Latex
Latex. La-tex.
La: the tip of the tongue slides along the upper teeth and makes the mouth open wide with pleasure. Te: a languid, breathy moan escapes and fills the space. X: I put a finger to my lips and ask not to tell anyone our secret.
When I first arrived in Amsterdam, I didn't even know what it looked like, latex. Something rubbery and shiny?
"Not quite. Latex is a lifestyle. It's a mindset. It's a secret only the chosen ones have. If you figure it out, latex will become a reflection of your most intimate fantasies."
We are sitting with Dimichev in a cozy cafe near Dam Square, and he is telling me about the specifics of the job. Outside, the bright May sun is shining, and an endless stream of tourists from all over the world passes by. I want to understand how safe it is and what needs to be done.
"It's not the what, but the how that's important," Dimichev begins, tapping his spoon irritably against the edges of his cup as he stirs his coffee. "Even this Latte should remind you of latex."
"I see," I nod in agreement, although I don't understand anything.
I don't want to grovel and fawn over him. He's become so businesslike, even though we were once in the same class. At one point, Dimichev even tried to court me. Then everything changed, and our paths diverged. Over seven long years, I managed to graduate from university with a useless degree in psychology, jump into an unfortunate marriage with one jerk, successfully divorce him, and end up alone with a three-year-old child in my arms and a job at a school for pennies.
Dimichev was luckier. He just gave up on everything and left the hopeless poverty. I envy him. He looks very well-fed and content. I would never have thought our paths could cross again under such unusual circumstances.
The cafe owner, a woman of Indian origin, approaches an elderly couple at the next table and takes their order in broken English. In the far corner of the cafe, a handsome young man in a fashionable hat is huddled. He steals glances at me, involuntarily squints, and hides behind a newspaper. Nervous blinking—a sign of stress. I wonder what problems he could have in a country like this? In any case, I'm always pleased when men pay attention to me. But now is not the time for flirting.
I roll my shoulders back and sit up straighter. I smile and return to our conversation.
"When can I start?"
***
An hour later, I arrive at the address written on the piece of paper by Dimichev. It's an ordinary three-story house in the Old Town. I had to run along the canals, squinting at the street name signs, before I could find the right address. The house stands in a continuous wall of other houses, just as narrow and tall as birdhouses. The same leisurely tourists of various nationalities stroll around. In the canal, drakes chase gray ducks.
I ring the doorbell and wait. After half a minute, the door is opened by Mevrouw de Jong. Dimichev told me about her. She is a rather tall woman, about fifty, overweight, with a short, brown-dyed crew cut, glasses, a double chin, and unattractive facial features. Dimichev called her a "fat cow," but she immediately inspires trust in me. Even more than he does. She radiates hospitality, is harmless, very polite, even extremely so, which constantly embarrasses me, and most importantly: a childlike, naive smile never leaves her face. She is wearing a long white tank top hanging over her stomach, dark blue leggings to the knees, and open, worn-out sandals. We are seeing each other for the first time, but I feel like I've known her forever. She reminds me of my neighbor from back home.
Mevrouw de Jong invites me into the living room. It's a large room spanning the length of the house, furnished with antique carved furniture and parquet flooring. Such interiors have always fascinated me. I look with interest at an old cuckoo clock.
We speak in English. I see how Mevrouw de Jong tries to win me over.
"Karin," she asks me to call her by her first name and offers me tea.
I am terribly nervous and remind her that we don't have much time. She waves it off and laughs. She says it's fine, the client can always wait. "Client can always wait" — she pronounces it "clai-ent," and I immediately remember the role assigned to me. My breathing slows from excitement, my palms become damp. The last thing I need is to faint at the most crucial moment.
Get a grip!
Let's do it another time, Karin, I say out loud. And to myself I add: no tea is going to go down right now anyway.
I expect her to start insisting, as they like to do back home in Belarus. But no: another time, so another time.
We go up a narrow, steep staircase to the third floor and enter a small room, obviously equipped as a dressing room. The wooden furniture here is also solid wood and has an antique look. Against the wall is a dressing table with a tall mirror and a soft chair in front of it. In the corner stands a beautiful wardrobe. The headboards of a small bed are made of the same cherry-colored wood.
Karin presses a button near the window, and we slowly sink into darkness. As the roller shutters descend, the bright sunlight is replaced by electric light emanating from a dozen bulbs around the mirror.
