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|Storycodes: Solo-F; M/f; bar; pickup; strip; naked; gag; latex; tease; catsuit; denial; sex; climax; cons; X||
|Penance Jo Solo-F; M/f; bar; pickup; strip; naked; gag; latex; tease; catsuit; denial; sex; climax; cons; X|
"But Miss Rourke, I... I need this job. My husband has been out of work for almost a year and we have a baby."
"Mrs. Donaldson, they're moving some departments in this division to Chicago and-"
"I can go to Chicago. My husband doesn't have a job. We can move."
"I'm sorry, but the decision has been made. There's nothing I can do."
That wasn't true, of course. Miranda, while young at 27, was for all intents and purposes COO and while her boss made the final decision in these matters, he pretty much rubber-stamped her recommendations.
"Here is a check for two months severance pay. I've included a letter of reference. And I need you to sign this."
The woman seemed dazed. She paused nearly a full minute before taking the pen and signing the release form. She took the envelope and left the office.
Jacquelyn, her secretary came into the office.
"How can you live with yourself?"
Miranda shot her a look.
"I'm sorry. That came out all wrong. Sorry. I'm just, well, it's upsetting."
"It has to be done."
"If it upsets you, then have your agency arrange a replacement."
"No! No. It's just... she has a kid and her husband is out of work-"
"Why is that my problem? She's obviously made some very bad life choices."
"I understand that logically, but... how do you cope? You're not evil."
Miranda chuckled. "I hope not."
Miranda pondered the question and the answer.
"No. No, I'm not, but there are things I do religiously to get me through."
Miranda closed her computer slid it into its case.
"If you feel that this is not a good fit for you, let me know. Think about it over the weekend and we'll talk Monday."
At home Miranda poured a tall drink and stepped into the shower. She didn't drink much anymore. That's how she used to cope: Mass quantities of booze and anonymous sex. But it had become part of her Friday ritual to take a long, hot shower, let the water wash over her while she sipped her drink. While most nights she worked late, on Friday she left promptly at 5:00 so she could prepare herself for him before he came home. She didn't bother with her makeup or hair; it wouldn't matter anyway. She pulled on a pair of jeans and a blouse, no underwear. Again, it wasn't necessary. She slipped into a pair of sandals and drove to Nicolas' house.
She had met him about six months ago, at a bar, naturally. The bar was in an upscale hotel that catered to businessmen. Men away from home, away from their wives. Men who she could let bed her with no entanglements.
She saw him enter the bar. He was not very tall, perhaps an inch or so taller than herself with her heels. He was swarthy with tan skin and black hair, totally her opposite with her pale, near pasty white skin and bleached blonde hair. And he was good looking, very good looking, handsome even. Not her type. She rarely remembered the men she went with, but they weren't handsome. It was better that way, more... effective. Still, she was drawn to him.
He took a seat, ordered a drink. A few minutes on he came over to her, asked if she was waiting for someone, offered to buy her a drink, suggested that a table might be more comfortable.
Later, when the waitress asked if they wanted a refill, he suggested they continue their conversation at his place. He lived just around the corner.
That was not the plan. She'd had three drinks, doubles, and she felt comfortably buzzed, but nowhere near drunk enough to be taken home and fucked. Yet, there was something about him. She said yes.
Right around the corner turned out to be three blocks down and four over. They took a cab. He had money. Had to considering the neighborhood, a cluster of private homes tucked into a corner of the city.
He poured her a drink and they talked some more. She wondered when and how he would make a move. When it came it was not what she expected. He simply took her empty glass, set it aside, took her hand, and led her into the bedroom.
He told her to undress.
This was so off-plan. She was supposed to be drunk and let him ravage her, have wild, screaming monkey sex using every dirty word she could think of, maybe get roughed up, slapped around a little.
He stood calmly watching her. She reached for the top button of her blouse and felt a wave of embarrassment wash over her as she undid it and the next and the next. She wasn't a prude, had no problem with nudity. She was proud of her body. She was slim, not particularly fit, but slim with breasts a cup size past perky. She didn't have an hourglass figure, but her hips were wide enough to balance her chest.
But there was naked and then there was naked. She undid the cuffs and shrugged out of the blouse. He took it and laid it on a chair. She unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it. Again he took it from her and set it aside.
