© Copyright 2003 - Unknown - Used by permission
Storycodes: MF/m; latex; bondage; PVC; cons; X
Retrieving his Travelcard from the barrier, Mike walked smartly out of the Underground station and began hurrying along the busy North London shopping street, glancing occasionally at the map he had pulled from his pocket. After had what seemed to be an interminably long drawn out application process during which he had had to submit several articles and a dummy feature and attend one interview already, he was now on his way to the final interview that would decide whether he got the job as staff writer on one of the most well known fetish magazines. After a series of disappointing and short-lived posts, which had even seen him reporting on trade fairs for the pet food industry, he was now on the verge of the sort of job he had dreamed of since he had become a journalist...
Presently the shops thinned out and run-down Victorian villas took their place. Soon even these houses petered out, to be replaced by a complex of road junctions and graffiti smeared concrete flyovers, which in turn gave way to a sprawling, untidy industrial estate. This was Mike’s destination. Turning down a side road – alley would probably be a more appropriate word – Mike soon recognised the grubby flat roofed two-storey office building from his last visit. Probably built as far back as the 1950s its yellow brickwork had long since acquired a film of grime and its metal window frames now left unsightly rust stains down the walls. The only thing which had changed since his last visit was that there was now a skip overflowing with swarf from the adjacent engineering works right outside the front door. None of this bothered him though – in fact he could still hardly believe he had been invited back.
After a short wait, a flat voice on the entry phone asked him to identify himself and in another moment he was climbing the stairs two at a time on his way to the editor’s office. Once there, after the initial formalities had been gone through, he found himself seated at a desk facing the editor – whom he recognised from his last interview - and an attractive young woman with blond hair who introduced herself as his assistant. In a businesslike manner, they soon launched into a discussion of his qualifications and experience. The interview seemed to be going well and it wasn’t long before Mike began to feel quite confident about his chances of landing a position on the staff.
Suddenly, after less than an hour or so of talking, the woman rather obviously closed the notebook in which she had been scribbling and looked Mike in the eye.
“Would you excuse us for a moment please,” she said, and with that Mike found himself alone in the office. What was going on? They had said that he should allow about three hours but now it looked as though they were going to pack it in early. What could that mean? After what seemed longer but could only have been ten minutes or so, the interviewers returned and sat back down behind the desk. Again, the woman turned towards Mike.
“You really love wearing rubber, don’t you,” she began, with a Delphic smile on her thin lips.
“Absolutely,” he replied, wondering where this new approach would lead. “I really think you have to have a feeling for it to work on this kind of title,” he continued, feeling less and less sure of himself.
“Frankly, that’s what concerns us a little,” said the editor. “We’ve been very impressed by you, but in this job you will have to get out and about to keep up with the fetish scene so that your articles are as up to date as possible. We are worried that you might get...” - there followed a long pause - “frankly, too tied up – if you pardon the expression – with what’s going on, to the detriment of your writing.”
“Oh, no” Mike stammered, looking first at the woman and then at the impassive face of the editor, “I’m sure that wouldn’t be a problem. I do like rubber but I can assure you that professionalism is what counts for me.” As he said these words Mike inwardly cringed – he hated meaningless phrases like this, yet he couldn’t think what else to say.
“Perhaps so,” said the woman icily, her blue eyes now looking cold and threatening, “but if you are still interested in the job, we would like to put you through a short test just see whether what you have said is true or not.”
At the instant she said these words, Mike felt his stomach tense and fought to contain the anger welling up inside him. All he had been expecting was a normal interview but now they seemed to be moving the goalposts - and that wasn’t fair. In any case, what sort of test could they have in mind - did they expect him to produce yet more written work for them to chew over? He turned towards the editor, as if seeking reassurance that all this was just some kind of sick joke. As if reading his feelings the latter now spoke. “Don’t worry, we’re not expecting you do any more writing or anything like that – we’ve no worries on that count. The test we’ve got in mind is more of a practical affair and shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. If you’re still interested I’ll show you to the test room.” Almost as an afterthought he added, “you won’t need your jacket, so you’re welcome to leave it here.”
Fighting back a strong urge to walk out on these increasingly strange proceedings, Mike got up and followed the editor back down the stairs and then through a door which he hadn’t noticed earlier, which revealed a dimly lit flight of steps leading into the building’s basement. Whatever sort of test could it be that had to be carried out in the basement? What was wrong with the office? No sooner than he had reached the corridor at the bottom than the editor was beckoning him into a small side room. Once inside, what he saw made him feel like pinching himself.
