Flash Fiction: The little green man

It was a Flash Mob. I have no idea who the other green suited people were, other than that they found us on Facebook and over fifty adults dressed in bright green morphsuits, were present to protest at the cuts to sexual education funding.

The breathable spandex outfit covered me from head to toe, and it was the only thing I wore. The fabric clung to my skin, tightly touching every hair and pore on my body as I easily felt the cool zephyrs of the open air parade.

“Don’t let good sex-ed become alien to our kids,” the organiser cried from a loud-haler: the reason why were in green suits. The link, tenuous. I know. But it made a few good photographs for the press as we demonstrated against the draconian cuts.

We chatted, we chanted, we posed for pictures and we handed in a 20,000 signature petition to the Council before leaving; a good two hours spent.

And that’s when I met her; we were both going towards the station. The tightness of her suit revealed to me that my companion was a well-endowed woman with a pert bosom. She stood a few inches shorter than my frame and touched my bum as we walked.

She giggled as I said “hello” and, as she looked around us for any witnesses, pulled me by my arm into a little alleyway: empty, cold, sinister. But her kiss was warm: the subtle gentleness on my cheek as her lips met my taut spandex.

I felt desire shoot through me: I asked her name, but she didn’t reply, forcing her lips on mine and feeling my cock through the tight suit. The shame of the anonymity of our games incited my arousal deep inside my loins as she tilted her head.

My hands slid around her waist as I held her in her smooth second skin. She slid from my grasp and giggled as she looked at me; she had a dark wet spot over her mouth where we’d kissed and I guessed I had the same.

But she didn’t want laughing, sliding her hand over my erect cock and stroking it through the fabric. It was an incredible turn-on, the soft, welcoming hand seducing my stiffness with the firm pressure of her palm and the gentle tapping of her fingers. The ferocious swell of arousal coursed in my cock: I could be the ugliest man yet she didn’t care. My appearance was normalised.

I groaned, fumbling around the “V” at the top of her legs, feeling the smooth coolness of her spandex clothing. I pressed against her mound, keen to find her clit.

But I was closer than she was; the damp wet spot on my morphsuit growing as she coaxed more pre-cum out of the end of my cock. I grunted, squeezing her leg as my body convulsed, squirting several waves of cum into my suit, turning me into a sticky, damp mess.

I leant against the wall, panting as she pushed my fingers away from her and looked down the alleyway at a photographer. “Oi,” I shouted, but it was too late. She grinned, waved at me, blew me a kiss and ran to the guy, with the camera.

I was set up, and I think I know what will be on the front pages of the newspapers tomorrow.

But fortunately, I have my anonymity.

The featured image is used under CC-license from here.

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