A bubble-wrap fetishist meets her romantic match in a man who brings her to explosively erotic heights.

It’s often said that art is in the eye of the beholder. Modern art is a specific acquired taste. And very modern erotic art — well, that’s what I was engaging in.

Fuchsia. Ruby. Emerald green. Sapphire. Everywhere I turned, I was confronted by a different beautiful, glistening color. If I squinted my eyes, the hues blurred together creating a kaleidoscope in my vision. No, I wasn’t in an exclusive jewelry store or at an art museum. I was alone in my bedroom, surrounded by the plasticine fabric of my favorite fetish. And let me tell you — I felt as if I’d entered a magical world where everything was covered in gorgeous bubble wrap. That’s because before I’d even started, I had spread sheet upon sheet of the various colors and sizes over the mattress, on the headboard, even on my pillows.

Sometimes when I moved, I accidentally popped a few of the bubbles, my hip making contact with a row of the small squeaky bumps, or the meat of my ass landing on a patch of the larger, louder bubbles. I say “accidentally,” but really I had a sixth sense about when the bubbles would go. I’ve had enough experience playing this way not to be surprised by the way the material behaves.

Whichever way I rolled, the bubble wrap embraced me. I slid one hand between my legs, pressing, rubbing, and stretching. The experience of all that shininess stretched taut over me was erotic in and of itself, but as the pleasure built, I let the luscious popping take me closer to the edge.

Every time I teetered toward climax, I would stage a retreat, pausing in the popping to merely caress a few of the air pockets to give myself a little breather. That’s a sensual sensation in itself, one that I indulge in often when I’m at work. I run a small art gallery, and I’ll sneak into the mailroom and rummage through the recycling bins in search of a small square of leftover bubble wrap, something that nobody will miss. Then, in between tasks, I’ll simply touch a bubble, or stroke a row, and fantasize.

When the urge grows too strong, I’ll give in fully and head to an office supply store. Nobody seems to find it strange when I fill a cart to overflowing with the different hues and sizes of wrap. They’re used to me buying in quantity to wrap art from the gallery. If anyone makes a comment like, “You must have a lot of wrapping to do,” I’ll nod — thinking that what I’ll be wrapping is me. And what there will be a lot of are climaxes.

Playing with bubble wrap fulfills my libido on multiple levels. There’s the anticipation while waiting for the sultry sound of those musical pops. There’s an undeniable stress release in actually hearing the bubbles pop. Finally, then there’s this nameless quality — the carnal charge that owns me. This is linked directly to the way the plastic feels against my skin. I don’t know why touching the bubble wrap delights me, but I know that the wrap has never failed to get me off.

I destroyed a row of the bubbles leading directly to my clit, but I waited until I was actually a second from coming before I popped the heavenly bubble that was poised over my clitoris. I didn’t even realize at first that I was holding my breath. My whole body was tensed and ready. My eyes were shut tight. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. When I couldn’t wait any longer, I pressed firmly on that special bubble.

Pop!

The release of the bubble wasn’t as loud as my moans. I was alone in my apartment. There was no reason to be quiet. I let the experience resonate throughout my whole body — the climax itself feeling as if I’d popped a row of bubbles within myself — and then I lay there in the bed, as completely spent as a popped bubble, surrounded by all the used and abused plastic wrap.

I wasn’t planning on taking a nap, but the pleasure robbed me of my energy, and I gently floated into a lazy, hazy sleep. When I woke up, it was dusk. I realized in a rush that my boyfriend was probably on his way home. I needed to clean up and make myself presentable.

That’s when I heard the distinct sound of a foot stepping on a sheet of bubble wrap. Nothing else in the world makes that same sound. It’s like a muffled sort of clapping or a faraway fireworks display. Damn. I looked to the doorway. There was Rowan, staring at me. He was coming in from practice, and he still had his drumsticks in one hand. Slowly, he turned his head to take in the entire room. I followed his gaze, trying to imagine how he was feeling about the sight before him. The bubble wrap was everywhere — and I was in the very center.

