Long Weekend's Journey into Rubber 2

continued from part 1

Part 2

I tapped on her door at seven sharp, and she opened it as though she’d been waiting for me. She reached out her hands to me, and drew me inside, and kissed me again, properly on the lips this time, and said, “Welcome to my lair”. She had let her hair down, and was wearing a shimmering silver-ish kaftan, which, I realised in short order, was made of latex. She led me, her kaftan swishing, to her living room, and indicated a chair. “Won’t be a minute” she said, and went out to the kitchen. I heard a pop, and she came in again with two glasses of champagne.

She handed one to me, and sat down opposite to me.

“This is by way of a special thank-you for saving me from my own folly last Sunday, and also to celebrate your initiation into the world of rubber. You said you were intrigued – well, it will be fun for me to initiate you into it – sort of like Peter introduced me years ago. Much, much, better to do it with someone, than to do it on your own, as an awful lot of rubberists do.

She went on, “It’s much better these days with the internet – you can so easily find others to chat to, and exchange ideas and experiences.”

We sipped our champagne, and she said, “So, are you prepared to put yourself unreservedly into my hands? When Peter went, he left most of his wardrobe behind: it’s all clean, and he and you are much of a size, so, after we’ve had some supper, I’ll give you your first taste of dressing in rubber.”

What else could I say but, “OK, I’d like that.”

“Right” she said. “From here on, you will do exactly as I say – nothing heavy, it’s not Mistress and Slave stuff, but if I’m showing you the joys of rubber, you’ll do what I say. Is that agreed?”

I said, quite meekly, “Yes, OK.”

“In that case, I want you to come with me now.”

She rose, and led down the passage way to that central door where I’d found her last Sunday. She opened the door, and led the way in. There was the bed – bed-frame – and the side-table, all in plain varnished wood, with a small wash-basin alongside the table. What I hadn’t noticed before was that the far wall was a built-in cupboard, with mirrors on the outside of all its doors. In the wall with the door in it there was another full-length narrow mirror, and some ring-bolts. The window looked out on to the fields, and she rustled over and closed the curtains. She turned to me and said,

“Now, strip.”

I obliged: kicked off my shoes, took off my jacket, pulled my shirt up out of the trouser waistband, and took down my trousers.

“Ah”, she said, “I can see you are serious about this.”

By this time my prick was semi-erect in its sheath, and she cupped my balls in her hand.

“You need a bit of help to get those arranged properly” she said, “but that can wait. All I want for you to do now is to put this cape on, so that we can eat our meal together on an equal footing. Turn round.”

I turned so that I had my back to her, and watched in the mirror as she reached into the left-hand side of the cupboard, and pulled out a floor-length cape. She approached me from behind, and draped it over my shoulders. I wasn’t prepared for the electrifying experience – the briefs had been one thing, but this was all-encompassing, and heavy. She zipped it up to my neck, and I saw that it had a hood.

“We’ll leave the hood,” she said, “don’t want to run before we’ve even started to crawl.”

She unzipped two slits in the front of the cape, gave me a pair of short latex gloves and said, “And now those, then we’ll have supper.”

We went back to the living room, swishing in unison, and she served us supper. I don’t know what it was, my taste buds were overtaken by the nerve-ends in my skin, which were reacting to the feel of the rubber, over my shoulders all the time, and somewhere different in the rest of my body whenever I moved. During the meal we talked about everyday matters at first. I learned that she was 35, that her ex-boyfriend was the only serious relationship she’d tried, other than a boy-girl thing in her `teens. Then after the first course, during our dessert, she said,
“How do you find your cape?”

“It’s great,” I replied, “it’s smooth on my skin, but feels as though it’s electrified.”

She said, “For me, rubber and latex have two effects. One is purely tactile, which is why I wear loose dresses around the house when I’m at home. The other is pure, unadulterated, sex. When I’m in my catsuit, with a mask, I’m someone else – anybody else. I have no inhibitions – I can release myself how I like. And I do”

I must have looked slightly alarmed, because she laughed and said,
“Don’t be afraid, I won’t eat you. But we’ll start tonight by just introducing you to rubber.”

“You’re an amazing woman”, I said. “I’ve never met another who was so free in her conversation.”

“But sex is so natural,” she replied. “It’s the basis of all life, and the good Lord gave us our bodies and feelings to enjoy, and so long as we don’t abuse those gifts . . .”

