Relishing Rubber Second Skin

I am a rubberist. I'm not saying it like a confession, because it's not, and I'm not sat here relating the story because I'm in some virtual 'fetisholics anonymous' 12-step program.

I'm saying it because it's part of who I am. Yes, I am a strong willed woman who on occasion enjoys a good dicking. But that's the purely physical, it's a function of 'what I am', not a function of who I am.

Who I am is a sensual being who might shudder at the touch on my skin from a lover, because my skin is not really my skin. My skin, proper, is a second skin... a rubber skin.

I don't know how to adequately explain the love of rubber. Note I'm calling it rubber, as opposed to latex; I don't mean the ill-fitting zippable garments you can buy from second-rate online stores.

I mean the silky smooth, polished, form-fitting works of beauty that take as much effort to maintain and to wear as to enjoy in the moment. Perhaps even because of that.

But no matter. I have never tired of taking the time to clean my things, to spray and polish them to shine - to be my shining light. I find it tranquil to spend the time taking care of my things.

Though the care-taking is a peaceful activity, it is no more than the calm before the storm. Cleaning my things is like cooking a banquet, it is simply the prelude to the enjoyment of consumption.

I flip through the different parts of my attire storage; some are dresses and body suits kept in pristine condition in containers on hangers to keep the form tight, others kept in well-made boxes, decorative boxes that were carefully chosen.

I often think not enough thought goes into the toyboxes that people have, and not enough care on where people store the parts of them that are really extensions of their soul. Though, happily, more of the kinky folk I've encountered understand this, but then again, kink runs deep in them, and shines ever more brightly, and care of their toys reflects that.

The only question was what mood I was in this evening; my collection had amassed to a point where I could satiate any amount of my inner desires, based on mood alone... was I in a mood for simple, firm and uncompromising? Frilly, flowery and feather-light? Or did I fancy tonight's indulgence like I like my cocktails - straight up, with a twist?

That was one of the unfortunate side effects of being professionally successful and able to indulge, I had too many choices.

Tonight, though, I felt in a very indulgent mood.

First, the bodysuit. Shiny, black, tight fitting. A light sprinkling of talc - some people say soap, but this gives me a greasy feeling I don't want - and the body suit is good to go... the first snap as I slide my foot through, and it stretches then quickly snaps back into place around my pert calves.

That's something no-one ever mentions. Rubber being tight fitting - if it's good rubber - really highlights muscle definition. Shapely calves can be shown off as with a measure of pride.

I loved feeling the rubber slide along my calves and up my thighs, already I was blushing a little - warm from the reaction my body has. There's something exhilarating about wrapping that second skin over my body's natural surface.

Exhilarating, thrilling... tantalising, eroticising my body in a way I never would otherwise. It cocoons me in a layer where anything is possible, and the transformation begins from just being me, to being the best version of me, the purest version of me - ironically by covering myself up to reveal myself. The definition it gives my body, my muscles that I don't otherwise have in spite of gym visits is unmistakable.

The more of myself is wrapped in rubber, the more red and flushed I start feeling because the more I do this, the more I think... "I'd fuck me." I'd never think that normally, but this brings out the most primal in me.

I slid the suit up around my butt, and take a moment to actually wiggle in the mirror. Dare I suggest it wasn't just a wiggle, but a sway, and a sassy one at that? Yes, I would dare to suggest that! But when it's not really my butt wiggling, but my butt shined to perfection in shiny and black, it's not my butt, it's my BUTT. It's that bit of curve I want to be gripped tightly, to be flirty with, to be the object of someone else's desire - right now my own.

I slide the suit up over my stomach - not a particularly thrilling part of me, even in rubber - but a necessary one to get up to my chest.

This particular body suit was one piece; I kind of had to pour myself into it, slip my arms into the sleeves and leave it be open at the front as it didn't have any zips or fastenings - but who wants those anyway? Zips just mean you end up risking rubbing awkwardly on flesh and also mean the rubber isn't holding snugly against you, and that definitely isn't what I want.

This particular suit has the attraction that somehow in its manufacture, it manages not only to wrap around my pert boobs, leaving only a slight cleavage line down to my midriff, but somehow stays clinging to my boobs without any help. I'd love to know which scientist figured out how to do that, I'd buy them a drink or three.

And with that, the body suit was on - up to the back of my neck at the back, running down my cleavage at the front, the material clinging to me ever so carefully, and so seamlessly you'd almost think I didn't really have a skin other than the rubber.

This of course, explains why it was the single most expensive bodysuit I owned, because it managed to cling everywhere, sag nowhere, and apparently clasped itself around my chest without any help.

I did another experimental wiggle in the mirror, and I could see that I was flushed with a little arousal - I could already see my nipples poking into the material, so clingy was it that even the slightest stiffening was visible.

And I could feel myself damp with need already, and I wasn't even half ready yet. I ran my hands up and down, from my neck, over my boobs - just catching my nipples ever so slightly - and down to my crotch... oh yes, this suit was the correct choice for tonight, it was crotchless so whatever fun I wanted to get up to would be mine to have. Other nights, there's fun to be had with toys teasing through the rubber, but I wanted indulgence, and I would have it.

I turned again in the mirror, stretching, flexing a little, pushing my butt out, pushing my chest out. I was no longer my urban professional self, but the sexist version of myself. I wanted me, I'd fuck me. I wanted hands to run over me, sliding all over the silky, shiny, smooth surface that was my second skin, but unfortunately it was only me for the night.

Next up, then, I had a few accessories I wanted. The body suit was doing its work, clinging and stimulating my skin, but I wanted more.

So, then... out came the boots. There was a particular pair of kinky boots for this evening. My mind wandered while looking at my boots; it always tugged at my heartstrings that there weren't many thigh high boots to be had that didn't just zip up the side and slouch in all the wrong places.

