The backdrop behind me looked like sewer tunnels, which made sense. Pipes and valves curved and arced with large gauges and wheel controls attached. Rick had added the additional props of the hardhat as well as large headphones, like the kind you might see on a shooting range.

"What's up with the headphones?", I asked.

"I have no clue", he told me, "but I'm told they come standard, so you have to wear 'em." I shrugged. He was the boss. Rick then laid down a large plastic tarp and had me stand on it. I was to stay on the tarp for the remainder of the shoot. Rick stepped out of the room for a moment and returned with a small bucket and a large soup ladle.

"What are you doing?", I asked with concern.

Rick began stirring the bucket with the ladle. I couldn't tell what was in it. There was no offensive smell, at least. "You ever heard the old hillbilly expression, 'Well, I'll be dipped in shit', my friend?"

"I think so", I said tentatively.

"Well, I'm about to dip you in shit. Or rather, cover you in shit. Hold still." Rick began to ladle scoop after scoop of runny, slightly chunky, brown gooey soup onto my beautiful shiny suit, which ran in uneven streaks over my arms and chest, heading South pretty fast.

"Eeeeeewwww! I didn't sign on for this!" I started to pull away, but Rick stopped me.

"Relax. It's just mud I mixed up with dirt from behind the apartments. But it'll dry fast and it'll look like dookie. Not enough to gross out our clients, but enough to add some authenticity to the frames."

"You're wrecking the look of my suit."

"You'll survive." Rick made short work of shitification. In short order I really did look like a sewer worker who had been hard at for some time. Oddly enough, I was getting hard at it, as the feel of the thick sludge oozing across my rubber outfit was getting me excited again. Not a pervert, indeed.

I stood there in the black rubber suit, trying to get used to the feeling without getting too worked up. It wasn't easy. Even streaked with mud, with the hardhat and headphones on, pulling around large hoses and spades, I couldn't get past the sensation that I was rock hard and totally turned on. Rick was pretty sharp. Even though the rubber jeans were kind of loose--loose enough to hide my horny teenager's manly bulge--he knew I was fighting a throbbing erection. He distracted me by barraging me with questions.

"Favorite class?"

"Oh, the vocational class at the downtown high, definitely."

"What do you learn there? Oh, put the safety glasses back on. Look upward, past the light."

"Commercial art, mostly. It's a three-hour class, so we cover a lot of ground. Some design work, graphic arts, a bit with the computer. Tried the airbrush. Hated it. No control. I spray all over everything."

"I'm not crazy about it either. Turn your head a little to the left. No, your left. And raise your chin about a quarter of an inch. There! Hold that. So, is that your favorite teacher, too? The one who teaches that class?"

"He's one of 'em." I actually liked school for the most part, so I had several favorite teachers. "He's pretty cool. He tries to include all of us in anything going on at the downtown school, which isn't always easy since we're bussed in from all over."

"Sling the hose back over your shoulder. Other hand. Don't block your face. Include you how?"

"Oh, like last month they were having their Spirit Week, and he let us know about all the theme days. We could slip into the boys' room and change clothes for it. Like Pajama Day, where anyone who wanted to could come to school wearing their pajamas, or Nerd Day with bookworm geek costumes, like that."

"Switch the hose to your other shoulder, bend over like you're rolling it up. You ever dress up for that? You being so into costumes--"

"Yeah, I did! On Professionals Day, we dressed up in a What I Want To Be When I Grow Up theme. This one kid from Northside High came dressed up in full fireman's gear. It was cool."

Rick paused for a moment as he advanced the film. "He did, huh?"

"Yeah, he had the whole outfit, with big yellow boots, a helmet, even a toy axe. He looked really cool." I let my mind go back to the cute blond kid in his fireman's costume, looking younger than he was since that was so much a little boy's costume. I heard the camera click. "Oh, I'm sorry, Rick. Did I miss a direction? I wasn't ready."

"My fault. I was adjusting the light meter and I took the picture. Look this way." I did, he took a replacement photo. "So you didn't go as a farmer, did you?"

"Naw!", I said. "I borrowed one of my dad's old suits and a sample case. I was a sales rep. Everyone thought I was a lawyer."

"Well, if you ever decide to go as a sewer worker for some future dress-up day, you know where to find the ensemble."

I smirked. "Thanks", I said, knowing it'd be a cold day in hell before I let any of the other kids see me in any kind of rubber.

I heard the cranking of the rewind on Rick's camera as he announced, "That's a wrap. Good job, Dickie." I let out a sigh, almost lied that it went quickly, and got ready to shuffle back to the bedroom when I stopped myself.

