These stories usually ended all right for the "victim", though depending on the author that might well mean some sort of permanent condition.  I considered getting something sharp to have nearby while I still could...if things progressed in the usual fashion, walking would eventually be out of the question.

The previously anchored "reality" of the suit definitely seemed to be slipping.  Aside from the disappearing-zipper, I was pretty sure the hood wasn't simply padded with foam anymore...it was molding directly to my face, remaining featureless to the touch on the outside, yet somehow transmitting sensation perfectly.  Speaking of which, my lips felt odd light brushes that I hadn't initiated.  I could only interpret them as speech, though I couldn't make anything out...you try lip-reading by inverted touch.  Maybe an "oh" sound, and an "ee" sound?

I suddenly became much more aware of the out-of-sync sensations coming through the suit, accompanied by another whisper of thought.

<-the signal, shall we?>

Before I had much time to puzzle that out, there were hands sliding over my body, and I bit my lip, releasing a soft high moan.  The contact was gentle, patient...the positions of the fingers insisted they were my own hands, I could even feel the pressure on my fingers and palms, but my own hands rested at my sides.  The touches stopped abruptly, aside from a light brush against my lips.

<You didn't... hear that, did you?>

All at once, I realized what was going on.  There wasn't just an external connection, it was a sync.  Someone else was wearing a similar suit, and we were, what, sharing the same skin?  Someone who knew one of my characters, and owned a quasi-techno-magical latex suit.  That would've made it pretty obvious even if Plum hadn't mentioned she'd been at August's.  Still, I didn't respond for the moment, doing my best to keep my thoughts nonverbal.

That wasn't very hard, as the suit, or August, rather, began teasing me...coming ever so close to my eager nipple without actually brushing it.  They'd both grown so hard they ached, and I growled in frustration, but then felt my thighs rubbing against each other without motion on my part, and I unconsciously mirrored the movements that must have produced the sensation.

As I felt more gentle ministrations from my surprise partner, I let myself be buoyed upwards and float on the currents of human contact that were as sweet melancholy to my mind as they were bliss to my body.  I wouldn't mind another trip with August...once I'd sorted out the minor issue with the jester suit, it had been quite nice.  But even as my body whispered otherwise, it wasn't real, because August wasn't.  She couldn't feel anything, do anything that wasn't written for her, by me, or by...

By her usual author.

I'd written August once, I'd been inside her head, known how her thoughts "sounded"...why hadn't I recognized them?  Because I wasn't writing her.  Which was a new wrinkle...had lonelyzentai's writing gotten so into my head that she had interactive access to my delusions?  It's too bad that aside from some stress and occasional depression, she's entirely stable as far as I know...if I'm going to be crazy, it'd have been nice to share.  Not that I'd wish my issues on my worst enemy, if I'd had one.

Meanwhile, the suit had been tightening, so gradually I hadn't noticed it at first, and August's touches were beginning to set my skin on fire; they somehow felt more real than if she'd actually been here in the flesh.  My hips arched, trying futilely to relieve the tantalizing pressure between my legs.  I could feel an inevitable orgasm coming, but I could feel an idea blossoming as well.

If I was this crazy, did it matter if 'Nelyz isn't?  She likes sci-fi...maybe there was something I could do.  She wears a suit when she writes...suppose she happened to be wearing something else too, something she'd mentioned once in a journal.  I'd been curious, but I hadn't had the money...but Plum was more financially sound than I was.

I slid off the bed, pausing for a moment to center myself against the amazing feeling of the suit continuing to tighten.  It felt like it should be harder to bend my arms and legs, but it somehow wasn't, the pressure remaining constant even at the joints.  I quickly moved to Plum's bag, and firmly decided that, despite the arguable perfection of the suit she'd "found", Plum would've tried to maintain some control by picking up an addition of her own.  I reached into the bag, and sure enough, my fingers found a narrow egg shape and the palm-sized control unit.

