closely to the face. The mirrored eyepieces were actually set inside the eye-sockets, probably just a few millimeters from the surface of the wearer's eyes. Below them, the nose was slightly flattened and widened, with two wide nostril holes. The mask went under the chin, leaving a blank area where the mouth went. Except there were two plastic tubes molded to the mask, running down from where the corners of the mouth would be.

The wearer, still covered with transparent red latex but now free from the silicone head and arms, started slowly peeling it downwards. The luscious breasts began to wrinkle and slide down. Cathy was waiting for this, was it man or woman, Mark or some stranger? The silicone rubber suddenly popped off and fell down to the waist, exposing two plastic globes affixed to a rubber and plastic breastplate. Liquid could be heard sloshing inside them. The two tubes from the mask ran to each globe.

Cathy grinned. Nice fake boobs! It's gotta be Mark, the kinky devil! When he pulls that suit off I'm going to grab his cock and give him head until his balls are dry! Cathy brushed his hands aside, undid the massive strap-on, and excitedly pulled the suit down, revealing a single tube that ran from the breastplate and disappeared under a severe waist cincher. The suit was rolled to just below the crotch. Cathy kneeled down, beside herself with lust, she reached in and grabbed - nothing.

The crotch was blank. There was a slight bulge, but it was strangely hard, flat and square. Out of a small hole in the suit a tube snaked upwards to the cincher.

Cathy’s jaw dropped. She looked up at the masked person, a stranger again, who sat down on the bed and peeled the last of the lifelike suit off her legs, revealing the latex-covered ones beneath. She then started undoing the straps securing her face covering.

Slowly, seemingly with some discomfort, the mask slowly came free. It dropped down between the plastic globes, hanging by the tubes. The wearer’s head tilted back, and Cathy heard a huge whoop of breath, followed by a groan. The red latex hands shot up to the top of the head, jerked a zipper down in back and peeled the hood down. Cathy slowly stood to face the final reveal.

“Emily? Jesus Christ, you’re Emily Harzberg!”

Her usually regal porcelain features were beet-red, her perfect bobbed hair matted and sweat-soaked under a nylon cap. She stood up, then took off the soaked cap and from her ears removed two giant rubber plugs.

Emily worked her jaw painfully. “Unghhh! Gnaah! Uhhh…  Guh- Good evening, Miss Salazar. Would you be so kind as to get me a towel?”

Cathy was nonplussed. “Uh, Sure thing.” She grabbed one off the dresser and offered it to Emily, who wiped down her wet head and face and handed it back.

“Thank you very much, Miss Salazar.”

Cathy rolled her eyes. “Considering the sort of evening we just shared, I think you can call me Cathy from now on.”

Emily smiled slightly. “Bear with me. Miss Salazar, I bear a message from Mr. DeSouza.” She reached down to her chest and moved aside the dangling mask, revealing small pocket built into the breastplate. She pulled out a square of velvet and offered it unfolded to Cathy on the palm of her latex-covered hand.

On the velvet square sat a gold ring set with the biggest brilliant-cut diamond Cathy had ever seen.

Emily began to recite in her familiar formal voice. “Mr. Mark DeSouza wishes for the opportunity to propose for you to join him forever in the bonds of matrimony.”

Cathy, at this point processing an entire evening of surprises, was nonetheless rendered speechless.

Emily continued, fresh sweat running down her still-red face. “Your acceptance of his proposal would fill him with joy, and a life of limitless potential and pleasure will be yours to share. And together you can make yours the greatest generation of the DeSouza lineage.”

Cathy found her voice. “Oh, I do―“

Emily’s hand snapped shut on the ring. “Do not propose to me, Miss Salazar. Mr. DeSouza wants to show the depths of his trust for you, and he wishes to see your trust in him. You must accept his proposal in person. If you accept, he wants you to bear this ring to the Chateau―“

Emily folded the ring back into the velvet and stuffed it back into its pocket. “―Exactly the way it arrived here.”

 

22.06.08