Gromet's PlazaLatex Stories

Jillian's Mouse Trap 1: The Will

by RbrBill

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© Copyright 2009 - RbrBill - Used by permission

Storycodes: MF; F/m; latex; SBR; bond; cons; X

Chapter 1: The Will

The office was dark and gloomy.  It exuded old stuffiness.  The walls lined with old law books on shelves.  The heavy mahogany desk sat in front of windows with drawn curtains to emphasize the gloom.  The only light came from a shaded lamp on the corner of the desk.  Two leather chairs sat near the desk for clients.  The larger leather chair behind the desk indicated the status of its occupant as compared to the lesser individuals who might grace the office.  A sofa and coffee table sat against the one open wall for informal discussions.  A small serving area had coffee pot, a small selection of very fine spirits, glasses and cups for serving.

The solicitor slowly looked up from the paper pile in front of him.  He looked straight into the eyes of the one other person in the room.

Jillian squirmed under his scrutiny.  She felt that she was being measured and found undesirable in some way.  She crossed her legs carefully.  She looked the part of the grieving widow, or should I say ex-wife of the deceased.  She wore her light gray suit.  It was a severely cut and very conservative.  For the occasion, she felt obliged to wear a hat with a short veil.  It seemed odd to be so formal but the occasions seemed to fit the need.

“Miss Sherman,” the lawyer began, “Even though you have been divorced for two years, my client, the late Ambrose Stevenson, seemed it a necessity to include you in his will.  I dare say that I opposed that decision.  I am being quite honest with you in this matter.  However, his final wishes shall be accorded in their fullest, regardless of how repugnant I find them.”

Jillian burned at this appraisal.  Not that she might have deserved some of the fellow’s ill feelings but that was over and it seemed to her the Ambrose must have gotten over the difficult divorce and even had some remorse which was instrumental in her being in his will.  That alone seemed to her to be enough to soften some of the feelings this comfortable looking fellow behind the desk had.

She tried to find some quick witted retort and was lost.

“I have been instructed to allow you time to view a video that Mr. Stevenson made and to read this letter,” he held up three or four sheets of paper, “that he prepared for you.  When you finish, please press the call button on the Intercom and I will return to finish the proceedings.”

He flipped the reversible screen of his Gateway toward her and pushed the mouse over to her along with the letter.

“I hope you can handle starting the video.  I shall leave you now.”  The fellow walked slowly out the door.

Jillian sat for a moment.  She collected her thoughts, thoughts that were swarming in her head. 

Should she read first or listen?  An odd question to consider.  The lawyer hadn’t indicated which she should do first.  She decided to watch the video first.  If nothing else, it was easier to do than read.  She always liked the easier path.  She pulled the mouse closer and walked the arrow over the play button on the Windows Media Player screen.  She hit play and after a few seconds of dark, a picture of a thin and pale Ambrose Stevenson filled the screen.

“Hello, Jillian.  If you are watching this video then that means I have passed from your world.  The illness that is taking me…took me…is difficult to explain so I will not elaborate on that.  Needless to say, you see me here as I approach the end.  I have reconciled myself with what is happening. ”

“We had three years together and I admit that I was much to blame for the failure of our marriage as any.  I thought you understood my eccentricities of life.  I fully explained them to you before we married.  I even gave you a taste of what to expect as my spouse, still you never fully understood or participated in my pleasures.  For that I was driven to find substitution for my desire.”

“It wasn’t your fault.  I know that now.  As I slowly slipped into my personal interests, our distance grew and you had to find outlet for your passion.  You are a very passionate person.  I thought that passion could soar under my influence.  It seemed to in the beginning but your fire for my ways burned out.  We drifted apart as I continued with my way and you went yours.”

“The divorce was hard.  You exposed my kinks to the world as my solicitor exposed your infidelity, something that at the time I didn’t grasp was my fault as well.  For this I am ashamed and ask for forgiveness.”

“I am sure that the divorce and its sensation will be rehashed by the weekly tabloids as my demise is made public.  I have succeeded to date to keep it quiet until all involved with my life are notified and arrangements made to safely hide everyone from the limelight.”

“For this purpose, I intend to bequeath you the San Juan Estate as your personal refuge from the public eye.  I know we didn’t have the best times there but I hope you can forgive the difficulties and remember the walks on the beach or the sunsets over the Straights or the sunrises over Mount Baker.”

“In addition to the estate, I leave you a trust fund in the amount of $25 million to draw on for your needs.  My solicitor is instructed to monitor the trust and make deposits as needed to keep it at an appropriate level.”