Suppose for the sake of argument that a writer is in a delusional reality that somehow has an electronic connection to someone else.  No doubt August had some gadget that worked through all this, but her author was at a computer screen as well, was she not?  Let us further suppose that both the delusional writer and the author were employing a certain electric device of the exact same model.  Through some strange combination of electrical synchronicity, static electricity and whatever hyper-technology August had, could something that appeared on the author's screen have a terribly unlikely and yet undeniably real effect on her device, on her suit, on her mind?

I bounced back onto the bed, because if this worked, standing was definitely going to be out of the question.  I felt August continuing to tease me, and herself, and subtle changes in pressure said she'd spread her legs.  Perfect.  I did have one last pang of conscience...if my admittedly insane plan worked, what would happen to August in this kink-fueled thought-experiment?  She was fictional, sure, but part of my mental baggage is over-empathizing.  I had to admit I had no idea.  But my best guess would be that her tech, her suit, her body, would become the bridge between us...feeling every bit of sensation transmitted in either direction, but overpowered by our combined meta-agency to the role of mere passenger.  Could I be sure she'd be ok with that sort of ride?  Her past adventures argued she would, but...

<You know, I thought you'd recognize my voice...> came August's playful, taunting thought.

Oh, what a tease.  I was tempted to flip over on to my hands and knees and give her a spanking...but I don't much care for spanking myself, and since my own bottom would be the medium, that didn't seem ideal.  Instead, it pushed me to decide on the spot that she deserved my plan, and I put it into practice.

*It did take me a minute...but I've been thinking how to properly thank you for taking Plum under your wing.  It was awfully nice, since she was entirely new to the genre...*  A mischievous grin accompanied my internal mon-...except, it was an internal dialogue I guess, wasn't it?  Hmm.  Regardless of how many people were party to my thoughts, they were coy, and merry.

I set the control unit onto the bed next to me and used the fingers of my now-free hand to gently probe between my legs.  I gasped as I realized just how tight the suit had become, trapping my sensitive lips and bud, a deepening depression between them.  I really wanted to tease her a bit longer, but I was seconds from a climax and I didn't want to waste it.  I spread my lips and slipped the egg inside, and sure enough, the suit accommodated it, drawing it inside me.

"Ohhhh, shit, unnnn...just a sec..."  I pressed my legs together and twisted half into the fetal position, trying to postpone the inevitable.  I clutched at the control and mashed the buttons randomly with my thumb, waving my arm around...I was pretty sure that's how it wor-

I really hoped my roommate was out.  And our neighbors.  Upstairs and downstairs, for two doors in either direction.  I'm rather sure I've never screamed quite that loudly, and the high pitch was bound to carry through walls.

The long burst of stimulation winged its way through whatever mesh of wireless networks had connected it to August's suit, and through it, to August.  A carefully-modulated pulse of electrical energy formed, shaped entirely by nervous curiosity and authorial fiat, which appeared on lonelyzentai's screen in the only way that it could radiate properly, a mass of otherwise undeciph-

