Everyone gets songs 'stuck in their head'. Unable to remember every tone or note, but forced to hear them everywhere  you go. You had hear someone singing a cheery melody - a pale-skinned specter, a spirited and passionate umbra.

A five-note string, a tiny piece of music had haunted you. It could lead you only to the source.

In a tiny conservatory, a monochrome villainess sits you down in a comfortable dining chair. She approaches you agonizingly slowly, standing directly behind your chair.

Phantom runs a fingers up and down your spine. She hums those five notes -  Her scent ovecomes you as she moves closer and closer, scooting ever-so-slightly along the floor. Her piercing green eyes stare directly into yours, with no blinking or emotion to give you any quarter.

Taking your chin gently in her palm, she lifts your head up to meet her gaze. "Now, now, now, you know as well as I do that I have my priorities. People to see, places to go, temptations to indulge. And you, of course, are on that list of priorities."

She continues moving in this slow fashion for a few more seconds, happy to torment you with ideas of what her plans could be. No snapping of her fingers, no transmissions, no order to "Get him!" to hiding cronies. Simply the lustrous feel of her coat on your lap as she arrogantly helps herself to your thighs for her seat.

"I somehow get the feeling that you, dearie, would not say a word if I told you to keep quiet. Or, failing that, if I told you to spread out your arms..."

Phantom takes your arms and forces them into an appropriately spread position, with your fingers and arms stretched to show off your full wingspan.

"And keep them there, vulnerable, exposed, that you would do it. I just bet that you would be more than happy to sit here while I strapped a pair of parabolic stasis bracelets on your arms to keep them in this nice exposed position, that you would do be more than happy to." Illustrating her speech, she snaps a pair of thin rings around your wrists which comfortably suspend your arms in a "T" position in midair.

"And...." She continues, unfettered by restraints moral or social - nor physical. Like a viper coiling around its victim, she positions herself on your lap, her legs locking around your stomach and thighs.

She has an almost hypnotic effect. Her words blur in and out as she touches you so slowly, so tenderly - her fingers move across your face and neck, teasing at your most sensitive parts.

If nothing else, the slowness of her movement has you mesmerized. The nature is deliberate and smooth - like it had been rehearsed. There is no sound but her body against yours; no smell but a fantastically feminine fragrance freshly fencing you. Time stands still as you gaze deeply into her unblinking eyes.

All the while, she continues talking - but to who? You have become an extension of your surroundings; frozen and relaxed, you know you have control over your body - but why bother resisting? Everything seems so dreamlike and fanicful - Rober Wiene would have applauded such a masterfully hypnagogic scenario.

But what is she talking about?
Surely, it would not be her explaining that you would not resist when she took the liberty of removing your clothing.

Most certainly, she would not say that you were like a playmate or even plaything tonight; that, like any good partner, you were to be dressed appropriately for your character.

It would have been most brazen for her to suggest that your legs would be daintily caressed, only to have a pair of thick, mahogany straps slapped unceremoniously around your ankles, inexplicably referring to them as "AggraGel."

And it would have been downright unlikely for her to explain their true function to you; too lost would you be in the sensations they would deliver.

At first, a simple tightness. Then, a greater tightness; a feeling of compactness. Comparable to a a free 'blood pressure screening' at a pharmacy, it quickly expands to cover and coalesce over more than just your ankles.

You can hardly be bothered to avert your gaze towards your legs. But, clear as day, the 'straps' were expanding with a tingling sensation. Judging by the size and geometric rate, you could safely conclude (were you in such a state to do so) that Phantom had forced a hefty amount of nanomachines onto your legs.
Every few seconds, they would double; a thin layer of compressing nanites doubles over, feeding off your intense warmth, your own rapidly-increasing body heat functioning as a perfect source for the nanites own rapid growth.

Your legs are quickly coated in rubbery nanomachines, snipping off the occasional strand of hair or dead skin cell to power their march. You can feel their every move as they creep past your knees, moving to your thighs as you are gently lifted off from the chair.

Panic starts to set in, a tingly sensation that mixes with the growing tingling around your groin. Phantom has a complete hold on you; you had sported no resistance when she sat you down, when she forcibly left you arms to float...

Which reminds you of the funny, tingly feeling emerging around your wrists. A unique, tingling sensation which moves over your hands and palms before going to your fingers. Each finger at a time, wrapping itself around, caressing, making sure that your blood yet flows before tightening. And then the next finger, and the next. Eventually, all five fingers have been wrapped, making your hand look more like a black rubber hockey mitt - before the gel contracts into a single, perfect sphere.

The process is agonizingly slow, feeling your body being slowly taken by surprise while you comfortably sit... the feeling of a thick, rubbery coating working its way over your arms, making them into useless appendages.

