“Great shot,” said Kim, her voice coming out in a low rasp that made me shiver from head to toe. I lay down on the bed, pointed my feet in the air, rolled over so I was facedown, and rubbed myself against the pillow, feeling its soft bulk against my swollen, excited clit. I sat up facing the camera and ran my fingers over my nipples. Then I licked one finger and slid it under my bra, flicking my nipple and sighing with pleasure. Behind the camera, I saw Kim’s hand instinctively go to her own breast. Her strong, muscular hand on that soft breast was such a turn-on that I had to bite down on my lip to stop myself from crying out, begging her to come and touch me. If I couldn’t bring myself to say it with words, I would issue an invitation with my body that she couldn’t refuse.
Encouraged by the expression on Kim’s face and her short, shallow breathing, I removed my bra, exposing my round, firm tits, which now were warm under the studio lights. When she saw my breasts for the first time, Kim let out a whimper. I hung the bra over the edge of the bed with the stockings. Then, lying on my back, I put my feet in the air and pulled the French panties over my legs so that I was naked but for the pale blue, lacy garter belt. The camera was still clicking but at less frequent intervals now. Kim was so captivated by the scene in front of her that she had to struggle to concentrate on the photography.
Emboldened by sheer desire, mine and hers, I climbed down from the bed and slowly undid my garter belt, letting it fall to the floor. As if in a trance, I walked over to the middle of the studio and beckoned Kim over. As she approached me, she looked so deliciously young and vulnerable. As soon as she was near enough to touch, I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her toward me. She was trembling as I gently pressed my lips to hers.
Kim was almost exactly my height and not far off my weight. I was used to feeling dwarfed by men who were bigger, hairier, more rough-skinned than me. Standing face-to-face with another woman, my physical equal, was an incredibly erotic sensation. She soon relaxed in my arms and kissed me back with a depth and passion that were more than a match for mine. I slid my hands under her tank top, and she lifted her arms above her head so that I could pull the garment off her in one swift movement. I took a few seconds to enjoy the sight of her breasts, soft, round, and high, delicious feminine swellings on a lithe, toned body.
We kissed again, the hard buds of her nipples rubbing deliciously against mine, our tits pressing together as our bodies moved in closer and tighter. I helped Kim to wriggle out of her clothes, tugging at her pants and frantically pulling at her panties until we were both naked, my waxed, smooth pussy enjoying the friction as I rubbed it against her neatly trimmed bush, our juices mingling. Her hands trailed lightly up and down my spine, making me shiver with desire.
Kim took charge now, leading me by the hand to the bed. We collapsed on the rumpled bedclothes, a tangle of sheets, tits, arms, and legs, every inch of my skin on fire. She lay on top of me, the light weight of her body pinning me down. Hoping that she would follow my lead, I slid my hand between her legs, which she spread eagerly. For the first time in my life I was touching another woman’s pussy, and it felt soft, wet, warm, and welcoming. With my thumb gently flicking Kim’s clitoris, I used my fingers to trace the outline of her pussy lips before sliding a couple of fingers inside her tight, wet hole. She whimpered with pleasure, biting down on my shoulder and shuddering as her sex quivered around my fingers. I pulled my hand away, using her natural juices to moisten her clitoris so that I could rub it harder, faster. To my delight, the little bud grew even more swollen under my touch. The harder I rubbed her clit, the more I wanted her to touch mine.
As if reading my mind, Kim pulled away and laid on her back, her pussy making a delicate kissing noise as she slithered away from my fingers. I put my hand to my nose and breathed in her scent, far more arousing and enticing than any manufactured perfume could ever be. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. When I opened them, Kim lay at my knees, strong wiry arms forcing my thighs apart. I felt my cunt pound in anticipation, so fast and hard that I was sure she could see it.
Kim licked every inch of my thighs, my slit, my pudenda. I’d had the whole area waxed a couple of days ago so the hairless mound was as sensitive to her touch as it could possibly be. I felt her lips, her tongue, the odd teasing tickle of her teeth as she devoured me.
