Wetsuit Sentence – Part 3

 

By sj_one.

The Story

On Thursday morning we had a bit of a surprise: Andy turned up at nine in a wetsuit, albeit a more conventional black one! He looked pretty good in it too. He explained that he liked to go surfing whenever he could, either before or after work. This morning he’d lost track of the time and he hadn’t had a chance to go home and change before coming in. He disappeared into his office and re-emerged a few minutes later in T-shirt and board shorts. I mentioned that, prior to the incident that had got me into this mess, I had intended to learn to surf. He said he’d been at it long enough to qualify as an instructor and occasionally gave lessons. I filed that fact away for future reference.

The other change that day was that we were joined by another PHI recruit. He was about five foot ten with short black hair and brown eyes. His name, apparently, was Stuart; he was the silent type and that’s about all we got out of him. He kept himself strictly at a distance. Indeed, we never found out why he’d ended up here. I had to assume he was straight and, also, that he was too ashamed at being there to want to mix with the rest of us, despite our efforts to include him in our little group.

Over the course of the week, I found that the stigma associated with PHI wasn’t as bad as I had first feared. The people one met on the beach tended to fall into one of two categories. First, there were the tourists, holidaymakers and day trippers, evidently most of whom hadn’t heard of the initiative or who naïvely thought that we were simply making a fashion statement and PHI was the name of a wetsuit manufacturer (I wondered who, in fact, had made them, since they seemed so comfortable for long-term wear). Since they did give the impression of being a uniform of sorts, perhaps folks thought we were being sponsored to clean up the sands or were working for the Council (the latter being effectively the case). Second, were the local residents, whose reaction on seeing us varied from giving us pitying looks to disdainful stares to downright hostility. Happily, instances of verbal abuse were extremely rare and best dealt with by ignoring the bigot concerned. Very occasionally, you came across a guy or girl who clearly found the revealing wetsuit sexy. One or two stopped for a flirtatious chat. One even wanted to know where he could get one just like it. I laughed and told him gently all he had to do was throw the lager can he was carrying on the ground. He looked mystified, so I explained how I had wound up wearing it. He decided it wasn’t worth it! As for me, I was starting to become, like Nick, a bit of an exhibitionist. It felt good to be the focus of attention for a change. So, in that respect, the Council’s idea of public humiliation wasn’t really working as intended.

I was also still getting periodic erections from the constant gentle caress of my suit. However, the friction as I sauntered up and down the beach was never sufficient to get me off. I was already in enough trouble, without getting caught masturbating. The other factor against trying to stimulate myself was that I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend the rest of the day stewing in my own juice, should I manage to make myself come. Most frustrating! By the end of the day however, I was sorely tempted to ignore this less agreeable aspect. While we were in the locker room that evening, waiting for our turn to be temporarily unlocked, a solution came to me. Before going back to the guesthouse, I stopped off at a chemist that stayed open extended hours. I wasn’t sure how this was going to look: a guy in a rubber suit going in to buy lube. I tried not to catch the shop assistant’s eye. Either this happened a lot round here, or she was unshockable. Whichever it was, she made no comment as she rang up my purchase.

Friday morning, I turned up as usual, successfully managing to conceal the small bottle of lubricant and smuggling it into my locker. Martin released the tabs on our zips and we were able to pull them open, allowing cool air to circulate around our genitals once more. I used the cubicle, taking the lube in with me. After taking a leak in relative seclusion, I squirted most of the clear, syrupy stuff up into my crotch — it was water-based, chosen so it wouldn’t attack the rubber. I zipped myself up, closing the lock with a snap that had an air of finality about it — at least until lunchtime. I got the nearly empty bottle back into my locker unseen.

This time the sensation was rather different. Once the lube had had a chance to distribute itself evenly over the inside of the wetsuit, the act of walking caused the material to slide slickly up and down, stroking me. I quickly got a hard-on and though there was now an evident bulge at the front, I was not touching it with either hand. Bizarrely, it was quite a thrill to be doing this. I found that, if I changed my gait a bit, the neoprene would effectively jerk me off. I went at a measured pace, enjoying the stimulus and trying to prolong it by holding off the inevitable orgasm. Eventually, I couldn’t contain it any longer and, breathing heavily, I shot my load into my wetsuit. My head spun and I had to sit down for a few moments to recover. What a rush! Especially in public. I looked around to see if this act of exhibitionism had been observed by anyone. There was no one nearby, so it looked like I’d got away with it. Of course, now I had to deal with the after effects of going round with what seemed like a pint of jism sealed in with me. Even that felt “hot” and sleazy.

