My Story AI modified

[Jennifer987]

My Story, AI modified

I originally wrote “My Story” several years ago and posted it here.
Back in our university days, weekends were our sacred time—an escape from lectures and library halls, when Edith, my dearest friend, and I would throw ourselves into laughter, music, and the warm chaos of parties with our close-knit group of friends. One weekend, we planned something special: a themed party with a 'swinging sixties' vibe, hosted at a friend’s countryside home while her parents were away.

Edith and I spent the afternoon hunting for vintage treasures. I found an orange and yellow zigzag dress with a calf-length hem, white leather boots, and a pillbox hat that made me feel like I’d stepped straight out of Carnaby Street. Edith, ever more daring, picked a glossy white A-line dress—plastic or PVC, we weren’t sure—which shimmered with every movement. Her boots matched the dress, and the contrast of her black handbag and quirky hat made her look stunningly chic. We completed our look with page-boy wigs that made us giggle with excitement as we admired our transformation in the mirror.

The party buzzed with energy—Beatles records spinning, the warmth of cheap wine, and that electric feeling of possibility that only youth and Saturday nights could bring. Two guys—new friends of friends—gravitated toward us. Mine had a sweet, crooked smile and an easy laugh, while Edith’s had eyes like stormy skies that watched her like she was the only girl in the world.

But the funny thing was… it felt like the boys might have mixed us up, or perhaps we had with them. I whispered to Edith in the midst of our laughter, and we snuck off together to the bathroom. A sparkle of mischief danced in her eyes as I suggested swapping outfits—just to see what would happen. She grinned, and within minutes we’d traded dresses, wigs, and identities. As I slid into her glossy white dress, I couldn’t help but enjoy how it hugged my body and made me feel—bold, radiant, and undeniably seen.

Back at the party, the boys didn’t seem to notice—or if they did, they played along. But something had shifted. “My” boy (formerly hers) now looked at me with new interest, and I caught Edith exchanging glances with hers. A quiet thrill ran through me, not just from the disguise, but from the strange new feeling of connection, of possibility.

We danced into the early hours, and ended up at Edith’s flat, collapsing side by side on her bed, too tired (and too tipsy) to change. I fell asleep wrapped in the scent and sensation of the dress, thinking about how the night had made me feel—not just beautiful, but alive in a way I hadn’t felt before.

Days passed, and though life returned to lectures and routines, my mind often drifted back to that night—the shimmering fabric, the flirtatious tension, and the way our little trick had led to something unexpected. It wasn’t just about the dress. It was about how it made me feel… and how he made me feel.

Weeks later, flipping through a fashion catalogue, I found myself drawn to a blue PVC raincoat—elegant and romantic in its shine. I ordered it on impulse. When it arrived, I slipped it on and was transported. Twirling before the mirror, I imagined meeting someone again—someone who would see me as that girl at the party: confident, mysterious, radiant.

It wasn’t long before I did.

We met in a quiet bookstore, reaching for the same old poetry anthology. Her fingers brushed mine, and our eyes locked. She was kind, gentle, with a soft voice that melted into me like warm rain. Our first date was under cloudy skies; I wore my raincoat. She said I looked like a movie star. I blushed.

Over time, she learned about my fondness for glossy fabrics and how they made me feel—powerful, feminine, desired. She didn’t laugh. In fact, she listened. She asked questions. She wanted to understand. Our connection deepened, and slowly, what began as a curious passion became a part of our love story.

One evening, as soft rain tapped the windows, I surprised her with a coat—custom-made, soft black latex, loose enough to wrap us both inside. She smiled, touched it with curiosity, then reached for me. We slipped into it together like a shared secret, her head resting against my chest, the world outside forgotten. In that embrace, warm and wrapped in one another, we discovered a new language of love—tactile, tender, and filled with trust.

It wasn’t just about texture anymore. It was about being seen, and held, and understood.

University weekends were sacred—chaotic little rituals of freedom, and no one made them feel more electric than Edith. My closest friend, partner-in-everything, and—though I hadn’t admitted it then—the one person who made my heart stutter in ways no boy ever had.

The sixties-themed party at a friend’s countryside house felt like a scene out of a dream. We wandered into a costume hire shop that afternoon, laughing our way through racks of psychedelic prints and vinyl. I ended up with a retro orange zig-zag dress and slightly scuffed white leather boots. But it was Edith who turned heads—her glossy white PVC A-line dress hugged her hips like a promise. She looked divine. Otherworldly. Dangerous.
And I wanted her. Not just to be her. I wanted to touch her, feel that shine under my fingers, wrap myself in her scent.

