“Amber, you look lovely today. Are those gold earrings?”
Amber, stunned and almost in shock, replied, “Yes, they were my mother’s.”
“Gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous, love the way they frame your face. So,” she added, smiling, “are we ready?”
At that exact moment, the madams and misters began to somberly file into the boardroom, clearing their throats, pouring glasses of mineral water into crystal tumblers, arranging their pens and pencils, settling their rather large derrieres into the comfortable black leather chairs. They murmured hellos to each other, then settled back, as was the custom, and waited for Justine. Our Justine.
Who just might have a new trick up her sleeve.
Precisely two minutes late, again, as was the custom, Justine strode into the boardroom, but then pulled the blinds open wide so that the light, muted before, now fell into the room like the shock of cold water. Her manager looked up at her, a faint look of disapproval on his face, as if to say, this is not what we do, this is not how we behave, this is not right, in fact, this is wrong. Justine pretended not to see this, although she was not stupid and knew exactly what he was thinking.
Her cell phone rang; another look from her boss. “Not now, Mother,” she murmured, then turned off the phone and turned to face her people.
“Ladies and gentlemen, good morning. I won’t mince words. This year at TechNo Industries is shaping up to be very interesting, one might even say fascinating, and I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that you have signed on for the ride of your life.”
This was the Justine her manager knew and loved, confident, poised, in control. This was why, she knew, he had promoted her to vice president, even though she was only thirty-five. She watched as he settled back in his chair, took another microbite from his cinnamon pastry and began to relax. This was her show. Yes, indeed. Everyone else began to relax as well, choosing to ignore her earlier blatant disregard for decorum. In fact, Ms. Perry from the corporate secretary’s office, whose job it was to record the minutes of the meeting, stealthily stood up, and closed the blinds, just an inch or two. Justine swiftly turned on her and said, “Exactly what the fuck are you doing, Ms. Perry?” The crowd gasped. Had Justine lost her mind?
Her manager dropped his pastry, crumbs littering his dark wool suit, his jaw agape.
“Justine,” he managed to say, almost choking, “What on earth—”
But before he could get the words out of his mouth, Justine leapt onto a conference chair, then, unbelievably, onto the oak table, kicking the piles of papers with her stilettos, the red latex underwear clinging to her hips, her thighs, her breasts, like silk, but more insistent, like a jealous lover, like perfume. She was a superpower, woman times ten, perhaps twenty, dead center on the conference table. She reached down for her briefcase, opened it, took out a whip, and snapped it smartly across the table. “The fourth quarter will be great. We will see a fifteen percent increase in profits.”
Snap! She cracked the whip again. “Our sales are through the roof, once again, and you have me to thank for the profit that lines the pockets of your designer suits.” The whip coiled through the air and several people moved away in horror. “You are all about to become very, very rich,” she proclaimed as it landed, snap, on the oak table. “So wipe those looks off your faces, before I do it for you. But that’s not all ladies and gentlemen, that is not all—”
Slowly, provocatively, she began to strip, unbuttoning her coral silk jacket, flinging it off; her fingers sliding down the zipper of her skintight skirt, then slowly, slowly wriggling her hips till it lay in a bright tangle at her feet; then her camisole came off, and her stockings, until she had revealed the secret of her power, the hidden glamour of her audacity, Mama’s red latex underwear, fire-engine red, hot as hellfire.
“These are the projections and the numbers and the profit that will make you come and come again.”
In the beginning was Justine, who, once upon a time, strutted across a boardroom table, before the shocked faces of her audience, in all her glory, all eyes on her rubber-encased buttocks, her ample breasts now sheathed in bright red. She was predatory, outrageous, cracking her whip and laughing. No one said a word. But one by one, beginning with her manager, they all began to smile. Tentatively at first, but then, by God, they really began to enjoy the show. Some even began to clap. Amber brought in her iPod, hooked it up to the speakers, turned it up, then turned it up again, until music blasted throughout the room, until everyone was dancing. Some of them even joined Justine on the table.
After the meeting, Justine, still half-naked, cornered her manager in his office.
“I need you to fuck me,” she ordered.
“I c-can’t,” he stuttered.
“Why not?” she demanded.
“I have erectile d-d—I can’t get it up. I’m fifty-five, for God’s sake, and the rules clearly state that I cannot take advantage of you—” he gasped, stepping back from her.
Cracking her whip inches from his face, she said, “Do I look like someone you could take advantage of?”
“No,” he replied, almost smiling. “Not in the least.”
“Then do as I say,” she commanded, her voice dropping an octave, her moist hands sliding up and down the fire-engine red rubber underwear, now glistening with sweat, glowing under the fluorescent lights as if they were alive, an animal presence, glued to every inch of her body, pulsating. She cracked her whip again, wrapping the braided leather around his waist, gently pulling him toward her.
“Come here, little boy, Mama’s not going to hurt you.”
When he was inches from her face, she grabbed his right hand and ran it up and down the length and breadth of her body, paying special attention to her breasts and nipples, then did the same to him. After a few moments, he raggedly said, “Isn’t this sexual harassment?” His cock hardened beneath her touch.
