Forced Encounter
The shop was one I walked past every day on my way to and from work. It was inconspicuous and at a glance resembled a sort of second hand bookshop. Then one filthy day I got caught in a downpour. You’ve guessed it, the only shelter was the entrance to the shop.
The window displays were uninspiring, and the whole frontage onto the lane—this was a short cut I took that led off a busy street and allowed me to cut through to where I could take a ‘back lane’ to cut through another block to reach the street I lived in—and the windows formed a sort of funnel toward the door. What caught my attention was a small flag display in both windows. I recognised them. All LGBTQ+ flags, but one was also present in a slightly larger version. Black with red and gold or yellow bands …
The decorative script on the glazing in the alcove read “The Oubliette” with below it, Bespoke Rubber Wear And Gear. It was the first time I’d actually stopped to read it.
The name and the legend intrigued me. I’ve always had a ‘thing’ for rubber, and my collection of ‘specialist’ magazines and catalogues on the subject of rubber sex, fetish and gear has become quite large. I buy most of my gear online—I’m way to deep in the closet—and generally only wear it at home, but I do fantasise about, maybe, one day, meeting …
Yeah, right. Turning thirty in a few months, totally disinterested in women, very attracted to men, fantasise about wearing rubber and being tied up for sex, keep in shape at a fitness club, and never has anyone …
I was standing with my back to the door, morosely watching the rain and wishing I’d taken the bus when the door opened.
“Why don’t you step inside, chum. It’s warmer for a start. You’ll catch your death out there, soaking and cold, I shouldn’t wonder.” There was a laugh in the voice. “I don’t bite—much—and this is going to last at least an hour according to the rain radar.”
I turned to reply and felt my face go white in shock. The guy was about my age and build—in fact I’d seen him occasionally in the fitness club I spend most of my 'disposable income’ subscribing to—and he was wearing rubber. Neck to toe rubber.
“Looks like you got soaked,” his grin teased as he added, “Doesn’t happen in rubber you know—unless you want it too. Come on in, no point standing in the wet and getting cold. Fancy some coffee?”
His easy friendliness and the offer of coffee did it. I was soaked, and cold and still had about a mile and half to get home, further if I had follow the roads and not the footpath.
“Thanks, coffee would be great,” I said, stepping inside. The scent of latex washed over me in a wave as he shut the door. The area I entered was small, more or less just a ‘reception’ area, with a couple of seats and dominated by a display dummy in a latex bondage suit. An open door behind the counter revealed an ‘office’ with what looked like a tailors workroom behind it.
“I’ll fetch a towel, I can hang some of your stuff in my flat to at least drain a bit if you like. Come through to my ‘office’ at the back and you can take off the wettest stuff there.” He chuckled. “That’s assuming you don’t mind stripping in front of a gay rubber sex fiend.”
The way he said that was a challenge. I followed into what appeared to be a sort of stockroom and workshop beyond the small ‘office’ area. The scent of rubber was almost overwhelming now, and the shelves held what might have been bolts of cloth, except it was all rubber.
“Thanks, I need to dry out a bit.” Deciding to let the comment about being Gay and a sex fiend, pass. I began to get out of my soaked overcoat—shower-proof, not waterproof—I let him take it and peeled my fleece and my wet shirt. “Looks like I should buy a better coat. That one’s getting on a bit.” I used the towel to rub the damp of myself and a bit of warmth back into my skin.
He laughed. “Might as well give me your jeans, you’re wet from the crotch down.”
“Yeah, but …” I hesitated. All I had under my jeans was a thong. My little bit of rebellion against convention and my defiance of a world which despises people like me, is to wear daring underwear. “Um, I haven’t much under them.”
“No worries, I won’t try to molest you,” there was a slightly bitter edge to his tone. “I’ve a pair of rubber shorts you can wear—if you feel shy. Don’t worry, I’ve seen as many as you have, and I won’t attempt anything you don’t want.” He grinned, “I’ll fetch them while you drop the jeans. You can always wrap the towel to spare your blushes.”
Stepping out of the ‘office’, which I now saw had CCTV monitors that showed the entrance and two other areas—the reception and the workshop—I saw him move to a rack and pick up a pair of shorts from the shelf. I managed to get my feet out of the sodden jeans and held them in front of me as he returned.
