Gromet's PlazaLatex Stories

View of the Mountains II

by RbrBill

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© Copyright 2019 - RbrBill - Used by permission

Storycodes: Solo-M; M/f; F/m; latex; bond; outdoors; encased; vacuum; display; toys; cons; X

A continuation from "View of the Mountains" by Catsuitguy

In memory of Catsuit Guy. Someone who inspired me with e-mails and messages and whom I hoped to meet one day. This story continues one of his. I hope I do his remembrance justice with this tale.

View of the Mountains II

August 29, 2001 - My name is Bill Grant. This will be the final notation in this diary. It is appropriate that I close out this chapter during the actual Millennium Year (though 2000 was the chosen year for the world); three years after that fateful event took Richard Palmer, my employer from this life and took me to his house on Orcas Island. So many things happened since that day in February 1998 when I discovered his wife, Kristen sealed in a deprivation cylinder. Her sealed body obviously surrendered to the lusts of rubber as the computer systems took complete control of her life, her desire, and her pleasure.

I feel the time has come to close out this diary. I have come full circle. I look out the window at the water and the distant mountains. I look at the cylinder where Kristen has returned just this morning in the new suit we replaced based on the original specifications. We have determined to return to the Eros cylinders together in a permanence never imagined. Kristen is waiting for me to join her in the adjacent chamber. I look at the empty cylinder next to Kristen. My suit is an exact copy of the one we ordered in 1999 and that Richard made for her years ago (with obvious alterations for a male). I check the clock. Soon Ms. Curtiss, the trusted nurse, will arrive. I will be placed in my cylinder of lust and join Kristen…

Chapter 1, Discovery

February 27, 1999 –
Why did he pick me? I ask myself for the umpteenth time. Palmer owned the company. I thought I was but a minor engineer in the place. Actually, I don’t even do software. I am the facility manager of the company. I keep the building cool or warm. I keep the lights on. I keep the water flowing and the commodes flushing. I help design office spaces or additions for new employees. We have those aplenty with the boom. I negotiate real estate contracts for more office space. I’ve been tasked to look for a good site for a campus up near Canyon Park in Bothell. Now I am told to go to Orcas Island and carry out instructions relating to the home Palmer owns there. Since the wreck, the company has been in turmoil so I see this as a nice ferry ride away from the fray. All I know is nothing.

I arrive at the San Juan home of Richard Palmer after the short ferry ride from Anacortes. Before taking off to the house, I check with the local sheriff deputy. He has little interest in coming along since there has been no complaint filed or any strangers about. He is glad I check with him first and sends me on my way. The home is located on the northwest shore of Orcas Island, a little out of the town of Eastsound, east and through Buckhorn and a quick north to Cockerill Lane and turn right to the end of the road. I think of Eastsound and what it means to me from many years of ordering items from SOA, Slimwear of America. Fortunately the driveway is the end of the road since the nondescript mailbox proclaiming “Palmer” is almost invisible.

I approach the cabin – large home actually and wonder if Kristen Palmer is inside and if so, why she has been silent since the accident. The store in town gossip tells me she was here last summer but not since. Is her mysterious disappearance something locked inside the comatose head of Richard? I park and get out of the car. The gravel crunches beneath my feet as I walk to the steps. The view is inspiring - trees, the Sound, and the mountains in the distance; Mount Baker white against the gray sky looms in the distance. I take the ring of keys and begin to try them in the lock. The second key turns the cylinders and I swing the door open. The door opens onto the large entry with the sunken living room and massive fireplace. I step inside. An urge to remove my shoes comes over me and I find myself in my stocking feet. I don’t know why but it seems right not to soil this sumptuous place with outside soil. “So this is how the mighty live,” I think.

I know Richard Palmer is a giant in the software business. His story is well known and somewhat tragic. The loss of his first wife to the drunk. His complete immersion in his start-up company and the unimaginable success, his new wife and then the wreck that left him in a coma. Now today, I am at the island getaway to clear up any loose matters relating to this property and its liquidity for creating the trust needed for Palmer’s continued care. All chances are good that the personal property will be safe, though many of the stock assets may need to be sold. This home is paid in full so I only note the annual property tax as a liability.

I walk past the kitchen island and breakfast nook to the study/library/den. I notice the computer is running but in a screen saver mode. Odd, the computer is on since he was last here? He was last here about three weeks ago. So why is the computer on? I walk to the desk and move the mouse to restore the screen. Before me I see a series of moving lines, exactly like you find in a hospital intensive care unit. The lines aren’t labeled but I see one must be monitoring a heart, one respiration, one seems to be temperature. There are two human figures below the lines, one frontal view and one profile view. The shape of the chest in profile seems to be female. As I watch, I wonder what the light blue forms represent or maybe better – who?

The computer drive emits the low hum of the hard drive running some unknown program. The light blue colors change to green, then a little yellow develops on the chest of the figure, the crotch begins to turn yellow and red starts to mix with the yellow and grows in a wider arch and then everything stops. The colors begin to fade as the respiration surges and ebbs slightly, the heart rate surges and fades, then the colors change to the yellow and red glows again. This time the side view of the figure shows the color changes in the rear and the frontal regions. The frontal view shows the growing glow and the red shifts to a bright pink then holds…fades to red and back to yellow. The upper colors continue to pulsate between red and yellow to red. I stand fascinated. The third time the cycle seems to bring the graphic to even higher levels of color. The reds and pink are spreading brightly from the location for the genitalia. The hot tips on the chest spread. The colors push the cooler greens and blue out to the limits of the figure then the bright pink suddenly shifts to a violet hue that bursts forth to flood out all of the other colors. The colors freeze for long seconds and the pulsing battle of the rainbow ebbs and flows across the human shape before the slow receding of the colors back through the spectrum of yellow to green to blue mimics the ebb of the tide on the beach just beyond the living room window.

I think of severe weather radar images as the storms build and release the pent-up energy of the atmosphere. The realization that I am witness to some sort of sexual storm grips my vitals. I get that sudden twist of the stomach which comes from unexpected and sudden arousal as my cock surges inside my clothes. I hold onto the desktop to recover my senses and I feel my breathing (which became more rapid while I watched the computer) slow. I see additional graphs trace three movements. As the vital signs recede to some semblance of normalcy, these three lines seem to be working overtime doing something… what?

Where is the object of this mechanical attention located? What imagination conjured a system that seems to be in complete control of someone’s carnal urges? How complete is the control? Is the object of attention reduced to complete dependence on the system? Is it Kristen that the system has aroused and brought to obvious orgasmic explosion? I check some data log entries and realize the programming has been running since late August. It is now almost March. This system has been doing this stimulation for six months! My gawd, can she still be alive after six months? She must be! What a dumb question since I witnessed a very real responsiveness to some sort of arousal programming.

I head down the hall. There are doors to the right that are laundry, linen closet and spare room. The two doors to the left open into rooms that face the water. Since I am at the back of the hall, I open the second door first to reveal a large four poster bed. It is empty and obviously the master suite. I’ll check it out fully later. First I have to find the person attached to the computer, if she is in the house. I think that the computer could be running a program to some remote location. I try the last door, the first one to the left when entering the hall from the living room. It’s locked. I take the ring of keys and try a couple of keys before finding the one that opens the door. The door swings open. I see the most unusual, amazing, inspiring, incredible… what word describes such a sight… object I have seen in my life to this time.

A large cylinder made from Plexiglas stands before the windows looking out on the Sound. More amazing, is the female form trapped inside the cylinder, suspended in some sort of clear material. The female is completely encased in rubber… shiny black rubber head to toe inside of a clear rubber bag. Tubing and all sorts of umbilical cords pass through the bag and out through the cylinder walls. Some of these pass through the floor to some location below. Wires snake along the floor to a remote control unit. This unit seems to be a wireless transmitter that links the computer in the study to the business end of the “Eros” stimulation system. A second set of monitors are near the transmitter. A lounge chair sits strategically positioned so the occupant can see the cylinder and the monitoring screen without moving the head.

I hear pumps quietly humming. I see stuff moving inside the tubing. The body before me is completely immobile. I realize that even the slightest movement is impossible for the captive inside the cylinder. Six months she’s been inside this contraption. Six months of having the stimulation and how often does it cycle? How many times has she orgasmed inside her prison? How numb are her senses? How lucid can her thoughts be?

I remember dabbling with sensory deprivation as part of my own personal fantasies. I even do “total enclosure” regularly. In my case, I still have senses, though dulled. The total touch of the latex typically fades as I wear my clothes for long periods of time and but to be incased in this manner? McGarrett in that one Hawaii 50 episode leaps into my thoughts. The Cardinal of the Kremlin and the tank used to break someone comes to mind… sensory deprivation is a mind breaking experience. Sensory deprivation with regular sexual stimulation to the point of repeated explosive orgasm and knowing one’s body is completely encased in rubber and plastic… what does that do?

For those of you who didn’t figure it out, I am a rubberiest – an enthusiast of wearing rubber and latex clothing. SOA was a company that sold latex through mail order. Most of the stuff they made was “okay” but not spectacular. This discovery in the cabin has completely blown me away! I head for the master suite to see if there are other surprises.

Rubber for the Ages

I open the large walk-in closet and find a rubberist’s dream. The hangars are filled with latex catsuits, shirts, trousers, jackets and coats. The predominant colors are black, red, white and transparent. The shelves contain drawers that I open to find an inventory of underwear (with different options attached), hoods, gloves, stockings, leggings, tee shirts and such. There are chest and hip waders, Wellington boots and high-heel boots under the hanging gear. A couple of wading suits hang in one corner. I open wooden chest/bench to find gas masks, and respirators. There are two or three vintage drysuits in one corner. This is a treasure trove of desire for a dedicated rubberist. Now my desires peak as I look at the gear and I think, “What harm to try some on?”

I select some appropriate under things, a drysuit, a catsuit, gas mask, some hoods and gloves and a wader suit to try. I already noticed that Palmer and I are close to the same build, though I may be slightly taller than he and a little thicker in the waist, though not too different to make wearing his gear impossible. Forty minutes later I am in rubber, layers of the stuff. I feel the pressure of breathing through the restriction of the gas mask filter. My heavy breathing whooshes in my ears. Most other sound is dulled. I am in three fairly heavy layers of rubber, not including the odd bits under the suits. To reach this point, I stripped after selecting the weapons of my fetishist desire. I picked cock and ball sheath bike shorts with an attached anal plug, stockings, leggings with feet, shoulder length gloves, tee shirt, one vintage drysuit (trousers and shirt with hood), a black catsuit with full face hood, gloves and feet, a wader suit with attached gauntlets, hood with gag, and black Russian gasmask.

After a quick shower and good dousing of powder, I pulled on the stockings, gloves and tee shirt. Before the stocking could fall down, I pulled up the bike shorts. I worked my cock and balls through the small opening in the shorts and let them settle into their cozy rubber home. I liberally, lubed up the plug and tried to relax enough to push the thing inside my rear. It was a struggle and also fairly new sensation to feel the sphincter stretched to accommodate the intruder. I let the shorts settle close to my body. I pulled on the tee shirt and leggings, tucking the shirt into the top of the leggings. I was effectively encased in rubber but obviously not enough to satisfy a total enclosure fetishist. I took the catsuit and easily slipped it over my rubbery legs. The ease that the suit stretched and covered me sent shivers of anticipation through me. The slight tightness of the suit pressed against my skin and a warm glow flowed from my being. I pulled another hood over my head and made sure the short nose tubes from the catsuit hood fit into the nose opening of the outer hood. I inserted the attached gag of this hood and pumped the thing up to fill my mouth.

I pulled up the drysuit trousers, medium weight rubber pants with attached booties and long skirt to roll with the top to form a watertight seal. I slipped on another pair of gloves then pulled the drysuit shirt over my head. Adjusting the shirt arms and smoothing it out took time. I pulled the top of the trousers down and pulled the shirt skirt even with the rolled down bottoms. Rather than rolling the things together (as would be the normal case) I chose to make two folds of the rubber to form a sandwiched seal affect. Since watertight sealing of this suit wasn’t a priority (but bulk reduction was) this option worked best for my plan. I pulled back the attached drysuit hood and pulled the gasmask over my head and pulled the drysuit hood in place.

I picked up the wader suit and readied to enter it. This marvelous piece of rubber fetish wear is a heavy catsuit with attached boots and gloves. It has a drysuit zipper across its back. I realized to get this suit on I would have to remove the gasmask. I looked at the other wader suit in the closet and discovered it had shoulder entry zippers. This one could be put on without having to stretch a neck opening. I decided it would do. I filed away the thought to plan better the next time I decided to do this, something I knew I would. I pulled the wader suit onto my feet and worked the waist and legs slowly up my body. The waist slipped over my hips and sealed to the drysuit. As I expected, the tight fitting outer suit would assist in completing a watertight seal on the drysuit. I slipped my arms into the sleeves of the suit and worked it to my shoulders. Next I tugged at each zipper closing the suit from shoulders to the high collar neck.

On a whim, I searched the gear drawers for something to lock it all in place. I found a thick open face hood with an attached posture collar. The thing seemed to be designed to lock the head (and anything on the head) beneath its thick rubber skin. The thickened collar had some sort of steel hinged rubber coating. It had a spring locking device at the throat and keys were in the lock cylinder. The idea of locking this thing and sending the keys off on a journey went through my head, but I wasn’t really prepared for such long term enclosure. For that would take days to prepare when considering the fasting, the enema and cleansing of the intestines and such. I settled for locking the hood in place and putting the keys away. Though this unsatisfactory compromise was needed, I still felt a tingle as the locking device snapped shut and I thought of doing it more permanently some other day. That day would come too. I knew it.

I return to the room where Kristen is the centerpiece of a rubber fetish dream. I check her systems and see that everything is “normal”. There is nothing to do but sit and wait. I am so aroused inside the suits that I want to cheat and wank myself off NOW! But I am forced to wait. I decided while I was putting the stuff on that I would not pleasure myself until the program pleasured Kristen again. So I wait. The heavy breathing is in my head. The constant pressure of layers is slowly dulling my senses. My hearing is next to nothing, only the whoosh of air in and out of the gas mask. I hear the popping of the mask valves. I can barely see out of the hoods and mask, but I see what I need… the cylinder and the monitor.

I taste rubber in my mouth. I smell a slight whiff of rubber from the tubing of the mask. I wait. I watch the gray clouds beyond the cylinder. I wait.

The monitor is the dull blue. The heart rate and breathing is regular. The cylinder curve magnifies the sealed body inside. I walk to the cylinder and caress the smooth wall. I feel the cool surface beneath the multiple rubber layers on my fingers. I slowly walk around the cylinder, marveling at its engineering. The seam where the umbilical emerges is almost flawless in its fit. Only close inspection reveals it. The rubber grommet forms the needed seal that allowed the clear mixture of (what) to fill the cylinder. I guess it is wax, or maybe some mixed compound. My engineering experience reminded my of the two chemical compounds that are mixed to form seals in sewer pipes. The stuff reaches a composition not dissimilar to hard rubber. It is a bit brittle. It doesn’t bounce… in fact it shatters when dropped… but for this purpose, it would be perfect, though not as clear. Maybe a clear, more pure version of the stuff is available.