“You better believe it,” she replied. “And I want you to harass this little section, right here,” and she guided his hand to her pussy as she pulled aside her rubber panties. His index finger snaked up inside, finding her glistening and dripping wet. She grabbed his cock, whispered in his ear, “You feel pretty functional to me.” She loosened her hold on him, stepped back a few inches, and pulled up the bra, exposing her breasts, her nipples now as red as cut roses. She observed his erection—magnificent.
“I never thought you were attracted to me,” he said, now brazenly massaging his cock.
“I’m not,” Justine announced. “This is a one-time deal.”
Justine fucked her manager on his conference table, her legs waving wildly in the air for all the world to see, then she sat on his face as he lay spread-eagled on the beige carpet. Finally, finally, Justine could feel the heat building up inside of her, vibrating like a strobe light, flickering faster and faster, the fire-engine brassiere still clinging to her, transforming her. For one brief instant she blacked out, a constellation of stars appeared, and then came the orgasm. Office workers two floors above and two floors below phoned in a possible earthquake and sure enough, something registered 2.5 on the Richter scale. But this could be urban legend. Only Justine knows the truth.
After five years of making full use of them, and many adventures and promotions, Justine put away her rubber underwear with a silent prayer of thanks to Sally. But only temporarily. After all, she was five months pregnant, and someday her daughter might need them.
BATHING BEAUTY
Andrea Dale
It all started because Paul’s mother was an Esther Williams fan.
He grew up watching the sleek swimmer, respectful of and fascinated by strong, independent, creative women.
And rubber bathing caps.
I didn’t actually learn this about him until we found an old poster of Esther in an antiques-and-collectibles shop at the shore. It had a funky and eclectic décor, and I thought the poster was neat, too, so we bought it and had it framed and hung it on our sunporch, which had something of a na
utical theme already.
It wasn’t until I came home early from shopping with the girls one day and found Paul masturbating to the poster that I suspected that anything was up.
I wasn’t upset or even concerned. We had a healthy sex life, and, hey, sometimes a guy (and even a girl) has to take matters into his own hands. In fact, the sight of him sitting there, cock red and slick in his fist, made me feel frisky enough to dive in and help out.
I knelt between his legs and took the hot, hard length of him into my mouth.
He’d been at it long enough that his own sweet precome mingled with the mostly flavorless lubricant he’d used. I flicked my tongue against the little hole to coax out more of the sweet liquid. He whispered, “Oh, yeah,” and caressed my hair, not quite pulling me down harder on him, but encouraging me to continue at will.
It wasn’t long before I felt his balls tense and heard his breathing catch, and I knew he was on the edge. My pussy tingled in empathetic response (knowing too that he’d return the favor) as I coaxed out his pleasure. I looked up at him as he came, and saw his eyes were wide, and fixed on the poster.
I asked him about it later, when we were in bed, and he confessed everything like a naughty schoolboy who always knew—and even half-hoped—that his secret would be discovered.
Esther had consumed his boyhood fantasies, featured heavily in his adolescent longings. His first wet dream had been of her (and we both laughed at the pun in that). Finally, out of erotic desperation, he’d stolen his mother’s rubber bathing cap. It was lime green, he said, with big flowers sprouting off it. Hideous but compelling.
He knew he couldn’t give it back to her afterward, so he said the dog had chewed it up. He kept it hidden under his mattress for years, brought out only in the dead of night.
Paul was a little hesitant as he told me the story, watching for my reaction, having to be coaxed to tell all the details. We’d been happily experimental when it came to sex, but he’d worried that this was a little farther over the edge than I’d be interested in. I knew, too, that he’d feared tainting the adolescent fantasy. I reassured him, and in the end he said he was glad to be able to tell me.
What he didn’t know is that I was already mentally plotting a nice, sticky, fun birthday surprise for him.
Luckily, I had time to prepare, because it took me a while to find exactly what I needed. I wasn’t even sure it existed. But it did: a retro waterskiing show, the kind with people stacked in a pyramid, like in the “Vacation” video by the Go-Go’s.
Best part was, they wore bathing caps.
Not rubber ones, alas, but close enough for my purposes and, I hoped, Paul’s desires. From afar, it wouldn’t really be easy to tell what the elaborate headdresses were made of. It was the show that counted.
Plus there’d be synchronized swimming. And proper bathing caps or no, that had to count for something. It was an Esther Williams fan’s dream come true.
When Paul woke on his birthday morning, I greeted him with a kiss, a cappuccino, a bagel with cream cheese and lox, and a card that told him he was going to have a special day.
Lunch was a lovely meal at a prime seafood restaurant at the shore, and then we were off to the show.
Paul had a mix of mild confusion and burgeoning lust on his face when he realized what we were about to see. I snuggled up against him and breathed into his ear, “This is your special day, honey. Enjoy.”
He enjoyed, all right. More than once I saw him adjust himself, and for a while he even laid his program over his lap to ensure innocent bystanders weren’t treated to an eyeful. I was tempted to bring him off right there at the show, but the bleachers weren’t exactly set up for any modicum of privacy, and it would kind of spoil the occasion if we got arrested for public indecency.
