Story – ‘Flight of Fantasy’

A once in a lifetime holiday adventure in rubber!

The warmth of the water was almost too good, as I lay there relaxing. Time was ticking by though, and I had to start making a move if I was going to get to the airport with time to spare. I didn’t like rushing, especially at airports, and anyway, I had to be checked in two hours prior to take off. If I was going to go, I was going to have to make a move. It was now or never.

You see, this holiday was to be one with a difference. A weekend break in San Francisco was on the cards, but a break with a difference. I had decided that this was to be a fetish weekend. I planned to go out of my way to explore the fetish scene in another city, as exploring the scene on my own doorstep had always worried me. You never know who you might meet, and a confrontation with work colleagues would prove uneasy. In a new city would be completely different. I could do as I pleased, go where I wanted and dress how I liked without the fear of bumping into somebody I know. I know it would be a long way to go for one weekend, but figured it would be worth it. To ensure that I couldn’t back out of the fetish weekend once I had started, I was going to pack and dress accordingly. Therefore, only fetish and bondage items would be worn and packed, meaning that the only way I could change my mind once out in San Francisco would be to go and buy a completely new wardrobe.
Plucking up the courage to go through with this, I decided to get ready. I got out of the bath and dried myself off. Walking out of the bathroom and into my bedroom, I was met with the beautiful sight of various items of black rubber and PVC stretched out over the bed. The light shimmered off various parts of the clothing as I moved towards it. To start with, I had decided to subject myself to some rubber bondage for the duration of the flight, but in a mild sort of way. I pulled on some black rubber shorts with a sheath at the front. Greasing it slightly, I guided my cock into its position; a position it would have to remain in for the next eleven hours or so. Realizing that all was not right, I picked up the butt plug from the bed, greased that, and inserted it into place beneath the shorts, finding its home inside my ass.

The shorts were then pulled back into position before I pulled on my tee-shirt. This was a long sleeve affair which closed with a small zip at the back of the neck. The coldness of the rubber sent a shiver down my spine as I smoothed out the wrinkles in the rubber over my chest. I knew that the coldness would be short-lived, and that sooner, rather than later, the heat would be the main problem. Next I pulled on some black rubber leggings which would encase my legs. I stood back for a moment to admire myself in the mirror, feeling a sense of apprehension as well as unease as the realization that I was going to go through with this started to sink home.
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Story – ‘Jacketed’

My fascination with straight jackets stemmed right back to my childhood. Ever since I had stood, at the age of eleven, watching an escape artist in my local town square being strapped into one, I had found it impossible not to get excited when the word ‘straight jacket’ was mentioned.
The way the jacket trapped the artist, and all those buckles up the back. I was transfixed. Every now and again, the excitement would return as I caught glimpses of escape artists on TV, and reached a high when the film of Houdini was screened on TV. I researched as much as I could, reading about the use of straight jackets to secure ‘mentally disturbed’ and the life of Houdini himself. I longed to have the life of an escape artist, being strapped into the jacket day in day out. I even considered trying to convince my family that I was mad, so that I could be locked up in a padded room wearing my very own jacket twenty-four hours a day.
It was a dream, but nothing more than that. I never told anybody about my fascination. I didn’t think that anybody would understand. I just passed it off as one of those things in life that I would grow out of. I just got on with my life. I still collected as much information as I could, and even found myself collecting pictures of my other fascination, namely motorcycle clothing. This also gave me a great deal of satisfaction. Pictures of leather clad people, shiny wet weather wear all went in my scrapbook. I never tired of looking at them, and they always gave me a hard on every time I looked at them. Can’t explain why, but they just did.
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