The Yard Sale

At the Mercy of Beauty

Stan & his wife Cindy lived an apparently bland, run-of-the-mill suburban life, according to all outwardly visible signs. This naturally included 2 cars in the garage, 2 dogs, a well-maintained yard, & of course, the obligatory 2.3 kids. But all was not serene & peaceful in the world of Stan’s busy imagination, as he had been plagued by troubling perverse thoughts since adolescence, including submissive fantasies involving a multitude of women he’s met throughout life. He often felt uncomfortable around pretty girls, mostly fearing he’d “blow” any intimate or very personal contact with the unapproachable popular beauties in his classes or those he admired in public places.

He daydreamed constantly during the many years of his academic career, imagining being shrunken, then bullied by these gorgeous babes, crawling around in their tight undergarments, or in some other way tortured by them in never-ending bondage. He imagined being tiny & trapped in their suffocating rubber rain boots with their smelly, sweaty feet on the playground, or paraded around on a chain at a girl’s stag party in later years. In short, he craved being at the mercy of beauty.

He understood little of the reasons for this, suspecting that his submissive nature would please the extroverted character of such women, or at least serve to cultivate a casual friendship with these cute girls to extract a bone of affection here & there. Of course, socially gregarious girls more often like bold, bodacious gestures, compared with Stan’s timid demeanor, which was usually met with indifference, only serving to reinforce his shy, cautious approach & fantasies of the dominance of these luscious creatures over him.

In a very real but metaphoric sense, Stan was therefore at the mercy of pretty women. Their most popular fashions, especially their boots, nylons, & shiny materials, such as tight fitting leather & rubber, excited him the most, as these were the symbols of power they wielded capriciously to hold his inner desires hostage to their slightest whim. He engaged in mainstream dating & sexual activity as he matured, although secretly harboring his internal dialogue of masochistic, submissive fantasies.

He married, & had a loving, but relatively tame relationship with his wife; he loved, provided for, & showed great affection for his kids with a sense of pride, maintaining a respectable veneer of normalcy. Stan, nonetheless, found a sense of inner satisfaction in his hidden life, feeling a sense of secret superiority compared with people he encountered on a daily basis. Little did he realize what fetish-driven lives lurked behind the face of the “normal” folks he dealt with every day. You never know, after all.

The Trophy Hunt

The high level of regard in which Stan held the trappings of beauty translated to collecting such items as he came across them. Wearing them with the rest of his latex wardrobe gave him great satisfaction, even alone, in the privacy of his own home. Glossy rubber rain boots, for instance, took on the status of trophies, especially when he could meet the owner of the object he worshipped. By acquiring her used footwear, he felt he could become intimate with the tool of his subjugator & by extension, his imagined dominatrix herself. He found the scent of rubber, sweat, & women to be heady, inebriating, & intoxicating. A special treat was the occasional used women’s wet suit, for such garments exuded the strongest aromas. Squeezing himself into such a tight, form fitting, constrictive suit was almost like being captured by the owner herself!

This brings us to the regular habit Stan enjoyed of attending neighborhood yard sales. He’d perfected the tactic of targeting sales in reasonably affluent areas of town, & became fairly successful in finding many a good pair of shiny, used ladies’ fashion rain boots. The more well worn they were, & the prettier their owner, the more sexual arousal they produced. It was as if Stan could somehow get close to the essence of a beautiful gal who sold him her boots if her odor, & therefore, her karma, a part of her being, was still inside.

Stan had begun a small collection of these items, including black & white hounds tooth pattern mid calf rubber boots, bought for $1 from a fresh-faced freckled honey at a church parking lot sale, & a tan plaid pair from a friendly, laid-back lady from Oklahoma for $3. There were very high heeled black leather knee high boots from a sexy, cynical sounding, quiet black woman named Naomi, & chocolate brown leather boots with rich blue interior lining from a saucy redhead named Jody.

One of the best finds, though, was a soft, supple neoprene women’s triathlete suit, which fit him tightly almost to the point of pain, which he’d acquired from a depressed-appearing, but alluringly fit woman of about 40 named Carole. Each had come with the personality of its owner, permitting Stan to feel the aura of these women each time he caressed the cherished objects in private moments & enjoyed the arousal they triggered. The dopamine fix with each acquisition, however, was never quite enough to provide long term satisfaction, & he was hooked on the search for the ultimate treasure that always seemed out of reach. Such is life, however; the gap between reality & fantasy has fueled the achievement of some of men’s most lofty pinnacles of experience.

