Coated head to toe in black, slick, skintight latex, adorned with a waist corset and a strappy leather harness. My large, round breasts are bulging out, causing the rubber to pull tighter, bouncing slightly as I dance and thrust and move. They are exaggerated by the corset, cinched in tight, compressing my figure into a perfect hourglass shape.
My round bubble butt bulges the other way, the polished latex making it look like two mesmerizing black liquid orbs. The black liquid flows down my long legs, ending at my knee-high black leather, high-heel platform boots. A number of buckles and straps keep them firmly locked onto my feet. The thin heels are almost 8 inches tall, but they are comfortable enough, and I am experienced enough, to wear them all night.
My hands too are coated in black latex, gloves attached to the catsuit. I can’t keep them still as I helplessly dance to the loud, bass-heavy house music blaring through my ears. The wireless earphones plugged in my ears can’t be removed due to the tight black latex hood that envelopes my head. My identity is hidden, as only my mouth and eyes are exposed. Dark eye shadow and long lashes make my eyes look dreamy and inviting as they flicker and flirt with the people in the room.
As I move, the dark red real-hair wig glued to my hood brushes past my eyes. At the start of the evening, it looked very tidy and fashionable, but now, after hours of dancing and performing, it is just a wet, sexy tangle of strands. I stopped worrying about my appearance hours ago anyway. My bright, red lips, matched to the colour of my hair, bulge seductively out of the latex hood. Despite my thirst, they remain glossy and wet.
Over my shoulders is a black leather bolero jacket that is too small to even cover my tits. It flaps loosely as I continue dancing on the stage to the infectious music. The room I am in is actually relatively quiet. They call it the Red Velvet Room due to the dark red suede like walls. Numerous people are seated in every direction, man and women, all watching the performance on stage in the centre of the room. With the bright lights upon me, I can hardly make out their faces in the dimly lit room. It is hard to focus on anything though, other than the music and the vibrations echoing through my body.
Under the tight layer of latex, I am wearing a pair of even tighter latex shorts. They help to contain the bulge of my chastity cage and keep the remote controlled prostate stimulator firmly in my ass. From the outside, my crotch looks smooth and flat like that of a girl. My dick has been compressed in a tiny chastity cage for so long that it resembles more of a clitoris than a male penis. I can’t remember the last time I had an erection, and I’m doubtful my cock even still works. My swollen balls are tucked under and pushed painfully flat against my perineum.
The combination of G.H. MUMM and MDMA has left me feeling painless, euphoric and extremely aroused. The infernal bass track beating through my head is beyond my control, and I move seductively to the beat, bending and gyrating in a futile attempt to bring myself to cum. The vibrator is relentless, pushing against my prostate, causing my caged clit-dick to leak inside my latex layers. My mistress had the control, but I haven’t seen her in some time and I have no idea who has it now.
Every so often, the vibrators rhythm and intensity changes as the remote holder changes the mode. No doubt they are entertained by my brief lapse of concentration and audible moans as the device stimulates my nether regions. I can feel myself on the brink of an orgasm, needing just one good stroke or thrust to take me over the edge. I grope my tits and grab my ass and rub my crotch, but all I manage is to tease myself even further.
I am just a mess of sweat and pre-cum and vibrations encased in an inescapable latex catsuit. A wide leather collar wrapped around my neck, locked shut with two padlocks at its rear. I knew the collar well, having worn it for Mistress many times before, and I knew the only way out was with the keys. Hidden under the collar was the padlock connecting the zippers of the catsuit and the hood at the back of my neck. The edge of the steel lock pushing into my skin was a reminder that the collar had to come off before the suit and hood. In big, bright chrome letters on the front of the collar was the word WHORE; my name and job description for the night.
I had been dancing on the stage for at least an hour, but with no way to tell, it could easily have been two. Mistress reappeared, bringing me another glass of the bubbly champagne; the cold fizzy liquid was just what I needed to satiate my thirst. My Mistress was my hero, my savior and the love of my life. Wearing a tight, shiny black latex dress that exposed her cleavage, she was the image of a fetish goddess. The knee-length dress hobbled her thighs together, causing her to walk graciously with one foot in front of the other. Her black fishnet stockings were barely visible between the dress and the knee high, stiletto-heeled, black leather Louboutin boots.
My Mistress was also my wife in our normal lives, but we loved to secretly indulge in this fetish lifestyle when we were away. The club was her idea; I had reservations about being exposed in public, but my Wife/Mistress had a way of always getting what she wanted. She was an Alpha Female, confident and kinky as hell. I was no push-over either and we often switched things up, but tonight I was her sub, her plaything and she was my Dom.
Crossdressing was never my thing; being a hairy man in elegant women’s clothing didn’t sit right with me. Being honest, it didn’t look great either. But latex was my kink, and ever since my pre-teen years, I have loved the look, feel, smell, sound and sensation of tight, slick rubbery latex clothing. And it does wonders for your figure. Sure it was messy to put on and sweaty to take off, but the stares of people admiring my black, glossy figure and the sensation of their hands rubbing and slapping my skin made it all worthwhile. Being feminised with fake tits and chastity all added to the allure of being the ultimate whore.
So here I was, indulged in my fetish, drowning in sensation, on display for all the freaks and weirdos in the club. Previously it had been us in the chairs, enjoying drinks and watching girls dance and strip on the stage. All it took was one poorly worded comment about a girl’s performance that put the idea in my wife’s mind. “I could dance better than that!” I joked, but my Mistress didn’t see the funny side of it. Instead, she had it arranged so that next time we were in the Red Velvet Room, I would be the entertainment.
As far as I could tell, the freaks and weirdos were impressed with my dance. I later found out that two men had asked Mistress if they could pay to take me home. I’m forever thankful that she turned down their requests. The women seemed to enjoy it too, seeing an emasculated, feminised man dance helplessly and seductively for their pleasure. Curiously, I noticed Mistress engaged in a serious conversation with two women, which ended with lots of nodding and grinning and shaking of hands.
Eventually Mistress turned down the music and led me off the stage. I was exhausted, my head feeling light and my knees weak. Even with the music and the vibrations off, my body continued to move and spasm like the beat was burned into my mind. It would take some time for me to return to normal. In the early hours of the morning we returned back to hotel, still drunk and elated from the night’s activities, and had what was possibly the most intense sex session of our lives.
When I woke later that day, I couldn’t shake the feeling, the desire to be back on stage, bound and clad in latex, dancing for the freaks and weirdos in the Red Velvet Room. Luckily, Mistress had spoken to the managers, and had secured a paid gig for me to perform on the fourth Saturday night of every month!