Now I concentrate on the figure inside. Through the transparent bag that so tightly fits to her body is a true vision for a rubberist. There is perfection in the obviously lovingly shined rubber. The rubber hooded head inside the bag is completely gagged and tubes emerge from the mouth and nose. (Note to self – must determine where all of the life support tubing goes) These tubes fit into a rubber sleeve that runs down her front and passes between her legs. I note another tube at the shoulder. This is some sort of IV tube (?) and it joins the breathing and mouth tubes in the sleeve. On her rear, the front sheath joins a larger sheath with a cluster of bundled wires and tubes coming from the lower body. The rubber hose fits through a gasket in the bag and out of the cylinder grommet. Any long-term/permanent enclosure obviously needs this sort of system to maintain regular body maintenance.

I concentrate on the hooded head inside the bag. The clear bag is so perfectly contoured that there is no wrinkle in its skin. It could be glued to the head. She is so perfectly still inside her amber prison. Now I see her as inside amber. She is a stunning jewel sacrifice to the altar of rubber. I stroke the cylinder and yearn to reach inside to touch her rubberized face. The silent black face seems so serene. There is no movement. There can be no movement, I know. But still I see the serenity as the woman inside the prison let the thing be filled. I noted the heavy plastic plate on her chest that keeps the bag slightly away from her body. That is how protection from suffocation due to too tight a seal was achieved. Again the engineering of this was well thought through. It took time and money to achieve this ultimate pinnacle of fetish triumph.

As I study the head, I note a slight twitch in the larger than life magnified cheek. The tick is ever so slight, almost inconsequential and certainly almost undetectable. It’s just a slight quiver. I look at the readout console and sure enough the colors are changing. She is being taken into another erogenous cycle. I can almost see muscular strain in the sheathed body… just almost, more perceived that actual. I note a switch that reads “audio” above it. I switch the switch and speakers erupt with thick breathing. Obviously, the inside of the cylinder is wired to pick up the thick breathing. This IS absolutely the most erotic encounter of my life. I stagger to the chair and find my seat as I witness her increased breathing. The monitor also records the thump-thump of her heart as there must be some sort of ultra-sound device implanted inside the suit.

I can hear muffled grunts and groans from the gagged mouth but no movement allowed… only that slight tensioning of jaw and tick in the cheek exposes the ordeal beneath the surface. I surge with carnal lust as I watch and listen in fascination. The system seems to pause. It must have sensors that shut down the stimulation as the muscles contract around the ass and vulva. The panting continues. I can visualize sweat pouring from inside the suits. I feel my own sweat pouring forth. I hold my breath as I wait. The system sensing the slight relaxation again assaults its victim. The breathing grows hard and fast. The thump, thump, thump of the heart quickens. The temperatures rise and the colors blossom from the nether regions. Then the system shuts off the stimulation again. I switch off the sound for a time to listen to the silence. The silence belies the torment that must be going on inside that cocoon. I see the respiration slow slightly.

“Does the system program always tease and deny?” I ask myself. My cock is aching for relief but I vow to hold until the trapped goddess is sated. I hold. My cock quivers inside its prison of rubbery layers. I rub my chest through the layers. I feel the growing desire. My own breathing is rapid and shallow. The mask is sucking to my face with each breath. I see the colors changing again. This time I watch in the silence that only my own breathing and heart interrupts. I study the trapped form closely, looking for any sign of the storm exploding through the body. This is the third time she is carried to the abyss and allowed to look into its depths and again the system shuts down. When I first came into the house and saw this, the system carried to orgasm that third time. Obviously, it is a random generated program. How many times does it tease her before final release this time?

I switch on her sound and hear rasping gasps from the breathing tubes. I hear a low guttural rumble from her gagged throat. She is in obvious ecstatic agony. She must be completely frustrated by the mechanical unpredictability of the system. It doesn’t think, it doesn’t feel, it just runs programs. Well, this is one heck of a devil’s program running! Again the system starts to launch an assault on its victim. I see the colors changing and the breathing harsh and raspy and fast. The heart rate quickens again. The colors radiate from the four points of attack. The colors change to that pink to violet and spread way beyond the previous times and suddenly the breath holds… holds… hold then… the heavy concealed ummmpphhhhh as she is driven over the edge. Perhaps her sanity is already gone as I watch the bag for any outward sign of the storm raging under the rubber.

I feel my own surge as I explode into the sheath beneath my rubber clothes. I have my first spontaneous cum in years as I watch this animal/mechanical display. The system does not shut down this time, though. I see the flow of stuff into her rear as a cooling front against the heat, but the obvious massaging continues and soon she is rasping in a second and even more violent explosion. Her heart races, her breathing races. I wonder how she can handle the attack! And to my amazement, I find a second explosion rushing from my cock as I watch. I can only sit there in stunned fascination. I hear the pump as distant whirs as the display slowly reverts to the “normal” state. I note stuff moving through tubes into the bag. This must be some sort of programmed response to feed and water as she returns from her carnal passage. How many times a day does this happen? And this has been going on for six months… Is there really a person still inside the suit?

I have that rush to get out of the clothes that always accompanies release. I wait for the feeling to pass as I am not quite ready to return to the outside world. I decide to explore the house more closely. This time I find the stairs to the basement. Do I find a dungeon in its depths? Are there additional signs of the heavy bondage that seems to mark the relationship of these two people? I feel a tinge of trespassing on some extreme personal corner of strangers’ lives. I find the basement to be remarkably normal and drab. It is standard concrete walls and floor with no real additional accoutrements. The exceptions are three tanks sitting under the section of ceiling that corresponds to the room above that holds Kristen and a series of pumps that feed the tubing passing above. One tank is green. One is brown. One is blue. The green and blue ones are smaller than the brown tank. There is a gauge on the side of each tank that shows fluid levels inside. The green and blue tanks show reasonably high levels. The blue tank is labeled, “Water”. The tank appears to have a feed from the outside waterlines. It must just be a holding tank and maybe a tank in case of an emergency that might shut off the water supply.

The green tank is labeled, “Coolant”. It seems to be a closed system though I imagine an occasional replacement of the fluids might be needed. The fluid seems to pass through a heat exchange unit and above the unit sits a small box with tubes extending to the ceiling. I note that the box is warm from the heat exchange process working to keep the coolant cold. One end of the box has tubing coming from a set of nearby Hepa filters. I open the box and find it is lined with a series a rubber baffles that form a maze from the filter tubes to the tube passing through the ceiling. I remove the filter cylinder from my mask and sniff at the box. A heavy scent of warm rubber assails my nose. I put the filter back on and close the lid.

Obviously, this is the air Kristen breathes. So she lives with rubbery scented air flowing into her mind. Now I wonder at the exhales, where they must go as the long tubing would cause a dangerous build-up of stale air under normal conditions. But then a small thumping sounds starts and I see the air tubing pulsating as some air pump purges the system of dangerous CO2. Sensors must reside in the tubing near Kristen and when the levels get close to dangerous; the pumps deliver fresh air and expel the stale air in the tubing, probably through a pressure valve that only opens when the pump is running. The pump only runs a few seconds. It’s easily conceivable that the system clears the airways without Kristen even being aware of the interruption in her air. Are there back-ups to this delicate system?

I climb back up the stairs. My exertions in the suits are taking a toll. I return to the “room” and settle into the chair as the gray outside turns to black. I fall asleep in the chair and suits. I wake to a parched throat. I feel lightheaded and know that I am verging on dehydration. I find the key to the collar/hood. I remove the bondage hood, pull back the drysuit hood and pull off the gas mask. I remove deflate the gag and remove the hood to expose my mouth. I find bottles of sports drink in the refrigerator and using a rubber tube as a straw swill a quart of the stuff without pause. I take a second and third bottle with me to the “room” to lounge in reverie and slowly drink the fluid. I don’t feel hungry though it’s been about eight hours since I plunged into the rubbery world I found here. I note that the program seems to have cycled through another orgasm while I was dozing and the water and food cycles are working again. I wonder if there is a sleep cycle for the system when the system leaves her alone in her own dreams.

I finish my second drink and head for the basement again. This time I look at the brown tank. It is labeled, “Food”. I note that its gauge indicates the tank is about one quarter full. This tank must require a filling on a regular basis. A quick calculation tells me the filling schedule is monthly and it will be due next week. I hunt around the basement and spy some flour sacks in a shelved storage space off the main floor. In addition to the sacks, I see boxes of vitamins and nutritional supplements. I find a log book with some notations in it. The first three entries indicate different mixes of the dry items stored on the shelves and water. The final two entries indicate the mixture was fine-tuned in some way and are the same. I see some shorthand notations in the columns next to the entries where changes were made.

Outside of the room I note a large vat with built-in electrical heating element. I read the label on one of the large sacks and find that it’s not flour but a sort of nutritional milkshake mix. The instructions indicate the stuff has a very long shelf life in its dry state but when mixed with milk, must be consumed within hours or kept chilled. When mixed with water it lasts over a month but there is a cautionary statement that its flavor is pretty nasty when mixed with water. I assume that taste is not a concern in the system. Do I go ahead and refill the food tank today or come back next week. I decide that having to come back in a week gives me the needed excuse to explore this place further.

Note to self, “Do not give the keys to this place to anyone. Find an excuse to hold them as the property manager for the trust.”

Chapter 2, Preparations and Transitions

March 6, 1999 –
I am returning to the “Little Rubber House on the Island”. Of course it isn’t all that “little”. This time I am ready with some plans of my own. My first stop is Friday Harbor. As the designated executor of the specified section of the Trust, I have no trouble changing over the home title to Kristen Parker. Since she was already on the deed, I have a power of Attorney and a Letter of Instruction, I am able to complete the process releasing the Trust from any ownership and liability to the property and assigning it to me as the legal representative of Kristen Palmer. It is a sensible precaution since the comatose condition of Palmer is so uncertain. The move protects the property from potential liquidation should the financial situation change for the worse.

* * * * *

Earlier in the week, I informed the Trustees of this plan after the lawyer for the Trust showed me the governing section in Palmer’s Will. He said the request made no practical sense since Palmer wasn’t gone yet, but the Will had been read once the indefinite state of the coma was confirmed just in case some obscure relative was mentioned. The lawyer had drawn up the Will but did not remember the Section 3 clause. He had hesitated to reveal its full implication until after my first trip to the property. He didn’t add that a quick background check was done on me during the week after the first trip. I was a bit miffed that they didn’t tell me last week why I was ordered to the house, though my discoveries were all the more surprising since it made no sense until I saw the prize.

The Will specified in Section 3, “The property on Orcas Island located at 503 Cockerill Lane, Buckhorn, San Juan County, Washington will be given to wife and consummate soul mate Kristen Palmer regardless of any knowledge of her whereabouts or location. The executor of this section of the Will, upon assignment will find appropriate instructions as to any items and property located on the premises of said property. Only the designated executor shall have access to the property until such time as he deems to allow other visitors. The execution of the terms or conditions of these instructions is subject to interpretation of the executor based on the best interest of the designated beneficiary of the property, Kristen Palmer. In the event of my incapacitation, this Section of the Will shall be implemented, regardless of my condition as long as said condition has been deemed by competent authority to be of a length potentially in excess of two weeks. This section must be executed within two days of the initial reading of the Will.

The designated executor of this section of the Will shall be William Grant. Said executor shall remain in the employ of XETAL (or the Trust responsible for the execution of this Will) with salaried compensation in the amount of $10,000 per month. Employment shall be for the sole and exclusive purpose of conducting all business associated with the execution of this section. An annual report of expenses detailing the purposes shall be maintained for future audit purposes at a time of the death of Kristen Palmer or the conclusion of the circumstances relating to this section. Costs in excess of $15,000 per item shall require prior approval of the XETAL Board or the Trust.”

The trustees first were reluctant since Richard was not dead and Kristen was missing. I pointed out the Will had the missing part contingency covered. I further explained that I understood the reason for the conditions of the Will from my first visit to the Island. I explained that the property had to be protected from any change in the Trust. Some of the Trustees wanted to see the property. I quickly pointed out that the Will stipulated that only the designated executor for this part of the Will would be allowed to visit the property until such time as I determined other visitors were allowed. Now it was their turn to be miffed but the lawyer pointed out that they had to submit to my decision.

I left the meeting with a limited Power of Attorney “to handle all transactions and legal matters as it pertained to the property located at 503 Cockerill Lane, Buckhorn, Washington, Tax Parcel 170723001000.”

* * * * *

I am here. This time I have fasted for two days. I plan to spend several days here learning everything I can about my new life. I first check the computer system and the cylinder. The computer is more important as it tells me immediately that breathing, heart and temperature are pretty much normal. I caress the cylinder and look at the suspended figure. Later, Bill!

I head for the basement and check on the food supply. As expected the gauge shows the tank is very low, almost empty. I contemplate fixing the mush now and decide that this is a job better done in rubber. Sure it’ll be hot but that’s part of the fun. I head upstairs for the master bedroom. I swing into the spare room a minute since it really didn’t get a good look by me the last visit. It has a closet as well. I open it to reveal much the same in terms of a rubber collection as in the master bedroom closet, but for a woman. So Kristen is well supplied with other latex too.

I enter the master suite and check the gear more closely. I find what I seek, a cock and ball sheath and urine relief tube and a hollow butt plug. The plug has a flexible rubber extension about three fourths of an inch long with a threaded fitting on the end. I find a catsuit with a reinforced ring that will fit the rear tube and a convenience zip in front. The ring has a twist-lock seal that matches the twist-lock on the brief. The catsuit has attached feet, gloves and hood. I’ll be able to wear this suit 24/7 during my stay while adding any outer layers as appropriate. I find that one of the drysuits has a fluid-tight through crotch convenience zipper. This can be worn along with the catsuit. The third wader suit (I wondered about the number of similar suits last week) has the same rear watertight entry as the first one I tried last week. It also has the convenience zipper. I don’t know if the intent was to be able to wear them all together since the zippers can be bulky, but I decide to try. I search through the attachments for the hollow plug tube and find a one-foot long rubber tube with a threaded plug on one end and the mating threads for the brief tube on the other. Perfect. I can screw this onto the short tube of the briefs and have it available for that sort of need.

This time I plan out the headwear a bit better. I won’t put on the gasmask until after I have the wader suit on. I look for a gas mask that has a drinking tube. Regrettably, this mask isn’t as nice (from a rubberist’s point of view) as the Russian mask but it will do. The mask is a modified M-17A, the modification being a heavy rubber hood attached to the faceplate. I check for filters and find none. The inlet ports are threaded and I quickly find black hoses designed to screw into the ports. There are filter canisters that can be attached to the end of the hoses. I also see how the hoses can be fitted onto air respirator tanks that are stored in the corner. The certified air pump is in the basement for refilling the tanks. I guess that eliminates questions at the local dive shop. I set out for the task in hand… converting myself into a rubber slave.

A little under two hours completes my transformation. There is no need in details since I pretty much follow the same process as before. The difference being the tubing of the brief is curled between my legs. I still have the stocking, gloves and tee shirt on but not the leggings. The gag in the chosen hood is solid and has a pass-through tube that I learn from a quick test mates to the drinking tube in the gasmask – clever. After I put on the wader suit, I pulled the gas mask on and tuck the rubber skirt of the mask inside the drysuit. I pull the drysuit hood up and add the heavy hood/collar I used last week.