I had other, better plans.
In the parking lot, he backed me up against the car and kissed me, his tongue darting into my mouth in a way that always makes me think only of how that would feel on my clit (and I always knew that pleasure would be forthcoming). He pressed his hips against mine, and I felt the outline of his hard cock against my mound.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said when we broke for air. “That was special.”
“Oh, we’re not through yet,” I said, unable to keep the teasing glee from my voice. “This was just…foreplay.”
I swear I felt his cock twitch against me. We decided I should be the one to drive home, just to be safe.
It wasn’t long before I had Paul naked and stretched out on our bed, his cock at half-mast, pulsing toward full erection as he imagined what erotic surprises I might have in store for him.
He’d been a competitive swimmer in high school and college, and had the body for it: long and lean with sleek, seal-like muscles, broad shoulders and narrow hips, and he was mostly hairless, so he hadn’t had to shave his chest and legs like some of his teammates. Indeed, I’d always been hot for the way he looked in a Speedo, the shiny Lycra outlining the taut dimples in his hips and the heavy soft package of his penis and balls cupped in the front.
I didn’t think I had a rubber fetish myself, but I found myself wondering how his groin would look encased in rubber—deep royal blue, to bring out his eyes.
As if I’d be looking at his eyes.
We’d played with cock rings before—simple leather adjustable ones—so I figured a slightly stretchy rubber one wouldn’t be too much of a step up. I rolled it down Paul’s cock, gently tucked it behind his balls. Now he was fully hard, his cock like velvet-covered steel in my hands.
He reached for me, nuzzling my breasts before grazing his teeth across my nipples, just the way I like it. I’d been wet all day, really, just imagining how this would go, and now a fresh wave of desire shimmered through me, from nipples to clit. I wanted more.
That’s when I pulled out the bathing cap.
Yep, I’d found one of those old rubber ones. It wasn’t lime green, unfortunately, but white, with a couple of red and blue flowers on one side that gave it the look of a cloche hat from the 1920s.
Paul sucked in his breath when he saw it. With a deliberately lewd grin, I sprawled back on the bed and stretched it across my pussy. “Dive in,” I suggested.
He didn’t need further encouragement. He rarely did, but this time he was like a man possessed, breathing in the rubbery smell as he found my clit.
It wasn’t long before I needed more, though. The material was just too thick for me to get full sensation—and I needed it right now. I pulled the cap away, and he paused, just for a moment, to turn it over and run his tongue along the side that had been against me, tasting my juices coating the rubber. His eyes were closed, his face worshipful. Then he turned back to me, and he gave me the same adoring attention.
I held the cap across his neck and used it to pull him closer as my thighs started to tremble. My orgasm wasn’t long in coming, but I could feel every second, every degree of it as the erotic sensations pooled down below. My legs and stomach tightened, and then the flick of Paul’s tongue against me finally pushed me over the edge.
It took me a moment to recover, but when I did, it was time to focus on him.
To my amazement—and, I’ll confess, delight—I almost sent Paul over the edge when I rubbed the bathing cap across his nipples. I knew he was sensitive there, but the feel of the rubber heightened things exponentially. I expect the cock ring was the only thing that kept him from coming from the nipple play alone.
Well. He was close, and I wanted to bring him off so much my clit was tingling again in anticipation. I trailed the cap across his balls, watching as they jumped, listening to breath hissing between his teeth.
I slipped my hand into the cap and drizzled rubber-friendly lube across it, and then, using it almost like a mitten, wrapped it and my fingers around his steely cock.
He cried out my name, his hips rising off the bed. Just a few tight strokes, and he was pulsing and twitching, his come mingling with the lube, the musky scent mingling with the r
ubber smell, and I think I had a sympathetic miniclimax just from watching him and hearing him.
You’d think that would be enough. But we played long into the night. I don’t know—I didn’t think rubber was my thing. Still, there’s this bra-and-panty set I’ve found online, in a jaunty red, that I’ve got my eye on…
IN THE MIDDLE
Jessica Lennox
There is a hazard to becoming friends with two people who are involved with each other. If by some stroke of bad luck the relationship ends, you end up in the middle.
There is an unspoken rule that you will no longer invite both halves of said broken-up couple to any gathering. Even worse, one half of said broken-up couple will claim that you were his or her friend first, which equates to “I don’t want you talking to my ex anymore.” Of course, at the forefront of unspoken rules is this one: If you are a woman, you will remain friends with the female half of the broken-up couple. Anything to the contrary is met with great suspicion among friends, coworkers, neighbors and especially the ex.
I can’t really say that Julie and Mark were close friends of mine—we met at a fundraiser and ended up joining the organization that was hosting the event. We ran into each other a few times, then started socializing together more and more as time went on. Eventually we became acquaintances, and I suppose some semblance of “friends.”
When I first met them, Julie seemed rather unapproachable, but Mark was extremely friendly. I suspected Julie might not appreciate Mark’s attention toward me, but once she realized I wasn’t a threat, she dropped her guard and allowed our friendship to bloom. Still, I always made sure to keep my boundaries firmly in place so as not to cause any misunderstandings.
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