Elisha Eastman sits in front of the wall-sized mirror in her bedroom and slides the fishnet leg of her custom-made bodysuit over her right calf. When she finishes pulling it on, her seamstress will stitch up the back, sewing her inside. The entire garment—including the fibers that will thread her in—is made from Dyneema® ultra-high-molecular-weight polyethylene (a.k.a. dope ass fishing line). Every black strand of the intricate net covering her from ankles to shoulders, breasts to crotch, is built to withstand the sudden impact of a hard hookset or a big fish thrashing. Once sewn, it will take an angler’s tool to free her; and more importantly—from her husband Henry’s point of view—ain’t nothing gonna get in and take what’s his.
Early in their marriage, Henry trusted her to go out dancing with her friends in the delicate lace leotards from her favorite lingerie shop; but when she came home more than once with holes torn in conspicuous places (“Did you get fucked through that rip?”), he commissioned the creation of the chastity suit. Evenings at the clubs were still encouraged (“Why keep a trophy hidden?”) as long as she succumbed to being sewn into the specially made garment and returned home before sunrise, every thread intact.
Now with her right leg in, pulling the netting taught over her left thigh, she considers holding off on fully dressing long enough to put her We-Vibe in place: one prong nestled against her clit, the other gracing the inside of her vagina, deep enough to titillate her G-spot. For once, being locked inside her bodysuit wouldn’t mean deprivation. Henry could control the vibrations from his poker game while she writhes away on the dance floor. (Uh-huh, that’s what’s really going on under those short skirts.) Then again, showing off her caged pussy to her friends whilst bar hopping is always a naughty, sweet turn on. The toy would ruin their view of her smooth, shaved vulva (Licky licky). Decisions, decisions.
The first time Elisha peed in the suit, the veritable shower caused by the mesh design came as a hilarious surprise. The key to keeping her thighs dry, she learned quickly, was to spread her legs super-far apart on either side of the toilet. Bathroom calisthenics—wider, wider!—so much fun. She made a game of drinking as much as possible and bringing mates into the loo with her (“You’ve gotta see this!”). The waterproof properties of the fibers made drying off easy with a simple dab or two. Usually her companions enjoyed the honors.
Such Sprinkler Shows invariably led to frenzied kissing and groping. She loved the feeling of a tight grip over her meaty labia, but what she craved the most was penetration. Not so much as a pinky finger or tongue tip could fit through the netting. Paramours with the strongest of hands (guitarists, dentists and sculptors, oh my) had tried breaking their way in to satisfy her hungry cunt, but the polyethylene suit held its own. Once a particularly robust partner lifted Elisha right off the bathroom tile and latched the back of her suit to the purse hook. Still, the fibers did not rip! She hung there like a puppet hoping he wouldn’t abandon her all together.
“What are you going to do with me now?”
He had neither answer nor malintent. Lifted her back off the hook before she was compelled to thrash like a big fish.
Tonight by the time her seamstress, Camille, approaches with the needle and thread, Elisha opts to surrender to confinement sans her trusty We-Vibe. Her nipples surge deep pink, pressing against the black webbing. Before pinning and stitching the last twelve inches up the back, Camille reaches inside the bodice and hefts each of Elisha’s breasts so they point forward evenly. Her fingers linger at the nipples.
“You look beautiful, Mademoiselle.”
At the neighborhood pub, her friends know exactly what’s up when she orders a pitcher of beer. Chug-a-lug, down the hatch, and eeny-meeny-miny-moe, whose flower needs watering?
It’s B who follows along; B who leans back against the stall door to see Elisha’s legs spread wide (wider!); B who has the idea.
B giggles at the random spray from Elisha’s mesh-covered pussy, unspools the toilet paper and dabs. Dabs and dabs some more. Then there’s a pull, an embrace, a squeeze. B pulls and squeezes some more and more.
It’s B’s hands on Elisha’s round ass cheeks, threads cutting into skin. Then B’s palm grasps Elisha’s right breast, threads cutting into skin again.
It’s B’s tongue in Elisha’s mouth. B’s scooping hand slipping wet between Elisha’s legs. B’s fist Elisha rides and rides and rides.
And when emptiness peaks (“God, I need to fuck!”), when the ache rises so high: YES. Elisha calls out (almost a scream). Something is through the net! Inside her cage, inside her lips, inside her cunt, it’s poking-twitching-pulsing-fucking. How?
Elisha bucks on the thing B has in her hand. Says, “What the hell is that?”
B laughs. “It’s a Q-tip.”
“A cotton bud for your bud.”
It’s so wonderful that Elisha holds B tight, fucking all the while. She rubs her netted breasts (threads cutting) against B’s shirt and rides the cotton swab. Her walls bear down, her clit answers, holy fuck she’s coming on a stick. Her fingers find B’s cunt (better late than never) and they stand there kissing and fucking completely liberated, every thread intact.
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