The Specialist wasn’t the eerie-quiet sort. He had known others who prided themselves on being graceful, lithe, and infuriatingly silent. He had memories of a distant, former life wherein others would gently tease and nudge him, sneak up behind him, or pounce when he was distracted.

He couldn’t imagine such a thing happening again. That was more due to his circumstances than himself. In his thick helmet and heavy equipment, it would have been easy to sneak up and deliver a spank or pat on the back. The Specialist merely wouldn’t allow it. He was ensconced in his own world, supreme in his laboratory, an undefeated dominar within his domain.

Lording over his castle also meant having the appropriate regalia. The Specialist had custom-designed all of his equipment, and it fit and functioned like a second skin. This was critical, since he was nearly always enclosed within. He had at times simply worn loose-fitting scrubs, but they always felt so unprofessional and lacked the imposing aesthetic he desired. The black rubber of his skin-tight and sealed suit did a much better job of intimidating when necessary. He didn’t do a tremendous amount of intimidation on a personal level, but he was narcissistic enough to want to look good regardless. The functional aspects of his gear meant that he needed that level of impermeable isolation and protection as well; some of his experiments could be quite hazardous, and some of his test subjects could be very impudent. He spent far more time at work in his lair than he did out and about. Coupled with an internal undergarment to keep him cool and regulated, it meant that he was able to stay enclosed and productive for long, long stretches.

The rubber had the appearance of being tremendously thick, and in some places rather bulky. It didn’t bother him. The heavy, rounded boots he wore thumped as he crossed through doors and along well-trod paths in his lab, kept in place by leather straps he’d chosen personally. Similar straps of fabric also harnessed around his muscular chest and along his waist. It added a modicum of restriction that was purely self-aggrandizing, though it also provided plenty of pouches and easy access to various tools.

Tools included the imposing gas mask he wore. It was shaped like a jackal’s head, with an elongated snout and shining metallic filters. Two glass panes seemed to glow with an ominous gold, and his speech echoed from speakers in the neck. When close, victims could even hear him breathing through the thick, heavy rubber of his mask. In the right light, it all shone, reflecting off the polished rubber and shining steel.

Even as much as he liked to show off his body and his gear, he did what he could to protect it. During delicate operations he might only wear an apron or smock, though if there was a chance of thrashing or splashing he’d wear a brown coat over his dark purple-ebony suit.

The lab had a somewhat similar color scheme. Much of it was dark or dimly-lit, but the metal and concrete walls would have bright shocks of golden-yellow paint to signify different areas. Other vibrant colors helped to denote paths, much like a hospital. It wasn’t terribly useful for him, but it helped when test subjects were given the freedom to move, or when his assistants got lost. Sometimes the two mixed; more than one assistant was a former experiment, and more than one of his unwilling studies had been a failed assistant.

The failures were always a source of frustration for The Specialist. Considerable time and resources would be pooled, and when one of his various projects failed, he was wont to give in to base desires - especially when some of his subjects were quite literally begging for his touch.

Moans and groans sometimes gave it a fantastical aura of menace. Once or twice he’d mused that he could make a good haunted house. Pipe the sounds of the “damned” throughout the facility, set up some fake blood and real fluids, and maybe turn down the lighting. He could make a minor fortune selling experiences to youngsters with more money than sense, but he had neither the time nor the patience to turn his tomb-like sanctuary into a place of frivolity and laughter.

A loud pinging sound made him turn his head up. He stared at a computer screen hanging from an armature. His most recent project was finished. The Specialist mused that it wasn’t too different from baked goods; the timer was telling him that his treat was ready for inspection.

The Specialist moved slowly, which was more difficult than running. When a project like this was complete, his desire to see the results made him want to run. But he stifled that urge. It would be undignified and loud. When he entered his main test chamber, he did so with his hands cupped behind his back. It belayed no emotion through his suit and mask.

Three walls of the chamber were covered in machinery, much of it built into the walls and ceiling. In some places the metal was smooth and unadorned. Other parts were clearly scratch-built, made by himself with endless wires and tubes abutting pneumatics and pumps. Mechanical armatures lined several parts of the walls, ready to assist him with any fine motor skills that were required. Sometimes it was more convenient to have the arms do the work for him. Other times he wanted to get his hands dirty. Not literally.