“Of course, that’s true”, I said. “It’s just that I haven’t thought about these things for three years. Death has a way of overshadowing life, and I suppose I haven’t allowed myself to think about it.”

She giggled: “My goodness, you must be repressed. Well, we must see what we can do to loosen you up.”

When we’d finished eating she said,

“Now, I’m going to get into something more suitable for my role of tutor. You’re still my guest, but when you’ve finished your coffee, please will you clear things away to the kitchen?”

She made it all sound so commonplace – and so it was. In fact, I found it a bit reassuring – I wasn’t really sure what was coming. I mean, it was clear that she was seriously into dressing in rubber, and bondage, and also it was quite clear that she was going to be in charge: where it was going to end, I had no idea.

I cleared away our supper things like a good little guest, and stood, waiting for her. Why I stood, instead of sitting, I don’t know – I just felt it was more appropriate.

In another ten minutes, the door of her play-room opened and she appeared. Again, Wow! She clearly had a pair of high-ish-heeled boots or shoes on, because she was two or three inches taller, or so it seemed. Her outfit was electric-blue, and she’d changed her eye-make up to match it. He face was framed in an open-faced hood with an opening on the crown for her hair, which she’d put back in a pony-tail. The bodice of her dress was high-necked and tight, with long sleeves, tight down the length of her forearm and at the wrist, but fuller in the upper sleeve. She was wearing gloves, as she had done at supper, but these now matched her dress. Her breasts were held in individual cups, and I could see for the first time how beautifully proportioned her figure was – the first time we met, that angora sweater hadn’t revealed anything, nor had the kaftan earlier that evening. Below her trim waist, round about 25", or so I would have judged, a full-length skirt swept down to her ankles, and below were what were revealed as a pair of ankle boots with a four-inch heel or thereabouts.

She just said, imperiously, “Come!” I went.

She pointed to a spot midway between the bed and the window, and said,
“Stand there, and don’t move, but take your cape off, and throw it on the bed, and take down your knickers.”

I did so, and stood there, with my penis at half-mast.

She went over to the wardrobe, and turned back with a piece of black leather like a small strap. It seemed to have press-studs at the end.

“Right”, she said, “we need to sort your balls out.”

I gulped; she giggled.

“No, you must know that your balls and scrotum change shape, mostly according to the temperature. When they’re up, almost inside your body, it’s not easy to put them into a cock and ball sheath like the one you’ve got on your briefs. So I’m going to put this on them, a ball-stretcher, then they hang down nicely, and fit into the ball part of your sheath.”

She moved round in front of me, and took my balls in her hand: not surprisingly, my prick stiffened up – “Down, Fido,” she said, and gave it a painful nip with her fingers.

Kneeling in front of me, she put the strap round behind my balls, and brought the two ends round the front, under my penis. By squeezing, she managed to get the upper of the two press-studs to meet, and popped them shut. Then she put her hands round my balls and squeezed from the side so that the lower two studs met – swiftly, she took one hand away, and popped the two bottom ones shut.

I cried out “Ow.w.w!”

“Ah, yes,” she said, “next time we’ll do something about your hairs, first. Now, don’t be a cissy, it doesn’t really hurt. And, anyway, that’s got to be tighter, or after a bit it’ll slip off. We’ll just wait a short while you get used to it”

I hadn’t realised that there were two sets of two studs; the other pair made the whole thing about a half-inch shorter. But actually, apart from the pull on my hairs, it wasn’t uncomfortable. After about thirty seconds, she knelt down again, and, holding the ball-stretcher in place with her left hand, un- popped the two press studs with her right, then squeezed with her left, while her right manoeuvred the second set of studs over each other, and popped them shut. So there I was, with my two balls squeezed out like two small plums below this leather strap.

“Now”, said Lisa, “we’ll put your briefs on properly. Here you are, pull them up slowly.”

She got some talcum power and after slipping a kitchen glove over her blue latex gloves, powdered my bum and genital area and took a tube of KY jelly, and lubed my prick. This time she didn’t try to stop my erection, but said, “Yes, that’s better, it fits in more easily if you’ve got a hard –on.”

As I eased my briefs up my thighs, she put her hands in the top, and stretched it forward with one hand, while she guided my prick into the sheath, and then my balls into their pouch, making sure that they were right in, and that the entry into the sheath and pouch was tight up under my crotch at the back.

“Next, I’m going to put a basic vest catsuit on you”, she said. “The only other male catsuit left is one with a full hood, and I don’t think you’re ready for that yet. Go and sit on the end of the bed.”