She bent to slip off her heels, but he said, "Leave them."
She handed over her bra and panties and waited. He said nothing for a minute, two, just gazed at her. She couldn't stand it and had to look away.
"Spread you legs."
"Now pull your lips open so I can see you better."
This was not only embarrassing, it was getting to be humiliating. But she did as he asked, reached down, and tugged her nether lips apart. He slipped his hand between her legs and stroked her. Now the embarrassment and humiliation blended with arousal. This wasn't supposed to happen. When she was horny she diddled herself. Sex with men was never about arousal and satisfaction. That was not the kind of satisfaction she craved. But there was something going on, some chemistry, some part of her brain was combining, reacting to the emotions.
"Don't speak. And don't come. Not yet. In a while, but not yet."
His caress became more insistent. She could feel the seeds of an orgasm begin to sprout.
"I said be quiet."
He stepped away from her, opened a drawer. He set a plastic bottle on the night stand, placed what looked like bits of black rubber on the bed. He held up a yellow, foam ball.
She did. Part of her brain was going wtf?, but she opened her mouth and he stuffed the ball into it.
He plucked an item from the small pile. It was a hood made of shiny, black rubber. He pulled the hood over her head. It was very snug and he spent a minute smoothing it, adjusting it. It covered her whole head, covered her lips, down around her neck. There was a wide hole it in for her eyes and nose, but from her crown, down almost to her shoulders was black rubber.
"Here," he said handing her the bottle. "Put some on your hands and arms."
The other rubber things turned out to be opera gloves, long gloves that went well past her elbow, almost to her armpits. Again he spent a minute tugging and smoothing.
"Now, open yourself to me."
He placed his hand back between her legs.
He was a quick study. He learned to gauge her reactions, knew when and where to touch her for maximum effect, keeping her on the denial side of release.
When he had had enough he said, "Undress me."
Miranda did. Her hands trembled, but she managed. He had a nice body, trim, definitely fit, well-muscled. He was too hairy for her tastes, but in her current state it worked. Everything so far was off-plan, so what was one more thing.
She did, stroking his cock until it was throbbing hard. He turned and retrieved more things from the dresser. These turned out to be wide, leather cuffs that he buckled to her wrists and ankles. He clipped straps to them, then moved her onto the bed.
He clipped her wrists together and fastened the strap somewhere over her head. He took a large pillow, something like a bolster and wedged it under her bottom, raising her mound like a small mountain peak. He finished by opening and stretching her legs and attaching her ankles to the bed posts.
And then he fucked her.
It wasn't until he'd finished with her (and that's how she felt, that he had simply used her, not even her, just her pussy) that she realized he hadn't touched her. He supported himself on his hands and knees and the only contact was his cock inside of her.
He had fingered her and fucked her, but he hadn't, not once, touched her, fondled her, kissed her.
When she came out of the bathroom still wearing the hood and gloves and cuffs he said, "You'll stay for breakfast, of course."
It didn't sound like a question.
He undid the cuffs, set them aside, peeled off the gloves, again turned to the dresser. He held the cat suit while she oiled her legs, tugged at it as she stepped into it. The ends were sealed, snug little pouches on her feet. The arms had fingers and she worked her hands into the rubber digits. He reached between her legs and pulled on the zipper, stretching and adjusting the grippy rubber. The cat suit had its own collar of sorts and the zip went well up her neck. Except for her eyes and nose she was totally encased in rubber. Soon it would be just her nose.
The blindfold was also rubber. It covered her face from her forehead down to her lips with only a small cutout in the middle.
He refixed the cuffs to her ankles and wrists, helped her onto the bed. He attached the four cuffs together with one clip. Miranda had never done bondage. She was always the dominant one, even when she was topping from the bottom, goading on her bedmates. But she knew this was a hogtie and she wasn't quite sure she liked it. To be effectively sealed in rubber and now cuffed and helpless...
He held her now. Stroked her. Fondled her rubber skin. After a bit he reached down between her legs and tugged on the second zipper.
He fingered her again as he held her against him. Fingered her until she came two, three more times.
He kept her the whole weekend, tied, cuffed, covered in rubber. He took her into the bathroom, stood by while she relieved herself, wiped her after. It was humiliating. She was less than human, little more than a thing for his amusement.
