Stories and fantasies about rainwear.
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Post by tiger4macs » May 13th, 2019, 4:27 am


On the Monday afternoon I got a very contrite email from Eric, apologising for letting his feelings get the better of him etc. etc. and promising that he didn’t really intend any violence. I got the feeling that Margie had ordered him to write. I rang him back.

“Eric, Tom. Just rang to thank you for your message. Did Margie put you up to it?”

“She demanded that I did, however I already intended to. Look, I’m really sorry, mun. The whole night had been very full-on an I was well wound up. I never saw Margie cum like that with anyone else.” (A likely story, I thought).

“Well I can’t deny I was as angry as I seemed, and I meant – mean – every word I said. Even under such circumstances I seldom say what I don’t mean. But my dad used to say ‘it’s never too late to mend’, and I think the best thing for now is to meet up again when we’ve both fully cooled off, and agree on the way forward, don’t you?”

“So you feel we have a future?”

“I feel we could have. But I’d need reassurance on several issues before I jumped in with both feet.”

“Cool. Why don’t we meet for a beer after work?

“This week’s no good for me and it’s a bit soon anyway. How about Wednesday next week?”

“Done! I like that quiet pub near your office – Golden Orb, isn’t it? They have private little alcoves where we wouldn’t be overheard. Listen boetie, I really am sorry and I really don’t want to ruin the good friendship we’ve always enjoyed. I’ll do whatever it takes to get this sorted, truly.”

I believed him, not least because when emotional his South African accent always showed up more, though I don’t think he was aware of it. So it was that we met at the Golden Orb, he insisted on buying the drinks and a pub dinner and I let him work hard to regain my trust. It had transpired that Margie had gone for the throat as soon as we left (no surprise there) and given him to understand that their marriage was under threat if he didn’t mend his ways. And he did seem genuinely chastened. Nine days would give us both time to think clearly about a rapprochemnent.

Sylvie and I made wild, passionate love often in the ensuing weeks, sometimes nude, more often embellished as the fetish took hold of us. Eric and I kissed and made up (but I made him work really hard for it). The bike race came and went and I was stoked to get a second in my age group (35-45), particularly as my 45th birthday was looming large. The social Saturday rides resumed, one of which provided an illustration of Sylvia’s continuing evolution into a more extravert, assertive woman. We had met as usual at 8am at our favourite café and the group of 15-20 good friends were trickling in for the traditional coffee and brunch. Sylv leaned her bike against the café wall and while she was taking her helmet off it crashed to the pavement. The resident sleaze in the group, who had grossly offended most of the women at some point and who regularly stopped only millimetres short of groping my Sylvie yelled out “HOOO SYLVIA, ya bike’s fainted!”

“So would you if I’d been riding you for 3 hours!” was the instant response, which elicited roars of laughter, catcalls and “GO, SYLVIA’s” from the group.

Jack seemed to take this as a direct attack on his masculinity (of which he was inordinately proud) and, with a forced grin, shouted “HOO-HOOO, a spirited little filly aren’t we? ‘A mountain of flesh gentlemen, a fine beast’!” and he fetched her a whack on her darling little tushie that we all heard clearly and that made my own eyes water, let alone hers.

Sylvia let out a yelp of pain, rolled away from the blow and returned with a lightning-fast right elbow that split Jack’s upper lip and comprehensively broke his nose. More roars or laughter and genuine appreciation: “GOOD ON YA SYLVIA!” “GO GIRL!” “SERVE YOU RIGHT JACK” and so on. I was well steamed up by then, and was not about to be robbed of my chilvarous responsibilities. I stepped up to him, left outstretched, fingers extended towards his eyes. The idiot fell for it and put up both hands, leaving the way clear for a hard right jab to his solar plexus. He crumpled in a heap, gasping and retching . I stood over him:

“Can you hear me and understand me??” He nodded. “Right. When you can pick yourself up I want you to get your sorry arse on that bike and pedal off into the sunset, and DO NOT…. EVER…. ASSAULT MY WOMAN OR ANY OTHER WOMAN AGAIN! If you ever do such a thing again in my presence again you’ll get instalments two and three, delivered with the utmost enthusiasm. Today was just the introductory offer and you’re bloody lucky I don’t call the cops. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME???” He nodded, still holding his nose, still writhing , bleeding and grovelling. We left him to it, and went in for brunch. Many of the guys shook my hand. Nobody could stop hugging Sylvie (funny, that….) and she certainly was not allowed to pay for her breakfast. We never saw Jack again and nobody called the cops which was good, given Sylvia’s professional position.