I complied, and she gave me the other one of her pair of kitchen gloves.

“Now, put talcum on your feet and legs, while I sort this suit out.”

She took a black suit out of the wardrobe, turned it inside out, except for the feet, and shook some talcum into the feet. Again, she knelt in front of me and put my right foot into the foot part of the suit, and rolled the leg part up to my knee: then she did the same for my left foot and leg, and said “Stand up.”

I did, and she brought first the right, then the left, leg of the suit over my thighs. She remarked conversationally,
“This is Heavy Latex material; it was made by a company in the Midlands who made most of my ex’s stuff. They’ve made for me, too, but not the outfit I’ve got on now.”

My legs and thighs were gripped by the suit, cool and smooth. I looked down to see my lower half black and gleaming. The rest of the suit was like a pair of bib overalls, cut high on the chest, up to the armpits, with a pair of shoulder straps.

“Right, you can do the rest”, she said. “You can see that it’s got a cock and ball sheath like your briefs. Put your bits in before you pull the rest of the suit up.”

This time, it was quite easy – Lisa had powdered the inside of the suit’s sheath, and my prick was well erect. (There was no doubt, tight-fitting latex was erotic – mind you, having a girl like Lisa to help was a powerful aphrodisiac.)

So, I pulled the rest of the suit up, past my waist and over my chest, and slipped my arms through the shoulder straps. Lisa went round behind me and fiddled the back up, and ran her fingers under the shoulder straps to settle the whole suit. Then she said, “Right, that’s the bottom half done.”

She turned to the wardrobe again, and brought out the next garment.

“This is just a shirt, with a back zip and a high neck”, she said, pulling down the zip which came down to just below the shoulders, “it was well powdered before being put away. So you shouldn’t have any problem putting it on. Put your arms into each of the sleeves first, then duck your head in and pull it over and down.”

I did, and again a frisson shook my body – the cape had covered me, yes, but this touched me everywhere, and I really was beginning to feel enclosed in rubber. I looked at myself in the mirrors on each side - I really looked good, and I thought ‘Thank heavens I haven’t got a beer-gut’.

Lisa must have read my mind, because she said,
“Hmm, not bad. OK, one more piece and I think you’ll do for your first time out!”

She brought out an open faced hood, rather like her own, stood in front of me, rolled up the hood’s bottom, and pulled it over my head, rolling the neck down inside the shirt.

“Make yourself comfortable, sort your ears out, and make sure your chin is in the right place”.

I did as she said while she went behind me and zipped the shirt up to the neck.

There it was – I was the compleat rubberist. Lisa came round in front and faced me again and said:
“Right, how does that feel?”

I couldn’t reply – I had no words, my senses were running on overload.

And then It happened. It was inevitable, I suppose. She was about nine inches in front of me, and I just put my arms around her and pulled her to me, and fastened my lips on hers. Within about five seconds our tongues were seeking each other’s out, and the rubber squeaked and rustled as we strained against one another. My cock was fully erect, and she could obviously feel it through her skirt, because she said,
“God! I want a man.”

“So do I … I mean …”

“I know perfectly well what you mean, every inch of your prick tells me what you want.”

I don’t know who led whom to the bed (like that limerick, isn’t it – ‘who does what and with which and to whom’), but we were in no doubt. Lisa threw herself backward on to the bed, and drew her legs up, her skirt falling back on to her belly so that I could see her shaven mons. Her lips were already glistening with her secretions, and she reached out her hands, cupped my balls with one hand, and guided my prick into her labia with the other. God, it felt good! I’d forgotten what the warmth of a woman’s vagina was like.

And then we were at it, rubber squeaking, me thrusting, Lisa using her muscles to try to draw me further in. I’m ashamed to say I came quite quickly (well, I was out of practice), but my prick remained tumescent long enough for Lisa to come about ten seconds later.

The release was fantastic: not only had I forgotten what a vagina felt like, but also the difference between the after-effect of a wank, and a really loving fuck. And, make no mistake, the rubber had added another dimension, too.

We lay there for about three minutes, looking into one another’s eyes, saying nothing, while I stroked her smooth rubber head as best I could with one hand, while taking my weight on my other elbow.

At last, I rolled off her, and lay alongside her, while I tried to comprehend all my feelings. I just said, simply, “Thank you, thank you” – no more.

Lisa closed her eyes, and lay quiet while her breathing returned to normal.

23.11.09