A story in chapters by Elena Dark Berry.
Chapters: 01 · 02 · 03 · 04 · 05
Part 01
He had one hand resting over my phone as a sign of possession, although I wouldn’t have dared reach for it anyway. My own hands lay still, palms open on the table, one on either side of the dinner that had been served some time ago but remained untouched, along with my glass of wine. That, at least, bore a lipstick mark: the trace left by the first and only sip I had taken before the game began.
I kept my eyes fixed on some distant point, trying to concentrate, trying not to think. I was trembling. All my effort went into controlling my body so I wouldn’t give myself away, relaxing my face, not thinking about the sensation between my legs.
He said something to me, but I couldn’t hear him. If it was important, perhaps I would get “what I deserved” later, but every part of me was focused on not crying out, on making no gesture that might betray me. We were in public, after all, in one of those restaurants where the customers whisper with almost religious reverence, as if they were inside a temple, and the loudest sound is the soft scrape of cutlery against porcelain.
He picked up his phone and, with a slow, gentle movement across the screen, the vibration inside me softened, becoming easier to bear.
“I said, if you’re not hungry…” he murmured, wearing that half-smile that sometimes terrified me. “You haven’t touched your food.”
He knew I hadn’t heard him. He was only asking to remind me that he was in control. I forced myself to answer.
“No… I need to use the restroom.”
“You’ve hardly had any wine…” he replied, sliding his finger across the screen again. The circle changed colour from violet to red, then orange.
“All right. Thank you,” I said. One mustn’t forget one’s manners. That is VERY important. “I’ll have a little more…”
I raised a trembling hand to pick up my glass, afraid I might spill the wine over myself. Don’t misunderstand me: under normal circumstances, I have the steady hands of a surgeon. But these were NOT normal circumstances.
I was holding a glass of red wine, and my dress—the one he had chosen—was immaculate white. He always dressed me in white when he wanted to punish me, so the moment I saw the dress inside the box before our date, I had a fairly good idea of what the evening had in store for me.
Still, I managed to keep my composure and my clothes spotless, leaving him no excuse to punish me.
A satisfied smile slipped across my face. It lasted only an instant, half a second, but he had seen it.
As I stood up, he took my hand gently. In public, he always gave the impression of being an ordinary man: restrained, calm… nothing like what was hidden behind his mask.
“Take your phone with you to the restroom, in case you need it,” he said, expressionless.
I should say I hated that lack of expression, but not knowing what he was thinking made my blood run hot.
When I reached the restroom, I looked at myself in the mirror and realised, to my embarrassment, that all my attempts at hiding my state had been useless. My face was completely flushed, and it was obvious that my breathing was far from normal. The stupid white dress, with its low neckline, only made it more noticeable.
As I tried to calm myself down, my phone rang in my hand.
Of course.
He had told me to take it with me for a reason.
“Don’t even think about taking the vibrator out.”
“Yes, Sir,” I replied.
“I want to make sure you’re still wearing it.”
“Yes, Sir…”
It wasn’t the first time he had called me while I masturbated. We had even had the occasional video call, or I had sent him a photo from a bar, the library… but never with him this close.
What had he planned?
I felt the power of the vibrator stimulating my clitoris and the inside of my vagina increase again. I opened the door to one of the stalls and locked myself inside, panting.
The toy between my legs began to vibrate in pulses. As well as increasing the intensity, he was changing the pattern, making my underwear even wetter. I had to hold it in place with one hand to stop it from slipping, because clenching around that damned toy would have made me come, and that still wasn’t allowed.
I was waiting for his permission.
What would it matter if I came in a restroom where no one could see me? I could be quiet. No one would hear me.
But that would be cheating, and cheating takes all the meaning out of the game.
When I cheat, it will be so that he notices. So that he reacts. So that he punishes me… or forgives me.
That will be his choice.
But what would be the point of breaking the rules if there were no one there to appreciate it?
I waited for a call, but instead a message appeared.
“Send me proof that you haven’t taken the vibrator out.”
I sighed in annoyance. I had been expecting a call, perhaps even a video call.
But he knew I didn’t like sending photos.
I didn’t like leaving evidence…
Part 02
But I wasn’t going to be able to leave until I sent him the photo.
While I weighed up whether the punishment might be worth it, he began to lose patience. I could picture him playing with the controls on the app while I could do nothing but bite down on my hand so no one outside would hear me.
