Three Seconds to Orgasm
by Francesca Demont
We are staying at the same hotel in Berlin, sipping cocktails late in the evening at the bar. I don’t feel like going out, alone. The bartender had become my go-to
person for lonely evenings. A few seats over, I see him flipping through some
pictures on his iPad. He is close enough to me that I can tell they are professionally done.
One more cocktail and I have the courage to ask, “did you take them?” I turn bright red when he responds. I didn’t really think he could even hear me over the booming music.
“Yes, but just for fun. Do you want to see them?”
He was maybe in his early thirties with a twinkle in his blue eyes. He scooches
over before I can respond, and I am staring aghast at semi-nude women wearing glossy latex items.
I keep the, ‘you pervert’ to myself. Who shoves pornographic pictures right under
the nose of a stranger with the bartender looking on like nothing is happening?
“I’m sorry, Henry, Henry Scott.”
I continue to stare at the pictures in front of me. I am disgusted, and I cannot take my eyes off them. Repulsion turns quickly to curiosity. I’m attracted to the women. They are strikingly beautiful. The light reflecting off their latex covered skin is alluring, seductive, like alien creatures. I want to touch them. What must it feel like, being in their skin?
“And you are?”
He probably asked me several times before I finally respond. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Jennifer. Let’s just leave it at that.”
I am mortified that he saw me staring at pictures that, back home, I would have tossed in the garbage can. But I’m not at home. This is the center of the fetish world and he is apparently part of it.
“Look, it’s late and I’m leaving tomorrow. We can either sit here, or I’ll take you to
one of the clubs. Just for fun. No questions asked.”
He says it like a standard pick-up line. Problem is, it works. At least on me; tonight. I have no place to go and am more than a bit curious.
“Ok, but I don’t have anything to wear. Just my work clothes, and some heels.”
Dammit, if I had at least packed something sexy.
“Stand up, turn around, just let me have a look at you.” He is brisk. Not much time for ‘pretty and please’.
I find myself twirling like a little girl in front of him in no time. I may have been socially shy, but the blondes-in-blazers look works for me. Late twenties, good career going, I was working out. Shy? Yes, but not in my Wall Street
navy blue power suit with my 4-inch designer heels.
“Well, that’s not going to work, but if you lose the skirt, the blouse, the stockings,
the shoes, and well, pretty much everything you wear, I may have something for you to put on.” He is rude, though actually kind of charming.
I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone tell me that I didn’t need my $1,200 suit to look good. Part of me is hoping that one of his model friends can loan me some of their latex clothes. I’m just curious. What would it feel like? How would strangers look at me?
“And what exactly would that be?” I am beginning to play along. Teasing him a bit. Leaning over his iPad with the latex pictures, as if to say ‘you better make me look like one of those models’.
Up in his room, which is probably twice the size of mine, there are latex clothes
flung all over the place.
“I’m sorry for the mess, I just finished shooting and was going over the pictures when you showed up at the bar.”
I am just struck by how little I know about the world of latex and fashion. There is not a single item on the floor that resembles what I have in my closet. I can’t make out a skirt, a blouse, pants, just nothing but mangled piles of rubber.
The scent is intoxicating. The first time I smell latex. And if sex has a smell, this is it. Seductive, dirty, raunchy, addictive, everything my clothes are not. I look around his room. Everything is intense. The deep red velvet couch, the white stand-alone tub in the middle of the room. The see-through bathroom doors. His room, let’s call it a suite, belongs more in a strip-club than a 5-star hotel.
I begin touching some of the items. Just casually. I don’t want him to notice how
turned on I am from the sights and smells around me.
“Don’t be shy, they don’t bite.” He has this casual laugh in his voice, as if he knows exactly what is going through my head. I’m sure he picks up girls at the bar pretty much every night of the week. He probably thinks I’m going to sleep with him. He’s cute, but not my type, not tonight.
“How do you know any of ‘this’ fits me?” I don’t really know what I’m looking at. ‘This’ was the best way I could describe the masses of shiny, seductive, soft and slippery items around me.
“Don’t worry, just get under the shower and I’ll clean up something that’ll fit you
nicely. I know, there is no privacy in the bathroom, but if you want to go out, don’t
expect to see much modesty at the clubs either. This is pretty much a ‘show us what you got’ kind of nightlife.”
The shower doesn’t take long. Nervousness is an understatement. I have never
done anything like this in my life. And right now, I just want to get inside one of the latex items that were lying so casually across the floor.
