Stories

A collection of fantasy stories involving parkas.

It was a cold morning, low overcast, blowing strongly, with snow in the gusts. The car was covered with frozen snow I could see and would take some clearing. I knew I'd need to dress warmly and this would be a perfect opportunity to wear my N3b parka – and probably with the coyote ruffed hood up too. On went my quilted and lined trousers over my already growing cock, shirt, scarlet hooded sweatshirt, and finally my parka, pulling the waist drawcords tight. I pulled up the sweatshirt hood, and then the N3b hood, pulling the zip all the way up so that the hood formed its customary furry snorkel far enough forward to stop my glasses from misting up. I pulled the drawstring round the hood and felt the hood snug round my face and pulled the volume adjuster on the top of the hood just to stop it tightening over my eyes. I looked in the mirror and could hardly see my face, I felt so good.

COUNTRY WEEKEND (PART 4)

 

BIKER RICHARD, SNORKEL PARKAS & OTIS

 

I

 

When I had plucked up enough courage to tell Andrew about sleeping bag bondage being a particular personal turn on, I had added puffy jackets and down suits and snorkel parkas to the list of personal favourites, with snorkel parkas as the most important. Andrew had been able to introduce me to Rick, who had a similar taste for sleeping bag bondage, and  who had signed up for a weekend at the stables in Gloucestershire,  but he was not that interested in snorkel parkas. However, the introduction to Rick had shown that it was possible to find likeminded individuals with specific fetish interests and I had no reason to think this did not include snorkel parkas.  

 

Sitting opposite me, further down the coach, he had olive tanned skin, full lips, and a slightly quizzical expression. His eyebrows were jet black, but his hair, what I could see of it, was much fairer - maybe it had been dyed. He wore a brown school-type snorkel parka, unzipped to his chest with the orange lining showing, but with his hood up. He was reading "The Independent” and was, I guess, about nineteen.

I sat down to my packed lunch, taking a table in the employee rest area. Outside, cold winds were pulling at the clothes of the employees who braved the November weather to visit the fast-food chain down the road to pick up their lunch. What people in the office didn't know was the real reason I had chosen this spot to eat - from the window, you could watch the attractive men of the office walking to and fro, in their winter gear. I enjoyed anything nylon, from raingear to down jackets, but snorkel jackets and coats were by far my favourite. I'd never told anyone about my fetish of course, so to any colleague I just looked like I was enjoying the scenery. I’d been working there for nearly six months, and I was still finding my feet, and still on a temp salary. It wasn't great, but it paid the bills.

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