"Um, what about the mud? I'll track it all over."

"Oh, yeah, the mud", Rick said absently, with a tone that indicated it had never slipped his mind. "I'll have to hose you off or wipe you down or something. Lemme get a washcloth." He came back with a damp cloth and tossed it to me. "Clean yourself off, Dickie. I'd do it myself, but I'd probably get arrested for dressing up an impressionable young paper boy in a rubber suit and then rubbing my hands all over him."

"Ha-ha", I said, and began to wipe myself off. As soon as the cloth touched my suit, I could feel the warmth of the wet rag. I couldn't feel the temperature through the industrial gloves, but it was readily apparent against the thinner rubber jeans. Small globs of mud fell away easily to land with moist splats against the tarp. The heated rubber pressed against my bare skin, as I watched the droplets beading on the outside of the suit. The outside of the suit was growing increasingly wet with the soapy water as more mud washed away, the inside simply grew more hot. As did I.

Rick eyed me curiously. "Everything washing off okay there, Dickie?"

"...um...uh-huh..." My circular strokes went slower. I ran my hands over the inside of my thighs, down my legs, around the back to the seat of my pants. I was getting cleaner, but I was heating up something fierce.

"Dickie, you better wash off the jacket first, or else the dirt running down will just have you washing the pants all over again", Rick cautioned.

"Yeah, right", I moaned back. "Wouldn't want that." Slowly, oh so slowly, I wiped the warm wet cloth across my chest and arms. The streaks of mud clumped together and slid off my slickened suit. The warmth, the gentle press of the slick rubber against my body, the barely perceptible feel of the moistened mud slipping easily off my costume to land with soft smacks on the plastic tarp...it was all making me terribly excited. God, Rick was right, I really was some kind of rubberist or something. If that was right, if I had some kind of perverted material fetish, I knew I should stop wiping myself off so slowly. I should just quickly mop off the majority of the mud and change my clothes right away.

Sure. As soon as I get this big splotch of mud off the seat of my pants. Ohh, yeah, that's it. And, and, and this spatter here along the top of my thighs. Deep breath. And this big messy glob right over my crotch--

"You wanna grab your hose, Dickie?"

My eyes snapped open. I hadn't even realized I'd closed them. "Huh? I was just cleaning the suit off! Like you asked me to!"

Rick looked at me funny. "Yeeesss, and you're doing a fine job of it. Very thorough. Now, if you could pause in your janitorial duties for a moment and hand me the prop hose at your feet before it gets totally coated in mud..."

I looked down at the hose lying in loose loops between my booted feet. "Oh. Yeah, right. That hose. I got it."

I bent over to grab the hose, feeling the warmed rubber of my jeans press against my ass, tighten across my legs. I tried to focus. I am picking up a hose. That is all I'm doing. I'm picking up a big prop hose. That's all. Rick was behind me, fussing about with the backdrop. He reached over and grabbed the hose from me. "Relax, champ. I got it. Finish cleaning yourself up." I started to stand up a moment too slowly, and Rick snatched away the length of hose just fast enough so that as he walked away, half its length rubbed right against me. Between my legs. Over my ass. And I'd already had the hose up to chest level, so the whipping hose ran directly across my crotch. My back and shoulders stiffened. The cannons were loaded and ready to fire. T-Minus 10...

Rick looked at me. "You okay, buddy? You're not gonna pass out from the heat of wearing that thing, are you?" I shook my head vigorously. "You sure you're okay?" I nodded my head. T-Minus 9... "You want me to get you anything? A glass of water, maybe?"

"Nope!", I said in a helium voice. "I'm fine!"

Rick tossed the rolled hose into a nearby milk crate. "You're getting a little excited there, aren't you, Dickie?"

My face was growing red. I could feel it. I sucked my lips in over my teeth and bit down on them from inside my mouth. T-Minus 8...

"You want me to step out into the hall for a minute?"

"It's okay! I can hold it! I don't wanna...I don't wanna..." I began bouncing on the balls of my feet (which only made things worse as the rubber boots brushed against my feet, the jeans stretched against my legs). T-Minus 7...

"Dickie, the suit is made entirely of rubber. It's not like you're not gonna wreck it."

My voice was now a strangled squeak. "It's embarrassing..."

"Just know that you will have to clean it up comPLETEly afterward. Got me?" Rick put his hand upon my shoulder. That did it. T-Minus6T-Minus5T-Minus4!!! I nodded my head like a bobble-doll in an earthquake. With the pace of a lame tortoise, Rick plodded toward the door. "I'll be in the hallway. Signal me when you're done." I held every muscle, every fiber of my body clenched tight until I heard the door click closed.