And then, suddenly, the toy stopped.
I knew exactly what my punishment was going to be.
Without giving myself another second to think, I slipped off my underwear, tucked it into my handbag and took an utterly humiliating photo to send him as proof. At least no one would ever be able to tell it was me. I was careful not to show my face or anything that could identify me.
The moment he received it, he called.
As the waves of vibration started up inside me again and I clenched with all my strength, his voice came through the phone in a whisper.
“Come for me.”
And I obeyed.
I pressed my legs together and bit down on my fist, but he was still there on the phone.
As my breathing slowly returned to normal, he lowered the intensity of the vibrator until it finally stopped, then allowed me to return to the table.
I felt as though the entire restaurant were watching me, as though everyone somehow knew what I had just done in the restroom.
At the table, he acted as if nothing had happened while I could still feel the heat in my face, blushing like a teenager.
When he placed his phone face down, I knew he was satisfied with my proof.
I even felt the faint brush of his shoe against mine, a small caress that made me smile. Not from relief at having escaped punishment—the punishments he devised were imaginative, and I often enjoyed them as much as, if not more than, the rewards.
I took it as a small sign of approval for my obedience, and a shiver of pleasure ran up my spine to the nape of my neck.
He had already finished his meal and watched as I finished mine, guiding me in silence with nothing but his eyes.
If anyone had been paying close attention to us, it might even have looked ridiculous—unless they happened to believe in hypnosis.
He ordered a coffee. I ordered a drink.
As we finished dinner, we talked about trivial things. Asking what was going to happen next was forbidden.
The thought crossed my mind that this white dress was probably destined not to stay white for very long.
And I had just ordered a gin and tonic.
After dinner, he called a taxi and gave the driver an address I didn’t recognise.
We weren’t going to his house.
My imagination immediately began to race as I watched the city at night slide past the window.
It felt like Christmas. Like being five years old and about to unwrap a present.
My heart felt as though it might burst out of my chest, and it wasn’t from fear.
If we were going somewhere different, then a surprise was waiting for me.
And even if it hurt, I already knew I was going to enjoy it.
Part 03
During the drive, I remained lost in fantasies of spankings, wax, restraints and orgasms. Beside me, he stayed silent.
He wasn’t going to make a scene in the taxi. In fact, the toy was switched off, giving me a chance to recover.
We arrived at our destination. It looked like an ordinary residential building, with an entrance leading through a tunnel into an inner courtyard. On one side was a door.
“I’m taking you shopping.”
“At this hour?”
“The best shops open at this hour.”
Was he going to have me tattooed? Marked as his property?
He hadn’t even given me a collar, and I didn’t wear a submissive’s ring. Our games were occasional, and I had my safeword ready because that was a line I wasn’t willing to cross.
My excitement gave way to suspicion. I had been enjoying the night far too much, and I didn’t want to find myself having to refuse something that crossed my limits.
Although, if it only meant brushing against them, I might be willing to play along…
But the door was opened by a man wearing combat boots, shiny trousers and a harness over his bare chest.
Behind him was the most extraordinary fantasy you could possibly imagine:
Willy Wonka’s factory of perversion.
I immediately regretted doubting him and took his arm with a smile.
The man running the shop welcomed us and, taking my hand, led me inside.
He started talking to the shop assistant, but I wasn’t paying attention. I slipped my hand free and began to explore.
If you’re picturing lace, brightly coloured dildos in every imaginable shape, or naughty novelty items for bachelorette parties, you’re nowhere close.
I’m sure there was an impressive selection of toys somewhere, but they were definitely not the main attraction.
The first thing that caught my attention was a series of display cases containing jewellery designed to be worn on different parts of the body.
Some pieces looked as though they had been made to cause pain.
Others, pleasure.
Perhaps both.
There were symbols of ownership too.
As I looked at them, I imagined myself wearing them.
I pictured an anal plug decorated with a ruby and wondered what it would feel like inside me. How much would nipple clamps hurt? Or were those meant for the labia?
And the slave rings…
I imagined wearing one in my vanilla life, absent-mindedly playing with it on my finger while remembering everything I might have done while wearing it.
Although there was still a long way to go before reaching that point…
I haven’t even told you about the clothes, and I couldn’t possibly do them justice without spending hours on the subject.
The best summary I can offer is:
black and shiny.
Latex, rubber, leather and metal.
