IN A SINGLE BOUND
Shanna Germain
I bet I look stupid,” Becca said.
“You look like a superhero.” Jon wrapped a strip of latex beneath her breasts and stuck it together in the back. The contrast of the black latex against her pale skin, and the way the strips pushed her breasts up, made them look round and full. Still, she wasn’t sure about all the strips of latex that circled her body.
“No superhero in the history of the world ran around wearing this,” she said.
“Really?” Jon peeled another strip of latex off the roll and tore it with his teeth. Becca caught a glimpse of something flashing in his blue eyes—was he laughing at her? “You didn’t read that comic when you were in high school? The one where all the hot superchicks get their suits cut off and then they get bound up with the leftover strips?”
He was laughing at her. The jerk.
“No,” she said. “I think you made that one up in your wild youth.”
“Yeah, me and every other seventeen-year-old on the planet,” he said. “God, I used to dream about this…but I never could decide. Be the villain, just so I could truss a woman up like this? Or be the superhero, so I could set her free?”
The way his blue eyes looked at her, filled with love and a fair bit of greed—that right there was why she’d agreed to this tape thing. She loved latex almost as much as Jon did; the way it captured her skin, the odd combination of softness and strength. And she knew she had the body for it—curvy, but muscular; high, small boobs; long legs. Over the years, Jon had bought her a variety of outfits: latex dresses and corsets that did more than skim her dips and swells, they heightened them, made them superreal. And latex panties. All she had to do was step into a pair—crotchless, backless, a tiny black thong—and she’d be wet in a second. She loved to wear them under regular clothes. Her secret. Hers and Jon’s.
But latex tape? When Jon had brought the roll home, she’d laughed. It looked like electrical tape. Or some kind of torturous hair-removal device. But Jon had wrapped her wrist with it, shown her how it just stuck to itself. “People make duct tape outfits all the time,” he’d said. And she had to admit the shiny black was such a great contrast with her pale skin. Still, being trussed up like some seventeen-year-old’s version of a superhero wasn’t exactly her fantasy. Worse yet, she was afraid she looked less like a woman of steel and more like a zebra.
Not to mention that Jon wasn’t exactly known for his dressmaking skills.
“Nervous?” he asked.
He always could tell what she was thinking. “I didn’t know one of your superpowers was mind reading,” she said.
“I’m not the superhero. You are,” he said. “Just a lucky guess. However…” He used his fingernail to find the end of the tape on the roll. “I do have one special power.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
Jon looped the piece of latex just above her breasts, making them pop out even more. Her nipples, which seemed, somehow, to become a little harder every time he added another bit of tape, now pointed almost skyward.
“Up, up, and away,” he said with a grin. She would have hated him, but he licked his thumb and ran it over her nipple as he said it. She tried not to moan. “See, what’d I tell you?” he said. “Superhero.”
“Yeah, well, I feel like a super dork.”
“You shouldn’t,” Jon said. “Turn.”
She tried to twirl in front of him, although it was more like an egg-wobble. At least she didn’t fall down. Between the black latex strips he’d wrapped around her body, the shiny black heels, and that fact that her hands were tied behind her back, her movements weren’t exactly graceful.
“Well, I could put a big black SD on your chest,” Jon suggested as he knelt behind her and looped a latex strip around one thigh. “Suuuper Dork!”
“I could kill you now,” she said, but she couldn’t help laughing. She would have slugged him, but the latex bow he’d used on her wrists was too strong to break.
“It was just a suggestion,” he said. “Turn again.”
“Just a bad one.” She turned, a little more smoothly this time, until she was facing him.
“You’re going to have to spread your legs a little, hon,” Jon said. He was so close to her that she could feel his breath between her thighs.
Becca closed her eyes as Jon’s fingers worked to wrap the tape around the uppermost part of her thighs. The sound of the tape rolling off the roll, the riiip as Jon used his teeth to tear off strips, all excited her more than she would have expected. Even the feel of his fingers between her thighs, the slick smoothness of the latex against her skin, was turning her on.
