Lust in Latex Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Introduction

  THE DRESS

  IN A SINGLE BOUND

  RUBBER NECKING

  SLICKER THAN SLIK

  STRETCHING LOGIC

  TIRE STUD

  JUSTINE, IN LATEX

  BATHING BEAUTY

  IN THE MIDDLE

  LICK OF PAIN

  HOW TO LIVEN UP A BORING PARTY

  SERGEANT PEPPER

  TIGHT SQUEEZE

  BUTTERFLY’S KISS

  CINEMA SHOW

  EXCHANGES

  RUBBER-PARTY VIRGIN

  THE BALLOONATICS

  BREATHING

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  INTRODUCTION: SLEEK, SHINY, SINFUL AND SEDUCTIVE

  The first time I tried on a latex dress, I couldn’t stop feeling myself up. After being generously shined to a high gloss, the gorgeous red dress gleamed—and so did I. It clung to my body in a way that let me see my curves anew, and any extra flesh I’d lamented carrying suddenly became more fodder for this voluptuous material to caress. It made me proud of my full breasts, wide hips and plump ass because I knew each beckoned to anyone looking. It was way better than being naked, and it felt divine, like I was trapped inside this sleek, erotic cave, and I never wanted to get out. For the characters you’ll read about in Lust in Latex, rubber, latex and PVC set them off in a similar way, igniting multiple senses and firing up powerful fetishes. They interact with these materials as if they were lovers themselves, and when they meet someone who shares their interest, watch out.

  I had expected to get stories about dressing up—sexy nights on the town, glamorous parties, sensuous shopping sprees. And I certainly did; here you’ll read about trying on the outfit of your dreams and realizing its full sexual potential. “In that shiny black PVC dress, she became Carrie the seductress. Carrie the bad girl. Carrie the slut,” writes Kristina Wright in the opening story, capturing the way a single slinky outfit can transform a woman into her rightful kinky persona. That these outfits have a life of their own, and are players in these stories just as much, if not more than, their human counterparts, should not surprise you.

  It shouldn’t have surprised me, but I was caught off guard by the large number of stories I was sent that featured rubber or latex panties. Yet it makes perfect sense: where else would a girl thrill to feel that ultratight, sleek sensation than against her most tender parts? As Elizabeth Coldwell writes in “Cinema Show,” “I wriggled in my rubber panties, feeling them rub against my sensitized skin, stimulating me beyond endurance. I stifled a whimper; there was no one sitting next to us, but I didn’t want to alert anyone in the rows in front or behind to what was happening.”

  Another appeal of latex is its translucence; body parts press against it—hard nipples, the outline of a cock or a pussy—and what you can’t fully see, you can more than imagine. In “Lick of Pain,” Crystal Barela’s perfectly kinky lesbian latex tale, she describes it thusly:A cocoon of shiny red brilliance covered Sylvia from ankle to chin. The latex was thin enough for me to see the belt and buckles of her strap-on. Two perfectly round holes were cut into the bodice of the dress and there her turgid nipples were made burgundy where they pressed through the openings. She looked sticky, like a giant wet lollipop. I swallowed hard, hoping my mouth was worthy of the task, that I could wrap my tongue around her body and slurp Sylvia between my plump lips, suck her from head to toe all at once. The taste of rubber would coat my insides like a balm.

  Other authors tackle the unusual ways rubber and latex can transport us out of the everyday and into a purely fetishized universe. Thomas S. Roche depicts a very hot scene with a vac bed (see vacbed.com for some visuals to accompany your reading), a latex bed in which one can be entirely encased, with strategic openings for maximum arousal. Jeremy Edwards’ protagonist in “Tire Stud” gets off on the smell, feel, and look of those round treads, and proves that they don’t belong only on vehicles.

  The way rubber, latex, and PVC cling to the body—so tight there’s no give, room only perhaps for some powder or the trickle of wetness to sneak in between—creates a second skin like no other. A lover is almost battling against the material to get to the prize beneath it, and the look of a nipple or an ass, a cock or a cunt bared beneath such suctionlike material, is enough to make these characters want their lovers to wear it all the time.

  Whether you’ve experienced this intimate, intense molding of skin to rubber yourself, or have simply admired those who choose to adorn themselves in these magical, sex-laden outfits, you’re in for a treat.

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  New York City

  THE DRESS

  Kristina Wright

  The dress made her do it.

  It hung in the back of Carrie’s closet, hidden behind silk blouses, pinstriped pants, tailored suits, summer skirts and polo shirts. It languished there in the farthest corner of the closet while other clothes were worn for business meetings and tennis matches and birthday parties and lunches with friends. The dress stayed there when other clothes were tossed in the donation bag, when other new outfits replaced old, when seasons changed and wool trousers were chosen over capri pants. The dress was like an old friend, waiting patiently for a long overdue call.

  Finally, after months, the call came.

  When Carrie put the dress on, she felt like a different person. She was a different person. She wasn’t Carrie the junior attorney at the law firm or Carrie the fitness freak or Carrie the buddy who was like one of the guys. In that shiny black PVC dress, she became Carrie the seductress. Carrie the bad girl. Carrie the slut.