An almost endless variety.
The more restrictive, the better.
The shoes and boots were pure fantasy.
There were ballet boots that made simply standing upright—let alone walking—a challenge, endless high-heeled boots with gleaming latex climbing all the way up the leg, and impossibly high dominatrix heels, some of them with rather interesting additions for play.
I wandered through aisles of glossy clothing, almost too shy to touch anything, afraid of leaving fingerprints across the gleaming lubricated latex or of feeling that strange texture between my fingers.
I had seen photographs, of course.
But I was beginning to understand the difference between seeing something in a picture and having it right there in front of you, even if it was only hanging from a clothes rack.
The smell alone was intoxicating.
Eventually they managed to find me and led me down an extravagantly decorated staircase to the next floor.
There, in a room swallowed by black walls, stood what could loosely be described as furniture:
a gynecological chair,
a bondage horse,
a St Andrew’s cross…
My breathing grew faster and faster and, without even realising it, I tightened my grip on the shop assistant’s gloved hand.
He smiled knowingly at my companion.
Part 04
At the far end of the display of furniture made for the most twisted of dungeons stood a red door—the kind that, in any film, would never promise anything good.
In this case, however, it led to a private dressing room. There was one large changing area screened off by curtains to one side, mirrors, and several racks holding a selection of clothes.
In the centre of the room stood a large black armchair with a small table beside it. On the table, an envelope with my name written on it in gold was waiting for me, along with a glass of stout whose frosty chill was already beginning to fade, reserved for him.
He settled into the armchair, took a sip of the beer—which must have been perfectly cold—and said with the faintest hint of disappointment:
“I was expecting you to have to change out of that dress before we went to the party.”
I had already guessed that the immaculate white dress was destined to get stained and, consequently, replaced.
I had ruined his plan.
“That’s why we came here first. In any case, we’re going to choose something more appropriate for where we’re going.”
Four racks held different outfits. With a glance, he let me know that he had selected them himself, while still leaving me some room to choose. It was going to be my first time wearing latex, and he wanted me to feel comfortable—and to enjoy becoming his fetish.
While I studied my four options, two young shop attendants appeared, dressed in simple black catsuits and combat boots. They briefly explained that they would help me into the clothes and make sure everything fitted properly.
Then, to my surprise, they began to undress me with remarkable gentleness: one removing my shoes while the other unzipped my dress.
I looked at him in surprise.
He answered with an amused expression.
He was enjoying the scene. Enjoying my embarrassment and my complete submission, perhaps wondering whether it came from the unusual and unexpected attention of the attendants, or simply from the pleasure of being undressed by two strangers in front of him.
When they poured a generous amount of lubricant into their hands and began spreading it over my skin, I froze.
I opened my mouth to protest, but he looked at me calmly and shook his head.
Then he took another sip of his beer and ran his tongue over the trace of foam left on his lips.
Was he actually licking his lips while the two attendants stroked my legs, my back, my arms, my breasts, leaving them glossy, slippery and wet in a way I couldn’t quite decide was sensual or completely impersonal?
Their hands moved smoothly over my body, pouring lubricant over my shoulders, over my thighs, then spreading it across my skin. Yet they never looked me in the eye, and their expressions betrayed no emotion at all.
Then they asked me which outfit I wanted to try first.
There was a colourful, tight-fitting corseted dress with ruffles, which I rejected immediately.
I decided to begin with something sexy in the most classic sense: red, tight, with a slit up the leg and, to my surprise, no zipper.
The attendants put me in a pair of heels and helped me step into the dress from below. As they worked it upwards, their hands moulded it carefully to my curves.
I could barely breathe from excitement, and they hadn’t even finished dressing me yet.
They adjusted the waist, helped arrange the plunging neckline, carefully positioning my breasts, and then added what they called opera gloves.
When I looked into the mirror, I saw a brunette Jessica Rabbit staring back at me.
He had already told me about the sensation of wearing a latex dress, and I had seen photographs of different styles in his magazines and on his social media, but I had never imagined how overwhelming that constant embrace would feel while, at the same time, leaving me with such a sense of nakedness.
It wasn’t only the physical sensation of having it against my skin, the way it adapted to the warmth of my body, or the feeling of touching and being touched through it.
It was also the sight of myself reflected in the room’s many mirrors.