“Zoe?” His expression was definitely one of surprise. Who wouldn’t be shocked by such a scenario? A colorful carnival of bubble wrap is not what one would usually expect to find in the bedroom. I’d had quite the solo adventure. This had been one of my larger indulgences.

For a fluttery second, I wondered if there was any plausible explanation I might be able to employ: I’d been wrapping a really big gift — like an elephant or a pool table — and, um . . . Yeah, there really wasn’t anything to say other than to fess up to how I’d spent my afternoon.

I sat up. Bubbles popped. I flushed as pink as the roll of fuchsia wrap. Rowan came closer to the bed. Every step exploded more of the bubbles. The worst — or possibly the best — part was that whenever he popped a bubble, my pussy contracted. It didn’t matter if I was the one popping the wrap or Rowan was. I had to work not to groan as he cleanly killed a patch of bubbles on his way to the mattress.

I’d kept my addiction to bubble wrap quiet up until now. (As quiet as the popping of the tiny bubbles can be, that is.) I didn’t want to tell Rowan because — well, how do you tell your lover that you get off by wrapping yourself up in bubble wrap? Rowan was someone I thought I could spend forever with. This was no casual affair. I had planned to explain my fetish. I was simply waiting for the right time to pop the confession. I wanted him to understand. I wanted him to appreciate all those glorious bubbles, the sweet, seductive stretch. Simply the thought of bubble wrap can get me turned on.

Now, my favorite fetish was no longer a secret. There was no hiding the fact that I’d come atop a mound of pretty bubble wrap. I waited to see if Rowan would say something — anything. I started to try and untangle myself from the plastic sheets on the bed. That’s when Rowan whispered four words that lit me up inside. “Wait, Beautiful. Don’t move.”

I couldn’t even if I’d wanted to. I was seriously well trussed up in the electric-colored bubble wrap. Rowan came even closer to me and said, “You’ve never looked more lovely.”

I stared at him. What was he saying?

“But more importantly, you’re out in the open. Or if not exactly the open — at least your fetish is on display.”

I didn’t know how to respond. Was he saying that he’d guessed? That he knew what I liked to do when I was all by myself?

Turned out the answer was a dynamic Yes! I didn’t realize I’d been so obvious. But every time a package arrived, I would squirrel the wrap away for later use. Private use. I was often more enthusiastic about the wrapping items came in than in the items themselves. Rowan had found my bubble stash in the closet. The fact that my vibrator was on top of the bubbles had given him the ultimate clue.

“I think it’s sexy,” he said. “But I wasn’t sure how to approach you about it. Now, there’s no more hiding.”

He stripped off his own clothes and joined me amidst the wreckage of my afternoon’s exploits. “Show me how you like it,” he said. I couldn’t believe what a thrill this was. Our sex life to date had been erotic in many ways. I knew he didn’t have a problem being adventurous in bed. Or out. But he was asking me to show him precisely what took me to the higher plane, and I wasn’t going to miss this opportunity.

“Do you have a favorite?” he asked, indicating the multitude of bubble sizes.

I shook my head. I didn’t care. As long as there was bubble wrap, I was happy.

Rowan helped me unwrap myself. Then I grabbed a fresh sheet of blue bubble wrap and spread the plastic out on the bed. I took an unpopped scarlet sheet with tinier bubbles, and I made a type of cocoon for myself, swathing my body between the two sheets. It was enough to make me stop for a moment and sigh with delirious pleasure.

Rowan sat at my side, watching.

“So you like it all over,” he said, nodding. “As if you’re sandwiched inside.”

I nodded.

“Then what?” he wanted to know.

I slid a hand along the top layer and rested my fingers directly over my split. Rowan watched attentively. I started to dance my fingertips over the bubble wrap. In seconds, my man took over, moving my hand away so that he could touch my pussy for me. But he’d been paying careful attention, and he continued in the same way I had, not stroking my naked skin, but working me through the bubbles. These were the smaller variety of bubbles, delicate, I would even say. Like champagne bubbles, tiny and with a zing. He pressed on one suddenly — popping the little pillow — and I gasped. He knew what to do without me having to say a word!

