Suits You

The rubber suit is waiting for me and I hate it.

She's always been kinky for latex. I've known that ever since I met her, but I was OK about going out to the fetish clubs in some abbreviated skin tight black latex if it kept her happy. Now it's as if she's using my growing dislike of it as another weapon in her armoury. Hence the suit - the rubber punishment suit. There's her cruel streak too, but I can live with that. Each to her own.

She's here, and in a good mood too. Maybe she's forgotten or changed her mind. But no, she's smiling and lightly licking her lips. Bad sign.

"Get me the instruments, darling."

Instruments. Her/our pet name.

"And don't forget your rubbers, sweetie."

I strip off while she idly whips the air and slaps the cushions. Corporal foreplay.

"These?"

She nods slowly and watches appreciatively as I squeeze myself into a pair of black latex cycle shorts. She picks up the heavy leather split tawse and motions to the arm of the couch.

I lay, waiting for the strap to fall but nothing really prepares you for it. The fiery pain; the feel of it curling around you. I clench my teeth and endure. The rubber serves a purpose: it protects a little and allows her to strike hard, really hard. She enjoys that.

She hauls me up by my hair. "Open up for me."

She loves this position. I stand, legs apart, hands clasped behind my neck, facing her. She can see every twist of pain that runs across my face when she uses that strap inside my thighs.

"Stand proud, darling. Titties up unless you want them clamped."

I can't help crying out as the strap curls around my leg, biting and stinging despite the rubber.

"Look at me, darling, I want you to keep looking right at me."

My eyes are filling with a crystal haze of tears she as works all over the tops of my thighs inside and out.

"Hold out your hands"

Cane on hands: guaranteed tears.

She lightly licks a thick salt tear from my cheek and puts little steel clamps on my nipples.

With stiff and swollen hands I ease down the shorts. She wants to cane me and canes cut. On my bruised flesh the caning is agony. Sometimes I can get through it, but not tonight.

"All you have to do is ask," she murmurs in my ear.

I ask. Another couple of strokes and I beg. At the sight of the paddle I plead to be allowed to wear the rubber suit.

She leads me up to bed, still crying, clad from elbow to knee in the thick, translucent amber rubber, like an outsize romper, zip locked at the collar. Laying in bed she nuzzles at me, tasting flesh and rubber, hugs me and brings us both to shattering climaxes. She sleeps.

The rubber suit is on me and I hate it.

RRW

 

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