Gromet's PlazaLatex Stories

Institute for Complete Rubber Immersion

by Jane D'oh

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© Copyright 2020 - Jane D'oh - Used by permission

Storycodes: F/f; FF; fpov; bond; sleepsack; bedtie; cell; prison; torment; cons; XX

Continues from


Somehow the return of the Dominatrix had re-centred my consciousness into the 'me' that was strapped in place. Yet the new floating sadist me was still present: I was suffering from multiple assaults on my senses and getting off on it at the same time.

Warden 7 produced a shining metallic device vaguely resembling a half clam shell but curved inward on both ends. It was thick and heavy looking and was soon attached to the chair between my legs and re-positioned so that it completely covered my genitalia. There must have been a hole or slot for my catheter tube since I felt no sensation of it. An electrical cord trailed away from the thing and disappeared out of sight. To this day I know not the mechanism by which the odd machine functioned.

I felt that my first session on Level 7 might be coming to a climax. The pressure in my bladder had reached the point where I should have been concerned about it bursting if I hadn't so many other preoccupations. Of course there was no reason why it couldn't simply be drained or partly drained and we could continue indefinitely but I remained hopeful for some sort of imminent closure.

For the first time since the maddening eye-drips had begun, two fell simultaneously and this somehow re-affirmed the theory in my own mind. Then, the horrible assault began in earnest. The volume of the electronic noise increased and began rapidly changing in pitch, tone and tempo whilst the overhead lights not only brightened yet again but started to dance in synchronicity to the sounds, jumping and flashing in unholy concert with the painful audio track. I was in hell's discoteque. My last coherent memory of my first meeting with the Dominatrix was her wide beaming smile as she stood between my splayed ankles, holding a small remote-control device.

When it began I fancied electrical shocks might be responsible for the budding attack on my privates but that was more due to a lack of alternative ideas than any actual sensations of current. I knew something was accosting me, sometimes in a broad swathe between my legs and sometimes in small particular centres of sensation but I had no previous reference points to describe it. Nothing was physically touching me and I soon dismissed the electrical theory. As it grew in intensity and speed my debate about its modus operandi gave way to a full experience of the present, regardless of its explanation. When one blow struck and seemed to almost twirl about my most special place everything began to come together in a final crescendo of painful pleasure. The pattern between my legs synced with the audio-visual attack and my prone bloated body gave in completely to my Punisher, relishing the madness of the unlikely union of masochist and sadist, torturer and tortured. At some unknown point I became one with them all and my fantasy ob-gyn chair launched me into the centre of our Galaxy where I became an infinitesimal yet essential part of the super-massive black hole that reigns therein.


My day as an orange monster was winding down. After a replenishing trip to the feeding stations of Level 4 our Matron had given me some time to relax and recover from my ordeals as a courier. She also saw to it that my required attendance in the Gymnasium was limited to the minimum one hour session which 367, the California Girl ensured I made the most of.

Now as Warden tightened the last of the rubber straps around my rubber sleepsack upon my rubber bed in which I was perfectly confined in my rubber nightsuit I wondered if perhaps our Chauffeuse had forgotten me or for some reason been unable to procure approval for our proposed tryst. I soon forgot all about it however, as I felt our Matron settling in by my side to continue her story where she had left off the previous evening:


The first meeting between the entrepreneur and the dancer ended harmlessly enough. A second date had been arranged at an aquarium a few days later and then a polite cheek-kiss was exchanged, although the accompanying hug might have been a little overdone on our heroine's behalf.

The ballerina walked back to her little apartment without thought of the ulterior motive behind her actions. She genuinely found the woman attractive and had enjoyed their time together. Perhaps she could have her cake and eat it too. The good woman sat on the subway in a fantasy of her own making and let her imagination go further than was prudent. Both in their own way were pretending, ignoring something within themselves.

That weekend, surrounded by giant walls of glass revealing huge tanks of fresh and salt water their paths further intertwined. The dancer was attracted to the gliding beauty of the captive creatures, giving little if any thought to their origin or treatment. The 'good' woman ignored her moral better sense, knowing full well that the exhibit probably entailed the torture of innocent creatures and the degradation of the natural environment. No, after the first hour of their second date she had fully succumbed to her fantasy, visions of sugarplums dancing in her entranced head. Both ladies had taken a little extra care in readying themselves for the occasion and they presented a lovely sight in the reflections that bounced off the shining walls of the creatures' prison.