  She prepared for her night out like a bride preparing for her wedding day. She was shaved, moisturized, perfumed, adorned. She put the dress on, surprised for a moment at how formfitting it was. She wore it only occasionally, once every three or four months, and she was always surprised by how it hugged her body. Her other clothes fit comfortably, making her hardly aware she was wearing them. She never forgot she was wearing the dress. It made her stand up straighter, suck in her stomach, thrust out her breasts that were barely contained by the corset-style bodice—and that was just while she was standing in the privacy of her own bedroom admiring herself in the mirror. Out in public, the dress made her strut.

  By the time she got to the club, her whole body was throbbing with an intense energy, already anticipating things to come. It wasn’t a club she went to often. It wasn’t in the best part of town and it appealed to a crowd that was a little more…out there than the sort of people she usually hung with. She wasn’t in the mood for the khakis and cappuccino crowd tonight. She wasn’t interested in talking politics, 401(k) plans or who was getting married or who was expecting yet another baby. Tonight she wanted to be someone else: the slut in the dress.

  She was rewarded for her efforts the minute she walked into the noisy, crowded club. Not everyone stopped to look at the redhead in the black, skintight vinyl dress that laced down to her belly button, but enough people did look—men and women—to give her a little rush. It was the dress, she knew. It didn’t hurt that she had the body to fill it out, of course, but the dress commanded attention in a way Carrie alone never could. The four-inch patent leather heels didn’t hurt, either. They made her already long legs look like they went on for miles, and not a man in the room could look at the shoes that matched the dress and not wonder what they would look like on the floor next to his bed.

  Fending off a couple of overeager guys, Carrie made her way to the bar. The bar spanned the length of one side of the club and it was standing room only. Miraculously, as soon as she approached, a space opened up for her. She thanked the two guys on either side o
f her and ordered a martini.

  “That’s on me,” said the guy to the left of her.

  “Thanks.” Carrie gave him a predatory smile, feeling infused with power. “But I’m not going to fuck you.”

  The guy on her right laughed. “Guess she told you.”

  Carrie took a long sip of the martini that appeared in front of her in record time, letting her tongue linger on the rim of the glass. Then she smiled. “I’m not going to fuck you, either.”

  It probably wasn’t the wisest thing to say to two guys in a seedy nightclub who both seemed a little inebriated, but the dress made her say and do things that weren’t very wise. Like a suit of armor or a protective shield, the dress gave her power and authority. Instead of turning nasty, both men smiled good-naturedly and shrugged.

  By the time she finished her second martini, courtesy of the guy on the right simply because he wanted to appear to be a gentleman, Carrie was ready to mingle. She excused herself to her self-appointed guardians with a wink and a “Thanks for the drinks, boys,” and disappeared onto the crowded dance floor before either could follow and press the issue.

  The music was heavy, throbbing techno with some retro punk thrown in for good measure. It wasn’t dancing music, it was grinding music, and the crowd writhed on the packed dance floor in pairs and threesomes in alcohol-and-lust-fueled orgiastic bliss. Carrie didn’t dance alone for long. Soon she felt the press of a body behind her. A male body. She turned in the circle of his arms and gave him a feral smile.

  Her smile faded when she realized she was looking up into the face of Reynolds, one of the partners at the firm. She wracked her brain for his first name and came up blank. She didn’t know him personally; the firm she worked for was one of the largest in the state, with two dozen partners and a hundred or more support staff, but they’d crossed paths a couple of times and he was attractive enough for her to notice him. Dark eyes, dark hair, older than her, but with a boyish appeal that made it hard to peg his age. Of course, she’d never seen him in a social setting wearing low-slung jeans and a T-shirt that clung to his sculpted torso.

  She realized his expression hadn’t changed—he was still looking at her like he wanted to devour her—and it dawned on her that he had no reason to recognize her, especially in the dress. She was as professional and proper at work as any attorney and, out of that familiar setting and in a dress meant for a vamp, she probably didn’t look like the Carrie he might remember on a good day.

  “Love the dress,” he said, his hand gliding over the slippery PVC from her waist to her hip. “You’re stunning.”

  She smiled again, regaining her composure. The patent leather heels made her almost his height, so she leaned forward until her lips were nearly touching his ear. “Thanks.”

  “Want to dance?”

  She put her arm around his neck and pressed her body against him, rubbing her crotch against his hip in a smooth, sinuous rhythm. “Sure.”

  He pulled her close and rubbed his erection against her. “Want to go home with me?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  He laughed. “Well then, will you at least dance with me until my dick deflates a little?”

  She pressed against him, her breasts threatening to burst out of the top of the dress. “What are the odds of that while I’m here?”

  “Good point.”

  She smiled. “C’mon,” she said, taking him by the hand.

  “Where?”

  She just arched an eyebrow at him.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She led him outside into the cool night air that made her nipples pucker and raised goose bumps on her bare arms and legs. The parking lot was quiet except for a couple of giggling women hanging drunkenly on each other. Carrie’s heart hammered in her chest as she led Reynolds around the side of the club, dark but for the red light cast by an emergency exit sign. She took a deep breath. Knowing there was a chance they could get caught was part of the thrill.

