The Night I Asked Him to Wrap Me in Plastic Wrap

Mateo and I had known each other since college, although in recent years our friendship had dwindled to sporadic dinners and voice messages we answered whenever we could. That night I had come to his apartment without any particular plan: a bottle of Malbec, leftovers from something he had cooked, the television off because neither of us turns it on when there’s real conversation.

It was after the second glass that the subject changed direction.

—Have you ever heard of the packaging fetish? —he asked, with the same casualness he might have used to ask whether I liked cheese.

—No —I said—. Explain it to me.

And he did.

Mateo had a very specific way of describing things: without beating around the bush, in detail, as if he were giving technical instructions. While he talked, I nodded and drank wine and crossed and uncrossed my legs beneath the table, because my pussy was already throbbing without permission.

What he described was simple in concept and complex in practice. Transparent industrial plastic wrap, the kind moving companies use. The idea was to wrap the other person completely: starting at the feet, going up layer after layer to the shoulders, then the head, leaving only the nose free and a space to breathe through the mouth. The result was total immobilization without restraints, without anything rigid or sharp, just layers of plastic that turned the body into something static and completely available.

—And what happens afterward? —I asked.

—Then you cut holes —he replied—. Only where they’re needed. One for each tit, one for the mouth if I feel like having it sucked, and another in back so I can fuck without the other person being able to move a muscle.

I drained what was left in my glass in one swallow.

—I’m going to the bathroom for a second —I said.

Inside, with the lock turned and the faucet running to cover the sounds, I leaned against the cold tiles, hiked up my skirt, and slipped my right hand between my thighs. My panties were soaked, heavy with wetness, and when I pulled them aside my fingers sank without resistance into a swollen, slippery pussy. It wasn’t something considered or elegant: it was a concrete need that wouldn’t tolerate postponement. The image was clear and sharp in my head: me, immobilized, wrapped in transparent plastic wrap, heat building beneath the layers of plastic, my arms pressed against my body, my tits poking through two precise holes, and Mateo deciding where to put his cock.

I rubbed my clitoris with two fingers in quick circles while my other hand squeezed one nipple over my bra. I bit my lip to keep from moaning. I came in less than a minute, silently, my knees trembling and a little stream of fluid running down the inside of my thigh. I cleaned myself with toilet paper, took three deep breaths, and straightened my clothes.

I washed my hands, composed myself in front of the mirror, and returned to the living room with an expression that said I had gone to the bathroom and nothing more. Mateo was still where I had left him, with his glass and his calm expression. We talked for a while longer about other things. When he left, after midnight, I went to bed.

And I thought about it again. I masturbated twice more before falling asleep, my face buried in the pillow and three fingers buried to the knuckles.

***

The next day, at noon, I texted him. I spent a good while staring at the keyboard before sending it, but I did: «I want to try what you told me about last night.»

The typing dots appeared almost immediately. He answered with a single word: «When?» I told him that night. He said he’d be ready at nine.

I put my phone away and spent the rest of the afternoon thinking about what to wear, which was rather absurd given the obvious fate of my clothes. But it still mattered to me. I took out and put away three options before deciding. I ended up in an ivory lace lingerie set I hadn’t worn in a long time, with a long, lightweight leather jacket over it that reached my thighs. That was all. No pants, no skirt, just the jacket over the lingerie, which struck me as the perfect balance between elegant and direct.

I arrived at nine twenty. Mateo opened the door and looked me up and down with a smile that said nothing explicit but implied everything.

—I thought you’d come in something more comfortable —he said.

—I’m not that practical —I replied.

He stepped inside to close the door, and in that exact second I undid the jacket’s belt and let it fall to the floor. When he turned around, his eyes took a moment to process what they were seeing.

—This is better —he said, his voice slightly different from usual.

He came closer. He took me by the waist and kissed me without hesitation, with the certainty of someone who had a clear plan. His thick, insistent tongue entered my mouth, and I sucked it as if it were something else. His hands traveled over what little clothing remained with an efficiency that made me let out a nervous laugh: he unfastened my bra in one movement, pulled my panties down my thighs with his thumbs, and left them around my ankles. In a moment there was nothing left between his gaze and me.