But for tonight, that wasn't quite the plan. I found the ones I wanted - severe en-point "ballet boots", also in the same shiny black rubber as the suit. Sliding my feet in, lacing them up, winding the laces through each of the holes, up to my shins, and I stood up, wobbling ever so slightly, but with my feet in such a position as to extenuate my calves, as the rubber gave the muscles more definition.

Who knew calves could be sexy? I flirted at myself in the mirror, ever so carefully.

Hmm, I knew one thing I was missing. For tonight I wanted a corset. I wanted not just to be wrapped in my second skin, not just to be caressed and fondled by it, but I wanted to be embroiled in it, to be left just the tiniest bit breathless by it all.

Tonight's choice had to be the black leather-fronted, underbust beauty - it was matte finished and would contrast the shininess of the rubber beautifully. It was also, perhaps fittingly, the corset I could tighten the most around myself without it being unbearable.

I'd had plenty of practice lacing it up on myself, and I enjoyed watching in the mirror as I stood face on, seeing how each loop I tightened hugged my figure just so. I always loved seeing that particular endeavour.

Nearly done, I thought. Just a couple of accessories to complete the transformation into my final form: slinky, shiny, sensual, sexual.

I hadn't envisaged it when I first chose the outfit but at this point I wanted a collar. Not too chunky, not too tight, must be shiny, must be black. Of course - colour coordination is important.

I had a few - strictly as accessories, I didn't really think of them as toys for submission or dominance, that wasn't how I played, but I loved them for being able to be close to the skin, and with comparatively little effort, gave me that feeling of blood pumping through my system and feeling it - just like everything else that was rubber did, maybe that was why I enjoyed the occasional collar.

Last, but firmly not least, the opera gloves. I always leave these till last, partly because it's useful to be able to buckle things or tie things or generally just do things, which naturally becomes harder with a layer of rubber on, but partially because they then signal the transformation being complete.

And I then don't have to feel ashamed at running them over myself to enjoy the feeling of rubber on rubber. And I certainly don't have to be ashamed if I want to masturbate to it.

They're also my favourite pair; I don't quite know how to explain it - I have several black pairs, all shiny, smooth, run up to my elbow, but this pair for reasons inexplicable, is my favourite pair. I said I was going to indulge.

And so there I was, standing at the mirror observing myself. Flaming red hair, pale skin, now coated in a shiny layer of black from neck to toe with only my shoulders, my cleavage and my crotch on show.

I didn't care. In the mirror I looked fabulous. I found myself posturing, hands on hips, legs apart, standing defiantly and flirtatiously at the mirror, daring it to flirt back at me, every contour of my body enhanced by the rubber, every corner a brilliant spotlight of reflection.

In that moment I wanted the mirror reflection of me to come out, rub herself all over me, let me do the same to her, thrive in the thrill of rubber on rubber, with all its electric friction, sliding effortlessly.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the mirror, drinking in the image. I could smell the rubber had heated ever so slightly from my skin, a truly intoxicating scent when mixed with my need.

I put my hands on my boobs, palms ever so slightly stimulating my nipples through the material, and felt the rubbers sliding over each other, before holding myself a little more firmly, feeling the material stretch under my fingers' touch.

I kept one hand gently squeezing, letting the other slide down over the corset, enjoying the sensations of something not quite so smooth against my gloved hand, before reaching down to my crotch.

I watched my mirror self rubbing a gloved finger over pussy lips, the slick material against the damp skin, and I watched my mirror self slide a finger inside her pussy, slick and warm, gliding inside.

I saw my mirror self open her mouth to exclaim a note of delight and was surprised to find I'd done the same thing, as fingers probed their way deeper inside pussy, slick black material contrasting with pale skin and chestnut hair.

I lifted my hand to my face, smelling the heady mixture of the rubber on my skin and my juices on the rubber of my fingertips. It's always been a potent combination for me.

I watched as my double before me trailed her hand back into her pussy, stroking and thrusting and sliding, and I realised I'd stopped playing with my boob with my other hand - it was too busy running those fingertips over my clit.

It was pretty hypnotic, the view in the mirror, the light bouncing off every motion, as my doppleganger's hands were busy working her - and my hands following along in perfect sync, and I could see her mouth opening and making various shapes as her body shuddered in need and desire - and somehow my body was doing much the same thing.

Had to be honest, it was hard to hold out - my sexual opposite was clearly reaching some kind of peak in stimulation and my eyes went wide as I realised I must be nearly there too, with my gloves hands finding every crevice and surface to rub against and stimulate, and the gloves themselves rubbing against other parts of my outfit..

I could have closed my eyes and just gave into the urgency of my fingertips, but I'd taken the effort to dress up nicely, and part of taking the effort is to admire the result - I wanted to enjoy every moment of this, every inch of the view in the mirror. Every minor gesture and how it made the material sparkle.

I wanted to watch the object of my desire writhe and contort, I wanted to fetishise this figure before me, that looked like me but wasn't me, because I'm not beautiful, I'm not erotic - but what I saw before me was.

And I thought about those latex-covered fingers probing me, rubbing all over me, sliding over me, touching me but not touching me - the real me, not what people normally see, and the frantic friction of my fetishised fingertips peaked... the woman in the mirror threw herself back with a cry, as her hips pushed forward, reaching for the latex fingertips, and I found myself on my back, frantically rubbing myself as I cried out while my clit throbbed under me, the scent of myself mixing with the scent of rubber as colours faded and washed out as my body writhed under my touch.

I writhed and contorted and muscles spasmed and I cried out until I had nothing left in me and I lay there, comforted, cocooned, caressed in warm, sweet rubber.