I spread my legs, my proud, throbbing little clit protruding, begging for her attention. Kim went to work, making a little pointed rosebud of her tongue, which darted all over my clit. Never breaking contact between my pussy and her mouth, she turned her entire body around, swinging her leg over my shoulder so that her knees were on either side of my chest and her ass hovered a few inches over my breasts. Eagerly I licked my fingers and eased my hand through her parted thighs. I had easy access to her whole vulva, and I rubbed enthusiastically at her flesh, flicking her clit and fingering her slit. She bucked and writhed with pleasure as we both stepped up the pace, me jabbing at her with an excited hand, and she flicking her tongue all over my blissful pussy.
My body became a white ball of heat just waiting to explode as Kim’s tongue teased and pleased me. She came first. Her body suddenly became motionless, and then, after a brief spasm, a warm trickle of her juices ran down the inside of my wrist. As she climaxed, she sucked hard on the tip of my clitoris, producing the most intense, exquisite tension I have ever known. When I let go and surrendered to my orgasm, my body went into meltdown.
Both spent by our climaxes, we drifted off to sleep on the bed. When I awoke, Kim was nuzzling at my breast with her perfect gamine pout.
“Ready for round two?” she said mischievously. I nodded, ready for the flick of her tongue, eager this time to taste as well as smell her.
“There’s just one thing,” she said. “The camera loves you. So it would be a terrible shame to waste this opportunity.”
She leaped up, dashed across to the camera, and set it on auto. The random shutter clicks began as we reached for each other. I parted Kim’s legs, stared at that beautiful pink pussy, and got ready to give the performance of a lifetime.
FETISH
I met Polly, a beautiful British student, when she was waitressing in a restaurant in Oxford. Over coffee, she told me of an erotic encounter she’d had while working abroad in a very different kind of establishment. I found her story so arousing and inspiring that I rushed out and bought myself a whole wardrobe of fetish clothing the very next day. The kinky pleasures of a little leather and rubber against the skin will awaken dark desires in everyone. It worked for Polly, and it worked for me. Why not find out if it works for you, too?
I sprinkle the talcum powder on my breasts, sides, and underarms so that my skin-tight latex top slides on easily. I pull it over my breasts, enjoying the sensation as my nipples disappear into the tight, suffocating, stretchy material. I love to dress for work in front of the mirror. Tonight, I’m wearing black. I study my reflection, legs apart, naked but for the black top that clings like a second skin, no, tighter than that, because tiny bulges of flesh spill over the top.
The first time I wore a dress made out of rubber was my first night working in the bar. I pulled it straight on, no baby powder and no oil to stop the material scraping my skin. It took a week for the red marks to fade. Not that it mattered much. The clients here like that sort of thing. My coal-dark, raven hair is cut into a precise Louise Brooks bob. My tidy little bush, trimmed with a razor this morning, is also jet-black. I look hot. It’s almost a shame I have to put my skirt on, but even a club as liberal as mine doesn’t let you serve drinks naked from the waist down.
I smile to myself at this as I zip up the black leather hot pants. They fasten at the sides, so they follow perfectly the curve of my hips. I don’t wear panties beneath them; the shorts are so brief and tight that there isn’t room for underwear. They would bunch and ruin the perfect smooth line. I like the way the leather sculpts my buttocks into a perfect, uninterrupted arc. And there’s another reason why panties aren’t an option under these hot pants. These shorts are lined with leather, and when I get wet, which happens a lot—I’m a very sexual person—the leather doesn’t absorb my juices but lets them slide around, making me hotter and wetter.
I check my pedicure before pulling on my boots: lily-white feet bejeweled with scarlet-painted toes the same shade as my fingernails, which I keep short and neat. No one else will see my feet, but I like to know my look is perfect from head to toe. Only when I’m satisfied do the boots go on. Oh, these boots! I want to be buried in them. Black PVC, thigh-high, with silver stilettoes that make me walk with a wiggle, tits and ass sticking out for all to admire. As I zip them up, the cold plastic feels like a lover’s caress on my calves.
I’m nearly ready to play. It’s time for my finishing touch, my signature accessory: customized rubber gauntlets. They’re like long evening gloves, but they don’t cover my hands. Instead they bind me from wrist to upper arm. I made them myself from a length of rubber I bought in my favorite fetish shop. When I’m wearing them, I can’t quite bend my arms properly. I love that tiny restriction; it means that I’m always focused on my job, that I never get to be totally at ease with my body. I feel my flesh begin to heat up. In a few minutes, the sweat underneath will have broken through the talcum powder, creating the delicious discomfort that won’t end until I get out of my costume and into the shower at the end of my shift.
