Chapter 9: Closet Confessions
The walk-in closet smelled of cedar and new leather. Andrew had replaced the old, sagging wire shelves with polished walnut. The clothes, what remained of them, hung in ordered, spectral rows. Silk whispered against chiffon. Leather jackets stood stiff sentinel. In the center of the small room, a single candle flickered on a low stool, its flame casting long, dancing shadows across the mirrored walls.
Erin stood in the middle of the space, naked save for the fresh, glinting silver in her nipples and the small, healing ruby below. The black ‘A’ at the base of her spine was a dark, scabbed signature in the candlelight. She was shivering, though the air was warm.
Andrew stood behind her, a strip of black silk in his hands. He didn’t speak as he draped it over her eyes. The world vanished into a deeper, textured darkness. He tied it securely at the back of her head, his fingers brushing the sensitive nape of her neck. She flinched.
“Rule number one,” he said, his voice close to her ear. “You don’t speak unless given a question. Rule number two. You will choose an outfit. By touch alone. You will feel the fabric. You will imagine how it hangs. How it feels against your skin. How it makes you look. For me.” He guided her forward, her bare feet padding on the cool hardwood. He placed her hands on the first garment. It was something thick, cable-knit wool. A relic. Her fingers traced the rough, familiar pattern.
“This one,” he murmured, “is safe. It hides. It is for the woman you were.” He pulled her hands away, guided them to the next. Something sleek, slippery. “Silk. It hints. It suggests. But it is still a curtain.” He moved her again. Her fingertips brushed something cool, rigid, with a hard seam. Leather pants. She could feel the engineered edge, the uncompromising structure. Her breathing quickened.
He led her down the line, a somnambulist’s tour. Lace that dissolved under pressure. A skirt so narrow it would dictate each step. A top with a neckline that plunged to the navel.
Then, her fingers found it.
It hung at the very end, isolated. The material was unlike anything else. It yielded under her touch, then snapped back with a strange, cool resistance. It was smooth, utterly seamless, and so thin it felt like a second skin waiting to be shed. She ran her thumbs over it, a frisson of uncanny recognition traveling up her arms. It felt both liquid and solid, a captured sigh.
Andrew’s own breath caught. He watched her explore the transparent latex dress, her blind fingers tracing the absence of texture, the way it clung to itself. He saw the pulse jump in her throat.
“What does it feel like?” he asked, his voice low.
She opened her mouth, then remembered the rule. She closed it. Swallowed. Her head gave a slight, confused shake.
“You may speak to answer.”
“It feels… like nothing,” she whispered. “And everything. It’s cold. It doesn’t breathe.”
“What do you imagine it looks like?”
She hesitated. “It… it shows everything.”
“Yes.” The word was a hiss of satisfaction. “It’s a window. Not a curtain. Not a suggestion. A clear, undeniable view.” He stepped closer, his body heat a wall behind her. “Do you want to wear it?”
Her fingers curled into the strange material, gripping it. The decision was made in her clench, in the slight forward tilt of her body. She nodded, a sharp, frantic jerk of her chin.
“Say it.”
“I want to wear it.” The words were barely audible.
“For who?”
“For you.”
He took the hanger from her grasp. The sound of the zipper was obscenely loud in the quiet closet. “Lift your arms.”
She obeyed. He guided the cool, collapsed sheath over her head. It slithered down her body, a shocking, intimate slide. He worked it over her shoulders, down her torso, the latex clinging instantly, suctioning to every curve, every hollow. It sealed to her like a glossy new epidermis. He pulled it down over her hips, over the jewel piercing, over the fresh tattoo. The material stretched taut, a transparent film over the marked territory of her flesh. The candlelight gleamed on its surface, highlighting the rise of her breasts, the dark points of her pierced nipples standing in clear, rigid relief, the delicate shadow between her legs.
He turned her to face the mirrored wall. He stepped behind her, his hands on her shoulders. “Look.”
He untied the blindfold.
Her own reflection was a shock. The woman in the mirror was a stranger, a glossy, surreal rendering of herself. The dress was utterly transparent, making a mockery of the word ‘clothing’. It merely coated her, highlighting rather than concealing. Her shaved body, the silver hoops, the ruby jewel, the black ‘A’—all were displayed with brutal clarity. She looked like a rendering of a fantasy, a live-in fetish. Her mousy brown hair, now dark chocolate, was the only familiar thing, and it seemed disconnected from the glossy creature sheathed in latex.
A sound escaped her, a choked mix of horror and fascination.
Andrew’s hands slid down her arms, his rough palms a stark contrast to the slippery latex. “Good girl,” he groaned, the approval dark and thick in his throat. His erection pressed against her ass, rigid through his jeans. “You chose perfect.”
His hands moved to her hips, spinning her roughly away from the mirror. He bent her over the low, padded shoe rack, her upper body forced down onto the tiers of organized footwear. The cool leather of a boot pressed against her cheek. He pushed the slick, tight material of the dress up, bunching it around her waist. It exposed her ass, the tattoo staring back at him like a brand.
He didn’t bother with foreplay. There was no need. The dress itself had been the foreplay. He unfastened his jeans, freed himself, and guided the broad head of his cock to her entrance. She was already wet, her arousal slicking the inside of the latex, a damp patch he could feel against his skin.
He pushed in with one deep, brutal stroke.
She cried out, her voice muffled by the boots. The latex stretched tighter across her back, a constricting second skin. He fucked her in hard, driving rhythms, his hips slamming against the globe of her ass. Each impact made a sound—a slap of skin, a creak of the shoe rack, the faint, sticky pull of the latex where their bodies connected.
“You see what you are?” he grunted, grabbing a handful of her hair, pulling her head back. “You’re a display. A set of perfect, modified holes. This cunt,” he drove into her, “is mine. This ass,” his thumb pressed against the tattoo, against the tight pucker beneath, “is mine. These tits with their pretty little rings,” his other hand groped her through the latex, pinching a hardened nipple, “are mine.”
He was pounding into her now, the shoe rack scraping against the wall with each thrust. The world narrowed to the smell of leather and latex, the sound of their frantic coupling, the sight of her utterly degraded and displayed. He leaned over her, his mouth at her ear, his voice raw. “You want to come, you stupid slut? You want to come dressed as my personal whore?”
“Yes!” she screamed into the leather.
“Then come,” he snarled. “Come on my cock while you’re wearing your true skin.”
His permission was the final trigger. Her orgasm seized her, a violent, racking convulsion that clamped around his thrusting length, milking him fiercely. He followed, his own release erupting with a guttural roar, pumping into her as he pinned her to the rack, his body shuddering against her latex-sheathed form.
They collapsed together onto the closet floor, a tangled heap of sweat-slicked limbs and crinkling, glossy material. His come leaked out of her, staining the inside of the transparent dress. For a long time, the only sound was their ragged breathing.
Finally, Andrew shifted. He looked down at her. The latex was fogged with their heat, stretched and wrinkled. She looked ruined, used, and impossibly erotic.
“The rule stands,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “You don’t speak to anyone unless I’m there. But tomorrow, you’re going out. You’re wearing this. Under a coat. But you’re wearing it. You’ll go to the coffee shop. You’ll sit. You’ll feel it against your skin all morning.