Wetsuit; Wet Dream – Part 4

 

By sj_one.

The Story

The club I had in mind for that night was a fetish club. Virtually anything went as far as dress code was concerned, except boring street clothes. In recent years, most of the clubs, apart from the hardcore leather bars, had gravitated towards predominately rubber and latexwear, so turning up in neoprene wasn’t out of order, even if it was a little different to the usual attire. We decided we might as well get full use out of the day’s acquisitions. By the time we were preparing to go out, my Sola wetsuit, which had been airing in the back of the Alpha Romeo was almost dry again.

“Which one do you think I should wear?” I asked Paul, holding up the Sola in one hand and the GUL in the other.

“The shortie, definitely,” he asserted. He hadn’t taken his own wetsuit off since we left the shop. It must have been delightfully sweaty by now. I smiled to myself at the thought. I got changed back into mine and put the other back in the wardrobe, but this time near the front, since I was now inclined to make more frequent use of it. We put some more conventional clothes on over the top — it would not be wise to wander the city streets in nothing but wetsuits after dark, after all. I wore a pair of PVC jeans and Paul had brought a pair of leather ones with him for the weekend. We both wore leather biker’s jackets to cover our torsos. I put our newly bought neoprene boots in a sports holdall — we could check it in at the cloakroom when we got there and stuff our regular footwear and other things in it when we got changed at the venue. On a mad whim I decided to take another of my hoods with us, in case the opportunity to play arose.

This time I chose my heavy-duty leather hood. It’s probably the most challenging one to wear, with a number of options that, progressively added, make it more and more intimidating. You’d have to be a bit of a masochist to wear it overnight (I have, but that’s another story!) It has pinholes over the eyes, so you can just about see where you’re going in it — useful in a club, if you don’t want to bump into things (and people) continually. It laces down the back and then there are two flaps that zip together from the crown of the head to the nape of the neck, covering the lacing. The zipper attaches to a locking post on the collar and padlocking it makes it totally unfeasible to remove the hood unaided. D-rings around the collar allow it to be anchored to whatever happens to be convenient, although I usually like to fasten a tiny key ring with a couple of keys to the padlock to the front one, for two reasons. One: they don’t get lost and I know exactly where to look if I need to unlock it in a hurry. Two: it’s psychological — provide the means of salvation to the wearer, tantalizingly close at hand, yet inaccessible — so long as you prevent the use of their hands to get at them, by handcuffing their wrists behind their back, for example.

After that comes the fun stuff. There are three additional, thick, heavy leather straps that surround the hood. The first threads through a muzzle piece with an internal, penis-shaped rubber gag that goes through a round opening at the mouth. Buckled into place, it fills the mouth rendering intelligible speech out of the question. It also makes it nigh on impossible to breathe except through the nose holes. I wouldn’t risk sleeping with it in, but it’s very effective otherwise. The second holds a padded leather blindfold across the eyeholes and bridge of the nose. It takes a little fiddling to get it exactly in the right position, but tightened properly, not even the tiniest chink of light gets in! The final strap goes through a slot under the chin, across the cheeks and buckles at the top of the head, pulling the jaw up, making the gag even more efficient. It’s not a beginner’s hood, by any means, but by now I wasn’t thinking of Paul as a beginner (after spending much of the night in the Puffy hood). Definitely a sensory deprivation trip, I would say. I shoved it in the bag with the rest of the gear.

We arrived at about half past ten, early for a Saturday evening and things had yet to liven up, although on the plus side, it meant more chance of finding the dungeon equipment free. We ditched our outerwear and swapped our DMs for the wetsuit boots — they would be more comfortable to loaf around in for the night. I retrieved the hood and we folded up our jackets and put them in the holdall before finding the cloakroom and checking it in. At that point I discovered a downside to the shortie — there was nowhere to keep money for drinks. Fortunately, Paul was able to tuck some cash into the sleeve of his wetsuit. Thank goodness it was so tight fitting!