But it had an effect.
The confusion, embarrassment, and yes, even anger changed her. She found herself more calm at work on Monday and Tuesday and as the week went on she began to look forward to being with him again. He said she would and she had to resist the urge to laugh in his face... or worse. But Friday night she found herself, again, sealed in rubber and helpless to his perverse desires.
That was how it started.
Over the next couple of months she spent several nights at his place, not always bound, but always clad in rubber. She even had rubber clothes to wear out on dates. It started with rubber underwear, then a rubber corset, a rubber garter belt and rubber leggings, a rubber slip, finally the outerwear: a soft, white rubber blouse and black rubber skirt. They had a matte finish and didn't look like rubber, even up close.
Now that she dressed in rubber for him he touched her more often, sometimes even stroked her bare skin, kissed her. She realized early on that it was his fetish and she obliged him because... because in the end he'd cover her in rubber until just her pussy showed and he would fuck her. Not fuck her, Miranda. He would fuck that almost disembodied thing down there. There was no Miranda left, just that hole that he stuffed things into. And she always found it embarrassing and she always found it humiliating and she always looked forward to the weekend when the bad karma of the week had built to the boiling point.
At Nicholas' house, she hung her purse on a hook inside a small closet by the front door. She hung up her blouse and jeans, kicked off her sandals, retrieved the gym bag from the back of the closet. She emptied the bag and arranged things on the floor. Soon she would be working blind and needed to know where things were.
The first garment was the rubber tights. She oiled her feet and legs and pulled them on. They were snug, but went on smoothly. She spent a minute tugging and adjusting. The waist was high, nearly to her breasts. She adjusted the slit around her pussy lips. Even though she had just been naked she felt even more naked, exposed and vulnerable when she wore them. The slit wasn't very wide, just wide enough and snug enough to make her pussy lips bulge. It extended from just on her mound to half way up the crack of her ass. It was edged in red rubber and looked like a caricature of a vulva.
Miranda pressed the earplugs into her ears. She took the rubber top and shook it out. It had long sleeves and rubber fingers and a hood. It took another couple of minutes for her to get the thing on. There was an awkward transition point for the zipper up between her shoulder blades, but she managed. The hood had three holes, two for her nostrils and one for her mouth. Like the tights, the opening was snug around her lips making them bulge. It, too, was ringed in red. From here she would be working blind.
She wrapped the heavy, rubber corset around her waist. It was black with red, vertical stripes. As with all her things it was custom made and, though snug, she was able to zip it closed.
Last came the shoes. Black leather and ankle straps with impossibly high heels that made walking a challenge, even after all these months.
She was now prepared to wait for him, little more than a rubber-clad semen repository. That's what she had been reduced to: Mouth, pussy, ass. Not a woman. Certainly not Miranda Rourke, rising star at Kraemer Thompson. She would spend the next 48 hours encased in rubber being used as Nicholas pleased... as the others pleased. There would be others.
Maybe not this weekend, but there had been before and would be again. Sometimes it was the same man or men. She recognized the cigar odor or the cologne they wore. She had no idea what they did. She couldn't hear them, not really, certainly couldn't see them. She just sat in her special chair and waited to be used.
She stepped over to the chair now. There was a pillow up against the back. It made her slouch, thrust her pussy forward. That and she draped her legs over the arms, exposing her crotch.
She wondered if Nicholas would come up with a new toy, aside from the blinding array of things that found their way into her mouth, pussy, and ass. He already had some kind of fucking machine, two actually, one with a single shaft, one with two shafts. He also had a Sybian. If she didn't have a cock somewhere inside her chances are she'd be on a machine. Sometimes they would set her up to be machine-fucked before they used her.
There was one guy whose cologne she recognized that liked to watch her suck a moving dildo until drool poured from her mouth. Another liked her to kneel with shafts in her ass, pussy, and mouth. Sometimes the men fucked her that way, three of them. They had to use Viagra or something because they stayed inside her a very long time.
Often, when they were done with her, or just waiting for round two, Nicholas set up a machine or sit her on the Sybian.
But for now she sat in the chair, a rubber-encased, soon-to-be cum receptacle. Nothing more. She didn't like it, hated it sometimes. But it would be good for her. Nicolas got his rubber fix and she did penance.
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