On Demand

by Justine Elyot

  I unhooked my nude lace bra, admiring the way my breasts now bounced above my ribcage after four months of gym membership. I held my arms out, smiling wolfishly at myself, imagining myself to be a hungry man confronted with this bounty for the first time. It was no wonder they pounced in the way that they did. How could they help themselves?

  I chuckled and slipped out of my matching knickers. Yes. No underwear for me tonight. Nothing to ruin the line of my new dress.

  I took out a bottle of scented body lotion and applied it generously, over my shoulders, collarbone and breasts, down to my stomach and thighs, bending to reach my lower legs then reaching around behind to slather it over my bottom. I could have done with somebody to sort out my back; where was a predatory male when you needed one?

  Once the reachable parts of my body were soft and delicately fragranced, the lotion having thoroughly sunk in, I took out a pot of powder and a puff and began to dab it gently from my knees to my throat, front and back as far as possible. It was important that the dress should glide on with minimal effort; I needed to be faultlessly prepared.

  I took one last lingering look at my powdered and painted nakedness, striking a few poses for confidence-building purposes, then I returned to the bag and uncoiled my shiny serpentine secret. How it transformed the light as I held it up, its extraordinary ultra-violetish hue sucking out the harshness and consuming it, making it stronger than ever. If Chase could resist this, then I faced a more serious challenge than I had anticipated.

  First of all, I had to relax the lacing that crossed the plunging back of the garment. Somebody would have to tie that back up for me. I had an idea who I might ask. Then I had to step into it and pull, pull, pull for all I was worth while the sheeny cold rubber inched up my slippery thighs. The moment my arms slipped through the holes was one of triumph; a mountain climbed, flag planted in the snow. I was wearing a dress and yet I was wearing nothing. Feeling the sexiest commingling of bare flesh and constricting rubber, I was both held in check and liberated by its tight cling.

  I pushed back my shoulders and drank myself in; I was all rises and falls, swelling and nipping, a fascinating glossy terrain that invited exploration and conquest. The shape of my breasts was unmistakable, and should anything . . . exciting . . . happen, it was pretty clear that the outline of my nipples would be clearly visible. From the back, the globes of my rear were pertly delineated; any tighter and the dress would mould itself to my crevices. It would be obvious that I was naked underneath; short of lacquering myself, there was not much more I could do to mimic full nudity.

  Two steps to achievement of my goal remained. One – the slipping on of a pair of four-inch black patent heels – was easily done. The second was less so.

  The purple laces hung down my back and swished across my bottom as I made an arduous way out of the toilets to Chase's office, which was mercifully close.

  I tried to make my knock on the door as assertive as I could, but there was still that moment of hiatus between the rap and the intoned 'Enter' during which the stoutest heart can weaken. I opened the door a cautious crack and poked my head around.

  'Sorry to bother you, Sir . . .'

  'Not at all. Merry Christmas, Sophie.' He looked up and smiled – a rare event.

  'Thank you, Sir. Merry Christmas. Have you been in all day?'

  He shook his head and then just looked at me, expecting something . . . what?

  'Are you going to come in?'

  'Oh! Sorry!' Now was my moment. Best not to scupper it by gazing mooningly into his eyes. I slid into the room and made a slow, swaying approach to the desk of doom, keeping my eyes on his as I prowled. He did not so much as jerk a brow or twitch a corner of a lip. Was I having any effect on him at all? Suddenly the rubber seemed to be clamping down on more than my skin, pressing into my diaphragm, cutting off my air supply.

  'I was just wondering, Sir,' I said, and my voice really was husky because I was struggling to breathe, 'if you could help me with my laces.'

  He put his head on one side. 'Laces?' His hands were steepled; he looked calmly contemplative. This was not the effect I had striven for.

  'Yes.' I stopped, one hand on a slippery hip, aiming for the killerest of silhouettes.

  'At the back, I presume?'

  'Yes. At the back.'

  'I see. Over here then.' He lifted one forefinger and beckoned. Clever man. My all-time favourite come-hither. As if his crooking finger tugged me with an invisible thread, I hastened forward to the dangerous side of the desk, although hastening was difficult with my knees all but clamped together by the rubber hem of the dress.

  He stood up, put one hand on a shoulder and gently steered me around so that my back was to him.

  'This is a very interesting dress,' he said, his voice drifting down from behind me, his hand still large and warm on my shoulder. Intuition told me that his eyes were wandering down my outline and I imagined his gaze as a line of flame melting the rubber until it was ragged and blistered. His breath was close, catching a little. I could have tilted my head back and caught his nose and lips in my hair.

  'It's one of my favourites,' I said hoarsely. What was that aftershave? I wanted to soak my bedding in it. I twisted my head to the side, willing him to take me up on the offer of the back of my neck. He did not.

  His hand left my shoulder and joined the other one, tugging at my loose strings.

