PROLOGUE

 

Dr. Paul Lazenby, the Staff Resident at St. Peter's, gave a sigh of relief as the daily meeting broke up and the doctors, interns and head nurses started to file out of his big office. It had been a long session, nearly an hour and his nagging headache, a reminder of his wife's birthday party the previous evening, still lingered. He called back his principal assistant, Dr. Ray Thompson.

"Ray, can you spare a moment?"

The young doctor consulted his wristwatch and shrugged. "For you, Great White Chief, anything! But will you give me a written 'Excuse-me' note to show my patients?" He flopped down into a chair and regarded his superior, who offered him a cigarette. They lit up and Lazenby thankfully put up his feet on his desk.

"Our mysterious patient in Kleiner's Ward. Nothing further on him?"

""Not a thing. He's been here two weeks and never said a word. D'you think we should call in the fuzz?"

Lazenby shrugged, annoyed at his own indecision. "We'll have to eventually. But I'm convinced he's not suffering from amnesia. He just doesn't, for some reason, want to communicate."

"I don't wonder!" Ray smiled at the memory. "He has a steel ring welded round his balls which we can't get off - maybe a blacksmith could - he arrives in Emergency with acute pneumonia, carried in by some chauffeur, according to the vague description of the harassed nurse on the desk, who promptly disappears. He's wearing a rubber suit, Wellingtons-"

"Rubber thigh boots," Lazenby interjected.

"- and a long black mackintosh. I still maintain he was a fisherman who caught a chill."

Dr. Paul Lazenby started to laugh; then his hangover changed it to a wan smile. "When you've been here as long as I have, you'll know he was no fisherman. The paleness of his skin, the texture of the cheeks of his bottom, the two 'Esses', the size of his anal passage. And the steel ring and that penis sheath! He, my dear Ray, is somebody's dedicated slave!"

Ray looked confused, mashing out his half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray. "Of course I know about all that, Paul, but slavery today is only an excuse to play sex-games! Even my girlfriend likes me to tie her to the bed before we go at it sometimes. But there's nothing serious about it, surely!"

Lazenby lowered his feet to the floor. "Even Freud never quite understood the basic needs of a true masochist. Neither do we, yet. But, thank God, it's no longer a social disease. Anyway, I've asked Fred Ponders to see him this afternoon."

Ray Thompson looked up, impressed. "Ponders? He's one of the top shrinks! You think he'll be able to help?"

Lazenby looked amused. "Possibly. But perhaps our Mystery Man doesn't want any help!"

 

*************

 

In each one of us there is an urge, an alter-ego, anxious to escape; in certain cases, sometimes escape is unnecessary as that ego can over-take the body and mind to create a happy unison with the existing soul.

Lucky is he who can discover such a perfect combination. Andre de Volle, 1892

 

"... that thou can'st find such fabrique, to slither across the bodie of ecstatic Plaesure ......." A Pilgrim in Chaucer's era, circa 1274.

 

"I don't need excuses, Man, it just turns me on! When I'm in that tight rubber suit, the audience is great, the sun shines, and all's well with the world ..." A Famous Rock star, 1978

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

The rain came slashing down from the roiling sky which hung low and threatening over central London, a typical late November day when sunshine was a distant memory and suntans turning a sickly yellow. The traffic along Knightsbridge crawled even more slowly than usual, windscreen wipers churning busily as impatient drivers cursed impotently. The splendidly-uniformed Head Porter at Harrods was doing a busy trade with his large umbrella, assisting customers out of taxis and protecting those waiting patiently in the foyer to be signalled forward.

After the hissing wetness outside, the brightly-lit windows of the big store beckoned shoppers to come out of the rain and spend their money. Several of the windows were being dressed for Christmas, tightly-panted young women expertly laying out the clothes and decorations from designs approved weeks before in the large Executive offices above.

The young man called Peter moved aimlessly through the huge Food Hall and towards the tobacco department, resenting the bright lights and warmth and eager chatter of shoppers. Soon it would be the festive season and his bank balance was dangerously low. As a freelance journalist, it had been a bad year and the novel which he spent six months writing, almost out of boredom, had been turned down by two publishers. His spirits were low, but there was something else troubling his mind.

His affair with Nancy had broken up and since she had walked out three weeks previously, his tiny flat at the wrong end of Fulham Road had seemed bare and unfriendly. It had been his fault that she had left and not for the first time had he cursed the strange sexual impulses with which he had grown up. He was twenty-nine years old, of medium height and very slim. At school he had been skinny, although remarkably strong for his size. He had a firm mouth and an attractive smile, but he was basically a shy man and made few friends. He disliked sports and adored music, Mozart and Chopin being his favourite composers. But he was no homosexual and often in the dark shade of a sleepless night he would yearn to find the girl who finally would make him happy.

