Divorcee Next Door Claims My Latex Devotion

The late afternoon sun hung heavy over the quiet cul-de-sac, turning the freshly watered lawns into glittering patches of emerald. Warrick stood half-hidden behind the thin curtains of his living-room window, cock already thickening inside his jeans, and watched the new neighbor move with deliberate, liquid grace. She was tall—five-ten at least—her body poured into a second-skin of glossy black latex that caught every ray of light and threw it back like wet obsidian. The catsuit hugged the high, firm curves of her breasts, cinched her waist to a wicked hourglass, and disappeared between the full rounds of her ass before flaring out again over thighs sheathed in sheer black seamed stockings. Over those, thigh-high leather boots rose like polished dark mirrors, the toes pointed, the heels lethal.

Brigitte. That was the name on the moving boxes he’d glimpsed yesterday. Twenty-eight, freshly divorced, and apparently uninterested in subtlety. She held the garden hose with casual authority, water arcing in a silver stream across the flower bed while her free hand smoothed down one latex-clad hip as if she knew exactly who was watching. The material whispered and creaked with every shift; the seams of her stockings traced perfect black lines up the backs of her calves and disappeared under the high-cut legs of the catsuit. Her shiny, booted feet flexed inside the leather as she shifted her weight, the pointed toes gleaming.

Warrick’s mouth went dry. Twenty-four years old and already a devoted slave to latex, leather, and the precise, cruel elegance of a woman who wore both like armor. He had collections of catsuits, hoods, gloves—entire drawers of rubber that smelled of polish and possibility—but nothing compared to the living vision watering her plants ten yards away. He pressed closer to the glass, one hand unconsciously rubbing the hard ridge of his cock through denim.

She turned her head.