T-MINUS 3!!! T-MINUS 2!!! TEE!! MINUS!!! ONE!!!!!!

I fell to my knees, my entire body shaking like a leaf, my balls buzzing like an angry beehive, my breath held in mid-gasp as I hung precariously on the verge of teenage eruption. Unable to stop myself, I fell forward, face-down, onto the muddy tarp. No sooner had I hit with a wet splat than all turrets fired. A merciless geyser of boyjuice sprayed like a fire hose (or so it felt) from my throbbing stiff member and shot upward, across my chest, coating the inside of the bib and jacket. My fists clenched the tarp, mud gooshing between my fingers, my breath fogging against the plastic surface. My hips thrust involuntarily as I fired again and again, the puddling semen gathering into a sticky mess in my pubes, flooding down my pant leg to gather at my knees. My body was wracked with stab upon stab of overwhelming pleasure. Here I was, a good little schoolboy, straight-A student, honor paper carrier, lying face-down in the mud humping a soiled tarp in a rubber suit. I really was a dirty little pervert.

"Kid, you okay??", Rick's concerned voice came from behind me. "It sounded like something fell--" His voice stopped short as his footsteps stopped nearby. Then, after a moment's silence, he simply grunted, "Uh-huh."

"Rick...?", I said into the tarp, my body still twitching from my monstrous orgasm.

"Yeah, buddy?"

"Do you think you could go out for a Coke for a little while? My rubber suit and I would like to be alone."

Rick snorted out a small laugh. "Sure, kid. I'll leave you to bask in the afterglow. The soap bottle's under the sink in the bathroom. The tire shine spritz is under the sink in the kitchen. I want you out of that thing--all of you--by the time I get back. Got me?"

I nodded, my hair picking up bits of mud off the tarp. I let my eyes roam over my limp, rubbered arms, the mud-spattered plastic sheet upon which I lay. The heat, the thrill, the moment, was passing quickly. Now far more quickly I could feel the onset of the shame. I had just had a wonderful biochemical rush that I provoked myself. In a big rubber suit used by people who clean up filth. I had been a baaaaaad boy.

"Ohhhhh God", I groaned. "How'm I gonna be able to look at myself in the mirror after this??"

From the open door, I heard Rick say, "Champ, I'd much rather have you beating off than having sex with someone else when you're not ready for it. You'll never cause that suit irreparable emotional damage. Or vice versa." He left before I could even process his comment. I had a suit to clean. In a minute. Once my legs started working again.

Rick was back in his second apartment. The afternoon with Dickie had gone phenomenally well. Rick dwelled momentarily on the embarrassing moment in college when he had first fully come to grips with the fact that he was a rubberist. Of course, that involved a frat party he had been dragged to, a wager lost to half the college wrestling team, the humiliation of being forced naked into adult-sized diapers, and the clicking away of over a dozen disposable cameras. Not the best time to find yourself orgasmically excited over being wrapped up tight in rubber pants.

But that painful memory was already fading as the recollection of his time today with Dickie replaced it. Dickie would be spared that pain, having recognized in advance his predilection for rubber and latex, and more importantly, that neither it nor he was evil because of it.

Rick was anxious to see how the prints would turn out after tomorrow's processing. Dickie made an exceptional model, especially with the glorious smile he wore today so indicative of his love of the rubber sewer diver's suit. He looked frankly adorable in the oversized hardhat and shining suit, even when streaked with mud. Even before he got all excited.

On his way to the den, Rick stopped in the hallway. He need not wonder how well the prints would turn out, for there framed on the wall was an 8x10 glossy of the paper boy in question. Young Dickie smiled back at Rick from the photograph, dressed head to toe in the sewer worker's gear, mud spattered all over him, obviously having a ball. The photos would not only turn out well, they'd turn out great. They'd be keepers.

Ben and I sat at our usual table during lunch period. Ben was laughing at me. "You, covered in shit. Now that, I would've paid to see."

"It's not like it was real shit", I insisted.

"Close enough to pass", he chided. "Hey, scooch over."

"The suit was pretty cool, though", I said. "The suit I got to wear was awesome."

"Ha! Yeah, I'll bet. You got to be a dung farmer."

Ben licked the lid of his pudding cup, and as I watched him, I found my mind wandering to someplace it ought not to go. Turning my mind back to the conversation, I went on, "It was still pretty cool. Kinda like those old 1950s spacesuits Tom Corbett used to wear."