“These are small things I can do for you to make up for those three failed years…lost years…of our lives and the hard and troubling way in which it ended.  I take full responsibility for the troubles we had.”

“Now I am guessing that you watched this before reading the letter.  You always were one to take the easier course.  I hope that my journey into death opens your eyes a bit to the challenge and possible reward of taking the more difficult path from time to time.”

“Good Bye and take Care.”

The screen went black.  Jillian was a bit unsettled by the final words Ambrose spoke.

She thought briefly of that turbulent three years.  She met the British expatriate at one of those mucky muck functions that Gates occasionally held for the who’s who of the computer and software world.


Ambrose Stevenson had made a fortune and managed to hold onto it as he developed one of the largest Internet businesses in Europe.  His holdings and operations were diverse.  His company actually made something to sell so the business world-wide reach helped his product growth.

He soon moved to the US to gain a level of tax shelter from the high taxes in Europe.  He managed to incorporate the major holding company of his enterprises in Ireland and took advantage of their friendly business climate but he didn’t want to live in Ireland.  The US seemed so free and ready for him. 

He fell in love with the Pacific Northwest and its gloomy and wet days.  It seemed like his home in the Lake District.  It also fit into his fancy for the unusual apparel that excited him. 

Ambrose Stevenson loved the protection afforded by a good quality SBR Macintosh in a hard rain with wind whipping at the skirts of the coat.  His love for such things didn’t end there.  He enjoyed the sexy look of tight leather and latex clothing on people.  He enjoyed rubber fantasy games as well.  He loved rubber bondage.  He loved being bound for hours at a time and subjected to tantalizing teasing that resulted in prolonged stimulation resulting in final and satisfying release.  He hoped to find someone who might share in his games to learn and expand horizons of love through an exploration and discovery of what latex offered.  His mind was obviously clouded by his own passion for rubber as he soon found there were not many people, especially women, who even remotely desired to taste rubber in the mouth or smell it warming to skin.

Jillian saw the slim gentleman standing quietly in a corner.  He was sipping a gin and tonic.  She knew about everyone at the party by sight.  She was wearing her “I’m looking for a catch” clothes.  She never really considered herself a “gold digger” but if the opportunity ever came up, she’d happily settle for the comfort.  The fellow looked to be in his late thirty’s.  That didn’t really bother her, though he must have been about fifteen years her senior.  She figured he was loaded.  Loaded could overcome just about anything or so she thought.  Love was secondary in her mind.  Security was nice and as long as the guy wasn’t completely incapable in the sack, she figured she could manage.

She wandered over toward his corner, swirling the wine in her glass.

Stevenson saw the young woman approaching him.  He appraised her openly.  She looked to be about five feet seven but the heels she wore elevated her to his height of five feet eleven.  She wore a nicely tailored leather suit.  It looked to be from Wilsons.  Her silk shod legs showed from just above the knee to the mid-calf boots that matched her leather.  A white silk blouse showed above the deep cut of her suit jacket.  Her breasts were a bit on the small side.  She was certainly no handful in that department but the clothing she wore set off her shape to perfection.  The suit had a narrow waist that accented rather than diminished her willowy body.

He thought that leather might be promising.  It implied power and adventurism that might fit his style.       

“Hi,” Jillian said.

“Good evening,” Stevenson responded. 

She heard his accent and was immediately interested.

“I saw you here alone.  Do you have someone waiting for you?” Jillian asked.

“No.  I am fairly new to town,” he replied.  “I have interests in the computer industry so when I got the invite to this party; I felt it opportune to mingle some with the local computer chaps.”

“I see,” Jillian said.  “Most of these guys are pretty much geeks.  I come for the good wine and food.”

“Geek or not, most are pretty rich,” Stevenson observed.

“And most are hitched,” Jillian said.

Stevenson lifted his brow questioningly.

She added, “Married.”

“Oh, I see.  I was curious about that.  I pictured someone pulling a little cart about the yard or something when you first said that.”

This time Jillian raised her brow.

“Strangely enough, some people fancy that sort of entertainment where I come from.”  Stevenson smiled.


Jillian thought about that one.  She didn’t realize that he was one of the ones who fancied that sort of entertainment when he had said it.

She opened the letter and read.

“Dear Jillian,

I know that you were not ready for my ideas of pleasure.  I thought when I saw you in the suit that first night that you would be one who could appreciate my eccentricity.  I was so wrong and I still tried to push you into my lifestyle.  How can I truly tell you how sorry I am that my desire pulled us apart? 