Your gaze blinks as you muster up your strength. No need to sit comfortably - Phantom was right there, hardly even touching you, and yet you stared at her blindly? For shame.

You begin kicking madly, attempting to pull your arms free from their hovering restraints. Little good it could do, for they had been quite surely fastened in place, and the floating restraints were more than happy to stay exactly at that point in the air.

Teasingly, Phantom moves her fingers over the tight coating around your legs, then your thighs, groping and grabbing at your soft flesh and the fantastically squeaky nanocoating. This was just another aspect of her plan - keeping your groin completely uncovered was ingenious.
Try as you might, you knew that your arms and legs were stuck (for however much control you had over your body at this point), and that no amount of will could overcome the mental restraints imposed on you.

Growing ever more tight, your length remains decidedly unexposed. Your body and mind were controlled... why would she not go the extra step? Why would she deny you even the dignity to to be fully enclosed?

Your mind wanders as you shake and rattle. The slick, milky feeling of pressure and servile coating across your body snakes up your arms, ending by smothering the rings and your hands with a hearty helping of nanites, feeding off your heat (which there is now more than enough of)  as it locks and multiplies all the farther.

When it reaches your arms, there is nothing left to multiply to - and the gel simply continues multiplying at the tips of your hands, balling them and enclosing them until two baseball-sized spheres remain. Your feet as well have since suffered the same fate, making them to useless balls.

The gel meets at the middle of your stomach - combining with a very wet, liquid sound as rubber meets rubber, coating in place.

All that remains is your head and your shaft. You notice that the gel has made a solid coating - no scuff marks, no scratches, no openings whatsoever (though they could surely be made). A single, one-piece enclosure.

Phantom moves in for the final blow. She sits on your lap, her groin moving against your exposed manhood, her fingers against your tender neck and ears. She rubs against you slightly, grinding her body against yours, sending vibrations and oily, squeaky sounds through the room.

Your eyes meet hers. Her eyes meet yours. Your expression freezes, while her facade of a smile remains constant. She takes you in close. Warm breath against your cheeks. Soft, gloved hands against your neck and back. Support as she moves your face closer to hers. Inch by inch, an eternity until she strikes.

Like a viper, she bares her fangs - or at least, her soft, luscious lips as she smooches you. Her kiss is passionate, but dainty - she avoids any sign of "romance" or "affection" (despite however much it may exist), preferring simply to kiss in a 'clean' manner.

As she pulls away, the spell is broken. Whatever mental control she exterted over you is passed. You can see, you can think. You stare away from her, at your body. Copious amounts of rubber have coated you from neck to toe - only save your length, you are a solid mass, easily mistaken as a doll.

Moreso in a few seconds, when the latex moves across your head. Combined with the heat of her lips and breath against yours, the AggriGel has no problems with your head. Though you have no trouble breathing, a rather strict ball-hood is formed around you with the greatest of ease. You can feel a first layer flush against your face, forcing air-providing holes down your nostrils, while a second layer creates an airtight gap, forcibly inflating the hood - and pressing the latex all the closer to your face. Flush against your eye sockets, entering your mouth, plugging your ears... it is a positively violating experience.

But why- why would she leave that one crtical part uncovered? Why would she bother to keep you so on edge?

Phantom is not oblivious to your queries as you flex and squirm, but has no intent to answer them with words. With a knowing smile (invisible to you behind the hood), she remotely allows the nanites to approach the warmest area - your groin. Within seconds, they have a thick and enforced sheath, trapping your member in a solid state of arousal.

She unbuckles your legs and presses your member down slightly. With one more leather and steel strap, she presses your enclosed groin and two legs together, the latex bonding to ensure compliance.

Thrashing wildly, moaning with all your power - they seem to have no effect. Barely even a touch from Phantom lets her know that she recognizes your existence as more than a solid black art projects.

Outside your personal bubble, a contemplative Phantom debates the next step. A chair? Perhaps simply used as modern art? Perhaps a fine coat-rack - the arms were spread wide enough.

All in due time. She was growing paranoid - fearful that those she trusted were out to get her, or fearful that those she -didn't- trust were out for her as well.

The clacking of high heels resonates through the tight enclosure - the vibrations of her feet against the tile floor send tiny cavitations through the chair.

She closes the door behind her, leaving you dashed and wrecked, alone on the metaphorical rocks of a desert island. Your mind grows dim and hazy as you start to sink closer to orgasmic bliss. Maybe, just maybe if you could move right, you could enjoy more stimulation... you could force her to return and touch you...

Sensing no movement in the room, the flourescent lights above turn off. The room is dark.