لُلُصّبُلُلصّبُررً ॣ ॣh ॣ ॣ 冗
٩ʕ◕౪◕ʔو                        
                                
H҉̷̫̪͉̤̠̫̥̜͚̪̝̪͙̙̬ͅͅè͞͏̱̲͕͉̺͖̻̲͓̙̹͕̞a҉̶̴̤̬̫͇̹̬̠̫̩͍͇̝̻̙̗͎̣ͅr̸̸͚̤̹̝̰̼̱͍͓̮̟͚͘ ̴̪͉̦̭̘̞͖̜̩̻̙̲̦͠ͅͅM̷҉̶̪̭̩̲̜̀e̷҉̢̝̠̹͉̗͙͚̯͔̦̠̺͎̹̗̪̮̩͝ ̛͞͏̢͈̯̭͍͓͇͔͕̪̦N̴̶͈̗͙̼̗͎͉̭͙͚̜̫͢o͏̡̛̼̣̞̰̖w̶̧͙̜͕̭̞͙̣͖̩
̢̛̛̻̭͉̩͢͜ͅI͏̛̲̻̤̖̘̣̳̼̜̞̟̠͍̪ ͢͝͏͔̟̳̦͚͓̳̜͔͘ͅI͡҉̼̱̰̪͚̤̖̗͕͘͘ṉ̛̟͓͚͖̯̘͘͜v̵̧̫͓̘͉̩̠̤̲̲̹̪̦͓̱̺̠̗͢o͠͏̘͈̤̤͓̲̭̮͢͞͠k҉̶̢̦͖̞̮͓͍̖̠̯̘̗e̵̡͈͍̯̺ ̧̟̭̞̮̟̘̠̱̣T̡̪̖̱͚͙͖̞͉̭̰͘͡h̸̢͖̝̣̳̕͜͞y̷̢̨̲͓̙̺͚̯̥̫̦̬ ̵̜̪̬̞̖̫̩͇̕͝Ḿ̨̞̮͎̯͍͙̪́̀ỳ̢̯͇͓̱̰̞̲͎̮̣ͅś̴͏͖͖̗̙̜͖̪̦̬͕͉̯̥̬͙̩t̡̖̫̠̜̬̘̼̦̬͜͝e̴̢̛̞̳̖̗̦̖͓͔̞̳͞r̷̸̛̛̭͕͉̭͕̫̟͡y̶̺͚̣̭̹͖̲͚͈̮̲͓͇̞͎̝͟͡
̸̵͇̠͖̖̰̳̩͙̳̘̺̖̩̜͚͈͟͞ͅͅT̸̲̹̫̻͟ẖ̨̗̞̘͈͓̞̀͞e̛͞҉̗̙͈̼̦͡ ̢̧̨̖͔͇̹͙̞͢͞Ķ̵̵͕̱̳̼͓̬̩̣̝̦͉̰́́e̡̢̛̘̳̝̠̺͖͔̫̯̗̜̫͡ý̦͓̬̪̲̼̖̤͔̝̰̪͎̝̹͔͓͠ ̛̰̗̞͕̟̮̬̖̖̖͙̘̪͇̩̻̕͢ͅa̵̦̻͈̬̘̘̣̞͍̱̩̝͎͈͔͜͞͝͞n̩̭͔̦̼͢͠ͅd̶̴̢̛̙̟̰̣͎͖ͅ ̶̖̥̫͍̩̪͎͈̖̲͙̣̳̮̻̯͈̬͘ͅT̴̹͍̲͉̱̥̹h̷̶̕͟҉̗͚̥̦ͅe̶̘̣̠̤̩̬͈ͅ ̫̭̝̼͇̀͘G̡͉̯͖͔͎͎͍͍̗̣͚͉͟ạ̸̙͍̦̫̟̥̰̻͖̥t̶̡͈̫̖͚̫̟̝̦̳̖̞͍̜ę̠̻͖̞̩͉̯̜͚͎̲̗͈͢.͏̴̧̮̟͔̠͍͡
