Wetsuit; Wet Dream

 

By sj_one.

The Story

More brownie points for my new boyfriend. He was down from Sheffield, staying at my place for a long weekend and had just cooked me the most fabulous meal. The effort was especially noteworthy and even more appreciated as, by his own admission, he was no Jamie Oliver (nor was I, for that matter). We were both pretty kinky guys and, just recently, Paul had been showing signs of a growing interest in bondage (I had been into it quite outrageously for a number of years). After dinner we went upstairs together.

“We should explore this new found submissive streak of yours,” I suggested.

I ran a bath for him, sprinkling a generous handful of bath salts under the tap. While it was filling I tried to think up something deliciously evil to do to him. He got undressed and I led him naked into the bathroom and sat on the toilet seat while he got into the hot, relaxing bathwater and lay back in the tub, sliding down, immersing himself almost totally under its foamy surface. He peered at me owlishly, like a submerged hippopotamus, but about a thousand times more attractive. After that extra special culinary endeavour, I was determined to reward him in some suitably kinky way. I started to ask how he’d like to be tied up for the night. He thought for a moment.

“Earlier on, I was looking for a tea towel and I had to look through all your cupboards,” he said. “…Sorry, I hope you don’t mind,” he added. Since I hadn’t pointed out where to find them I could hardly complain.

“Not at all.”

“I spotted you had a wetsuit hanging up in one of them.” This was true; I’d acquired it some years earlier while at university to help keep warm on various winter sailing and canoeing trips with the student union sailing club. After less than a year of getting cold and wet at the weekends, I’d lost interest. Additionally, I’d never worked out why the Union kept its boats at a yacht club some forty miles or so away, instead of, more sensibly, at one of the local reservoirs. The trek over there each time had proved an additional disincentive. Since then, the wetsuit had got virtually no use and, in point of fact, I’d almost forgotten I still had it.

“Yeah, I got it for mucking about in boats when I was at university. I haven’t used it in ages, though.” He looked bashfully at me.

“I think it’d be really sexy to wear.” I thought about this. He was right: a tight, body-hugging wetsuit would look sexy — especially hugging his body. I tried to remember what it had felt like on. It was too long ago and in any case, I hadn’t been considering it in terms of kink at the time, only its utility in preventing me from freezing my butt in icy cold water. Nevertheless, now he had mentioned it, I could see the attraction. So be it. It also gave me an idea for something else to try.

I must have remained silent for some moments because eventually Paul said, “You look as if you’re miles away. What are you thinking about?” He must have heard the gears whirring in my head.

“Oh, I’ve just been contemplating an idea to enhance the sensation of wearing a wetsuit.” I leered at him knowingly and didn’t elaborate further. “Yes, okay, we’ll start with getting you in a wetsuit.”

“Start with?”

“Oh yes!”

“But you’re not going to tell me the rest, is that it?”

“No and yes, that’s right.”

“Fine.”

“Don’t worry, I think you’re going to love this.” I knew I would, anyway. I let him soak a bit longer in the bath, luxuriating and mulling over this latest enigmatic announcement. I ruffled his dark, curly hair affectionately.

“Want me to scrub your back?”

“Sure,” he replied, rising part way, steaming from the water. I half massaged, half mopped his back and shoulders with a flannel. Finally, when his fingers and toes were starting to go shrivelled and crinkly from constant submersion he decided to get out, pulling the plug as he stepped, dripping onto the towel I placed on the floor for him. I got another towel from the rack and dried him off.

We went through to the bedroom. I paused to collect a further bath sheet from the airing cupboard and went to get the wetsuit from its resting place at the back of the wardrobe. Paul was standing by the bed, waiting patiently, yet expectantly for me to help him into the suit.

“No, there’s something I want to do first,” I informed him. I set the wetsuit aside for the moment and unfolded the towel and lay it across the bed. “Lie down on it, face up and get into a spreadeagle position.” He sat down and lifted his feet onto the bed and lay back on the pillows, squirming about a bit to make himself comfortable before spreading his legs and putting his arms back and to either side above his head. “Stay exactly like that,” I told him as I went back to the wardrobe for some restraints from my “toy box”. For good measure, I also brought back a red rubber ball gag on a strap. He made no complaint as I buckled the black leather wrist and ankle cuffs on and tied them with rope by the D-rings to the corners of the bed. I tried to make the knots secure enough not to pull loose, but easy enough to get undone — without resorting to scissors — when we were finished. I had to pull him down the bed a little so his arms were completely stretched out. I adjusted the towel under him and plumped up the pillow so it supported his head properly — I wanted him to be able to see what I was about to do. Then I ball gagged him, slipping the rubber ball into his unresisting mouth and strapping it tightly in behind his head. I stroked his chest a couple of times to reassure him and observed that this treatment was making him horny: he was sporting a very respectable erection. I laughed.

