Weekend Dive

By Jim Ricz

Jim has been working on-site for a client all week. As the weekend approaches he hooks up with Jake, an online acquaintance with whom he has shared some of his deepest sexual fantasies involving 'more industrial' forms of rubber. What happens over the weekend will change both men, in ways neither of them expected.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Ricz
• Release date: May 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311616876

Jim Ricz

Jim Ricz is a proudly gay man who haunts London and the internet. He started writing erotic (strictly age 18+) novels in 2016. Much of the material included in his books comes direct and unsanitized from his imagination, though some of the anecdotes included in the stories may well be true.

Book preview

Weekend Dive

A Jim Ricz story

Published by Jim Ricz at Smashwords

Copyright 2016 Jim Ricz

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

1. The Great White Suit

2. The Siebe Gorman Helmet

3. Granddad's Old Suit

4. Dressing-in

5. Desco Boots

6. Learning to Walk

7. Full Jock

8. 'Button me up!'

9. Getting Wet

10. Buoyancy Control

11. Coming Up for Air

12. New Boots

13. Sleeping Arrangements

14. Morning Guests

15. Going Down

16. Hard Labour

Epilogue

About Jim Ricz

The Great White Suit

The 'suit' is big, and white – an all-in-one giant-sized romper with long legs ending in foot mittens; the black of the thick rubberized soles point upwards towards me as I stare at it laid flat on the floor.

Further away are the arms, each angled carelessly across their seams. Their long cuffs are also black, and taper almost to a point. A third shine of black semi-circles the neck, but I barely notice it, or the blue cloth that pokes from inside it.

Do you wanna spend some time in it?

I don't bother looking at the man standing close behind me. Instead I let my eyes roam across the expanse of black-tipped whiteness on the floor. Do I want to put it on?

My cock says: yes! Images of deep sea divers in their rubber-canvas prisons, weighted and booted to barely imagined extremes, have given me much pleasure over the years.

But this suit is no five-minute fantasy, to be washed away alongside the spunk creamed across my knuckles. It lies there ahead of me, huge and flat – more threat than promise.

It's a lot of effort, I say. Takes a long time to put it all together, and just as long to get it off again.

His arms are sinuous: I can feel their strength as he wraps them around my hips and draws me back against his groin.

True, he agrees. Much of the fun is in the dressing.

Is that enough for you?

Nah. He takes a moment to squeeze my waist – too fat – and reach a hand down to cup my suddenly-shy tackle. I'll get my pleasures when you're securely locked inside …

How long? I interrupt. An hour? Two?

Possibly. We'll see how it goes. I can feel the bristles of his lip against my ear. I know you enjoy masks, and hoods. You don't scare easily in enclosed spaces.

I nod an agreement. Still I stare at the suit. Now that I look closer, I can see its whiteness is deceptive: dirt streaks mark the fabric, particularly at the knees, and the padded crotch.

I'll not be the first one to wear it.

I feel his boot knock against mine; without thought I stand at ease, let him push his knee between my legs. His grasp tightens as his other hand pushes under the cloth of my t-shirt and reaches up towards my chest.

Nobody's died in it. I know what I'm doing. I wince as he tweaks my cold-hardened nipple between rough fingers. There's plenty of pleasure to be had from sweat, and some pain, and an ache for air. Plenty enough for the both of us.

It takes an effort to tear my eyes away from the suit that beckons my guts to clamber inside it, to feel its pull across my skin as it engulfs me within its dirty whiteness.

The room we stand in is stark, no more than bricks and timbers holding up a tin roof. Some bare fluorescent strips illuminate the uncluttered space. The door we entered through has been locked against the chill evening air. Two spaces for windows are planked over, laminate boards pinned to the frames by large nails. Even with my heavy Timberland boots on, I can tell the concrete floor is cold and unsmoothed.

I haven't dressed for the occasion. Jake – the man whose hands now hold and tweak my body – had suggested loose clothing, hence my choice of grey sweats and hoodie and T. Almost a navvy's look, without the hi-viz vest and dirty work.

We had met online. Now I'm older, I don't care for bars and blokes who dismiss me with one contemptuous glance at my hard-earned laughter lines and missing waist. Mostly I hover on the edge of chat-rooms and forums, eager to look at the proffered pictures and videos, happy to fantasize, then click away when the man's online status blinks to green.

Jake contacted me. Said he liked what he saw from the few selfies I had shared, and the brief list of interests I included on my profile. He lived a fair distance from me, so was safe to engage in chit-chat – a slowly conducted investigation of each other's likes and desires. His profile disclosed a man not shamed by his age, taller and fitter than me, sure in his self-knowledge and dismissive of power-plays. 50-50, just like me. No time-wasters.

Like me, he smokes. I reach into my hoodie pocket and pull out a pack of JPS Blue – not many people's favourite – flip open the lid and shake a ciggie clear of the others. When I offer it across my shoulder his face reaches past mine to grab it between his lips. I take a second, then swap the pack for a lighter and flame them both.

Where's the rest of it?

Downstairs, he says, moving his hand away from my loose bollocks to lift the ciggie clear as he speaks. He heels at the floor, which offers a dull echo of a thud beneath us. In my initial awe of the suit, I hadn't realised that we had come to a halt on wooden planks set into the concrete: a trapdoor.

I assume he has some sort of dungeon dug beneath the outhouse. It makes sense to me to keep things hidden – an authentic diver's helmet alone can fetch over eight grand.

It had taken Jake a while to ferret my closest-held fetish from me. Mostly we had chatted about skinheads and rubber. I had mentioned a preference for more 'industrial' rubber – tight and shiny is good for a few hours fun, but the thought of getting into gear built for real work held me harder for longer. Jake had agreed with me, and mentioned his granddad had been a diver. We discussed YouTube videos of heritage weekends and US Army instructionals, during which I had smeared my keyboard with jism quite vigorously.