The back story to this event was that a year previously I had persuaded Sylvia to join an Aikido training gym, as on account of her extreme beauty I felt she was a likely target for some of the terrible crimes we keep hearing about these days. My fears had been intensified by some of the behind-the-scenes stories she brought home from work. She’s a senior chemist at a top secret forensic and research lab jointly funded by MI5, MI6 and the police. She never talks about her work (Official Secrets Act) but occasionally describes some of the more gruesome, unreported aspects of the most horrible murders and rapes and they make my flesh crawl.

So it was that one day Margie rang to invite us to the next rainwear swingers’ meeting, this time at their place. Clearly they had designed their whole setup for this pursuit, but they also had small concerts and other such meetings there, which offered a useful cover if anyone gossiped.

The people who arrived were very mixed, as you’d imagine. Mostly couples, with one or two single friends who could be trusted to behave themselves and keep their mouths shut. Some were overtly wearing mackintoshes or other rubber or PVC clothing, others (including us) in bog-standard mufti. Drinks and nibbles were served on side tables and the chat was well underway when Eric called us to order and invited us to sit for a short fashion show. First up were a couple in black PVC macs and sou’westers, who obviously enjoyed parading themselves and showing off the attributes of their gear, explaining that the styles weren’t too extreme for public wear and that they attracted quite a bit of positive comment. She was in very stylish knee boots which completed her outfit beautifully.

Next was a gracious lady in a delicious long, burgundy, hooded cape in rubberised taffeta, with black patent boots peeping out below. She swished around in it, posing in the hood and with it hanging tantalisingly from her shoulders and made mention of how she loved the sibilant rustle of taffeta and the feel of the smooth rubber lining: “SOOO erotic to wear” she said. I stole a glance at Sylvia, who was rubbing her thighs together, transfixed, her face flushed. That got my pulse racing even more than it was already. I had always thought of a cape as largely a vehicle –and excuse – for wearing a hood. It hides most of a woman and focuses attention on her face and hair, delightfully framed by a generous hood, making her look mysterious, pretty, romantic and very, VERY sexy. As she withdrew Eric complimented her and said “Hopefully we’ll see more of Alison later…” and I really, really hoped we would.

Alison was followed by a Mary Quant-styled girl in a rather shapeless, ultra-glossy mac and matching rainhat in broad white and blazing red stripes teamed with outrageously high, clunky heels and equally OTT earrings. She looked to me like a barber’s pole on stilts. Still, she attracted a lot of compliments, as Alison had done. Not my scene, but good on her. Very nice lass, too: bubbly and funny, obviously a friend of Margaret’s.

The couple in SBR macs and stylish Hunter wellies also got a lot of acclaim, and certainly looked a team in their very smart mackintoshes, not unlike Margaret’s but without the sou’wester to match. They claimed that it was the most practical of rainwear, tolerating hard use and mud, fully protecting even in storm conditions and so on but there was always that subtle undercurrent of something much more behind it all… The atmosphere was almost electric.

Another lady in her mid-thirties modelled a glass-clear raincoat over a high fashion outfit, extolling the clarity of the PVC as it still revealed fashionable attire in bad weather. She looked very, very good and again it was evident that there was a hidden message in her subtle eroticism and as she exchanged some very saucy remarks with some of the audience, and her partner Jock ogled her openly.

While Eric functioned as MC Margaret provided continuity and comestibles and filled in all the gaps as the warm and gracious hostess, swishing around in a beautifully tailored rubberised, glazed cotton, vivid blue mackintosh with the collar turned up against her cheeks. She wore it with a sort of casual neglect that somehow made her seem ten years younger and even more sexy. She looked a picture with her intense eyes, twinkling smile and spontaneous humour and I realised for the second time that it would be dangerously easy to fall in love with her. The raw desire she evoked in me was another matter.