“That’s the idea,” I encouraged. He blushed, embarrassed by his uncontrollable exhibitionism. He looked really cute, lying there exposed and defenceless — I was going to shave him and I had deliberately not told him in advance (though he might have guessed, because of the towel). I went to fetch a new razor and shaving foam from the bathroom cabinet. When he saw what I was carrying back with me he started to struggle but, of course, it was far too late to back out. He tried to object verbally and discovered that the ball gag filled his mouth completely, effectively making any attempt to talk futile activity. His eyes grew wide with panic. I put my hand on his shoulder to soothe him and he calmed down a little, though he remained worried-looking.

“As you’ve guessed, I’m going to shave you! I think you’ll appreciate the wetsuit all the more without any body hair. Have you ever been shaved like this before?” I asked conversationally. He shook his head emphatically. “Just try to relax and enjoy it.”

“Mm-mmm,” he mumbled. I interpreted this to be an okay. Certainly, he seemed to accept his situation, though I noticed he was no longer hard. He pressed his chin into his chest so he could see clearly what I was up to. Actually, he didn’t have very much in the way of body hair, merely a light downy covering of fine hairs on his chest becoming very slightly thicker below the belly and a crop of dark pubic hair. It took perhaps a quarter of an hour to shave his front. I took it methodically and unhurriedly, allowing him to savour the unusual experience.

I refrained from shaving his legs and arms (though I did do his pits). Of course, I could have easily bared his whole body, including his head. Gagged and bound as he was, there wouldn’t have been a thing he could do about it. Probably, the thought that I might do it had occurred to him and perhaps that was the cause of his initial alarm. Certainly I had had it in mind when I chose to augment the bondage with a gag. But it would have been mean to actually carry it through and I simply wasn’t that sadistic by nature. For one thing, he’d not be able to hide his shaven legs while playing football (he’s a talented amateur player, if I’m any judge). As it was, he’d still have something to remember me by for the next few weeks until it re-grew; he’d also have some explaining to do with his teammates in the shower!

Once Paul had realized I wasn’t going to do anything truly terrible to him he seemed to relax completely and submitted to me totally. I finished shaving his front, unstrapped the restraints and turned him over to do his back, refastening the cuffs. I discovered that his sides were especially ticklish and spent several minutes tormenting him in those sensitive spots until he could hardly breathe through fits of giggles. There was a patch of hair on his left shoulder blade, which I removed and another above the cleft of his buttocks. His back took considerably less time than his front. When I was finished I wiped him down with a corner of the towel and removed his fetters and gag. He got up and rubbed his baby bare skin experimentally, obviously unaccustomed to the feeling. If anything, he looked even more gorgeous and vulnerable.

“You’d better use the bathroom before I put you in the wetsuit,” I suggested. He nodded and set off in that direction while I put the restraints away and tidied up.

When he returned I had him sit on the edge of the bed and helped him into the wetsuit. He thrust his legs into the opening and worked his feet out through the ends. Then he stood up and pulled the neoprene up into his newly bared crotch. Lifting it up to his shoulders he shoved his arms into the sleeves and laboured to get his hands free. It was a full length, 3/2-millimetre GUL type — what the surfing community called a “steamer”. In retrospect, it was probably a bit too thin for use in Northern, winter climes, but the thinner, more flexible rubber made it much more satisfactory for its current, erotic, purpose. Paul stood up straight and I zipped him up at the back and sealed the Velcro at the collar. He stretched to fine-tune how it sat and smoothed out the remaining creases in the fabric.

“So, how does it feel?” I wanted to know. He considered it for a while.

“Great!” he exclaimed in growing excitement. “It’s nice and tight all over. Kind of like having my whole body hugged and caressed at the same time,” he said, adding, “especially where you shaved me!” I grinned at him.