"A little privacy!" she laughs at her own joke. I smile timidly.
Karin goes to the wardrobe and takes out a hanger on which hangs a small red rubber bag with handles and legs. She places the bag on the bed.
"So what do you think?" Her voice sounds proud. She looks at me with interest.
What do I think? Holy shit! I'm simply speechless.
This red rubber full-body bag is specially made to order to my measurements. Ruin it and you'll pay. Dimichev's words echo in my head.
Today this bag will cover me from head to toe. Today I will wear it for the first time.
I take off all my clothes, hesitating, lingering on my panties. Then I pull them off too and remain completely naked. After all, we're not here to play dominoes. My pubic area is smoothly shaved, my fingernails and toenails are cut short. Everything as Dimichev requested. Karin nods approvingly, examining my body.
"You are so beautiful!" she says to me, pretending not to notice the cesarean scar.
How often I heard those words back when I used to swim. In all sorts of situations, but in one like this—for the first time.
"Thank you!"
I sit on the chair, take the suit in my hands, find the left leg, and work my way to the foot. I slide my foot into the bag, and the foot immediately gets stuck in the rubber folds, which glue themselves dead to the skin.
"No, no, no!" Karin laughs playfully. She apparently waited for this moment on purpose to laugh at me.
I huff, pull the rubber towards me, and stubbornly try to prove to her that I can do it. The rubber stretches, slaps loudly against my leg, but doesn't give in.
"Ok, stop," she takes my hands. "Let's start again."
We pull the suit off my leg and return it to its original position. Karin opens the wardrobe again and takes out some kind of spray can.
Oh, like that? I see.
I spray the lotion on my leg and rub it thoroughly along the entire length. The skin becomes smooth and slippery. I find the left leg of the suit again and work my way to the foot. Now I need to be extremely careful. If even a small wrinkle appears, I'll have to start all over again. I slowly pull the leg over my foot and immediately smooth out the wrinkles with my hands. Karin shows me how to do it correctly. Latex is a very thin material; it immediately fits tightly to the skin. Thanks to the lotion, I have only a couple of millimeters of leeway to pull it up and smooth it out.
The latex crackles and snaps as we pull it on, but when it merges with me, it becomes my second skin. We finish the second leg and move on to the arms. My fingers slide into the gloves as if poured in. Heat and cold easily penetrate the thin film. I feel the warmth emanating from my palms when I stroke my thighs, and when I remove my hands, a temporary chill appears in that spot. The suit has special cups for the breasts. I notice some additional rubber inserts there. My breasts fit perfectly inside. Even the nipples find their place in the oblong bumps. Karin pulls the edges of the suit together on my back and with difficulty zips them up with a thin, barely noticeable zipper.
I finally sink into my new skin. It strives to squeeze me out of the suit, like jelly from a tube. Because of this, all the muscles in my arms and legs have tightened and taken on rounded shapes. My butt seems to have separated from me and become a separate part of my body. My breasts have risen higher and sway unnaturally.
I still feel naked. The latex hides my nudity and simultaneously emphasizes it. It treacherously exposes all my curves and repeats the folds of skin under my arms and between my legs. I look like a comic book hero: the curves of my body have suddenly become brighter and clearer. A small triangle of free space has formed between my legs. I notice there is also a zipper there. That's in case I need to use the toilet, I hope.
My waist has tightened and become narrower. Karin seems to hear my thoughts and takes another item of clothing from the wardrobe—a black corset with rivets in the front and lacing on the back. We put it on, Karin helps me from behind. She huffs, braces herself, trying to tighten it as much as possible. It's unusual for me to breathe. I'm being squeezed out in different directions again. I look at myself in the mirror. The black corset, as if poured on, merges with the bright red suit and highlights my waist as a separate part of my body. My naturally narrow waist now looks like a second neck, and I myself look like an hourglass. It seems like the wasp waist is about to snap, and I'll fall apart into two pieces.
"Don't worry. This is just for one hour," Karin knows how to calm me down.
She takes a small hand pump from the wardrobe and inserts the tip of the hose into a small hole under my left breast. The corset has squeezed my breasts and slipped under them, creating a fold. But now they rise higher and higher above the corset as Karin pumps air into them. When she finishes inflating them, they stand before me like two large spheres. The nipples have also expanded to the size of a matchbox. They are a milky beige color. It all looks ridiculous, but apparently, someone likes it.