"Eventually" (though it was only an hour and a half) the interval came round and we all had more drinks and more tasty treats (food, that is) and people started to drift off, leaving a group of maybe ten of us… including Alison and her partner Rob, plus Jock and the high-fashion GF. In the slight vacuum that followed, knowing glances were exchanged by the old hands. Even so I had a sense of foreboding mixed with anticipation as certain parties vanished into the dressing rooms ‘backstage’. Sylvia’s expression betrayed identical sentiments even though Margaret had told her earlier that what transpired after the interval at these meetings was definitely among totally consenting adults, and any appearance of unwillingness or coercion was for stage effect: nothing was ever done against a person’s will, and safe words were always insisted on and faithfully observed.

Margaret vanished momentarily and returned leading Alison in her cape, looking very shy. If there had been any doubt before as to whether she was wearing anything under it, there was none now: she wasn’t. Wherever the thin taffeta contacted her skin, every contour was immediately evident, especially (to my delight) her already-erect nipples. Alison tried to turn away from the audience but Margy gently but firmly made her face us.

“I think you should have your hood up for this Allie, don’t you? You look so ravishing in it!”

With that she raised Alison’s deep hood, arranged it to show off her dark, wavy hair and tied the tapes under her chin. Alison’s colour deepened.

“Why are you so bashful? You did say, earlier, that it was so erotic to wear, didn’t you? (“Yes”).

“And we are all here because to us mackintoshes are so erotic, aren’t we? That includes you, doesn’t it?” (“Yes”).

“So you are turned on wearing your rustling, taffeta cape and hood, and loving the smooth, slippery lining, isn’t that right” (“Yes”).

“So that’s why your nipples are so hard, is it?” (Tremblingly, “Yes”).

“Her nipples really are hard, trust me! Look at this!” Margie said to the audience, cupping a hand under Alison’s breast and squeezing the areole so her nipple almost burst through the thin mackintosh material. Alison squeaked and said “MARGARET, PLEASE! NO!! Everyone’s WATCHING!!!!”

“Of course they are my dear: that’s what we’re all here for. To see first-hand how your cape makes you so turned on, and just how much it turns you on. Didn’t you tell me that when walking around in it one day you got so turned on that you had an orgasm? You did say that, didn’t you?” (“Oh God this is so emb….” “…DIDN’T YOU???” – “Yes”).

“So, you are going to demonstrate for us, tonight, just how easily that can happen…. Aren’t you?? That’ what you promised, isn’t it? ….. ISN’T IT???”

I’d never seen the dominant side of Margy before, and I liked it. I liked it so much that my whang was like Alison’s nipple: all but bursting through my jeans. It was even more evident in Rob’s case, sitting in one of the bucket chairs, stark, bollock naked. He was so consumed by his desire that he had eyes for no-one but Alison, and she looked absolutely lovely. Margaret turned to him:
“Now Rob, I don’t want any interference from you so I need you to come over here please.”

Rob stumbled towards her as she stood by the bench and she moved him into the notch and whipped out the cuffs, deftly manoeuvring his wrists behind his back and fastening him to the ring bolt.

“Now, my lovely fashion-plate model, please show off your cape for us as you did earlier. Give it a good swish darling, and don’t forget to make the most of that hood: you look absolutely irresistible in it!”

Alison had recovered her nerve a bit, and did as she was told. She swirled and swished that gorgeous cape and treated us all to a large dose of the most exquisite susurrus I ever heard; taffeta is magic on its own but rubberised…. OMG! She warmed to her task, clearly intensely aroused, and started to enlarge on her comments in the first half demo.

“There’s always something about a full hood, don’t you think?” She poked her hands through the slits and held the hood as she posed in it, slipped it back a little and peered round the side, directly at me. I thought I would burst. Then she slid her hands down over her breasts, pausing to pinch her nipples, giving a little cry of pleasure, then on down over her tummy to her thighs, pressing the cape against and between them, gathering a little of the material in her hands and running the rubber over her skin, moaning as she did so, her inhibitions gone.

I imagined her facing a stiff breeze, blowing the cape against her and pressing it tight against every contour of her dainty figure and legs. I was beside myself with sheer raw lust; it seemed that Rob was, too. Margaret stepped up to her.