With its back to one wall of the windowless, cell-like room stood what looked like some kind of dentist’s chair with shiny black padding, which could have been vinyl or even rubber. What really caught Mike’s attention though was that it seemed to be fitted out with various straps – resembling car seatbelt webbing – and buckles, positioned to restrain not just the torso of anyone sitting in it but also their arms and legs. Opposite this there was a large mirror, which reached from the floor to the ceiling and against another wall stood a rack full of latex and rubber clothing. Besides the usual catsuits and hoods there also seemed to be a selection of gas masks, neoprene diving gear and waterproofs of one kind or another. Another thing struck Mike too – the stuffy atmosphere. The reason wasn’t hard to find; although it was mid-July, the radiator on the wall was definitely warm.
The editor brought Mike’s examination of the room to an abrupt halt. “Oh, I should have said, this is our little play room,” he began, “I’ll briefly explain what is going to happen, assuming you want to carry on...”
Mike nodded. He really wanted that job and he was becoming increasingly intrigued by the turn events had taken.
“The aim of this test is to see whether you have the self-control to keep a certain amount of detachment from your subject matter. In the past we’ve had trouble with people who’ve got so involved in the rubber that the writing just went out of the window – and that’s not much use when there are deadlines to meet. To be blunt, we want to see if you can wear some rubber gear for a couple of hours in this room without... er...well...you know what.” Seeing Mike had got the message, he continued, ”we reckon it’s a good test of whether you will be able to keep your mind on your work.”
Handing Mike a piece of paper laminated in plastic, he continued, “here’s a list of instructions which says what we’d like you to do. In a moment, I’ll leave you to get changed, which we’d like you to do facing that security camera – I’m afraid that we’ll have to watch you to make sure there’s no cheating but I promise that we won’t be keeping the tape or anything like that.” Motioning towards the rack he continued, “you needn’t worry about picking something up off this gear. The pants are all new and the rest of it has been thoroughly cleaned. If you want a pee, I’m afraid you’ll have to use this bucket; there’s a loo just down the corridor on the right but I’m afraid we can’t take the risk of cheating. I suggest you go now if you want to, because it’s a condition of the test that once the gear goes on it doesn’t come off until the two hours is up or you quit. Once you’ve got the gear on, Kate will come and strap you in – if that’s all right.” Mike nodded again and suddenly he was on his own with the instructions in one hand and the rack of gear in front of him.
He sat down on the chair. His suspicions were confirmed; it was indeed covered with black latex. Almost involuntarily he ran his hand over the smooth material and was instantly rewarded by the beginnings of a hard-on. Trying to regain his concentration, he began to read the instructions. He could hardly believe his eyes and he half wanted to leave there and then – the whole thing was frankly ridiculous. But having got this far towards a job, which he really wanted, why throw it all over now? Almost without thinking he began to get undressed and a couple of minutes later he was standing in the same room wearing nothing but a pair of white rubber pants which had a distinctly medical look about them. He loved the feel of rubber against his skin, but he had never worn anything like this before and he had felt strangely embarrassed, as he had pulled the stretchy garment on in front of the camera, whose monitor he assumed his interviewers were now watching.
Now however, the smooth impermeable fabric was beginning to warm up and had begun to feel less alien, even – perhaps – comfortable. He noticed something else too: the inside of the pants had been coated with something slippery. As if by some instinct, Mike found himself tracing the outline of his erect member through the rubber with his right hand. It rolled smoothly from side to side and in a few moments was straining at the rubber material, crying out to be released. Coming to his senses, Mike realised for the first time that the next two hours were not going to be as easy as he had imagined.
Before long he was putting on a one-piece smooth skin wetsuit from the
rack, being careful to do the zip up properly and then do up the neck with
its Velcro strip. Although the suit initially felt cool against Mike’s
skin, by the time he had begun to pull on a pair of black neoprene boots
he had already broken sweat. He had hardly had time to think about this,
however, because he was already putting on the latex hood that the instruction
sheet had demanded and making sure that it was properly zipped up at the
back. As if this was not enough there was also a neoprene hood to pull
on over the top to be followed by an ex-army S10 respirator.
By now Mike was beginning to sweat heavily but there was still more gear to go on. Reaching for a box at the bottom of the rack, Mike put on a pair of white latex examination gloves, quickly followed by a pair of thick neoprene diving gloves.
Glancing at the instruction sheet, Mike realised that there was still one more item on the list: chemical suit. Stepping across to the rack he began looking for a suitable garment. After finding his initial choice had been too small, he was soon fumbling with the drawstrings on the hood of a bright yellow suit made of smooth, yet surprisingly heavy PVC. In another moment the hood was pulled tightly over the neoprene hood and mask and Mike had finished following the instructions. But the suit was much too big around his waist and seeing various webbing belts hanging on the end of the rack, he couldn’t resist going back to see if he could find one that would fit. As he pulled up the suit into his crutch and fastened one of the belts tightly around his waist, he had to admit to himself that this was proving to the best interview he had ever had. “You certainly seem to be getting into the spirit of things Mike! I’ll come and strap you in now”, boomed a disembodied female voice from somewhere.