̸̮̖̹̥͓͙̝̞̳͚͔͍͕̰̞͝ͅŔ̶̡͏̪̩̲͈̥͈̳̹͎̳̞̜̗̝̩̯̹̥̬́e̵̡͉̤̯̝̩͎̰̬̺͓͖̳ͅa҉̨͙̮̻͘͡l̶̡̢̛͕̻͉̳̣͈̪͚͕̳͕͢i̴̶̡̺̬̞͓͕̗͕̟͍̰̩̠̳̪͜͡t͍̠͖̱͖͔̭͍̻̖̙̱̀̕y̷̢͏̢̛̣̠̺͉͓͚̮̱͍͚̳̭͍͇̩ ̸̡͖̠̩̮̣̝̠̣̫̮̟͎̭̰͍̠͝ͅí̸̧͞҉̙͇̖̪̟̜͍͇̪͔̰̤͍͚̜s̨̱̩̼͖͙̘͙̙̣͘͢͜ ̴̵̸̖͎͉̘̝̥͕̩͖w͟͡͏̙̯̖̮̰͍̀́ḩ̴̪̜̖̱̪̹̝̣̺̠͕́a͞͏̠͈̼̥̠͙̝͕̝̻͉̩͔̙̰͙͢ţ͏̧̮̱̣͔̠̗̭̬̺ ̶̢͓͎̯̮͟͢ͅỳ̢̡͏̲̱̯͇͕̰͞o̧̗̤̬̪̥̲̣̩̗̲͔̗͇̘̬͝͝u͝҉̸̡͇̺͚̻͈̱̭͕̠̘͕͇̝̙̬͍̹̣ͅ ̴̛̖̮̞̞̦͘͡͡ḿ̧̼̫͓͈̱͔̹͇͔̟͍͈̗̼͉͠à̛̤̲͎͓̭͇̥̳͎̱k̷̢̨̳̩̲͚̫͇̖͍̀ͅe̢͏̘̯̮̳̻̦̲̬̫̥̫̺͉͞ͅ ̵̛͍͖͔̜͍͉̬̬̪͔̝̣͍̱͍͓̱̕͝i̸̙̤͚̣̹̦͔̼̤͚̱͙̳͍̦͇̻͓̤͟͝t̷̡̤̟͕͕͎̕.̪̳̬̪̫̣̙̙̳̀́͢͝ͅ
̢͍̞͚̗̩̰͕͘͢͟ͅB̛̳̱̫̫͓̜̤̯̖͔̠̪̗̳́̀ͅl͟͏̴̫̲͔̹͙̣͠i̧̺̫͖͕̮̗̗͍̥̟̪̻s̸̫͔͚͉͓̠͉̼̘̘͇͇̞̫̺̻͎̩̼͘̕͢͜ş̴̸̴̮̣̙̱͍̮̞̰͉̦̯̱̭̫͖͞ͅ ҉̶̹̺̭̖̲͚p̨̝̻̗̲͙̠̦̲̕͟͞ͅͅi̴̡̡̝̙̳̟͍͓͚͉͙̙ę͡͏̝͔̟̗̫͔̦͉̫r̡̩̤̯̻̦̕͘͡͝c̷̡̡̺̱͎͈̠̬ḛ̴̢̟͔͙͖̫̞̙̹͇͈̙́ͅs̸̷̸̛̼̱̝̣̼̠̤͚͕̮̪̝͓̟̰ ͟͜͞҉̼̯̱͎̞̜̩͎̲̳̩̖ḍ̛͕̻͓ị̸̧͙͉͉̫̥̳̫̦͖̗̮̝̕m͔͈̼͇̫̗̣̬̪̥̳͝ͅe̸̛̯̩̱̪͈͍̲̬̖͖̰̬͘͜͟ǹ̛̞̲̣̗̟̫̜̺̥̦̲̮͕́s͏͉̝͚̙͚͚͚̙̘̤ì̢̢̢̦̰̼̳̬̱͙͎̬̹̜͎͎͉̺̤͜ͅo͚̠͎͍͓̺̤̼̻̣̥̹͘͜͜͝ń̵̫̰̗̯̹̺̞̩̖͚͖̩ą̷̸͚̰̩͎̫̗̞̺̬̖̞̣̳̖̱̩̳̗̟l͉̲͕̜̳̙̙̻̹̼̝͇͓͢͡͠ ̀̕͏̙̥̯̖͓̬͇̞̘̳͎̞͖ͅẃ̵̧̡͇͕̺̬̪͉̙̙̝̲̘̭͖̙̹̟̣á̢̡̗̰̤̦͚͉͎͖͙̱͚̰̹̺ͅͅl̡̫̙͍̯̲̠̪̀́͘l҉̪̣̼̺̠̙͚̹̦̮̞͚̦̀͠s̶͜͞͏̧͈̹̪͉.̨͝҉̧̘̣̗̝͖̮̪͈͉͈͍͔̳
