“Hey.”
I hear Iris’s voice behind me and sidestep out of her way, preparing to discreetly watch her pass by.
Watching Iris is one of my little pleasures in life, and with college being a lot more all-night cram sessions and a lot fewer debauched parties than I was led to believe, I’ll take what I can get.
“Hey,” she repeats.
I move all the way over, so my shoulder is up against the wall of the corridor.
“Hey, Kevin!”
It still takes me a few more seconds to realize that she doesn’t want me to move over. She wants me to turn around.
“Hey, Iris.” I turn and quickly clear my throat, self-conscious of the way my voice catches around her.
God, it must be so painfully obvious that I like her. She’s so completely my type that I can barely look at her. East Asian descent. Gorgeous, shiny black hair down to her waist. Goth fashion sense that always makes me feel like I’m somewhere a little more exciting than reality when I see her. Today, she’s wearing a tight black camisole with an elaborate lattice of straps suspending a red gem over her petite but noticeable cleavage.
“Meet me in the gym in ten, okay?” she says. “I need your help with something.”
“Oh. Sure.” I stammer out.
We’re not on favor-asking terms. We’re barely on nodding in the hallway terms. But Iris doesn’t need to waste her time breaking ice. Her eyes can cut through anything — awkwardness, confusion, strangerhood — even without the extra sharp edges she gets from her eyeliner.
But as to why she’s using those eyes on me at this moment…. She knows, right? That’s what this is. She knows the way I think about her, and she’s got plans to punish me for it. Or reward me.
#
It doesn’t matter what the odds are.
I show up and stand in the gym’s main hallway, where the men’s and women’s locker rooms diverge, with my head on a swivel. I watch for any sign of people gathering, preparing to witness some epic prank, but there’s no one around except for a couple of stragglers carrying yoga mats toward one of the building’s smaller studio classrooms.
Iris must know the rhythms of the whole PE department, because she times her entrance for the exact moment when I’m entirely alone here.
She struts out of the women’s locker room like she’s stepping onto a stage in front of tens of thousands of people, but there’s only me. I’m the only one here to see her in the shimmering black catsuit she’s changed into.
It clings precisely to her slender, graceful shape, without a single crease or gap. Even though she’s covered from neck to wrists to ankles, it feels incredibly intimate, seeing her whole unadorned form like this. Well, unadorned except for a black leather hairband, and a necklace with a tiny model dagger for a pendant.
She lets me take in the sight of her for a few moments, then says, “Well? Come on,” and beckons for me to follow her back into the locker room.
I hesitate in front of the circular sign with the figure of a person in a dress.
“Don’t worry, there’s no one here,” Iris says, and beckons more forcefully.
I proceed cautiously, glancing around every corner as I go, until Iris leads me to one locker in particular.
She opens it, reaches in, and hands me a small bundle of clothes.
“They should fit,” she says. “Give them a try.”
I unfold the bundle. The outer layer is a white long-sleeved top. It looks small, but I recognize it by feel as spandex, so I’m sure I can wriggle into it. Wrapped inside the top is a full bodysuit made from the same fabric, only in the hottest hot pink I’ve ever seen.
My heart speeds up, and not only because I’m alone with Iris, still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“What are these for?” I stall.
“They’re so that you can help me with my routine,” she says, like this is obvious, but also with a hint of mischief. “You can’t do gymnastics in your jeans.”
How flexible does she think I am? If she asks me to do the splits, my jeans won’t be the first thing to snap.
But the thought is appealing. I rub my fingers through the fabric, imagining it hugging my body the way her catsuit hugs hers, hiding everything and nothing, pressing inward yet leaving my movement completely unrestricted, or at least, as unrestricted as my muscles and tendons will allow.
“And… the color?” I ask.
“What does the color matter?” Iris asks innocently, clasping her hands behind her back.
“I guess it doesn’t, but did you pick it for me on purpose?” I ask. “I mean, you had to know that some people feel… ways… about pink.”
