The fog was just wet and cold, the kind that made the park feel like a drained fish tank. Late February air scraped my face, but under the latex, I was cooking. The suit was skin-tight, a slick, second layer that showed off every damn curve. My tits were ridiculous in it, two huge, soft weights pushed up so high I could feel them against my chin if I slumped. The nipples were hard, pressing against the shiny black rubber like they were trying to poke through. The tattoo on my forehead, a jagged little scribble, was the only thing that didn’t shine.
I walked because standing still meant thinking, and thinking was for later. My hips swung on purpose, a slow grind that made the latex pull tight across my pussy with every step. It was already soaked under there. The vibrator in my cunt was on, a low, mean buzz right in my core. The beads in my ass shifted with my movement, a full, stretching feeling. My right hand rubbed over the suit where my pussy was, feeling the fat lips and the heat. My left hand held the dildo, a dumb, thick piece of plastic I was gonna use soon.
This was it. Being out here in the cold, filled up, dressed like this. The risk was the best part. Some guy jogging might see me. He’d see these giant tits in latex, see my hand working between my legs, see my face like I didn’t give a fuck. It made my heart slam against my ribs. It made me wetter.
I stopped under a lamppost. The light was weak, just enough to make the catsuit look like a puddle of oil. I looked down at myself. The rubber was so tight over my stomach. My tits looked fake, like two balloons about to pop. I grabbed one, my hand squishing the heavy flesh underneath. I pinched the nipple hard through the rubber, and the shock went straight to my clit.
My breath came out in clouds. I was so turned on it was pathetic. The vibrator buzzing, my ass full, the cold on my face while my body burned underneath. I lifted the dildo and put the tip in my mouth, then dragged it down my throat, between my tits, down my belly until it pressed right against my clit.
“You seeing this?” I said to the fog, to you. My voice was low. “I’m stuffed. I’m buzzing. And it’s not enough.” I pushed my hand hard against my pussy, grinding down. The suit was slippery there. “You wanna know what’s under this rubber? It’s a mess. I’m dripping. I’ve been thinking about a real cock this whole time.”
I spread my legs. The beads in my ass pushed deeper. I groaned. The vibrator pulsed in my cunt, a nasty little rhythm that made my legs weak. I was a shiny toy in an empty park, and I fucking loved it.
“I want your hands on this,” I said, squeezing my tit again. “I want you to tear it. I want you to feel how hot I am inside. I want you to fuck me so hard I forget my own name.” I was talking to the air, to the ghost I made of you. But the want was real. It was an ache in my throat and my belly and my cunt. The tattoo on my forehead felt like a brand. I was a joke, and I was dead serious.
A shiver racked me, starting deep where the vibrator throbbed. My pussy clenched around it. I was right there. A dirty, desperate bitch in the fog. And I was doing it all for the only person who mattered: the one watching. The one who wanted to see a girl like me break.
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