The club was split over a number of floors of the building. There were bars in the basement, on the ground and second floors. The dance floor was on the second too. I’ve never been into dancing much. I figure, if you want to drink and dance, you might as well go to a regular nightclub, not a fetish club. There was a chill-out space next to the bar on the ground floor, sufficiently insulated from the noise of the disco by an intervening storey to be able to hold a conversation without having to raise one’s voice. The main event, at least as far as I was concerned, were the two “dungeons”; one located in the cellar (appropriately enough) and a second on the top floor. We investigated both of them before opting for the one in the basement (to start with, anyway).

The layout as you went downstairs was a bar immediately to the right as you entered, with some leather sofas along the walls down either side. Then you arrived in the dungeon proper, beyond which were the toilets. There were a handful of people in the bar, one or two of whom I thought I vaguely recognised as regulars. So far, no one was playing in the dungeon. That was not especially unusual this early on. Newcomers, on their first visit, tended to take a good look around but often didn’t have the nerve to join in the fun, at any rate, not straight away. Frequent players often got the socializing out of the way first, so it was not uncommon for the dungeon furniture to lie pretty much unused for the first hour or so until some more uninhibited couple broke the ice.

Paul and I stood at the bar and ordered a bottle of Budweiser each, which he paid for. It occurred to me that I didn’t know if he’d been to a fetish club before.

“Is this the first time you’ve been to one of these places?” I asked.

“Yes,” he admitted, “but it’s not that different from a regular nightclub; except that the outfits are more outlandish.” He glanced at an attractive looking woman at the other end of the bar dressed in a shiny rubber catsuit. She returned his look.

“I like the wetsuits, really hot!” she complimented us both, smiling. We thanked her and, taking our bottles, went to claim one of the sofas between the bar and the dungeon area. She returned with drinks to her own partner, who was attired in black PVC and sitting on the sofa diagonally opposite us.

“Don’t suppose you’d find a whipping bench in most nightspots, either.” Paul mused.

“No, probably not,” I replied. After we finished our beers, I suggested, “Want to check out the dungeon?”

“Sure thing!” he said with considerable enthusiasm. There were several pieces of fetish furniture situated in the play space: the leather upholstered whipping bench he’d already spotted, complete with a profusion of belts and straps to keep a kneeling submissive securely in place; a sturdy, matt black St. Andrews cross — almost de rigueur in a place like this — with powder coated steel eyelets along each arm to thread rope through; and, a more modern piece in a neotechnical style.

It consisted of a raised platform a few inches off the ground with a crosshatched aluminium plate floor. At the rear, in the middle, was a pillar that extended perhaps nine feet or so vertically — very nearly the full height of the room. On top, a crosspiece, braced across the right angle it made with the supporting column, came out directly over the platform. At the end of this was a pulley from which hung a steel cable that descended to meet a horizontal bar, to which it was fastened in the centre. At either end of that square cross-sectioned steel shaft was a padded leather cuff. The arrangement was more or less balanced and swinging gently, like a mobile, in the breeze from the air conditioning. I could see a similar spreader bar and cuffs laid on the floor of the contraption, this time chained closely to a ring in the dead centre of the platform. The other end of the cable ran over a second pulley at the top of the pillar and down to a winch situated at a convenient working height. Like the rest of the equipment, the device was not presently in use. Paul was fascinated and I half expected him to ask me to put him in it, but he had other ideas.

“You know, I never thanked you properly for last night…and for today, too. Can I return the favour now?” He reached for the hood, which I was still carrying and set it down on the platform. “Stand there,” he commanded authoritatively, pointing at the middle of the podium. I obliged and got into position, letting him raise my left wrist to the hanging bar and strap it firmly into a cuff. Obediently, I put my other wrist in the second cuff. He wrapped the padding round my forearm and buckled it shut with the surrounding strap. I noticed that, like my straitjacket and hood, the cuffs had locking posts and padlocks. No doubt the intention was to prevent a slave from persuading a third party to let them out if left alone for a while by their master or mistress. The locks had been left dangling from the D-rings with keys attached. Paul transferred them to the corresponding posts and locked the wrist cuffs onto me, removing the keys. There was a distance of about three feet between the restraints. Then he knelt down and did the same thing with my legs, tapping them with his hands to get me to spread my feet apart in order to strap and lock me into the ankle cuffs. The attached spreader bar kept them separated by three feet also. I could turn freely around the pivot point but not move more than a couple of inches in any direction.