“Are you asking how I knew?” Iris asks, stepping closer to me, those sharp eyes of hers alight with the glee. “About pink? About spandex? About the particular ways you feel about both of those things?”
I can’t escape the pink now. Even if I drop the outfit and run, I can feel blotches of hot pink blooming all over my face.
“I don’t know…” I can barely squeeze the lie out through my throat, “…what you’re talking about….”
“I’ve seen it,” says Iris, reaching out to warm her hand on my blazing left cheek. “I’ve seen the waistbands of your underwear when you bend over. I’ve seen right through the white button-down shirts you wear for class presentations, to the leotards you sometimes wear instead of undershirts. I’ve counted how many times you’ve volunteered for the women’s parts in Shakespeare class, and I’ve watched your face when you get to show up in costume. It’s not just a jokey cry for attention to you. It’s something so much deeper.”
I don’t know what to say.
All this time, I’ve been watching Iris every second I can get away with it. It never even occurred to me that she might be watching me too.
She lays her hand on the clothes I’m still holding.
“I know you want to be seen like this,” she says. “I know you want me to see you. But it’s your call.”
She turns around and puts an arm theatrically over her eyes.
Her other hand rests on her hip, which sways out to the side as she settles into one of her many dancer’s postures.
She gives me a long, long chance to look at her, to leave, or to strip down and change.
I change.
My own clothes form a much rougher bundle as I roll them together, in my rush to tug and stretch and squeeze the delicious pink bodysuit into place.
It might not be quite as tailored a fit as Iris’s catsuit, but it does fit nicely. It envelops me in comforting, merciless tightness, finding and smothering every pocket of air touching my skin.
Adding the white top covers up large areas of hot pink, but somehow, I feel even more girlish this way. Iris herself still looks fierce when she decides to wear the occasional splash of pink or white against her mostly black wardrobe, but I realize now that she never puts both together. The combined look feels inescapably soft.
Adding an extra layer of spandex on top also adds to the feeling of not-quite-suffocation. It’s an exhilarating sensation, just barely on the right side of claustrophobia.
I tap Iris on the shoulder. She turns around and breaks into a grin.
“Oh, now that is darling!” she exclaims, and leans toward me.
I’m ready. I’m waiting. I don’t know if it’s going to be a kiss, or just a hug, or maybe a pat or a pinch on any of my completely unprotected soft spots. I’m not ruling anything out at this point.
It turns out she’s reaching for my messy bundle of street clothes.
She sets them in her locker, and pulls out three more items.
The first is a black and white masquerade mask, which she slips on over her eyes. Two long, earlike spikes rise from its upper corners, giving her whole face a feline appearance.
The second is her phone, which she immediately sets to selfie mode, and throws her arm around my shoulders.
So, there’s going to be a record of this out there. Okay, I guess that’s what’s happening. I’m in. I smile when she tells me to.
The third is a gymnastic ribbon wand.
Iris flutters the iridescent purple ribbon in a circle between us, like she’s wrapping me up in a magic spell, while she threads her padlock into place on the locker.
There’s plenty of time for me to change my mind before she clicks the lock shut, leaving my transformation back into my normal, public self entirely at her discretion.
I help her mix up the combination on the lock, just to make it official.
“Perfect,” says Iris. “Time to go.”
With a flick of her ribbon, she leads me back out of the locker room, and for a moment, I’m sure she’s about to parade me all over campus like this — I’d let her — but she stays in the gym, and leads me to one of the multipurpose rooms. There are mirrors lining the walls, maybe for ballet classes, or maybe just so the gymnasts can check their form. They definitely practice in here. There’s a balance beam and a pommel horse pushed off to the side of the space.
Iris makes straight for the tumbling mats currently occupying most of the space, and immediately does a set of ten forward flips from one side of the room to the other, with the ribbon spiraling along behind her.
She lands precisely on her feet at a corner of the mat and raises her arms in the air.
It only seems right to applaud.