We draw on our ciggies together. There's no pressure, lad. I can play with the gear anytime, so it won't bother me if you wanna go back to the farmhouse – or even your hotel. That bondage hood you've got tucked in your pocket looks very tempting …

You brought the beers here? He nods. We both understand I have a few more minutes to decide.

The suit is huge, and white, and fucking magnificent. As Jake releases me to seek out our tins I step towards it, eager for a closer look. But not too close: my smoke is building a rocket at its tip as I draw in several lungfuls of nicotine; to risk putting a burn in the cloth would be … sacrilege!

It takes me half a dozen quick strides to move past the suit, up to the far wall. Each step gives me a new view of my fantasy-made-real. As I crouch by its shoulders I quickly check out its heavy rubber collar: I can count more than half a dozen large holes drilled through the thick material.

It's not navy pattern, I state. American?

Yeah. It's a Mark V suit. Jake is standing over me. He lowers a full beer and taps it on my shoulder. Without thought I reach and grasp, tab it open and take a long gulp on the cold lager. You seemed more interested in that, last time we chatted.

I can only nod. To be honest the thought of being strapped tight into any commercial dive gear would set me begging, but the US Navy Mark V has been my favourite fantasy for a long time. Less rope and knots; more strap and buckle: a suit designed to be 'sailor-safe' that just looks – fantastic!

Touch it, he says, flicking his ciggie butt into the far corner of the room.

I need to feel this paradise prison. I take a final drag and copy his action. Another long draw on the beer leaves the can half-empty; I hold it up for Jake to take to hold. Instead, he leans down and pulls my chin up. The kiss we share is slow, and full.

Touch it!

With both hands free, I lean onto my knees and reach out to the suit and stroke the seams on both shoulders, first downwards – my arms stretching to take in its width, then – slowly – back towards the thick, stiff, hole-studded collar.

I had expected the material to feel rough. The original suits were made from layers of pressed canvas and rubber, resistant to any stretch. But this suit feels more supple than that. Almost soft.

It's a replica, says Jake, answering my question. There's still a few old suits around – I've got one downstairs – but for most, the rubber don't last. You know how the stuff crumbles after a few years. I got this one from some guys in the States who make replicas close to the original pattern, but using modern materials.

Neoprene? I guess.

Yeah. 3-mils, with polyester outside for protection and a thick nylon weave inside to give it some old-time stiffness. Course, it don't smell as deliciously rubber as the originals, but there's things we can do about that.

Now my fingers grasp at the collar. I pull it towards me: the weight of material is more than I expected – it takes a good tug to get the suit to slide across the concrete. The rubber is hard in my palms, unyielding and thick. I rest my wrists on the blue, raw neoprene of the inner bib as I let my fingers play around the rim of the vulcanised entry ring. The thought of brass bolts tightened in a circle across my chest and shoulders, binding metal to the suit, shivers my bollocks and twitches my cock.

Do you wanna spend some time in it?

Yeah, I say. I cannot stop the word.

You sure?

I'm sure.

Good! Again he leans down to kiss me, but this time he ends it by bringing his fist up to my face. Breathe deep, he says, releasing his thumb from the top of the poppers bottle. Have some fun with the suit, but don't put it on yet. I've got some stuff to get ready first.

I do as he suggests, taking a long snort on the bottle, then a second in the other nostril. I don't notice him leaving my side as the warm, acrid, semi-stale aroma hits my lungs.

The poppers do their magic on me, and suddenly the cloth in my grasp is the only thing in the universe that matters. My hands faintly flutter as I push them down to the white wonder's crotch. I haul one of the stiff legs up, up to my face where I can rub my cheek against the material. I sniff the knee and, through the buzz in my head, make out muddy earth aromas: soil and shit. As I stroke the back of the leg my fingers catch in the metal eyelets: soon my calves and thighs will be laced firmly into the suit – this suit! The thought clenches my guts; I cannot help but to push a thick fold of the garment up into my crotch.

I reach down further, to the bootee that dangles at a perfect right-angle from the leg. Again it is heavier than I expected; the sole is thick, hard rubber, much larger than my own foot. In my head I see images of me slipping that bootee into the massive, leaden trap of its diver boot, to be knotted and strapped uncaringly tight.

As I bring the sole to my mouth and slug my tongue against its gritty tread I wonder: canvas boots, or leather? Either will do, I decide, as I kiss-nibble the rubbery toe, soon to be sheathed in its hammered, rounded brass.

As the last of the poppers buzz my ears I hear Jake bang back the trapdoor and half-emerge from the room below.

Having fun?

My grin is enough to tell him the story.

Good, he says. Leave your clothes up here.

All of them? He nods. What about the ciggies, and beers?

Don't worry about that. Just get yourself naked and bring the suit down here. He turns back towards the cellar, then stops: Try not to come on it yet. Spunking inside it is much more fun!

As his head disappears down I've already pushed my great white promise to one side. I attack the wiry laces keeping my Timberlands tight on my ankle, barely notice the shiver of excitement that catches my fingertips. Within a minute I'm standing, shaking the boots free from my heels. The hoodie and T leave my body still entwined. Last to drop away are the sweatpants – my phone, cards and keys secure in their zipped pockets …

… and a moment of doubt catches me. Seconds pass, where I should have been reaching for the diving suit and dragging it though the hole in the floor.

Do I trust Jake?

I barely know the man. We've chatted online for a while, but until today he wasn't really – real – to me. Just another story;