He had spent an hour in the music department, listening to his beloved composers until one of the girl assistants had politely but pointedly asked if he intended to buy any records. Now he was putting off time, dreading the return to his dingy apartment which these days seemed perpetually damp and depressing.

He came through the side door of the store and paused as he saw the teeming rain. He was glad he had brought his raincoat, which he had been carrying over his arm. He struggled into it, delighting in the feel of the heavy black rubber as he buttoned it tightly up to the neck, then belted it round his thin waist.

He seldom wore it outside unless the weather was really foul. It was part of his shyness, afraid people would look at him and think he was 'kinky'; which of course I am, he thought wryly. Beautiful, wonderful rubber; he was turned on by the feel of it, the smell, the rustle. He dreamed of a land where it rained perpetually and the King had ordained that the populace must wear only rubber and latex and vinyl and must be permanently masked and booted. He thought of this dream now and felt mildly ashamed, although in this weather it was much more practical than the drab gaberdine raincoats which hurried past him, or the dangerous spiky umbrellas which jousted with one another along the streaming pavements. Very occasionally he would see a smart young girl in a rubber or vinyl mackintosh, but usually she was in a hurry or with some tall possessive male who would whisk her away from him.

Peter had been brought up with a good education at a public school. His parents had been killed several years previously in a head-on car crash returning from a weekend in the Cotswolds. They had enjoyed life and lived well but left little money, his father's pension as a retired Colonel ceasing at the moment of impact. Peter was an only child and had been close to his parents; the shock of their unexpected death had upset him for months and caused him to lose his job at the Midland Bank.

He had rented an apartment in Chelsea and had turned to writing, which he had always enjoyed. For a while he had written well, selling several short stories and some articles on fashion (mainly rainwear), to the glossy magazines. The previous year he had hit a bad patch and been forced to give up his Chelsea flat and move into a much smaller and cheaper one in Fulham.

He stood under the protective awning, the long rubber coat now faintly wet from gusts of rain and wind which teased him as he decided whether to go home or have a soggy hamburger at the nearby Wimpy bar.

He noticed the Rolls Royce parked in front of him, one of a long line of expensive cars, mostly chauffeur-driven, awaiting their owners' pleasure. Now his interest quickened as the chauffeur opened his door and stepped out.

The man was dressed in regulation uniform, but it was made of heavy brown rubber. Peter took a step forward to make sure he was not imagining it, but he could see the uniform begin to gleam wetly in the rain. He shrugged; wishing it had been a woman chauffeur, now that would have been interesting! He turned back into the shelter of the awning and bumped into a figure hurrying out of the door. Instinctively he reached out to steady the woman and found himself grasping the shoulders of a long silver mackintosh cape, silk on the outside but he sensed it was lined in rubber. He looked into a pair of deep blue eyes, a wide generous mouth belonging to an angelic face. The face was surrounded by a sou'wester of the same material of the cape. He blushed as he realised he was still holding her.

"I'm so sorry. Entirely my fault!" Reluctantly he dropped his hands. She regarded him quizzically.

"Not at all, I was rushing." He stood there, feeling foolish, desperately trying-to think of some way to delay this beauty. He noticed she had on black boots with high slim heels. He felt sick inside.

"May I apologise by buying a coffee? In Harrods?" It sounded so corny he cringed, at the same time wondering if he had enough money on him; he imagined coffee at Harrods could be expensive.

She laughed, showing even white teeth which had never known the trials of a dentist's drill, noting the long black mackintosh and liking his shy smile.

"Thanks, no. I need a drink. Why not come up to my apartment and join me? It's very close!"

He wondered if he was having hallucinations, or if his mind had finally turned. Beautiful women in rubber capes did not invite strangers up to their flat. He heard himself graciously accepting. She walked past him across the pavement and into the big Rolls, the rear door of which was being held open by the chauffeur in brown rubber.

He climbed in beside her, acutely aware of the crackling noise of his heavy mackintosh. Her cape, fastened only at the high collar, fell aside and he saw she was wearing a long tight skirt of black leather. She stretched out her booted feet in relaxed comfort.

"Have you a cigarette? I left my case in the flat and I've been dying for one. I suppose I could have bought some in Harrods."

"I'm sorry, I don't smoke," he said, embarrassed. "I gave it up as I preferred to spend the money on Scotch."

It was partly true, but he wanted there to be no misunderstanding in case she was a very expensive call-girl. It was the only explanation of which he could think at the moment.

She leaned over and felt the sleeve of his black coat. "What a pleasant and practical mackintosh! In this heavy rain it keeps you well protected, not like some of these so-called raincoats which are not even shower-proof. Ah! Here we are."

The Rolls had pulled up in front of a smart block of modern apartments. The chauffeur opened the door and took the shopping bag from the woman. "Take the car down to the garage, Sims, when we come out we may want to use the basement exit."