I met Polly, a beautiful British student, when she was waitressing in a restaurant in Oxford. Over coffee, she told me of an erotic encounter she'd had while working abroad in a very different kind of establishment. I found her story so arousing and inspiring that I rushed out and bought myself a whole wardrobe of fetish clothing the very next day. The kinky pleasures of a little leather and rubber against the skin will awaken dark desires in everyone. It worked for Polly, and it worked for me. Why not find out if it works for you, too? I sprinkle the talcum powder on my breasts, sides, and underarms so that my skin-tight latex top slides on easily. I pull it over my breasts, enjoying the sensation as my nipples disappear into the tight, suffocating, stretchy material. I love to dress for work in front of the mirror. Tonight, I'm wearing black. I study my reflection, legs apart, naked but for the black top that clings like a second skin, no, tighter than that, because tiny bulges of flesh spill over the top.
The first time I wore a dress made out of rubber was my first night working in the bar. I pulled it straight on, no baby powder and no oil to stop the material scraping my skin. It took a week for the red marks to fade. Not that it mattered much. The clients here like that sort of thing. My coal-dark, raven hair is cut into a precise Louise Brooks bob. My tidy little bush, trimmed with a razor this morning, is also jet-black. I look hot. It's almost a shame I have to put my skirt on, but even a club as liberal as mine doesn't let you serve drinks naked from the waist down.
I smile to myself at this as I zip up the black leather hot pants. They fasten at the sides, so they follow perfectly the curve of my hips. I don't wear panties beneath them; the shorts are so brief and tight that there isn't room for underwear. They would bunch and ruin the perfect smooth line. I like the way the leather sculpts my buttocks into a perfect, uninterrupted arc. And there's another reason why panties aren't an option under these hot pants. These shorts are lined with leather, and when I get wet, which happens a lot-I'm a very sexual person-the leather doesn't absorb my juices but lets them slide around, making me hotter and wetter.
I check my pedicure before pulling on my boots: lily-white feet bejeweled with scarlet-painted toes the same shade as my fingernails, which I keep short and neat. No one else will see my feet, but I like to know my look is perfect from head to toe. Only when I'm satisfied do the boots go on. Oh, these boots! I want to be buried in them. Black PVC, thigh-high, with silver stilettoes that make me walk with a wiggle, tits and ass sticking out for all to admire. As I zip them up, the cold plastic feels like a lover's caress on my calves.
I'm nearly ready to play. It's time for my finishing touch, my signature accessory: customized rubber gauntlets. They're like long evening gloves, but they don't cover my hands. Instead they bind me from wrist to upper arm. I made them myself from a length of rubber I bought in my favorite fetish shop. When I'm wearing them, I can't quite bend my arms properly. I love that tiny restriction; it means that I'm always focused on my job, that I never get to be totally at ease with my body. I feel my flesh begin to heat up. In a few minutes, the sweat underneath will have broken through the talcum powder, creating the delicious discomfort that won't end until I get out of my costume and into the shower at the end of my shift.
With a final glance in the mirror, I apply the red lipstick that says, "Fuck with me, but don't kiss me." I look angular, geometric. Sometimes I feel that the real pleasure is in putting the clothes on. Sure, I often meet guys I like the look of when I'm working, and God knows I get plenty of offers, but I love my job and I'd never do anything to jeopardize it. Work is work; I can find sex in my free time.
When my mother advised me to get a bar job to tide me over during my year studying German at Hamburg University, I'm not sure this was what she had in mind. She doesn't know that I work at Bar Fetisch on the notorious Reeperbhan, right in the middle of the red-light district. But hey, I live above the club, I'm learning the language, and I pour a great glass of beer.
A glance at the clock tells me my shift begins in sixty seconds. I totter down the stairs on my vertiginous heels, through the door marked STAFF ONLY, down a dim, red corridor, and then through the beaded curtain and it's showtime! It's ten p.m., but the night has barely begun. Claudia, the manager, is doing the same shift I am and is already behind the bar. When we check out each other's "uniform," we burst into spontaneous laughter. She's dressed like a mirror image of me, but the colors are reversed. She's wearing allover crimson-rubber tube top, hot pants, and boots-and she's got this fabulous, bloodred bobbed wig I've never seen her wear before. I love it. She even has on black lipstick and inky-dark nail polish. Her generous tits are almost flattened by the latex that binds her chest and threatens to suffocate her skin.
"You look sensational!" I tell her.
"Danke," she replies. (Claudia has made it her project to finesse my German skills before term starts.) "We'll have to make sure we stick together tonight. Once the customers see the way we look next to each other, we'll be stuffing tips into our clothes."
"Oh, dear," I say, making a pretend sad face. "I don't think I can fit anything else between my skin and this latex."
