Ethan’s stomach twisted as he faced Mistress Vara’s basement door, nerves crackling after days of scrolling online for a dominatrix. Her voice, honey-sweet, had hooked him in when he’d called to arrange the session. Now, he knocked, tentative, pulse racing. The door swung open, revealing her: black latex hugged her curves like liquid night, crimson lips curling in a knowing smile.
“You’re nervous,” she said, stepping aside, her scent—rubber and musk—pulling him in. “It suits you.”
The dungeon thrummed with dim light, a pink neon Sluts Wanted sign casting a glow over racks of toys and outfits. The air was heavy, thick with rubber’s distinct smell. She pressed a pre-lubed catsuit into his hands, its slick chill making him shiver. “Put it on,” she commanded, her voice velvet-wrapped steel. Ethan hesitated, pinned by her gaze. “This is why you’re here,” she cooed, crimson nails grazing his jaw.
He stripped under her watch, trembling as the latex slid up his legs, clung to his hips, encased his chest. It squeezed his bulge tight, the constriction sending a jolt through him—half-pain, half-thrill. The suit hugged him, a glossy second skin, smooth and unrelenting.
He exhaled, hands tracing its texture, arousal pulsing against the rubber’s grip. “On your knees,” she purred, turning to reveal the swell of her ass, thighs sculpted in gleaming latex.“Worship me.”
Ethan sank, knees kissing the cold floor, face inches from her. The suit creaked as he leaned in, lips brushing the slick curve of her thigh. She sighed, a sound that curled around his spine, and he pressed harder, kissing, licking, tasting rubber and lube. His bulge strained, trapped, the latex amplifying every throb. Her hand slid into his hair, guiding him higher, his mouth tracing the seam where thigh met ass. “Good little slut,” she murmured, stroking his cheek. The words sank into him—filthy, perfect, right. He moaned, lost in her flesh and the suit’s tight hold.
“Stand,” she said, pulling him up. She circled with a cloth and polish, hands gliding over his chest, his hips, his aching bulge. The cool polish warmed under her touch, the latex tightening, her fingers sparking fire through the slick layer. He shivered, drowning in it: smooth, tight, intoxicating. The neon glow danced on his shining form as she cooed, “You crave it already.” He nodded, dazed, her crimson lips a beacon in the haze.
The session blurred. Her paddle’s sting, her whispers teasing his edges… but that first worship lingered, branding him. When it ended, he rasped, “Where do I change?” “Keep it until next time,” she said, her tone hypnotic, eyes glinting. She ushered him out, and he hastily threw a jumper over the suit, the latex creaking as he drove home. Streetlights caught its sheen through the fabric, his bulge still pulsing, raw and alive.
At his flat, the suit became his obsession. That night, he didn’t take it off. He grabbed a cloth, polishing it with shaky hands, chasing her touch. The glossy grip moulded to him, addictive, his constrained arousal a constant hum. Hours bled away before exhaustion claimed him, still encased.
The next night, he wore it again, the ritual deepening. By day two, his chest tingled faintly, a soft fullness he rubbed absently—too much food, he thought. His hips ached, a dull throb he blamed on tension. The suit fit too perfectly now, its squeeze on his bulge more intimate, more right.
Day three, he woke to sharper tingling, his skin hypersensitive. He peeled the suit off, staring at his reflection—scruffy hair, tired eyes, but his chest seemed… softer. The ache in his hips lingered, his bulge oddly snug even without the latex. A reaction, he decided. Perhaps a rubber allergy? Or overstimulation? He shoved the catsuit under his bed, muttering, “No more.” The dungeon, Vara, that worship, it was too much. He’d quit. But as he flicked off the light, the memory of her whispering “good little slut” and the suit’s glossy promise pulsed in the dark.
dailybridgerton
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