Jack stared at his reflection, almost entranced. The figure looking back wasn’t just him—it was an idealized vision, a flawless creation of gloss and chrome. Every inch of his body was encased in the skin-tight black rubber, shining like liquid obsidian under the light.
The heavy knee-high boots grounded him, their thick soles adding a subtle weight that made every step deliberate. Chrome cuffs gleamed at his wrists and ankles, catching the light with every slight movement. A matching chrome belt hugged his waist, and above it, the gleam of the thick chrome collar stood like a symbol of ownership and belonging.
His face was gone, replaced by the full hood that smoothed his features into anonymity. The attached gas mask, with its dual side-mounted filters, made each breath sound mechanical and amplified, a slow hiss in, a faint rush out. The sound comforted him, reminding him how completely sealed he was inside.
It had taken time—so much time—to get into the suit, every layer, every strap and buckle, every press of latex against his skin, until it all became one seamless second skin. But now, standing there, glossy and restrained, he felt it was worth every moment.
He didn’t just look perfect. He was perfect.
Jack’s gloved hands moved slowly, almost reverently, to his crotch. The glossy black rubber there bore a reinforced panel, a functional design detail he had come to admire—the code piece, tight and perfectly smooth, its edges seamless against the rest of the suit. At the center, the small zipper gleamed faintly in the light.
With a faint rasp of metal teeth, he drew it down. Beneath, a second layer of rubber stretched taut around him, a sheath within the suit that encased his cock entirely. It was like the rest of him—sealed, restrained, and yet gloriously heightened in sensation. The inner sheath hugged every contour, every vein, slick and suffocatingly tight.
As he carefully peeled back the second layer, his cock sprang free, glossy and rubberized like the rest of his body. The double-layered enclosure had left it aching, pulsing slightly, trapped in that hot, airless confinement for so long that even the cool air of the room felt alien against its synthetic surface.
Jack let out a slow breath, the gas mask amplifying it into a mechanical hiss. He couldn’t help but admire it—his cock transformed, as perfect as the rest of him, jet black and seamless. The suit had done more than encase him. It had remade him. Even here, where flesh should have been, there was only rubber, glossy and complete.
He ran a gloved finger along the shaft, feeling the squeak of latex on latex. The sensation shot through him like an electric current. The suit wasn’t just clothing anymore. It was him.
Jack’s gloved hand lingered on his rubberized shaft for a moment longer, the urge to stroke overwhelming, almost intoxicating. The suit amplified every sensation—the tightness, the friction, the heat. But he forced himself to stop.
It was late. The soft hum of the room reminded him of the hour, and a faint mechanical chime from his terminal confirmed it. Not now. Not yet. Tonight was special.
With a faint sigh, carried through the filters of his gas mask in a mechanical hiss, he guided his synthetic cock back into its sheath. The inner layer embraced him once more with that familiar, airless squeeze, followed by the outer code piece sealing shut. He tugged the zipper closed, the sound of metal teeth locking him back into perfection. Smooth, seamless, untouched—like nothing had happened.
Jack adjusted his stance, feeling the tight rubber pull and shift over his body. Every movement reminded him how completely sealed he was, how every part of him belonged to the suit now.
Tonight, the programmer had promised him an audio session. The thought made his synthetic heart—if he even still had one—beat faster. He didn’t know the details, but that was part of the thrill. The programmer’s voice alone could send him spiraling, every carefully modulated command rewiring him further, deeper.
He sat down carefully on the padded bench beside the mirror, the glossy surface of his suit creaking softly as he moved. He stared at his reflection again, watching the chrome collar catch the faint glow of the room’s light.
“Soon,” he whispered to himself, though the gas mask distorted it into a faint hiss.
He could already hear the imagined echoes of the programmer’s voice in his head. Soft, calm, inescapable.
The soft chime of the program activating echoed in Jack’s ears, the sound processed and filtered through the suit’s integrated audio. A small indicator blinked to life on the visor overlay inside his hood—CAMERA: ACTIVE.
He straightened his posture on the padded bench, his glossy black figure perfectly aligned, chrome collar gleaming in the dim light. The red recording dot pulsed faintly, reminding him that he wasn’t alone.
Other icons populated the interface. Dozens of others had joined the session. Some with cameras—dark silhouettes in latex, leather, or plain shadow. Others audio-only, their voices muted for now. The hum of digital presence surrounded him.
Then, the PROGRAMER’s voice filled the channel. Calm. Measured. Unassuming.