The enforced stance made me aware again of how tight the wetsuit was around my tensed thigh muscles. As often happened in anticipation of a first-rate bondage session, I got an erection. The feeling of restraint and the arousing sensations of the wetsuit itself were working their wicked magic on me. Unlike earlier that day, my hard-on was definitely visible beneath the neoprene. Paul saw it immediately but chose not to say anything. I could tell he was trying hard not to smile. A few of the other clubbers had gathered round to see what we were up to. Plainly, those nearest could see clearly too and I overheard a lewd remark between two of them. I felt my cheeks flame red in embarrassment, but, at the same time, it was extraordinarily thrilling to be exhibited publicly like this. It must have been similar to what Paul felt walking about in town during the afternoon.

He brushed past my wetsuited front, quite deliberately, on his way to the back of the platform. Unfortunately, my restraints prevented me from responding as I would have liked; all I could do was to lean forward towards him. I watched as he started cranking the handle of the winch, raising the suspension bar from chest height. The wrist cuffs weren’t the sort you could safely suspend full bodyweight from, so I knew it wasn’t going to be a full-blown suspension scene. Nevertheless, he hoisted my arms until they were fully extended. As the bar slowly rose there was the ominous clicking of a ratchet. When it eventually stopped, I was grateful he hadn’t made me stand on tiptoes. The net effect was much the same as the St. Andrews cross, keeping me in an “X” pose — except there was nothing to lean against to take some of my weight. Because of the spreader bars and restraints, I felt exposed and vulnerable to whatever perverted plans he might have. I wondered if he’d tickle torture me. This set up was great for that.

Paul picked up the heavy-duty hood and approached. He gave me a long, lingering final kiss before hooding me. He wiggled the leather headgear about until he found my nose and got it located in the front of the face. I felt him pulling at the laces, threading them across the opening at the rear. He had to go back a couple of times to eliminate the slack and make the hood nice and snug before tying the laces in a double bow. I heard the zip being closed and attached to the collar. The snap of the padlock, though I knew it was coming, made me jump like I’d had an electric shock. That made it real for me.

At this point, I could still see through the pinholes of the hood, something he was about to rectify. I realized that he hadn’t said anything to me since first ordering me to stand there. He didn’t say anything now either. We knew each other well enough by now for me to be certain he would back off if I showed any signs of panic. It wasn’t necessary; I trusted him implicitly. In any case, we were approaching the stage where I would be unable to voice any complaint. The gag was inserted, a tight fit between the reinforced circular opening in the hood and the resilient rubber plug. He had to work it about to get it seated properly. Finally it was in the correct position. I felt him tugging sharply on the straps from behind me, hauling the gag deeper into my mouth. It was secured viciously tightly. I was efficiently muzzled; no way was I going to be able to talk!

Next, Paul put the blindfold on and strapped it roughly in place before adjusting it so that no light whatsoever could enter the hood. It was extremely dark in there. I felt the band holding it being tightened another notch.

The last strap, under the chin and over the head was fastened, increasing the hood’s all round sense of restriction by an order of magnitude. Finally, he spun me around by the shoulders several times in each direction to completely disorientate me. It worked: by the time he stopped, I had no idea which way I was pointing (though probably, he left me facing our audience in the rest of the dungeon). I was left to enjoy my solitary confinement for a while.

I have no idea how long I was left hanging there. I could see nothing and hear nothing — at least nothing coherent above the ambient music and general background hubbub. It may have been as long as an hour, more likely only thirty minutes. A sensory deprivation session, by its nature, tends to skew your internal sense of time. Certainly my arm and leg muscles were starting to ache. But it hurt so good! I was still enjoying the experience, despite no tactile contact for however long it had been. The only fresh air I could get was what I could breathe in through my nose and despite the cool, air-conditioned flow around my bare legs I was getting rather hot and sweaty in my wetsuit (or should that be sweatsuit?).