“So they really are watching”, thought Mike as he perched on the edge of the chair to await the next development. Now that he was finally wearing all the gear stipulated, he had an opportunity to take stock of his situation. He was covered from head to toe in rubber, neoprene and PVC, sucking his air through the filter of a gas mask as he sat in front of a camera in a small, airless, heated and windowless room. Although he had made a mental note to avoid looking at himself in the mirror, he couldn’t resist the temptation; all he saw was an unfamiliar yellow form topped off by the impassive expression of the gas mask with its filter jutting out to one side. The only parts of his body that he could make out were his eyes, peering through the small holes of the latex mask; everything else was covered up.
Seconds later Mike wished he hadn’t looked as he felt a familiar surging sensation from his sensitive parts and imagined the telltale bulge beginning to grow in the smooth neoprene of the wetsuit, as a new and even stronger erection pressed against the black, supple material. Unthinkingly he found himself running a gloved hand across the smooth PVC skin covering his groin and legs. Although he had always liked anything made of rubber, he had never realised what a turn-on PVC could be too.
By now the sweat was beginning to run down his back and he knew that it was only a matter of time before it began to collect in those rubber pants – he knew from experience of his own rubber gear that the urge to squirm would become almost irresistible once that happened. Struggling to distract his thoughts from the layers of hot clinging material, which covered his body, he made an effort to think of football, a game, which had always bored him silly. He was sure that one of the characters in some foreign film he had once seen had recommended it as a way to damp down passions. Who knew? Perhaps it could help him now...
His thoughts were cut short as the door opened and the woman entered the room. The last time he had seen her, she had been wearing smart business clothes but now she was wearing a very short skirt – was it leather or rubber? – and what could only be a latex tee shirt which hugged her body and through which the outlines of her nipples could clearly be seen. Mike’s erection grew harder as he fought back the urge to reach out and touch her. “Just make yourself comfortable and then I’ll do you up,” she said, and then, pointing to a row of water bottles on a small table beside the chair, she continued matter-of-factly, “I’ll leave your arms free – well fairly free – because you’ll need them to get yourself a drink. It’s very important that you drink enough – the last thing we want is a case of heatstroke and we certainly don’t want to have to explain how it happened.” For the first time, Mike saw a broad smile on her on her lips.
Without saying any more, she got to work. Pushing Mike’s ankles up against the front of the chair, she expertly looped the black nylon webbing around his legs and pulled it tight. Unable to resist the urge to see how secure his legs now were, Mike tried to move. Although his bonds didn’t feel tight to the point of discomfort, he couldn’t move an inch. Soon the tops of his legs were secured in the same way and it was the turn of his torso. First a lap belt went across his waist and then two cross belts went from each shoulder to opposite sides of his stomach. Looking at the buckles, Mike noticed that they appeared to require some kind of key to release them – there certainly didn’t seem to be any way that he could undo them again.
“Comfortable?” asked the woman, though the way she said it made it sound more like a statement than a question. Mike nodded. “In that case, that just leaves your hands to deal with. Hold them out in front of you.” Mike did as he was told and in a moment a pair of rubber padded medical restraints separated by a short webbing strap were fastened around his wrists.
The woman stepped back and seemed to be casting a quick glance over her handiwork. “Right then,” she began brusquely, “I think that’s you all set; you have two hours from now. Have fun and good luck! Oh, and one last thing, if you need to be unstrapped early, just press the button on the table.” With that she made to leave but then seemed to hesitate. Quite deliberately she reached down and felt around Mike’s crutch through the PVC and neoprene. When she had found what she was looking for, she firmly grasped the bulge in Mike’s wetsuit with her right hand. “You like my tee shirt don’t you?” she said softly. With that she turned smartly on her heel and left Mike on his own having carefully closed the door behind her.
Mike rested his head against the headrest of the chair and took stock of his situation, covered from head to toe in rubber and PVC, strapped down and handcuffed. It seemed hardly credible that little more than 90 minutes ago he had been walking along a shopping street dressed in ordinary clothes on his way to what he thought would just be another ordinary interview. Whatever sort of people were they who could think up something like this? And yet the truth was that far from finding the experience frightening or repugnant he was thrilled and thoroughly aroused – something, which was powerfully confirmed by the beginnings of yet another erection and a growing bulge in his neoprene skin. He had often fantasised about being tied up in rubber and now it had become reality. He realised that he had been forced to confront his innermost sexual cravings...
