KathrynLocksley
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Spandex and Satin 2
🕑 Added 2025-02-24 18:49:31 +0000 UTCA quick new installment between Kevin and Iris, this time taking his spandex kink out in public!
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“Does it feel as good as you remember?” Iris asks, as I dress myself once more in the pink, clinging spandex outfit she’s brought for me.
She’s lying on my bed, watching me with her delicate chin propped up on her hands, legs kicking idly back and forth in the air under the tails of her winter coat.
“It’s even better,” I answer, twisting around in front of the mirror to admire the way the fabric cups my ass without a single gap or wrinkle. It’s been washed since Iris made me wear it that first time in the gym, and I recognize the unique scent of the detergent as the same one that lingers around Iris herself. I take an extra deep breath of it as I pull on the top that goes over the full pink bodysuit.
“So cute!” Iris exclaims, drumming her fingertips together.
I spin around to give us both a full view of how it hangs. Or rather, how it sits. It’s too tight to hang. The top is actually a little different from the one she had me wear last time, I realize. That one was pure white, while this one is mostly pink with a white panel in the front.
“It’s missing a little something, though,” says Iris.
I recheck the tote bag she brought it in, but don’t find any pieces there that I’ve overlooked.
“Here.” She digs through her own backpack and holds out a little bundle of pink leather.
I unfold it. It’s a collar, decorated with silver studs, and embroidered with the cursive words, Captive Princess at the front, with a little tiara over the second “I.”
I unbuckle it, more than a little reverently, and re-buckle it around my neck. “Thank you.”
“Oh, you’re welcome,” says Iris, getting up to clip a matching leash to the side of it. “Trust me, I’m going to enjoy having you at the end of this thing just as much as you're going to love being there.”
She steps toward the door of my dorm, and gives the leash a tug.
I pause. “We’re going outside? Like this?”
“Don’t worry,” says Iris. “Pi Epsilon is throwing a masquerade ball. We’re not going to be the most overdressed people walking from campus to the house. Or the most underdressed.”
I take a breath and follow.
#
Iris is right, there are people dressed as sexy cops, sexy nurses, sexy astronauts, every kind of adult costume I’ve ever seen and many I never would have imagined. Most of them look off-the-shelf, but a few look like people have been working on them for months. Someone’s wearing the big tiered ballgown from Beauty and the Beast, and her date is in full prosthetic beast makeup.
When we finally arrive at the sorority house, Iris ties my leash to one of the hooks by the door while she removes her coat, like I’m actually a pet that might wander away if she drops the leash entirely.
An embarrassed thrill in my stomach sends heat out to all my extremities.
Under the coat, she’s wearing another of her shimmering black catsuits. It’s made of a more rigid material than her gymnastics one, with a dramatic hourglass shape built into.
She reaches into one of the coat’s pockets for a cat ear headband and a pair of long black evening gloves with acrylic claws attached to each finger. She takes her time putting them on and aligning the claws on her fingers just right, before untying the end of my leash and tugging me deeper into the crowd of half-dressed partiers.
“Sis!” a voice shouts, low and commanding. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your… friend?”
Iris sighs, changes course, and leads me over to a row of stools in front of the house’s crowded home bar.
A woman in an emerald green catsuit and an elaborate masquerade eye mask holds a hand out imperiously to shake mine.
“Kevin, my sister Emi,” Iris introduces her. “Emi, Kevin.”
Something about the way she says the word “sister,” with a hint of a long-held eye roll, draws my attention to the similarities in the two women’s smiles, the distinct way they toss their long black hair behind them when they focus on someone. I’m pretty sure they’re not just using the word in the sorority house sense.
“So, who are you two supposed to be?” Emi asks, looking at me in particular.
“Oh, I’m….”
I’m me. The real me. My favorite version of me. That's what I'm dressed as. Not much of a costume at all, really.
“I’m, uh, I’m the Pink… Panther,” I spit out the first plausible-seeming combination of words that click together in my head.
Iris snorts beside me. “Obviously. Couldn’t you tell?”
“Not really,” says Emi, raking her eyes over me. “But I can see it, I guess. What about you?”
“Catwoman,” Iris deadpans without a moment’s pause. “Meow.”
“Yeah, that tracks,” says Emi. “So… what’s going on here?”
She drags a finger along the leash connecting me with Iris.
I shrug my shoulders upward and then just kind of leave them there, hoping to block her view of the exact words on my collar. I don’t know if I’m succeeding.
“Oh, like Catwoman wouldn’t have Pink Panther on a leash?” Iris snarks. “She controls men and cats. If the two of them ever met, this is exactly what they’d look like five minutes later. You know it’s true.”
“I’m not sure she exactly controls cats,” says Emi, but she’s chuckling at the explanation.
“Aw, are you afraid you might find yourself listening to me for a change?” Iris glances at the triangular, catlike ears at the top of Emi’s mask. “Who are you supposed to be, anyway?”
“A very special type of cat,” says Emi.
She tugs on a pair of tabs at the bottom edges of her masquerade mask, and pulls a broad, unsettlingly toothy grin down into place over her own smirking mouth.