  “What are you up to?”

  She responded by pressing him up against the wall of the club and kissing him. Hard. She reached down and stroked his cock through his jeans, pleased that it was stiff and thick. He moaned into her when she squeezed him.

  Reynolds pulled away. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to my place?”

  She unzipped his jeans. “I can’t wait.”

  She knelt in front of him, the dress riding up so that she could feel the night air on her ass. She unfastened his jeans and pulled his cock free. It was beautiful and thick. She whimpered in anticipation.

  “Please, baby.”

  She didn’t move, not even when he wrapped her long hair in his fist and tried to guide her to his cock. She resisted, knowing he was hers.

  “Please,” he pleaded again.

  She indulged him not because he begged, but because she couldn’t stand not having him in her mouth a minute longer. Precome glistened on the tip of his cock like a freshwater pearl and she swirled her tongue around the engorged head, pulling it into her mouth.

  He gasped at the contact and thrust his hips forward.

  With excruciating slowness that teased them both, she licked his cock from tip to base, fondling his heavy balls with one hand while guiding his cock between her lips with the other. She sucked the head into her mouth and cradled it in the hollow of her tongue, holding it there until he impatiently moved his hips. His hands were slack in her hair, as if he’d forgotten—or didn’t realize—he could have some measure of control. Carrie didn’t want him to have control. She wanted the power to give him pleasure, but only when she was ready.

  Despite their risky location, she took her time sucking him. She lowered her mouth over his cock, relaxing her throat until she had taken as much of him as she could handle without gagging. Then she slid back slowly, revealing his slick, shiny cock. Over and over she deep-throated him until they were both panting, and she knew he was close to orgasm by the way his cock practically leaked precome in a steady stream.

  He protested softly when she released his cock long enough to untie the laces that held the bodice of her dress together. “I want you to fuck my tits,” she said.

  He switched his focus from her mouth to her breasts as she pulled them free from the dress. Her skin was ethereally pale against the black PVC, her nipples hard and dark. She cupped her breasts in her hands, presenting them to him like a gift.

  He didn’t speak. He took his cock in his hand and laid it in the valley she created by pressing her breasts together. His cock was warm and wet from her mouth. She closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of him against her bare skin.

  His hands covered hers and he rolled her nipples between his fingers. She moaned, squeezing her breasts around his cock.

  “You feel so good,” he gasped.

  She braced her hands on his thighs as he cupped her breasts around his cock. Looking up into his eyes, she said, “Fuck me.”

  His expression was primal. Squeezing her breasts around his cock, he fucked her the way she wanted. She rocked back on her heels as he thrust against her harder and harder, fucking her tits as if he were inside her pussy. Her saliva had dried on his cock and the only thing lubricating her breasts was his precome, but it was enough. From his sharp intake of breath, she knew he was going to come.

  “Come on my tits.”

  He moaned, his cock spurting thick, milky semen—once, twice, three times—across her pale breasts and down the front of her vinyl dress. She kept her breasts pressed together, watching as warm rivulets of come gathered there. Finally, when he seemed to be finished, she leaned forward and kissed the tip of his cock, tasting him.

  He released his iron grip on her hair and helped her up. “That was incredible,” he said as he tucked his cock back in his pants and straightened his clothes.

  Carrie did the same with her sticky breasts, not bothering to lace the bodice of her dress. “Yes, it was.”

  “I feel bad I didn’t do anything for you.”
/>   She smiled. She’d wanted to rub her very wet pussy while he fucked her, but she’d been so mesmerized by watching him, she hadn’t been able to do anything else. Her pussy still felt engorged but, somehow, watching him come had taken the edge off a little bit. “You’d be surprised what that did for me.”

  “Oh really?” He started to pull her close, then stopped short. “Oh, man, I am all over your dress.”

  She looked down and saw that he was right. His come glistened in streaks on the already shiny vinyl, leaving no doubt as to what she’d been doing. She laughed. “It’s all right, it wipes right off.”

  “Sounds like the voice of experience.” Rather than disapproving, he sounded aroused by the idea. “You’re a very bad girl.”

  There was no reason to tell him she wasn’t as bad a bad girl as he thought her to be. No reason to ruin his fantasy—or her own. “I don’t suck and tell,” she said with a wink.

  A burst of laughter startled them both and Carrie decided she’d pushed her luck far enough for one night. She let Reynolds escort her to her car.

  “Thanks, really.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and meant it sincerely. There was no doubt in her mind that she’d spend many long morning commutes thinking about her escapade with Reynolds. But first, she’d spend a long, leisurely bath masturbating until her pussy was raw while she thought about his thick cock coming between her breasts.

  “So, do you think I can see you again or was this a one-time thing?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Derrick Reynolds,” he said.

  Right. Derrick. She didn’t know why she hadn’t remembered. “Well, Derrick, I have no doubt I’ll see you again, but I don’t know if this is a one-time thing or not.”

  She left him then, with a furrow between his brow and a limp cock between his legs. The dress had made her do it, and she had no doubt she’d do it again. Maybe even with Derrick Reynolds.