Forge

The sensation of chilly air blasting against your face rouses you from your slumber. Hazily, you try to rub your aching temples or sore throat, only to find your arms secured to your sides - in fact, only to find much of your body secured. While not the first time, you are still surprised to wake, finding yourself tightly bundled in a thick rubber sleepsack. All in one piece, complete with unreachable zipper, the sleepsack's only connection with the outside world is a thin hole; a straw connected to your mouth to allow a modicum of oxygen.

An unseen voice echoes something about 'processing' as you struggle. Surely, there must be -some- emergency release; a tab or a lever. Of course, a more sinister thought creeps into your mind; like a fish tightly wrapped in plastic, put on display and ready to be sold. How long would you be trapped like this?

The answer: not long at all. Thick, crane-like manipulators firmly clench around your body, and you are hoisted like so much cargo through the air. Just as you are set down, forces unseen remove the sleepsack and clothes from your body- though the hood seems to be separate, and stays firmly on your head.

Woozily flailing your arms and legs, you suddenly feel them being grabbed by firm hands unseen through your encompassing hood, your arms and legs are strapped into spreader bars that leave your wrists away from your body and your entire form quite vulnerable. Sprays of warm liquid wash at your naked form, leaving your body squeaky-clean and smooth.

A loud 'jolt' rocks you, and you feel your body being physically moved. You seem to be strapped to some sort of gurney on a conveyor belt, and are lying on a horizontal position.

Again, you are sprayed with more liquid. This, however, stays on your skin, and is supplanted with a sudden blast of warm air from industrial fans.

And yet again, you are subjected to the same process- a jolt as you are moved, liquid washed over your body, an intense and highly pleasurable tightness, and then the 'drying' phase. You lose count as the pressure increases.

Your member remains fully exposed to the process. Soon enough, you feel intense arousal from the slowly growing pressure and heat in your groin. Each cycle increases it, teasing you to fuller and higher heights of arousal.

You can also feel tiny points of increased pressure at certain points on the suit; your armpits, your legs, your groin.... as well as numerous other smaller (and still comfortable) nubs.

The cycles are finally over, and you are moved to one last station. A clamp locks against your neck while you feel the hood removed from your skull. Fresh air once again splashes against your face, and for the barest moment, you see a white, clean room.

"Close your eyes," says a voice, and reflexively you do so as more spray covers your head. And, like the stations before, you feel cleansed and refreshed, bare to the air - as though you had experienced the most delightful of facial treatments.

Another neoprene hood, however, is pulled over your body - this one much more sleek and form fitting. The external seams give it a high-tech appearance, and it has nose holes and plastic lenses for your eyes as well as a ring for your mouth. A gag inserts itself into your jaw and inflates slightly, keeping access to your throat and stomach but depressing your tongue. A metal ring 'seals the deal' and locks the gag and tube in place around your mouth.

A loud sound of gears and hydraulics fills your ears as the gurney rises to a vertical position. Now with cloudy vision, you can see into a mirror strategically placed next to the conveyor belt - you have been sealed from head to toe in a dull, matted ebony-black. From the look and feel, and the limited knowledge you have with industrial polymers, you would go so far as to assume that you have been covered in thick, foamed neoprene. It presses on you tightly; the thick suit insulates and bonds tight against your soft skin.

You scarcely recognize yourself, compressed and without a seam at all save the hood. Tighter than a glove, more form-fitting than any bodysuit, more long-term than any equipment - you can see tubes protruding from strategic areas, feel the press of internal tubing; see the utter lack of anything resembling an identity save for the black-and-white barcode inscribed onto your forehead's hood.

It dawns on you that you see no obvious use for the devices attached along your body-that is until they hum to life, sending the lowest of low-level electrical impulses across your form.

On a whim, you twitch and writhe. Your arms and legs flinch involuntarily. The closest thing that you could compare the experience to would be dozens of personal massaging devices set to the highest settings, each concentrated to individual areas - each of your erogenous zones has been taken care of.

Your armpits make you want to squeal; half-tickled and half-aroused, the simple fact that you so rarely have interlopers exploring them makes you twitch.

Your neck undergoes a warm and relaxing massage... but the dull pleasure slowly begins to build up. As you take more stock in your situation, you begin to groan - loudly- at its touch.

Your fingers, tightly bound and held together by numerous layers, are given the lightest touches. Pressure is applied in long, stroking motions, as though one's soft fingers were gently moving up and down your digits.

All of this is to say nothing of your more private of parts.

Your ear drums vibrate as people speak - probably mere feet away from you, but inaudible nonetheless thanks to your hood. A loud 'beep' and a long string if digits - it sounds like someone read the barcode on your hood. Not a name, not even a code - just a number.

The belt springs back to life, and you are shuffled along like so much other cattle.

Your new 'eyes' - the lenses tightly ingrained in your hood - go dark.

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29.09.13