Aquala = Smooth green rubber inside and out ... plus some other good gear
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@rubrguy
Aquala = Smooth green rubber inside and out ... plus some other good gear
peter w. czernich + bianca beauchamp in bizarre uk magazine october 2008
Boy woke up and was surprised to find himself in full rubber. He could feel his memories fading and didn’t quite figure out what had happened.
His mind was full of intrusive thoughts about thick rubber and a master whom he would serve. His only purpose was to obey and be used.
He knew he would never see his bare skin ever again. He was more than ready for his position as a master’s property.
The boy was shocked to find himself tied to a chair. His whole body was covered in thick rubber and he couldn't shout as his mouth was gagged with a mask of some sorts.
As he came to his senses, he couldn't remember what had happened. He had no recollection of the evening before.
"Well well well, look who's here waiting for the master! Hope you're feeling comfortable in your new outfit." Boy couldn't see his captor nor recognize his voice. "I'll make sure you'll be fed and taken care for the rest of your life. You'll only need to obey my rules and be a proper little rubber slave."
Boy was panicking and tried to release himself from the chair. He was tied very professionally and the ropes wouldn't budge at all. His voice sounded like a random mumble through the tight mask.
"Hush my little one! It's a fool's errand trying to release yourself from the tight bondage. At some point you'll learn to behave like a good rubber slave's do, but it's going to be a long and painful journey.
But now I'll leave you to contemplate your new life as my personal property. I will add some extra temperature to the room, so you'll get nice and sweaty inside your new rubber outfit!"
Drone being trained
Despite the appearance of being a couple, there is a deep and humiliating imbalance of power between the couple: viz. his eyes are not totally deprived of sight, and his mouth remains ungagged. Most importantly, his fingers are unimpeded, so that he can change the channel and volume at will, eat and drink as he watches while she remains blind, mute, and helpless. When he has had his fun, he can strip off the layers of tight and sweaty latex, sighing in pleasure as the layers come off, and he may strip down, remove her mouth plug to relieve his bladder. Even as the warm and humiliating stream trickles into her mouth, she can only moan in frustration, her bladder desperate for release, throbbing worse and worse the more he relieves himself into her mouth. He can pleasure himself with her, take a shower, a nap, and she remains in the thick and stifling layers and mitts, unable to free herself, unable to loosen the tight corset and choking collar even a little. He plugs her mouth and tells her to take the suit off herself, watching as she paws blindly at the seams, moaning in frustration each time the buckles and straps slip from her soft and useless paws.
The music plays into her earphones, an upbeat pop song made discordant and piercing by layers of processing, turned into pure aural torture for the duration it is played. Worse, she has to dance on the livestream with the distorted and fried music video flashing epileptically on her screen, barely able to breathe through the bubbling liquid. Several hours more of acting cute in the hot and sticky dark, and she can finally lock herself in the cage below the bed, waiting for her mistress to feed and water her, and detach the liquid bottle so she may get at least a little sleep. At least the view counts were good today.
As usual, the waste bowl is only large enough for half her bladder, and she has to forcefully squeeze her sphincter shut, unable to truly relieve herself of the pressure which has been nagging at her mind all day. Tossing and turning on the thin mattress in the sweltering cage, she watches her mistress change out of her own sweaty suit, watches her shower and urinate and get ready for bed, listens to her deep and even breathing as she sleeps peacefully on the bed above.
She has to, she just has to scratch that itch, just has to wipe that stream of annoying sweat, has to release the pressure at her bladder. She has to, she screams inwardly as she bucks and writhes and strains against the metal, and yet the metal does not budge. She sucks breath after bubbling breath from the thick and rotten-smelling liquid, and each laboured breath makes her struggle ever more valiantly, ever more uselessly against the metal bars which fix her in place.
No chains tether her, no cage impedes her progress, but for all her hours of struggling, she still stares fixedly at the same patch of floor, at the mitts which can find no purchase on the carpet. She needs to scratch, needs to wipe her dripping skin dry, but the itching and tickling only worsen the more she arches and twists her supple body against the metal, ravage and gnaw at her skin worse with each passing second she finds herself unable to scratch, unable to move for the thick and frame.
remix