Chapter 3: Debuting the Latex
The latex was a second skin, a glossy black prison that squeezed every ounce of air from my lungs. I stood before the full-length mirror propped against the living room wall, the ring lights casting three overlapping halos around my reflection. The suit was engineered perfectly, hugging the impossible new curves—the cinched waist, the exaggerated swell of my hips, the round, full ass that looked like it belonged to someone else. The zipper ran from crotch to collar, and I’d pulled it up just enough. It ended an inch below the sternum, forcing my breasts together into a deep, obscene valley of pale flesh that gleamed against the stark black rubber. Every breath made the material squeak faintly.
“Jesus fuck,” Drew breathed from behind the camera tripod. His mouth was actually hanging open. He hadn’t blinked in about thirty seconds.
Evan was more clinical, adjusting a light stand, but his eyes kept snagging on me, darting away, then drifting back. His jaw was tight. “Audio check. Taylor, say something.”
I turned from the mirror, the movement making the latex pull tight across my thighs. “Testing,” I said, and my voice came out lower, a forced purr I’d been practicing. “You boys ready for your show?”
Drew made a choked sound. Evan’s fingers fumbled on the microphone jack. “We’re live in sixty,” he said, his voice strained. “Remember the prompts. Chat drives the first twenty. Then we escalate. Drew, you’re on marker duty. Track the big donations.”
I didn’t answer. I walked to the chair they’d placed in the center of the green screen. It was a low-backed office chair, chosen for a reason. Every step was a deliberate performance. The cool, slick interior of the suit rubbed against my nipples, which were already hard points of sensation. Between my legs, the material was a different kind of pressure, a constant, unsettling presence. I could feel the dampness already gathering there, my body’s humiliating betrayal kicking in on cue.
I sat down slowly, spreading my thighs just enough as I settled. The latex at the crotch glistened under the lights, a dark, wet patch already visible. I leaned back, letting one hand trail down my own stomach, feeling the stark contrast of the cool, hard rubber under my fingertips. My heart was a hammer against my ribs, but my face was a mask of cool command. Inside, I was screaming. This wasn’t me. This was a thing I was piloting.
Evan counted down silently from five, then pointed.
The red light on the camera glowed.
A switch flipped behind my eyes. “Well, hello again,” I murmured into the camera, my green eyes locking onto the lens. The chat sidebar on the monitor to my right exploded into a waterfall of emojis and usernames. “Miss me?”
The donations started immediately. $20 from UserLovesTayla: STRIP THE ZIPPER DOWN AN INCH!
I smiled, a slow, predatory thing. “So impatient.” My hand went to the zipper pull, a cold metal tag between my fingers. I tugged it down slowly, with a faint, metallic rasp. The suit parted another inch, revealing more of the soft, trembling cleavage. The chat scrolled faster.
$50 from LatexKing: TOUCH YOURSELF. SHOW US YOUR TITS.
“Manners,” I chided, but my other hand came up, cupping one breast through the latex, my thumb brushing over the nipple. A sharp, electric jolt shot straight down to my core. I let my head loll back slightly, a sigh escaping my lips. It wasn’t entirely faked. The sensation was too intense, too direct. “You like that? You like seeing what this body can feel?”
The donations climbed. A hundred. Then two. A kaleidoscope of demands. Spread your legs wider. Spit on your hand. Put a finger in your mouth.
I followed them like a script, each movement calculated. I opened my legs, letting the camera see the full, wet sheen at my crotch. I gathered saliva on my fingers and let it drip onto the shiny black covering my breast. The disgust was a poison in my veins, but it was drowned out by the roaring numbers, the raw power of holding thirty thousand people in my hand, making them beg.
Then a new donation flashed, gold-encased, a superchat. $500 from Void_Caller: PUT DREW ON SCREEN. LET HIM TOUCH.
The chat erupted. The demand was picked up, chanted, a tidal wave of agreement.
I glanced off-camera. Drew was poised, trembling, his eyes wild. Evan gave a tight, almost imperceptible nod. The metrics were winning.
“So greedy,” I breathed into the mic, my gaze sliding back to the lens. “You want a piece of the action? Drew, get over here.”
He stumbled into the frame like a man in a dream. He smelled of nervous sweat and sharp cologne. He stood beside the chair, unsure where to look, his hands clenched at his sides.
“Chat wants to see you touch,” I said, my voice a challenge. “You remember the rules.”