At the slipway I encountered Nick.

“What’s up?” he asked. Maybe he already knew I’d been up to something. I came clean and admitted everything. “Cool,” he said enviously, “wish I’d thought of that myself.” Andy, Martin and Ian didn’t look to be around, so we took a break, sitting on the wall in front of the yacht club.

“Look, I’m getting a bit fed up with going down the pub every night. I’ve got an alternative suggestion. Why don’t we have a barbecue on the beach tonight and maybe go for a midnight swim? After all, we’re dressed for that.” It sounded like a great idea, but I was concerned about whether we could. Engaging in proscribed activities in this town had got us where we were.

“Are you sure we can do that?”

“Yeah, I’ve checked the byelaws. Surprisingly, they don’t have anything to say about barbecues — probably, the residents would be up in arms if they tried to ban them. So long as we don’t leave anything behind — and I guess we’re accomplished at picking up litter by now,” he said, laughing, “there’s nothing the killjoys can do about it.”

“Okay, I’m up for it. Shall I tell James next time I bump into him?”

“Sure. We can sort out the details at lunchtime.”

Over lunch (sandwiches from the kiosk) we planned what we were going to do. Covertly, when no one was looking, I went to the lavatory, closing the door so I could attempt to clean out the inside of my wetsuit with wads of toilet paper through the temporary opening. I decided to repeat the morning’s fun and squeezed out the last of the lube from the bottle to replace the tainted stuff I’d just mopped up. That afternoon, I “rationed” myself, playing a little game, seeing how long I could go without giving in to temptation and driving myself into sensory overload. Although the lube was water-based, it was cut off from the outside air, so it didn’t dry out. During the course of the shift I had two further monumental climaxes. The rest of the time passed extremely pleasurably, as well. I’m not sure I was particularly efficient at picking up any litter, however. Good thing no one came to check on me!

Around 10pm that night we met near the PHI office. Nick had brought one of those instant, disposable barbecues in a self-contained foil tray. He’d also got a couple of outdoor candles on stakes, that gave the impression of flaming torches. James and I had bought the food (from the local supermarket, which had been embarrassing to walk around wearing a day glow green wetsuit) and some cans of lager. We opted to go as far up the beach as possible, far from the madding crowd and almost to the end of the bay. We stood a better chance of privacy, or so we thought. We put our beach towels down and Nick got the barbie going, lit the candles from the fire and drove them upright into the sand. He let the barbecue flames die down until the charcoal was just hot embers and white ash. He said that was the proper way to cook outside — most people tried to grill food too soon and it just got burnt or sooty. He was right, the sausages, burgers and ribs did taste better than I remembered from the last outdoor barbecue I’d been to. They were washed down with the beer. We spent the best part of an hour swapping stories, telling each other jokes and generally fooling around like kids.

The moon was out by now and Nick announced he was going for a moonlit swim. He wanted to know if either of us would join him. We agreed that we would. He dared us to swim out as far as he could go. This was perhaps a hundred, hundred and fifty yards. It was difficult to tell in the dark. The only points of reference were the lights along the seafront, which petered out up this end of the bay, the beam of the lighthouse on the headland and our torches. I found that the wetsuit gave me some extra buoyancy, making it easier to keep up with him (I cannot claim to be a great swimmer). We trod water for a bit until James, lagging behind, caught up to us.

“Race you back in,” Nick shouted. Poor James, exhausted, had to turn round immediately and start back again. I kept alongside him on the return trip, in case he got into difficulty. Nick beat us to shore by miles. We bobbed up and down in the swell, where it was just shallow enough to touch bottom with one’s toes. Nick splashed us playfully with an armful of seawater, saying we were out of condition. That provoked a light-hearted water fight between the three of us. He was probably correct in his assessment of our condition, though. The swim, on top of a good many miles walking that day (and other “exercise”), had tired me.