Ben looked a bit more intrigued. "Does this Rick guy still do a lot of that? The science fiction stuff?"

"We haven't yet, but he says he does it often enough." I noticed Ben staring off into space. I knew where his mind was going, too. "He's got this kick-ass Star Trek uniform like in the movies that's about your size."

Ben gulped down a scoop of pudding. "You still gettin' paid?" I pulled out a wad of cash from my pocket and waved it at him.

"Well, if he ever does anything along those lines, you'll have to tell me about it", Ben said, trying to sound nonchalant. Then he shoved my chair over with his foot. "God, move over a little, willya? You don't have to sit in my lap!" He hunched over his pudding cup like a vulture, furtively looking left and right at the kids in the cafeteria around us.

My afternoon was spent, as usual, in my vocational class at the downtown high. The first part of the class was spent, also as usual, staring at the cute blond kid from Northside when I should have been listening to our teacher tell us what the day's assignment was.

His name was Gerald. He wasn't what I'd call really cute--not Ben cute--but he had a fresh face and a natural smile that was really sweet.

"So you need to pair up, people", Mr. Beschiff said. "Choose someone from this class--not a magazine photo of Madonna or Michael Jackson--and draw your assignment using that person as a model. I don't care how you apply it; illustration, caricature, interpretative charcoal sketch, whatever. But your artwork HAS to have some commercial application and the likeness HAS to be there. You have the rest of the week, critiques on Friday, so get to it."

Friends and those from the same schools buddied up. I was the only kid here from my high school. But as far as I knew, Gerald was the only one from Northside. Cautiously, I approached his desk, already envisioning him as a superhero, tights hugging his firm body, cape fluttering behind him. He was chatting with one of the guys from Fieldview.

"Hey."

The guys from Fieldview kept chatting, Gerald kept staring in their direction. I spoke a little louder. "Um, hey." He turned around to face me. He was cuter up close. "So, ah, would you mind if I expose you to a deadly dose of radiation and endow you with powers and abilities beyond mortal men?"

His jaw fell open. "Say what??"

I held up my sketch pad, which was always full to bursting with various heroic characters. "I'm designing a superhero character. Don't have a partner for that whole likeness thing. Thought maybe you and me could--"

"Oh!", he said, light dawning. "Sure, sure, that's cool. If you wanna."

"You're not working with the guy from Fieldview?"

"Nah, nah, we were just talking. Those two are already working together."

"Oh. Cool." I smiled, then, "I mean, it's just I saw you talking, I thought you already had a partner."

"Nope", he said, grabbing up his pad and materials. "I'm all yours."

The rest of our class was spent, as with everyone else, with two desks pushed together so we could work as partners from either side, facing each other. It wasn't a bad way to work. Gerald was pretty cool, mostly letting me work on getting his likeness down, saying he'd get into the drawing for his own assignment tomorrow. It couldn't be easy, just having to sit there and stare at me while I worked.

When the bell rang and we gathered up our stuff to make it to our respective buses, Gerald was pretty pleased with the likeness I'd captured (which I thought pretty much sucked), but was at least a start.

"I appreciate the way you pumped me up. My arms were never that big."

"Well, something tells me Mr. Beschiff is only going to be interested in how accurate the face is", I said.

"Yeah, probably." As Gerald pushed the desks back apart, some of the sketch papers fell out of one of the folders under his arm.

"Here, let me get those", I offered.

"No, no, it's cool", he said. "You don't have to, I'll get it."

But I had already picked them up. The sketch that landed on top was of a fireman. He was standing tall, with a stance as powerful as any of my superheroes. Backlit by flames and framed by geysers from hoses, he stood in full regalia, with the big coat, bunker pants, huge boots, the whole deal. It was still kind of rough, but it was pretty far along as sketches go. And the face of this fireman looked an awful lot like me.

"Dude", I said. "Is this supposed to be me??"

Gerald took the sketch quickly and shoved it back into his folder. "Um, yeah, actually."

"When did you do this?"

He seemed really uncomfortable. "Here and there. When you were looking down at your own page. I didn't want you to see it."

"Why not?", I asked him.

"Well, it's not exactly finished. You know."

Still, it was a pretty damn good likeness. And not exactly easy to get a good 3/4 headshot like that while all through class I was seated so he could only see a straight-on. This kid was good. "Wow. What's it gonna be for?"

"Uh, a PSA. Fire safety, like that. Well, see you tomorrow, then." He hurried off, obviously not wanting to miss his bus.

I let out a low whistle in admiration. "Wish I could draw that fast."