She removed her wedding ring, placed the letter in her coat pocket and climbed into the waiting taxi.

No turning back now.

The description was both vivid and exciting enough that the image was fixed in her mind, as proud and permanent as a tattoo and twice as daring. Nevertheless, she re-read the letter, knowing that she was only reading it to boost her confidence for the encounter ahead. She flushed with excitement. If a man like this really wanted to get his hands on her - and the letter made it sound like he really did - well, she’d do anything for a man like this. She’d even think about leaving her husband.

She smiled: she’d be able to leave her husband if she had a man like this.

Because it wasn’t just a matter of this man getting his hands on her. The description in the letter from this man was different. Completely masculine, completely dominant and, just for her, just for tonight (who knows, maybe more nights too), completely surrounded in a rubber and metal armour.

The perfect complement to her own subordinate intentions.

The taxi stopped. She entered the club, changed her clothes.

The evening began.

*  *  *  *  *

She was the only one wearing a mask and felt a little stupid. But he had sent it with the letter and requested that she wore it, so that, no matter what clothes she wore, he would recognise her. And besides, she wasn’t going to be able to see much of his face either, so it would form some kind of token equality. Hopefully the only equality in this partnership.

So she sat with her drink between the bar and the dance floor and waited. Listened to the music. Thought about dancing, but thought no, better just sit.

Maybe she was early. She had deliberately left her watch at home, along with all jewellery, so as to make her appearance as simple as possible. She looked around at the others in the club and felt that her attire was more understated than striking. All she could see were bodies encased in straps of leather, rubber, chains, plastic and each other. Her outfit was made of a fabric, something seen here only on tightly buckled corsets and some of the more trendy chokers. Nevertheless, the lace catsuit was the best she could buy at such short notice and felt pleased with herself in a compromising way for being different to everyone else.

Her mind wandered. How would she like to be seen, when the man first arrives? Best make the most of being early, after all. She thought and decided: if she was going to be submissive for this man, she would do her best to look like an offering to him! She sat on a low drinks table, folding her legs underneath her. She bowed her head as if shy and, for a minute or so, practised drinking out of a straw, so as she would not need to raise her head unnecessarily.

He walked over slowly from the corner where he had been watching and took her glass from her. She caught herself just in time and kept her head down, catching only a glance of a tightly fitted black rubber gauntlet. Her face flushed once again, but then suddenly her whole body burned.

"Stand." She stood, still on the table. Hoped that the dancers were not watching, but didn’t dare turn to see. And he was standing behind her, so she could not see him either. A hand appeared on her throat and slid downwards, stroking her small breast, fingertips in the cleavage, before passing over belly button to settle on the top of her right thigh.

He gripped her there, tight, pulling the skin so that he opened her cunt without even touching it.

And she was weakening and loving it. Loving her weakness and loving his strength. No doubt now, no thoughts of turning back.

He twisted her round by the hips, pulled down her head and kissed her mouth roughly through the hole in his mask.

And here was her chance to look at him. Just as he had described, he was encased in a rubber suit. His mask had slits for his eyes and nostrils and silver studs covered his scalp where his hair should have been. The shape of his body suit was that of exaggerated muscles, over his chest, arms, legs and rear, with metal bands outlining the contours, a dark and gleaming hulk like a Japanese manga demon. The mask, gauntlets and boots were not connected to the suit, but apart from them it was all one piece. The mask was buckled firmly around the thick neck of his suit, and presumably buckled up the back of his head too. And the most overwhelming surprise of his appearance stood between his legs; a shaped and erect rubber sheath surrounded his penis, growing out of the suit itself.

He lifted her off the table and onto the floor. He turned her round so that she had her back to him again and pressed slightly on her shoulders, indicating for her to kneel. She knelt and felt him jerk her arms out of her lace sleeves and pull down the catsuit as far as her waist. (Thankfully, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that others in the room were also half naked by now, but she blushed all the same.) He tied her right sleeve to her right wrist, high up on the sleeve, sot hat there was plenty of it still free. The same was done on the left and then the two sleeves tied together, effectively binding her hands.

"There," he said, proud of his consort. "We shall spend the evening together like this." His head jerked up at the sound of some familiar industrial staccato opening.

"Time to dance."

Strange how music and torment go together so well.

*  *  *  *  *

And for this man, she melted. Obedience and submission came naturally to her, whereas with her husband they had always required effort. This man lived up fully to her idea of real masculinity; strong, commanding and proud. He had done nothing to physically overwhelm her beyond the token binding of her arms; but she was thoroughly spellbound by his perfection. He was just what she had wanted.