“Don’t bother with the bathrobe. I’ll help you with some lube when you’re done.”
I can barely hear him and am willing to do everything he says. This is his town, his fetish, and I’m horny enough to go along for the ride. He’s already waiting with a towel for me when I turn off the shower.
“Here, hold this for a moment.”
I look at a small clear plastic bottle. ‘100% water-based dressing aid’.
“You can start covering your body in it. I’d suggest working from the legs up. I’ll
get the catsuit ready.”
Seriously? Couldn’t he find something like a modest skirt to start with? Of course, I know what a catsuit is, the Cat-woman thing. Shit, I don’t even know what to call anything around here. I’m staring at some liquid that I’m supposed to put on me and have no clue what is going to happen from one minute to the next. There is another tremor in my pussy.
The stranger from the bar is now rubbing his hands all over my body. I am frozen in place. He has no problems pouring more lubricant over my breasts, massaging them, reaching between my legs, while I hold up my long and curly blond hair. He is thorough, maybe too thorough. I am just grateful that he can’t tell the difference between the lubricant and my natural juices that are beginning to flow uncontrollably out of my pussy. I have never been touched like this.
Even when he pushes his moist finger up my ass, I barely let out a gasp. ‘God, please don’t stop.’ Can it really get better than this? I don’t even want to have sex with him, I just want to feel like the models in the pictures. If I am going to cum tonight, it will be by myself. No help wanted. Oh, and I was definitely going to cum.
A quick “hold on to my back and pick up your leg”, lurched me out of my dreamy
The catsuit! I almost forgot. I have no idea what to do. Fortunately, he does. My foot slips easily through the latex leg and with a few strong pushes from my calves up, I already have one leg inside, up to my hips.
“Now the other”. He is again quick.
I look down and begin to see the colour he picked. My legs are already
encased in a silky smooth, tight, thin layer of semi-transparent smoky-grey latex.
‘Oh, no.’ There is no way I am going to put myself out there wearing next to
nothing. That wasn’t the deal. ‘Yes, that is the deal, for tonight’, answers the voice inside my head.
I expect him to open a zipper or something, but instead, he just pulls the upper half of the catsuit wider apart. With one strong pull, the entire upper half of the catsuit slips right over my butt, up to my well-trained abs.
“Perfect”, he observes, obviously pleased with his work. “Now, put your hand
through the sleeve while I hold the suit open. Add some lube, just to be on the safe side.”
I do as I’m told. It is a tight squeeze and I have by no means a wide body. With a little help, my hand makes it all the way out the other end of the sleeve. He pulls the rest of the catsuit over my shoulder.
“Now the other side.”
I feel like I know the routine by now. Some lube, find the opening for the arm, and then just letting it glide all the way through.
There is a mirror on the other side of the room. ‘Is that me?’ Whoever looks back at me is nothing like the person who goes to Wall Street every morning. I look HOT! The catsuit fits perfectly. There is no blemish, not even a zipper, except for one conveniently tucked away in my crotch area. Somehow the neck has stretched wide enough to take my entire body through the small opening that is now surrounding my neck.
I am still in awe at the silhouette that stares back at me from across the room when he begins spraying the next layer on me. “GLOSS”. That much I can read before again picking up my hair. I thought the catsuit was perfectly shiny and looked nearly like the pictures on his iPad. But that was before the gloss was added. He pulls out a soft cloth to wipe any excess spray off the catsuit. He does this like a painter; using long strokes, always following the flow of my body curves from top to bottom. For him, this is an art form. For me, this is so far beyond foreplay. He brushes over my breasts, between my legs. I become his model.
“Done”, he says. There is a sense of victory, of accomplishment in his voice. He is proud of his work, and of the way I look. I turn around to face the mirror and almost faint. If I thought the catsuit was shiny before, what he just did in the past few minutes have turned me into a gorgeous, smooth, shimmering work of art. Every ray of light is reflected off my skin like a perfectly smooth mirror. I have never seen anything as erotic, as beautiful in my life.
(To be continued…check the #WickedWednesday meme)
This is a guest post provided by Francesca Demont – You can buy her series of books depicting the journey of Clarice, a high-class escort from Amazon. I follow Francesca on Twitter @DemontFrancesca. Check out the sexy latex image Francesca has shared on #SinfulSunday this week.
I’ve added this post to the #MasturbationMonday meme. Click the link to see who else is participating.