“Good evening, all. I trust everyone’s properly seated, restrained, or at least… attentive.”
Jack felt a shiver run through him, though the thick rubber muted it to a faint internal pressure. The voice wasn’t commanding, not yet. It wasn’t seductive. Not even interesting, really.
“…so yesterday I had the strangest encounter,” the PROGRAMER continued, the tone conversational, almost mundane. “I stopped at a café I don’t usually visit. The line was long. A barista forgot my order.”
Jack’s visor showed no expressions. His masked face betrayed nothing. And yet inside, something subtle shifted.
He sat there motionless, breathing slowly, the filters on his mask amplifying each inhale and exhale into a mechanical rhythm. Why was he listening so intently? It wasn’t a fascinating story. It wasn’t even particularly engaging. But his mind stayed fixed, anchored to every word like it was the only sound that mattered.
“…and when I finally got my drink, I noticed a tiny crack in the cup. Barely noticeable, but still there. Isn’t it strange how we often ignore such imperfections?”
Jack nodded faintly without realizing. His rubberized cock twitched inside its sheath. A deep, growing need coiled in him—not to move, not to speak, but simply to stay. To listen.
Each word felt heavier than it should, like drops of water slowly filling a sealed vessel.
The PROGRAMER’s voice softened. “And so I thought… maybe there’s a lesson here. About patience. About attention. About control.”
The word control echoed in Jack’s mind. His gloved hands rested on his knees, perfectly still. The chrome cuffs on his wrists felt heavier now.
He didn’t care about the story. He didn’t need to. It wasn’t the content—it was the cadence, the flow, the subtle hooks hidden in each sentence pulling his mind deeper.
He was ready for the next part. The part where the PROGRAMER’s tone would change—where the soft, harmless words would become commands.
Jack wasn’t entirely sure when he had stopped following.
The PROGRAMER’s voice had continued—soft, deliberate, like waves lapping at the edge of his mind. Jack thought he was listening, but his thoughts had drifted, or maybe they had been peeled away layer by layer. He wasn’t sure which.
He only caught fragments: “…and now we’ll count…” “Just let it happen…” “Ten…”
His eyes, behind the visor, stared blankly at his own reflection. His glossy black figure remained perfectly still, knees apart slightly, gloved hands resting on chrome thighs. He barely noticed the PROGRAMER’s voice continuing—“…nine… eight…”—because his focus was… somewhere else. Or nowhere at all.
“…three… two… one… zero.”
And then everything shifted.
On the small feed windows around him, Jack saw motion. Other rubberized figures stirred, gasps and sighs leaking into microphones. Bodies swayed gently in chairs, fingers curled reflexively, chests rising and falling faster in tight latex or leather.
But Jack didn’t move. Or maybe he couldn’t. Or maybe he simply didn’t want to.
Then, without warning, his right hand lifted. Smooth. Fluid. As if it weren’t his choice.
The glossy black glove gleamed under the room’s lights as it floated upward, elbow bending slightly, fingers splayed like a puppet on invisible strings.
Jack watched in silence. He didn’t command it. He didn’t resist either. His breathing hissed softly through the gas mask filters, calm… detached.
His left hand began to rise too, slower, lagging behind slightly. Both arms hovered now, palms facing forward. He felt no effort. No strain. Only the faint pull, like magnets guiding them through syrupy air.
The PROGRAMER’s voice hummed in his ears:
“Good. Don’t think. Don’t decide. Let the suit move for you. Let your body remember it isn’t yours anymore.”
A small twitch passed through Jack’s fingers. His cock stirred inside its sheath again, trapped and aching. But he still didn’t move of his own accord. The suit—or something deeper—had taken over.
Jack’s hands dropped suddenly, falling limp to his sides with a faint creak of taut rubber. He sat there, frozen, the sound of his own breathing echoing in his mask—slow, mechanical, in and out.
And then, without his intent, his right hand twitched. Fingers flexed. It lifted again, slowly, moving with eerie precision down to his crotch.
No… wait… Jack’s thoughts barely formed, sluggish like thick oil. What’s going on?
He could feel the zipper tab between his gloved fingers, cold metal pressing into latex.
No, don’t… they’re all watching. Cameras… all of them…
But the zipper moved anyway. The faint rasp of teeth separating was deafening in his ears. His suit parted, the double-layered sheath beneath revealed, glossy and tight. His left hand joined in, peeling back the second layer with practiced care.
His cock. Rubberized. Glossy. Aching. Perfect.