“Let me look at you properly.” He took a step backwards and did a pirouette. The wetsuit looked like an exceptionally snug fit and he looked absolutely terrific in it. When he stopped spinning I seized him and pulled him towards me in a bear hug, kissing him; spearing his tonsils with my tongue and running my hands down his neoprene-covered back and sides. He was a bit taken aback by my spontaneous enthusiasm when we finally separated.

“Wow!”

“Boy, do you look fantastic in that,” I told him. He grinned sheepishly.

“I feel fantastic, too.” I sat down on the bed to ogle him some more. “I know what would make it even better,” he went on. “Can I try a straitjacket on over the top?” He already knew I had a couple of different jackets and had pre-empted me, somehow reading my mind.

“Why not? Actually, that’s exactly what I was going to suggest next.” I got up and strode across to the wardrobe. The fully lined leather one would be too much, so I opted for the lighter, canvas and leather model. It could also be padlocked onto the wearer. Bringing it back with me to the bed, Paul was ready with his arms straight out, eager for me to jacket him. There was a very prominent bulge in the front of the wetsuit. The sensation of having slinky rubber rubbing directly against his skin was turning him on in a big way!

“I see it’s having the desired effect on you,” I pointed out, nodding at his crotch. He sniggered.

“Yeah, I guess you could say I’m enjoying it.”

“Wait til I get you strapped into this as well!” I slipped his arms into the sleeves of the straitjacket and slid it upwards, a process made more awkward than usual because of the wetsuit; eventually I was able to wrap the jacket around his shoulders and strap it there while I focussed on getting him properly buckled into it. With a layer on underneath to cushion them, I felt confident about pulling the crotch straps really tight, squashing his hard-on firmly inside its neoprene prison. I went back and readjusted one or two of the back straps, making the jacket even more restrictive and unyielding, before turning my attention to his arms. I had him cross them in front of his body and threaded the ends of the sleeves through the side loops before securing them tightly behind his back. I spun him round to do up the front strap, pinning his forearms across his chest.

“How’s that?” I asked.

“Incredible! Can you go a step further and lock me into the jacket?” He was turning into a right bondage junky.

“Still not enough for you, eh?”

“No.” He laughed, heady with exhilaration and keen for more.

“All right then.” I obliged him and got some miniature padlocks out and set them through the locking posts, rendering it impossible to free the straps. Soon he was totally enclosed in authentically inescapable restraint.

“How about now?”

“One last thing — to make the experience complete — when we go to sleep, can you padlock me into the Puffy Hood?” This was a reference to my favourite hood; a fully-lined one made of soft, supple leather with thick cotton and foam padding between the layers; laced and locked on, it turned the wearer’s head, with the exception of a protruding nose piece, into a featureless black sphere. There were no eyeholes, only two grommets under the nostrils to breathe through and a slightly larger one in front of the mouth as an alternative, for safety, in case one’s nose got blocked up in the night. Wearing it was like being sheathed, sightless, in a comfy, close-fitting cushion.

Now it was my turn to be concerned. I wasn’t completely sure it was a good idea. The wetsuit was described as a “steamer” for good reason. Wearing it, strapped inside a straitjacket and with a thick hood on top I was worried Paul might overheat — much of one’s body heat escaped through the head, after all. I voiced my anxiety on this score, but he begged me to let him undergo the total enclosure treatment. I agreed reluctantly and we came to an arrangement whereby I’d hog the duvet to myself while he slept in the open to allow his body heat to dissipate.

I got him arranged comfortably on the bed for the night and went to the wardrobe one last time to fetch the hood.

“Are you ready for this?” I asked to be certain he really wanted to go through with it.

“You bet!”

“Glutton!” I pulled the hood down over his head and worked it about until it was in the right position; then I laced it — not too tight (since he was going to be in there quite some time) and locked it. The sound of the padlock snapping shut made him shiver in anticipation. Absolutely no escape, guaranteed!

“Are you okay in there?”

“Fine,” came the muffled response. I got into bed and we lay back, me under the covers, him on top. I switched the bedside light off and tried to get to sleep — a feat made difficult by the knowledge that next to me was one hot (in more ways than one) guy wearing a figure-hugging wetsuit, locked into a straitjacket and hood, and absolutely at my mercy. I tried to imagine what Paul was feeling, tightly bound inside the suit. It must have been quite frustrating for him to be unable to play with himself. I found the thought quite arousing myself — and I was under no such restriction!

To be continued… In part 2.

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