EXTRACT FOR
Celine's Seduction To Rubber
(JG Leathers)

Forward by JG-Leathers



	This is but one story, originally in a much shorter form, written by my dear friend Ron Saggers, freely given to me as one of the many gifts of his creativity. Unfortunately for us all, he has now departed this plane of existence.

	He was generous and a gentleman in every sense of the word, and will be sadly missed by those of us fortunate enough to have been his friends. Ron and I shared a tremendous array of similar history and fetish interests, and enjoyed communicating frequently about them. We worked together on his full length story, The Consignment, which was eventually illustrated and published; a life long dream of his. I have endeavoured to continue this particular tale, "Celine's Seduction To Rubber", sadly left unfinished at Ron's death, and hope that the reader will find it a seamless transition and logical evolution from his words into mine.

	I indeed miss Ron, his quixotic turn of mind and phrase, and his good humour. His loss is not only deeply felt by his surviving wife and family, but also by those of us fortunate enough to have been his friends and to have known him on a different and perhaps deeper level.

	Thank you, Ron, wherever you are, and whatever you may have become. I hope your fantasies have been fulfilled in full measure in your new life.



Celine's Seduction To Rubber



Introduction



	This is the Story of Celine Vassen, told in her own words. What she relates, some will find impossible to believe. Others, who know how deep a fetish can go, how strong may be its hold, will understand that she could not have written these words if they were not true. Although the story is of what began during her seventeenth year, she first draws a pen picture of her life prior to that period.



Chapter One 

Beginnings



	I was born in Hanover, Germany, and though my father was German, I had a French mother and lived my pre-teen years safe in the bosom of a loving family. Soon after my twelfth birthday my Mother was cruelly taken from us and during her short but painful illness I watched my father's own health suffer too. It took him well over two years to come to terms with her death. I still have not.

	My only other female relative at that time was my paternal Grandmother. She though, was already over seventy years old, and could not realistically be called upon to assist my father in my upbringing. I learnt quickly that I would have to look after myself and him.

	I was made of stern stuff and matured quickly and from others, learnt those important things my Mother would have taught me had she lived, soon blossoming into a young woman and doing well with my education. And so I stayed on at school beyond the average leaving age; being in my final year when the change that warrants this story took place. One that was to have permanent and lasting consequences on my life.

	Some six months before this point in my tale, I had met a boy called Michael and our companionship grew steadily. My father approved of him and actively encouraged our friendship so that we visited each other's homes on many occasions. It was on such a call, when he and I were studying for examinations, that we both sat upon the bed in my room, so that we might swap question and answer to help each other with our studies.

	I now freely admit that I had more than once felt a longing in my loins upon being so close to him, but was naively still unprepared for what happened next. His touch, at first innocent, soon turned to caress. The caress emboldened to insistence and before I knew it, his hand was moving from my thigh up to my virgin flower. I should have stopped him, and yes, should have stayed his searching hand, but I was eager to learn what might result from these attentions. In moments, our school work forgotten, he had worked his fingers into my pants and I shuddered, feeling them circle the moistening flesh of my labia.

	A moment later the heightening pleasure of this my first sexual encounter was to be dashed on the rocks of sorrow. The single knock upon the half-open door of my bedroom was like the knell of doom. Unaware of my current circumstances and not even guessing at what he would find, my father entered the room bearing a tray dressed with lemonade, glasses, and some cakes. I recall that these contents seemed to tumble gradually to the bedroom carpet, as though part of a film scene re-played in slow motion, when the tray fell from his hands. Without a word, he glared first at my would-be lover, then at me, before turning on his heel and slamming the bedroom door. I listened to his loud footsteps retreating down the hall.