"Where there's a will, there's a way!" says Claudia, before turning her dazzling smile on a guy who's just walked in.
When I first met Claudia, her confidence and sass just blew me away. For a while I even had a kind of crush on her, but it never became physical, and now I'm glad about that. I'm up for anything, but when it comes to sex, I'm all about dick.
I take a tray and walk around the bar, collecting empty glasses and wiping down the surfaces. You'd be astonished at the kind of things I've had to clean off the furniture in this job. It's not unheard of to see couples fucking on the side of the stage, where they think we can't see them, or frantic hands making desperate grabs under tables. Of course, I can't see what's happening under the tables, but faces give more away than bodies do. I can spot someone having an orgasm from twenty paces now just by the look on his or her face. I used to get turned on by it at first, but I'm kind of blase now.
On a rammed night like this, the hours fly by. There's the usual mix of customers, mostly a fetish crowd, many of whom I know and say hello to. There's a guy called Antoine who's actually French but loves the bondage scene so much he moved here. Not my type, though; he's very smooth-bodied and slender, and I like my men rough, hairy, unclean. I spend some time at the bar, passing time with Helena and Guy, a couple in their mid-thirties who steal away to the bar whenever they can get a babysitter and relive the fetish clubbing days of their early courtship. Helena can still fit into her original 1980s dress. Guy describes how it takes an hour to buckle and belt her into it, not because fastening the various catches is laborious but because the sight of her trussed up in rubber makes him so horny, he'll stop to fuck her twice, once in the pussy and once in the face. He doesn't hold back on any of the details, and my nipples get hard and hot under my rubber bandeau.
The usual collection of tourists dressed in street clothes is in tonight. They fall into two categories: the ones who look around them, immediately either blush or mumble an excuse, and then turn on their heels and run out and those who, with widened eyes, edge shyly forward, taking in the mix of people and letting the bass-heavy industrial music take over as they nervously order a beer. I always make a special point of talking to these customers to put them at their ease, and not just because I want their tips. You don't do this job unless you're curious about people and what makes them tick. My favorite kind of customer, the one who turns up in jeans and a T-shirt, is the one who, come four a.m., is doing tequila shots and frantically fucking some fetish-head in full-body latex. There's nothing like your first night in the world of kink.
At midnight, the place really gets going. Every table is packed, a sea of flesh wrapped in black and red gear. Tray balanced on my shoulder, I squeeze my way through the crowd, the bare flesh on my thighs and belly occasionally brushing against someone's fetish wear, waking up my skin, making me feel alive. We turn the music up so loud that we have to read each other's lips, and if you stand too near the speakers the bass is so strong you feel it in your pussy. A crowd starts to sway on the tiny dance floor, men and women working up a sweat that gathers in pools under their restrictive clothes. The place smells hot, sexy, of skin and rubber. I look around the packed room, checking for empty glasses or overfull ashtrays. Not many tourists in tonight, just the usual fetish crowd, old friends greeting each other, new friends being made, flirtations and little sexual intrigues developing all over the place. On nights like this, I have the best job in the world. I scan the room again, this time observing people's faces. Relaxation, excitement, trepidation, adventure-everyone's features tell a different, fascinating story.
Then I do a double take. There's one face in the crowd that isn't joining in, isn't watching anyone: a man in his early twenties, pale, almost aristocratic, English-looking face with steely blue eyes that don't smile. Thick, light-brown wavy hair brushes the collarbone of his black turtleneck sweater. He's also wearing black pin-cord trousers and stylish boots. I can tell that his clothes are made of cashmere, fine cotton, and the softest nubuck leather. I don't know what to make of him. He looks more like an escaped librarian than a clubber or a regular on the fetish scene. He looks cultured. Rich. Uptight, even. What the hell's he doing here? I decide to break the ice.
"Hi," I say to him in German, sidling over to his table. "How are you? What are you drinking? Can I get you another?" I ask, even though his beer is still virtually untouched. "Is this your first time here?" The closer I get to him, the more I talk, always a sign that I'm feeling nervous about something. Something about this fusty young man is compelling. I like the way he smells. I like his face. For the first time in years, I'm reminded of the random nature and irresistible pull of sexual chemistry. I'm so disarmed by a sudden rush of lust and adrenaline that I begin to sway and shudder, and nearly drop my tray. When he opens his soft lips to speak, a familiar fluttering in my pussy takes me by surprise.
"I'm Florian," he says, ignoring all my questions, "and you are very beautiful." He places a hand on my naked stomach. Usually behavior like this from a customer I don't know (or even from one I do know) would not be tolerated. He would get a slap in the face, and then Claudia and I would throw him out on the pavement. After all, I'm a waitress, not a private dancer.