Now the additional thrill… I put the keys (keys to the hood/collar and keys to the zipper runner lock on the wader suit) into an envelope. I carefully address the envelope to this house. I address a larger envelope to the XETAL. I add a note to wait until March 10 to drop the enclosed into the mail. I sign the note (rather sloppily); in fact I look at the penmanship of it all and even wonder if the mail will make it through to the recipients. I gather my thoughts knowing that the next step is pretty irreversible. I sit the lumpy envelope on the secretary’s table in the entry hall and head to the kitchen. I find a bottle of wine and pull its cork. I fit a rubber extension to the drinking tube and settle into the chair in the “Room”. I sip the drink and watch the monitor. I watch Kristen inside her cylinder. I look out on the sight of the Sound and mountains. I take another sip of the wine. The clock on the wall indicates it is 2:30.

I get up from the chair and approach the cylinder. I look through its filled interior and try to reach inside the sealed chamber and rubber to find the soul that chose this isolating and erotic entrapment. I sip the wine. Odd to taste such a fine wine with a rubbery tinge… Note to self, fine wine is better drunk without a drinking tube but maybe not as fun. I see the monitor system begin to cycle into the Eros phase. I watch as the minute pulsing of the cheek muscles reveal the building passion inside the bag from the mechanically controlled lust.
“She won’t be able to walk or move,” I think. “Muscular atrophy will surely be advanced from this imprisonment. My plan to remove her has to be very carefully thought out.”
I wonder why I was chosen to execute this part of the Will. I am not only the right person for the job… I am the perfect person for the job.

I feel my warmth building inside the layers but too many thoughts are rushing into my head. I decide to take a walk. Pleasure can come later. I have a week for that. I find a heavy rubber Mac in the rear closet and pull it over my suit. I pull the attached hood over my head and open the back door. I follow the path down to the beach. Along the way I pass a small out building. I look inside and see a generator and a substantial fuel tank – enough for many days, maybe weeks - in the corner so backup power is covered. The wind is blowing hard as a March storm is coming in from the North. I see dark clouds blowing across the channel. A rain squall blots out the coast on the other side of the channel and advances toward my spot. I sit on a driftwood log and wait for the rain to reach me.

The drumming rain fills my head as heavy drops turn to rivulets of water rolling down the protective slicker. Drops distort my vision as I peer out onto the grayness from behind the gas mask lenses. The waves slap the shore as a rising tide is pushed by the wind. I watch as the water reaches my spot then begins to cover my booted feet. I want to splash in the shallows like a giddy school boy without a care. I dance in the water, turning and stomping at the gravelly shelf. I slip and fall on my ass…thump and GAWD, that thing inside me sure does let its presence be known when I sit too hard. I slowly pull myself to my knees and then heft myself up to my feet. The squall passes. I look up and down the secluded beach. Gladly, the shore is empty. The nearest building is at least a mile away. The property is so secluded. I have no worry of someone questioning what I am.

I wash off the saltwater from my clothes. I clean the boots using the high pressure garden hose while standing on the concrete patio. Satisfied that I am clean of any Puget Sound stuff, I head for the door. Back inside, I remove the coat and shake it out. I hang it to dry and shake excess water from my boots. I find an old towel and dry myself off. I think it’s funny to dry off the outer layers of rubber. But I must maintain household order. I walk through to the foyer and there is the secretary’s table and the envelope. I can end the decision now. I can leave the envelope here and know that I can release myself at any time. I can take the envelope to a mailbox and my fate is sealed as the thing drops into the black maw of the box. The nearest mailbox is in Buckhorn. I can safely navigate my car that distance, even dressed in heavy rubber. Still I hesitate. I surprise myself at this hesitation. I’ve been a dedicated total enclosure enthusiast for years. I’ve frozen keys in gallon jugs. I’ve put keys in the front yard of my house in the morning and waited until dark to retrieve them. I’ve spent two days enclosed while on business travel. All of these times were without the benefit of the relief tubes I now have. I remember how seemly it was when removing the gear. The last couple of layers were always removed in the shower to wash out the multi-day waste that always filled the inner layers. Up to ten days with relief tubing seems easy by comparison. Still I feel that twist in knowing the singular completeness of the act once the envelope disappears into the box. Sure, I can always cut off the outer layers in an emergency but a last resort to be sure.

I go back to Kristen and seek support from her example. I go to the table and retrieve the envelope. I slice open the outer envelope and pull out the note. Today is March 6. I scratch through the March 10 and write March 31. I add my initials to the new date. I make a note to not expect me in the office until after April 6 (subject to change). I address a new envelope to XETAL and add $2.00 in stamps. I place the envelope on the desk again. The Room is dark as the heavy clouds have smothered the outside light in a thick gray blanket. I take up the wine bottle and sip from the tube. I look again into the cylinder. My gloved hands lightly stroke the smooth, cool surface. I try to reach into her thoughts again. Maybe my experiment I plan will help. Decision time! I walk to the kitchen island and sweep my car keys into my hand, and turn for the foyer.

Five minutes pass (according to the dash clock) and I sit at the blue box outside of the local store. A few residents are driving by. I do not know if they see the rubber alien inside this car clearly. I open the window and reach out to the box opening. The rush of sexual lust rises as I reach for the opening. My hard member surges inside the layers as I hesitate to drop the envelope. The thing in my ass shifts as I lean toward the box, sending an additional thrill through my insides. I hesitate as thoughts rush through my head. I pull my hand away as I listen to the wipers thumping out a beat and watch another pickup truck slowly roll past. I reach out to the box again. This time the shifting wand inside my ass propels me to action. I drop the envelope into the greedy mouth. I feel as if the thing is sucked from my hand and I explode in immediate sexual release, my sheathed tool pumping my load into the protective rubber. WOW, I never expected the mere dropping of mail into a postal box could be so exciting! I pant in the mask and wait to settle into a more normal state before navigating my way back to the house. My fate is sealed for a month.

Diary Entries for a Rubbery Month

(Note – Daily entries were made but only highlighted ones are recorded here)
03/06/1999, 2300: Time to recap the events since dropping the envelope. I return to the house. I check in on Kristen and find she is in another Eros cycle. This time I cannot help but surge to the moment as I realize my own entrapment is nearly as permanent. I lean heavily against the cylinder and rub myself against it (as if the mere touch of the cylinder connects me to the hidden woman inside). I explode as the monitor sends the rushing violet/red/pink through display.

I go to the basement to prepare the food supply for Kristen. It is cumbersome to work the heavy bag of Nutri-Shake to the vat. I cut it open and dump the contents into the vat of hot water. The stuff sinks into the deep tub and I drop the mixing machine blades into the mix. I switch the device and find a box of vitamin supplement to add. I read the table entry for an amount to add. The measuring cup helps and I can see well enough to pour the stuff into the mix. I add a second dose of supplement from another box. And finally the third iron/calcium supplement. I realize that much of this stuff will ward off the routine malnutrition problems but the muscular atrophy still is in the back of my head. I must research that before the week is over. I watch the mixture blend together into its brown mushy consistency. The brown tank seems so right for this stuff. Ten minutes of cooking and it’s ready for cooling. I figure that cooling is good since the food cycle might kick in soon after I put it in the tank. A too hot mush doesn’t strike me as good for Kristen. Warm mush is probably okay. I clean up the mess and feel complete exhaustion from my labors. The suits are hot and I need fluid badly. I swill sports drink and rest for a moment as the stuff is cooling. To aid in its cooling, I’ve let the mixer continue to stir.

I head upstairs and settle into the chair in the Room. It is dark. Only a light in the back of the house provides shadowy illumination. The blinds are open and the dark outside is unrelenting. The cylinder casts a shadow from the light down the hall. Shadowy corners conceal all manner of ghosts and goblins. This is my first night staying here as the last visit ended when I caught the last ferry to the mainland. Rubbery thoughts fill my head. Kristen in her isolation fills my head. I sip at the sports drink. The rubber tube adds that distinctive flavor to the fruity mix. The computer cycle seems to be dragging the helpless statue through another massive orgasm. My member stirs but is limp as I am completely exhausted from the explosion at the mail box, the second cum shortly after getting back to the house and the work in the basement.

I stumble to the basement and check the pasty gruel. I sip it through my drinking tube and find it warm, but not exceedingly warm. It tastes like pasty chocolate (chalk maybe), not my favorite flavor. I expect that doesn’t matter to Kristen since I bet she is directly fed to the stomach. I roll the vat to the tank and push the filler hose into the mix. The filling pump sucks the stuff into the tank. Finished I hose out the vat. I use a long-handle brush to scrub the thing with soapy water and rinse it out. I am now completely exhausted. I head to the computer room to make this diary entry. I think I’ll have little trouble finding sleep in the rubbery sheets of the bed.

2330: I think this entry shows what will be my typical daily routine for the next month.

0430: I wake from light sleep needing to pee. What a way to start. I stumble to the bathroom and open the three zips to release the tube and let go. The stuff is a wonderful mix of piss and cum. What a lovely thought. I seal myself back and return to bed. I quickly determine that I’ve slept all I can since I am now completely aroused by being in rubber.

0515: I use the large shower/Jacuzzi tub to try to rinse some of the sweat out of my layers. This odd maneuver is based on me stuffing the shower nozzle into the open convenience zips of the three suits. It’s a tight fit but water gets in. I then turn on my stomach force as much of the water/sweat mix out as possible. It does an okay job so I decide this should be done every other day.

0630: I fix myself a light snack of energy shake. I brought energy shakes from home for my use. I have several cases that will last to the end of the month.

0645: Self tasks done, time to check on Kristen. She seems to be peacefully reposing in her cocoon. How would I know differently? Good question. I settle into the chair to see when the next Eros cycle begins and how I react.

0700: Eros cycle begins. This must be her alarm to signal a new day. The system gives her one last orgasm around 2300 then starts up again at 0700 – eight hours of rest, how expected. I surge from the display and find a need to finish what her cylinder starts. I rub the cylinder with my crotch to reach explosion. I fall back on the chair panting hard. Am I developing a fetish for rubbing against hard cool Plexiglas cylinders?

0715 – 1000: Research, topic, sensory deprivation – extended period of time. The results don’t appear too promising. Most “experts” agree that sensory deprivation for only a few hours can be damaging… longer period of time can cause permanent dementia. Early periods can open the mind to new and wonderful dreaming and can be exhilarating. Maybe the stimulation from rubber negates the longer-term issues.

1000: Nourishment break. Another shake swilled. Potty break… the rear tubing works perfectly. One less thing to worry about.

1015 – 1300: light dozing while watching the wind blow clouds. The cylinder in center of vision. The cylinder is always in my mind.

1300 – 1500: Walk on the beach. Toss rocks at the birds floating off shore. A pod of Orcas passes from north to south. There are at least four separate spouts. I wonder if I could use the boat next time they appear to get a closer look. Rain squalls and intermittent sun provides a warming/cooling mix to the day. So secluded, no wonder this hideaway made the perfect place get lost in rubber.

1515: Nourishment break. Sports Drink break.

1530: Check on cylinder. Watch system working through its routine. All seems normal. Note that the recorded conditions indicate no further erotic episodes since morning. The system seems to be random. Today is apparently a rest day.

1630 – 1830: More computer research. Again looking into sensory deprivation. Will get into muscular atrophy another day.

1830: Nourishment break. Potty break. Need to do something physical or risk a “no-sleep-rubber-arousal” night.

1845 – 2030: Long walk in the dark along the beach. Went the length of the property to best of knowledge. Neighbor to the south seems to be a summer cabin. No one there now. Neighbor on other side is home, but house is distance from beach and don’t see a regular trail indicating frequent beach visits. Sweat trickling inside suits. Feel the stuff in feet. Will let things fill more before doing the shower/purging routine again.

2030 – 2300: Settle into routine of reading a book from the library. Palmer has extensive collection of classics. Might just become a real rubberized bookworm from this.

2300: Eros cycle begins. Watch in fascination as my own carnal desire surges in conjunction with the displays. This time I rub vigorously at my cock and reach the satisfying spurts of cum into the sheath. Bedtime.

0900 - I make a discovery. I am listening to the audio link of Kristen's breathing and heart beat. I do this as I scan through sensory deprivation articles. I learn that the lesser deprivation provided by this system may be reversible, even after long period. It seems that the continuous tactile and olfactory stimulation, combined with the random sensual episodes may just keep the mind from going completely beyond the edge. I have some doubts since there is such strong relationship in this case to total bondage and latex. I hear the quickening breathing and heart. I note the building orgasmic cycle and watch fascinated. I choose to remain here at the computer and whisper a few words of wonder at the marvel of technology, fetish, and human imagination. As I say the words, the heart and breathing hesitate a moment. Did she hear me?

"Hello?" I tentatively ask. The breathing definitely pauses and the heart races. She can hear me! I can talk to her when the audio link is open. For now I wait to tell her about Richard. Perhaps I will just play the roll of Richard for her mind when I decide to open the link. "I'm sorry I interrupted you, Kristen. I'm doing some research on how I should go about removing you from the cylinder when the time comes. I'll be quiet."

I continue working on my research but I am still doubtful of any success. I decide that the muscular atrophy question is a matter of once getting Kristen out we put her into some sort of physical training program to regain strength and muscle use. She may have to remain inside the suit for the entire period to maintain a squeezing pressure on her body so as to not cause a sudden dependence on the muscles to support any movements.

03/12/1999 – During a walk along the beach I wonder about such a mundane thing as fingernail/toenail growth. I check research and find that slower metabolism slows growth. I also discover that immobility and lack of change in tactile sensation can slow the growth of the nail. Change in diet and reduced consumption of calcium slows growth too. Of course a calcium problem also impacts the bones. I check the stuff in the bag and discover it is rich in calcium and vitamin C. So the bones should be okay from a nutritional perspective. I wonder if the nails curl under the fingers and toes because of the heavy gloves and foot covers. I learn there are surgical methods to remove the nails and prevent re-growth. I wonder if such a process was done on Kristen before her encapsulation. I could ask her but that would give away the fact that I am not Richard. I’m not ready to tell her (nor sure she is ready to learn) Richard’s fate.

I check mail daily. I walk to the box and pull any stuff. Today is bright and sunny. As I check the mail a neighbor happens along. Even at the end of the road there is a neighbor. They don’t give me a second look. I guess the attire is accepted here. Maybe Richard was seen regularly outside and about.

03/13/1999, 0900 – 1600: Sensory deprivation, an experiment:

I read the literature, “The pleasures and perks of the modern float tank are based on a revolutionary scientific approach to deep relaxation called Restricted Environmental Stimulation Technique or R.E.S.T. for short, first developed back in 1954 by researchers at the NIMH (National Institute of Mental Health) in Washington. During the past 20 years the remarkable effects of the float tank have been systematically studied and applied in such areas as health care, medicine, fitness training, sports science and education. Meanwhile, floating has caught on in America, Australia and, more recently, Europe and Asia as a powerfully productive and creative form of recreation in its own right. Scientists estimate that up to 90% of the brain's normal workload is caused by the effects of routine environmental stimulation the combined effects of gravity, temperature, touch, light and sound on the muscles, nervous system and sense organs of the body.