He crouched right there in the entryway, opened my thighs with his hands, and plunged his tongue into my pussy at once. He licked me from bottom to top, his whole tongue flat, sucking my lips, sinking between them and returning to my clitoris with the tip. I grabbed his head with both hands and pressed his face against my crotch. I was so wet from thinking about it all afternoon that I could hear the sloshing when he moved his tongue inside me. He stayed there on his knees for two or three minutes, eating me without giving me a moment’s respite, until he stood up with his chin shining with my juices.

—Do you have the plastic wrap? —I asked, my voice hoarse.

—I bought it this morning. I went out specifically for it —he said.

I liked that more than I expected: that he had gotten up early to look for it because I had said yes.

He found the roll in the hallway closet and came back with a large, heavy one, the industrial kind. He asked me to stand in the center of the living room. He started at my ankles.

The first contact with the plastic wrap was strange: cold, smooth, with a slight cling that wasn’t unpleasant, simply new. Mateo rolled it around me with slow, methodical movements, layer after layer, without any hurry. First my ankles, then my calves, my knees. As he moved upward, I lost mobility below and, in compensation, the uncovered skin became more sensitive, more aware of every current of air in the apartment.

—Are you all right? —he asked when he reached my thighs.

—Yes —I replied. And it was true, although my heart had been beating faster than usual for quite some time and my pussy was openly dripping down the inside of my thigh, right where the plastic wrap had not yet reached.

He noticed. He ran a finger through the trail, brought it to his mouth without saying anything, and continued wrapping. He went on. My hips, abdomen, waist. He circled each area several times before moving on to the next. When he reached my breasts, he left them uncovered for the moment and continued with my arms, pressing them carefully against my body, then my shoulders and neck. The temperature beneath the layers was beginning to rise noticeably.

Before covering my breasts, he took one in each hand, kneaded them, pinched my nipples until they were hard as stones, and only then began winding the plastic wrap over them, sealing them tightly against the layers of plastic.

My head was last. He warned me before each step. He covered my hair, cheeks, and forehead. He left my nose free and a space at the level of my lips to breathe.

I was completely wrapped.

***

There are things you can’t anticipate with your imagination, no matter how vivid it is.

The immobilization wasn’t exactly what I had imagined. There was no panic or anguish like the vague feeling I had imagined I might experience. It was something more like forced concentration: unable to move, unable to do anything with my hands, unable to adjust my position, my attention turned completely inward. The even pressure of the plastic wrap across all my skin at once. The heat building with nowhere to escape. The texture of the layers against my abdomen and thighs. And at the center of it all, my pussy throbbing inside the plastic sheath, swollen, wet, unable to open or close, waiting.

The apartment was deliberately warm. I realized it too late, when sweat had already begun forming beneath the plastic with nowhere to go.

Mateo lifted me into his arms and carried me to the dining table, which he had cleared and covered with a towel. He laid me carefully on my back.

—Now hold still —he said—. This part requires a steady hand.

He took out a small pair of sewing scissors and worked with concentration. The first cut was at the level of my left breast: two small circular holes that let my nipples out into the cool air of the apartment. The contrast was immediate and intense; my nipples grew rock-hard as soon as they touched the air. He licked them, one and then the other, slowly, without hurry, as if he had all the time in the world. He sucked them hard, pulling with his lips until the skin stretched through the opening, biting them with his teeth and releasing them to suck them again. I moaned beneath the plastic wrap, the sound muffled, hoarse, almost animal.

He lowered the scissors to the level of my pubic bone. I heard the snip and felt cold air rush in. He had cut a perfect rectangle that left my entire pussy exposed, my lips already swollen and parted by the pressure of the layers around them. He bent over the table and put his tongue inside me without preamble. He licked my clitoris with the tip, in precise circles, while two fingers slid in and out of me at a steady rhythm. I couldn’t close my legs, couldn’t arch my back, couldn’t do anything but lie there and receive. I came quickly and hard, feeling the orgasm clench my fingers inside me while I couldn’t move a single muscle on the outside.

He turned me onto my stomach afterward. The surface of the table against my nipples was a constant, diffuse pressure that kept me in a state of perpetual awareness throughout everything that followed.

I heard the scissors again. A single, small, precise cut in the center of my buttocks, right between my pussy and my ass, aligned with the entrance to both holes.

