The Lady in Latex

She stood in the entrance to the churchyard, clinging to the Gothic bars of the high wrought-iron gate as if it was an open prison. She looked like an Amazon-tall, strongly slender, a bright cascade of bleached blonde curls shimmering down her shiny black back.

She was dressed from neck to toe in latex.

From my vantage point, behind a hawthorn tree, I couldn’t tell the exact design of her boots, but what I could see, beneath the hem of her dress, was sharp looking, pointy toed and stiletto heeled. Dangerous footwear to stamp and crush and pierce a submissive boy or girl, leaving little metallic love bites on tender, willing flesh. The dress was ankle-length and a curious hybrid of old and new. It had a demure high collar and fitted bodice, as might have been worn by a Victorian maid.

It clung to the young woman’s hips like a second skin, accentuating her high, tight buttocks. She couldn’t have been wearing panties, not even a thong. The skirt flared elegantly down, again demure, concealing every inch of leg. In any other fabric, it would have been a chaste dress, a return to the days of parasols and fans and blushing innuendo. But in shiny, shiny black latex, it was a wicked temptress of a frock. I couldn’t take my eyes off the girl and I sensed that she knew it.

She looked like a librarian.

There was a studious, serious expression about her and her spectacles were of an unglamorous design. The sharp contrast between virgin and whore delighted my sensibilities. I leaned against the tree and watched, still and silent, worshiping her with my thirsty eyes. Every fiber of my being desired her, yet she wasn’t mine to possess. I saw her clasp the cold iron curlicues of the big old gate in shiny black-gloved hands. Even her fingers were coated with the dark wet-looking cloth. It made me think of fresh paint or black ice or a slick of oil. She was poisonous as a deadly snake and completely unattainable.

That was the attraction.

It was late autumn and a handful of dead leaves blew along the churchyard path, orange-brown against gray. The girl began to walk, each sinuous step crunching softly on the humble gravel as she moved sensuously, confidently, the dull November light playing on her liquid gown. I thought of deep, thick water, of drowning ecstatically beneath the twin daggers of her stabbing heels. Her small, firm bottom moved deliciously, like a pair of perfect round peaches dipped in glossy caramel.

At the end of the path, there stood an ancient crypt, its crumbling sandstone walls almost black with age and overgrown with ivy. The young woman looked back once then entered, stooping slightly beneath the low lintel of the door. Cautiously, I crept out from my concealment. The pale November sun was low in the sky as I tiptoed softly across the damp grass of the graveyard, lingering like a ghost amongst the neglected headstones and vases of dead chrysanthemums. I held my breath when I reached the path and, spotting a small ivy-draped window on one wall of the crypt, I moved towards it instinctively and peered into the gloom.

She lay on her back on a tombstone, her long blonde hair spread over the dark, dank surface like a halo. With gloved hands, she caressed her breasts through the bodice of the shiny dress. It was as if the feel of the fabric aroused her. I imagined the beautiful body beneath the fetishistic clothes.

She was encased.

Then her gleaming black fingers strayed to her crotch, again pressing and stroking the slippery, clinging cloth, molding it to her pubic mound, pushing warm, malleable latex into the cleft between her open thighs. The heels of her boots clicked and scraped against the tombstone as she ground her hips, sliding one shiny finger up and down the plastic imprint of her pussy lips, finding her clit and rubbing hard.

I felt as if I might explode.

There was no need for nudity when the second skin was infinitely more exciting than the first. Like real flesh, it carried the heat of the blood and softened, stretched, accommodating the strong, lithe movements of the girl. I could see the definite outline of her nipples pushing at the latex dress. The bodice molded to her breasts as she writhed, taking up her fevered warmth, seemingly painting her luscious contours with wet paint or melted tar. I wanted to come.

As her ecstasy rose, my arousal grew. I pressed my body against the cold, damp stone and felt energy play between my mind and my loins, like an alternating current of pleasure. The girl on the tombstone cried out, both hands moving frantically in her liquid, pulsing cleft. White light seemed to explode in my head as I came, grinding my hips against the wall of the crypt like a creature possessed. A cascade of bright hair streamed over the edge of the stone as the young woman arched her spine and parted her lips to moan her release. Her mouth remained open as her orgasm ebbed away. She looked spent, as if every last ounce of her body was used up in the intensity of gaining relief.

“It’s getting dark.”

I jumped at the sound of her voice, a mere whisper in the gathering gloom. Embarrassed, I drew back, retreating behind the tendrils of ivy as she slowly moved to a sitting position.

“I hope it was as good for you as it was for me.”

My heart skipped a beat. There was no one else in the churchyard but me. Perhaps she had known I was there all along. Had I been a prop in her Gothic arousal? Silently, I backed away from the crypt, across the gravel and the grass, running away like a thief or a child, half frightened, half overjoyed, almost catching my skirt on the gate as I fled.

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