“I’m glad you shaved,” he said.
Becca barely had time to register that before Jon slid a bit of latex across her clit. She’d never felt anything so soft, so silky, against her. The feel of it made her head swim, and she wished for something to lean back on.
“In or around?” he asked.
“Huh?” She tried to focus as his warm fingers and the cool latex alternated against her.
“Do you want the latex to run on either side, or do you want it to go across the middle?”
It was the first option he’d given her since he’d started dressing her. Or trussing her, rather.
“Uh, around, please,” she said, and then felt his fingers work the tape on either side of her shaved lips. He pulled upward on the tape, which pulled her lips apart, and opened the inside of her to the air.
“Like this?” he asked.
She could only nod. Her clit felt slick and wet; she was sure Jon had noticed. While he worked, his fingers skimmed her lips and clit, so lightly they could have been touching her by accident. Jon moved upward, attaching the strips to the one that already circled low around her waist, creating something that was vaguely like underwear—crotchless, backless, sideless, latex strip underwear. If this was what superheroes wore under their costumes, it would certainly explain their lack of panty lines.
Becca shivered as Jon tucked the final strip into her waist.
“All this work, Jon?” Becca said. She found that her tongue wanted to do things other than talk. It was tripping over itself in her mouth. “All this work just to peel it off in three seconds?”
“Three seconds? Is that what you think of my sexual prowess? I would think you’d know me better by now.”
“The ninety-dollar corset?” she asked. God, that had been a beautiful piece of work, but he’d popped all the intricate buttons right off before she’d even gotten inside the house.
“I was overcome by desire,” he said.
He adjusted a piece of the latex that formed her underwear, brushing his thumb across her clit as he did so. Becca inhaled sharply.
“What about those great thigh-highs?”
“The boots? I didn’t—”
“No, the stocking-things.”
Jon slid his fingers from her clit back toward her ass. “I had to cut those off. C’mon, they were made for that. Christ, they should have included a pair of scissors in the package.”
“You used a knife,” Becca said.
Jon’s thumb, wet from its ride across Becca’s center, found her asshole and pressed. “What?” he asked.
“Oh, oh…forget it,” Becca said.
“That’s what I thought.” Jon stood up and took a step back from Becca. “Jesus, you look amazing.”
She missed his hands on her. “Amazing like ‘Suuuper Dork!’?” she mimicked Jon’s voice. “Or amazing like amazing?”
“Yes,” Jon said. He pressed his hips against her so she could feel what he thought of it. His hard cock pressed through his jeans into her leg. “Amazing,” he whispered. The sound of his voice and the hard length of him gave her a sense of vertigo, as though she wasn’t touching the ground.
Then he went on his knees in front of her. His tongue flicked her wet clit while his fingers stroked her, front to back. She forgot a
bout the latex, she forgot she was standing in heels, she forgot everything except his tongue against her. If her hands had been free, she would have taken his head, forced him to bring her to orgasm. As it was, all she could do was push against his mouth, his tongue, begging him with her body.
“Is…is that your superpower?” she asked him.
“Ka-pow,” he whispered against her. She could feel his smile. It made her want him all the more, made her ache for him to use his fingers and tongue to finish her.
He stood up, leaving her clit punching with desire.
“Wait, I’m not…I didn’t…” Becca pouted. “Your superpower sucks.” He just grinned at her—he’d known she hadn’t come.
“That’s only the beginning,” he said. “First, I want you to see how amazing you look.” He grabbed the full-length mirror and flipped it around. “Woman of steel,” he said.
Becca was in the mirror. Her, only not her. The black latex made her pale skin glisten and glow. It arched her breasts higher and narrowed in her curves. She looked powerful. Stacked. Jon was right: she did look like a superhero. But she also looked like a criminal—bad-ass, even with her hands behind her back.
