All Change for Amy

The middle of the week arrived with a dull, oppressive weight, Geraldine's silence stretching into an endurance test. Amy existed in a state of suspended animation, her body a vessel for the secret lingerie she wore, her mind a theatre replaying every moment of their last encounter. She would catch her reflection in a shop window and see a stranger, a woman with a predatory gleam in her eye and a sensual sway to her hips. The old Amy, the reliable, beige Amy, was becoming a distant memory. So when the doorbell rang on Wednesday morning, her heart leaped with a feral hope.

Another parcel. This time, the box was heavier, and as she carried it to the kitchen, an unusual smell emanated from it. It was sharp, clinical, and strangely exciting. Rubber. She tore open the cardboard with trembling fingers. Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, was a dress. But it was unlike any dress she had ever seen. It was made of bright, gleaming red rubber, the material catching the light with a liquid sheen. She lifted it out; it felt cool and heavy against her fingers, thick and unyielding. Beneath the dress was a pair of matching bright red high heels, the stilettos improbably long and sharp. In a small corner of the box was a tiny, squirty bottle of what she assumed was talcum powder.

She stared at the contents, a mixture of apprehension and raw desire coursing through her. The shoes had a heel at least five inches high, a vertiginous spike that she would never have dreamed of wearing. She was still examining them when her phone buzzed on the counter. The text was succinct and brutal. 'Slut. Practice in those shoes all day today. Powder that dress before you wear it. Be at my house at 10 a.m. tomorrow.'

'Slut'. The word hit her like a physical blow. Geraldine had called her a slut. And rather than be offended, a wave of pure, unadulterated excitement washed over her, so potent it made her dizzy. Her pussy, already aching with a constant, low-level hum of need, flooded with moisture, the lips swelling and pressing against the damp silk of her panties. This was what she was. This was what she had become.

She did as she was ordered. She spent the day walking around the house in the impossibly high heels, her ankles protesting, her calf muscles burning. By the afternoon, she had found a tentative rhythm, her stride becoming a practiced, hip-swaying glide. She took the rubber dress to her bedroom. Following the instructions she vaguely recalled, she liberally dusted the inside of the dress with the powder, the fine white coating clinging to the black lining. She undressed, her body thrumming with anticipation, and began to pull the dress on.

It was a struggle. The rubber clung and gripped, resisting her efforts. But slowly, inch by inch, she worked it up her body. She discovered, with a thrill, that it was impossible to wear any underwear with it; the dress was a second skin, designed to be worn alone. As she finally pulled it up over her shoulders and smoothed it down, she felt a profound transformation. The material was cool against her skin, but it quickly warmed to her body heat, creating a bizarre, sensual mix of warmth and trapped cool air. Her hands traveled down the contours of the dress, the slick surface feeling alien and thrilling. Her nipples, hard and aching, poked out against the tight rubber, clearly visible. Every creak and groan the dress made as she moved excited her, a constant, audible reminder of her submission.

She spent three hours parading around her bedroom, practicing in the killer heels, the rubber dress creaking with every step. She felt powerful, fetishistic, and utterly alive. She looked at the clock. Four o'clock. Shit. Jack would be home soon. Panic seized her. She scrambled to get the dress off, the cool air of the room feeling wonderful against her sweat-slicked skin as she peeled the rubber away. She took one of her old, sensible dresses out of its hanging case and carefully replaced it with the rubber one, zipping it away in its dark, secret tomb. She quickly dressed and started dinner, her heart still hammering.

The evening with Jack was an exercise in patience. It went by so slowly. He seemed to want to spend more time chatting than usual, his conversation stilted but earnest. He even mentioned that he liked what she was doing with her hair. "I just felt like a change," she mumbled, her mind a million miles away. "Whatever it is," he said, his eyes soft, "you're looking great." The simple, genuine compliment felt like a stone in her gut.