The rubberism is a part of me.  It is as if I were born to be a rubberist.  I told you how ingrained the desire for latex was inside me.  I tried to give you the understanding of the enhancement it provided to my life.  Perhaps my imagination is too active.  Perhaps my first contacts with rubber as a youth programmed me to the extreme need I have reached.  In my efforts to pass the same feeling to you, I lost you.  You ran rather than experimented.  You let me dress in my gear but you wouldn’t participate.  You helped seal me into my gear but you didn’t enjoy.

When I learned you were leaving me alone in bondage to see others, it was too much for me to grasp.  You left me when I should have been monitored just in case something happened.  Fortunately for me nothing ever happened as the bondage was always well planned but I still expected you to care for me when I would travel into the dark world I use as escape.  I hoped you would join in the games one day, perhaps frolic on my bound body with reckless abandon as a thick hard shaft locked over my manhood allowed you to ride me to bliss.

Yes, I was as much to blame but you were the one who ran from me and sought pleasure away from me.  After you discovered the depth of my deprivation, you abandoned me.  I would happily have normal relations with you but you pushed me away, even to the point we didn’t sleep in the same room.

Those times I was locked into the sleep bag for the night, I now know that you weren’t even in the next room to respond to my safe signal if I ever used it.  It was my fault to push my fetish onto you.  But you pushed me away as though the rubber was some sort of plague.

But for all that, I forgive you since I was to blame for the start of our troubles.

The San Juan Estate is ready for your occupancy.  I removed all vestige of my gear.  The dungeon is no longer open for business as it were.  There will be memories that might keep you from fully embracing the place.  I am sure you will work it out.  Even if you stay just long enough to allow the publicity to blow over and sell the place, it is your choice.  You were always good at working things out to your advantage.  You will find your favorite wine and plenty of food when you arrive.

Mr. Jenson has taken care of everything.  All arrangement are made for your immediate move to the place, whether for a week or two, a year or longer.  It is your choice.

Know that I loved you in my own way.  I found peace in my final fate that I never really had before.

Take care and enjoy your future as the former wife of a rich deceased British expatriate.

Faithfully and always yours,


Jillian folded the letter.  Well, at least he admits to his sin, she thought.

“I hated that place and its dungeon and all of that filthy rubber stuff,” she mumbled.  “Still, I could use some time alone and I’m rich thanks to Ambrose and he is right about the publicity stuff.”

This thing couldn’t stay hidden for much longer.  It would be better to be out there and tucked away before the storm struck.

She pushed the call button and Jenson appeared.

“I take it you understand the urgency?” He asked.  “The press will be informed of Mr. Stevenson’s demise tomorrow.  We must move you to the island estate tonight.”

It all moved so fast.  Jillian was whisked from the legal offices to her small apartment to pick up needed clothes and personal items.  The quick trip resulted in two suitcases and on small travel bag of things that she figured would be needed for the next month or so.

Jenson told her that should she decide to stay longer, someone could easily take care of closing out the apartment lease and retrieving the rest of her things.

She was being chauffeured north along I-5.  They soon were in the Skagit Valley and turning west on Highway 20.  Jillian knew the way well but she always enjoyed the scenery of the valley.  In spring the tulips were in bloom and many of the fields on either side of the road were in full color.  She listened to the music coming through the speakers.  It was soft listening stuff.  The car slowed as they drove into Anacortes and wound through the streets to the ferry terminal.

The driver paid the fare and they were directed into the Shaw Island lane.  Shaw Island was the smallest of the islands with a ferry landing.  The landing didn’t have a terminal.  The ferry only stopped at Shaw twice a day.  And as remote as Shaw island may be, the island was only a way stop to reach the estate.  The estate was its own island about one quarter mile off shore.  There was a small landing on the opposite side of Shaw from the ferry dock with a garage.  The landing was part of the estate; its fragile link to civilization. 

Jillian watched from the passenger deck as the ferry plowed through the open Sound.  She saw fishing boats and whale watchers out and about in the surf.  Behind to the east, Mount Baker stood out against the sky.  Her mind wandered to the Estate.  Memories were faded but still there.  She wondered why she decided to go along with this.  The ferry pulled into the Orcas Island terminal.  She’d have to go back to the car soon as Shaw was a short passage across the channel from Orcas.  The cold air invigorated and she wasn’t keen to return to the stuffy car.

The ferry pulled out of Orcas Island and headed across the channel.  Jillian went back to the car.  Only a few minutes later they were landing at Shaw Island.  As expected, the big car was the only one leaving here.  There were a couple of bikers heading for some easy riding on the isolated Shaw Island roads but that was it.

