The client was a woman in a white coat, white sun-hat, and dark sunglasses. She ran her hands nervously through the red scarf around her neck as she walked down an old cobbled road to the established meeting place.

It was an old building of unclear purpose; a bank, maybe a museum. There was no treasure inside - nothing worth anything to anyone but her, at least. Its titanic doors looked old and rusted shut, and she quickly scurried to the back-entrance, removing her hat and sunglasses to see in the gloom.

The gasmancer was waiting for her; a dark spot in inky shadows. Light streamed in from tall windows in the anteroom, not enough to see what lay in wait but enough to see the gasmancer and her purchase.

He was sitting in a small chair; several sacks and large bags scattered around him. The only other furniture was a large metal table. The client ran her finger over her lips in nervous anticipation as she entered.

“I’m here,” she said. “I’m ready to make the exchange.”

The gasmancer didn’t acknowledge her presence with words, reaching into the bag before placing the goods on the table.

It was barely a person; more a statue. A male squirmed in an exactingly tight vac-sealed frame, occasionally twitching against the thick rubber that kept him so completely, utterly encased.

The rectangular frame held the client’s boyfriend in its black rubber embrace quite handsomely. From his toes to his thighs to his visibly twitching member, the man was highlighted like a classical sculpture; every millimeter of his frame luxuriously displayed in shining ebon latex. Polished, glossy, and utterly, completely inescapable - despite his efforts. The captor placed a gloved hand on the subject’s forehead, and slowly turned to face the client. She stared deeply into his elven eyes, sensing no hint of mercy behind his fearsome gaze.

“You said he wouldn’t be hurt.” She held her hand in a fist up to her mouth, trying to cover her face. “That he’d be alive and well.”

The gasmancer, unmoved, moved his fingers down to the package’s nose. It, like the rest of the captive’s body, was locked in the membrane of latex, though a tiny opening allowed him enough air to breathe. That is, until he pinched the man’s nose shut.

There was a grunt of surprise, followed by a second or two of silence. Then a slight squirming, bucking, kicking. His toes wiggled. Fingers wriggled helplessly under layers of mitten and movement-minimizing latex. Ten seconds in, he arched his back. Another moment passed. He flexed, rubbing his belly and groin against the air, using all his strength at once to squirm.

With his free hand, the gasmancer rubbed his thumb and fingers together - an unmistakable sign, asking for money.

“If you’re going to pay me, think fast. I don’t know how long it can last.”

The woman was fiddling with her phone furiously, sending the payment as fast as she could, showing it to the elf. “There. There, you’ve been paid,” she said, the words leaving her mouth before the transaction was complete. “Please…”

Another second passed. Then another. The man in the vac-frame’s body struggled in its encasement, rear grinding against the table, groin grinding against the air in a hopeless search for release. When the elf was satisfied, it was given, and the man took in deep breaths of sweet oxygen.

If the elf was satisfied, he didn’t make it known. He placed the vac-frame on a few rolling wheels and kicked the man over to his lover with a single solid push. She was so busy reaching down, touching him, making sure that he was all right that she didn’t realize the elf was packing up.

“H-how do I get him out?” she shouted. He was breathing, moaning, squirming with the soft squeak of latex on latex, yet still vac-sealed. When she looked up, the table was still there but the elf and his goods were gone.