A Different Kind of Cat Suit

by lonelyzentai

You find yourself in a nondescript room. You have no recollection of where you are, or how you got here, but you feel oddly… at ease… with the unfamiliarity of your situation. You are naked, but do not feel cold.

The air around you smells musky – like diesel-soaked herbs. It’s not unpleasant, and it almost seems to grow on you the more you inhale it. Before you, a small table adorns the center of the otherwise vacant room. On it, a folded garment made of what appears to be rubber.

Your body seems to know what to do, even if your conscious mind is not immediately aware of ‘why’.

You unfold the garment and begin conducting a brief visual inspection of it. The black rubber reveals itself, unsurprisingly, to be a suit, constructed to a high standard of quality.

The air seems to grow heavier as you continue to breathe in the room’s atmosphere, and it becomes increasingly difficult to hold a rational train of thought. Your body feels light, and the skin of your fingers tingle wherever it grips the soft rubber. Your eyelids relax, as if your spirit was lifted. Your thoughts trail and meander but remain predominantly centered upon the sensation of rubber in your hands.

The material flexes and stretches as you knead it between your fingers. Oily, the latex glides effortlessly across itself, and its sweet musk mingles beautifully with the room’s air. You bring the material up to your face and inhale deeply, filling your lungs with the aroma of rubber.

A mere visual inspection bores you. Your body craves sensation, and the suit promises to be sensation incarnate. Instinct leads your hands to the suit’s head, and you find an attached hood.

…cat ears.

There appears to be no break in the material, apart from nostril tubes and eye holes, fashioned in the style of exaggerated cat eyes. You continue to reason with the inky black mass, but its impermeability continues to tease you. Its promise of enclosure so absolute, that gaining entry to it appears impossible.

Your search continues to frustrate you and excite you. Had your thoughts been rational, perhaps you might have considered the difficulty of escaping such a garment should you have found yourself a crack through which to slither into its embrace.

Instead, you find the opening before rationality catches up to you — a small overlap of latex, in the neck of the suit. Your fervent desire compels you, urging you to skip an intellectual consideration of its design. You find your fingers clawing at the edge of the fabric in an attempt to separate the neckline of the hood from the collar of the suit, but the task is complicated: surface tension from the suit’s oily film causes the latex to cling to itself, resisting separation.

Fortunately or not, you are eventually able to separate the layers.

The front of the neck splits open to reveal the only way in and out of the total rubber suit before you. The interior surface of the suit glistens, its thick layer of oil undulating and warping light as it moves, disturbed by your curiosity.

Limp and lifeless, the suit hangs in your grip, and yet from within the narrow entryway, a bottomless abyss calls out to you; an empty cavity beckoning you to explore its depths.

The air grows headier. Your heart is hammering in your chest. There’s nothing left to do.

Driven by lust and a morbid curiosity, you begin to respond to its invitation.

You bring your feet into the opening and shudder as a wave of goose bumps washes across your body. The oil that coats the suit coats you in turn, and the sensation is quickly joined by the narrowing tube of rubber that sheathes your calf.

The material clings tightly to your skin, yet continues to glide effortlessly as you adjust the suit’s socks to fit. A pocket of air remains around your feet — with a squeeze, it is released, and the suit maintains a vacuum grip around your toes.

You continue to work the rubber up around your knees, and up your thighs. The material’s impermeability gives it a presence unlike any article of clothing you’ve worn before; and its tightness gives it the strength to caress your skin and touch you unlike any stocking you’ve worn before.

It takes some effort to stretch the narrow slit to accommodate your hips, but rubber quickly consumes your pelvis as frictionless latex slides into place around your waist. You find yourself rocking your hips as the latex begins to settle against your sex, tightening against you as you move, evacuating any air caught within its cavity.

Cheeks flush; you wiggle as you work the suit up around your midriff and torso, until it grips you tightly everywhere below the armpits. The rubber seems to tighten around you as it settles, oily material gliding easily across your skin — its apparent lack of friction doesn’t translate to an absence of sensation. The material clings to your body ceaselessly, and its embrace is absolute.

Your body seems to dance around of its own accord, your sense of touch heightened by whatever it was in the air that you’ve been breathing. You test the confines of your second skin, relishing its pull against you with each flex and contortion of the hip.

Barely thinking, you lead your hand into the gathered neckline pulled taut against your collarbone. The interior of the suit has warmed with your exertions and excitation, and your fingers navigate the tight, humid and slippery corridors of latex. The sleeve quickly narrows out, but its end gives you pause.

There is no opening for your hand at the other end… this, you expected. What you didn’t expect, was the lack of fingers in the glove to match your own. Instead, the glove seemed almost spacious, designed to accommodate more than just your palm, but yet somehow too short to accommodate the length of your hand.

