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Latex Fetish Sex with The Mad Scientist

Latex fetish sex wasn’t my thing, but I did it anyway. Fucking a drug dealer wasn’t enough for me. I had to fuck a drug manufacturer.

He was 6 foot 7 inches tall. Had an extra bend in his spine. Bald. Asymmetrical face and crooked jaw. Some of my colleagues called him “Lurch” and I had to agree. He was not a good-looking man.

He had no tact. Just brutal as hell. Intellectually dominant and he was always the smartest in the room. 

German. With a cadence verging on a speech impediment that even Germans found unintelligible in German – the problem  compounded in English. His vocabulary in English was better than most native English speakers, he spoke fast and skipped explanations. 

We made Nazi/Jew jokes so frequently that we forgot to censor ourselves in front of others. I used to call him “Rassenschande” in bed. 

He had a rough upbringing. His father was a truck driver, his mother owned a wholesale potato business. His father was an alcoholic and his mother had more severe untreated anxiety than anyone I have ever met, and used it to control everyone around her, most of all him. He grew up in the Ruhrgebiet burning trash for fun in the railyard, where potatoes would come in on trains and be transferred to trucks to be driven and delivered in the local region.

His PhD was in Physics, but Google scooped him up quickly into building their machine vision and he was rich as fuck. All those filters on Instagram run on his algorithms. Pretty bad case of OCD that he treated with high doses of psychedelic mushrooms. Pharmahuasca

The Mad Scientist was a virgin when I met him. No latex fetish sex or any other kind of sex.

We dated for four years and lived together for six. I probably didn’t treat him the best, but he certainly didn’t treat me the best. He didn’t know how.

And through all of this, he was a softie. A sweetheart. Lovable as could be. Making him smile and blush and melt was my specialty, despite that he didn’t really acknowledge me for it. 

We were never physically or sexually compatible. He had a latex and leather fetish. Was submissive in bed. I have no fetishes and am also subtly submissive in bed, but not like, an actual submissive, which he was. Still I tried at first to have latex fetish sex with him.

When I was pursuing him I bought a cute latex skirt and balconette top to please him. Took sexy pictures of myself, soft cream breasts spilling out over shiny blackness, bright red lips and blonde hair. I sent them to him. He accused me of manipulating him. 

The Mad Scientist was the engine behind my Burning Man camp for eight years. He was so capable and good with his body, hands, and brain that he could do the work of five others in half the time. Ended up doing most everything. I tried so hard to keep up, to take the load off. He was uninterruptible. 

The Mad Scientist made and did drugs. I did the drugs he made. He taught me to make drugs.

He taught me a lot. Much of what I know about the physical world comes from him. He taught me that a drop is always the same size. How to tie things down to a vehicle. What tools to use for what job. That you can’t drive through a fire (engines need oxygen to work). So much about drugs. He was often shocked that I didn’t know things that seemed obvious to him. 

Latex Fetish Sex

We’re in a dome at Burning Man. It’s not the first time we’ve had sex, but it is the first time we’ve had latex fetish sex. I’m in my little latex outfit, on my hands and knees. I’m wearing underwear to protect myself from the dust, and they’re pooled around my knees. He’s in latex chaps and nothing else. I’m drunk, too drunk to care that I’m not very wet. Almost sure I had my period, because I would always get my period for Burning Man.

We never fully wanted each other. It was always a struggle, always a compromise. 

He’s fucking me with his dick inside of another little bit of latex, silently and steadily doggie style. Smoothing the latex skirt over my ass and hips and staring at it, I’m sure, even if I keep my eyes forward. I don’t want to see the focused look on his face, his tongue at the corner of his mouth. I don’t want to be turned off. I’m just happy to have finally gotten his attention. He wasn’t an easy nut to crack. 

Someone comes into the dome in front of me and sees us, and immediately backs out. Everyone knows he never gets laid and everyone loves him and roots for him and his latex fetish sex. I feel like an object.

The next night I get the first turn on his homemade flamethrower.

He mixes chemical salts in with the propane to turn the flame strange colors. Tonight it is lithium to turn it pink and I am burning nothing but oxygen. Just pointing it out into the air in my cute latex outfit that would melt into my skin should there be any leak in his creation. Putting my life into his hands for the first, but not the last time. Winking at him occasionally, but mostly focusing on my not-a-target.

Soon after 9/11 he buys us both German gas masks. He likes wearing them in bed, but to me it’s suffocating when I’m in one, and in no way pleasurable to have thoughts of war running through my mind. When he’s in one it’s too distancing for me to feel any sense of sexual connection. But I give it a whirl. I’ll try anything once.

Riding him like a horse, holding the chain on his nipple clips like it’s reigns. In some people’s mind this is super sexy. In mine: no. Glad he can’t see me smirking through his gas mask. At least they are silicone and not latex.

It’s a few years later and we’ve moved to Northern California and moved in together. We  both wanted to get out of Los Angeles. We both eventually return. 

We’re in bed, and I’m touching him. His uncut cock with loose foreskin. I love uncut cocks and how easy they are for me to manipulate with my hands. And so I am, slowly, teasing and teaching him. Slowly jerking him. Edging him. Watching the flush in his cheeks. 

He doesn’t talk to me in bed. Doesn’t ask for what he wants. But I can see him frustrated, by his face. I can see his muscles tense, his back arch. Read when he is close and pull him back. I grip his cock hard, but keep my rhythm slow. I know he’s submissive. That he wants me to take control. It’s not natural for me. It’s not what I want. But I’m trying. 

I learned knots for him.

Practiced a bowline in a length of rope for months. Perfected it and others, waiting for the chance to show him how much I care. But here is not the chance. It’s the late afternoon and we are both sober and playing, and it doesn’t feel so serious as to call for rope, nor latex fetish sex.

And so I press my finger into his frenulum through the skin. I slowly pull it down, and back up. He is oozing precum and tensing his neck, which pulls his head backwards. I keep my too-slow stroke with casual ease. Squeezing tightly just under the ridge at the head. Increasing the pressure slightly, squeezing harder, yet careful to keep edging him. 

And then, all of a sudden, he pushes my hand out of the way with his and quickly and unceremoniously jerks himself off until he comes. Usually men pleasuring themselves is a huge turn-on for me. But here, now, it’s just gross and compulsive and a reminder that for all his generosity and growth: he’s seriously mentally ill.

He looks as though he’s ready to get up and do anything else. I feel gut-punched. Tears stream down my face.

“I’m sorry.” he says. “Shouldn’t have done that. I knew it was wrong when I did it.”

I forgive him, of course. Forgave all his transgressions. All his tactless, socially ignorant missteps. Forgave him for saying he didn’t like the way I tasted and smelled long before he did a complete 180 and couldn’t get enough. 

And he forgave me, for the times I stretched the boundaries we created. For how quickly I left him when something more compelling came along. For borrowing tens of thousands of dollars, all of which I paid back with interest. Even for, in the end, essentially leaving him for The Madman.

Yet still it always felt like I worked so hard to please him and cheer him, to bring a fucking smile to his face, and nothing ever worked well enough. He became more and more dour and lifeless as he aged. We were best friends for years after we were lovers. Until one day, sixteen years into our friendship, I asked to stay with him when visiting town and he refused.

“The last couple times you stayed here left me feeling like crap. It also became clear to me, that this is not because of old stuff from our time together, but the direct result of our interaction in the present. I’m not looking forward to repeat that experience. So, sorry, but no, you cannot stay here.” he replied.

And that’s the last meaningful interaction we ever had.

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