The float tank screens out these external physical stimuli, creating a pure state of "sensory" relaxation. Under these unique conditions your body has a chance to restore its natural powers of self regulation, while you simply lie back and rediscover the latent abilities of a deeply relaxed mind. While you are floating, your ears are below the surface of the solution, cutting out external sounds. Many people, however, find that gentle ambient music accelerates and intensifies the relaxation process. The tank’s powerful underwater speaker system creates the feeling that you are floating in a sea of music, enhancing the rich dream-like quality of the experience. The temperature inside the capsule is kept at a constant 94.1 degrees F - relaxed skin temperature. As a result, the nerve endings which cover the surface of the skin no longer perceive any sense of separation between the skin and the silky mineral solution which surrounds it.

In the dark, weightless tranquility of the float tank, the boundaries of your body seem to dissolve and vanish. As you enter progressively deeper levels of relaxation, even your body seems to "disappear" from conscious awareness because of the sharp reduction in signals being transmitted through the nervous system to the brain. Free from all external stimulation, your body can achieve a state of relaxation which is deeper, purer and more beneficial than sleep. With no body to look after, your mind can attend to other business.

The sudden de-stimulation of large areas of the nervous system triggers a spontaneous chain reaction throughout the body known as the parasympathetic response. Muscle tension, blood pressure, heart rate and oxygen consumption all drop dramatically. The whole chemistry of the body changes. Blood vessels including capillaries dilate, improving cardio-vascular efficiency and increasing the supply of oxygen and nutrients to every single cell in your body. This is called the vasodilatory effect.

Stress related chemicals such as adrenaline, cortisol, ACTH and lactate are removed from the bloodstream and replaced by beneficial endorphins. High levels of cortisol and ACTH are known to weaken the body's immune system and create feelings of depression, while lower baseline levels are associated with feelings of dominance and confidence. The endorphin - only discovered by NIMH researchers in 1976 - is literally the essence of pleasure. The body's endorphin level is what makes some people naturally happy and others less so. Sometimes called "the body's natural opiate", the endorphins released while floating create intense feelings of well-being, alleviating fatigue and chronic pain, as well as improving many of the higher brain functions such as memory and learning. Happiness is not an illusion - it is an endorphin.

These biochemical changes occur naturally and spontaneously as by-products of deep sensory relaxation. No training or techniques are required. Just lie back and let it happen. Although your body enters a level of physical relaxation which is even deeper than sleep, in the tank your mind remains awake and dreamily alert, just above the threshold of sleep.  Large areas of the brain are suddenly liberated from their normal workload of processing signals from the nervous system and  sense organs. There is a sharp drop in the level of electrical activity of the brain (measured on an EEG) from the usual 20-25 Hz down to 4-8 Hz.; EEG readings show a slow, rhythmic wave pattern known as the theta state.

This is a twilight zone of creative, inspirational thought processes, where your learning abilities are at their highest and powers of visualization and auto-suggestion are greatly enhanced. Measurements of the brain waves produced by experienced Zen mediators in deep satori show large amounts of theta activity across the cortex. For most people, however, the theta state is almost impossible to enter without falling asleep. In the tank you enter this elusive state effortlessly and enjoyably, and stay in it for most of the float session. Time seems to vanish.

EEG measurements on floaters show that the level of activity in the two hemispheres of the brain also becomes more balanced and synchronized. This can produce a subtle shift in awareness away from the normally dominant "left-brain" thought patterns (logical, linear, analytical, detailed) towards the more intuitive, synthetic and large-scale thought modes of the "right-brain". The tank does not inhibit the left hemisphere, but simply changes its role from one of dominance to one of partnership with the other hemisphere, enabling floaters to use all their mental powers.

The parasympathetic response is the body's natural mechanism for healing and regeneration. It can only occur during deep relaxation. Floating is the fastest, easiest and most effective way of eliciting this response and enjoying its dramatic health benefits. Floating "re-sets" the body's chemical and metabolic balance, strengthening its resistance to the effects of stress, illness or injury.

When you change your body, you also change your mind. The de-activation of the nervous system has a direct effect on the hypothalamus, the brain's chemical control centre. Recent research has shown that internal events (thoughts and emotions) are here translated into measurable changes in body chemistry, and vice versa. The production of endorphins and the removal of undesirable chemicals during floating stimulate feelings of confidence, happiness and well-being, which helps you pursue your goals in life with maximum vitality and vigor.

People who lead demanding lifestyles run the risk of developing high blood pressure, also known as hypertension. This disease has no symptoms, but eventually manifests itself in the form of strokes, heart attacks and atherosclerosis (hardening of the arteries) - all potential killers. Floating can produce an immediate reduction in blood pressure and heart rate; regular floating may maintain this.

Apart from being the ultimate "stress buster", floating has been shown to alleviate asthma, arthritis, multiple sclerosis, gastro-intestinal and cardio-vascular disorders. Tension related problems such as migraine, back-ache and insomnia helped enormously.”

I can simulate most of the effects of the tank by using the bathroom Jacuzzi. Maybe I won’t get music pushing through the water but I can pull heavy black rubber over the eye ports of the gas mask and all the other things in the article. This little experiment may shed some light on the effect the cylinder is having on Kristen.

I fill the tub and get the temperature right. I mix in the salts and turn on the jets. I swing my rubberized body over the edge and slip into the tub. I pull the mask blinder over the eye ports and slowly settle back into the water. The heavy chemicals keep my body above the surface easily. I drop my head back to equilibrium and just relax. It’s hard to relax naturally in water since the normal response is sinking. But in the chemicals I just slip into equilibrium. The water temperature, I discover, seems to be the normal temperature of the skin. As the rubber warms to the temperature, it literally fades into nothing. The pressing rubber still presses but it fades. My ears are silent to outside sounds. I hear the constant rush of the water jets and my breathing. My breathing slows. Everything drifts away. My body seems to fall away from me and I feel I am outside of it. My mind just opens. I have a flood of new thoughts pouring into my mind. These thoughts that have nothing to do with processing the information from sensation! I have no hearing variation, no sight, no touch but the constant fading press, no taste, no smell but the rubber scent of the heated air passing the air hose.

I am so relaxed……………

I see so clearly the direction I must go. I feel a surge in my groin as I think of my future and rubber and the rubber and always the rubber. I feel the slippery sign of pre-cum as I float and I drift to light sleep. It is so restful inside my protective cocoon of rubber. I have no cares, and I am free to think…no senses changing and competing for the mind.

I slowly wake to a wet dream! I have aroused in the tank and exploded into the sheath. The dream was me wading in thick deep mud and feeling the stuff up to my crotch. I was stuck in it and could not get free as the stuff gripped me in its gooey mass. I struggled and slow sank deeper until it covered my waist and then I exploded and woke. Would the dream have continued to the final covering of all of me? I have no idea.

The returning awareness caused by my carnal satisfaction leaves me waiting for the relaxing pool to carry me off again. I soon drift away into the semi-sleep reverie. I sip at the drink straw I left near the tub. Life couldn’t be better than this. Then my thoughts drift to Kristen. Life could be better – either by releasing her or joining her. I don’t know which path to take.

* * * * *

03/14/1999, 1130: Second Contact

“Kristen,” I whisper into the communications link.

The breath hesitates momentarily and the heart rate flutters slightly.

“Kristen, Are you okay – hold your breath for “yes”, keep breathing for “no”. The breathing stops a few seconds before resuming.

“Are you ready to leave the cylinder?” No perceived change in breath.

“I am working on determining any physical needs when the time comes. There can be complications that we didn’t think about. Here’s a question, “Is your general well-being okay?” The breathing stops for a second.

“Do you miss the outside world?” She holds her breath.

“Do you miss…me?” I hope my hesitation is not noticed. She seems to wait but then holds her breath.

“Do you miss the outside world because you miss me?” She holds her breath.

“Do you miss me but not the outside world?” She holds her breath.

“If I were not here would you miss the outside world?” Her breathing continues.

“As long as you know I care for you, do you wish to continue the experiment?” She holds her breath.

“I’ll let you be now, dear. Just hold your breath any time you want to hear my voice and the next time I check the monitor records, I’ll open the link.”

1230 – 1500: After my lunch shake I walk the beach. I sit on my driftwood and watch the tide coming in. It is another mixed day of gray clouds, scattered squalls and sun breaks between the clouds. The wind is cold and fresh on my rubbery skin. I feel the chill but not the actual wind. I feel its presence but not the fine nuance of it blowing past my ears, into my eyes, through my hair. Rubber deprives me of those sensations. I have mixed feelings on this deprivation, but my feel for rubber is so strong that I have no regret as I sit. To the north the pod of Orcas is coming down the channel. I trot to the skiff on the rocky shore and push it into the water. I climb aboard and begin to row slowly out to a spot I think the Orcas will pass. I am an alien inside the black rubber capsule I wear. The raingear slightly disguises the rubber beneath but my gas mask is quite visible.

I reach my spot and feel sweat pouring as a result of my exertion. I swig the sports drink I always carry and rest my arms on my rubbery legs. I rub my thighs and feel the thrill of rubber. The Orcas begin to play about me. The drooping dorsal fins are weaving around me. The whales break surface and blow their spouts. Moist blow drifts over me and settles around me as the wind tears it from the Orcas’ holes. One actually nudges my boat and pushes at it. I feel no fear now. I find they just are curious about the boat. Soon they are turning circles around me and playing “chase-the-Orca” with each other. I gather it is a bit like “tag”. The gray water and sky blots out as an approaching squall bears down on my location. I turn to shore and start to push to safety. The water suddenly gets rough as a stiff wind drives rain heavily against my protection. I row and the boat tosses in the heavy waves.

I must be crazy to take the small skiff out in this kind of weather. The thing tosses and skews in the boiling surf. Chaotic waves bash against the low gunnels and water comes over the sides. The squall finally passes and I find I am in a sinking boat! I try to bale and am soon reaching exhaustion from the effort. I rest in the boat, slumped in my seat. The boat is moving. I look behind me to see an Orca pushing the stern! I’m in the shallows when the Orca heads back to the pod. I toss more of the water from the boat and push in closer to shore. I jump from the boat into chest-deep water and finish beaching the boat. The Orcas are still playing as I sit on the driftwood. I wave to my savior though I think he/she doesn’t understand the gesture. I finish pulling the boat safely above the tide line and stagger to the house.

I look out from the deck at the view as I wash the saltwater and dirt from my outer clothing. I get another sport drink from the refrigerator and sit on the deck. I love the blustery weather and wait for another squall to pass over. Soon the heavy rain is drumming on my suits. I drift to sleep in the lounge chair. It is dark as I stir and go inside. I dry off my rubber and prepare for a late supper of Nutri-Shake. An interior washing is in order after the Orca adventure. I review the plans that I discovered earlier in the week. I change measurements to match me on the suit. I change the vaginal dildo for a cock and ball sheath/stimulator. The cylinder and other equipment is the same. I inquire into costs for the gear and slip off to the bathroom. The Eros cycle is running as I head to the back of the house.

My washing is routine by now. I open the convenience zips in all three suits and fill the inside with a soapy mix of water. I let it slosh around a while then drain. I rinse and drain, rinse and drain again. I do final rinse with a mild water-based conditioner. A final draining and close the zips up. I dry the outside and I’m good for another two days. I wait to see my skin at the end of the month with mixed feeling. The rubber will be off, the skin wrinkled and who knows what and my trial in long-term enclosure done until the next time. But I have at least twenty days to go. Then there is Kristen.

March 20 1999

I am so exhausted from the ordeal. I think scissors or a knife might be in the future. Then there is Kristen. I resolve to make it. I settle to the routine of the first day entries. The diary is filled with so many entries that are the same (“Time: potty break” or “Time: nutrition break” or “Time: piss break’)
Then there are the entries of total rubber eroticism. My building lust inside the suits. The matching lust inside the cylinder as I watch. My desire to reach inside, take her, hold her, tell her how I feel her needs. My fear that she will reject me since I will have to tell her the news of Richard. Then I walk on the beach. I walk around the wooded property. I wave to passing boats, the people specks in the distance as I am to them. I skip stones and wade into the shelf. One clear cool night I waded out and churned the water into luminescent foam. The small creatures I disturbed giving off their light green glow.

I sit and sip the wonderful wine as I watch a sunset or a rain squall beyond the cylinder and the window. The cylinder is always there to remind me of the sacrifice to rubber lust and desire in its most extreme and permanent form. I converse with Kristen about every three days. The yes/no questions are simple to ask. I ask her if she has any sense of time. The response is, “No”. I ask her if she is ready to leave her cocoon. The response is, “No.” I ask her if she is ready to do the physical therapy that must happen to restore her muscular strength and function. The response is, “No.” I wonder when the answers are “Yes” what I will do.

I use the Jacuzzi three times a week. Each session gets longer as I test my endurance in sensory deprivation. I lasted twelve hours the last time. It is invigorating. I learn to hold off cumming until just before a session is complete. I run the wash/rinse through my suits and sleep. I fill the rest of the time researching the various topics needed to either commit myself to a sealed life or release Kristen from the one she has chosen.

I tackle the issue of food. How to increase the length of time between fillings of the food tank? Increasing the duration means decreasing dependency of the support system. I decide that the food supply must last three months with a safety factor. I can contract someone to fill the supply hopper every third month without any major problem. I check into the availability of surgery to remove finger and toe nails. The doctor wants to see me next month to see what my problem is and if there is another, less radical solution. This may be difficult to convince a doctor to perform the surgery in a medically unnecessary situation.

March 24, 1999

I order a male version of the suit that Kristen wears. I found the specifications in a file. It is easy to change the critical elements. I notice that the suits I wear are getting loose… well, a little less restricting. I must be losing weight. No wonder. I decide I have to order the cylinder and other support items next time. I think a new computer for back-up is a good idea. I can network the two systems and have extra redundancy. When I go into the cylinder, I’ll run the same programs for both of us. That way we will experience the same sensations simultaneously.

March 26, 1999

I find the bill for the surgery done on Kristen. Apparently a doctor in Seattle is willing to do body modifications for a price – no questions. I write down the number to call for a consult to discuss both the nails and head hair. I’ll call for an appointment after I’m out of the suits. I figure I can live with body hair.

April 4, 1999

The keys came today. I peel the rubber layers off while in the shower. My skin is itchy, wrinkled and abused. It is sensitive and soft. The cleaning seemed to have helped preserve some level of skin condition, but the month inside the suits has taken a horrible toll. I have to be careful not to tear the loose skin. I scrub myself thoroughly (but gingerly) with mild soap. I’m a prune at my hands and feet. The rest of the skin is actually in fair shape. Sweat pooling in the legs and hands must be the cause of the super-sensitive feel. I clean and rinse the gear. I hang it to dry. I filled the food tank before removing the gear. I tell Kristen that I must go to work for a bit. I’ll be back in a couple of days. She hangs inside her cocoon, only her breathing indicating she heard.

I have so much to do before I climb back into rubber!