But I don't shrink from his touch, because when his hand makes contact with my skin, it's as intense and surprising as being branded with a white-hot poker. His fingertips on my stomach send a searing shock of electricity through my whole body, little lightning rods of sexual desire. He watches as my nipples turn to hard little buds under my top. I gasp for breath as a hot, sticky, trickle of liquid slithers out of my pussy and pools in the gusset of my leather shorts. This is all happening so fast. Usually it takes a couple of dates, some fooling around, a little kissing to get me this horny.
Florian hooks one finger under the bottom of my tube top and stretches the rubber out a little, letting a cool vent of air shoot up between my aching tits. Then he lets the material go so that my top snaps back on to my body, a stinging sensation that I like (a little too much). I realize that I'm completely out of my depth here. Feeling the need to calm down, I walk away from this odd guy and back through the crowd, taking drinks orders and chatting with the regulars.
I work harder than ever that night, making sure the bar is fully stocked, wiping it down, collecting glasses, but letting Claudia look after Florian. I watch as she refreshes his glass a couple of times. He doesn't touch or stare at her but treats her with respect and detachment. His eyes are boring into me, burning holes in my flesh as real and intense as the pain he caused when he snapped my top. With shaky hands, I reapply my red lipstick in the mirror behind the bar. Through the dark sea of faces I register his pale eyes watching me. I'm scared at how much I'm feeling for a guy I don't know. I'm frightened of what might happen if I act on this unprecedented impulse to pull his fine clothes slowly off his strong but soft body while he rips off my fetish gear. It's like I've swallowed some unfamiliar drug, and I don't know what the side effects will be. I avoid him, hoping it will go away on its own.
I'm about to check the ladies' bathroom for discarded glasses when he walks out of the men's room.
"I've never seen skin that white against such black leather," he says, not touching me this time, although I want him to so much it's all I can do not to grab his hand and place it against my skin. "I can see the shape of your nipples," he continues. "They're big and getting bigger as I talk to you. But I wonder what color they are. Will they be pale, like your thighs, or dark, like your hair and your eyes? Or red, like your lips?"
Without waiting for a reply, he turns on his heel and leaves me gasping and panting and throbbing so hard between my legs that I'm sure my swollen pussy must be bulging in my skimpy hot pants, my arousal plain to see. My concentration is shot for the rest of the night. When I work the register, the numbers swim before my eyes.
"Are you okay?" asks Claudia, when I start to mess up on drinks orders.
"Fine," I say. "A little hot, that's all."
"Take a break," she says. "I can handle it in here. You've worked so hard, the place is spotless and everyone's got drinks lined up for at least half an hour. Go and get some fresh air."
I try to protest, but she slaps my thigh and shoos me out the back. "It's an order!" she shouts. "I need a waitress who's on top of things. Go!"
I slip through the staff door and then through the beaded curtain into the relatively cool and fresh air of the wooden staircase that links the main club to my little studio apartment. I sit down on the step with a thud, grateful for the breeze on my skin. I hear the thud-thud-thud of our banging techno music through the wall, and my throbbing pussy seems to keep time to it. I rock back and forth, my clitoris and pussy lips squeezed so tight, bound so closely by my second-skin leather hot pants that I think if I just press my thighs together enough and rock back and forth for just half a minute, I'll give myself the orgasm I need and I can get back to work. No one's watching; I decide to go for it. I shut my eyes, begin to tilt my body back and forth, back and forth, feeling the climax begin to well up between my legs as shivers run up and down the length of my limbs.
I'm seconds from getting myself off when the swish of the curtain makes me open my eyes. How the fuck did he get back here? He must have watched and followed me.
"So," he says, as though I've been expecting him, and in a way I have. "So." And he advances forward, so that his hips are level with my eyes.
He extends one long, elegant finger and runs it over my breasts. It squeaks on the damp latex. My skin beneath my clothes turns to ice, then fire. He finds my nipple and pushes it in hard, his finger making a little depression in the round dome of flesh, then releases it just as it begins to hurt.
He holds my wrists, encased in more black latex, and pulls them over my head. And all the while I let him. I think I will let him do whatever he wants to me. Without warning, he pulls me to my feet. I'm tall in my spiked boots, so we're eye-to-eye for a few seconds, and then he bares his teeth and swoops on my breasts like a vampire, biting my tits through the latex, making me cry out with pleasure so loudly I'm sure they can hear me in the club.
He traces his tongue along my top and licks, kisses, and sucks all the way up my collarbone, stopping to inhale deeply in my armpit. He slides his tongue underneath the rim of my armband, hands on my waist now, kneading my bare flesh while his mouth devours me.