“You can’t control the mad,” she says.
“You’re supposed to be a sexy cheshire cat?” Iris raises her eyebrow.
“I’m a sexy masquerade-goer inspired by the cheshire cat,” Emi corrects. “It’s abstract.”
“Just saying, you’re the one who didn’t get Pink Panther,” says Iris.
“Oh, I’ll bet I could get him if I wanted to.” Emi’s voice gets smooth and husky as she delivers this brag, and she leans forward, close enough that I can’t help but look in her eyes, bright and dark behind her mask.
Her hand settles lightly on my knee, and works its way slowly upward.
Really far upward.
My body’s hoping like hell that she’ll just keep going, and a week ago, I’d just have rolled with this, but now I have… a girlfriend? A mistress? It’s not clear, but it’s something.
I glance at Iris. She playfully examines the claws of her gloves and watches us out of the corner of her eye, not intervening.
I stay where I am, even dare to swivel my chair a little farther in Emi’s direction and open my legs a little wider. Emi’s hand stops dawdling and darts across the remaining distance to cup my package. The warmth of her hand evokes tingles through the thin fabric. The gentleness of her initial approach fades, moment by moment, and soon she’s squeezing, probing, separating balls from shaft like she’s inventorying every dimension of my measurements.
It’s objectively uncomfortable, but I can feel myself responding anyway, growing and hardening and scrambling to impress.
I’ve been doing such a good job so far, keeping a hold on myself, and even so, I feel like my physique is completely on display. If I get a full-blown erection right now, in this spandex bodysuit, I might as well be getting it naked in this room full of people.
I take a few deep breaths and hope that the tightness of my costume might also work in my favor, by discouraging my circulation even a little bit, but the thought of what I’m wearing only adds a few extra pulsing tingles to the issue.
“All right, enough,” says Iris, snatching Emi’s hand away by the wrist. “It’s nice, right? But it’s mine.”
Iris gives my collar a tug, and I hop obediently off of the bar stool. In the split second before she pulls me away, I grab a glass off the bar and hold it low at my waist.
Maybe it’s distorting the public view of my crotch. Or maybe it’s just magnifying it.
Eyes pierce and caress me inscrutably, as Iris leads me down the hallway out of the living room.
She seems to know exactly where she’s going. We climb a staircase and walk down an empty upstairs hallway to the second door from the last.
“Your room?” I ask, eyeing a couple of gymnastics trophies on top of a dresser with scraps of sequined fabric sticking out.
“That’s right,” she says, stretching out and making herself at home on one of the two single beds, like she did on mine earlier.
She gives the leash another tug, and I hurry forward to join her. I kneel down on the floor next to the bed and try to kiss her, but she rolls away and reaches down the other side of the bed, between the mattress and the wall.
When she rolls back, she’s holding a soft, carefully wrapped bundle with a rhinestone-studded ribbon wrapped around it.
“Go ahead,” she says, shaking it in front of me. “Open it.”
I tug the ribbon loose and tear through the delicate layers of tissue paper. Neatly folded inside is a warm quilted jacket made of a deep pink satin, inside and out. There are long white cuffs at the wrists, and across the back, what else?
Princess. Like the collar, but so much bigger, impossible to tuck away with a permanent shrug.
I run my fingers over its luxuriously soft surface. I can barely wait to bury myself in it as deep as I can, but I have to ask. “Am I supposed to wear this on the way out?”
“Do you want to?” she asks.
I open my mouth, but find my voice frozen deep in my throat.
Iris smiles and pats my cheek indulgently.
“Relax,” she says. “I knew you’d end up trying to explain this away out there.” She tugs on the spandex on my chest and lets it snap back into place. “But in here, with me…” she reels in the leash around her hands to bring my face close to hers, “I don’t want there to be any question about what you are.”
I nod eagerly. “Okay.”
“Okay. So what are you?” she asks.
“I’m your kept little princess,” I say, pulling the jacket on, sleeve by sleeve, with my face still inches from hers. It slides on buttery smooth.
Iris smiles, and plants a kiss on my lips so briefly that I don’t have time to reciprocate it.
“You don’t know how glad I am to hear that,” she says.
In one swift, smooth motion, she springs up off the bed, and shoves me down onto it on my back. I go easily, gladly, ready to sink into the scent of her. Like orchids and leather and vanilla.
Iris wraps the leash around one of the bedposts and cinches it tight, leaving a subtle but constant pressure on the front of my throat. After a few seconds, I can feel my own pulse, a second-by-second reminder that I’m alive.
“Are you ready?” Iris asks, stepping back so that I can see more of her, and running her claw-gloved hands from her hips up to her breasts. The sharp tips make a smooth, shiver-inducing sound as they glide along the shimmering black surface of her suit.
“God, yes,” I say, all out of patience to ask what it is I’m supposed to be ready for.
Iris pinches her fingers carefully around a pair of hidden zipper pulls, and opens two circular flaps in her chest, precisely baring her breasts and nothing else.