Later, buzzed from cheap wine and Beatles tracks, Edith and I realised the guys we’d each caught the attention of were looking a bit... cross-eyed. With a wink, I dragged her to the bathroom and proposed a switch—dresses, wigs, the whole lot. Her lips curled into that wicked grin I adored. “Let’s mess with them.”

What I didn’t say—what I couldn’t say—was that I wanted to wear her dress not just to fool some boys. I wanted it close to my skin. I wanted her close to my skin.

As I pulled on her white PVC dress, the sensation of it clinging to me, warming from my body heat, made my breath catch. The smell was faintly sweet, a little plastic, and deeply intoxicating. I ran my hands down the glossy surface, feeling arousal bloom in places I wasn’t ready to admit.

The boys didn’t notice—or pretended not to. But that night, under the pulse of retro lights, Edith kept looking at me with a softness that felt... different. Less playful. More curious. Like she could see something under the surface.

We stumbled back to her flat after sunrise, still dressed, still giddy. I collapsed on her bed, too tired to change. But I couldn't sleep. Not with the smooth tightness around my body, not with her lying inches from me, wrapped in the outfit I’d been fantasising about since the moment she chose it.

I woke with the sun warming the room and her breath soft beside me. The PVC still clung to my body. My hand slid slowly across it, feeling the ripples and creases, and I couldn’t stop. I was aching—wanting. But this time, I didn’t want to be alone in it.

“Edith...” I whispered.
She stirred, then turned to face me. Bleary-eyed, she smiled. “Mmm?”
“Can I tell you something... strange?”
She reached for my hand, fingers tracing the slick fabric between us. “You mean like the fact I’ve been dying to kiss you since we swapped outfits?”
And just like that, we weren’t pretending anymore.
After that first kiss—slow, soft, and tasting of morning breath and secrets—we were different.

The weeks that followed were full of stolen moments. Beneath the surface of lectures and library visits, we were exploring something private, something sacred. I confessed my fascination with glossy materials one rainy afternoon, half-expecting her to laugh. But she didn’t.
Instead, she leaned in and whispered, “Show me.” So I did.

The blue PVC raincoat I had ordered on a whim became the first thing I wore for her. I stood in the centre of my room, the coat belted tightly around my waist, the hood drawn up like a lover's touch. She watched me, eyes burning, then crossed the room to run her fingers slowly down the slick surface.

“It suits you,” she breathed. “You’re like a goddess wrapped in rain.”
From then on, we spiralled—beautifully—into obsession.
Edith arrived one night with a surprise: a pair of long black latex opera gloves and a matching pencil skirt. “I found a site,” she said, eyes gleaming. “I thought of you.”

But I wanted to see her in it.

The skirt clung to her like it was made for her, forcing her hips to sway, her steps to slow. I pulled the gloves over her arms, watching the latex stretch and shine under the light. The transformation was intoxicating—both of us breathless before we’d even touched.

She slid a matching latex top over her body—tight, sleeveless, with a high collar that zipped all the way to her throat. I pulled the zipper up slowly, kissing the exposed skin as it vanished beneath the gleaming fabric. “Lie down,” I whispered.

She obeyed, sinking onto the bed, her body a canvas of slick black curves. I climbed over her, still in my raincoat, the PVC crinkling softly as I moved. Our latex kissed before we did, and the sound—soft, sticky, sinuous—was a soundtrack to everything we were becoming.

We explored together, week after week. Edith surprised me with a cherry-red catsuit once, skin-tight and sinfully shiny. I helped her ease into it inch by inch, smoothing every wrinkle, every line, my hands slow and reverent. We took our time buffing it to a mirror finish, laughing and moaning through the process.

I bought a translucent smoky-grey latex blouse with puffed sleeves and tiny buttons. The way it clung to my breasts, revealing and concealing all at once, drove her wild. She made me wear it with nothing underneath, the cool latex brushing against bare nipples as she watched, eyes full of hunger.

And then came our coat.
It was custom-made, a lovechild of fantasy and function—a full-length black latex cocoon with dual zippers, long enough to engulf us both. It had sleeves for two, a shared hood, and space within for closeness that defied gravity. When we slid into it together, chest-to-chest, legs intertwined, the world melted away. We became a single, glistening entity—bodies pulsing in sync, the slick warmth between us more sacred than sex alone.

Inside that coat, we whispered everything. Secrets. Dreams. Desires. Love.

We explored more together—latex stockings that rolled up our thighs like warm kisses, hooded bodysuits with eye holes and nothing else, corsets that turned breath into a shared rhythm. And yet, through it all, the softest moments stayed with me most: her brushing my hair while I shined her skirt, or how she'd giggle when I wriggled into a too-tight catsuit and needed help pulling it up.

This wasn’t just about clothing. It was about trust. About letting someone see every inch of who you are—wrapped, polished, and raw.