  'How tight do you want it?'

  'Usually, the tighter the better,' I said, 'but I'll trust your judgement. Whatever you think shows off my back best.'

  'Tighter the better, eh?' he mused, jerking on the laces as if they were reins. 'You like the feeling of restraint?'

  I smiled joyously; this was sounding a lot like flirtation.

  'When it's done properly,' I replied, purring a little. 'By experienced hands.'

  'I see,' was his disappointing rejoinder. He pulled the laces taut, tied the bow, then his fingers ran down the crisscrossing, checking it for symmetry. 'There. All tethered and tied.' My limbs did that turning to jelly thing. How I stopped myself grinding my shiny tight rubber bottom into his crotch I shall never know.

  He stood there for a moment that seemed to drag on into the New Year, but was probably only half a minute, then he moved around to my side and offered me his elbow.

  'They'll be waiting in the bar. Shall we?'

  I almost felt like crying; I had been so sure that he was going to run his hands the length and breadth of my rubberclad body from behind. I smiled uncertainly, linked my arm with his and tottered out of the office.

  The rest of the evening was a torment of unsatisfied longing. He gave both me and the mistletoe a wide berth after fobbing me off with a cocktail, leaving me to languish and fume at the bar. How dare he resist my rubber charms? Every other man in the room was eyeing me up, assessing his chances, sliding drinks down the bar to me, and yet the only one I wanted would not even look at me.

  I was used to controlling men and their desires; I played them like voluptuous violins and discarded them when I tired of their attentions. Christopher Chase was not following the pattern; he was zigzagging all over my chequer-board. I suppose this made him a deviant, which might be some consolation in the long term, but for now his stubborn refusal to live up to his promising surname was the occasion of severe chagrin.

  I sat on a high stool, beginning to loathe my rubber prison, which now felt hot in quite the wrong way, clinging sweatily to every crease. It was going to be murder to get the perishing thing off. Ha. Perishing. Rubber. I remembered my fantasy about a ray of fire from Chase's eyes burning the dress off me and ordered another drink.

  'Cheer up, Soph, it's Christmas.'

  My favourite pool lifeguard, Jake, stood beside me, bowl of mixed nuts in hand, hair as endearingly shaggy as ever. I barely recognised him without his pecs on display, but his top was figure-hugging enough to please the eye regardless. A little younger than I, working his way through an MSc in Rescuing from Drowning Studies or
some such, he made up for lack of experience with bags of enthusiasm. And stamina. Oh yes, such stamina. Perhaps he was not the Christmas gift I had had in mind for myself, but he was a nice stocking-filler treat. Really, didn't I deserve a little something?

  'Yes, you're right,' I said, popping a cashew into my wildly lipglossed mouth. 'Season of mistletoe and mellow drunkenness.'

  'Oh, well, if it's mistletoe you're after,' he whispered into my ear, then he whipped a sprig out from the belt of his jeans and held it aloft.

  'Oh, you naughty boy!' I murmured, shimmying off my barstool and pressing the length of my body to his, proffering my lips while my eyes skittered off to the side, looking for Chase, not sure whether I wanted him to be watching or not. He was.

  See what you're missing, I said in my head, then I fastened my mouth to Jake's, allowing his big rough hand to land on my cross-lacing, then to wander slowly down to the dip of my back, finally resting just above the crest of my buttocks. Something was hard and swollen against my stomach, easily tangible through the thin stretched layer of my dress. I let him maul my mouth until, from the corner of a half-closed eye, I noticed Chase leaving the room, then I pulled my face back.

  'That dress is hot,' croaked Jake.

  'Yes, it is. Very hot. Too hot. Let's go somewhere.'

  'Follow me.'

  There was nothing comfortable in the lifeguards' station; just a slatted wooden bench running the length of three of the walls, some pegs and a pile of lifejackets. Jake pushed me down to sit on the bench, then knelt in front of me, prising my knees as far apart as he could and peering up the dark mysterious cavern they revealed.

  'No knickers,' he ascertained. 'Thought not.' He tried to fit a hand into the gap, but it was a struggle. 'How the fook do you get this thing off?'

  'You don't,' I told him. 'But if we get to work now, we might be able to get the skirt up before midnight.'

  'Right you are. On your feet and turn around then.' I was happy to obey, leaning over the wooden bench with my palms flat to the wall while he inched the rubber painstakingly up my thighs, dry humping my bottom as he toiled. When he finally managed to uncover my willing snatch, he abandoned the rest of the task, leaving much of my bum to strain against the shiny sheath while he found a home for his cock, clad in its own rubber garment.

  I revelled in the ability to spread my legs wide after their incarceration, pushing back on his slamming weapon, needing the supportive clamp of his forearm around my midriff to stop me keeling over sideways. The coupling was fast and rude and exactly what I needed, pounding my residual angst over Chase from my head and bringing me back to my self, Sophie, the sex seeker, Selfie, the soak sexer, Sexie the Smoke Sizzler, bleurgh, no more thoughts just slam, slam, slam, steam, scream, cream, done.

