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Swan Songs, extracts from my life with Stardust Twinkles, is the first installment of ‘The Stardust Diaries.’
Tarn Swan details life with his transgender partner, Jonathan Lane, or as he’s better known in certain circles, Stardust Twinkles.
16th August 2005:
Pink Rubber Fetish
I incurred Twinkles’ wrath this morning and as a result I’m finding sitting something less than a comfortable experience on account of having a bruised backside. Twinks turned heavy-handed Dom, surely not? Let me explain.
We’d just finished breakfast and I was clearing the table and stacking all the things that needed to be washed by the side of the sink, including a Flora margarine tub whose contents we’d used up. Twinks was washing up. He’s a sight to behold on a summer’s morning, standing at the sink wearing nothing but his pink mules and a pair of pink rubber washing up gloves, shaking his thing to whatever music is playing on the CD player. He washed up the plates and mugs, but dropped the empty margarine tub into the kitchen bin. I immediately remonstrated with him and fished it back out, dropping it into the washing up water to be washed, saying it might come in useful. In doing so I touched a nerve that had obviously been growing in sensitivity for some time.
He glared at me. ‘Useful is it, exactly how useful?’ Before I could make reply he trip-trapped across the kitchen and flung open one of the cupboard doors. With one pink rubber clad hand clamped firmly to a hip and the other flung out like a game show glamour girl indicating a prize, he said waspishly, ‘you mean useful like these? So useful in fact they have never been used and have been taking up a growing amount of shelf space for years?’ I was forced to admit there were rather a lot of them. I hadn’t realised quite how many. I got the Twinkles’ glare again followed by a tirade about having to have an extension built just to house my collection of questionably useful empty margarine tubs.
I admitted, testily, that okay perhaps there was no need to save the margarine tub we’d emptied at breakfast and dropped it back into the waste bin. Did this appease my cross little glamour puss? Did it heck. He was in full flow and it would take a muzzle to silence him. What was it about empty margarine tubs anyway? It amounted to a fetish. Was I secretly planning on constructing a life size model of Buckingham Palace from them when I’d collected enough? I (it was claimed) complained enough about his bad habits. Well this was one of my habits that drove him right up the wall. He wasn’t putting up with it any longer, was that absolutely clear? I nodded and humbly promised not to save any more empty margarine tubs. It wasn’t enough. He wanted the ones in the cupboard throwing out, now, that very moment.
I was aghast. They represented years of prudent washing and saving. He was adamant. They had to go. He hated to disillusion me but they had never been useful, they never would be useful. I had to face that fact and let them go with dignity. By way of softening the blow he said I could keep four, just on the off chance they might come in useful. I begged for six, a neat half dozen, but he stood firm. The choice was four or none at all.
To be truthful I have no idea how or why I developed a compulsion to save empty margarine tubs. It must be some genetic kink stemming from my more frugal Scottish ancestry. Getting rid of them turned out to be really rather liberating. It was like casting off a shackle.
Power was very obviously an aphrodisiac for Twinks. After I’d obediently cleared the cupboard of all but four of the tubs, he displayed himself against the kitchen table and requested that I worship his totem for a change and do a bit of bottoming. He looked so wonderfully wanton, sporting nothing but an erection and a pair of pink rubber gloves that my passions were at once inflamed and I hastened to comply with his orders. He lay on his back on the kitchen table and I lubed all appropriate parts and squatted astride him, impaling myself on his totem as it were.
In the heat and height of passion he gripped my rear with his hands in order to aid my movements and keep his cock buried more deeply inside me. I used my own hands, or one of them, to aid and abet my own pleasure. Once the fireworks had stopped exploding I smiled happily into his flushed face and he smiled happily back. Then his smile froze slightly and a puzzled look came over his face, as he tried to take his hands away from my buttocks and found he couldn’t. The rubber gloves had become sticky with our combined body heat and had bonded to my skin. In effect we were well and truly glued together.
Panic set in. Twinkles was terrified to tug too hard in case he pulled away a layer of my skin along with the gloves. He had terrible visions of the police breaking in because no one had seen us for days and discovering us bonded together by a pair of rubber gloves. The story would make The News of the World and be promoted as some weird gay BDSM ritual that had gone wrong. We’d never be able to show our faces in public again. I was edging towards panic myself. Apart from anything else my knees and shins were aching from their contact with the hard tabletop. I was longing to stand up and stretch my legs. I told him to stay calm, take deep breaths and try to manoeuvre his hands out of the gloves. Thankfully he managed to do so and we successfully uncoupled.
It was with some dismay that I twisted around to inspect the situation. I did not fancy trundling down to the hospital casualty department with a pair of pink rubber gloves adhered firmly to my bottom. It would cause uproar, but nor did I fancy spending the rest of my life trailing around with a pair of rubber hands lewdly groping my arse. Twinkles suggested I try a warm bath with plenty of bath oil to see if it would help soak them off. Thank goodness it did the trick. The oil softened the rubber and I was able to carefully peel the gloves away from my tender skin without too much trouble. They left a couple of friction bruises, but no skin loss. My relief was profound.
Twinkles hugged me and I noted with concern that he was shaking…with laughter as it turned out, the little toad. His eyes sparkling with amusement he said that he’d always known we were stuck on each other, but that was ridiculous. We both ended up indulging in a fit of the giggles, then we got dressed and had coffee and biscuits. He sat on my lap as we drank our coffee and chatted. The sun streamed through the window casting sparkles of light around the kitchen. I was happy, he was happy. Life was good. It suddenly struck me that I was in the midst of an indelible memory moment. At some point in the future I knew I would remember this morning’s events with clarity, perhaps just after he died, or just before I died. I didn’t want to think about it too closely, as it would turn joy to sadness. Instead I wrapped my arms around his waist and told him how much I loved him.
I suppose the moral to this tale is twofold, first…never have frenetic sex with someone wearing rubber gloves, and second…always tell the one you love how much you love them while you are yet able to hold and kiss them.
We’re both on holiday from work this week. I’m not sure what we’re going to do with it yet, apart from laze around and have sex while not wearing any kind of rubber garments. We had been toying with going on one of those last minute bargain holiday breaks to Italy or Greece, but that’s no longer an option, not since my doctor advised against going abroad this year. We’ll probably just head out for day trips or overnight stays somewhere.
D/s Romance…M/M stories with a discipline theme