“So, uh…” I stretch one of my legs behind my back and try to look like I know what I’m doing, “what exactly did you need me for?”
Iris saunters over to me. I’ve never seen her move quite so fluidly in her regular clothes.
“I’ve got a couple new moves I’d like to try,” she purrs, walking her fingers up the pale spandex on my chest, “and I need a spotter I can trust.”
“Uh, yeah, no problem,” I say, “what do I…?”
“First,” Iris explains, bending down, setting the wand aside, and placing her hands flat on the mat, “I’d like to try walking on my hands.”
She kicks off the ground and lifts her lower body straight up in the air.
“Would you hold my hips, so I can feel if I’m starting to tip over?”
I place my hands on either side of the gentle curve of her hips. She feels incredibly stable.
“Like this?” I ask.
“Mmhmm,” she answers in a sultry sigh, and begins the walk.
She clearly doesn’t need the help, but I do my best to keep up and not knock her over.
Even though her hands are doing the walking, her whole body feels engaged in the motion. I can feel lean, powerful, energetic muscles shifting subtly under my hands with every step she takes.
She walks us in a full circle, and when we make it back to the ribbon wand, she shifts all of her weight onto a single hand, picks the wand up in the other, and somersaults to her feet.
“Huh, I guess I’ve got the hang of that one after all,” she says, tapping the wand against her hand.
“Yeah, well, better safe than sorry,” I say, feeling almost smooth.
“I swear though,” says Iris, stepping closer, “this next move is one I’ve never tried before. All you have to do is hold your arms forward, palms up, and keep them there.”
I turn my palms to the sky as instructed.
In a flash, Iris’s ribbon surrounds me again, but she doesn’t stick to a simple circle this time. She twirls the ribbon around my wrists, juggles the wand itself between my arms, and then lashes it upwards, looping the ribbon around my neck and binding my hands behind my head.
For a finishing touch, she sashays behind me, tugs me backward off my feet, and catches me in her surprisingly strong arms.
“What do you think?” she asks, laying me down on the mat.
“Hard to judge,” I say, “when I don’t know what you were going for.”
“This is what I was going for,” she says, straddling my chest.
“Then I’d give it ten out of ten,” I say.
“Are you sure?” she asks, tracing her ribbon handiwork with one finger. “Because I can undo it if you don’t like it.”
“I like it,” I assure her, feeling another stab of that pleasant almost-claustrophobia when I realize that my hands really are stuck, and without them, I can’t sit up, certainly not with her on top of me. “I like all of your tricks.”
“Mmm, you really do, don’t you?”
She walks her hand behind her to find my crotch. The spandex, of course, conceals nothing at all from her searching fingers.
It was difficult enough just putting on this clinging pink fantasy for her, without almost stabbing my way out of it with an instant erection. Being pinned like this has crushed whatever was left of my self-control.
She wraps her hand gently but firmly around my cock, and shifts it so it’s pointing more comfortably upward under the fabric.
“Yeah, I’d say we have something to work with here,” she says. “Wouldn’t you?”
I nod meekly.
“That’s my sweet, sexy, little princess,” she whispers, unsnapping a flap I hadn’t even noticed in the crotch of my bodysuit and letting my erection stand free.
Her words do nothing to soften it, I have to admit. If anything, being called “princess” produces an extra hard throb, which Iris observes, and smirks at me.
“Is that what we are now?” I ask, gazing up at her masked face. “A princess, and… a panther?” I guess the first thing that comes to mind, the first thing the glossy black catsuit and pointed mask make me think of. “Or, panthress? Is that the right word?”
Iris chuckles and leans down to growl close to my ear. “Sure, princess, I can be a panthress. And gobble you up.”
She snarls and bites my neck, not quite painfully, but not gently, either. She nibbles her way up to my ear and then down to my spandex-covered shoulder, biting down to remind me how very little protection even the double-thick half of my outfit provides.