But we digress. Stan’s habit included scouring the internet for sales posted online after work on Friday nights, then supplementing the route he printed out with numerous detours based on classified ads in the newspaper for yard sales. Roadside signs he spotted along the way completed the itinerary of his weekly scavenger hunt on Saturday mornings. The signs themselves sometimes gave away the nature of the available banquet of goodies, especially the handmade versions printed with feminine style: “WOMEN’S CLOTHING – EVERYTHING MUST GO!”

Each stop on the route involved sizing up the folks holding the sale. Older homeowners seldom had fashion items for sale, & single men were unlikely to harbor the loot Stan craved. When he spotted a pretty young or middle-aged woman running a sale, though, it was always worth asking about items she might have not brought out, such as rubber rain boots, leather pants & dresses, or diving gear. More than a few times he’d acquired some of his favorite treasures when garments not initially intended for sale were offered at his request.

The Siren’s Lure

Such was the case today, when he approached a comfortable, though quirky appearing residence he’d been led to by a series of handmade signs. A variety of leather coats, wet look dresses & mundane footwear were on display in the driveway, along with the ever-present electronic devices of unknown functionality. A tall, slender blond woman appearing to be in her mid 30’s with a healthy tan & a thoughtful expression greeted Stan as he approached. He of course cut to the chase after a friendly “Hi!” with “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have any women’s rubber rain boots, would you?”

“Well”, the statuesque Scandinavian beauty raised her blond eyebrows & knitted her forehead quizzically, “I just might have something similar inside” she murmured, adding, “but they’re attached to a suit that comes with them. Would that be of interest to you?”

Stan’s interest was of course piqued, & he asked her to fetch the mysterious boots & attached suit. Several minutes later, she emerged from a door in the back of the garage, carrying a gleaming, well polished head to toe suit of soft, fragrant rubber. It was shinier than most neoprene, so Stan assumed it was latex, but the odor was much more intense than expected, & the thickness heavier than he’d ever seen. The boots were classic knee high Wellington fashion boots, with a lacquered, glossy surface, & as graceful a curve to the calf as he could imagine. The attached gloves were more like mittens, with a barely perceptible thumb, a tight elastic cuff at both wrists, & a metal shackle on the end of the mitten-like finger space.

The attached thick rubber hood was equipped with vinyl lenses over the eyes, & minimal reinforced nose as well as mouth holes that seemed too small to be useful. A thickened, wide rubber belt with deep lateral metal indentations encircled the waist to produce a narrow, corset-like appearance. The clincher, so to speak, was the heavy duty two-way zipper that extended from the crown of the helmet to the bottom of the ass. The entire device must have weighed 35 lbs, & squirmed with a silky, slippery feel to his touch.

Stan’s eyes grew wide as he surveyed what had to be the “Golden Fleece” of his searches. He began to stammer, hem, & haw, & just didn’t know what to ask about the bizarre garment. The owner smiled beguilingly, as if she knew the sexual power the apparel was having over Stan, & casually suggested, “You can use it for diving, snow sports, even hurricanes. It’s really quite flexible, in more ways than one! It’s all genuine rubber, you know.”

“Yes, rubber’s good”, Stan replied lamely. All he knew, was that he had to have it.

Within moments, a deal had been struck, as the woman asked $80 for the garment, fingering the flawless, slick rubber sexily as she pointed out the excellent condition & barely used nature of it. Stan had to agree, & they settled on an amicable $60 price. Although he was so nervous he could barely speak, he finished as he often did with a quick “My name’s Stan, what’s yours?”

To which she replied, “Janine. Just be careful with the suit, it can give you an unbelievable sense of enclosure. Enjoy it, but stay in control!”

Stan, of course, didn’t have a clue as to what Janine meant with her warning. He loaded the heavy suit, which came in a fishnet sack, awkwardly into his car, & hurried home to explore it in detail. As luck would have it, his wife & kids were away overnight, & he had the house to himself.

The Entrapment

His sense of smell was first to be overpowered when Stan got home, opened the fishnet sack, & met the fragrant, chalky, luxurious scent of the rubber he held up. The odor alone drew him in irresistibly, as he felt any will to resist his impending intimacy with the suit melting away uncontrollably. The shine was almost blinding, the plump outline of the backside inviting; the wrinkles in the groins & underarms were intriguingly graceful. As he unzipped the back of the garment, he became excited & eager to be inside, in Janine’s rubbery grip. The next happy surprise came as he realized the interior of the suit was just as smooth, slippery, & shiny as the outside, explaining the thick, double-layered construction.

“Well made,” he murmured to himself, as he noted not a single area of separation of the layers throughout. He stripped his clothes off & slid first one foot into a leg & then a boot, then the other, each producing a satisfying “whoosh” as the air displaced by his heels rushed up his legs. Unusual for rain boots, though, was the very tight, form-fitting sizing of the legs of the garment, which he pulled smoothly, albeit with some effort, over his hips. His cock & balls fit firmly in the snug rubber cocoon of the crotch, as his trunk met the cool, smooth interior of the body of the suit.

