Rubber Master Read online

  Rubber Master

  by

  Roland Graeme

  Dedication

  To all the rubber and latex enthusiasts I have known.

  “Yours, in rubber.”

  Copyright © 2015 Roland Graeme

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except for the use of brief excerpts in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published by Roland Graeme

  Cover design by Muzio Scaevola

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue: The Smell and Taste of Rubber

  Part One: Cruising in the Park

  Part Two: Leather—and Rubber

  Part Three: A Costume Party

  Part Four: The Rubber Master and His Slave

  Also by Roland Graeme:

  Prologue: The Smell and Taste of Rubber

  “Please, sir,” my naked slave boy begged. “Let me touch you … let me touch that rubber you’re wearing. Let me smell it. Let me lick it, taste it on my tongue. I want to worship that rubber, sir!”

  “Not now, slave,” I replied, irritably. “You can look at me, at your rubber master. You can admire me, as much as you want. But only from a distance. You’re not allowed to touch. Not until I give you permission to.”

  “Please. Please, sir!” He was beginning to look and sound desperate. “I just have to touch that rubber. You look so hot, master, dressed all in black rubber like that. You look so sexy. It’s driving me crazy, sir. Please, just let me run my hands over your body, and feel that rubber—!”

  “Stop your goddamn whining, slave.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “You will be sorry, if you keep annoying me. No, don’t say anything. Shut up. When I want you to use that mouth of yours, I’ll tell you where to put it on me. I’ll tell you what to kiss and lick and suck, and exactly how to do it,” I promised him. “For now, you stay put. Sit there and watch me. I know you get off on that.”

  He fell silent. I let him sulk. It was good discipline for him. He wanted to be a submissive. Well, he’d better learn to submit, if he knew what was good for him! If he wanted to avoid being punished. Of course, he was such a kinky little bastard that he enjoyed being punished. For him, this was really a win/win situation.

  I suppose I’d better back up a bit, and set the scene.

  This was the second time I’d tricked with this kid. I thought of him as a “kid,” even though he was probably only a few years younger than me. But there was a boyish innocence, a freshness, about him which made it especially exciting to top him. I always had the perverse feeling that I was defiling that innocence.

  We still didn’t know each other’s names. We’d never bothered to exchange them. Our sex was anonymous. We preferred it that way. I was “sir” or “master,” and he was “boy,” or “slave.”

  Once again, we were having sex in his apartment, in his bedroom. So far, we’d repeated, in its essentials, the routine we’d established the first time we’d met, a week previously. We’d both stripped naked. He remained completely nude. But, as he had that first time, he encouraged me to dress up in some of his rubber fetish gear, of which he had an extraordinarily comprehensive collection, and model it for him.

  I might just as well have dipped myself in a bath of liquid latex, and allowed it to dry on my skin. I was sheathed in thin, soft, clinging black rubber from head to foot.

  This time, for the sake of variety, I’d deliberately selected a few different garments to try on. First, I’d put on a black rubber jockstrap, and black rubber knee socks. Over them, I’d pulled on the same pair of black rubber chaps which I’d worn on my previous visit, because I liked the way they looked and felt on me. The chaps were open in the crotch and ass, so they exposed the pouch of the jockstrap in front, and my bare butt in the back. This evening, I pulled on a different pair of black rubber boots. These boots were knee-high, and they laced up their fronts.

  That took care of me from the waist down.

  I rummaged through the rubber garments until I found a long-sleeved pullover shirt. I put it on. It fitted my muscular torso snugly—so snugly that my heavy pecs pushed the shirt outward, and my pierced nipples were clearly outlined through the thin rubber.

  As I’d discovered during my first visit to my trick’s place, all of these items of rubber clothing may have looked hot—in the sense of sexy—but they felt hot, temperature-wise, as well. The skin couldn’t breathe through them. The wearer perspired like the proverbial swine, and his internal temperature no doubt rose a few degrees. He felt constricted, and, after a while, breathing became difficult. God, the sacrifices we men will make for sex!

  I pulled on a pair of sheer black latex gloves. Then I covered my head in the black rubber hood I’d worn before. Styled like a ski mask, it had small openings for the eyes, nostrils, and mouth. It was the sort of thing some professional wrestlers wore in the ring, when they wanted to conceal their identity. The hood made the wearer look impersonal, indeed rather inhuman.

  The finishing touch was the black rubber motorcycle jacket, which I’d also worn on that previous occasion. Again, the damn thing looked really erotic, but it weighed a ton.

  Thus attired, I stood there and posed for my trick, who sat naked on the edge of his bed, staring at me.

  His bed was a low, broad platform affair. His obsession with rubber extended to his choice of sheets and pillowcases. They were heavy black rubber, of course. They showcased his nude body to good advantage, when he lay on the bed. And, I’d discovered, they had an additional advantage. Body fluids didn’t soak into the sheets, and could easily be sponged off them.