  'I'll never get this dress off now,' I panted, on my knees on a lifejacket, my head braced in my arms. It was stuck fast, my perspiration acting like glue.

  'Let me untie you,' offered Jake. 'I'll go up and get your work clothes from Reception if you want.'

  'Uh huh,' I agreed. But I don't want that knot undone. Chase tied it, and I want to be bound by it for as long as I can.

  Room Service

  I know what she is here for.

  She doesn't know I know, but after four years behind this desk, I can read the signs.

  She has signed her name in the register as 'Mrs Barker', and her low-key outfit tries too hard to blend in.

  She is here to meet a man. A man who is not her husband.

  Why though? What will this man give her that her spouse does not? Allow me a moment of speculation. The name Barker makes me think of barking, of dogs, of doggy-style sex that perhaps the husband will not provide. But I think it goes a little bit further than that. I think it goes like this.

  Mrs Ross would consider herself happily married in all respects but one.

  It isn't even the classic story of a couple growing apart, sex becoming routine, and then surplus to the routine. Mr Ross was a considerate lover who made it his business to provide his wife with a minimum of three orgasms weekly. His own tastes were conservative but not particularly repressed; if the overwhelming majority of his encounters with his wife took place in the missionary position after the required ten-to-fifteen minutes of foreplay, it was because this was the way he liked it. He had no desire to try anything more outré than the odd spot of soixante-neuf. If he had known the term 'vanilla' to apply to anything other than ice-cream, he would have applied it to himself.

  For a long time, this was fine by Mrs Ross. She did not consider herself sexually deviant; indeed, they had been married three years before she felt emboldened to nudge him into their first attempt at cunnilingus. Whips, rubber and anything of that sort were certainly not her thing. Heaven knows, that Ann Summers party her sister-in-law had dragged her to had been bad enough. Huge plastic phalluses, shrieking women, too many Bacardi Breezers. And all that nylon.

  But then, quite unexpectedly, once the children were at school and life had settled into a form of equilibrium, a buried memory of her younger years began prodding its way through the layers of denial.

  Sipping her mid-morning coffee at the breakfast bar, Mrs Ross would travel back in time to the estate agency where she had filed and faxed for a year after completing her NVQ. She had attracted the attention of Mr Gregg, of Gregg and Saunders, on her first day, kneeling on the sill of the shop window making up a display of properties for sale.

  'That's a nice . . . skirt,' he had said, creeping up behind her as she bent over, stapling photographs to cards.

  'Thanks.' She had giggled and blushed, thinking no more of it.

  As the weeks went by, his comments continued, always complimentary, sometimes tending a little towards the creepy, but the young Mrs Ross – who was known back then as Lynnie – found that oddly compelling. It didn't hurt that he looked a little, a very little, bit like Sean Connery; well, all right, he didn't have the accent or the smile, but his eyes were nice and he had the kind of hair that looked quite good with silver threads in it. And he was the boss. Drove a nice car, lived in a big house. Was he married? It wasn't clear – he didn't wear a ring, but men didn't so much back then.

  'What is that perfume you're wearing?' he asked one morning in November. Then, 'I'm going to measure up at a new property coming on to the market. Fancy a ride out to Cranford Heath? See how estate agents work in the field?'

  She certainly did get to see an estate agent working in the field that day. He took her to an empty show home, where they performed a thorough inspection of the fixtures and fittings, concentrating especially on the bed.

  'So that wasn't your first time,' noted Mr Gregg, coming up for air after round one.

  'No; I broke up with my school boyfriend over the summer.'

  'Was he heartbroken?'

  'For a little while. I think I just outgrew him though. I was ready for a man instead of a boy.'

  Mr Gregg grinned. 'You certainly were.'

  They used the state-of-the-art kitchen facilities to make coffee, lounging around in their underwear on the expensive leather sofas.

  'We're doing the builders a favour, making coffee,' explained Mr Gregg roguishly. 'It's one of the best smells for selling a house.'

  'Really?' Lynnie gazed adoringly at her sophisticated chevalier.

  'Yes. Not sure about the smell of fresh fucked pussy though. Perhaps I should spray a bit of air freshener around the bedroom.'

  Really! How rude! Lynnie was shocked, but not repelled, by her seducer's coarse remark.

  He laughed at her saucer eyes, moving closer up the pristine leather. 'We can tick the box for the bed being in working order, can't we, but what about this sofa?'

  His coffee-hot mouth was upon hers again; his hands worked at removing her underwear while the sofa creaked soft protests at their grappling. Soon enough, Mr Gregg had his trainee on her stomach, hanging on to the arm, while he clasped her under her ribcage, pulled her up to her knees and entered her from behind.
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