There’s a sadistic glee in his glowing lenses. It’s not the emotion they show - it’s the emotion they don’t show. It’s the way that he speaks with through a solid, unyielding expression… yet that there is a growing excitement carried in his stony voice. Every word is a spontaneous emission of growing furor. He’s not finishing his magnum opus - he’s just taking out stress, and you’re the chew-toy.

After being disinterred from your techno-tomb, the fiend had you cleaned, exercised, tested, and suited. The tiny bead planted in your back created a suit so perfect, so fine and tight that you’d swear it was your own skin. That is what he’d like to hear, though, so you haven’t said anything about it. At least, not with your words. The way you blushed when the liquid latex coated over your manhood definitely told him how you really felt.

Your situation has quite a bit more gear than when you’d first been kidnapped. The harness locked around your chest is now locked to the massive exam chair. It’s a very elegant solution; the central ring near your sternum also works as an extra anchor point in case they decide they want a few more straps to keep you locked to the throne while they work. And they do so want, webbing you up at key points to keep you restrained in your chair while they do god knows what. The only thing uncovered is your head, and the fat strap around your forehead makes it feel more claustrophobic than a heavy helmet possibly cloud.

The Specialist enters the room, hangs up his lab coat, and turns back to you.

“I would have been happy to keep you entombed until the end of time. You’re nothing but trouble. Yet…”

He trails off. He steps closer and places a hand on your head.

Rubber fingertips run down your temple, cheek, caressing you with the gentle touch of a lover - or a creator. He ends by grasping your chin. He leans down, and the golden eyes of the jackal’s mask seem to pierce your heart and overload your senses.

“...someone wanted you, unbowed and unblemished. Pristine.”

He tightens his grip.

“...unsculpted… formless.”

The thick glove is smothering you, now, covering your nostrils. He keeps staring. You start to buck against the chair.

“...unfinished.”

He lets you go, and leaves you panting. Stars shine in your eyes as you regain your breath. The feeling of that heavy rubber glove on your hand left you more excited than fearful.

“It is a pity, but I must keep the lights on. Selling off assets is one way to do it. And don’t ask about your new home. I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

He waves, and a pair of droned-up slaves enter the room. Clad head to toe in polished latex, they are harnessed, collared, and masked.

“Still, they wanted you physically processed as I am known for. I am always very precise when it comes to instructions. Now relax.”

With your head restrained, you’re powerless to stop them - powerless to even wriggle. First, a pair of thick earplugs penetrate deep into your aural cavity. His words now seem to echo inside your brain.

“I said, relax. Stop squirming.”

The second drone slips a long sheathe between your lips. It totally covers your gums, practically going to the back of your throat. Your tongue wriggles in its new coating; the sheathe is somewhat solid, and ends around the outside of your mouth. Its rim conforms to your lips, giving you a surreal black lipstick.

The two drones stop after fitting you with the oral sleeve - you’re making pathetic, gagged grunting sounds. The Specialist shakes his head in mock frustration.

“Clearly, you’re having trouble relaxing. Very well. Bring her in.”

One drone leaves, and a half-moment later, returns with a woman clad in black. A huge rebreather covers her face, connected via dozens of small tubes to the smell bag around her neck. A black cowl and mask render her anonymous. Fearsome ebony lenses reflect your pathetic body like a black mirror.

“Recognize her?”

You shake your head no.

“You should. Your girlfriend, acquired alongside you, of course.”

A quiet ‘mmf’ comes from behind the mask. You grunt, drooling, and moaning something unintelligible from behind sheathed lips.

“Ah. You might not recognize her. I went to work on her first. She’s just about done.”

The Specialist removes the breather mask… revealing a pair of bright ruby-red rubber lips.

“She’s been fully coated inside and out; utterly anonymous. A person no more. She is a toy; a companion; a plaything. A beautiful and submissive doll with no identity and no inhibition. She’s finished. She’s perfect.”

She says nothing, “staring” at you through those lenses.

“I am selling you off tomorrow. I wanted the last thing you saw with your own eyes to be me and this thing. She’s very pretty now, if you ask me. While my slaves finish you up, I gave her instructions to finish you off. Consider it a parting gift.”

He leans in until he’s just a breath away from your face. His gooey maw opens, and licks your cheek.

“Goodbye.”

The rubber toy that was once your partner kneels down. She giggles before helping herself to your erect manhood. Your arousal is so intense it almost hurts. Her warm, inviting lips - however coated or covered - is a gentle salve on a burn.

Soft, gooey, and incredibly lewd - she plunges your shaft deep into your mouth. You moan into the sleeve. The two drones use the distraction to place a pair of large contact lenses over your eyes. Blinking isn’t enough to get him out of your mind.

You feel so completely full.

One shows you a mirror, as though you were getting a haircut. It’s a bizarre sight. Black lips, an open mouth, black eyes… you hardly recognize yourself in the mirror.

“Does it look good?” asks one of the slaves.

“Nnnnngh!”

“Good, we’re glad to hear it. Almost done,” says the other.

She keeps sucking. You grip the arms of the chair as though you’re holding on for life itself. The drones release the strap over your forehead and a gooey, skintight hood extends from the ceiling. The woman starts to moan, joyously and greedily plunging your shaft deeper between her lips. She teases your sack and deeply laps from your cock.

You can’t hold back. Your eyes roll and you shout. The hood contorts and shrinks over your face, airlessly conforming to every feature. A mask preserving a moment of pleasure for all time. Precious oxygen is provided from the sleeve. You are well and truly sealed up. Your mind is elsewhere, though; the immense release stuns you. You’re not sure if you’ve ever felt such a climactic orgasm; it’s titanic in scale. Toes curl, fingers grip. It feels like you’ve never cum before; as though this horrid, inescapable situation is the first and most pleasurable moment in your life. It leaves you panting.

Before she’s even finished cleaning herself, the drones lower a heavy gas mask over your head. The visor is tinted black, and the filters small and light.

Drained, panting, and coated in rubber - you can feel yourself still wanting more. The explosion was intense, and it left you feeling drunk and giddy. You can’t smile, but your heart is a-flutter.

Desire seeps into your body. Soreness drips away, replaced with growing warmth. You groan into the gag. Already, your manhood is hard and primed for anyone - especially your new owner - to use.

They unbuckle you from the harness, and you only manage token resistance as the drones escort you away for shipping.