He picked me up and carried me to the sofa. He left me face down, my hips at the edge and my legs dangling, wrapped down to the ankles.

I heard his belt, the zipper, his clothes falling to the floor. Then came the wet smack of saliva on his palm and the unmistakable sound of a hand jerking off over a hard cock.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t change position, adjust the angle, or do anything but lie there and react. He started with his hands, putting two fingers in my pussy and his thumb in my ass, taking as much time as he wanted, exploring without hurry. He opened both holes at once, stretched them, played with them, made me moan against the leather of the sofa.

—Let’s see which way I go in first —he said, and I felt the tip of his cock press against the entrance to my pussy, slide through my wetness, rise to my ass, and descend again.

He shoved it into my pussy in a single thrust, all the way to the bottom, and tore a muffled cry from me through the plastic wrap. It was thick, thicker than I had imagined, and the angle at which it entered from behind drove it straight against a spot that made me see stars. He began fucking me slowly, pulling almost all the way out and then pushing all the way back in, his hands squeezing my hips through the plastic. The sound of his thighs striking the plastic wrap against mine was a dry, repeated, obscene slapping.

—You’re so tight —he murmured—. With the plastic squeezing your whole body, your pussy’s like a fist.

He sped up. His thrusts grew shorter and harder, and I felt every inch enter without being able to adjust myself, without being able to relax, my entire body turned into a single point of reception. When he entered me from behind, my body had already spent a long time in that state of accumulated heat and tension with nowhere to escape, which made it direct and immediate: he pulled his cock out of my pussy, dripping with my juices, spat into his hand, spread it over himself, and began easing it into my ass. There was no adaptation and no long pause, only the unfiltered sensation of every millimeter forcing its way inside, intensified by my total immobility.

—Breathe —he said, and kept pushing until he had all of it inside me.

He stayed still for a moment, his cock lodged to the base in my ass, and ran two fingers over my empty pussy. He filled both holes at once and began to move. I howled against the plastic wrap. There was no way to process it: my ass stretched around his cock, my pussy filled with his fingers, my nipples scraping against the leather, the plastic squeezing every inch of me that wasn’t being fucked.

The first orgasm arrived before I could anticipate it and shook me without allowing me to shake, contained inside the plastic sheath like a discharge with nowhere to go. The second was longer and deeper, with him pumping my ass without stopping and his fingers twisting inside my pussy in search of just the right spot. The third made me scream without caring in the slightest about the volume, while he pulled his fingers out, grabbed both my hips, and increased his pace until I felt him tense, bury himself to the hilt one last time, and come inside me with a long groan. I felt the hot spurts filling my ass, some escaping around his cock when he pulled it out, running down through the cut in the plastic wrap to my wrapped thighs.

When he finished, he left me lying on the sofa and went to get water. I looked sideways at the ceiling, semen still trickling between my wrapped buttocks, unable to reconstruct exactly how much time had passed, with no desire to move even though I could.

***

He came back, sat beside me, and began cutting the plastic wrap from my feet, strip by strip, with the same sewing scissors. The skin, once exposed, was reddened and damp with sweat and semen. He wrapped me in a large blanket while I regained the use of my legs and my sense of time.

We were in that silence that exists between people who no longer need to fill the space with words when his phone vibrated on the end table. He looked at it. I saw the subtle change in his expression.

—It’s Romina —he said—. She says she’s already coming up.

Two seconds of absolute silence.

—Shit —he added, with the same calmness with which he had said everything else that night.

He looked at me. I looked at him. I had no clothes on, my hair was damp, my skin was marked with the pattern of the plastic-wrap layers, and my legs were still sticky with my orgasm.

—The back room —he said—. Just for a moment, I swear.

He carried me because my legs still weren’t fully operational, took me down the hall to a small room filled with boxes and tools, left me on an upholstered chair, tucked me in with the blanket, and closed the door very carefully.

From inside, I heard the intercom. The front door opening. Footsteps on the parquet floor. A woman’s voice asking why it was so hot in there.

—I was cold —Mateo replied.

I smiled alone in the darkness of the tool room, wrapped in the blanket, my body still trembling slightly and semen trickling between my thighs.

To be continued.