TRANSLUCENT TOPS
They weren’t supposed to do this. Not really.
The hotel suite smelled like wet asphalt and hot rubber. On the bed, the latex tops gleamed, taut and shiny, almost daring them. They hadn’t bought them. They’d been gifted—by that muscular, flamboyant guy from the gym who strutted around in the same thing, all chest and veins and confidence, like he owned the world in latex. He smirked and pressed the vacuum-sealed tops into their hands. “Trust me, it’s… fun,” he said, too perfect, too loud, too much.
“I… I… can’t…” the first frat bro stuttered, staring at the shiny material, fingers fumbling. His palms were slick with sweat. “This… this is stupid. Why… why would we—”
“Bro, chill… it’s just… don’t think,” the second muttered, voice shaking, twisting the top between his fingers. But the tremor betrayed him. His chest was tight, heartbeat racing.
The third—the idiot who always jumped first—tore off his shirt and shoved the latex over himself. It clung instantly, slick and tight, molding to every ridge, every muscle. He shivered, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded.
“Fuuuck… ohhh… aahhh…” he gasped, words breaking, stumbling a little.
The first and second hesitated, wide-eyed, before clumsily following. Sliding in felt wet, tight, alive. Cold then hot all at once. The latex stretched, clung, hugged every ridge and curve, pulsing over their skin. They could barely see each other through it, and that made every motion feel bigger, electric, thrilling, terrifying.
“Feels… uhh… so… damn…” the first muttered, voice cracking, breath hitching.
The room went quiet, except for squeaks, sticky hisses, ragged breaths. The second leaned over the third sprawled on the couch; the latex hissed as it rubbed. The first pressed in from the other side, drawn to glinting shoulders, trembling chests.
Every touch sparked. Knees bumped, hips brushed, arms tangled. Friction buzzed under latex, low, sticky, insistent. The third tilted his head back, jaw slack, letting the second’s fingers glide along him. Every tiny motion sent shivers through their spines, bodies humming, hearts racing.
“Ahhh… ohhh… nngh… uhh…” the second whispered, words breaking apart.
The first dared a hand across the third’s chest. Warmth pooled under his fingers, slick and sticky, trembling. The room filled with squeaks, sticky hisses, and shallow, breathless laughter. Every brush, every press, every slide made them tremble. Bodies hummed, heat built, tight, sticky, electric.
They pressed together in chaotic, messy closeness. Knees bumped, hips rubbed, shoulders pressed. Latex squeaked and stretched at every motion, amplifying every little spark of friction into waves rolling low, messy, uncontrollable. Voices caught in throaty gasps and broken syllables:
“Ahhh… ohhh… nnghh… uhh… aaahhh…”
Every movement made them shiver. Bodies shook, almost out of control. Hips nudged, knees knocked, arms tangled. Every squeak, every sticky hiss pushed warmth higher, tighter, almost unbearable. A messy wave pooled deep, humming under the clingy latex, pressing them together instinctively.
City lights blinked outside, but inside, the suite was a dark aquarium of shimmer, sweat, trembling latex. Reflections bounced and blurred as their bodies quivered. Every squeak, slide, and tiny motion amplified the tension, warmth, sticky pulse building inside them. They were all hard in the latex.
Gasps became desperate moans. Words fractured: “Ohhh… aahhh… uhh… nnghh… fuhhh…” They stumbled, pressed, slipped, laughed, whimpered, shivered. Hearts hammered, breaths caught. They came almost instantaneously with the frottage. The warmth pooled, messy, sticky, overwhelming, humming through every tendon and ridge, uncontrollable, chaotic.
Hours passed. They stayed tangled, trembling, slick, pressed together, latex clinging like a second skin they couldn’t peel off.
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