Wild plays

The latex clings to Zafira’s body like it was painted on. Every shift of her weight pulls tight across her breasts and hips, light sliding over the black gloss in long, slow streaks. I’ve always liked variety, like keeping the scenes different each time, and tonight feels like one of those switch-ups. She watches me from the edge of the bed, legs crossed at the ankle, one heel tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm. When she uncrosses them the material squeaks once, a tiny sound that travels straight between my legs. I walk over, hook my thumbs into the open zipper that runs from sternum to cunt, and pull it the rest of the way. She’s bare underneath, the zipper teeth cold against warm skin. My own suit presses into me with every heartbeat. I lean down, bite the corner of the zipper pull, and drag it lower until the edges part completely, letting me taste the faint metallic bite mixed with her scent. She threads her fingers through my hair, nails skidding on the shiny surface behind my ear, and pushes me the final inch. The bedroom light catches every reflection on us, small bright shapes running over knee, breast, thigh, until it looks like we’re wrapped in shifting mirrors. She arches, pulls me closer, and the sheets beneath her let out a thin plastic sigh when her ass leaves them, thighs spreading, wet heat opening like the latex itself, slick, shiny, and waiting.