I lost track of how long I stood before my closet mirror, turning this way and that.  I was see-sawing between frustration and enchantment with my nearly-opaque view.  On the one hand, I wished I could see better, or that I'd had the foresight to prop my cell phone somewhere to record the occasion.  It was too late for that now unless I wanted to get out of the suit...and I did not want to get out of the suit...while I'd had mild success getting my phone's touch-screen to acknowledge my existence through spandex gloves, I highly doubted that would extend to latex, considering non-conductivity was one of its main properties.

But at the same time the view was nice, because it hinted and teased rather than exposed.  The detail was obscured enough that I could imagine the wrinkles and creases of the suit were smoothing out as I wore it, shaping me, until I was nothing but gentle curves under featureless black.  I was surprised at how effective the lube had been, too, my hands slid enough that even when they brushed what must've been folds in the rubber, I could easily convince myself I'd felt nothing but a continuous surface.

At the same time, I was even more surprised how well the baby powder was working.  I'd expected my sweat to steadily convert it into a congealed slimy mess.  "Enthusiast" sites I'd browsed even suggested re-applying powder every 60-90 minutes or so.  Maybe time was just compressing and it hadn't been that long, but it seemed as if the inside of the suit was growing more comfortable rather than less.  Slightly warm but not sweltering, the suit shifting ever so slightly with my movements in a not-quite frictionless way, so every motion or touch was echoed to my skin a fraction of a second later, like kinesthesia on reverb.

When the effect was most pronounced, it almost made it feel like there was someone else touching me.  I was quick to take good advantage of that fantasy, imagining a partner there with me, admiring my body as I was, exploring it with gentle, teasing touches, stroking my throat, my face.  I was not-so-slowly building towards another orgasm, and I took myself out of the moment briefly to debate whether I should move to the bed or just plop down on the floor in front of the mirror.

I had decided on the bed...that way the mirror wouldn't break my fantasy of someone else being there...when I felt fingers on my spine, and a distinct kiss on my cheek.

No, don't mess with the zipper, that'd ruin...what?  There'd been no touch of my own hand or shift of the foam on my face that could have mimicked that particular sensation.  There was someone else here!  Heart racing, I spun around, trying to see who was messing with me...it couldn't be Plum, even hallucinating I could always on some level tell the difference between a touch my own mind had generated and something else.  So best case it was my real roommate and I was about to actually burst into flames from shame, worst case someone else was somehow in my room and I could be in serious trouble.

"Who is there?" I demanded, trying to make my voice forceful and instead producing a pitiful squeaky tone.  I fumbled behind me for the zipper pull so I could take the hood off and see properly, but I couldn't find it...I couldn't even find the zipper tab itself.  That was a little too on-point to be a coincidence, but disappearing zippers were not real, or so I insisted to myself with desperate uncertainty.

I ran to the bed, the cornflower bedspread's pale expanse reassuring me even through the dim view of the hood that there was no one there, and jumped right into the middle of it.  Turning in all directions, there was no sign of anyone else in the room, though this didn't seem to relax me.

Maybe I'd just missed more than just a couple doses of meds.  My emotions felt unsettlingly split...I was still terribly aroused by the suit, terrified at the thought of discovery or worse, and yet I also felt...what...playful?  Amused?  Was this what a genuine psychotic break felt like?  My mind falling to discrete pieces, that-

<Hey...Plum.>  The whisper floated across my mind, almost lost in the thunder of my own heartbeat.  It wasn't imagination, but it wasn't sound, it was like the idea of sound...words without source.

I'm actually hearing voices now.  I should really get the suit off and call 911 before I lose the capacity to be worried about my mental state.  It's kind of surprising I can still think about this rationally.  Or think I'm thinking about it rationally...ugh.

I very slowly and deliberately felt the back of my neck and between my shoulders, trying to find the seam I knew had to be there, and follow it to the zipper tab.  But there was nothing, and at the idea I felt my body respond with a surge of warm wetness, even as my mind insisted this couldn't be happening.  My hips twisted on the bed, and while my hands gripped the bedspread in tense claws, my ankle and foot slid up and down the opposite calf, and I let out a half-moan, half whimper.

Why would a voice in my head be talking to Plum? wondered a quiet and curious part of myself abstractly, while the rest ran around in panicked circles.  There didn't seem to be enough of my mind available to even suggest answers to that question.  I forced one of my hands to release its death-grip on the bedspread and raised it to my chest.  Given how slippery the suit had become under the lube, it ought not to have worked, but my thumb and index finger somehow found purchase on the material and pinched mercilessly, sending a jolt of pain through my nipple, which throbbed in time with my still-rapid pulse.

A yelp of pain and surprise escaped me, though it quickly became a low growl of pleasure, bordering on need.  But even in arousing myself further, I'd managed to regain some mental focus.  The suit was Plum's, so maybe it thought it was talking to her?  And could talk now, sort of?  Even granting that, considering the intimacy involved, you'd think it would be able to tell two different women apart...

While my ongoing physical sensations continued to argue for the reality of the situation, I still hesitated to embrace what might be a serious mental lapse.  There were things I was supposed to do when I noticed reality going off the rails, no matter what I thought was happening.  But that's a lot easier said than done when being stimulated to the point of uncertainty about reality being preferable.

*Er...hello?!* I shouted, mentally.  *I'm Not Plum!*, I added, striving for clarity over eloquence.