Had I been too insecure when I imagined that wearing rubber this tight would make me feel unattractive? That it would emphasise the parts of my body I wasn’t comfortable with? Or even that I would somehow fail to do the garment justice?
I had never felt more beautiful.
And if I had been paying attention to his eyes instead of becoming completely captivated by the way the latex gleamed over my body, I would have realised that he thought exactly the same.
“What do you think?” he asked, with the faintest glimmer of excitement—one I was beginning to recognise beneath his apparent lack of expression.
“Much better than I expected. I feel incredibly sexy. Beautiful. And it feels amazing.”
I ran my gloved hands over my body, the latex squeaking softly whenever it rubbed against itself.
I strutted around flirtatiously, showing off my leg and admiring myself in the mirrors.
Then I chose something a little more daring: a short dress with a pencil skirt that clung precisely to my hips, while the high-necked, long-sleeved bodice outlined my breasts and held them gently in place.
As the attendants helped me into this new dress, I blushed.
They had already touched almost every part of my body with lubricant-covered hands, but feeling those same hands moving over the latex was completely different.
They seemed to merge with my skin.
I could feel the warmth of their hands against my ass as they stretched the rubber smooth, making sure there wasn’t a single wrinkle, and as they adjusted the dress around the shape of my breasts.
They turned me around and carefully moved my hair aside.
Then they explained to him that this particular dress had another advantage: a full-length zipper.
It could be opened from the top, either to remove the dress entirely or to expose my back for play or punishment.
But it could also be opened from below, leaving my ass exposed for his use at his discretion.
They were treating me like an object made for his use and enjoyment, like a doll to be dressed up and played with.
And it made me feel desired.
My arousal kept growing until it seemed to have no limit, yet it was mixed with a strange calm that came from the certainty that an incredible experience was waiting for me.
It already was one.
Covering my flushed face with my hands, I said I would rather try one last outfit before making my decision.
This dress might have been perfect for an intimate evening, but for a party in public, the black trousers and top waiting as the final option on the rack seemed a little more discreet.
Part 05
With the other dresses, I had felt attractive and elegant, certainly, but in this outfit I felt powerful, almost like a superheroine, and sexy without actually showing my body.
To finish the look, the attendants carefully slipped a pair of glossy black heels onto my feet. I loved the restraint of the outfit: elegant, casual, and completely unpretentious.
I thought I might even pass unnoticed.
Which only showed how little I still knew about the world of latex.
While I was still captivated by my transformation, he watched me turn in front of the mirror, his breathing growing deeper as he took another drink of his beer, then another.
I ran my bare hands over my rubber-clad body and liked the sensation even more—the smoothness, the wet, slippery softness of the latex beneath my palms, and the way I could feel the path of my own fingers across my body as they seemed to melt into the warm surface.
I was experimenting with the tactile sensation, discovering how it responded to touch and temperature.
Finally, I looked him in the eye.
“This one,” I said.
He smiled.
“I completely agree.”
The attendants stepped back and took their place near the entrance.
Happy with my new look for the evening, I practically threw myself onto him, straddling his lap.
He caught me by the hips and I gave him a light kiss.
“I’m happy, but you’re wearing normal, loose clothes while I’m over here all tightly wrapped up.”
He hooked one finger into the collar of his fine cotton sweater and pulled it down slightly.
Beneath the dark fabric, a gleam of black latex appeared.
“All this time?” I exclaimed, impressed.
I mentally replayed the entire evening, every scene, every game, now suddenly aware that he had been wearing latex against his skin under his clothes the whole night.
During the games.
In the taxi…
“How could you stand it?”
“The party we’re going to has a strict dress code. I came prepared.”
“Can I?” I asked.
He rested his hands on the arms of the chair.
“Of course. Go ahead…”
Still sitting astride him, I began to pull his sweater upwards, running my hands over his chest.
When I reached the hem, I slipped my hands underneath the cotton to touch the latex beneath.
It was very, very warm.
I slowly lifted the sweater higher while stroking his stomach, his chest, his shoulders and, once I had pulled it off completely, his arms as well.
He watched me calmly.
He seemed to be studying my reaction, enjoying my curiosity.
Behind us, the attendants continued to stare straight ahead, present but impassive, and that did nothing to make me forget that they were still there.
Then he lifted me off his lap by the hips and, standing in front of me, began to remove his belt and shoes.
Slowly, he lowered his trousers.
The latex garment continued all the way down to his feet.
To be continued…