Chapter 3, Appointments and Plans

The meeting with the doctor goes well. It seems he works with other people that have esoteric needs in lifestyle. I find that my requests are almost routine by comparison. He is a board certified dermatologist. The process is explained and a surgery date set. I require some lab work. Doc tells me to be prepared to spend up to six weeks in bandages around my fingers and toes. He tells me there are modern ways to completely remove hair. He says I should opt for a full body removal considering my reasons. Yes, I tell him the plan – sort of – after he told me about the desires of many of his clients. I didn’t provide the detail of permanence I foresee.

Richard’s condition is unchanged. Doctors are worried that permanent brain damage has occurred. They run CATSCANS and find little or no activity in the cognitive parts of his brain. The prognosis is that he will remain comatose for the rest of his life. Oddly, a search for his wife only begins after this determination is made. I am asked about the house on Orcas Island. I lie when I tell the authorities that I haven’t seen Kristen. Well, I guess I haven’t seen her really. What a splitting of definitions that is. Bill Clinton would be proud.

Surgery is set for May 15. Six weeks means that I will be able to get back into gear in July. I have about a month to get everything done that is needed. Work means nothing now. The facility management office is running without me. The assistance facility manager is informed by upper management that I am working on a special project. I spend time monitoring the details of the special orders I made in March. I go home and spend quiet evenings in rubber. I wear a catsuit I modify by cutting the collar under my street clothes. I become more withdrawn as the time for surgery nears. I spend the next two weekends on the Island. I dress in complete enclosure and follow my routine for those days.

The days are long and the sun finally appears. I return to the Island on April 25. I will do one more long-term rubber session before surgery. I will be dressed from April 25 through May 10, two weeks in gripping rubbery avarice. I continue to research various topics to see if anything is overlooked. I search the contacts to find if anyone helped with the Kristen’s cocooning. I find Kathy Curtiss in the directory listed as a private nurse. I think this may be the person who helped since much of the requirements had to be done by someone with professional ability. The feeding, breathing tubing, catheter, and enema/waste line had to be placed. I also found the IV line in the umbilical cluster. I found some bottled sedatives in a medicine case. I will contact her in July.

I watch a glorious sunrise as I sip my Nutri-Shake. The rubber suits fit nicely since I’ve lost weight. I take walks on the beach and I converse with Kristen. One day she answers “Yes” when I ask if she wants out. Now is the moment of truth. Can she really be released from the cocoon? All of my plans are based on the expectation that the release is nearly impossible. I know the emergency procedure… warm the wax enough for it to go liquid and drain it from the cylinder. I decide I better only drain down to her waist first. I can release her arms and upper body at that point and we can see what happens then.

I am glad that I didn’t mail the keys this time. I only placed them in a secure location on the property. I wait until dark to retrieve them. I unlock the collar and hoods to remove the outer hood and gas mask. I keep the other hoods on for now. I switch on the heat and as the wax liquefies, I tell Kristen what I plan to do. I tell her that I will drain the wax to her waist first. If that seems to be okay then we will drain more. She holds her breath in agreement. I start the process. As the wax level drops, she slumps forward. I rig the winch to the top of her bag and pull it tight to fold her in place. Soon the wax is down to her waist and I let the remainder harden. This takes a couple of hours to set up enough or me to climb into the cylinder. I talk to Kristen most of the time. I tell her what it looks like outside. I tell her it’s a beautiful day. Finally I wait with some strong trepidation for it is time to let her know that I am not Richard.

“I’m going to get into the cylinder shortly to remove the hood. I warn you that the light might be a bit much. I have sunglasses ready if you need them. Now there is something you need to know. You are a very special person. To do what you did is truly beyond belief. You’ve been in this cocoon over eight months. A lot has happened since you were sealed inside the cylinder. This is hard for me to say. This is hard for me to tell you as I have grown to care for you very much. You have to believe that I would wish the world I didn’t have to tell you”

…I can see that she is trembling. I’ve blown it.

“My name is Bill Grant. Richard picked me of all the people he knew to care for you. Richard is injured. He was in a car wreck in February. He isn’t dead, but he is in the hospital. We can see him just as soon as you are up to it.”

I hear her mumbling inside the hood and gag.

“I’m getting in now.”

I climb into the cylinder and carefully cut a long slit down either side of the sack. This way I can access her without completely removing the thing. It will provide some support while I get her circulation returning. I cut the hood seam away. (If this cocooning is done again, we need to order a new suit and sack for her). I carefully cut away the hood. I cut a wide slit at her nose to pull it through the nose ring. As I pull the thing from the back of her head, I see the tattoos. I carefully pull the hood from her face and slip the glasses over her squinting eyes.

“You’re in rubber,” she mumbles between her feeding tube and teeth when she sees me.

“As I said, Richard picked me carefully. I realize now that he must have had the IT geeks sifting through computer logs of his employees on the chance there was another rubber freak in the company.”

I unzip her sleeves and begin to massage the arms. I lift one arm and hear her grunt with pain.

“It must be hard to suddenly have use of your body after all these months. I’ll slowly relieve the tension from the bag so your body and back can adjust to weight again. Meantime, I think you just might be stuck in this cylinder a few days while you acclimate to gravity again.”

“Just let me see the mountains,” she mumbles.

“Should we pull the feeding tube? You can drink and eat normally that way.”

“Yes,” she mumbles again.

“I can lift you from the cylinder and leave the bag around you for support. I think you will still have to eat the liquid as long as the tubing is connected.”

“Okay,” she mumbles again. “Richard is in the hospital?”

“I’m afraid so. He is in a coma with no foreseeable recovery.”

“We will visit him?”

“Yes, as soon as you can walk, we will go.”

She looks me up and down and says, “You look nice in rubber.”

I blush a bit under the hood.

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

I go to the study and find the number for the nurse.

“Ms. Curtiss, this is Bill Grant. I have been tasked with the care of a very special object since Mr. Palmer was incapacitated. I need help or advice in undoing what was done.”

Curtiss is at the house within the hour. She looks surprised at my attire but says nothing.

“The only thing I need to pull is the feeding tube and IV. Everything else can come out pretty easily. Even you could do the IV but we need to make sure that there is no chance of infection,” Kathy explains. She swabs the back of Kristen’s throat with some anesthetic.

“This will tickle but should be fine,” as she deflates the seal rings and pulls on the end of the feeding tube. The thing breaks its seal and slowly the snake comes from the mouth.

“She may not be able to walk for many days. You need to massage her muscles first. If you have an exercise bike, she can use that to help restore strength and muscle tone.”

I thank Ms. Curtiss for her help and let her out. “We may need you again some time.”

I go back to Kristen.

“I can talk!” exclaims Kristen. “Richard! What happened to Richard?”

I tell her about the wreck and the unusual clause in the Will that led me here. I talk uninterrupted for over an hour. I tell her about my past and my personal fascination with latex. I explain how I found her in the cylinder and then I describe the month I spent inside the suits. I tell her how I would rub against the cylinder when she was cycling through the Eros part of the program.

“You’re sick,” she said at that point.

“How could I help it? I’m a dedicated rubberist and I found the ultimate rubberist dream!”

“Well sick in a nice sort of way, I suppose.”

“I’ll be here until you can walk. I’ll take care of you.”

“I will allow it only if you replace all the stuff you had on before… and leave me in care of the keys.”

“Isn’t this too soon for something like this?”

“Too soon for what… putting a heavy rubber type of guy into his rubber on my terms. At this point there is nothing more to this relationship than that.”

I grin behind my hood. Maybe this can go someplace, I think.

I pull the gas mask on. I put on the heavy bondage hood and lock everything up. I hand the keys to Kristen.

“You can’t do much with those keys,” I say.

“Heat the wax Rubber Toy. I’ll show you what I can do with the keys.”

Once the wax is heated she orders, “Drain the cylinder and lift me out.”

I comply in short order, Kristen is still hanging from the bag but her feet are touching the ground.

“I feel so wobbly”, she says. “Fill the cylinder back up until I tell you to stop.”

I replace the plastic sleeve and I’m pumping the warm wax back into the cylinder. As the wax reaches about half way, Kristen tells me to stop. She hands me the keys to my locks and says, “Toss them in.”

I hesitate.

“Do it rubber Toy!” she demands. “You like making love to the cylinder so much, your freedom should be locked in it.”

I toss the keys over the side and watch them butterfly to the bottom of the tank.

“Those stay there until I tell you differently.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I find the submissive response comes easily.

“Now massage my legs,” She orders.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“I have a doctor’s appointment on May 15.”

“Cancel it.”

“It’s to remove my body hair, finger and toe nails,” I say.

“Oh. Yes that you have to do. I’ll have some special tattoos designed for your new body by then. I hope you like body jewelry too.”

The two weeks go quickly. Soon Kristen can crawl from her bed and around the house. She has me cut her from the cocoon suit on the morning of the second day. She wears a catsuit during the day. I help her dress each morning and help her with many other tasks as she gains strength. I’m her rubber nurse/servant. We take our meals together, I drink the Nutri-shakes and she eats very light vegetable based meals with a Nutri-Shake. We take walks on the beach during the second week. I’m in my rubber cocoon, she usually puts on a gas mask and rain gear when we go for these walk. The days are not as rainy as but we still have some nice wet days.

“Tell me about your discovery of rubber?” She asks one day while we are sitting on my favorite beach log.

“I was only three years old and my sister had a pink raincoat. You know, the type of coat with rubber and cotton and an attached hood. I would put it on and feel the smooth rubber of its skin. I have no idea why I liked the thing so much but it was something I’d love to put on. My dad thought it was cute and took pictures of me in the coat. Then we moved to here. My dad was in the navy. The house we lived in had a pair of black hip boots in the basement. Those hip boots were so nice and smooth and long. I’d wear them with the raincoat when I was alone. The tops of those boots went right up to my crotch and they rubbed against my little parts in such a way…”

“I didn’t understand the feeling then but I sure liked it. I’d wear the boot outside and wade in little creeks and such. I’d look for deep mud to sink into. I mean I was a heavy rubberist from the very beginning. I wore the boots to bed a couple of times and discovered I couldn’t sleep with them on. We moved from here to Korea and back to here during those years. My father retired from the navy and we moved to California. In early my teens and my father passed away. We (my mother and I) moved to Kentucky and the wonderful boots were left behind. I soon missed them and replaced them with a pair of chest waders. It was completely by accident that I bought those waders. They were the black boots at the local sporting good store. I put them on with a rain parka one hot afternoon. I put on kitchen gloves and lay on my bed, just letting the heat and sweat trickle inside. I was hard, very hard and as I lay there feeling the wonderful and enveloping heat from the enclosure, I exploded!”

“The shock of the spontaneous ejaculation took me by surprise. Also I was appalled since my upbringing always said such behavior was wrong. I ripped the clothes from me and took a quick shower to cleanse me of the damning stuff. Three days later I was wearing all of the gear again and I was truly hooked.”

“Amazing, you’ve been a rubberist since three?”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“Richard got me hooked. It was so easy. Much the same, I was initially repulsed when I saw the first item he sent to me anonymously. Now look where I wound up after only a few short months.” She waved vaguely toward the window that hid the cylinder in the dark room.

“Indeed,” I replied.

Kristen put her hand on my thigh. She looked into the eye ports of the gas mask and a small tear emerged from her eye. I reached to wipe it away. She fell into my arms and sobbed. I silently stroked her rubberized head as we held each other in the falling rain.

After some time she says, “Let’s drain the cylinder and get the key. We need to go to Seattle.”

The trip to Seattle is eventful. Fortunately, the cool May weather allows us to wear clothes that cover the rubber suits we have beneath. I’m sure the aroma is catching people off guard and leaving them wondering what is going on. We visit Seattle General and Richard’s room. He is unchanged. Kristen cries as she grasps his hand in her gloved fingers. “He looks so vulnerable but peaceful. How did this happen to him?” It’s is a rhetoric question with no answer.

In three days, I go into surgery. We go by my house and I pick out some things to wear while I am in forced rubber denial. Kristen sees my own rubber collection and smiles at the sight of things that are designed for a solo existence.

“You never did rubber with anyone, did you?”

“No, not until the last few months. Even that’s not really been with someone. I mean you were in that cylinder and well, since you’ve been out of it, our relationship is more mistress/servant.”

Suddenly Kristen drives me to my bed as she throws herself on me. She pulls my mouth to hers and pushes her tongue between my lips. We grope in a passionate kiss. I claw at her street clothes and we find ourselves removing the stuff and tossing it to the floor. Together in rubber we squeak and moan in passion as our hot rubbery bodies press against each other. Locked in a kiss I fondle her tits. I stroke at her back and pull her to my crotch. I pull open the three layers of rubber that I’ve been in for the past two weeks and the sheathed shaft springs from the suits. The drain tube is no obstacle as Kristen pulls the thing off of the small rubber nipple it seals to. She takes my thick rubber-clad shaft into her mouth and sucks as I try finger her crotch and work on her clit. Fortunately, I did the washing out process this morning so there isn’t much “old sweat and stuff” inside the suit to foul the sheath.

She pulls her mouth off me and reverses onto all fours, presenting her bottom to me. I slip my sheathed member into the open slit in the rubber and find her slick cunt waiting for its prize. I thrust deeply inside and she instantly comes hard. She bucks and pushes against me as she tenses and clamps her muscles hard against me. She’s a wild beast in lust as she pulls me hard against her ass. Rubber squeaks in a cacophony mixing with her groans, hisses and as she comes a second time in a stifled scream. I explode inside her. The open end of the sheath allows my seed to shoot inside her. She responds by pulling me deeper then in a quick panting roll, I find her mouth has me and she sucks at the remaining stuff.

“Ummmmmm, that tastes so gooooood,” she moans.

Suddenly she has the tube back in place and closes me up.

“Don’t think anything has changed, Rubber Toy,” she says.

I’m silent as I know things have changed… much to my benefit.

The ferry ride back to our little haven is uneventful. We watch from the deck as the gray cloud sweep across the water. Sun breaks and rain squalls intermingle. We don’t care as we hold each other. The next time I go to Seattle will be for the surgery.

Chapter 4, Transformation

The finger and toenail surgery goes off without a hitch. The hair removal process goes equally well the following week. I have five more weeks of forced celibacy – at least from total enclosure. I can wear catsuit without gloves or feet. I can wear sheath briefs and such but nothing to cover the toes or fingers. Kristen parades me to a tattoo place on First Hill the second week after surgery. She has my scalp tattooed in the same intricate geometric design as she has. I find it a bit strange at first to look almost identical to Kristen. Then she has little chain tats added to my wrists and ankles. Two heavy earrings are pierced into my lobes. They are carefully welded closed for permanence. A short gold chain attaches along the base of my skull between the two earrings. A small medallion on the chain proclaims “Mistress Kristen’s Rubber Toy”. I don’t know who might be close enough to read the sentiment but I’m beyond caring at this point.

We spend a couple of nights at the old place while much of this work is being done on me. One night she takes me to The Vogue. It’s fetish night and I am in rubber, as is she. We seem to be the only people completely in rubber, though I’m without gloves and those floppy shoes on my feet seem out of place. The others wear a mix of leather, PVC, and some rubber. Most couples are a mix of dominant/submissive of all sexual mixes. The music is heavy and loud. The stage is a scene for some theatrical action. The lights flash and change colors as we sit and watch. I am attached by a leash from my collar to Kristen’s belted waist. The lights glint off of my neck chain and some notice the medallion and read it. They walk away nodding appreciatively to Kristen. She smiles lightly to the ones who notice.