Or maybe needed.

He saw how she felt and smiled with smug satisfaction. This was turning out to be easier than expected.

So they spent the evening watching each other, she with a relentless adoration tinged with desire; he, well, just to see how it was going. Occasionally he would test a little, to see just how much she would let him do, what - if anything - would incite her to resist. And she did fine. She just kept on dancing when he squeezed one arse cheek like a sponge during a slow dance. She spilt her drink though, later, when he started lightly slapping her breasts, and then fearfully begged to be forgiven for her clumsiness.

She did not fall in love with him. Rather, it was a strange emotion, made up of awe and fear and humility and lust. For some reason, she was afraid to fall in love with him, perhaps fearing that he might look down on such an emotion. Nevertheless, she felt that the lust was a greater part of this emotion; she needed him to satisfy this lust, just as she was satisfying his sense of power.

She had no way of knowing whether he was going to do anything about it at all. But she couldn’t tell him what she wanted. It just couldn’t be done.

So she decided there must be come way of showing him how she felt instead, if he had not already figured it out, and carefully she watched for the opportunity until it appeared.

And it appeared all right. He told her to sit down while he bought another drink. When he got back to his chair, she was knelt upright on the floor, her hands supporting her a little, having got used to the bond, resting on her feet. He leaned back in the chair, relaxing after the dance, and closed his eyes, trusting her co-operation a little more now. As soon as his eyes were closed, she bent down and placed her mouth around his erect rubber cock. His eyes opened and he saw her looking up at him from his worship. She slid her head down, closing her jaw slightly to give him a little pressure from her teeth.

And he smiled. And his smile was more amusement than pleasure and this angered her. But she kept on.

"Stop what you’re doing and kneel up straight again. Look at me," he said. She did so, suddenly concerned that she’d offended him.

He leaned forward, keeping his elbows on the arms of the chair, so that his face was right by her ear.

"You want to be fucked, don’t you?" It was a whispered snarl.

"How dare you want?" She shrank.

"You want to feel a man inside, hm?" And without looking up, she gave a shy, confessing nod.

He struck her fiercely on the jaw and looked into her face; she was still his. And when he spoke next, he spoke slowly, each word punching her in the eyes.

"If I chose, you could feel something stronger in you than you’ve ever felt before. I could be a bloody animal man for you if I chose." He liked to think he heard her whimper then.

He leaned closer and kissed her deep and coarse, as though he were fucking her with his tongue.

"Get up. We’re going home."

*  *  *  *  *

In the taxi, she trembled all the way.

Once in the flat, he led her into the bedroom and locked the door. Still staring at him, she fell to the floor in a humble heap and silently wept.

"Get up."

He pushed her face down onto the bed and ripped the crotch of her catsuit. She cried out briefly, then bit her lip.

He walked round to the other side of the bed and spoke: "You’d better be ready for this, woman. You wanted a real man. I’m going to take you like a man." She understood, but pretended to herself that she didn’t. He walked back to her.

In an instant, she felt the rubber sheath in her arse and fucking, fucking, deep and slow. Bigger than it had felt in her mouth. Her throat wouldn’t let her scream. She felt like screaming but didn’t want to: after all, this definitely was the perfect man for her.

And besides, she wasn’t far from climax.

He started to push faster. Her throat grew drier. Faster and faster. She was about to come and he stopped.

He collapsed, squashing her aching wrists. He breathed hot and spent on her neck. Like this, he didn’t feel so strong.

Still inside her, he moved his face slightly and spoke quietly into her ear.

"You wanted a dominant, masculine man, hm? You’ve got all you really want in your husband, you know."

Panic! She’d never mentioned her husband, not even in the first letter. Suddenly she felt lost, with this perfect man. Struggle!

So he started to fuck again until the movements subsided and the weeping began again. He climbed out of her and lapped up her lust until she came in her tears.

"Turn over," he said, standing up. She turned and they looked at each other. He shook his head, pitying her.

"Why go looking for the perfect man?" he asked, not fierce any longer. "You’ve got your husband. Listen to me: your husband told me to meet you."

The rubber figure unfastened the buckles on the back of the head and spine and removed the gauntlets. Rolled down the rubber as far as the waist. The moulded rubber disguise now revealed a young woman, athletic, almost adolescent in shape.

The figure in rubber bent down to the bed, letting hair and bare breast stroke against bare breast, and kissed the tear stained cheek.

The figure in lace sank to the floor on her knees, drowning in confusion.