Later at lunch they bonded further, finding shared interests and glossing over differences of opinion. They spoke of the dancer's role at the woman's subsidiary company and it was implied that she had been overlooked for advancement there just as she had been at the ballet. The ballerina didn't stress the point but had wanted to at least mention it. The topic soon changed and no suspicions had been aroused, just a first card played. Our heroine invited her fantasy to have dinner at her home on Friday evening and was enthusiastically accepted. Their parting hug lasted a good deal longer than their first one had.

During the following week the woman made inquiries at the subsidiary and noting the positive feedback and time of service of the bookkeeper deemed it reasonable to suggest a small raise and a fairly meaningful promotion. Given her position as head of the parent company the recommendations were implemented without question. She thought ahead to the moment when the dancer would learn of what had happened and smiled to herself, envisioning her gratitude. She justified her actions as legitimate which they probably were and ignored the small voice that questioned mixing business with pleasure in such a way: besides, she had a dinner to plan.

On Thursday afternoon as she always did, the ballerina left the company of swans for the company of clerks. The person who told her that the boss wanted to see her immediately had an unpleasant smirk on her face, as though expecting and hoping that the bookkeeper was in trouble. Ignoring her the dancer walked calmly towards the office, knowing that she was a good worker and that now she had a trump card up her sleeve as well. 'Maybe I'll get that bitch fired,' she mused, enjoying a rush of power. She thanked her boss politely upon hearing the not-so-unexpected news and promised that she wouldn't regret the decision, the cause for which was never mentioned. Returning to her station she decided to bring flowers as well as wine to dinner tomorrow and wondered how their third date might end. 

Everything was perfect in the entrepreneur's home. The caterers had delivered a fabulous looking meal that could be served whenever she chose. The personal assistant at the upscale boutique where she'd had her makeover was a genius and our heroine had never felt better dressed or polished in her life. The maid had appreciated an extra shift on top of her bi-weekly visits and the place was spotless. Although smaller than she could afford, her luxurious condo had wonderful views of the City and positively dwarfed the dancer's apartment. 

She was a little nervous though and decided to have a glass of wine to fill the forty-five minutes before her guest was to arrive. Third dates seem to carry a special meaning across many cultures and she felt like tonight might be an important moment in her life, one way or the other. She was correct.

Walking towards her destination from the subway the ballerina was impressed by what she already knew was a good neighbourhood. Some of the women's handbags were worth more than she earned in a month but it didn't depress her on this occasion. She harboured hope, and had already improved her lot. She wasn't inherently a bad person, she had simply taken the first steps on a path which incrementally led downward in ways difficult to discern when one was immersed within them. She wanted to be loved as we all do, and enjoyed the attentions of her admirer. It would never have occurred to her in a million years that she should, instead of walking through the gleaming entrance of the residence, pirouette in all due haste and flee the scene forever.

The evening went very well from both ladies' perspectives. The flowers were beautiful and appreciated and the wine delicious, pairing well with the wonderful meal. The ballerina gushed over the beautiful living space and its fine furnishings. She couldn't get enough of the panoramic views, returning multiple times to the giant windows, and contrasted them with the parking lot her one small opening looked out upon. Our heroine was more than pleased with the multiple compliments, particularly the ones directed to her appearance and she hadn't failed to notice that her guest had gone out of her way to look her best as well. At one point after dinner when the sun had just disappeared and left behind the most ephemerally radiant pink and orange wisps of cloud the dancer had ever seen, she touched her host's shoulder. That was the moment that her freedom was lost, possibly forever...

There's something magical about your first morning together. The delightful dishevelment alluding to the night that was, eating leftovers in t-shirts and panties, still smelling the other on one's own skin. Questions and inhibitions gone...a touch, a jest, a new chapter. The ballerina savoured her coffee mug in both hands, watching the clouds of fog play hide-and-seek with the buildings below her. The woman tidying up in the kitchen looked at her and a little tear of joy escaped from the corner of one eye.


"That's enough for tonight 123," Warden's voice had assumed its normal tone after the slightly affected but pleasant storyteller's one she had been using. I felt her rise and plant an affectionate kiss on my doubly-rubbered forehead and soon the heavy door to my cell closed with a muted vibration. I awaited the beloved clank of the deadbolt to seal me in but it never came. I waited, thinking perhaps she would re-enter having forgotten something but there was only silence. My heart leapt as the memory of Chaufeusse returned to me and I realized that our tryst was still afoot.


