Cinnabar was being thoroughly manhandled. It was tough to breathe through the burlap sack over her head.

Her captors had a very firm grip on her arms. She was being walked along, sometimes practically dragged. When she pulled too much, they had no problem simply tugging on her poor arms and forcing her with them. On occasion, one would wrap his arm around her body, almost like they were on a date. Beneath the bag, she blushed when their hands rubbed her thigh. She let out a tiny peep whenever they touched her rear, though they were only doing so to push her along. It was not terribly romantic.

Getting prepared for infiltration had felt like a hot date. She was nude beneath the skintight spy-suit. Its heels were just the tiniest bit higher than her normal footwear; ostensibly to allow falls from great heights and other feats of acrobatic puissance. They had succeeded in that much, and her powerful, shapely thighs had kept her leaping and bounding. Up until the moment she had been caught, of course. Now, they made her feel like a doll in fanciful, high heels.

She had certainly tried to look good. What was the point of a being sexy superspy if you couldn’t look gorgeous doing it? Dark red lipstick to match the ruby color of her suit, hair in a bun behind her head, and even a little eyeshadow - to break up any security cameras that tried to track her face.

Most of her makeup was still intact when the guards threw off her hood. Cinnabar breathed deep, taking in the smell of recycled air and oiled machinery. Another half-dozen guards were in the room with her, a few lining catwalks. It looked like an abandoned building; it probably wasn’t, and was probably leased to some owner that would be more than happy to loan it to these thugs.

A tall man wearing a domino mask nodded. Three hired goons dragged her forward. She kicked and bucked, and eventually they had to simply grab her. She felt hands all over her body, using every curve and angle as a point to grip at her. Cinnabar secretly began wishing she had oiled herself up. It might have been a bit overkill, but maybe she’d have been able to break free. Maybe. Maybe they wouldn’t be tugging her and sinking their fingers into her flesh, and she’d be sliding away.

A few in the crowd parted ways, revealing a mess of equipment in the corner. Among them was a huge, tall-backed chair. That one was hers.

The sheer number of straps and buckles was mind-numbing. It didn’t help that she was already dressed for the occasion in her catsuit. Cinnabar didn’t bother protesting, but kept a steely gaze on the leader of the crew. She did flit her eyes down at points, though, whenever they did something interesting.

The web of straps was loose, but there were so many that they’d be a bit of a challenge to escape. They locked individual loops around her ankles and calves, then another two on her thighs. She knew she was blushing when they touched the inner, soft flesh of her thighs, moving dangerously close to her womanhood. Her arms were also individually locked; each fist was balled up and sealed in a leather mitten before being chained to the wrists of the chair. She noticed a few scratch marks, and wondered if perhaps previous users of this infernal device had made them.

Finally, a harness that wound around her neck and between her breasts locked against the seat of the throne. When she bucked, she felt it rubbing slightly against her nub. When she didn’t, it was still snug and dug into her shoulders. Cinnabar grunted.

The smell of compressed oxygen and the whirring and hissing sound of something behind her made the spy turn left and right. The leader grabbed her chin and forced her to look forward into his pale eyes.

The villain spoke with a commanding, earnest tone. It was higher-pitched than she had expected, but it made his words no less threatening. “That mask is your source of air,” he said. “This - this is your lifeblood.”

In one hand, he held a modern gas mask with a tube fitted to one filter. In the other, he held her chin, forcing her to look at it.

“You have five minutes of air. I want you to spend them thinking about what you’re going to do when I come back. I suspect you won’t be as vicious then.”

Cinnabar started to curse and swear, but eventually found herself in exactly the prescribed position. She was strapped tightly to the chair, she was being fed compressed oxygen, and she was helpless. And, as the remaining goons left, she was alone.

She was breathing rapidly. She tried to relax her breathing, but couldn’t. A clock on the wall ticked by at a glacial pace. She struggled as the inside lense of  the mask fogged up. How long had passed?

A lot more noise was coming from the spy than she had anticipated. Her curses and threats had disappeared. She mewled and grunted, struggling against her bonds. Clinking metal and stretching leather filled the empty room, combining with the whirr of the machinery.

Her breath was heavy, and it was almost all she could hear. The exhalations and wheeze of the mask made the rest of her sounds practically inaudible. She didn’t notice the oily, pleasant sounds of her suit as she squirmed.

She closed her eyes, trying not to look at the clock. She thought about all the awful things she’d do when she escaped. Then, she tugged at her wrists;  padded, mittened, and locked, and despaired. Cinnabar moaned now, heaving her chest. It must have been more than five minutes. Her air supply seemed musty and was coming with more difficulty.

Without realizing it, she was grinding against the strap. Her sex was wet and she reflexively tried to gain more stimulation with every tug and pull. She craved the manhandling again.

Just as her vision started to blur, the room was crowded with people. Her captor removed her mask and she sighed deeply. She was seeing stars and felt light-headed from the experience.

He grinned. “You had nearly an hour of air. I was only gone ten minutes.”

The spy pouted as her captor dangled a thick sheet of rubber in front of her face. It matched the ruby red of her infiltration suit. Her eyes focused and she blinked away a bead of perspiration. Cinnabar realized that it was a hood, the sort that she might wear when she needed to hide her identity. This version lacked eye holes, and a space for her mouth. Instead, plain, dark red rubber would suffice for a face. Her features, barely visible through its cloying embrace, would have to do. She bit her lip. There were certainly variants on the ‘tactical’ sort that she might normally wear. This was one of them, and it was the sort of fantastical, rubbery embrace that she had dreamt about in forbidden fantasy.

“You clearly can’t handle five minutes of fakery. I wonder how you’d feel about ten seconds of the real thing?”

Cinnabar moaned, groaned, and rattled her restraints as he slipped it over her head. The spy’s face disappeared; she was just a red rubber doll, suited up and strapped in for further training and torment. Someone pinched her nose, blocking the only openings aside from the hem around her neck.

Everyone in the room heard the load groans as she felt hands all over her body, molesting, groping, intruding. But nobody saw the grin creeping across her face beneath the hood.