That’s when I realized: Of course, Rowan was into this. He’s a drummer after all. He appreciated the rhythm of the movement, and he didn’t have a problem getting into the groove and making my body sing.

Rowan kissed me as he popped the bubbles. He stroked my naked breasts through the wrap. We made out amidst the bubble wrap, and when he ultimately embraced me, we popped hundreds of bubbles in one squeeze. My handsome hunk of a boyfriend was making my fiercest fetish fantasy come true. I didn’t think anything could ever top this event.

“Oh, yes,” I sighed, unable to stay quiet. “That’s so fucking good.” Rowan was expanding the stretchy fetish of my X-rated world.

When he rutted against me, he popped several of the rows with his dick. I had never fucked a man while encased in bubble wrap. This had always been my own personal fetish. I learned that afternoon that sharing the joy of the bubble wrap made the activity even more exciting than I’d ever thought. Rowan popped my cherry of taking bubble wrap from a solo act to a couple-friendly encounter. The results were — in a word — explosive.

For the next few months, Rowan and I grew bolder with our bubble play. Once, when we were at an office supply store, he added one roll of wrap to the cart. I could feel myself growing wet right there in the middle of the big-box store, but Rowan didn’t even arch a brow at me. Yet I knew he must’ve had a plan, and he did. In the car, he had me take off my blouse while he shielded my body from any nearby shoppers. He used the wrap in the car, fashioning me a new shirt out of the sheet, a halter-style bubble-wrap blouse. He entertained himself and delighted me by popping the bubbles on the ride home until the sheet was almost entirely deflated and I was nearly revealed.

We added lubrication to the excitement, greasing up before wrapping up. The bubbles were more difficult to pop when we were shiny with the lube. We’d end up sliding against them rather than popping them. But that didn’t bother us. It simply made the bubbles — and the whole event — last longer.

Then one afternoon, a deliveryman dropped off a large box for me. I watched him carry the package up the pathway, and I noticed that although the parcel was incredibly unwieldy in size, the man didn’t seem to have a problem hefting the box. I signed for the parcel, watched the deliveryman depart, and dragged the carton inside. It was light. In fact, it was hard to believe there was anything in the box at all.

I should have known better.

When I sliced through the tape on the outside, and flipped opened the cardboard flaps, I was greeted with oodles of bubble wrap. More colors than I’d ever seen. Every size bubble — from the tiny to the giant — filled the box. I leaned against the wall and stared. That’s when my phone rang. It was Rowan. The first thing he said was, “Did it arrive?”

“Yes, Rowan. Oh, yes.”

“I’ll be right over.”

I had already emptied almost the entire carton by the time my man showed up. I’d stretched out the blue bubble wrap, the pink, the lemon, the violet. There were yards of tiny bubbles, larger bubbles, extra-large… Rowan walked in to find me standing in the living room, surrounded by my treasure. This was the most thoughtful gift anyone had ever given me.

“Take off your clothes,” he instructed, and I obeyed immediately. While I was stripping, Rowan was spreading out the parcels of bubbles. He created a crafty blanket on the floor, stripes of colored wrap overlapping in interesting patterns. When he was done, the creation looked almost like a modern-art quilt. A masterpiece of bubble wrap. Then he had me lie down on the carpet of bubbles, and he covered my torso with a layer of the tiny bubble wrap.

Rowan quickly tore off his own clothes and joined me in the popping nirvana. When he rolled over, bubbles squeaked and popped. When he pressed against me, the friction of our bodies made more bubbles explode. Sometimes, however, the bubbles remained intact. We’d slide against the shiny surface, not popping, but pressing on the pockets of air. I liked that feeling, too.