Too soon the car parked at the estate landing on the west end of the island.  The twenty-five foot cabin cruiser waited.  Staff from the boat trotted up to retrieve her belongings and put them aboard.  The car drove off.  She got aboard and went into the cabin.  The boat motored into the Sound.  She often wondered why Shaw Island was the site for the landing.  Orcas Island was closer.  Ambrose said that Shaw was more remote and safer.  Jillian always thought that any of the San Juans were pretty remote.  Soon enough Spieden Island loomed in the distance.  Ambrose had acquired the entire island for his pleasure.  It sat in the middle of the finest Orca watching grounds in the country.  From the main house the view over to San Juan Island was spectacular.  The other former residences were maintained as guest houses or staff homes.  According to Jenson the staff was gone now.

Jillian wondered who would take care of the grounds and keep the house clean.  Jenson didn’t have any answers to that question.  He only said that the trust would serve the need should she decide to stay on. 

The boat made landing.  Jillian walked from the dock up the steep hill to the house.  The crew unloaded her things and carried them up to the house.  The boat skipper opened the house and gave Jillian the key without a word.  Silence had been the norm for the crossing.  These fellows seemed to see Jillian as an unwelcome intruder.

“The kitchen is well stocked,” the skipper said curtly.  “The radio works so if you need assistance you can call.  The frequency and call sign are here”.

“We return weekly with supplies.  If you have any special needs, let us know the day before the scheduled run.  Here s the key, Ma’am.  We’ll be on our way now.”

Jillian watched from the deck as the boat crew boarded and the boat cast off.  She was alone to explore the place.  She shivered and pulled her windbreaker close.

She remembered trails, a tennis court, a pool, and plenty of evergreens were available.  There were three other houses on the island.  A small power generating station provided electricity.  Ambrose had put several solar panels out in a large field to supplement the LPG generators.  The generators were seldom needed as weather in the San Juans was relatively good most of the time.  The satellite system worked so she had television.  The computer link was available.  She decided to see if the storm over Ambrose’s demise had finally hit.  Her quick check of the Internet connection showed nothing.  Odd.

She took a long walk working up quite an appetite.  The walk to the one beach was invigorating and the sights wonderful.  She was alone and rich.  She had security and time to think of her future.  All in all it looked pretty bright.

Ambrose frequently prepared things ahead of time and stored them for quick preparation.  This practice allowed gourmet meals in short order.  He didn’t fail this time either.  There were plenty of prepared meals to choose from as she discovered.  She fixed a light meal of salad, pasta and wine. 

She lounged in front of the TV.  She caught some local news.  Still nothing on Ambrose.  Well maybe the story will break tomorrow.  She went to the door… the door to the dungeon… and opened it.  The stairs were there.  She switched on the light.  She went down and saw… nothing.  The basement was just a basement.  Ambrose had been honest about that.  There was another door that had gone into a small workshop in the past.  She pulled it open and peered into the gloom.  It was still a workshop as far as she could tell.

She was a bit embarrassed that she doubted Ambrose’s word but she had to check.  She went back up stairs.  She showered and was ready for bed.  Again, she looked into the infamous wardrobe that had held the stuff.  It was empty.  The embarrassment hit again.  She went to bed wondering when she should invite a friend to visit or maybe live in this luxury with her.

The next morning began normal enough.  Jillian woke to birds calls.  She put on a running suit and went for a quick walk around the place.  She heated up some breakfast and was ready to settle into doing… nothing.  She wanted to hit Friday Harbor.  That meant she needed the boat so she went to the radio to call.

The static cleared as she got the frequency dialed in.  “Hello, this is Spieden calling.”  She switched to receive.

“Hello?” Again she switched to receive.

“Oh Spieden!  Glad to receive you.  Is something wrong, over?”

“I’d like to run into Friday Harbor later today.  Maybe a smaller boat for my use would be good so I don’t need to call in the cavalry every time I want to go somewhere…over?”

“Certainly.  We can send the boat to you.  I’ll see what to do about a more permanent boat for your use, over.”

“Thanks, over.”  She was getting the hang of this “over” stuff.

“Is there anything else?  Over.”

“Not really…just the Ambrose story sure seems quiet.”

“Yes, they’ve done a great job of keeping it out of the public.  Oh one more thing… could you check on the Pualsen house?  It seems the power must have surged or something.  We’re getting an alarm.  You may have to look at the circuit breakers.  They are just inside the back door utility room.  Over.”

“Sure.  I can check it this morning.  Over.”

“Thanks.  Over and out.”



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