You find yourself perplexed, but the rubber compels you to proceed regardless, and your other hand quickly meets the same roadblock. The latex cinches you around your upper arms, and you shrug it into place, struggling to grab the material between your thumbs and through the mittens of the suit.

Thankfully, its slippery interior makes this a simple task, and the suit quickly consumes your shoulders; its neckline happy to be able to relax around your own.

Only the hood remains.

In your excitement to sheathe yourself inside its slippery cavity, the hood had become bunched up between the suit and the small of your back, sinfully allowing air to move freely in and out amongst the wrinkles of rubber. You quickly right that wrong, pulling the excess material out of the tight collar with a wet slurp.

The suit collapses quickly against your shoulder blades.

Grasping the edge of the hood’s neck line with between your thumb and forefinger, you tug against the rubber, struggling to pull it up and over your scalp.

It is a difficult task, made nearly impossible by whatever dexterity the suit’s mitts leave you with. The ‘gloves’ fit uncomfortably, with their wrists cinching painfully around your knuckles instead of against your own. But the poor fit allows you some flex, and you’re barely able to keep your grip on the hood.

With some effort, and ignoring the choking sensation as you tug against the collar of the suit, you are able to pull the opening up and over your scalp, resting somewhat painfully on your forehead.

It takes a bit to adjust your grip, but as you reach to finish the task, the suit seems to respond in kind, its slippery inner surface working to allow it to find its own fit on your body. It takes barely a tug before the face of the mask slides against your own, nestling just out of place.

You fight the urge to panic as the impermeable rubber smothers you. The eye-ports are misaligned and you are rendered blind, and you are no longer able to breathe.

You paw at the mask, eventually finding a grab point at the edge of the eye holes and adjust them to fit, before guiding the nostril plugs into place. They slide in gingerly, large enough to form a perfect seal within your nose, yet small enough to not be a hazard. A small channel of rubber forms a direct connection between your lungs and the herbal air outside, allowing you to breathe but disallowing air to get between you and the suit.

The hood’s neckline settles seamlessly against your neck, and you find yourself now looking out from the other side of the suit you beheld moments earlier.

Your breath comes quicker now, not from exhaustion, but from excitement. With each rise and fall of your torso, the rubber clings tightly, refusing to neither tent nor pull away from your skin. Its touch is all-encompassing and the sensation of enclosure wraps around your brain as tightly as it clings to your body.

The mitted gloves coax your fingers to close, to allow it to better mold itself to your form, and as the overwhelming musk of rubber and herbs cradles your mind, you find yourself quietly compliant. As your fingers ball into fists, the gloves begin to fit more comfortably, gently holding your hands tightly closed. Their wrists slide into their proper place as the suit quietly claims you as her own.

It is done.

The rubber pulls tightly against your sex. Nothing you do relieves the pleasure – each movement only serves to give the suit purchase to further its grip on your body. All around you pockets of air shift about, growing smaller and smaller as they inevitably find their way out of the suit to rejoin the atmosphere that you have chosen to be excluded from.

The latex barely stifles your moan. The gradually vacuuming rubber feels like an all-encompassing lover, shrinking around you objectively and without any input from yourself. The shapes of your fists have become clearly defined inside their airtight mittens. You’ve given up your ability to unfurl your hands, and the suit forces you to grab your thumbs tightly within its confines, removing the privilege of opposable thumbs.

Body arched as if to stretch itself away from the rubber, you feel the latex pull taut against your face, the eye-ports serving only to tease an avenue of escape that you know is impossible to achieve.

You paw at the suit’s neckline with your now useless mitts as you shruggle against the suit that clads you, only to confirm what you already knew… what you had even half-hoped to be true…

Finding yourselves on your knees, you arch your back, contorting your body to fully experience the futility of your situation. It rubs incessantly against your aching sex, and you paw helplessly at the unbroken field of rubber.

You can moan as loud as you’d like or mew against the smothering latex across your lips, but there is nothing you can do to help yourself satisfy your arousal. The suit merely continues to exist around you, just as you have fully given yourself to it.

There is nothing you can do now to free yourself from its whims.

From above you, a previously unnoticed panel in the ceiling slides open, before a small item falls through, landing on the table immediately below it. The panel slides back closed.

You pad over to inspect the new device.

It’s a collar.

It appears to be made of the same rubber as your new skin, smooth and supple save for three D-rings in front, and behind you to either side. Made of the same oily rubber, it promises to iron any creases between the hood and your collar. It remains open, and its closure’s simple design puts a weight in your heart and loins; it’s design unremarkable-yet-diabolical.

…a Velcro patch, embedded into the rubber.

Easy for you to fasten, but to pull apart once closed…

You flex your fists inside their gloves.

A small card falls from above, just missing your head and landing on the table in front of you:

“Ready to play?”