That first session with the Dominatrix changed something inside me forever. I had already been utterly enamoured and in awe of my new home and its residents and unthinkably bound to its leader, Zero (despite never actually having met her or even spoken to anyone of her existence), yet Warden 7 had taken me to yet another level on my unlikely journey. I recall lying in my cell that night, totally exhausted but not the least bit sleepy, relishing the afterglow of the experience without trying to understand or explain it. I just knew that I was to be here forever and could never possibly return to my old world.

Another first for me came on a day shortly thereafter. Our Warden had seen to it that I'd gotten a good night's rest after a rather relaxed preceding day, having intimated that I would need lots of energy for the morrow without revealing any particulars. As she released me from the heavy rubber bondage of my bed that morning some details began to emerge: I would be spending the bulk of the day on cleaning duties with Warden 3 as my guide and taskmaster. As our Matron helped me out of my overnight ensemble and into my shiny pink daysuit she praised the woman in charge of Level 3 but cautioned me to not only work hard but to pay particular heed to the smallest of details, for my administrator was extremely efficient and circumspect, and expected no less from her charges. Soon I was secured into one of the motorized chairs which took full control over my commute, delivering me punctually to the third floor where my day's duties were to commence.


I lay in the silent total darkness of my heavy rubber womb. The unlocked door of my cell weighed upon my thoughts. I felt so vulnerable: instead of the cozy safety of my beloved prison I seemed to be lying in the middle of the Agora, at the mercy of any stranger's whim. Added to that was the fact that I wouldn't be able to see or hear any warning of an approach. I couldn't relax at all and just hoped it would end sooner rather than later.

As if on cue I heard a faint knocking, followed by a quiet whisper. "I've let myself in 123, since you're in no position to greet me properly." I smiled happily as the voice of Chauffeuse lifted away all my anxieties at once. I felt her loosening the straps around my heavy rubber sleepsack and her monologue proceeded exactly as I had hoped it would. "Is my little bimbo-slut ready for her fucking? Are you moistening already, just hearing my voice? It's been so long since I first promised that I'd have my way with you and at last the moment has arrived." She continued to loosen me from my bonds and continued with her loose-lipped address, "It must have been hard for a whore like you to endure the endless you think of me when someone else is plundering you?

A lot of time has passed since I wrote the preceding paragraphs and I'm not certain if I can simply pick up where I left off. My writing privileges were taken away for an indeterminate number of weeks: not as punishment for any transgression but simply due to the reality of another stage of my indoctrination commencing. Previously (like most of the inmates who are in good standing with their superiors) I was given three hours once per week to indulge myself in any way I saw fit. I knew right away that writing about my experiences was what I wanted to do more than anything else: there is so little communication between the prisoners or between them and the Wardens that I felt a compelling need to share my thoughts and record the amazing events of my new life at ICRI. Even if they were never read by anyone else at least I could get them off my chest. The other girls chose various approaches to their weekly reprieve, each according to their own whims. Some spent time reviewing the events in the outside world and checking up on their former friends and family, although no communication was allowed of course. Others simply wanted to eat some real food and drink some wine, perhaps while watching a movie. A few, I have been told, wanted nothing to do with a three hour respite from their current lives and insisted on spending it in heavy rubber servitude, which corresponded nicely with the rare inmate who desired to 'see how the other half lived' and wanted to try her hand at domination rather than submission. Under strict supervision the latter were allowed to have their way with the former for a few hours each week, perhaps in hope of someday staying with the Institute in some capacity after their sentences were completed.

I simply typed. It seemed to go so well at first that I almost felt like my memoirs were writing themselves and I was simply the conduit through which they were flowing, in charge of no more than minor editing and grammar checking. One time there was a brief power outage when I was at my task and I lost multiple paragraphs of unsaved text which quite upset me but in hindsight seemed as though it were meant to be: the scene had gotten overly verbose to the point of indulgence and benefitted from a slimmed down rewrite. Now that my weekly three hour privilege has been restored however things seem different, like I have to fight and coerce every word of every sentence to appear, and as often as not have them deleted and written over again. Well, I plan to persevere through this if I can, perhaps it's just a stage that must be endured before the words begin to flow smoothly once more and I can continue to tell my story of what has happened...and what is yet to come.

Continues in


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