Everything leading up to me entering the room has been planned out in detail. But once I’m inside, my only instruction is to fuck him.
My style of entrance — kicking the door in — suggests a certain aggression. But beyond that I don’t know much about what he wants. The only thing he’s said is that the sex has to be safe. Extra safe. In this case, a condom isn’t enough; he wants me to use a cock sleeve.
You may have never heard of a cock sleeve, but it’s pretty self-explanatory. It’s a hollow plastic cylinder that you slide over your dick. They’re also called penis extenders, since they increase your girth and length.
They come in various materials, some hard, some more flesh-like, and can be anything from skin tone to fluorescent green. Some are designed to look like actual dicks and certain models are even sculpted based on specific porn actors. Others look alien-esque, with various ridges and nodules for “added pleasure,” though the pleasure is presumably all for the person getting fucked, since you can’t feel a thing once you slide it on.
Since he’s given me such specific instructions about my entry, I’d assumed he’d be sitting up in bed to see me coming into the room. But my host is already on his knees, with his face in the pillow and his ass in the air. On the table next to the bed are the cock sleeve, a bottle of lube and a stack of bills.
The dynamic of the scene, this sort of abominable snowmobiler man character that I’m playing, suggests that I should storm into his room already hard and just go for it. But since that’s not how bodies work, he’ll have to settle for a slightly different approach.
Instead I go over and roughly grab his ass with one hand while I try to scoop up the cock sleeve and the lube with the other. The gloves impede my dexterity somewhat, and I end up dropping both the sleeve and the lube on the first try. Keeping one hand on his ass, I pick them up off the floor and set them on the bed next to me.
The other element of a scene like this is that there should usually be some dialogue. Some kind of, “No, please stop/Shut up bitch” kind of banter. But when I asked him what, if anything, he wanted me to say, he’d specified that he wanted it to be silent. A mute snowmobiler rapist.
He’s asked me to go to the trouble of getting into this outfit but has also positioned himself in a way where he can’t even see me, so I decide at least to give him the sensation of being touched. I run my gloved hands up and down his body, press his head into the pillow, and reach around to grab for his dick. Whatever I’m doing, it must be working because he’s totally hard.
A cock sleeve is intended to be worn overtop of an already erect dick. Some are pretty floppy material so they couldn’t actually penetrate someone on their own. Fortunately, the model he’s selected is the hard kind, kind of like a hollow dildo. It wouldn’t be that challenging for me to get myself hard but I’d at least have to jerk off. The gloves are going to make that impossible, so I quickly decide to mime-fuck him with the sleeve: holding it at the approximate level my dick should be and thrusting in and out of him.
In case it’s not obvious, snowmobile suits are not designed with fucking in mind. Newer models do have a crotch zipper separate from the rest of the body so you can whip it out to pee in the woods without exposing your torso. But vintage models, like the one I’m wearing, hadn’t included that handy feature yet, which means I’m going to have to unzip it order to get my dick out.
I doff the hood and slowly open the suit to the crotch. Pulling his ass roughly towards me, I position the cock sleeve at the approximate height that it should be and dribble some lube over it. With one hand on his lower back and the other holding the base of the cock, I thrust into him. His whole body stiffens and he lets out a little cry of pain.
I hadn’t thought about arranging a safe word for this scene, but it now occurs to me that it would have been a good idea. Since it’s not easy to do that retroactively without killing the mood, I just hold the sleeve steady as I slowly ease out of him. After giving him a moment to rest, I gingerly slide the head back in. This time, he seems to be ready for it and there’s no resistance. I slide in all the way, up to the base where my hand is holding it.
Even when I’m fucking someone during a rape scene, I like to have some kind of intimacy: rubbing the back of their neck, playing with their nipples, fondling their balls. But the gloves (also vintage, like the suit) are so thick I can’t do much of anything. I just keep sliding the sleeve in and out of him as I look around the room, patting his back.
We’ve been going at it less than 10 minutes, when he blurts out, “I’m going to come!”
I ease up on his ass as I feel the orgasm shuddering through his body. His body crumples and he pulls himself into the fetal position, still facing away from me. The sleeve slides out of his ass and I’m left standing there with it in my hand. He hadn’t given any instructions about how the session should end, other than that he wanted me to leave as soon as it was over.
Usually with a BDSM scene, with any scene really, I want to have a check-in about what’s happened before I depart. But given how precise his fantasy was, I suspect that this isn’t new territory for him. I’m probably not the first escort he’s hired to fuck him wearing this suit.
I pick up the cash from the table and step out the door. The heat of the day hits me again. I was going to head back to his car to strip down, but at this point I decide to just do it in front of his room.
Just as I’m about to start the task, a woman with three young kids, two walking and one in a stroller, pass by on the sidewalk in front of the motel. One of the kids, a boy who looks about eight, stops mid-stride and stares at me.
Realizing he’s not behind her, the mother turns back and grabs him by the wrist to pull him forward, without bothering to look at what’s distracted him. I place the cash I’m holding on the ground and drop one of gloves on top of it to keep it from blowing away. I take off the other glove, remove the balaclava and pull the suit down past my shoulders until it’s at my knees. My T-shirt is completely saturated with sweat, as are my jean shorts. The boots are loosely tied, so I just pull them off, letting the suit fall to the ground, standing on the hot concrete in my socks.
I stuff the cash in my pocket and wrangle the rest of the clothes in my arms, walking back to the car. Without looking, I open the back driver’s side door and dump it all onto seat. I grab my shoes where I left them on the floor, shut the door and slide them onto my feet before walking back to my bike.
Follow Devon on Twitter @devondelacroix
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