̶̵̢̪̫͈̟̻͈͉͔͍̼̭͞C̭̠͚̳̱͉͔̭̱͈͖͚͈̀͡ó̷̧͖̮̖̪̩̮͎͉͓̥̼̘̪̭̺͎̤͔̟͜͟m̵̷̴͔̯̳͕̙̹̥̹̳̗̩͍͇͍͚͜͠i͏҉̡̨̞̬̲̱̗̥͎̕ņ̸̶͍͔͉̙͚̩̗̰̬͖̮̪̖͢͢g҉̥̗̹̖̥̘͇̥̳̙ͅ ̢̡͓̘̤̤̘̟̯̘̗̖̬͓̩̕͝t̡̫̗͔̰̱̼̠͔̣͢͜ͅo̢̡̹̟̦͔͚̩͔͉̝̩̤̕͢ǵ͈̩̲͔̰̖̰͖͓̩͖̼͍͈̘͙͙͖͘͝͝͠e̴̦͔͍̻̲̝͍̺̞̳͚̲̗͇̯̕͜t̘̦̭̭̞̩̲̬͙͙͎̘͚̖̙̳̰́͟h̷̴̛̘̭̜̜e҉̸̫͔̹͎̘͠ŗ̫̣̭̺̩̳͎͕͠ ̸̰̮̟̰̥́͜ͅi͘҉͖̹̺͙̦̯̜͈̺̪͕̣͇͕̦̣͘͢ņ̶̰̩̪̙̮̹͕̗̻̙̼̞͖͓͜͢ ̰̖̪̤́͝ͅc͎̼̫̯͢o̦̗̙͎̻̰̩͓̭̞̼̥͠͠ͅm̸̨͚̟͓͇͓̦͇̩͙̦̫̞͖̰͉̯͠m͢͏͎̫̘͕̗̥̱̦̞̝͇͚͕̺̗ͅo̶̷̖̰͔̲͙͕̝̱̦̫̩̘̖̖͞͝͠n̘̰̭͍̯̫̙͢͡ ̧̨̛͖̦̤͈͎͍̣̫͍̬̙͈̖͖̣̘͔͝ͅj̨̪͈͉̲̺̪͚̯͎͓̻͙̞̲̰̫̭o̴̳̱͕̭̘͉͍̜̲̱̖̻͠y̸̝̭͈̘͉͢͡.̸̨̢̛̙͖̺̮̬̗̞͍̜̀
͏̳̺̦̹́͟͟A̷̡̤͖͍͙͓͈̫͍̣͚͡ ̛͍̝̠̫"̛̞̜͈̲̝̭̳̫͚̜̝̜̦̠̰͔̜́͜p҉͏̦̱̭̩̲͇̻̝̹͉̙̝ͅͅļ̛̛̮͔͓̬͍̱̻͖̯̰͎͖͓̘̻͘ͅa̶̡̼̪̙̭̰̦̰̫̳̱̩̮̹̱͖̺͚̟͠͝c͜͏͇̦̻̰̟̺̘͍͠è̶̴̫̣͈̝̖̦̹̗͕͖͙͕̱̰̜͓͢͡"̸̢̟̲̘̻͎̣̲̖̖̤̟̠͕̱̻̻͟ ̺̗̹͓̗͖͚̟̱̮̭̫͚̬͔͇̗̀ͅt̜̘̹͙͕͜͢͡h̢̭̣̭̣̣a̵̷̴͈̠͔̠͍̩̱̟͇̩̻̟͈͕̺̺̕ͅt̸̢̠̙̞̜͙͔̗̣̦̜̹͔͟͠ ͏̡̧̭̜̝̮̩̱̗̮ͅe̷̸̟̬̳̬̙̺̥̕͝x̸͎̺͖̗̫͇̥̭͇̻͕̜͇͕͈͜ͅi̦̹͉̮̝͍̙͇̝̤̜͢s̵̛̬̱̺̱̫̭͓͈͔̙̮̮̭̀͘͠t̷̴̘͉̰̻͠s̴͎͙͈͍̟̀͝ ̸͏̝̱̩͙̻̠͓̩̟͝o͢͡҉̧̘̲͇̟̱̲͉͖͘ǹ͈̫̹̥̗́̕͞ļ̞͕̗̥̗͙̞̳̭̺͜ỵ̬͇̜͇͖͓͎͇̕͟͜͟͝ͅ ̵̪̠͍̜̕͡a̶̡̱̜̠̟͚̲̳͓s͕̩̳̦̼͈̥͓͚̤̥̻̗͘͢͝ͅ ̴̶̗͇̻̩̺͔̥̜̩̰̣̥̠̩̳͔̝̫͖͜͞ǹ̝̘̮͕̞̮̥̠̘̙̫͢e̡̯̼̖̥̞̬͇̭͞ȩ҉̻̣̝̤͓̭̮̱̻͓̼͉̠͖̣̕d҉̢̫̮̙̠̹̥͈͟͝e̢̝̲̗̘̥̥̺͎͙̘͓ͅd҉̴̷̨̫͖̥̮̙͙͖̺̥̲̰̝͕̯̖̞̀.̷̡̢̤͇̥̻̫͚͕̜̰̭͚͕͞ͅ
̵́͡҉̻̫̱͕̭͍̘͎̬̲̟̜̮͜ͅ
̧̹̗̥͎́͠.̶̡͢҉͉̖̯̙̺͔͕̀.̵̺̭͎̼̥͙̟̦̟̲̼͓͈́.̲̪̣̖̤̬͎͎͎̹͇͍̜͉͟o̵̷̘̹̰̯͍̫̞̹̭͈̰̼̥̗̖͉̩̫͞r̵҉̲͈̺̼̱͎̝͙̦̰̦͔̰̞̭͓͘ ̴̶͚̖͓̟͎̲̀͡"̷̛҉̯͖̭̮͉͙̀́ͅç̶͕̮̖͍̲̠͖̦͍̱̼̩ͅu̖͉͍͔͖̝̹͚͟͡ḿ̪͔͔͕̳͕̣̻̲͕͈̮́̀͢ͅm̛͞͏̥̟͈̪̤͙̗̥̥͔͈͉i҉̢̖̗̮̝̙̪͈̼̥͖̱̼̀͠ṉ̢͈̖͇͈̥͙̘̯̻͍͎͉̙̦̙͇͜ģ҉̺̙͙͎ ̶̴̵̯̞̭̙͢͜t͝҉̘̞̞ͅǫ̸͉͍̘̠̥̝̟̪̱̘̯̯͖̙̦̲͖̕͝g͖̹̮̲̀͟e̴̡̠͇̟̥͚̱̯̩̘̲̰̫̯̩͓̜t̷̷̴̨̨͖̲̬̦̳̩̪͕ͅh̷̶͈̖̩̩͍̹͎͉͖͘͜ͅe̵̷̵̹̮̭̱̹͚͉͞r̴̡̨̭͕̼͉̟͖̗̳̜̳̩͕̙͖̲̣͘͠"̷̶̼̠͉̥͖͔̗̹͍̮́́͡,̀͜҉̻̹̳̟̥̤̰̯̤̟͖̭̞͔̩͙͙̩̕͠ ̨̛̤̭̤̦̞̥̗̰̗͎̬͉͠t̳̭̰͓̦́́h͈̝͍͓̞̹̱̟͇̳̀̀͢͟a͏̸̛͈̫̥̝͙̲͖̲̤͖̗̣̹͉͘t̴̻͚̲́ͅ ̴́̀҉̯͕͎͔͈͖͈̘̬̬̠̻̗̝͉͈̼̦w̕͘͠͞͏̘̠̣̱̦̜̞̭̪̻̫̟͖͖ǫ̳͎͍̜ŕ̡̬̻̖̱̠̮̞̞̫͟͝k̙̖̞͖̭͕̟̝̙͟͜͢ś̸̩̘͔͔͚̱͖̼̤̜̣̲̰͞ ͢͞͏͉̞͖͙ͅt̸̨̡̪̠͕͔̣͙̰͉͡͝ͅo̵̴̞̣̖͍͉͎͈͍͖̘̱̫̺̝͢͡͞ơ̷̡̫̥͇̰͖͈͎̱̥͢͞ͅͅ.҉͏̵͚̳̺̖͙̤̪́