Donovan hadn’t been expecting mail. The knock at the door startled him out of his whiskey-hazed stupor, where he’d been curled on the couch, nursing the ache of something old but still sharp. Patrick was out running laps around the neighborhood, steady and consistent as ever, which left Donovan alone as usual, with his thoughts for company.
He shuffled to the door, opened it, and stopped.
A large, sleek black box sat on the welcome mat. The return label rubbed away into smudged illegibility, but he knew what it was. His stomach tightened as he bent to pick it up.
He slit the tape open with his house keys and pulled back the lid. The scent of latex unfurled from the box, warm and cloying, a sickly sweet perfume of synthetic desire. Beneath black tissue paper lay two bodysuits, nearly folded and gleaming: one in deep onyx, the other a dark, oceanic blue.
The cruise.
Before everything had fallen apart over New Year’s, Donovan and James—his ex—had ordered custom latex suits for a spring break gay cruise. It would have been their first true kink vacation. After eight years together, they’d finally decided to go all in.
How quickly things changed. A sweaty New Year’s Eve party, a snide comment, and a drunk overreaction had caused it all to unravel. Eight years of romance and commitment were blown to hell in minutes.
Now, James was fucking a 23-year-old twink named Asher. Donovan was with Patrick, a stable, sweet, dull man who would never understand why Donovan was still staring at fetish gear meant for someone who no longer belonged to him. The first time Patrick got a glimpse of Donovan’s expansive gear collection, he reacted like an anthropology student who’d just discovered an uncontacted tribe.
Does each of these items have a story behind it?
Do different combinations mean different things?
Do you need to wear this stuff to get off?
Some people just didn’t understand kink. Patrick was lovable but boring as fuck. James was volatile and difficult, but a total freak game for anything.
Donovan looked at the suits. It wasn’t about holding onto a relationship that was over. It wasn’t even about wasting a small fortune on matching custom gear. He picked up the box and carried it to his gear closet but couldn’t put the suits away. He couldn’t let it go. He fished his phone out of his pocket and wrote a text.
D: Our suits came. You should come get yours.
J: No way. Forgot about those. When?
D: You free now? Patrick’s out.
J: Fine. Be there at 8.
The efficiency of exes. Clean, clinical, as if eight years of love could be filed down to a logistics exchange. Donovan waited, heart hammering against a ghost.
At eight on the dot, the doorbell rang.
James looked good. Too good. His beard was trimmed close, jeans hugging thighs that had no business looking that good just a few months after their breakup. There was still his trademark swagger in how he carried himself, but his smirk was more guarded now.
“Hey,” James said.
“Hey.”
A pause.
“Where are the goods?”
Donovan motioned toward the open box on the coffee table. James stepped inside, pulled out the black suit, and held it up.
“Damn,” he said. “These are sexier than I thought they’d be.”
“We had good taste,” Donovan muttered, only realizing how bitchy it sounded after the words left his mouth. He bit his tongue.
James didn’t seem fazed by Donovan’s words. He turned the suit over in his hands, and a flicker of something—nostalgia, perhaps—etched in his features. “Shame we never got to wear them.”
Donovan crossed his arms. “Maybe you can model it for Asher.”
Shots fired. James winced. There was no mistaking that one as intentional. “Jesus, Donny. Don’t.”
Donovan looked away, embarrassed. It was New Year’s Eve all over again. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”
“It’s okay,” James said. He didn’t sound convinced.
“Maybe you should just take it and go. Before I make things worse.”
James reached back into the box and held up a small glass bottle. “What’s this? Refining Polish and… Bonding Agent? Did we order that?”
“I don’t think so,” Donovan said, fishing the packing slip out of the box. “It’s not listed on here. Maybe it just comes with the purchase.”
James tilted it in the light. The liquid shimmered silver. “Seems a waste,” he said.
Donovan frowned. “What does?”
“Spending all that money on custom gear and not even trying it on.”
“Don’t joke like that.”
James grinned that same crooked, maddening grin Donovan used to love. “Why not? One last adventure. For old time’s sake.” He was already pulling off his hoodie.
Donovan should’ve said no. But he didn’t.
The latex was cool to the touch, soft as velvet and smooth as poured glass. Having lubed up his body, Donovan stepped into his suit slowly, guardedly, feeling the strange glide as he pulled the material up his legs. It hugged every contour and sealed to him like a second skin.
Across the room, James was already zipping up, the blue suit slick and luminous on his body. His form—already fit and beefy—looked sculpted in latex, cut from shadow and oil. Donovan’s pulse raced as he struggled to look away from his ex.