“Here you go.” He laughed, handing me a pair of shorts. They were a style I knew from a number of different catalogues as ‘chastity’ shorts. Made of thick rubber with buckled straps on the legs, an opening for the genitals, and a double zip flap front and a heavy belt. A zip divided the back of the shorts, with a double slider. The buckles were all designed to be locked and the small padlocks were there as well. “I’ll get these hung up in the boiler room—they’ll at least lose most of the water even if they don’t dry fully.” Turning to go, he chuckled. “Very fetching. Thongs are comfortable as well as fun. I’ll bring the coffee. Milk and sugar?”
“Just milk, thanks,” I managed. Inspite of my embarrassment, and the chill in my wet skin, my cock was doing its best to harden up. It’s not that prominent when limp, but when it’s ‘interested’ …
I had the shorts on and buckled, but not locked, when he returned with two mugs of coffee. I’d shed my thong to fit the shorts properly, and had to admit that they were comfortable and bloody erotic even though I hadn’t fastened the internal straps supposed to fasten my cock and balls inside the chastity shield—and my cock was now causing a bulge.
A brief look around the workshop suggested that this place made or supplied the heavy bondage equipment I fantasised about. The sort of stuff only a really wealthy or dedicated bondage practitioner could afford. It made my heart rate rise, and something else as well! Just as well the ‘pouch’ front of the shorts was thick and nothing showed!
“Got them on okay?” He eyed the shorts and noticed the thong—electric blue lycra—in my hand. Putting down the mugs, he offered a teeshirt and a fleece. “These’ll be a bit warmer, rubber’s quite cold in this weather. And the heating down here isn’t great anyway.” Taking a seat as I pulled on the teeshirt and the fleece, he added, “Better introduce myself. I’m Dave.” He gestured. “The owner, gofer, whatever. Don’t carry a stock, everything is bespoke.” Laughing again, he said. “I live above the shop, but I’ve got a couple of guys who do the cutting and gluing as piece work and actually make the stuff I sell. I do the measuring of the client, create the patterns and the guys make things up.” He grinned. “Sometimes I’m asked to create something special, like a bondage throne, or an upright vac rack."
“I’m Tom.” Sitting down, I grinned nervously, my heart pumping. One big reason I am a loner, is, as I said, that I am Gay, and fantasise a lot, especially about bondage sex. I’m also a klutz when it comes to sex and relationships—and ‘being Gay’ can get you a damn good beating if exposed in the wrong company. It terrifies me that someone may find out—legacy of a teacher discovering some of my erotic sketches. “I’m a storeman at GBS—General Building Supply … Got a small flat on the other side of the Borough. I take a short cut through this lane and then through the back alleys across the Quant stream. Saves the bus fare.”
“Except in bad weather you get wet and cold walking, chum.” Taking a drink from his mug, he studied me. “And I’m guessing GBS aren’t exactly generous payers either.”
I thought of my tiny flat, the rent taking a third of my wages, and the fact my landlord wasn’t that quick to fix anything or maintain the building. It was that bad I almost never bothered reporting anything and either did it myself, or got a mate from work to help me. In this weather I just hoped the roof wasn’t leaking too badly.
“It’s enough. Pays the rent and keeps me in food, plus a bit for the gym and the odd pint in the pub.” I shrugged. “I don’t need a lot and I’m not a high-flyer. Coasted through school and,” I laughed bitterly, “my CV says I’m ‘Not Very Qualified’.”
The truth is I’m a bit autistic. In school I didn’t mix, frequently put my foot in it and fell for every damned pratfall anybody set up for me, and was always a target for certain teachers because of my inability to pay attention to anything. And then there were the guys who made it their business to pick on anyone not a big ‘jock’ type. Family didn’t help either. Dad had walked out when I was still a kid, and Mum worked damned hard and all hours. She had her own problems to deal with and I was a bit of a nuisance. My two older sisters were busy building their own lives, and hadn’t much time for me. I was an embarrassment, always innocently saying the wrong thing in the wrong company.
I don’t socialise much—it’s too complicated trying to figure out whether someone was being friendly, or setting me up for something—and I had problems focussing on lessons. The worst was the teacher who had found my fantasy drawings. He was a sadist, and found ways to ‘punish’ me that always seemed to involve removing my trousers so he could ‘examine’ me and apply the cane to my bare backside—or ‘play’ with my always loaded cock. If I dropped a load, it got me another caning, or submitting to being fucked. I usually chose the latter.
