#rubber prison

[covered-up-bondage]

[susannekaiser8]

[korsettman]

[tightsweatyclothes]

Unable to see, unable to hear, stuck in the sweaty and sticky dark, she can only wait, unable to tell when they will come to tickle and prod her sensitive armpits and sides. She pulls and pulls at the rigid frame, but her helplessness only makes it worse.

Writhing, screaming into her gag, trying to avoid the invisible and inaudible fingers and rods which she cannot predict. Twitching, pulling, begging for it to stop as she throws herself against the restraints, to no avail.

[tightsweatyclothes]

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.

[tightsweatyclothes]

The chains holding her may be long, but their presence is all that matters. Her life is defined by their constant presence, weighing at her wrists, clinging to her throat, pulling at her ankles, defining the space she can exist in. Other locks keep the hood and gag fastened to her head, keep the ballet boots on her feet, keep the suit stuck to her body. Her bed, her phone, the keys to the chains and locks are at the other end of the room, and even when the chain is taut, she may not get at them. When he is in a good mood, she gets a bucket which she may use once a day, and when he is in a bad mood, the bucket moves out of reach, or else is moved just far enough for her to drink her own stale urine from it with her head bowed, not far enough for her to relieve herself into. At night, she curls up with the single pillow she is allowed, trying to sleep even as drops of sweat tickle her all over under the suit, and saliva trickles out of her gagged mouth. And if he decides to make sleep impossible by turning the hot and bright spotlights on the whole area, or by leaving the window to the gardens open so that a host of mosquitoes whine constantly by her ear, that is entirely up to him. Even this window is out of her view, so that she may never see out of the room, and may only watch the slow rays of the sun with deep longing as they slant across the room.

[tightsweatyclothes]

A warm summer's day, perfect for a picnic for her housemates. She listens to the clink of cutlery and the sound of laughter, wishing she could take off the stinking suit for once. Her housemates enjoy the fresh air, and she enjoys the fresh air along with the rancid smell of the liquid in the bottle, which only seems to get worse with every breath. Countless drop of sweat trace slow and sticky lines along her back, and it infuriates her that she cannot do anything about a single one of them, for fear of the punishment for letting the plates or bottles fall. She breathes slowly, sucks in a bubbling rancid breath, trying not to let the rise and fall of her chest upset the crockery. She can hear them, feel the pressure of their forks and knifes on the plates on her back, can feel the cups lifted up and set down, can only stay perfectly still as the itchy tickling sweat and bubbling foetid air get worse every second.

[tightsweatyclothes]

"Look at the shadows, Pauline, aren't they pretty?" "Mmmmph." He goes over to the window, and she follows his slippered footsteps, her boots clacking noisily on the floor. She hears the window open, but the inside of the suit is as hot and sticky as ever. "Lovely breeze today. Isnt't the sunset pretty?" "H, hmmph, mmmmgh." "Shall we go to the night market for dinner? I'm craving skewers and a nice milkshake." "Mmmmmmmph." Breathing heavily, she tugs at the tight collar, at the locks sealing the corset and hood and gag in place, slowly, the only outward sign that she is even now seething with pent-up rage. As usual, nothing gives, nothing so much as shifts to give her a little fresh air, a little space to breathe in the sweaty itchy dark. "Want out?" Edward plays on her vexation, goads her further. "Mmmmmmph. Mmmph-mm." "Sounds like a 'no' to me." "Mmmmmmph." Quiet, firm, with no sign that she is trying desperately not to explode with fury. "Oh well. More kebabs for me!" He takes the short leash, and locks it to the ring in her collar, pulling her along far faster than she can comfortably walk with her blindfold. Not that he cares. Not that she has a choice. Not that she can even protest into the gag, deeply and horribly familiar with the punishment which he would mete out for even the smallest sign of rebellion.