Open Crotch, No Mercy

The workshop smelled of talc and hot rubber.

Sloane had the roll of latex on the bench and a grin that meant Kit was not leaving in the clothes he had arrived in. She was thirty-six. He was thirty-two. They had been doing this on Sunday afternoons for half a year, and the rule was simple. She dressed him. He took what the suit turned him into.

"Arms up," she said.

He stripped. She powdered him with the bored competence of a woman who liked the ritual as much as the fuck. The catsuit went on in stages. Legs. Hips. The crotch panel left open on purpose, his cock and balls framed in black shine. She worked the rubber up his chest and zipped him to the throat.

Kit breathed. The suit held him everywhere.

"Colour," Sloane said.

"Green."

"Then on the bench. Face down. That hole is mine."

He lay on the talc-dusted wood. Sloane pulled on gloves. The first touch was rubber on rubber, her hand smoothing the suit over his arse, then two slick fingers at his hole. Kit pushed back. She did not give him the fingers yet.

"Ask."

"Please fuck me in it. Don't take the suit off."

"Better."

She opened him with gloved fingers until he was cursing into his arm, then strapped on and pressed the head of the cock to him. Latex squeaked as she pushed in. Kit's own cock, trapped in the open panel, dripped onto the bench.

"Listen to yourself," she said. "Shiny little hole in a shiny suit. You love this."

"I do. Harder."

She fucked him harder. The bench shifted. Every thrust made the catsuit creak and his cock slap the wood. Sloane reached under and stroked him with a rubber glove, mean and slow, not enough to finish him.

"You come when I say. If you come on my bench early I'll make you lick it up."

"Jesus."

"Not an answer."

"I'll wait."

She fucked him until his legs shook, then pulled out, turned him, and sat on his cock without taking the strap off. The angle was obscene. Rubber on rubber. She rode him and jerked him and told him he could come. Kit did, spilling over the glove and the open panel, hole clenching on nothing, voice gone. Sloane ground down through it and came with her glove in his mouth so he had to taste the rubber while she did.

After, she unzipped him only to the sternum so he could breathe.

"Same suit next week," she said. "I'll polish the crotch. You'll wear it hard before I even touch you."

She did not let him come the first time she got him close. That was the mercy she had promised not to give. Sloane pulled the glove off his cock and wiped it on the rubber over his stomach, then went back to fucking his hole with the strap in slow, deep strokes that made the catsuit shift around his ribs.

"Colour."

"Green. Mean green."

"Then ask for the rest."

"Please stroke me. Please let me come in the glove. Please keep the suit on while you do it."

"There he is."

She wrapped rubber around him again and matched the stroke to the strap. Kit's world narrowed to the bench, the squeak, the pressure in his arse, and the fist that would not quite finish him until she said the word. When she said it he came so hard his voice cracked. Sloane fucked him through it, then pulled out and made him look at the mess on the open panel.

"Lick the glove," she said.

He did. Rubber and himself. She watched, pleased, and only then undid the zip far enough for him to breathe like a person.

Kit nodded. He could not feel where the rubber ended and the want started. After the glove, Sloane was not finished with the suit. She made Kit stand, shaky, cock still framed in the open panel, and walked around him polishing the rubber with a cloth until he was hard again from the attention alone.

"Hands on the wall."

He put them there. She strapped back in, pressed two gloved fingers into him, then the cock, and fucked him standing. The catsuit creaked with every thrust. His own cock bobbed, leaking, untouched. Sloane reached around and gave him three strokes, then stopped.

"Not yet. You come from being fucked or you don't come."

He came from being fucked. It took her hand on his throat, not tight, and a mean angle, and the sound of rubber on rubber. He spilled onto the skirting board and she laughed, delighted, and stayed in him until the shaking stopped.

"Wipe the board," she said. "Then I'll unzip you. The suit stays here. You can collect your clothes when you remember how legs work."

He did not need to.

Kit texted her from the bus, which was a mistake and a confession. Still shining, he wrote. Still open. Sloane replied with a photo of the suit on the bench and three words: Wednesday. Same hole. He got hard again before his stop and had to sit with his bag on his lap like a teenager. He did not hate it. That was the problem and the point.

Wednesday came. Kit arrived already half hard and Sloane did not let him undress in peace. She had the suit warmed on the radiator. Talc, then rubber, then the open panel framing him before he had his breath back. She bent him over the bench and fucked him with the strap until he begged, then made him beg better. He came untouched the second time, cock jerking in the open crotch, rubber squeaking, and she called him perfect and filthy in the same breath. He stayed in the suit while she made tea. That was new. He liked it more than he meant to say.

He wore the suit home under a coat once, on a dare he lost on purpose. The rubber held his cock half hard the whole bus ride. Sloane met him at the door, put a glove on him through the open panel, and finished him in the hall before she even said hello.