I found myself growing more excited with each passing second. I could sense how turned on Rowan was, as well. His cock butted against me through the wrap. My pussy juices were making the bubble wrap wet. Even before he entered me, his hard cock drove against me through a layer of the shimmery plastic.

Rowan wrapped my mid-section in a sheet of the larger bubbles. Then he used his fingers to tear a hole at the perfect spot. I shut my eyes. The sound of the plastic ripping was exciting to me, but not as thrilling as when he thrust into me through the opening in the plastic. The bubbles really started to pop then as Rowan began to fuck me fiercely. Our sweaty skin made seductive, sticky noises as our body temperatures rose.

Rowan brought a hand down to stroke my clit through the bubbles as he fucked me. I’ve been fingered through rubber gloves before. And a boyfriend once jerked me off through a clear shower curtain. Trust me when I say that bubble wrap is different. The bubbles were fine here, the tiniest ones. So as he stroked me, he managed to pop off a few of the cushions of air. The feeling was so strangely sublime. I made hissing noises under my breath, hoping he’d understand that the noise was meant as encouragement. He did. He got me off in almost no time. The whole event was such a turn-on to me, I couldn’t hold out. I kept my eyes closed during my climax, listening as the bubbles popped. Rowan’s knowing fingers popped and rubbed until I tumbled right over the edge. I knew he hadn’t climaxed yet. I could still feel the hard throb of his dick inside me. I wondered if he’d grip me tightly and finish in my pussy.

But Rowan seemed to have other plans.

When the orgasm subsided, Rowan pulled out and rolled me over. With his help, I got on my hands and knees on the bubble wrap. I felt the cushiony quality of the multitude of bubbles. So this was what it must feel like to be a piece of precious china! Rowan tore the plastic sheeting to accommodate him in this new position.

Soon he was fucking me doggy-style. Each time his hips slapped against my backside, bubbles ruptured. I felt as if I would come apart, too. The pleasure was almost too extreme. Rowan pulled me upright, and he began to rub the bubbles that were right over my nipples. I looked down and saw his fingertips caressing the bubble wrap, pinching the bubbles instead of my nipples. The image burned hot and bright inside me. What was being touched? What was popping? Rowan’s cock continued to thrust through the hole in the wrap.

“I’m coming,” I told him when I reached my apex. “Oh, I’m coming.”

Again, he let me ride out the bliss of my climax without joining me. I couldn’t figure out why he was withholding. At least, not until he had me on my back once more. Then I watched as he jacked his hand along his shaft and climaxed in a wave over my bubble-wrapped body. I saw the semen decorating the stretchy plastic. I traced my fingers through the liquid, and I sighed.

Rowan grinned at me. “You’re stunning like that,” he said. “Don’t move.” Then he got a wicked look in his eyes. In seconds, he made sure I couldn’t move, binding my wrists loosely with a strip of the wrap. I could have torn my way free, but I didn’t want to.

I stayed still as Rowan fucked me again, letting me enjoy the lingering hardness of his resilient cock. A light breeze through the open window stirred the bubble wrap that we weren’t holding down with our body weight. The very sound of the plastic sheets rustling was a dirty melody to me.

Rowan and I ground against each other, popping the bubbles as I approached my biggest climax of the evening. With a final triumphant pop, I came again, and then he tore the wrap from my wrists and we relaxed against the bubble-wrap comforter, totally used up.

At least I was. I lay there, panting, but Rowan surprised me. He went to grab the box from the hallway. I didn’t know what he had planned. I was all popped out. That’s when he dug down deep through the layers and came up with a small envelope made of plastic wrap.

While I watched, he got down on one knee amidst the wreckage of our fetish. I found myself blushing as pink as the wrap he’d brought me.

“Zoe, will you be my wife and bubble queen?” he asked.

He popped the question amidst the popped wrap!

Of course, I said, “Oh, yes!” The bubble wrap popped loudly beneath my feet as I jumped up and down in excitement. This time the sound of applause was sublime — perfect for the occasion.