My Wife's Boss Claims My Latex Feet at the Party
Victor claims my wife's shiny latex feet at his fetish party.
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Mark’s pulse hammered in his throat the moment they stepped through the heavy double doors into Victor’s penthouse. The air hung thick with leather polish, latex sheen, and the low thrum of bass that seemed to vibrate straight into his balls. Candlelight flickered off black walls and chrome fixtures, casting everything in a sweaty, golden haze. Lena’s hand rested lightly on his arm, but he could barely feel it through the electric charge racing under his skin.
She looked fucking unreal. The tight black latex uniform clung to every curve like a second skin—short skirt flaring just enough to flash the tops of sheer black stockings, the glossy material whispering with every step. Those thigh-high latex boots rose high and shiny, stiletto heels clicking on the marble, the pointed toes flexing slightly as she walked. Mark had jerked off to the thought of those boots a hundred times in secret, burying his face in the closet after she’d hung them up, inhaling the warm rubber scent mixed with her perfume. Tonight the fantasy walked beside him, hips swaying, tits pushed high by the corseted top.
Victor spotted them immediately. Lena’s boss cut through the crowd of masked kinksters like he owned every hard-on in the room—which he damn near did. Tall, broad-shouldered, silver at the temples, dressed in a sleeveless leather vest that showed off thick arms and a chest dusted with dark hair. His eyes dropped straight to Lena’s feet and stayed there, open hunger written across his face.
“Lena,” Victor said, voice a low rumble that cut through the music. “Those boots… Christ. Look at the way the light slides over them.” He crouched slightly without shame, right in front of Mark, and let out a soft appreciative groan. “Glossy black latex stretched tight over perfect arches. I can already smell the heat trapped inside. Your husband is a lucky bastard.”
Mark’s cock twitched hard against the crotch of his own leather pants. He swallowed, tasting copper and want. Victor wasn’t just looking—he was devouring. And Mark realized with a jolt that the same sick, sweet obsession lived in both of them. He wanted those latex-sheathed feet crushed against his face, wanted to watch another man lose his mind over them. The tension coiled so tight he thought he might come just from standing there.
Lena felt it too. Her green eyes flicked between the two men, a slow smile curving her painted lips. She shifted her weight, deliberately crossing one long leg over the other so the boot dangled, stiletto tip tracing lazy circles in the air. The latex creaked softly. Sheer stocking whispered against latex as she uncrossed and recrossed, giving them both a lingering view of the shiny calves, the way the material hugged her ankles and rose up to seal tight around her thighs.