He took hold of a lever and threw it up. Fluid began to drain. Machinery began to spin. Digital readouts of another creature began to flare to life, tracking its movements and motions as it went from weightless within a suspended fluid to rigid, and then to flailing. He tracked as the machinery behind the wall had his test subject decanted.

A pressurizing wheel turned and a vault-like door opened. She slid out, accompanied by a rush of the remaining stasis fluid from her testing chamber. It was a very precise process, for she slid directly onto a gurney with the excess liquid falling into drains around the floor. The specialist eyed her over.

He hadn’t seen her face since he had first set this subject up inside the testing chamber. In fact, he had deleted her face from his subject profile. There was some information on identifying features - blood type, careful notes on her genetic structure… but he was going to make her anonymous, he didn’t want to be bothered by petty things like who she had been.

She was very carefully packed up. He had found long ago that subjects could be feisty, even after days or weeks in testing. All subjects, upon removal from any testing scenario, were now carefully packaged, wrapped, and prepared for any further study. For her, that meant a series of thorough rubbery bindings. She was locked into a personal sack; tight, shiny, and filled with internal restraints. Her arms and legs had been looped into various spots within the sack, and a few restraints had been applied on the outside as well at key points. It brought him a certain amount of delight to know that she was wriggling, squirming, and that she couldn’t even see all the ways she was bound. But she would certainly feel them. The moment she’d landed on the gurney, he’d had the good sense to belt her down with three more wide bands above and below her chest and at her thighs. The sack itself had been zipped up from the front, and if necessary he could slip her into another. He wasn’t sure if that’d be necessary. One subject had proven so feisty he’d had to vacuum all the air from the first, then seal him into a second. She didn’t seem to have the strength.

Only her head was unbound, with the sack stopping just below her neckline. The Specialist walked closer. She quivered, mewling and staring at him.

“Thank goodness. I was trapped in there for I don’t know how long. Quick, you need to help me!”

He looked down at her. A bit unexpected. Apparently he wasn’t quite as intimidating as he thought.

“Help you?” He spoke through the mask.

“Yes. Quickly, pick me up! Undo these straps! Get me out of here!”

“And where would we go?”

He tilted his head down, and made eye contact with her. Her eyes flitted around, eventually focusing on him. She couldn’t reciprocate the eye contact, and was instead forced to look up and down at his form. He saw a lip quiver.

“I watched you for days. It seems that in the end, my gel didn’t take.”

“W-what?”

She stuttered. He took her by the chin.

“I said, you’re a *failure*. My project didn’t work. My experiment didn’t bond with you.”

“What? The - when I was floating…”

“When you were *floating*,” he said, tightening his grip, “you weren’t just enjoying some time alone. You were supposed to be penetrated, converted, and transformed. You were supposed to become a permanently enclosed and completely anonymous little object for me.”

She stuttered again.

“But it looks like that’s failed. Because you’re here, and you’re already thinking about what to say. Or maybe you’re petrified. Those readouts on the wall tell me that your pulse is racing, that you’re a bit frightened, and that you’re also ravenously horny after all that time. So, in the end, a failure.”

He released his grip and went to a side-table. He returned bearing a collar and hood. He tilted his head.

“Do you know what I do with failures?”

The test subject tried to arch her back, worming left and right to break the bonds. He had seen it before, but it had never worked. She wasn’t going anywhere.

“Whatever I want. I do anything I feel like to them.”

The mask wasn’t too dissimilar from his own, though it was meant to punish - not to protect. A huge flexible rubber plug slipped between her lips. Her nose was soon fitted with ports to provide air or other gases. Waxy contacts covered her eyes. A metal muzzle fitted over her mouth, accentuating - for him at least - the notion that she was gagged and made helpless. Lenses covered her eyes, though they were for now transparent. He could see her bright eyes. She could only see his emotionless mask. They couldn’t have been more different.

He could hear her practically gagging as she sucked the fat protrusion. It loosened a bit, still filling her mouth and cheeks. Sounds and grunts started to emit from her as the mask locked in place. Long, mostly ornamental ears matched the jackal look of his own gear. A thick metal collar sealed her mask to her suit, gluing them all together and making an airtight seal.