Next, Stan formed the helmet-like hood over his face & head, remarking to himself again that these reinforced mouth & nose holes would just not be large enough; he’d have to work on them when he got around to it later, he thought. The fit was excellent, however, as he imagined his facial features conforming to Janine’s high cheekbone outlines & cute, ski-slope nasal bridge. As his arms & hands were still free, he tugged at the zipper pulls from below, drawing the belt of the suit a little tighter around him, & from above, tightening the thick, restrictive reinforced rubber closed around his neck. His efforts seemed to require more air than the breath holes easily allowed, but he rationalized the manufacturer must have known what they were doing, & he proceeded in his excitement.

Then he slid each arm sideways, smoothly but snugly expanding the sleeves, as he forced his hands into a lobster claw shape to get through the tight wrist cuffs. Once in, he was able to draw the zipper pulls behind him together, as they were hook-shaped, the open ends facing away from the midsection, which perfectly accommodated the D-rings at the ends of his hands. The only resistance was the tightening of the thick corset-like waistband around him which necessarily followed the convergence of the zipper pulls. As he did this, Stan fantasized about having a padlock handy to lock these zipper pulls together, in keeping with his frequently all-consuming obsession with bondage rituals involving locks & keys.

The Point of No Return

This extra measure proved to be entirely unnecessary, though. As the zipper pulls came together at the back of his waist, an audible magnetic click locked the upper one into the lower, & Stan felt a strong electric shock as the connection was made between the two metal fasteners. Although the shock was perceptible all up & down the metal zipper, it triggered a vibration & progressive tightening at multiple sites throughout the suit. The most obvious initially was the thick compressive corset-like waistband, but he soon realized it also involved the already tight wrist cuffs, neck corset, & to Stan’s panic-stricken dismay, the reinforcements around the nose & mouth breathing holes. He was being squeezed into a breathless rubber deathtrap!

Stan made a valiant attempt to calm himself. He desperately attempted to reason out the mechanism by which the suit had taken over control of his fate. Initially, Janine’s allure had attracted his interest, but he had to admit he’d failed to heed her very clearly stated warning, the turning point probably being at the moment he was drawn into the suit by its irresistible lusty rubbery fragrance. The belt tightly encircling his waist must have housed a high power lithium battery, he reasoned, which explained the weight of the garment. It had apparently been activated by the connection of the zipper pulls, & electrically triggered the forceful restrictions at his waist, neck, & wrists.

No matter, for now the urgent issue of progressive oxygen deprivation weighed most importantly on Stan’s consciousness. The thick rubber helmet clung to his face, & was quickly on its way to becoming a seamless, continuous enclosure as by now only pinholes remained through which to draw any air. “There must be a way to turn this thing off”, he thought, as he searched desperately for a solution to his predicament. Try though he might, he was unable to fathom the workings of the increasingly tight, suffocating rubber womb that imprisoned him.

“Maybe the mitten D-rings & metal receptacles in the belt held the answer,” he hypothesized. The invaginated fixtures on the sides of the waistband appeared capable of harboring electrical connections, & the corset of the suit was the most obvious source of battery power for the device, so why not try to reverse the deadly enclosure process by activating any switches in the beltline? The metal D-rings could easily be connected to an internal system of wiring embedded in the thick rubber, he reasoned.

With that thought in mind, Stan impulsively inserted both D-rings firmly into the connectors on either side of the belt. He felt & heard a loud snap, as a pin slid into place on both sides, solidly anchoring the D-rings into the tight circle of the waistband around him. The vibration & tightening of the belt, neck, & wrist restraints continued relentlessly, but now his hands were also irreversibly locked to his waist!

Stan now was in full panic mode & sweating profusely. His breathing, too rapid for his own good, was more & more difficult for him to slow intentionally, becoming entirely ineffectual in the face of the thick, almost completely airtight rubber helmet on his head. He struggled, trying to dislodge the D-rings from his waistband, which only served to speed his breathing, & his panic raced quickly out of control.

Stan occupied what he believed to be his last thoughts on earth with Janine. She had to have known what would happen, but she lured him in anyway. She had put him skillfully at her mercy, & had completely conquered his being. Why did she pick him for her victim? How well did she know him? What could she have possibly wanted with him? Was this payback for all his years of moral turpitude? All that remained in Stan’s mind were questions, but no answers. He collapsed clumsily onto the floor, unable to even break his fall with his arms, as consciousness slipped away.

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11.10.14