Finally, the head. It dangles like a hood in front on my neck. I pull the face-mask, the same milky color as the nipples, over my head and look at myself in the mirror again. The mask has holes for the nose and slits for the eyes and mouth. Only my red, full lips, thick black eyebrows, and large green eyes remain visible on my face. My face has become featureless, my features have disappeared. Anonymity is the only reason I agreed to this whole masquerade in the first place. Well, and the money, of course.
Karin helps me with my hair in the back. She gathers my mop of hair into a ponytail and threads it through a special hole in the head. She secures my hair with elastic bands, and now it dangles behind my back like a fluffy rope of wheat color.
While I stand there by the table, staring at myself in the mirror, Karin continues to take out the rest of the gear from the wardrobe. I don't even think about its purpose anymore.
Black shoes on a huge platform with scarlet, matching the suit, rounded toes and equally scarlet, very long stiletto heels. Sharp steel spikes of different lengths protrude from the toes of the shoes and in a continuous line along the heel. The smallest, the size of a fingernail, is on the toe. The largest, the size of a pinky finger, is on the heel.
Next: a wide, full-neck leather collar with three rows of sharp, long spikes and a large ring for attaching a leash. From the same opera.
Finally, a huge, child's fist-sized, black strap-on. The artificial penis looks very realistic. It is covered with bulging veins and is very thick in girth. The head resembles a large plum stuck on the end. Such a thing hardly exists in nature.
I start putting on the shoes, but Karin stops me. We'll still need to go down the stairs. But the other accessories are quickly on me. Is that all?
No. It seems not.
Karin gives me lipstick, eye shadow, and a mascara set. While I fuss with the makeup in front of the mirror, she takes another spray from the wardrobe and starts rubbing me with polish. Her gloved hand slides over my body, but I pay no attention to it. She does everything so professionally and quickly that I stopped being embarrassed by her long ago and treat her like a patient treats a doctor.
She finishes polishing, and we both look at my reflection in the mirror.
"Zo! What do you think?" Karin asks enthusiastically.
What embarrasses me the most is the huge black penis with a natural-looking scrotum, which also shines ominously and sways horizontally between my legs. It is securely fastened with straps to the belt and merges with my body. I can't take my eyes off it for a long time.
The suit looks gorgeous. The breasts are ready to explode. The light from the bulbs is reflected in them as if in a mirror. I turn sideways, examining my rounded butt under the corset. Highlights dance across the bright, scarlet-blood-colored suit. My white, milky-colored face has lost all individuality. I bat my long eyelashes and make my lips into a bow. I've become like a doll.
"Nice," I answer cautiously.
"Very nice!" Karin is pleased. Her eyes shine from behind her glasses no worse than my suit. And that's the main thing.
"Ok, let's go!" says Karin.
I take the shoes with me, and we carefully descend the steep staircase to the second floor. Karin opens a massive wooden door, reminiscent of castle gates, and we enter over the creaking parquet.
I freeze on the threshold in surprise. I finally see my workplace. It's a spacious room, the interior of which resembles a medieval torture chamber.
Right in front of me, in the middle of the room on a special platform, is fixed a thick board with holes for the head and hands, resembling a chopping block. On the left, a full-wall mirror stretches. On the right in the corner stands a double bed with iron bars in the headboards, and near the window rises a large steel cage. Various whips, crops, clamps, and handcuffs hang on the walls, on the bed headboard, in the corners of the room. The windows opposite the entrance are tightly covered with thick burgundy curtains. Electric candlesticks in the form of slightly flickering flames hang along the walls and emit an uneven reddish-yellow light.
We approach the cage, and Karin opens the door. I go inside and sit on a low stool. Karin asks me to put on the shoes and a blindfold. She clips my collar to an iron chain welded to the cage.
"You wait here. I will be ready in ten minutes. Is everything OK?" Karin looks at me with concern. Probably, even through the mask on my face, the shock is noticeable.
I nod and pull the tight blindfold over my eyes. Everything plunges into darkness. I hear the cage bolt clang and Karin leave the room.
Ten minutes? I hope she doesn't forget about me.
***
Somewhere outside, heavy music begins to thump mutedly.
__P