Maybe it was being anonymous, hooded like that, but my hard-on hadn’t diminished since Paul had put me up there; I’d stayed erect throughout and, if anything, my cock was even more rigid now than when we started. The anonymity gave me an unexpected sense of freedom (rather ironic, considering my present state of restraint) to be an exhibitionist and I relished the thought of being forced to stand on public display in a tight, revealing costume in equally tight bondage.

Suddenly, I became aware of a hand on the bulging crotch of my wetsuit. Presumably, Paul had returned to check I was okay. I sensed the hand moving up and down slowly along my shaft, rubbing it from the head of my cock right down to my balls. At the bottom of each stroke, I felt them being squeezed gently. I let out a soft groan that must have been audible outside, despite the effectiveness of the gag, because it encouraged the owner of the hand to increase the speed and pressure of the massage. As abruptly as it had begun, the kneading stopped and I was left alone again, frustrated.

Ten minutes passed (or as near as I could tell) and the hand was back (or was it a different hand?) for another session. The caressing fingers were driving me wild and I was jerking against my restraints. Paul (or whoever it was) realized what I was trying to do and teasingly moved further away so I really had to buck my hips forward to receive any more stimulus than a fleeting brush against fingertips. I was tormented to an extreme level of arousal and then, once again the hand was taken away. Aargh!

An inordinate period of time went by and nothing further happened. Was that it? I wondered to myself. Just when I had convinced myself that it was over, I felt another hand touching me (or was it the same one?) This time the unseen masseur (or masseuse) gave me an all over workout. Apart from being very erotic, it was much appreciated physically. The enforced immobility had started to give me painful cramps in the legs and knots in my shoulder and neck muscles. The aches and soreness melted away under the steady rubbing, kneading and pummelling received from my unknown redeemer. For a third time, tactile contact was tactically withdrawn. At least I felt better for my spot of impromptu physio and able to cope with whatever happened next.

More time elapsed (it seemed an eternity) and another player stepped up to the plate. I was twisted around again — I’m not sure if it was just to throw me off balance, or reposition me so people could get a better view. I was glad I had been allowed to keep my wetsuit boots on. This was very practical — in bare feet I could have stubbed my toes easily (or some drinker could have carelessly trodden on them). My anonymous assailant started by rubbing down my torso. Under their hands, the sweat-slicked Sola slid easily against my body and the sensation was, well, sensational! Whoever it was (Paul, surely) switched to running their hands down my sides and back. They quickly found my most sensitively ticklish spots and proceeded to torment me until I was in paroxysms, tears in my blindfolded eyes. I wished the gag wasn’t so effectual — not only could I not giggle hysterically, but also it made it difficult to get enough air to breathe, since I could only inhale and exhale through my nose! Unlike previously, I was bucking to get away from my tormentor, but the bondage made that almost impossible. Eventually they relented and stopped tickling, though it would be some minutes before my breathing returned to near normal.

I sensed them kneeling in front of me and start to stroke my thighs, just below where my legs emerged from the shortie. To my endorphin-saturated body, that felt really erotic too. Soon they transferred their attention to my hard-on. I think they must have stood up again. The heel of a hand was pressed gently but firmly against the head of my dick and fingers splayed out along my shaft and across my balls. I was being massaged soothingly with a small circular motion that became progressively more insistent. I was convinced that this time I was finally going to be permitted to come. If the whole scene hadn’t been building up to it steadily, I’d have been alarmed about doing this in public (even hidden inside a hood), but by now I didn’t care. I doubted that we were, in fact, breaking any club “house rules” (no nudity, no actual sex), but ordinarily I’d have worried.

My unseen partner (Paul, I was 99% convinced) got me to that plateau just before the point of no return… and then inexplicably stopped! I positively wailed my frustration through the gag. Paul (or whoever it was) was a complete sadist! Fortunately, I was left only a couple of minutes, until the sense of urgency had passed. Then the masterful manipulation resumed, as before. I was swiftly pumped back up towards an orgasm, only to be denied it once again at the last possible moment. This just wasn’t fair! The skill demonstrated in knowing exactly when to stop, thereby preventing me from reaching an ever more desperately needed climax, strongly suggested that they knew me and how I responded, so I was now absolutely certain that it was Paul.