Trying again to think of football, Mike attempted to push the realisation of how much he was enjoying himself out of his mind. Even more boring than the game itself were the long lists of results read out after the news. Mike made a special effort to think of them. He knew that in his present situation it would be all too easy to reach a point of no return after which things would just happen automatically. For a while the strategy even seemed to be working. His pulse slowed and the latest erection gradually began to subside. Looking at the clock, Mike made a mental note that he had been fully geared up now for thirty-three minutes. He decided to have a drink and began to slide back the hood of the suit to expose the neoprene hood and get to the mask.
“Use the drinking tube in the mask Mike!” said a woman’s voice from the speaker. Mike nodded at the unblinking eye of the camera and pulled the hood back into place, cursing his thoughtlessness - how could he have been so stupid? Drawing on his Territorial Army training, he pulled the tube out of its housing, turned the valve which placed the inner end of the tube in his mouth and then plugged the connector into the water bottle which he held upside down level with his eyes. Once he had blown some air into the bottle, pleasantly cool water began to flow through the tube. More relaxed now, he sat back in the latex-covered chair and alternately blew and sucked on the rubber tube until his thirst was quenched.
After the initial impact of total enclosure, Mike had begun to think that perhaps he might make it after all. Putting his head back on the latex headrest and staring at the ceiling, his football strategy seemed to be paying dividends, yet no matter how hard he tried his thoughts kept on turning to his present situation. Finally, as if to confirm that it wasn’t just a dream, he couldn’t resist looking down at his neoprene and PVC-covered body any longer. As he tilted his head forward, his eye caught a drop of condensation, which could only have come from the outlet of his mask rolling down the yellow PVC skin covering his chest. It continued downwards, following the creases until it reached a fold in the impermeable material where a small pool of water was already gathering.
In an instant all those thoughts of boring football matches vanished and Mike’s mind focussed involuntarily on all that sweat which had been steadily building up inside his suit. Suddenly, he became keenly aware of the gentle tickling sensation all over his body as innumerable droplets of sweat coalesced and formed rivulets as they worked their way down his body. Clenching his fists and wiggling his toes, he realised that his hands and feet were already submerged in their own individual rubber baths. Almost subconsciously he allowed himself a quick squirm and sure enough, he was rewarded by the exquisite sensation of bubbles of air moving around in his sweat-filled and well-lubricated pants. Almost instantly his pulse began to pound and he could feel an erection building fast.
Without even being able to think what he was doing, he found he was slowly and rhythmically rocking his hips to and fro. In another moment he found his right hand resting on his crutch and briefly registered that his breath had begun to roar through the mask as his breathing deepened. Now he could feel droplets of sweat running down the inside of his latex mask and his whole body seemed to be glowing, perhaps even melting into one with the rubber and neoprene covering him. Dimly he thought of just carrying on for another minute or two and then forcing himself to stop before it was too late but he had begun to feel like a spectator, simply watching events without being in control of them...
“Forty seven minutes!” said the woman’s voice crisply. It was the editor’s assistant again and she was now standing in front of Mike with her back to the mirror: “I don’t think we will need to check for the proof.” With that she winked at the editor who had now joined her. “It seems boys will be boys”, she laughed and shot a sharp glance at the masked figure in front of her.
Her voice was like the crack of a whip and brought Mike up with a start. There were no two ways about it, he had blown it. With his head slumped forward he looked down at his legs again. As he did so more condensation dripped out of the mask onto the PVC. But now, rather than feeling aroused he was beginning to feel somewhat self-conscious and silly – and also rather cold as the sweat began to cool and the stuffy atmosphere of the room dispersed through the open door. What had he been thinking of?
“Would you like anything to drink?” asked the editor.
“No... thanks”, replied Mike, his voice muffled by the mask, “I’d just like to have a shower and get home.” He didn’t want to stay any longer than he had to – nor did he ever want to set foot anywhere near the place again or hear the magazine’s name. The more he thought about it all, the more humiliated and angry he felt – why hadn’t he just walked out when they had given him the chance to? Why had he let himself be put into such an absurd situation?
“Don’t you want to celebrate then?” asked the woman as she inserted a small key into the buckles and undid the straps.
“What do you mean”, asked Mike suspiciously. He had had enough of this pair’s practical jokes.
“Your appointment as our new staff writer.”
“But you know I didn’t last the course,” Mike mumbled through the mask.
“That’s quite right,” said the editor, “the other guy we short listed stuck it out for the full two hours and was pretty pleased with himself at the end of it all. But all that proved was that he wasn’t kinky after all. If it hadn’t been for this test he’d have fooled us. I’m sorry we couldn’t be straight with you earlier on, but we can’t afford to hire people who aren’t 100% turned on by gear like this. You can thank Kate here for your new job – this test was her idea.”
Mike looked at Kate, who was still wearing her latex tee shirt. Underneath
all that rubber he had a broad grin on his face and something told him
that the two of them might be getting to know each other a lot better.