The Specialist started to gloat. He walked close to her as her helplessness became more apparent. He tapped a control on the wall, and the air to her suit cut out. He waited ten second to watch her panic, then let it resume. The lenses were slightly foggy. “Your fate is in my hands. As I said, I do anything I want with failures. Sometimes they get promoted to my assistants. But you? No, I think you’re too fresh for that yet. You’re probably still a little ball of energy. You haven’t been broken in. Not by a long-shot.”

He moved closer. The gurney was just below his waist and he leaned on it. His manhood was sealed in a visibly bulging pouch. Protruding from his suit, it provided both protection and also satisfied a certain self-aggrandizing urge. Like an animal, he showed off his masculinity for anyone who looked at him. And now, he let that same bulge touch her. She was helpless to resist as he showed it off, letting it sit on her sacked form.

“What’s on your mind now? Are you thinking about how you want to suck me off? Are you maybe thinking about gorging yourself on my cock?”

She responded with some unintelligible grunts.

“It was a rhetorical question. I just wanted to remind you that it’s me who controls what happens, not you. If I wanted you to open up, I would. If I wanted to relax with you between my legs, I’ll do that. If I just want somewhere to mark, somewhere to sit up and behold my manhood, well - I’d do that. I’m doing it right now.”

He could see her eyes staring.

“But I think that’s enough for now.” He retracted back, no longer leaning against the gurney. He slid the gurney out of the testing chamber, letting automatic systems clean and close up shop. A new subject would be ready tomorrow.

He hummed along the way. He let her see all the lines and navigational components to his lair. Was she going to the living quarters? Was she headed to pantry? What about another testing room? Storage? They kept passing them all, and she kept guessing. Her grunts and pleas were ignored, and the only communication that the Specialist gave was a tuneless and irregular hum. He turned her around, revealing that she was in a morgue-like room. A few empty operating slabs combined with three walls of drawers. Endless mist seemed to coat the floor, pouring from the walls and pooling around ground level.

“This is where we say goodbye, subject. I’m going to slide you into this drawer…”

On command, one of the drawers extended with a hiss. More mist poured from it. He moved the gurney next to it, unstrapped her, and placed his subject’s wriggling form onto the drawer instead.

“...and strap you down. You seem very chatty now. Why is that? Is that the aphrodisiac you’re sucking on? Is it even aphrodisiac? I’ll let you think about that. Maybe you’ll have a dream about me.”

“Mmmngh!”

He shrugged. “You’re pretty strong. Some of the subjects just give in. Well, since you haven’t, I’ll remind you that I’m about to shut you up and seal you tight. You’re going to be encased in three layers and strapped down in a morgue. You’re going to be kept alive and well, with endless failsafes in place. You’re like a ghost; I might even wake you up and turn on the lenses so you can observe the land of the living. Why, the subject you’re neighbors with saw everything. I wonder if he was thinking about what he’d say to you? Maybe he was hoping you’d say something else. Oh, say hello to him.”

“Hmmmngh!”

“In fact, say hello to *all* of your new bunkmates.”

He flipped a switch. For a brief moment, he let the entire morgue wake. The sounds were, to him, beautiful. A cacophony of moans and groans and squirming leather and rattling chains echoed through the room. He flipped the switch back, and it was as quiet as a tomb.

“I’ll probably let you out eventually. Maybe sell you. Good test subjects are hard to come by. But until then, this is goodbye. I made it all very comfy for you; I didn’t want your tomb to be anything but the purest of elegance.”

The Specialist waved his fingers over her mask. The sound turned to white noise, and the lenses turned from transparent glass to black as night.

“Rest well, failure.”

She was still moaning, but she couldn’t even hear herself. He slid her into the drawer and slid it closed. An image popped up on the outside, a tiny hologram of the interior. Vitals were as stable as could be expected. A web of straps descended, wrapping her and ensuring that her tomb was inescapable. After a minute or so of taking in her orgiastic pleas and the lovely cooing sounds, he turned off the audio.

A loud pinging sound alerted him that another project was ready. The lights slowly dimmed as he left his repository of failure. He placed his hands behind his back and began to walk.