We continue our series of readers’ personal accounts of their unusual pleasures:
Impressed by your new series showing the contrasting tastes and interests of your readers, in particular the account of The Barrel Club, whose activities I had already heard of through a friend, I thought your readers might like to have a description of a thoroughly practical way to ‘dress for pleasure’ for an evening. Monica and I live in a large cottage in Somerset and once every month we go out for dinner at our favourite restaurant. I’ll give you our dressing instructions because, after many years of experimenting, they contain some very sensible tips!
Monica first. She takes a long hot bath, dries and powders herself then puts on thick latex pants, with four inch legs which fit very firmly round her thighs. Into the pants she squeezes a whole tube of KY jelly. She is now tightly encased in ‘grease pants’, which are completely watertight.
She pulls on a thick latex suit, feet attached, and with a two inch double thickness at the wrists, very close, effectively preventing any leak of perspiration on to her hands. She laces on a black leather corselet, pulling it very tight but not stupidly so. Then a pair of tote fishing waders, with straps over the shoulders. These are watertight but are not like boots. Over this she puts on a high-necked sweater, and a pair of slacks tucked into riding boots. She emphasises the tight corset by buckling on a wide leather belt.
Now we have a curious situation. I am the Master and she is the (willing) slave in our normal sexual and ‘scene’ relationship. But sometimes I must suffer too, and without loss of face or dignity, so the Master, in a fit of generosity, allows his slave to dress him in any way she desires.
I, the Master, always wear a ball-strap when training my slave, as a symbol of my power. (It also feels awfully good). Monica arrives now masked and gloved as a proper slave. She attaches an elastic strap to the ball-strap, passes it between my legs, and ties it tightly to a thin belt round my waist. My testicles are now held firmly between my thighs, but the elasticity of the strap prevents any vicious jerks. I pull on thick latex grease pants, similar to hers, but not so tight across the bottom, and she injects another tube of KY jelly into them.
As if it was all a new and daring experience, my ‘slave’ then slides me into an all over thin latex suit like her own. Apart from the short zip in front, it is completely watertight. Instead of a corset, she makes me put on a second similar costume, this one looser and made of a thick but soft rubber, which makes no noise when one moves. I then have to pull on very heavy rubber thigh boot waders, which come right up to the crotch, and she attached then thin chains up to a waist chain and snaps tiny padlocks through them so there is no way I can undo either the boots or the chain belt.
Both of us are, by now, very warm inside our suits, and can feel the first trickles of perspiration, but as we are well sealed from head to toe it can only fall into the covered feet of the inner suit. I dress in a polo neck sweater and a pair of slacks, leaving only the feet of my boots visible. Monica now takes off her mask, removes her gloves, and combs out her long hair. Finally, as a subtle reminder of her slave hood which gives her an enormous thrill, I pull down the high collar of her sweater and pass a thin gold chain through the loops in her rubber suit, and attach both ends through the hole of the tag of her suit zip with a tiny padlock. Now she, too ritually, we help each other into our mackintoshes, whatever the weather. I have an old car, with a top hood, but no side screens, so even if it’s a summer night, no one thinks it’s strange we are driving clad in our mackintoshes. I have a heavy black wigan coat, she has an elegant black satin double-breasted coat, lined in smooth red rubber, with a high collar with two small gold buckles. We both put on heavy black gloves of moulded rubber.
Dinner is sheer heaven. It’s an intimate, dimly-lit restaurant. Luckily it is not a place which has elegant tuxedo-ed diners, so Monica’s smartly polished riding boots, and what one can see of my booted feet, are not out of place.
Of course, there is one big snag! If you’ve been thinking of following our example in what to wear next time you go out to the pub, you will have noticed one basic fact and that is that little girls can go longer than little boys! With the watertight pants and suits, there is no way of going to the loo! With a couple of scotches before dinner, and a bottle of wine between us, by eleven o/clock we both would like to slope off to relieve ourselves. No chance.
Chains and padlocks, and irremovable suits, stop that nonsense. But it is unfair. Girls can go on forever.
As a point of honour, I must never cut short dinner. We must have our coffee and a cognac, then one last dance, then pay the bill. Then get buttoned and strapped into our mackintoshes. Sometimes I win, sometimes I lose. If the latter, it means that driving home I am forced to let myself go in my grease pants. Of course, it’s perfectly safe and nothing leaks, but the humiliation is terrible, as we have a Master’s and Slave’s honour that we inform the other. Monica has an extra problem, if she really has to go.
Her grease pants are very tight all over, so in an emergency she finds that very little happens. But nearly always we just manage to make it back to the cottage, then there’s a frantic scramble for the keys to the padlocks. So you see, it is perfectly feasible to go outside, completely dressed, and strapped, but plan your costumes correctly to make sure you are watertight everywhere, because sometimes when we have desuited, half a pint of perspiration pours out at our feet!
One last point. As an alternative to dining out, we sometimes get into the same costumes to go to bed, with gloves and masks added, and between rubber sheets and heavy blankets. Clinging together in our grease and heat is something you have to experience to believe, although it’s very frustrating! But conversely, it keeps you so ‘aware’ you’ll get very little sleep! As Confucious wisely said: ‘It is unendurable pleasure, indefinitely prolonged’.
– J & M (Somerset)