With that self-knowledge I was determined to get off on the third attempt. When he started stroking me again I tried humping his hand, really throwing myself as far forward as my restraints would allow. The massage was subtly different this time too. I got the distinct impression he was milking me and that this time I would be brought to orgasm whether or not I wanted it (but who wouldn’t?) He took it as methodically as before, to draw out the experience, but I was inexorably pushed towards the peak of pleasure. By this stage my heart was pounding in my ears and I was sucking in air through the nose holes of the hood like there was no tomorrow! He took me right to the brink — which I’m sure he knew — because I was left balancing precariously on the edge of the precipice for one delicious moment (it seemed like forever) before one final, intentional stroke sent me leaping irrevocably into the abyss.

“Aaaaaargh!” I’m sure that must have been heard clearly throughout the dungeon. I shot my load inside the Sola in a series of body-wracking jerks that would have felled me if I hadn’t been suspended from a spreader bar.

I expected Paul to let me out immediately after that, but instead, I was left to come down from that emotional high on my own and savour the exquisite sensations. That bit of my mind still capable of rational thought at the time realized that this was planned. If he took the hood off straight away, he’d give away the fact that it had been him doing these marvellous things to me. By delaying the moment, I suppose I could never be totally sure it had not been someone else, a stranger. More psychological games. I had to remember in future that he was at least, if not more, devious than I. If this was a hint of how things were going to develop between us however, then I was going to like being the Marquis de Sade’s special friend!

After five minutes or so, he did come back and take the hood off. It was a relief to be able to feel cool air on my sweat-soaked face and breathe normally again. Just as he had done before hooding me, he kissed me and then ruffled my hair (I bet it must have been in a right state).

“Did you enjoy that?” he asked as he released the winch and lowered the bar.

“It was just amazing!” I couldn’t think of words to describe the experience adequately. He grinned indulgently as he unlocked and unstrapped the wrist cuffs.

“Ouch!” I complained. He looked up at me in concern.

“Cramp,” I said in explanation.

“Just a moment, while I do your ankles.” He unlocked the bar between my feet and returned the padlocks on all the cuffs to their respective D-rings ready for the next player. For the first time in a long while (I’d been there for several hours in total, apparently), I was able to stand up straight. I nearly lost my balance and toppled over, but he was on hand to steady me. He gave me a brisk rub down to get my circulation going again and eliminate the niggling aches and pains that had set in. I took in the fact that the dungeon was now very busy, with the rest of the furniture in full, enthusiastic use. I mentioned this to Paul.

“Yeah,” he said, “you started the ball rolling, as it were. The gear has been in demand ever since, though they did stop to watch you getting ‘finished off’!” I felt a little guilty standing on the platform, hogging the apparatus. We stepped down, freeing it up for the next couple. “Actually, I wanted to leave you there all night, but that would have been a bit greedy…besides, I was starting to feel deprived.”

“Why? Didn’t you have fun playing with me?” He blinked.

“Oh, that wasn’t all me! But I’m not going to tell you which bits were me and which weren’t — you’ll have to guess!” He grinned mischievously, revealing that endearing dimple of his. To this day he still won’t tell me which parts of my wetsuit experience he was responsible for. I gathered that in his bright red steamer he’d had a few of his own. I couldn’t complain — he’d given me a major sensory deprivation scene with sensory overload! Quite a confusing contradiction, really.

“I could do with a drink,” I said earnestly.

“I’m not surprised.” I took the hood from him and we went to the bar for more beer. I kept getting envious looks from the rest of the clientele. It seemed our little exhibition had gone down well. We went upstairs to the chill-out area to unwind (I was still bathing in the afterglow of my most satisfying play session ever) and stayed there chatting until the party wound down around threeish in the morning. We retrieved the sports bag from the cloakroom, put our outside clothes on over the top of our wetsuits and swapped footwear again before leaving the club.

We got back just as it was starting to get light and fell into bed together (still in our wetsuits), too exhausted to do anything but cuddle.

“Thanks for a fantastic day,” Paul said.

“No, thank you. You’ve certainly made mine!”

  One Response to “Wetsuit; Wet Dream – Part 4”

  1. Nice I can only dream.

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