She leans into me, “Nose ring and nipple rings are next, my Toy.”

She drags me to the dance floor and we dance. Our two rubbery bodies lithe and thin from our forced liquid diets wend an exotic show for the audience. Applause accompanies the end of the dance as Kristen pulls me to the table. Kristen has the geometric tat added to my scrotum and cock. Her comment is, “That gives me something to look at on those rare times you will be exposed.” I decide the painful adding of a design is better than some sort of piercing through the head. I keep that to myself since she just might take me up on the comment.

We ride up the Space Needle one night for supper. It’s our last night in Seattle as all of my surgeries are now complete. We enjoy the view, though the food is only slightly above the normal fare at Antony’s or Ivars. I explain the new cylinder and my plan to have both of us inside the cylinders. She is intrigued by the idea.

“Who will monitor our session?” She asks between sips of wine.

“I don’t think we need anyone. I have a contract to deliver the food mix to a large outdoor hopper I am installing at the house. The computer can control when the powder is fed into a mixing chamber in the basement, heated then cooled and fed to the feeding tank. Except for the food, everything else is pretty automatic.”

“But if something fails? What happens if the computers mess up?”

“It didn’t before. I’m adding a newer computer to the system for backup, too.”

“What if Richard comes out of his coma?”

“I guess he discovers he has a rubber slutty wife and a rubber toy servant in his possession when he comes out to the Island.”

“I spent six months in that thing. I loved it but still it was a long time. The idea of returning to it with almost no expectation of leaving it…”

“We can set it up for Ms. Curtiss to release us after some pre-determined length of time. She knows all about the system and seems reliable,” I say cheerfully.

I’m intent on giving this thing a shot. Kristen is having some misgiving.

“I’ll put you in the cylinder,” Kristen says. “I will do what you did. I’ll send the keys off for months at a time and I’ll take care of you, as you did for me. I’d like to do that first before I go for something more permanent.”

“I’ve longed for a journey inside the cylinder since the first day I set eyes on you. Let’s do it.”

August 30, 1999

The equipment and suits arrived earlier this week. I spend hours getting everything put together and ready for my appointment with the cylinder. Kristen helps where she can. It is a sunny and warm day but we take an afternoon walk on the beach in rubber. We sit and watch the birds wheeling overhead. They squawk and fight over the bread we’ve tossed into the surf. There are light white puffy clouds in the sky. It is one of the glorious summer days the Pacific NW is noted for. We must look odd in our heavy black shapes from passing boaters. There are lots of boats out on the water. Some people wave. We wave back. We skip some stones and we hold hands (gloves) as we silently consider my future.

“Are you ready to do this?” She asks.

“Yes. I’m committed to doing it.”

“At first you will explore your deepest thoughts. Then you’ll be numbed by the nothingness of the existence. But you will yearn for freedom then the cycle will start and you’ll want nothing but the fulfillment of your rubbery explosion and the cool rush from the computer generated cooling, watering and feeding cycle. It is terrible and wonderful,” she concluded tersely.

She grabs me hard and presses her gas mask snout to mine. She looks hard into my eyes.

She pulls me to my feet. “One last time without gas mask.”

We are in the house and masks are off. She pulls me to her and we squeak together as she kisses me hard… so hard. Her tongue explores deeply into my mouth. “Oh, that lovely mouth will be full in a few hours,” she murmurs. “God, the thrill of the thought.”

She pulls at the zippers of the suits As usual there are three layers before she releases my raging and sheathed member. It’s been a day since a washing out, but by now she has no care. She rips the tube off and starts to lick me… deep throat me… pull on the stuff inside.

“Gawd, that old cum and sweat is awful! It is terrible in its awful and so YOU! I want to drink it as nectar of love.” She sucks and holds the root in her gloved grip. I surge in lust as she tickles my nipples through the rubber. She pinches at the rings under the rubber and twists. Pain shoots through as she grins at me and thrusts her exposed bottom to my face.

“Lick me until I cum or I might not feed you in a month.”

I slip my tongue into her slippery cunt. It is musty from a day inside rubber. I drink in her aroma and realize that this will be the last time for a long while. I taste her sweetness. I hold my tongue to her pierced clit. (yes, we both have piercings of our privates) I feel her tongue stud flitting the stud in my cock. The feeling is sooooooo lusty, sooooooo selfish, sooooo what it seems to be about in the nineties. She pushes hard to my mouth, cutting off my breath as she cums in a long and deep explosion. Her juices gush from her pussy and I drink in every drop as my cum blasts to the back of her throat. We fall onto the bed and she cuddles to me. Our two rubbery bodies sated and exhausted, we sleep.

“It’s time, Bill.”

I peel out of the suits. Everything has to be removed. For the first time since I am able to be totally enclosed – again, I have nothing on. My naked body is almost gaunt as a result of the long forced liquid diet I have been on. Kristen stands behind me and nibbles at my tattooed shoulder.

“That lion will be a long time in the dark,” she says whimsically.

She moves me into the shower.

“Remember, the enema must be taken three times. Shower and wash everything. You don’t want any fungal growth on your skin. The antiseptic wash is there and the skin conditioner will help.”

The water is blasting hot as I fill the rubber bag with the mixture. I finish my toilet and proceed to the suiting. We pull on the special brief with the electrical connections that will run the vibrator in the ass plug, the penal/ball sheath and provide the shock stimulation to my erogenous zone and a connection to the penal stud to stimulate and shock. The sheath has special little tits that the stud fits into. I feel the stud being pulled by the rubber. There is slight pain as the thing rakes along the inside of the thick and unyielding shaft. Then the stud slides into the two little protrusions on the sheath designed to accept it. The sheath is locked in place by the stud. Small electrical connections on the inside of the little tiny stud cups are locked against the stud by the rubber, assuring positive contact. The tubing of the catheter tube slips under the sheath and connects to the tubing from the hollow anal plug. This tube dangles like a bobtail out my rear.

Kristen pulls on the thing playfully then lets it go. I jump with the shock as it pushes deep inside me by the force of the elastic pull. The suit pants are heavy black latex. The thickness accommodates the cooling lines. Kristen slaps the cool and slimy antiseptic lubricant gel onto my body as I stand. The stuff stinks of strong iodine. It is hospital grade stuff and should stop almost all bacterial growth while I’m inside the suit. She makes sure the gel is thickly introduced into the dark rubbery legs. I lift one leg then the other as she bunches up the material and helps me slip my feet into the attached bootie. She pulls the suit up my legs and the chill gel begins to warm. The pressure of the latex is fantastic. The enveloping squeeze of the latex fingers massaging me brings on instant erection. She eyes the cock and gives it a kiss.

“Too bad this isn’t a time for that,” she smiles.

She pulls the suit up over my raging cock and it’s locked inside. She smoothes out all of the wrinkles and makes sure that the relief tubing is through the opening in the back. She fiddles with the rubber cement to seal the tubing to the reinforced circle of rubber. Then she slips a small seal (much like a wrist seal for a dry suit over the tube. She cements the flange to the suit and spreads a little cement on the section that rolls up against the tube. Once done a watertight seal at the exit point of the relief system is assured. Next comes the top part of the suit. I lift my arms above the head after she gels me up. The heavy rubber slips easily over my body. She works the arms down the sleeves and makes sure my fingers are seated into the attached gloves.

Then she aligns the small nipple cups up and works my nipple rings through the tiny slits in the suit. She then attaches the little pasties with electrical contacts to the rubber around the nipples. The jewelry is sealed behind black rubber but electrically connected for stimulation. She pulls the shirt down and rolls the overlapping part up. She swabs rubber cement onto the top of the pants making sure the stuff is completely covering all of the overlap area. After connecting the cooling system tubes together, she swabs the glue onto the rolled up shirt. She slowly rolls the shirt over the pants. She adds more cement and carefully continues the process. She makes sure that there are no wrinkles as she adds the cement to the final inch of shirt and finishes sealing the two parts together. I am fully suited, save the hood when Ms. Curtiss arrives.

“So we do it again, I see,” she says.

“Yes. This time it’s my friend who has agreed to test the isolation from the perspective of a male. I completed my personal discussion of how it went for me. I want to compare the responses and reactions of a male to the same sensory deprivation,” Kristen explains.

Ms. Curtiss listens but sees easily past this transparent story. “I see,” is all she says.

“This time we aren’t doing the IV line. From my experience, the line had minimal use. But I need the feeding tube and the breathing tubes inserted,” Kristen says.

“Okay. I’ll give you a sedative mixed with a numbing drug to relax your throat and deaden your gag reflex,” she says to me.

Once the drug takes effect, Ms. Curtiss quickly inserts breathing tubing through my nose. The little rubber rings seal the tube inside the nostril. In sort order, she feeds the slimy snake of a feeding tube into the throat. I feel dull pressure but nothing more as it slides down my gullet. Once it is well past my air passages, she pumps the little air bulb that inflates the seal. Deep inside me, the sealing rings fill and lock the tube in place.

“There, all done. How do you feel?” She asks.

“A little filled up,” I manage to mumble around the thing in my mouth.

“Your breathing?”

“It seems fine,” I manage to mumble in a somewhat coherent way.

Ms. Curtiss puts a mirror to my nose and watches intently for several seconds.

“Good exhale flow,” she says with a smile. “I call this part is a success.”

I sit on the bed for the hooding.

Kristen pushes the rubber doughnut gag into my mouth. The doughnut hole will seal around the feeding tube when the thing inflates. She pumps the thing up. I feel my mouth filling with rubber. I taste the rubber as my tongue presses to the floor of my mouth. The small suction tube is attached along the lower left side of the gag. This tube fits into a small connection on the feed tube. This extra little tube runs the length of the feed tube and empties into the stomach. When saliva builds up, it will flow into this tube as the way of least resistance and empty into my stomach. She removes the nose ring in final preparation to pull the hood on.

Everything is ready for the hood. Kristen smears a good amount of lubricant onto my scalp. The hood is anatomically correct (having been made from a cast of my head) with nostril holes and a small hole at the mouth for the feeding tube and drinking water supply to pass through. The neck of the hood is split to about half way up so that the tight neck would fit over my head. The split will be glued together once the hood is in place. The hood had no eyeholes - once fitted I will effectively be blind. I feel Kristen pulling the tight rubber over my head and it slides down over my eyes. Before things go completely dark, I have one last glimpse of Kristen’s smiling face - a vision to keep with me in the long months ahead. She pushes the tubes through the hole in the front of the hood then pulled it down all the way. As before she connects the cooling system and glues the split in the hood at the back of the neck together and joins the hood to the neck of the torso.

Kristen takes the nose ring and inserts it back through my septum. Finally the coverage is complete and I must look a vision in the gleaming black rubber that covers my entire body without a blemish. She quickly goes over all the holes in the suit with a spray can of liquid latex and made sure all the openings are sealed. Now the only contact I have with the outside air is through the thin breathing tubes. I feel Kristen fitting the heavy rubber posture collar around my neck. It is tight fit and Kristen has to strain at the straps to get the buckles to close. A small padlock will prevent the collar from being removed. The collar stretches from my shoulder blades to the under side of my chin and holds my head absolutely immobile.

"Everything comfortable, Toy? Can you breathe okay?" Kristen asks the black rubber thing lying on the bed in front of her. "I'm going to close the zips now."

The earplugs muffle her voice, but I understand what she is saying and give her a thumbs-up to indicate that all is fine.

Kristen turns her attention to the zippers that run down between my legs and at my sides. The leg zipper starts a couple of inches below my crotch and runs all the way down to my toes on the inside of my legs. Once closed, it will keep my legs rigidly together. Likewise a zipper runs from under each armpit down to the wrist and will keep my arms firmly against my sides. Kristen closes all three zippers and I feel a little thrill course through my body as the first of true bondage begins. As a final step before the mummy bag, Kristen takes a can of latex polish and buffs up the surface of the rubber to a brilliant shiny gloss. It is an unnecessary job under the circumstances that only a true believer understands. The lights sparkle off the ebony skin and Kristen feels her pussy go damp as she looks at the wonderful vision before her. She is careful not to let the nurse know of her arousal.

Throughout the fitting of the suit, Kathy watches with rapt attention as the gleaming rubber suit covers Bill’s body. She was starting to get turned on herself. She remembers from last time the sight of Kristen in this suit. The sight of the handsome man transformed into a gleaming rubber object stirred her even more than the sight of Kristen last year. Since that last time she has dabbled into the sensuous world of rubber and she feels a connection to the object before her that she didn’t have the first time she was at the house.

Kristen breaks her concentration. "Can you help me with the mummy bag, Ms. Curtiss?"

Before the mummy bag can be pulled over the body, it is necessary to gather all the various tubes and wires together. The catheter and front wires went back between the legs (through the gap in the zipper) and are bundled with the enema tube and the rear wires to form a thick umbilical. They are threaded through a black rubber sleeve to keep them all together. The tubes coming from the mouth pass over the shoulder and, along with the electrical wires from under his armpit, run down his back. All the tubes and wires come together at the small of the back where they are threaded through another sleeve.

The mummy bag is a completely transparent, heavy rubber sack that is designed to fit over the body very closely, following the contours of the body with hands and feet joined to the suit. A rigid transparent plastic chest piece is built in to the front of the bag, like a breastpiece to keep the bag away from the chest and allow him to breathe. It is quite a struggle getting this rubber bag over the rubber suit and it takes the two of them about twenty minutes to wrestle the bag into position. The umbilical is passed through a small hole in the back of the bag. I can feel the additional pressure of the skin-tight bag around me and my body temperature starts to rise; I can feel sweat beginning to trickle down the inside of my suit.

The mummy bag is zipped up the back, and then the wide flap covering the zipper is glued in place, making a water tight seal. With the bag in place Bill is totally immobilized and ready to be inserted into the cylinder that will be his home for the foreseeable future.

Kristen escorts Ms. Curtiss to the door. “Thanks again, Mr. Curtiss for your help. I’ll call you if I need you. As you know, please keep this to yourself.”

“No problem, Ms. Palmer.,” Kathy says. She’s so horny she is ready to cover herself with rubber as soon as she gets home.

Kristen attaches the hoist cable to the reinforced top of the bag. She lifts Bill from the bed. Bill dangles by the chain attached to the winch system in the ceiling. Kristen moves him over the cylinder and slowly lowers him inside. Dangling inside the cylinder like a gleaming rubber pendulum, he is ready for the final steps.

First Kristen has to pull the umbilical cord through the rubber doughnut sleeve that will sit at the bottom of the narrow cut notch in the cylinder. She feeds the thick rubber sheathed tube into the doughnut and slides it down the notch. She makes sure the thing is mated with the curve at the bottom of the slit. Next she slides the fitted acrylic sleeve into the cut. The curved bottom of this piece locks the top of the rubber doughnut in place. She connects the various wires and color coded tubes to the matching umbilical lines – green tube to green for coolant, brown to brown for feeding, blue to blue for water, white to white wire for top electrical systems, red wire to red for lower electrical systems, and black wire to black for circuit completion.