She grabs my bare cock again and strokes it, spreading a ready dribble of fluid down over its sensitive underside, all while she works her teeth slowly lower. When her own presence on my chest gets in her way, she climbs off to kneel next to me on the mats and continues her ravenous journey down my torso, pressing firm teeth marks into the skin above my navel, through the fabric.
She’s still stroking me by hand, still dragging her mouth ever closer to my cock, and I have questions now about her threat to gobble me up, but I don’t ask them.
I’m enjoying the worry too much.
It’s just like the thrilling partial claustrophobia of putting on the suit, waiting here to see if she’s going to take me in her mouth, and if so, is she going to be gentle?
Finally, she snarls, and purrs, and gnaws her way right up to the base of my cock, and pulls her hand away.
She lifts her head and opens her mouth, so that I can feel the warmth of her breath on my dripping head.
Then she plants a single tidy kiss on it, and springs gracefully to her feet.
I squirm around in my restraints, trying to see where she’s going. She wouldn’t just leave me like this, would she? Is she running off to show her friends the selfie, and leaving me for someone else to find?
The thought almost edges into the unpleasant side of scary, but that doesn’t mean it’s not keeping me hard at the same time. God, I want her hand back on me. Or even my own hand. I wriggle a little more, testing for give in the ribbon’s knots, but there’s not much. If I can manage to escape on my own, it won’t be for a while, and it’s so hard to think that far ahead, with my cock screaming for attention, now.
Before I can even begin to unravel myself, Iris returns, dragging something huge and colorful along behind her.
“Aww, poor princess,” she says. “Let’s see if I can’t make you a little more comfortable.”
She whips the huge bundle of colors in the air over my head, and before it lands, she tugs it behind me, out of sight. I can hear it settle like a giant picnic blanket right above my head.
I’m still wild to be touched, but she takes her time arranging it just so, smoothing out wrinkles that may or may not be real. I can’t turn my head to see.
Finally, she grabs the ribbon binding my wrists behind my head, lifts me partway off the mats, and drags me on top of the blanket.
It’s a lush satin comforter in brilliant rainbow colors, which shimmer and blend from one into the next. The stuffing is so deep that I can see it on both sides of me, like I’m lying in a gossamer valley of colors.
Iris lies down beside me, lifts up a corner of the blanket from behind her, and brushes my cheek with the hauntingly smooth material.
“I knew it,” she giggles when she sees me shiver with pleasure. “You’re a satin sheets kind of princess if I’ve ever met one. But since we don’t have a mattress to put sheets on, this will just have to do.”
“You know what I’ve heard feels great on satin sheets?” I hint, deliberately flexing so that my cock waves for attention.
“Oh, am I keeping her highness waiting?” Iris teases. “Don’t worry, princess, I’ve got more softness left for you to feel.”
She opens a matching flap at the crotch of her own catsuit, stretches her leg over me, and guides me easily into the warm, slick, softness of her pussy.
I can barely contribute to the act from this position. I can’t reach up to stroke her breasts, even through the tight fabric holding them. If I press my feet to the floor, I can thrust upward a little, but I soon give up on controlling the movement at all. I can’t hope to be as elegant or precise about it as Iris.
She pinches and clutches at me through the suit while she rides, confidently, relentlessly, until finally, she tosses her head back, letting her hair tumble all the way down to my thighs, and sends a rapturous cry echoing through the gym’s high ceiling.
She runs her hands over her face and down her neck to hold her own breasts, savoring every last tingle of the sensation, but she doesn’t stop, even for a moment. She keeps that same quick rhythm of tight, soft friction, until I erupt into her, and my own shouts fill the echo chamber somewhere above us. I can’t even see the ceiling through the stars in my vision.
Only when I’m spent and motionless beneath her does Iris roll off of me and gather me close to her, to rest.
“Are you going to brag to people about today?” I ask her.
“Depends,” says Iris, winding a lock of her hair around her fingers.
“On what?” I ask.
She fixes those eyes on me. “On whether you are.”
***
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