  My trick, not surprisingly, had pronounced voyeuristic and exhibitionistic tendencies. (Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m not putting him down. I have the same tendencies, myself.) The wall next to his bed was covered completely with square mirrored tiles, in effect creating one large mirror. He liked to see himself having sex. (Another thing we had in common.) Tonight, he’d once again lit some thick pillar candles. Their flames, multiplied by the mirror, lit up the bedroom to quite atmospheric effect.

  I stood there in the narrow space between the mirrored wall and the bed. I strode back and forth, observing myself in the mirrored squares, admiring the way I looked in the rubber costume. When I moved, the rubber creaked and squeaked. I ignored my trick, for the time being.

  As I’d anticipated, he began to get impatient. He sat there on his black rubber sheets, naked and vulnerable, nursing a hard-on. Naturally, he wasn’t allowed to touch himself, or jerk off. Not without my permission.

  Finally, he dared to break the silence. “Permission to speak, please, master?” he whispered.

  “Granted.”

  “You look so handsome. So sexy, in that rubber. Especially the way your ass shows through the back of those chaps. You have such a beautiful, muscular ass, sir. Please—why don’t you sit on my face and let me suck your ass, si
r? You seemed to like it when I did that, the last time you were here.”

  “It was all right,” I said, dismissively. “You aren’t a bad little ass licker. But you can do better, boy. You could use some practice. Some training.”

  “Yes, sir. Why don’t you train me, sir? I’m eager to learn.”

  “I just bet you are,” I taunted him. “Yeah, you can’t wait to become a first-class, submissive little whore, can you? All right. We might as well get started. Lie down on the bed. On your back. But then, once you’re on it, don’t you move.”

  He quickly assumed the position I’d dictated.

  I got onto the bed, too. I stretched out on top of him, face down, covering his nude body with my own heavier, more muscular, rubber-sheathed frame. I weighed him down, making him sink a little into the mattress, which gave way under our combined body weight.

  I leered at him through the eyeholes and the mouth opening in my hood. Relenting, I lowered my torso until my rubber-clad chest pressed against his heaving, sweat-drenched pecs.

  “Is this what you want so badly, slave?” I asked him, mock-casually.

  “Yes! Yes, sir!” he almost shrieked.

  “The feel of all this rubber against your naked body, huh? Is that what turns you on?”

  “Yes!”

  “Aren’t you going to thank your rubber master for giving you what you want?”

  “Yes, master. Thank you, sir.”

  His bodily contact with the rubber I was wearing seemed to inflame him, like a fever. He twisted his athletic young body restlessly to and fro under mine, so that his flesh scraped over the rubber I wore, and the intermittent contact made loud sucking and sticking noises.

  I was doing my best to play the role of a detached, indifferent top man. But the truth was, I was in real danger of losing control and using his hot little stud body for my own pleasure, with a callous indifference to his needs and limits. Being dressed up in all of that kinky rubber gear made me feel extremely dominant—almost militaristically so, as though it were a bizarre uniform, designed exclusively for the purposes of rough, no-holds-barred, man-to-man sex. (Which, in a very real sense, I suppose it was. No one, presumably, invested hundreds or even thousands of dollars in such highly specialized fetish garments, only to leave them hanging in his closet!)

  Nearly every square inch of my skin was encased in the suffocating latex, and, even though I was touching the other guy’s naked body, I could never really feel his skin directly on my own flesh—I was insulated from him, so to speak. I could do whatever I chose to do to my willing victim, to stimulate him—without being able directly to experience his response. That impersonal element in our sex play was, oddly enough, part of the thrill. I was totally in command of the situation. Protected by that rubber, I was armored and invulnerable. I was the rubber master, and he was my slave!

  I seized his wrists in my gloved hands and I pinned them down on the rubber-sheeted mattress, at his sides. I covered his mouth with mine, kissing him through the mouth opening of my black rubber hood. I drove my tongue deep inside his wet, sweet, juicy mouth. He kissed me back, open-mouthed, eagerly, using his own tongue to toy with mine. I rubbed the full length of my rubber-sheathed body against his bare skin. My prick, trapped inside the pouch of the rubber jockstrap, ground fiercely against his naked and very erect penis. I was willing to bet that he was already leaking pre-cum.

  “Do you like this?” I baited him. “Is this turning you on?”

  “Yes, sir,” he moaned against my lips, between kisses. “Thank you, sir. Rubber—warm soft black rubber, rubbing against me—sticking to my skin—so slick, so hot. Oh, how it turns me on! But, please, sir—”

  “What? What more could you want, boy?”

  “Don’t just rub against me, sir. Do things to me. Please, sir. Go ahead and use my body, sir.”

  “I intend to,” I assured him. “Did you have anything in particular in mind?”

  “Fuck me, sir. Please fuck me!”

  “You want your rubber master’s dick? You want it in your ass?”

  “Yes, sir. I want your dick in my ass. I want to feel it fucking me.”

  “If you’re a good boy—if you obey me, if you please me—then I may let you have it.”

  “Oh, thank you! Thank you, sir!”

  “Don’t mention it, slave,” I told him, graciously. After all, as sex slaves went, he was an unusually cooperative one.

  Part One: Cruising in the Park

  You may be interested in how I met my rubber slave.