“There now, that was nice, wasn’t it? And you’re almost there, aren’t you? Come on, Rob needs to see this!” and she guided Alison so both we and Rob could see her face. Then she twisted Alison to the right, to the left, right, left so the cape rustled and slithered and caressed her breasts as only smooth rubber can. Alison cried out as Margaret’s deft and subtle hand added a bit more stimulation here and there. “Is that nice? Is it??” “Oh YES that feels so lovely. OHH Oh I’m going to cum!!” - “Of course you are! Cum for the nice people Allie! Cum, cum on, cum for Rob! He’s LONGING to see you cum! We all are! And it’s your slippery, whispering cape that’s making you cum isn’t it?” and she swung Alison to and fro again, and again, and again, and Alison cried out, pressing the rubbery material between her thighs and into her crotch, jerking and moving it, moaning and whimpering in her orgasm. As she subsided and leaned back against Margie she said “Oh GOD that was lovely. I just can’t help it when it rubs me like that!”

“Good. But we aren’t finished yet, are we?”

“Oh yes we are. I couldn’t do that again, not now!”

“Oh no, we’re not: you can, and you WILL. I mean, what about poor Rob? Look at him!” And she swung Alison round to face Rob, forcing her to regard his straining erection.

“You could go again for that lovely big cock, couldn’t you? Course you could. And you’d love to. You KNOW you would, don’t you? DON’T YOU?? Come on, you MUST give the poor man some relief. Come and make love to him. Come on (“No, please, PLEESE, not in front of all those people”) – “COME ON!!!” and she pushed Alison, frog-marching her forward, pleading and complaining.

Eric appeared out of nowhere and together they marched Alison the last few steps. Margie took Rob’s cock in her hand, leaned down and gave it a little suck (as she had done to me), got a laugh with “I think he might be nearly ready” and guided him into Alison as Eric forced her against him. Firm hands on her buttocks, they rhythmically pushed her against Rob, again and again, as he responded with the little movement he had available. The guiding hands pushed the cape between her thighs, massaging, rubbing, forcing until she screamed and Rob gasped, thrusting as hard and as fast as he could into her helpless figure, yelping with every spurt. I wondered how Eric managed to control himself under those circumstances.

Margaret touched the magic button and we were left to imagine the final moments of this momentous scene, except that when the curtains reopened a few moments later my question was answered. Rob and Alison had vanished, Margaret was sitting in a chair in her stunning blue mac, and Eric was standing before her. We were just in time to catch the climax as he roared like a bull and erupted into her mouth, and in the state I was in by then I never envied a man more....

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Post by HeatherlovesPVC » June 11th, 2019, 7:06 am

Thought you had lost it there, it does ramble on a bit at the start and I can't really see where the 'social bike club scene' fits in but after that it's normal service resumed.

I particularly enjoyed the following

"she twisted Alison to the right, to the left, right, left so the cape rustled and slithered and caressed her breasts as only smooth rubber can. Alison cried out as Margaret’s deft and subtle hand added a bit more stimulation here and there. “Is that nice? Is it??” “Oh YES that feels so lovely. OHH Oh I’m going to cum!!” - “Of course you are! Cum for the nice people Allie! Cum, cum on, cum for Rob! He’s LONGING to see you cum! We all are! And it’s your slippery, whispering cape that’s making you cum isn’t it?”

The mental image of a slippery, whispering cape rustling and slithering over bare skin gets me going every time.

Looking forward to METAMORPHOSIS 6

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Post by tiger4macs » June 11th, 2019, 10:20 pm

Cheers Heather, your constructive comment much appreciated - and bang on the money! Sylvia's response to "Ya bike's fainted" was from an actual event and I thought it was funny so I included it. What followed was probably unnecessary but illustrated the growing self-confidence of this amazing lady in her continuing metamorphosis, then somehow I had to build it into the narrative. But I agree it was clumsily handled and taken too far and I've worried about it ever since; good job it's fiction!

MET 6 as drafted merely extends the evening at Eric and Margaret's with a pretty raunchy scene but I'll risk it with a bit more editing. The significance of it and its effect on Sylvia will emerge as time goes on, so here goes! (Why do I feel so nervous?) - Tiger

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Post by Mikmac77 » June 12th, 2019, 6:36 am

Just go for it Tiger!

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Post by tiger4macs » June 12th, 2019, 9:38 am

You got it, dude. Bit of work to do yet, when I get the chance. And, thanks!

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