With a final glance in the mirror, I apply the red lipstick that says, “Fuck with me, but don’t kiss me.” I look angular, geometric. Sometimes I feel that the real pleasure is in putting the clothes on. Sure, I often meet guys I like the look of when I’m working, and God knows I get plenty of offers, but I love my job and I’d never do anything to jeopardize it. Work is work; I can find sex in my free time.
When my mother advised me to get a bar job to tide me over during my year studying German at Hamburg University, I’m not sure this was what she had in mind. She doesn’t know that I work at Bar Fetisch on the notorious Reeperbhan, right in the middle of the red-light district. But hey, I live above the club, I’m learning the language, and I pour a great glass of beer.
A glance at the clock tells me my shift begins in sixty seconds. I totter down the stairs on my vertiginous heels, through the door marked STAFF ONLY, down a dim, red corridor, and then through the beaded curtain and it’s showtime! It’s ten p.m., but the night has barely begun. Claudia, the manager, is doing the same shift I am and is already behind the bar. When we check out each other’s “uniform,” we burst into spontaneous laughter. She’s dressed like a mirror image of me, but the colors are reversed. She’s wearing allover crimson—rubber tube top, hot pants, and boots—and she’s got this fabulous, bloodred bobbed wig I’ve never seen her wear before. I love it. She even has on black lipstick and inky-dark nail polish. Her generous tits are almost flattened by the latex that binds her chest and threatens to suffocate her skin.
“You look sensational!” I tell her.
“
Danke
,” she replies. (Claudia has made it her project to finesse my German skills before term starts.) “We’ll have to make sure we stick together tonight. Once the customers see the way we look next to each other, we’ll be stuffing tips into our clothes.”
“Oh, dear,” I say, making a pretend sad face. “I don’t think I can fit anything else between my skin and this latex.”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way!” says Claudia, before turning her dazzling smile on a guy who’s just walked in.
When I first met Claudia, her confidence and sass just blew me away. For a while I even had a kind of crush on her, but it never became physical, and now I’m glad about that. I’m up for anything, but when it comes to sex, I’m all about dick.
I take a tray and walk around the bar, collecting empty glasses and wiping down the surfaces. You’d be astonished at the kind of things I’ve had to clean off the furniture in this job. It’s not unheard of to see couples fucking on the side of the stage, where they think we can’t see them, or frantic hands making desperate grabs under tables. Of course, I can’t see what’s happening under the tables, but faces give more away than bodies do. I can spot someone having an orgasm from twenty paces now just by the look on his or her face. I used to get turned on by it at first, but I’m kind of blasé now.
On a rammed night like this, the hours fly by. There’s the usual mix of customers, mostly a fetish crowd, many of whom I know and say hello to. There’s a guy called Antoine who’s actually French but loves the bondage scene so much he moved here. Not my type, though; he’s very smooth-bodied and slender, and I like my men rough, hairy, unclean. I spend some time at the bar, passing time with Helena and Guy, a couple in their mid-thirties who steal away to the bar whenever they can get a babysitter and relive the fetish clubbing days of their early courtship. Helena can still fit into her original 1980s dress. Guy describes how it takes an hour to buckle and belt her into it, not because fastening the various catches is laborious but because the sight of her trussed up in rubber makes him so horny, he’ll stop to fuck her twice, once in the pussy and once in the face. He doesn’t hold back on any of the details, and my nipples get hard and hot under my rubber bandeau.
The usual collection of tourists dressed in street clothes is in tonight. They fall into two categories: the ones who look around them, immediately either blush or mumble an excuse, and then turn on their heels and run out and those who, with widened eyes, edge shyly forward, taking in the mix of people and letting the bass-heavy industrial music take over as they nervously order a beer. I always make a special point of talking to these customers to put them at their ease, and not just because I want their tips. You don’t do this job unless you’re curious about people and what makes them tick. My favorite kind of customer, the one who turns up in jeans and a T-shirt, is the one who, come four a.m., is doing tequila shots and frantically fucking some fetish-head in full-body latex. There’s nothing like your first night in the world of kink.