Inside my new home I feel myself lifted from the bed and floating in the air. This sensation along with the continuous pressure of the enclosing rubber already has my mind wandering. I am sealed in the dark. I hear no external noise though I hear my heartbeat thumping inside my chest and I hear my inhales and exhales internally. The close and constant press of the rubber seems to cause the tactile senses to dull from the sameness. I have this feeling each time I do total enclosure for long periods.

Soon I feel pressure building from my feet. It slowly covers my legs and I feel the warmth accompanying the pressure. The cylinder is filling with the wax. Soon the feeling is pressing my thighs and hips. My waist is covered. I can monitor the inexorable rising of the wax that will seal me inside this home for the foreseeable future. The warm stuff slowly covers my chest then my head. I am suspended inside the slowly cooling and hardening stuff. I cannot move before the stuff is added to the cylinder. Now I will not be able to move more than that slight cheek twitch I saw in Kristen whenever she orgasmed. I will be completely enclosed in the constant and pressing wax. My hard cock is close to orgasm from the mere thoughts running through my head. I am so completely and utterly immersed in this bondage. I have no escape and no desire for escape – for now. My surging lusts are uncontrolled and I explode into the sheath. I tense inside my cocoon but any movement is so minor that the hardening wax pays no heed. It will harden in place as I feel the relief rush through me. I feel the heat and wonder when the system will take control.

The computer is caught off guard – if such an emotional condition can be applied to a computer. Its programming did not provide for a spontaneous orgasm. The system checks the temperatures and the other conditions of its ward and sends the appropriate signals to counter the situation. Coolant rushes into the suit. Cool water flows into the enema tubing and cool water feeds into the feeding system. Now I feel cold inside and outside. I am filled with cold throughout my body as water fills me. I shiver inside my cocoon as the flush of cumming passes.

Kristen sees the computer and smiles. “He is in heaven,” she whispers to herself. She toggles the audio system, “I see you’re enjoying your ordeal already, Toy. Just think, you have only six months to go…minimum.”

She switches off the audio and heads to her rubber stash. The whole process has made her extremely… EXTREMELY horny.

Chapter 5, Living Bondage Slut

May 13, 2000 - I write of my experience of the last eight months. I begin with the end. The last two weeks have been torturous return to the outside world. I was forced from my living cocoon as I signaled I was ready for release.

Kristen has been a sweetheart as she handled my rehabilitation. She massaged my body. She helped restore circulation in long dormant limbs. She helped me with the riding and rowing machines. I slowly learned to crawl then walk. I am still wobbly on my feet but my equilibrium is improving. My mind is exploding from the sensory load I learned to miss. Gad, I really never knew how much of the mind digests the every day sensory inputs! I still wear the enclosure suit, though Kristen tells me we should be able to remove it soon…

The dark and quiet is overwhelming. I feel the press of the sealing material as a constant reminder of my bondage. Each breath is scented in rubber reminding me of my lust for the stuff. The system controls every facet of life. I am surrendered to the computer out in the world. It feeds me. It cools me. It waters me. It controls my breathing. It lets me explode in carnal ecstasy. It soothes me. It releases me from all worldly cares. I think and understand. I dream. I develop new theories of universal existence. I’m sure these are destined to make me famous, if only I can remember them! And I cum. I cum and cum and cum. My existence is reduced to a simple truth, the machine takes care of me. It especially takes care of my carnal needs. It appeals to me in the simplicity of the animal pleasures.

Kristen enters my life on occasion. She whispers questions to me to answer. I hold my breath or not depending on the yes or no the question requires. Sometimes she tells me how her days are passing. She tells me that she is doing much the same things I did after I found her last year. She tells me she loves to dress up and send the keys off to the trust with month or even two month distant return dates. She always addresses the envelopes with labels so the trust thinks the letters and instructions are from me.

She describes her walks on the beach, her masturbation as she watches the Eros cycle of my machine. She is unabashed in her details. They provide me relief from the quiet times in my cocoon but to remember any of the details now is impossible. The details of the existence rushed from my brain as soon as light returned. Amazingly, the mind compartmented the remembrances in some distant and locked vault. I’m sure they are there to be unlocked by some unknown trigger.

As for me the solitude broken by the Eros cycles, feeding, cooling, watering and internal flushing provides minor breaks in the monotony of the constant press, dark and silence. Two opposed presences of my life…the constants and the excitement of the variables that occur. It didn’t take long to put my thoughts of eight months down. The months are so compressed in my mind; my life so unchanging for that time.

“We need to celebrate your return to the living, Kristen says. “I know just the place. It’s a ferry ride away but that’s okay.”

“We don’t have to get you out of the suit, but I will just put you in another one so I think it is better to cut the tail off you ass and figure out a way to plug the opening. You can wear a second suit with the through crotch zipper over the cocoon suit to make sure the plug stays put.”

I find myself wearing nice slacks, a mock turtleneck shirt and fine sports coat – all courtesy of Richard’s wardrobe – over my rubber suits. Kristen is stunning in a dark red latex dress, stocking, red shoes and gloves. The deep black of the catsuit she wears under it all contrasts with the deep red of the low-cut dress. She feels the deep thrusts of the dildo and butt plug of her panties as she walks into the front room where Bill waits.

“What a sight for a rubber fiend,” Bill grins. “What will others say when they see you?”

“My coat will cover most of the evidence. The place we are going is special to me. It’s the place that I first wore this dress – without the catsuit – on my first date with Richard. I hope you don’t mind, but this is our first date since your complete transformation.”

She belts the black coat close to her stunningly petite waist. The collar covers all but a small hint of the black rubber. From a distance, it looks like a white turtleneck blouse.

“I could have worn the white catsuit,” she muses. “But I think it might gleam just a bit too much. The black will be hidden in the shadows.”

I point to my bald tattooed head. “This might draw some looks,” I say.


I never have been to La Pigalle. It is too rich for even my blood and income. I make a pretty good amount from the Trust and my current position. I never had a reason to go there in my before time job; and not much time to do it since taking my current position as a rubber toy. The ferry ride and drive from Anacortes was fairly uneventful. The nose ring and bald tattooed head draws a few looks. It is a long drive to Seattle and the plug in my ass is causing all forms of nasty thoughts in my head. My sealed and sheathed cock is raging as well from the adventure of this outing. I undress Kristen – at least take the coat off – with my thoughts as she steers the Lexus deftly through traffic. We are passing through Everett and Lynnwood soon approaches. These working class towns that are enslaved to the Boeing have there ups and downs. The DotCom boom has transfigured the Eastside in the last year. I missed most of the changes in my cocoon and am stunned by the growth as Kristen chooses to take I-405 south.

“The traffic report seems to say there is trouble on I-5,” she says. Besides, you should see all of the development around Bothell. XETAL has contracts with most of the firms. Business is good but clouds are on the horizon – the DotCom bust, you know. It’s too bad Richard remains in his coma.”

This is the first mention of Richard since I entered the cocoon. I feel the chill blanket at his name. After all, she is still his wife. I am only her rubber concubine. We arrive at La Pigalle close to eight. The restaurant valets outside the entrance are waiting to park the car. The valet opens my door for me and as I get out he nods silently. The young man walks around to the driver’s door and opens it.

“Welcome, Ms. Palmer!” He exclaims. “I haven’t seen you in so long.”

“Thank you, Paul,”

“I’m sorry about your husband,” Paul sort of glances toward me and I blush at the thought of being identified as the replacement boy toy of the rich and famous.

“Thank you for your thoughts,” she says.

"Enjoy your meal, ma'am, and welcome back", he said.

"Thanks, and I will", Kristen answered.

As we walk under the blue canopy Kristen says, “I don’t care what that boy thinks. There is no way to explain what you mean to me now.”

The restaurant is crowded and a number of people are waiting for their tables, mostly dressed fairly formally, which is unusual for the normally casual Seattlites. Men in suits and tuxedos, women in formal gowns and evening wear. As we approach the maitre d'hotel's station, I begin to feel uncomfortable about the situation. Even though I am completely covered in “normal” attire, my hands are in rubber gloves. The maitre'd smiles as we near his desk.

"Ah bonjour, Madame Palmer! It’s been a long time. Do you want your usual table, Ma’am?”

“Yes, Thomas.”

“May I take your coat?”


I am surprised as she helps herself out of the coat to reveal the stunning red of her rubber clothing. In the dark it may pass as leather from a distance but up close there is no mistaking the composition of the material. He leads us through the bustling restaurant to the rear of the room; all the way I am sure all eyes were on Kristen. I am enormously relieved to see that we have a darkened booth - the other diners will see a very pretty woman dressed in a striking red dress, but should be unable to tell she is dressed from head to foot in rubber.

“So this is where you first saw him?” I ask.

“Yes. He stood as I approached the table. His first words to me were, ‘Hi, I'm Richard. Thanks so much for coming.’ He shook my hand. He put me at ease and waited until I was ready to take off the coat.”

“And dinner was…?”

“You’ll see.”

The waiter came and Kristen orders two gin and tonics. “I hope you like gin and tonic. We never have explored spirits together.”

The drinks come and she muses about that first meeting. “He told me his life story, well at least the story since coming to the USA.”

Mussels appeared before me. Kristen has a salad.

“He had mussels and I, well a salad for starters.”

The waiter reappears to clear away our plates and several minutes later another waiter arrives with the main courses. The steak Diane is prepared on a little cart next to the table. I admire the skill of the waiter as he prepares the flaming sauce. The wine steward comes with the vintage claret and shows the bottle to me. Kristen smiles and motions to the waiter that she will decide the wine. The waiter shows the bottle to Kristen. She peers at the label, nods her approval and waits for the waiter to uncork it. He pours a small taster into the wineglass and she swills it, sniffs and drinks down the maroon liquid. She smiles in pleasure, nods to the wine captain who pours two glasses.

Dinner seems a blur as we chat about nothing. She tells me some of what I missed during my eight months. I missed little, I soon find. The Mariners finished third in the Division and missed the playoffs. The Seahawks made the playoffs as the Division Champion and played one of the Wildcard games but lost to the Dolphins. The conversation shifted to some of the news. I learned more about the DotCom bubble burst. Many of the startups had failed but XETAL seemed to weather the worse of the storm. The “Millennium” came and went without any significant computer crashes, much to my relief. Kristen began to talk about the presidential campaign.

“Let’s skip politics, Kristen.”


Dessert comes (Creme Brule for Kristen and Baked Alaska for me which we share) and coffee.

“I missed you,” she says. “I mean, I really missed you. I could see you inside that cylinder and I wanted to be in there with you so much.”

“Next time we will have two cylinders and we will be together,” I promise.

It is late when we finish coffee and after dinner drinks.

“We will never catch the ferry”, says Kristen. “Let’s stay at the Four Seasons.”

“We don’t have any toilet items,” I say.

“Yes we do. I packed an emergency kit…well for me. I don’t think you need one.”

We park in the garage and walk into the massive lobby.

“The best room available, please,” Kristen says to the clerk.

The clerk studies Kristen closely. I’m sure the shiny rubber fingers and collar above the leather coat are noticed.

“It’ll be $660 a night. How long do you plan to stay?”

“Just tonight,” Kristen says, handing over a charge card.

The clerk takes the card, “May I see some identification?”

Kristen stares blankly. The night manager quickly intervenes since hearing the question, “I’m sorry Ms. Palmer. Your ID isn’t required.”

He scolds the clerk for his rudeness at asking for ID from one of the city’s most recognized software millionaire’s wife, especially one with such a tragic story. We are escorted to the corner suite overlooking Elliot Bay. The bellhop opens the door and lets us into the suite. The luxury of the room stuns me. Kristen tips the hop and sends him on his way. She opens the small valise to reveal rubber sheets, gas masks and hoods. I think she thought of everything but toilet articles. I strip the bedding while she watches. This is done only after removing all of the street clothes and putting on the hood and gas mask. I am soon soaking wet in my rubber bondage.

She has me lay on the bed and she closes the three zippers of the suit I still wear. Now my legs are locked together and my arms are firmly locked to my sides. She joins me and begins to toy with the rubber-covered nipples. Soon we are nuzzling gas mask snout together and caressing rubberized bodies in earnest. She pulls out a rubber hose and screws it into the exhaust of her mask. I know what comes next as she screws the thing to my mask’s inlet port. I breathe the deep warm moistness of her exhales as we continue to fondle each other. I pull and stroke at her rubberized pussy and feel the dildo beneath moving in and out as I work on the thing. She puts her finger to her ass and strokes me as we mutually masturbate each other into rubbery frenzied orgasm.

The noise is incredible as the squeaking rubber, heavy panting and muffled screams of joy fill the room and my head. We fall back in exhaustion and are soon asleep. I wake to her finger working my cock into another aroused state. I return the favor and find we are making it “round two” of carnal animal lust.

It is 3 AM as we finish this second round. I fall away as she turns to cuddle me. The “Do not disturb” placard is hanging as we fall asleep. The alarm is set for 10:00, enough time to pack away the essentials and wash a face before having to check out.

We wake to the alarm. Kristen is quickly up and stretches lithely. I want to grab her as she climbs out of bed and heads for the bathroom. She completes her toilet quickly. I need to go so I open the zipper of the outer suit and pull the plug from the tubing. I quickly pass the mix of waste, piss and cum out of my body. I clean up the outer skin and replace the plug. I close up the zipper and pull the gas mask and hood off. I wash my face and am ready to put on the street clothes. Kristen is holding her coat, having put on her dress, stockings and shoes. The wig is nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s the wig?” I ask.

“It seems to be time to take the next step for me. No more wig,” Kristen announces.

“Where are my clothes?” I ask.

“Time for your next step too, Toy. We are leaving the room just as we stand.”

Kristen picks up the checkout envelope and opens the door. She hooks a leash to my collar and pulls me along. The hall is empty as we reach the elevator. She pushes the call button and the thing arrives. The doors open. Two passengers stand with openly stunned expressions as we get in. The silence is deafening. At the lobby, we debark. You can hear a pin drop and all eyes are on us as we walk to the doors. The doorman opens the door and nods with a smile to Kristen as she leads me outside. People looking our way stare in disbelief at the sight as we walk to the garage for our car.
The ferry toll collector has a bit of a start when we pay our fare. He recognizes us – sort of – but we still shock him. Since Orcas is the first stop for the ferry, Kristen decides it is better to stay in the car for the trip. We return to our cabin transformed totally into rubber sluts.

“Next time you can wear some rubber street clothes over your suit,” Kristen says as we reach home. She adds, “We will never be outside again with anything but rubber on our bodies.”

Chapter 6, New Preparations

The first order of business is to order me a new suit. Since I have lots of things to do, I have to cut the suit off. This also gives us a chance to assess the ability of the lubricant to ward off skin problems during enclosure.

May 23, 2000

Today we cut the suit off. Other than my wrinkled and sensitive skin, I seem to be no less the wear. The brown color of the antiseptic gel has stained my skin. I feel very itchy now that the skin is exposed to air. I shower and do minor toilet stuff then put on the laid out clothing. Kristen decides I will be in the infamous three layers that I grew so fond of during her enclosure. She locks the hood over the gas mask and after tucking the hood neck into the suits locks on the thick rubber collar used during the cylinder fantasy. We work on finding the equipment needed to complete our mutual plan. We find everything needed on line.