It feels so transgressive, so backwards, to be able to see those two perfect mounds and that gorgeous slinky, full-body outfit at the same time. I’ve probably seen a million images of fully naked women, and even more images where you can see everything but the censored or covered nipples and crotch. Seeing the reverse, it’s like the unfamiliarity is forcing me to process what I’m seeing from square one. Like I’m seeing a naked woman for the first time.
She reaches down and deftly removes another zipper panel from between her legs.
For a moment, I feel like I should be doing something, but the pressure of the collar around my neck assures me that I’m where I belong, lying in her bed, waiting for her to decide it’s time to come closer.
She sinks down into a squat, with her heels together, and her knees spread wide, showing me her pussy just as plainly as her breasts, highlighted in the center of the dark contours of the suit. Then her legs close to one side and straighten up, lifting her ass into the air and giving me a glimpse of the open panel from the back.
With her back arched, she slowly lifts her upper body fully upright, tosses her silky black hair over one shoulder, and finally strides over to me with a crisp clack of heels.
Her still-clawed hands rake their way down my chest and abs, between the open front panels of my new jacket. The edges are not quite painful but spine-tinglingly sharp on my paper-thin outfit underneath.
Those claws surround my crotch, and ever so delicately open the hidden flap that’s waiting there too.
I’ve fully given up on disguising my excitement. I don’t know where Iris’s roommate is or whether there’s a chance she’s going to wander in, but I don’t want to ask, in case it makes me second-guess myself.
I’m here.
We’re here.
“Open up, princess,” Iris taps my lips.
I open my mouth, and she slips one claw delicately inside to stroke my tongue, testing and nudging it out into the open with the friction of her glove.
I close my eyes and feel her finger withdraw, and then her leg swing over my head, to straddle my face.
It hardly matters now whether I open my eyes or not. Either way, what I see is mostly deep, shimmering, dreamlike darkness. But my mouth matters. That I understand. I keep my lips soft and my tongue extended for her, just the way she left them.
She lowers her pussy, and drags it slowly down over my tongue. I can feel the folds of her skin, the hard little lump of her clit underneath its delicate hood. The taste is sweet and tangy, with a hint of the same warm, clean musk that lingers under her perfume all over.
A moan runs through her. I can feel it vibrating through her torso before it even leaves her lips, and I feel a strange panic, a certainty that I haven’t done enough to earn that moan. It’s such an intense, earnest compliment, and I’m not doing anything at all but lying here, letting her do all the work of moving, setting the pace, creating the friction.
Sure, I let her dress me in pink spandex and satin, and bring me here on a leash, and place me in whatever position she wanted me in. All things that not everyone would do. But do any of those things really count, when they’re exactly what I wanted for myself anyway?
Is this the way things are supposed to be? Is this what it’s like, being with someone who likes the same things you do? We just get to… do those things? Without bartering or debts or gritting through the boring stuff?
What’s the catch?
Iris’s moans get louder, breathier, with each time she humps my face. After a few seconds, she leans forward, and plants her hands on either side of my hips — I can feel her claws pressing the blanket down around me — and turns her moan to a growl. The breath that passes through her lips to form the sound brushes my cock, and I recall once again her promise to “eat me up,” right before she pounces forward and takes me in her mouth.
Her teeth brush my shaft, a faint, playful hint of a threat, but then her lips close in, feathery soft, and she sucks her way down, down to the base. She doesn’t let up when she gets there. The suction continues in quick, regular pulses, mixed with the faint vibrations of more growling moans, as she rides my tongue with the same steady insistence.
I know the name of this act, of course. Sixty-nine, that special number you have to watch for, and be sure to giggle at whenever you see it, so that people know that you know it.
I know it, but I’ve never actually done it before.
I’ve messed around with oral stuff, but it feels so different this way, both the giving part and the receiving part, and not just because they’re happening simultaneously. I don’t have to worry about getting overenthusiastic and licking too hard or too fast, because Iris can show me exactly how she wants it, second by second, with the motion of her hips. Meanwhile, her throat feels bottomless, perfectly aligned with the curve of my cock, and when she bobs up and down, the sensitive underside of the head rubs along the natural ribs of her palate.
There’s no distance, no empty space between us, no filter between sensation and reaction. I’m completely wrapped up in her, taking pleasure at a pace that’s out of my hands.
I can’t slow down, can’t hold back or distract myself. I try to warn her when I realize that I’m cumming, right now, but it comes out as a muffled babble, all sounds that I can make without withdrawing my tongue for a second.
She doesn’t seem fazed when the pulsing jet of fluid fills her mouth. She just tightens the suction and flutters her throat in a thousand tiny swallows, freeing up space for another, louder, higher moan.
She grinds down on me harder, longer, and I’m so lost in the dizzy, starry void of pleasure that it takes me a few seconds to realize that the tiny, steady throb of her clit against my tongue is real. I can feel, literally feel, the strength of her orgasm mirroring mine.
I keep thinking she’s about to let up, but she just pins me more firmly, and it keeps going, so much longer than I thought an orgasm could be.
I’m still not even sore when she lifts her head and turns around to sit on my chest.
“So, princess,” she sighs, wiping her lips and adjusting my new jacket. “Are you ready to go back to the ball?”