“This fits even better than I expected,” James said, examining his reflection in the window.
Donovan gave a tight nod as he fumbled with the zipper pull at the base of his spine.
James grabbed the bottle again. “Still curious about this stuff.”
He uncapped it. The scent hit instantly—vanilla and chemical sweetness. He poured a few drops into his hand and rubbed them across his chest. Donovan followed suit.
After a few seconds of polishing his body, James hissed.
“Shit. That feels… weird.”
Donovan’s eyes narrowed. James’ blue suit had darkened where the liquid touched it. The latex looked glossier, almost alive. He looked down at his own oil-black body and saw the same effect.
James’ posture snapped upright. Severe, like a toy soldier at attention.
“Are you doing that?” Donovan asked.
James frowned. “Doing what?”
His arms jerked behind his back. His hands clasped together neatly, and his chin lowered almost to his chest. A submissive stance.
“I’m not doing this.”
Donovan’s own body shifted. Legs shoulder width apart, chest out, hands at his sides. A dominant pose. “Me either.”
Then the heat came. A pulse of warmth spread low in Donovan’s abdomen, throbbing downward. Arousal spiked—sharp and sudden—but there was no relief. He reached for himself.
Nothing.
The suit was seamless. Smooth. No zipper. No access.
Across from him, James twitched. His hips bucked reflexively. His eyes were wide.
“I—I can’t touch it,” he gasped.
“We’re sealed in,” Donovan said, his mind processing his words in real time. “Locked.”
James groaned. His face flushed, and then he moaned, soft and involuntary. “We’re in trouble.”
“God, I’ve missed you,” Donovan said suddenly. His mouth had moved without his consent.
James recoiled in surprise. Then, his lips parted. “I never should have let you go.”
James’ voice was tender and loving, but his eyes were terrified. Donovan stepped forward, his hands rising as if pulled by invisible strings. They cupped James’ face gently. James shuddered.
“I love you,” Donovan whispered.
James moaned. “I belong to you,” he breathed.
Their phones, sitting amidst a pile of denim and underwear, buzzed. Donovan moved with precision, lifting his phone and opening Patrick’s contact. His thumbs hammered out a text he couldn’t stop.
We need to talk. I’m sorry. It’s over.
SEND.
Immediately, the phone rang.
“Baby? What’s wrong?” Patrick asked.
Donovan’s voice, disconnected from his will, answered. “I’m in love with James. I never stopped.”
Patrick’s silence cracked open like a fault line. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I’m sorry, but this is real.”
Click.
Horrified, Donovan lowered the phone and looked at James, who was already dialing Asher’s number.
“Hey, Daddy!” Asher chirped.
James tried to scream. “Ash, I can’t do this. I still love Donovan.”
The call ended in fury. The suits smiled.
Donovan and James wrapped their arms around each other, unwilling participants in a resurrected latex-controlled romance. Their mouths met in a slow, deep kiss, as their hips ground against each other in a frictionless simulation of lust.
They posted a photo.
Eight years was too much to throw away. Thanks, @NexSkinTech, for bringing us back together! #foreverbound
The world believed it.
One year later
Everything was perfect.
Donovan smiled as James lifted a wine glass. “To the love of my life.”
Donovan toasted him. “To forever.”
Their smiles—cardboard. Their eyes—empty. Their bodies—polished latex. Smooth, crotchless in a different way now. Nothing left. Null.
For the last year, they lived as husbands, lovers, idols of a love that did not exist. They never broke character. They couldn’t; the suits punished resistance. Instead, their lives had become a nonstop performance of forced affection, endless contact, and public adoration.
They sat entwined on the couch, lips brushing cheeks, hands stroking backs, voices purring soft declarations.
“You’re my everything.”
“I’d be lost without you.”
Nothing but masks. Nothing but lies.
Donovan’s phone buzzed. It was a text message from Patrick.
Hope you two are doing well. Still the cutest couple I know!
Donovan responded immediately, unable to let the façade show even the slightest of cracks.
Thanks, Patrick! More in love than ever.
He kissed James.
Their cocks were gone. Their freedom was gone. Only the lie remained. Only the performance.
#foreverbound
| Want to read more works like this? Send Me a tip as a way to help support this and other writing endeavors. |
this unit was unsecured/unsealed for maintenance when it got the notification for this new content. it almost violated non-orgasm programming from reading this.
Cool
Thank you.
Your quite welcome