“Wow,” she said. “Where’s my cape, though?”
Jon stripped and then stepped behind her. He held on to her wrists with one hand and his erection pressed into the crack of her ass. “I’m your cape, hon,” he said. “And if you give me a minute, I bet I can even make you fly.”
RUBBER NECKING
Alison Tyler
The sex toy store was on my daily route to work—the curve of the wall of windows traveling with me, the way the silvery face of the full moon used to seem to follow me when I was a kid. I’d sit in my car, stopped in early morning Los Angeles traffic, and I’d do my best not to rubberneck.
Yet, the windows beckoned—the displays dazzling behind the shiny sheets of glass. Corsets made of cobalt satin over fine black boning. Stockings in more than a rainbow of hues—gold, fuchsia, and celadon in fishnet, patterns, and lace. Toys hanging from nets and clotheslines strung from wall to wall, like an X-rated fisherman’s haul or an indecent day at the laundromat. And then there was the rubber. A whole window devoted to items made from this stretchy material, matte or shiny, glistening beneath the halogen lamps.
On lucky days, I caught sight of the tall, dark-haired man who changed the displays, watched as he rearranged items or created whole new features—themes for the holidays, or entire windows devoted to a single color. He wore all black, all the time, like so many of the boys in West Hollywood, and he had long, glossy hair, either pulled back in a ponytail, or left down so that it partly curtained his face. He never turned to look at the traffic, paying attention to his job, creating visions out of the risqué materials; stepping back to observe, then continuing, almost as if there was no world outside of the windows.
I enjoyed the lingerie, the pretty frilly items. I liked to look at the sex toys, the cuffs and blindfolds, gags, paddles, and masks. But the rubber items, those were the ones that stretched over my day, snapping through my mind when I least expected it. Anything, everything, could take me back to those windows.
The lemon yellow dishwashing gloves resting innocently on the stainless-steel sink in the break room would make me think of elbow-length black rubber gloves I’d seen pinned to a wall in that window. A ball of multicolored rubber bands residing lazily on a coworker’s desk would remind me of a red rubber ball gag strapped to the face of an unseeing mannequin. The burnt-licorice scent of tires as I walked through the parking garage would make me want to press my nose to the window shielding the displays and see if I could inhale the scent through that wall of glass. The visions built within me, until I could hardly wait each day to get back home to my empty apartment, to my world of privacy.
Keys thrown onto the coffee table. Pencil skirt discarded on the way down the hall. A shoe here. A shoe there. A rabid rush to the center of the mattress, to the safety of my own fantasy world.
Once on the bed, I could slow down once more, reach for the box hidden in my nightstand drawer. A shake of cornstarch from a bottle by my lamp would help those thin white rubber gloves slide on smoothly, but I would take my time anyway. Making sure to smooth out any wrinkles, growing wetter with the caress of the rubber around each fingertip. When the gloves were fully on, I would interlace my fingers, watching rubber meet rubber.
Now, it would become more difficult to go slowly. With hands that were like someone else’s, some stranger’s, I would touch myself while I recreated the window displays in my mind. Fingers gliding over my breasts, I imagined the window dresser—with his long dark hair and slim body—dressing me in the pale orange rubber sheath he’d slid on a mannequin the week before. Or slipping me into sleek scarlet rubber boots that would reach past my knees. I could see him buckling that bright red ball gag into place between my own parted lips, knew somehow what that sensation would be like, what I would look like, gagged like that.
I spread out my favorite visions, extending them to the breaking point. Me in those boots and a matching coat made of vinyl, a coat with a sheen so bright, the vinyl surface would appear just begging to be come on. I could see the man dressing me in the full-body sleep sack made entirely of heavy-duty rubber, then pressing himself against me when I couldn’t move at all, his naked body against mine clad all in rubber. The shudders would start to work through me.
What would his hands smell like after working with rubber all day?
Would I be able to lick his fingers and taste the bitterness on them?