Nick swam across to me, covering the distance in three easy strokes. He put his hands on my shoulders and ducked me under the water. I resurfaced spluttering.

“Bastard!” I said. He merely sniggered. He grabbed hold of me and pulled me close. I felt his hand on my neoprene-wrapped cock. He pressed it gently yet firmly and began to massage it, while at the same time giving me a long, drawn out kiss. Shamelessly, I got another hard-on, which he could certainly feel. Adopting a lifesaving position, he dragged me towards the shore, leaving James floating where he was. Of course, sex was out of the question in the circumstances, but we could still bump and grind, half afloat, against each other in the shallows, synchronizing our movements both together and with the incoming waves like a couple of seals mating. It was pretty amazing! When we were done, I looked over to James, who was still swimming a few yards further out, watching us. I wondered if we’d caused any offence with our spontaneous and outrageous display. If nothing else, he’d been rather left out of the fun. I swam out to him and reached down to feel his crotch, just as Nick had done to me. I sensed he had had a strong erection also, so evidently the gratuitous exhibition had not been that off-putting. I stroked his hard-on with steadily increasing pace until he let out a sudden gasp, deep in the throws of what was, perhaps, his first gay orgasm. All three of us dragged ourselves out of the water and collapsed on our towels like beached whales!

While we were (slowly) drying off, we were surprised to see a shadowy figure coming along the sand towards us. Of all people, it turned out to be Andy, once again in a wetsuit.

“What on earth are you doing here?” Nick asked.

“I sometimes go for a midnight surf, if the moon is bright enough,” he explained. “I saw the light from those candles along the coast and got curious.” He gestured towards the flickering torches. I handed him a beer and invited him to join us. He took it, cracked the can open and sat down. “I see I’m not the only one out for a little nocturnal fun in a wetsuit.” He beamed at us.

“If we’d known, you could have joined us for supper,” I said.

“Never mind. The beer will do me just fine — just don’t forget to take away your empties!” We assured him that we wouldn’t. When the party finally broke up, Nick took the tray of burnt charcoals down to the water’s edge and scooped some into it to make sure the fire was properly out. James extinguished the candles and pulled them out of the sand. Then we set off back towards the rest of civilization, carrying our rubbish with us.

The following day was an unexceptional repetition of the previous ones, apart from it being the last of our “wetsuit sentence”. At 5 o’clock we gathered back at base, dumped the full or partially full rubbish sacks and handed in our equipment. There was an air of celebration, at least for the three of us — Stuart, who had joined us mid-week, would have to see out most of next week before he was through. There was a bit of a ritual to go through: the removal of the wetsuits. We stood side by side in the locker room. Andy came to us each in turn and used the “key” to unfasten the locks on our collars. For the first time all week we could grab the strap and pull the zipper down. I had to help James with his, as it got stuck half way. It felt extraordinarily weird not to be enclosed in the constricting garments, something more than just being naked. There was a heavy odour of sweaty bodies mixed with the smell of warm neoprene. We got in the shower, but I was strangely reluctant to wash it away. After getting cleaned up we were given back our clothes and got dressed. I cleared out my locker (shoving the empty bottle of lube into my sports bag). There was a little bit more paperwork to complete, to satisfy the powers-that-be, and we were free men again. Since it hadn’t been that much of an ordeal, all things considered, we shook hands with Andy, Martin and Ian — they were pretty decent guys, after all.

Nick suggested going for a quiet drink somewhere. At least now we could go to any bar in town, assuming no one recognised us without our outlandish outfits. We were careful to be on our best behaviour lest we provoke any further community retribution (not that I wouldn’t have been able to cope with another seven days of confinement in a wetsuit). Nick was leaving the following morning — he’d only come here for one night originally, and been forced to stay an extra week. So, we had to say goodbye to him. James, like me was staying on. We were both booked in for another week’s holiday and arranged to meet up again sometime.

Monday morning, I was up bright and early to do some serious shopping. I had to visit the various surf shops along the esplanade. I urgently needed a wetsuit — I had an appointment at six that evening with Andy, who was going to teach me how to surf.

  One Response to “Wetsuit Sentence – Part 3”

  1. good story 🙂 but is it true?

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