  Our city had a public park, situated in the midst of its downtown area. During the daytime, it was strictly a respectable, family entertainment sort of a place. In good weather, office workers might spend their lunch hour there. After dark, though, the park became transformed. The crowds thinned out. The area became a notorious cruising ground for gay men.

  Wandering through the park at night, you could see the city’s tall buildings, with their windows still lit up, surrounding its perimeters. Street lamps threw their light across the sidewalks at the park’s edges. The deeper you penetrated into the park, though, the darker and the more secretive the landscape became. Trees and bushes metamorphosed themselves into hiding places. In these deep black shadows, anything was permissible. Anything could take place. What went on in the park at night, as the saying goes, stayed in the park.

  There was a certain, undeniable element of danger. If he wasn’t careful, a gay man out on the prowl could get mugged, or worse. The risk-taking was part of the thrill.

  That night, I had made my appearance in the park an hour or so after sunset.

  I felt a strange combination of restlessness and boredom. I yawned, crossing my sunburned arms across my chest. It was getting on the chilly side by that time of night, and the thin gray cotton T-shirt stretched taut over my torso gave me no insulation whatsoever from the cold night air. But the shirt did help to display my gym-tightened body, and attract potential tricks. And the display would also attract, I hoped, that one guy I was waiting for this evening. The one who would drain the ache in my balls with his hot mouth or ass, or both, relieving the accumulated sexual aggression born of several days’ worth of unaccustomed abstinence.

  I’d been chaste for a few days, which—trust me—was an unusual role for me.

  Now, though, I was horny. To put it bluntly, I was hot to trot. Nor was I in the mood to be too choosy. Cruising the park wasn’t my usual style, but tonight I was definitely and unashamedly out on the prowl, and so I’d decided to try my luck, trolling the bushes along the park’s winding jogging path. It was a notorious pickup spot.

  I was willing to give it away for free, but if I could make a few bucks in the process, then so much the better.

  I’d taken care to dress so that I didn’t look too much like a whore. I could pass for a motorcyclist who’d gotten off his bike and gone for a walk to stretch his legs. I wore old jeans with their legs tucked into the tops of lace-up black leather biker boots, and I carried my old, scuffed motorcycle jacket, dangling from one hand. If the air got much colder, I might have to break down and actually put the jacket on, covering myself up.

  I’d already singled out a likely prospect. He was loitering, farther along the path. I supposed he really could be a jogger, who’d paused to rest and catch his breath. But all of my instincts told me otherwise.

  I avoided looking directly at him for a moment, because, again, I didn’t want to be too obvious. But I could almost feel the young number’s eyes on me, studying me, sizing me up. Fantasizing about the hot, heavy time he might be able to enjoy with my body in bed tonight. I glanced down casually and I felt a certain lewd satisfaction when I saw how the thick bulge of my cock protruded from inside my tight, faded jeans. I was going commando, as I usually did when I went out on the town, cruising—no underwear or jockstrap—and my dick was already dripping at its tip from excitement, so that it was practically glued to the worn denim which covered my basket.

  Even from across t
he distance that separated us, and in the darkness, I was sure that the other young stud could see exactly how well I was hung. Hell, in those tight, revealing jeans I was wearing, he’d probably already noticed that I wasn’t circumcised!

  I sucked in a deep breath to make my pecs swell out even more prominently above my crossed arms. I was in no mood to act coy, or hard to get. I wanted the guy to see that I was hot, that I was hung, and above all that I was available. I wanted him to want me so badly that he’d be ready to get down on his knees in the damp grass and suck me off, right there in the open.

  It wouldn’t be much longer now, I decided, before the kid made his move—if he intended to. Assuming he wasn’t a fellow hustler, or a prick teaser, or just curious, or pathologically shy. Or choosy—he could be hoping that if he waited, an even more exciting number might cross his path.

  If he thinks he can do better than me, he’s going to have a long wait, I told myself, smugly.

  I had to admit it, though—if he was giving it away for free, he looked as though he could pick and choose. He couldn’t be much over twenty, but he’d obviously worked on making himself look a little older and more mature—and on looking good. He was medium height, shorter than me, with thick soft black hair and a mustache that matched. He had a light tan and the body of a dedicated young weightlifter, with shoulders and biceps that made the tattered black T-shirt he was wearing to this nightly costume party in the park a real come-on.

  Only the black rubber wristband which he had fastened around his left wrist struck a questionable note. It was the sort of accessory a guy might wear to a leather bar, to advertise his preferences. This kid’s wholesome-looking exterior could be deceptive. He just might be weird—rough trade—and, if that was the case, then I might prefer to shop around some more, myself, before I made any commitment.

  “Hey, there. Do you have a light?”

  I heard the kid’s deep voice ask the question, which was directed at me. He’d spoken loudly, to make himself heard across the distance which separated us in the open air of the park, and there was a slight tremor in his voice. It betrayed his nervousness and it reassured me that he wasn’t a vice cop, at least. (Or if he was, he was a better actor than any cop who’d ever tried to entrap me.)