Somehow I managed to pass most classes, but only just. It was the same at work. I was okay at tasks that I could do mostly by rote, but struggled if it demanded attention to detail over a longer period and included many interruptions. After a number of disastrous attempts to find employment in shops—no go, I just can’t deal with customers—so I ended up where I am now. A Storeman. Dead end job.
“Sounds a touch restrictive,” he replied, his eye watching me with an odd expression on his face. “Like I said, I own this place. It pays for itself, and the flat’s handy for what I need.”
“The job suits me. Like I said, Not Very Qualified, and not very demanding. At least there’s not a lot I can screw up in it.” Drinking some of the coffee and feeling myself warming up as I wrapped my hands round the mug, I asked, “You say everything you make is ‘bespoke’? How’s that work?”
“What it says.” He grinned. “I make everything ‘to measure’. You want a special suit say, in heavy gauge rubber. I measure you up, we work out the specification for constructing it and agree a price. You get two ‘fittings’ to check everything is as specified, you pay and the suit is yours. Those shorts were for a client who changed partners before they were ready—and paid for not taking them in the end. They wouldn’t have worked for his next partner anyway.” He grinned. “You obviously figured them out okay.”
“Yeah. I’ve seen them advertised—or similar ones anyway.” Playing with my coffee mug for a moment, I continued, “They’re more comfortable than I expected—but I haven’t fastened the, um, inside bits.”
“Ah.” Grinning as I blushed, he finished, “The ‘inside bits’ are a bit restrictive, but then, that’s the whole point of them. How’s the through zip feel?”
“Um, It sort of presses on my … harder than my thong strap, but it’s okay.”
“Much more fun too in my view,” he laughed. “Tell you what, it’s still pissing down outside. I’ll lock up—I’m not expecting any customers and was just going to lock up anyway when you ducked into shelter. Do you fancy some supper?”
“I should be getting home,” I started, then laughed. “But I doubt I could catch the bus like this, and, well, my stuff is, um, rather wet …”
“Then there’s no excuse for not joining me for supper.”
The supper was light, some very welcome soup, toast and cheese and a glass of a very nice wine. His living room was surprisingly big. As big as my entire flat, and evidently there seemed to be at least two bedrooms besides the usual bathroom and kitchen. A place like this, this close to the centre of the ‘Old Town’ must cost a fortune to rent.
Over supper we talked—or I had, he was good at listening—and it was very late by the time I realised it was still pissing down and pitch dark outside. We’d talked about a lot of things, including school, and discovered we’d both gone to the same one, and that he’d been ahead of me by about four years.
“Did you have that bastard, ‘Mister’ Jim Jones for geography and gym?” The question was casual, but made me stare in surprise.
“Yeah, did you have him as well?”
“Depends on what you mean by ‘having’ him,” he replied noncommittally. “He liked to use the cane, and best not to be the last boy in the changing room on your own after gym.”
“Yes.” I swallowed. “He loved to cane us. Still got the marks I think.”
“Used to get his thrills on it.” He shrugged. “Hated him, but at least I got my balls unloaded regularly.” Laughing, he added, “I was supposed to go to Grange Hill, but hated it and got kicked out, so I ended up at City Incomprehensible.” He used the name most of us used to refer to the Comprehensive we’d endured.
We talked a bit more, the fact he’d been supposed to go to the expensive ‘public’ school a few miles out of town, told me there was more to Dave than it appeared. For some reason I felt perfectly at ease in his company, and I wondered if Jonesy had gone as far with him than he did with me. I didn’t ask, and it was now getting very late.
“I have to go home. Work tomorrow and all that … Shit, it’s still pissing down.”
It was still raining heavily, but at least my clothes were now mostly dry.
“I’ll call a cab.”
“But I can’t pay a taxi fare—it’s a long route to get there.” I protested.
“Who said you’re paying? I insist. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed your company. Get yourself ready while I clear up the dishes.”
I protested some more but was firmly overruled.
“Nonsense. As I said, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the company on a really miserable night, and you can’t walk home in this, especially on your normal route. It’s not safe.” Stopping me as I started to undo the shorts, he said, “And keep those. Call it a gift for a fun evening.”
To be continued.
