Not the fabric ones that you choose to wear in the street now. No. A different kind. The helmet-type ones with sealed, circular glass eyepieces and a screw-on filter. Rubber ones. The ones transformed from a protection from radioactivity to a legitimate fetishwear.

I used to wear masks like that once a week or so. Not for long, for ten minutes at a time. It was a time when being nuked was a real possibility and it was at school – we were ushered into a room with a lot of instructional and propaganda posters and told to put on the GP-5 mask. I was seven at the time. I remember the mask pulling my hair in all directions if I messed up the sequence needed to pull a very tight piece of rubber onto your head.

Once the mask was on, breathing was restricted, the vision was compromised, the feeling was claustrophobic.

It definitely was not one of those loose faux-leather masks that are available in every sex shop, at the front, the vanilla section. The seal was tight around my head; the only air I could get was through the filter – it tasted metallic, mixed with the taste of rubber. The sound inside the mask resembled the one of being underwater – strangely contained, intensified, interspersed with your own breaths that are so much more audible than normal.

It was a most successful mini sensory deprivation chamber. Every single time I had to talk myself into understanding that the air was still coming in and I could take it off relatively quickly, if I needed to; I could still see a bit, not much, but still. That calmed me down.

The only thing that could not be remedied ever was the rubber edge digging into my neck. It suffocated me, more mentally than physically.

I never complained about it – questioning authority is not my forte; I am more submissive than I am dominant. Being suffocated and not bringing it up as an inconvenience – once a week and at a point where your mind is very susceptible – ends up transforming into an interesting fetish.

I was exposed to this experience again quite recently. My requirement was that the rubber mask be tight, the inside of the filter removed. His requirement was that I wear a latex gimp costume, with a zipper from the top of my pubic hair to the tailbone and a leash. The mask was dark green, faded; the costume was black.

Scuba-divers are very familiar with the feeling of slipping into a rubber costume – not easy. Nothing about rubber or latex is easy. But – oh my – it looks fantastic! Anybody would look fantastic in such a costume. Think a toned-down version of Cat-Woman.

Our version is toned-up: I am ordered to kneel in a corner, my arms to my sides, my head down, the rubber edge digging into my neck as in the good old days.

My leash is attached to a radiator. Through the mask, I can hear him making coffee. I cannot smell it, but I hear the coffee maker working. I hear the teaspoon hitting the sides of the mug. He brings the coffee nearer, to the kitchen table, puts it down. Then I hear his steps approaching. He undoes the leash and pulls me up to my feet. I am not supposed to change anything else – arms by my side, head down. My knees hurt from kneeling for twenty minutes, but it will go, I just need to stand straight, it will go.

He presses himself to me, with his arms around me, hands cupping my breasts. His groin presses into the zipper, which feels slightly cold still, even though I am hot inside the costume. He presses my breasts, then lets them go, slaps my ass and steps away.

“Okay,” he says, “I will get my coffee.” I am not supposed to react, so I do not.

He brings his coffee, puts it on the windowsill. He brings a chair to my corner – I can hear it being dragged on the floor – and sits on it. He is unrushed, relaxed. Reaches out and unzips my zipper from my tailbone to the pubes. Phew! That’s nice, cool.

“I will sit and have my coffee. I want to relax, you do all the work. I will oil you and will stick a finger into the hole that I want you to use. You can keep your hands on the wall. Face the wall and fuck yourself on my cock until I finish my coffee. Head down.”

The glass in my eyepieces starts misting up. It’s so exciting! I hear him unzip his trousers. A minute passes where through the mask I do not hear anything, nothing audible to me. Suddenly, he touches my groin with his oily palm, rubs it in my skin, travels slowly from my pussy to my starfish and back, then again. Ooooh, it’s getting difficult to breathe. Then – a finger slides into my anus. Then it slides out. Then, “Okay, sit.”

I keep my hands on the two walls of the corner and lower myself down. I touch his tip with my starfish and try and slide lower. I am too tense, I need to relax. I can feel him stretch and reach for his coffee. I am still struggling with opening up. He stretches again, puts his coffee back on the windowsill. A bit annoyed – I hear him sigh. Grabs me by the hips and slides in fully (Aaah! baptism of fire!).

He gets his coffee again in the same familiar stretch. I waste no more of his time – start moving up and down. That’s all I have to do to please him, for around seven minutes; that’s how long he normally drinks his coffee. We’re two minutes in and I start enjoying it; I lift my head up, arch my back. Has he noticed? He has. He does not like when my head is up; the rubber does not dig into my skin; he likes that.

“Head down!” he shouts. I bow down quickly but it’s too late. “How many times? Seriously?” He lifts me up off himself. My starfish closes up. He stands up, runs the leash in between my legs and pulls it so I bend down even more. “Keep your hands to the wall!” My starfish opens again and for the next five minutes, he fucks me. He does not slap me; he does not talk (I know I annoyed him). He does not come. My orgasm is a bit further away in time as well, because of what I had done.

He slides out. “Kneel.” I do. I will be here for the rest of the morning; that’s clear. He would come to my “naughty” corner and would fuck me when he wants. At some point, he tells me to remove my costume, inspects the rubber lines on my skin and neck. After my mask is off, he fucks me in my mouth, too.

After five to seven of such mini-fucks – in whichever hole he chooses – the last one will be much longer. He likes coming inside; it takes him a while – I don’t mind getting fucked. And he will also make me orgasm.

I do not have to wait too long. He chooses my pussy and a doggy style to finish. He slides into me slowly, I feel every millimetre of him, until I feel his skin touch mine. He likes pulling himself out to almost the very top and then sliding in full length. I squeeze my muscles; he forces himself inside me, now quicker and quicker. Grabs my hair, pulls it towards himself. Slaps me on my ass. Fucks even quicker now. Starts breathing heavily. Leans forward and strokes my clit, more intensely with every thrust. “I want you to come,” he whispers in my ear and groans straight after. His body heat, his hands caressing me, his movement inside me make me feel dizzy – I come with a groan, like I always do. And as always, I need a minute to rest, no matter what.

I lie on the floor, belly down. He strokes my back, then opens my legs wider and again oils my starfish. Slides inside, moves and groans. I grab his wrists that are on the floor, next to my head. I get my ass up, he likes it, I am again playing an active part. He’s quicker and quicker with every move and BANG! He stays deep inside to orgasm, trying to get deeper and deeper with every groan. When he goes quiet, he slides within me a couple of times more. “Good girl,” he says.

And that’s why I love him. And that’s how we spend our Saturday mornings sometimes.