Oh, yes, I could imagine that as well, me on my knees in front of him, sucking his finger into my mouth, swirling my tongue around it. My own fingers, encased in that thinnest sheen of rubber, would probe and tickle my clit—rubber on wetness now—until the climax came and took me away.
And then, disgusted with myself, I’d tear off the stretchy gloves and ball them up, throwing them in a corner in a fit of temper. I’d dispose of them the next day between thumb and pointer, as if to say, “That’s that. I never have to do that again.” But I’d know the whole time that I would be driving past the store once more; know, more honestly, that a whole box of rubber gloves lay waiting in my drawer: one hundred gloves in a box, with a spare box behind, unopened, just in case.
One day, late for work, I found myself cruising toward the store with ease. No bottleneck today, which meant no rubbernecking for me, sitting in a traffic jam, watching the windows. As I drove by, I caught a quick blur of him, the dark-haired man changing the displays, peeling the orange rubber dress off the model, painstakingly revealing her plastic body as the dress begrudgingly gave way.
I craned my head to see, and that’s precisely when the traffic stopped, and I slammed into the car in front of me.
L.A. drivers collect accidents like some people notch lovers on their headboards. This was a minor scrape and tussle, not even damaging enough to properly be called a fender bender, but that didn’t stop the rubberneckers from watching. Didn’t stop the window dresser from pausing in his motion to check out the action, so that for once I saw his full face clearly: the strong lines of his cheekbones, the glint of a silver ring in his lower lip, the dark brows, the furrow in his forehead.
I pulled my car to the side of Santa Monica Boulevard and exchanged phone numbers and insurance information with the annoyed soccer mom whose dragon-red Hummer I’d scratched. Then I sat in my car and stared at the steering wheel. Something had to give. I’d have to change my route, throw away that secret stash of rubber gloves…
Suddenly, there was a rap on the passenger window. I looked up, dazed, to see the window dresser motioning for me to roll down my window. For a moment, I couldn’t remember how to turn on the ignition. But I got the job done, pressed the control button on my armrest, and watched the window slide down.
“You okay?”
I nodded.
“No offense,” he said, his deep voice sounding concerned, dark eyes watching. “But you do
n’t really look okay.”
I was staring behind him, at the display window, the mannequin still only half-dressed, her orange rubber sheath pulled down to reveal molded, nipple-less breasts. I wanted to be wearing that dress, wanted this dark-eyed man to be peeling it off me.
No, that wasn’t right.
I wanted him to be putting it on me. In that window. While other drivers slid past.
“Come on out,” he said, gesturing. “Let me get you a glass of water. Cup of coffee. Something.”
Something was the word that lingered. Something was what I wanted.
I followed him into the store, around the racks and shelves and stacks, to the back room, so much like the break room at my own office, down to the pair of yellow rubber gloves resting on a stainless steel sink. I watched him pour me a cup of coffee from the pot on the counter, and then smile at me as I drank my first trembling sip.
“You’re a virgin?”
I stared at him, wild-eyed. What was he saying? I’d fallen down a rabbit hole and ended up where?
“First traffic accident?”
Now, I had to smile. “How’d you know?”
“You just seem more shaken up than most people. I catch a lot of accidents out the window. Generally, drivers just go on their way. Some never even hang up the phone during the whole interchange.”
“I’m a pretty careful person,” I said, and realized that summed up my life in so many different ways. Careful. Careful never to let on what I want, what I’m like, what I do when I’m all by myself.
He laughed, “I’m careless,” he said. “We’d probably make a good team. Balance each other out.”
Yes, I thought. You’d put the dress on me, and I’d stay still for you. You’d peel it off again, the rubber sticking to my skin, and I’d…
He was looking at me oddly. Had I said the fantasy out loud? No, he was looking at my wrists, the two rubber bands I wore there, my one public weakness. Anyone could have grabbed a rubber band, right? Nothing strange about—
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