"I want to see your tits," he says and pulls off my top, yanking it violently down and away from my skin. My flesh stings as the rubber is peeled off in one swift, merciless movement. The bandeau makes a roll around my middle, squeezing out the flesh above and below it. I look down at my exposed tits. Without the support of the top, they're an inch or two lower than when they're bound in the latex and about three sizes bigger. My white skin is scarred with red bite marks and latex burns, and my nipples, usually palest pink, are engorged and have become the shade of a dark damask rose. They swell and harden, craving more of Florian's lips. He gratifies them, bending down to bite, suckle, and inhale. As his tongue traces whorls around my areola, I know that he's enjoying the bitter aftertaste of the latex as well as the natural oils of my flesh.
"You taste and smell as beautiful as you look," he snarls, "and soon I'm going to know what it feels like to fuck you, but first I need to see some more skin." His eyes dart around the small corridor, stacked with crates, before alighting on a small craft knife that we use to slice open boxes. His face breaks into a cruel little smile. I'm turned on but panicking, too. I'm so horny I'll let him do whatever he wants… but cut me? But it's not me he wants to cut. Florian runs the blade down first one armband then the other, slicing the tight cuffs open. The cold steel of the blade teases my skin as the rubber springs back, exposing the damp, pale flesh of my inner arms to the cold night air.
He pushes me down against the stairs again, my now naked back in contact with the cold, unforgiving wooden steps. My flesh, already sore from the skimpy latex, jags against the harsh surface. Florian kneels between my knees, puts his head between my legs, and snuffles like a puppy.
Even I can smell how turned on I am, and so can he. And it's driving him mad. He's so aroused that he bites at the crotch of my shorts trying to pull the gusset aside and fuck me with his tongue, but they're too tight, he can't do it.
My clit's throbbing so much I think I'll pass out if I don't feel him on me, in me, soon, now. His hands tear at the leather, fingers digging painfully into the tender flesh of my inner thigh as he grapples with the unyielding hide to no avail. I grab his hands and place them on the twin zippers that fasten the shorts so tightly to my body. Hooking his forefingers into the loops, he pulls the zippers down, peels back the fabric, and exposes my damp, soaked bush and a very red and swollen pussy.
He touches my clit with the tip of his nose. His warm breath on my flesh combined with the smell of my own pussy rising into the air is the purest aphrodisiac I've ever known. Still prodding my clit with his nose, he licks up what juices he can from my twitching pussy. I'm so turned on and so wet that whatever he drinks up, I produce more. I'm dangerously close to coming as he hardens his tongue and probes the first couple of inches of my slit. I want to come, but I want him inside me, too.
This is when he takes his head away and opens his fly to reveal a quivering, smooth cock that bobs inches from my eyes. I gaze at the beautiful silken skin and the lone vein that throbs and pounds along the length of it.
"I don't know whether to fuck you in that beautiful red mouth or in that beautiful red cunt," he says idly. I open my mouth to beg him to fuck me in the pussy, but he sticks his cock between my lips and thrusts hard against the back of my throat, his dick silencing me. I am helpless before him, naked except for my boots, as he deep-throats me. I let my body turn to jelly; he can do whatever he likes. When I think I'm about to pass out, he pulls his dick out of me. A red lipstick ring decorates the base of his cock and the top of his balls. He pulls me by the hair so that I'm on my feet again, and, without letting go of my hair, he jabs his hard-on between my legs. Our bodies fit together perfectly, smoothly, and when he fills me up, I whimper with pleasure. I lean against him, pressing my body on his, my tits on his chest, my clit grinding into him. I've held off my orgasm for long enough, I think, as he spears into me again and again and again. Then I come, once, twice, three times, a tsunami of pleasure washing over my body. I want to feel his own juices spurt and warm up my insides, but he pulls out and shoots his spunk onto my chest.
Florian's dick is still oozing pearly liquid when he wrestles my boob tube back up over my body, stretching it over my tits so that his semen is trapped between my skin and the thin layer of latex. As I retrieve my shorts from around my knees, he kisses my stomach slowly, his gentle touch gradually bringing me back down to earth and soothing the scorch marks of his earlier touches. Finally he wipes the smeared lipstick from my face. Without a backward glance, he swishes through the curtain and goes back into the club, leaving me in a tingling heap on the stairs, his come cooling on my tits and inside my shorts.
When I step back into the club, Claudia looks up sharply. "Why are you back so quickly?" she admonishes me. "I said take a good fifteen minutes!" And then, looking me up and down again, "What happened to your armbands?"
I look at the clock in disbelief. I've been gone less than five minutes. Only the sticky spunk against my skin and the taste of his cock on my lips tells me I didn't imagine the whole thing. I scan the dark club. Happy, smiling people throng the room. He isn't one of them. But he'll be back. I know it.