Lust in Latex by Rachel Bussel

Author:Rachel Bussel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cleis Press
Published: 2013-12-17T05:00:00+00:00

SERGEANT PEPPER

Rakelle Valencia

I’m a city girl. I have no need to venture from my so-called hovel and range forth into the land of “leather and lust,” as my boyfriend fantasizes about doing. I like the city. I like my small apartment. I love all things compact and tight to the point of formfitting with no breathing room.

Dead cows pulled across my skin don’t give me even close to the same feel as my black PVC mini–evening dress, with nothing between me and it but possibly a smidge of talc. And I highly doubt these dude ranch vacations offer the shopping I can find three blocks away when fetish fairs visit my fair city. Mmm… racks of rubber and latex and PVC…a dream for a bustling, hustling girl like me.

And no one says a thing at work when I arrive to sit in my cubicle wearing navy blue PVC slacks that stretch and cling, so shiny and elegant, from my waist, over my ass to my knees, then flair off of my skin to whisper and tease where they don’t bind me snuggly.

I know my boss loves it. He rubs his hands together and scratches absently at his meaty palms when I walk by. I’ll bet he’s wondering what it would feel like to spank my encased ass or slide his hands over the smooth material that leaves nothing to the imagination or roll me in oil just so he could rub his body against me.

He licks his lips as he reads my slick-shaven lower ones through the tightly creased crotch. What he doesn’t know, and cannot see, is how wet I get from walking the aisles of cubicles to the coffee machine or the water cooler. The wetness lubricates the PVC so that it slides tantalizingly through my slit and over the small nub that hardens quickly to become overly sensitive to any movement of my teasing garment.

On these days, I walk around as much as I can, then return quickly to my chair, yank a small vibrator from the desk drawer, and cover its sensual noises with the constant running of my printer, which is old and loud. I can barely hear the vibration after the pocket rocket sucks into my PVC-covered crease and sticks while I rock back and forth. It’s in the effort to stifle the moaning, the squeaking of my wheeled desk chair, and the wanting to scream at each orgasm that my printer dutifully cranks out sheets of obsolete data, and my teeth chew into my lower lip.

My boyfriend actually wanted me to leave all of this for a week away on some dusty dude ranch. I did the horse thing as a kid. It’s over. I left it behind. But if I humored him, at least there would be the nights at this dude ranch. I’d pack my newest outfit, which was totally outrageous, as was its expense. It’d be worth it. Just the thought of wearing it had made the suit worth it already.

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