It sprang free into the cool air of the room, standing hard, utterly transformed like the rest of him. It glistened under the lights, an artificial shaft—jet black and smooth, as if molded for display.
He wanted to cover himself. To stop. But his hands remained still now, resting obediently at his sides again.
On the session’s feed windows, he could sense the others watching. Figures in masks and suits. Audio-only participants breathing faster. No one spoke. They didn’t have to.
Then the PROGRAMER’s voice cut through, calm and approving:
The words struck Jack like an electric shock. His entire body shuddered violently, a full-body wave of sensation that made the rubber suit squeak and creak. His cock throbbed visibly, a droplet of clear synthetic fluid beading at its tip.
Jack’s mind reeled. I… I can’t stop… I can’t move… But another thought slipped in, alien and terrifyingly comforting: Why would I?
He sat there, hard and displayed, as the PROGRAMER’s voice continued to weave around him.
Jack sat there, frozen in place, his glossy black figure a perfect statue of synthetic obedience. The faint hiss of his breathing through the gas mask filters filled the silence between the PROGRAMER’s words. His erect, rubberized cock stood proudly exposed, gleaming under the dim light.
Then a sound in his ear—soft, deliberate, like a faint tone embedded in the PROGRAMER’s voice. Something shifted.
His right hand twitched. Slowly, deliberately, it lifted. The gloved fingers curled around his synthetic shaft, wrapping it in a perfect grip. The left hand joined, resting lightly near the base.
Long, slow pulls from base to tip, perfectly measured. The rhythm was hypnotic—up… pause… down… pause. The sound of latex against latex filled the room in wet, squeaky whispers.
Jack’s cock throbbed under the touch, every movement sending waves of bliss radiating out through his glossy, sealed body. The suit seemed to amplify it, pleasure trapped and recirculated inside, building heat and pressure like steam in a sealed chamber.
I’m not doing this, Jack thought faintly, but even that thought felt hollow. His body moved with absolute precision, like a puppet on strings.
The PROGRAMER’s voice hummed in his ears. “Good drone. Perfect pace. Stay there. Feel it. But remember… no release without my word.”
A shudder ran through Jack’s encased frame. His rubberized cock pulsed harder, a bead of clear synthetic fluid rolling down over the gloved fingers working it. Bliss flooded him—warm, dizzying, all-consuming—but still incomplete.
He couldn’t come. Not unless permitted. The thought alone made his cock twitch violently in his grip.
His visor displayed a faint overlay now: STROKE. HOLD. WAIT.
Jack obeyed. Of course he obeyed.
The PROGRAMER’s calm voice cut through Jack’s fogged mind like a blade:
“Well… we’ve arrived at the end of the session. It’s been almost two hours.”
Jack blinked behind his visor, his gloved hand still stroking his glossy, aching cock in that perfect rhythm. Two hours? His mind tried to grasp it, but it slipped away like water through fingers.
No… we just started… he thought. You only talked about coffee…
But somewhere, deep down, he realized he hadn’t been thinking at all. He’d been listening. Obeying. Existing in a blissful haze of heat and pressure, the PROGRAMER’s voice shaping his reality while time melted away.
“And Jack… before we finish… you can finish too. Come.”
The words struck him like lightning.
Jack’s entire body tensed, rubber squealing against itself as the orgasm tore through him. It was instantaneous, explosive, and utterly consuming. His synthetic cock throbbed violently in his grip, spurting thick, glossy streams of fluid that splattered his gloved hand and dripped onto his suit.
He gasped, the sound distorted through the gas mask filters into a mechanical hiss, his visor fogging with heat. The pleasure didn’t just stay in his cock—it flooded every inch of him, rolling through his glossy encased body like fire. His muscles clenched, his back arched slightly, every nerve alive with electric bliss.
When it finally ebbed, Jack sagged back against the bench, panting, his cock still twitching in his hand. The overlay on his visor now read: SESSION COMPLETE.
Wow… The thought floated lazily in his exhausted mind. That… that was a trip.
But then the weight of reality returned like a dull ache.
Damn. Now I have to wait. Wait until next time to feel… that.
With a slow, deliberate movement, Jack guided his softening synthetic shaft back into its sheath, zipping up the code piece until his suit was seamless again. His hands dropped to his sides, resting heavily as the room felt suddenly colder.
The PROGRAMER’s voice faded from his ears. The session was over. Just silence now.
Time to get cleaned up, Jack thought, though there was no urgency in him. Time to return to the boring normal world…
But part of him already craved the next session. The next voice. The next permission.
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