Hopper, Stainless Steel with cover – This food safe FDA approved storage bin is perfect for keeping large volumes of non-perishable bulk foods. Flour, sugar, instant milk, meal, any sort of dry goods will keep in this bulk bin. The easy open gravity feed chute allows contents to flow smoothly and with a controlled quantity. This large bin will hold four months supply of food mix compound that can be mixed as needed to supply the feeding tank in the basement. It is a simple matter to devise a way to transfer the dry mix from the bin to the tank which can be modified to also do the mixing.

Automatic Transfer Switch – Provide immediate electrical backup power with this transfer switch. Electro magnetic sensors will turn on emergency generator and switch load whenever commercial power fails. Once commercial power is restored, the electromagnetic switches power back to commercial source and shuts down the generator. Totally safe and protects from the effects of dangerous back feed. System will run unattended eliminating the need to manually handle power transfers.

“I called the alarm guys today. They can install an emergency notification sensor to the computer system. If the system fails, they will contact the local authorities,” Kristen informs me.

I nod. This is one of the final checks and balances we feel we need to do this together. Between ordering supplies on the Internet and putting the stuff together when it arrives we have walks along the beach, sunsets on the deck while sipping rubber tube scented wine and mad rubber love. The two of us have reached the point that rubber is the complete focus of our lives. We wear it 24/7. When we go in public, we only remove the heavy hoods and gas masks. We wear rubber “street” clothes over the catsuits that are only removed once a month for general cleansing. The antiseptic lubricant gel works perfectly.

I find a feed supplier and explain the need we have for a dry mix for animals. He tells me that pig feed is the perfect mix. It provides any and all nutrients and vitamins we need. He adds that pigs really like the taste and most animals flourish and grow nicely on the stuff. Pig slop. That sounds real appealing. I realize that taste really isn’t the issue and if the stuff works, I guess it works. I tell the supplier the need to fill the feed bin every three months with the feed. We work out the arrangements over the phone. The terms of the contract are simple. He fills the hopper and notes the quantity delivered. He sends the invoice to the bank with the trust account at my disposal. The bank audits the quantity to assure it is within a specified range that we mutually agree and pays the bill.

I realize the dealer can overstate the quantities delivered by about five percent when he submits the bills to the bank but that is a small price and he seems to be honest. The automatic transfer gear arrives in late June. I hire an electrician to install and test the system. He arrives and the meeting at the door almost sends him away. Kristen opens the door in her catsuit with white latex jeans over her legs and bottom. She has at least taken off the hood and gas mask. The electrician gasps an apology. She escorts him to the generator shed and allows him to do his work. He is obviously flustered by the appearance of this rubber-clad, bald, tattooed and body bejeweled beauty. Fortunately, he keeps his head straight long enough to do the job and test the equipment. Everything works perfectly. Kristen gives him the bank address and proper trust account manager to send the bill and thanks him for his help. He hesitates at the door as she starts to close it.

“May I ask if you’re busy tonight?” he asks.

“Yes. My Rubber Toy and I have plans… very erotic plans and you are not included.” She closes the door in his face mumbling, “Another Neanderthal to spread the word about the kinky rubber people at the end of Cokerill Lane.”

“What?” I ask having not heard her clearly through all my coverings.

“Next time you can handle the guests,” she says. “And I mean dressed as you are.”

In July, ADT sends out a technician to assess the computer system and the emergency notification need. “It’s a simple matter of setting up a switch that sends the alarm in the absence of power to the system. We do this all the time with large refrigeration systems or major air handling equipment. We provide 24 hour monitoring and it’s included in your basic alarm monitoring package.” The guy finished his speech with little more than a hitch in his voice. You think he briefs details of an installation to a catsuited woman and man completely enclosed in rubber every day.

Ms. Curtiss calls and tells us that all sorts of stories are circulating about the millionaire wife and boy friend who favor dive gear over regular clothing. We chuckle at that one. Ms. Curtiss laughs knowingly with us over the phone. Has she taken up rubber too?

August 27, 2001

The replacement suit arrives. Everything checks out. Everything is in place. We test the feed system and it works flawlessly as it delivers the dry feed into the mixing tank. The mixing system is computer controlled and stirs the slop once every two hours. There is a high and low water sensor in the tank that triggers adding hot water to the mix whenever it reaches the lower level. The same feature opens the door of the feed chute and releases the specified amount of dry feed into the mix. I swill a small amount of the stuff through my feed tube in the gas mask. I make a Mr. Yuk face behind the mask and almost throw up. I’m glad I won’t taste it when it goes to my stomach. I offer a sample to Kristen. She tries it and immediately throws the bowl on me.

“That’s it. Punishment binder for a day!” She says.

I just laugh behind the mask.

August 26, 2001

“I made a reservation at La Pigalle and the Four Seasons for tonight,” Kristen informs me. “One last good time before our adventure.”

“And we wear?” I ask.

“Off with gas mask and hoods for the dinner and public. A nice latex jeans and shirt will be fine for you with the latex “leather-look” bomber jacket. I’ll wear my red dress as before.”

We ferry to the mainland and drive to Seattle. We park the car in a garage near La Pigalle. We walk to the restaurant. Dinner is spectacular. The looks we get from the so cosmopolitan Seattleites are priceless. Kristen is stunning in her deep red dress over the black catsuit. She should be. I spent three hours shining her to perfection before we left for the ferry. I am equally stunning in my shiny clothing. But I pale compared to Kristen. She is truly a jewel of beauty. Her bald tattooed head sets off her incredibly delicate frame that is encased in gleaming ruby red and black. Her recently added ear jewelry with attached neck chain glint off the low lights. A small medallion in the nape of the neck reads, “Toy’s Rubber Mistress.”

We spend most of the time looking into each other’s eyes. The lust from rubber in public shows. We hold hands under the table. The electricity flows through our rubbery fingers. We are connected in this bond that is so complete and undeniably exquisite. The candlelight shimmers on the polished clothing. A quiet surrounds us – Control’s Cone of Silence – the effect of our latex clad appearance has taken the breath out of anyone near us.
Catwoman must have this effect on people, I think with a smile. No wonder the Batman movie was such a hit.

We turn heads and stop conversation wherever we go this evening. We hit The Vogue. Even in its wild dress and code we stop conversation. Dedicated fetishists are taken aback by our appearance. We are the presence de jour – we are the summit of esoteric desire. We set a new mark in the small community of pleasure dressing. We have the dance floor for ourselves as a tango plays from the band. I remember my Arthur Murray Dance lessons and thank my Mom’s foresight to force me to take them. Some one actually throws a rose on the floor and I scoop it into my mouth. The loud applause only heightens the emotions and adrenaline induced high I am riding. We are sweating as we finish. We cool off as best we can before leaving. The crowd steps aside to let us pass. We are Moses parting the Red Sea as we leave to appreciative murmurs from the crowd.

“Did you see those medallions?” One guy says.

A Lesbian couple nods appreciatively. “I could be her Rubber Toy and love it,” one says.

The other says, “I could be a Toy for either of them as long as it’s in rubber like that!”

The door closes on the crowd and we are outside. I hail a taxi and we are whisked off to the Four Seasons. The taxi driver seemed surprised, pleasantly, when he hears the destination. I figure our attire didn’t cause much attention from him because of the pick up spot, but the destination means a big tip. The night at the Four Seasons mirrored the last stay. The only difference is we turned heads upon entering the establishment as well as leaving it. We have drinks in the room, make loud and squeaky rubber love and fall into deep slumber, arms and legs entwined.

We check out and have the taxi take us to the garage to pick up the car. The trip home is again uneventful. I enjoy the breeze through the open windows. It chills my bald scalp and cools off the lusts of the rubber.

Today is our last full day in this world. We decide to spend it at home. We take a beach walk. We watch the sunset. We eat a light meal before bed. We love one last time then tomorrow…

August 28, 2001

Today is the day. To start it off I strip from all of my gear. For the first time in months, I am naked. I look at the shriveled and pale skin. I don’t look like much in the nude. I laugh and decide that nudity is overrated! I wake Kristen. “It’s time, dear.”

She stirs and stretches. Her catsuit is perfection and accentuates her feline movements. “Gawd, you’re naked!”

“Yes, and you will be too shortly.”

“I suppose I have to,” she concedes.

Soon Kristen is standing before me. She is pale but her naked body still holds beauty. Maybe she sees me the same way.

“Let’s shower together,” she suggests.

The shower is ripping hot and we wash and scrub each other with the antiseptic cleaning rinse. The smell of the stuff is not bad but is noticeable. Kristen slowly rubs against me. It’s the first time we’ve been this close – touching each other – naked.

I can’t help but feel the stirring in my groin. Kristen drops to her knee and takes my semi-flaccid cock into her mouth. We are suddenly groping and pleasuring each other in the large shower. The steam hides the details but the passion is undeniable. I finger her pussy and find the stud-pierced clit. She shudders as I stroke the thing. She draws closer and as I am on the brink, she jumps up and wraps her legs around my waist. She sinks her hot slit onto my cock and we fuck. We FUCK. We fuck for the first time together as naked beings. It’s our last time but this final action consummates our love and our ultimate plan. As I explode, she pulls me deeper into her cave and screams out in ecstasy. My hot cum fills her. She slips from my waist and clings to me as the water pummels our hot bodies. We let the water drive out our lust. It washes down the drain and we finish the shower.

“Time for your suit, Dear,” she says.

The dressing goes uneventfully. I am encased in my rubber suit within the hour. Now it is my turn to dress Kristen. Likewise, she is dressed inside the hour. The difference is she is totally dressed and ready, while I still need the hood. I stand her in the center of the heavy transparent rubber on the floor. I close the three zippers locking her legs and arms to her suit and begin to pull the bag up over her body. I have to adjust her spot a couple of times to release folds in the bag but she is soon teetering inside the bag. I attach the winch and lift her into the cylinder. I finish connecting all of the umbilical tubing and wires to the system. I do a “feeling” check and am rewarded with our universal breath hold indicating all is fine. I turn on the liquid wax and watch the cylinder fill. Kristen, my Kristen is now inside her cocoon and waits for me.

Ms. Curtiss arrives.

“Thank you for coming, Kathy,” I greet her at the door.

“And Kristen?”

“She is already in the stasis,” I say. “Everything went fine. I had no problem with the feeding tube or the nose tubing. I suppose practice improves the natural responses.”

“Then it’s your turn.”


Kathy is efficient. I am soon stuffed with the feeding tube, the nose tubes and she has sealed my hood in place. She slips the nose ring back into the septum as the final touch. I am immobilized as she closes the zips locking my legs together and my arms at my side. I feel the building pressure of rubber as the bag closes over me. I feel the loss of balance as I lift into the air. I feel the warm press as wax slowly fills the cylinder.

The silence is broken shortly after the wax completely covers me, “I’ll leave you two rubber lovebirds now.”

I hear breathing. The audio connection works perfectly. I can hear Kristen’s hot breath in my ears. She can hear me. Soon the first Eros cycle starts and I hear her increasing breaths and moans stifled by the gag. My own moans and breathing is in her ears. The computer monitors and cuts off stimulation before either of us cum. The computer is insidious in its denial of final pleasure. The system starts its teasing again. Breathing quickens. I am filled with rubber lust and desire. I hear Kristen inside my head. I feel my own heart pounding. This time the thing allows us to cum and somehow it times the explosions perfectly. We cum together in our separate cylinders! Our consummated love is sealed in this carnal leap into the abyss of lust.


From the Seattle Times – December 21, 2001

With the DotCom industry reeling from the 2000 collapse, and the impact of September 11, yet another firm closed its doors today. XETAL, Inc. closed its doors as the continuing comatose condition of founder and President Richard Palmer and the impact of the DotCom bubble burst impacted the once vibrant software company. Though the loss of Palmer severely impaired the creative genius of the company products, the failure was more related to the overall downturn in the industry. Many of the products developed under Palmer have been bought by local software giant Microsoft for distribution. Palmer remains in a coma over two years after the accident that caused his injuries.

Much of the estate will be liquidated to continue the trust fund established to cover continued medical treatment of Palmer. The whereabouts of Kristen Palmer, wife of the software mogul remains unsolved since her disappearance last summer for a second time. In addition, a prominent member of the trust team disappeared at the same time as Kristen. William Grant, an XETAL employee was left in charge of a substantial holding of the trust, including the secluded property on Orcas Island. It is assumed that she left the state after the declaration that her husband was not expected to ever regain consciousness.

Speculation surrounds the disappearance of the couple that had been frequently seen together during the last six months. Authorities believe the two ran off together and are not pursuing any investigation of possible foul play. The trust has not provided any statement on the situation.

From the San Juan Journal – January 4, 2002

Ms. Kathy Curtiss died last night in her home. The well known practicing nurse died in her sleep. She is survived by a sister, Caroline Thompson from Oakmont, Virginia and a daughter, Lynn Curtiss Foley of Friday Harbor. Funeral arrangements are forthcoming. Donations can be made to the Palmer Trust Foundation in her name.

Storms come and go through the passing years. Storms of lust sizzle inside the cylinders. Storms of nature pound the San Juans. Twice the power is off and the generator runs for four and six days, respectively. Four days of fuel remain as the winter storm of 2006 pounds Washington and the Sound.

Ivars at Mukilteo is destroyed by a rogue wave. Power systems are damaged. Seawalls decimated. Power goes out on Orcas Island. The PUD is overwhelmed with repair calls and priorities for the three properties at the end of Cockerill Lane are low. After all two of the places are summer homes and the third belongs to the millionaire’s trust. No one has been seen there in years. Even those two kinky people in diving suits seem to have left.

On the fourth day of the outage, the generator sputters to a stop. ADT receives an urgent signal to contact the local authorities.

Shortly after receiving the call, a sheriff’s deputy arrives at the home of Richard Palmer. Deputy Pete Weller is a bit annoyed at having to make this run. Not much happens on Orcas. He’s been the Island Deputy Sheriff for six years. Having to respond to this obviously empty house is annoying. Maybe some kids broke in and being the house of that millionaire’s weird wife, the Department is overly concerned.

He tries the door and finds it locked. He looks around the property. He sees no sign of forced entry – no broken windows, no forced doors. He sees the lawn is overgrown but not completely wild. Obviously someone does minimal maintenance on the outside. He sees the odd hopper with piping into the basement but nothing seems out of place. He notes that the generator is silent – not running. Still the alarm company was adamant. He has to go inside the house and find out why the computer system crashed. It’s as plain as the nose on your face – the power is out and the generator isn’t running. Still he is told to go inside because the failure of the computer system is a very urgent matter.

He forces the door and begins to search the premises. He checks out the foyer, kitchen and living room… nothing. He looks into the library/study and sees two computers sitting on the desk. Both are off since there is no power to the place. He sees wires passing through the floor to the basement.
He tries the door across the hall and it is locked. Rather than breaking the door he decides to check out the basement first since that’s where the wires went before looking into the room.

In the basement he finds several colored tanks. The tanks have pumping systems and rubber hoses that pass through the ceiling to the room above. It is silent. But he can tell from the tubing that the pumps have run recently. There is some sort of brown fluid in the tubing from the brown tank. Other tubes seem to pass from the ceiling into a sewer drain. He goes back upstairs. Maybe the locked room holds the secret of all this stuff in the basement.

He forces the door and steps into the room…

“What the hell?”



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