by Ian Cooke-Tapia
Started May 2013 – Finished May 2019
She pulled herself off from the floor with one hand. The strain turned her fingers into claws; tendons popped through the skin on the back of her hand, veins bulged, and the effort brought to skin often pale. Funny what could turn a hand beautiful. It should’ve been easy to pull herself off the floor, but she felt so tired, so fatigued, so very drained. As if something had taken any energy she had and redirected it towards something meant… something meant to stop her from being herself.
With all her might, she managed to stand up. Her other hand kept idly touching her pussy through the latex. Idly, slowly, non-stopping movements that she knew would give her carpal tunnel syndrome soon enough. But she couldn’t move that hand. She could barely move her legs now. She felt like a tenant who was being kicked out from a house they bought.
She tried to shout, but her voice didn’t come. She felt the rubber squeeze her throat as if it knew what she was trying to do. She tried to speak again, and the latex began to strangle her. She arched her back, her fingers began to play faster. Curse this body for betraying her. She stopped trying to speak, and the latex let go. But like a sheriff who protected capital interest, it had already evicted her voice.
After much struggling, she found her balance on legs wobbly with exhaustion, and unfamiliar on the tall heels her feet had morphed into. When she didn’t fall flat on the floor, she made a sound that could’ve meant achievement. She laughed, happy that she had managed to do something beyond masturbating herself into oblivion. But then she felt her possessed hand move; searching, touching, loving, it found a spot she thought couldn’t take any more attention, punishment, hate, love, need. She shuddered all over, tensed, froze in place, then felt her mind shut off as a tsunami razed the shoreline.
When peace returned, she was lying on her back. She felt the weight of her inflated breasts defy gravity. She opened her eyes. Her breasts hid everything from view; were everything she could see. Smooth, perfect latex; no seams, nothing but the shape of two impossibly plastic boobs. She felt warmth spread from her pussy, felt fantasies of decades repeat themselves endlessly before her mind’s eye like a rerun of a show that had aged poorly but you could not stop staring at.
The trapped woman blinked the sting of sweat out of her eye, and reached to dab at her forehead.
Her body tensed. Her free hand froze on her smooth scalp. Her other hand didn’t move.
Where did her hair go?
She rubbed a rubber hand over her scalp, slowly, faster, frustrated.
Heart beating faster, the latex skin rewarding, trying to make her think like it wanted her to think. No, no, no, she would not do that! She grumbled, tried snarling, but the latex suffocated her, which made her all the hotter. The hotter she was, the more she felt compelled to think like the latex wanted to her to. She started to move, faster, angrily. The bed sheets ripped as her heels caught holes from previous fits of rage. And the shiny latex moved on her, correcting her behaviour. Pain, heat, delight, pain again, muscles aching, so much pain, good, delicious, pleasure once more, heat, pain, higher, higher, higher! Her body relaxed as she climbed from her high and her hand finally stopped moving. Not for long, though, never for long.
She stared at the ceiling for a while, her free hand idly feeling the spot where the latex reached her forehead, exploring the line of skin-tight fabric that went all around her face. It made her… feel electrified. Not anger, not fear, not exhaustion or resignation. Only a burning delight remained.
How much more of this could she take, the trapped woman wondered? If someone ever came to free her, would there be any part of her capable of accepting the rescue? Any fragment of herself not ready to sabotage her chance at freedom? The latex moved. Her chest felt heavier, warm, bigger. Her whole body felt good. So nice to touch. So nice to think about being wrapped up in latex. But… no, of course she wanted it to stop. She had a life, friends and family. But… but her life never felt this good, this safe and without worries. Perhaps it would be nice to just… give in.
Her other hand finally stopped rubbing her latex nether lips. The cycle came to an end, and the latex suit quieted for a while. It was her chance to move, to try and escape, but instead she felt herself drifting.
The trapped woman remembered a cold apartment, a loveless life; a threat of redundancy, a medical bill piling up; long-distance commuting, and dead ends everywhere. One day: an order, a package, a squeal of joy. And then oblivion. Shiny, dark, sexy oblivion. She had finally taken the plunge and made real thoughts thought in private and in chatrooms and with the occasional partner. And then this struggle. Days and days of this fight. This wasn’t the escape she had hoped for. Something to take her mind away from things, that would help her deal with everything, and then quietly… quietly… what? Go back to it? Go back to the misery? What was the point of this extreme joy, pleasure, freedom, obedience, if it would only fade away into the back of her mind?
She felt the latex rewarding her thoughts. Squeezing and inflating. Changing her into a thing she had often imagined herself as. A thing. An object. Nothing but… being an object.
She couldn’t keep her eyes open. Her voice was gone. Her free hand was playing with her big, shiny, plastic breasts. Feeling them grow and pulsate with her every wanton breath.
The room didn’t exist anymore; no sounds, no light, no thoughts.
When the trapped woman woke, her body ached. Knives prickled her left arm, and her legs were twisted into one another. She opened her eyes, blank and thoughtless they were, and sat upright. Oblivion had felt like sleeping in your childhood bed after a decade away. The trapped woman’s body moved, acted, but she was still asleep. Her right hand opened and closed, reluctantly moved away from her pussy, which ached for something to fill it, love it, kiss it, caress it, lick it, obey it. Her hand ignored her latex self. She wasn’t awake enough to take in any meanings that might hide in every minute action of her possessed body.
Her heels clicked on the linoleum floor. She blinked, seeing the face in the mirror. Plump dark lips, eyes too dark, chocolate and carbon skin and cheeks dabbed plump and wrinkly… Who was this woman? A mask. It was a mask, the trapped woman thought. A mask on this doll body of hers. Sound of water falling; sound of water splashing; the coldness snapped her into the present. She blinked, eyes focusing on a face surrounded by black latex.
She looked beautiful.
She shook her head, splashed water on her face several times.
She stood there, hands gripping the porcelain. Her heart wanted to escape, and her arms shook. But they shook because of her, not because of the latex, and she didn’t want to think about what it meant to be able to move her own body.
Routine dictated she brush her teeth while showering. The latex didn’t dissolve in the water, didn’t change; through it, she could feel water on her skin. The trapped woman stopped wondering how it all worked. She soon felt clean.
The trapped woman tried to leave her apartment, but like every day her hand stopped short, frozen, stuck, trapped by a force that could be hers or something else’s. That usually scared her, but today she just shrugged it. If she struggled, the latex would take over her body, inflate her more, fill her head with empty air and vacuous thoughts and then she would lose more of herself. No… not lose more of herself but have the suit take more of it. Yes. It was… taking over. Taking. Taking. Taking her away from it all to some place that was the best place because it was with her all the time. She was inside it, and she was this place, and no one would ever be able to rescue her from it and she didn’t care.
She laughed, giggled. The latex rewarded correct thoughts.
But what about those who cared for her?
The trapped woman put a hand on her head, closed her eyes.
The headache washed over her. She grunted. And then gave up. The headache disappeared.
It felt good to give up.
She smiled, felt a sudden heat envelope her body.
The mask on the mirror smiled, laughed. It felt so good to let go of everything.
It felt good to give up.
She felt her hands move. Felt her breasts jiggle. Felt the whole of her new life move over her skin.
It felt good to not be.
The latex began to crawl around her face. The mask would be removed. Her last chance to not be happy would be taken away. Any memories would be corrected. The latex would make sure of it.
It felt good to give in.
Who had she been anyway?
Her hands rewarded her.
What had her name been?
It felt good to give in.
The last thing the trapped woman thought about before the latex took off her mask was how good it felt to be free.
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