Latex, bondage, masks, hypnosis, processing.

She showed you your fate first. The gorgeous white mask; neutral, peaceful. Thoughtless. Completely free of resistance or worries or the will to do anything but obey. She stroked it gently, almost letting her lip quiver at it. She was almost jealous. Almost.

A few days of training. Measuring. Suiting. Scans. The Directrix doing endless tests, finding out more about you. Sometimes even chatting with you, trying to learn everything, everything, everything about you. She wants to learn how to break you. She says as much.

“I’m going to break you down. You won’t be human anymore, not even close. And I’m going to rebuild you as a perfect rubber doll. What little ‘you’ that remains will be a dim memory; a half-forgotten dream, subsumed by your new identity.”

Like all other resistant dolls, that meant an intense and strict regimen of processing. A new glossy black rubber skin; a permanent addition of a wonderful undersuit of black shining latex. Designed to keep you sustained, regulated, and of course, glossy. Your laminated form is kept in place by a strict straitjacket, legs kept shackled as you acclimate.

She makes you wait a day or two before finally masking you. It’s an absolute ceremony; a goodbye to your old face and a hello to your new one. The base layer is a white mask, seemingly of latex but surely some other more advanced material. Openings for your eyes to stare, judge, plead; lips sealed, semi-permeable pads to allow for some modicum of hearing. And of course there’s the posture collar.

Sometimes she lets your little high-tech cell flood with aphrodisiac gas; a mixture of advanced therapeutic S-gas and nutrient-providing mist. It all blends together. You can’t escape it. But as time goes on, why would you?

The Directrix has additions for you, though. A day in and she’s showing off wigs. They use advanced static-induced tech to stay adhered to your perfect, glossy head. They also do a nice job of hiding the additions; chips and a headset that wraps around the back of your skull. The chips on your temples and the headset clamp on tight, hidden by bangs and hair, and constantly, endlessly pumping you full of erotic noise and instructions. The wig isn’t to stay, though. Your wig will have to be EARNED; it’s too much of an identity.

It’s a horrible mixture of lewd sounds, affirmations. Even your own voice, recorded and synthesized to imitate yourself.

“You’re a rubber doll. We’re a rubber doll. You love your owner. You are nothing. You are a perfect rubber doll.” 

Deep ASMR sounds; licking and kissing that seemingly penetrates deep into your soul. It’s awful, it’s terrible, it’s deeply unethical. And you’re starting to love it.

The next chapter in your new life as a doll comes with some exciting additions. The mask can be programmed, mouth opening just enough to part lips, but the rubber also filling your mouth - propping it into a tightly sheathed opening. High-tech plugs in your nose can provide oxygen and gas at all times. But in addition to the chips  and the headset your last sense is now taken away as the Directrix adds a thick and heavy visor.

You try to shy away, try to spend times squirming away in your little storage cell, and it’s all so completely delightfully pointless. The Directrix is happy to use her hands and feet to keep you down; her pointed boot on your chest, pinning you down and watching you arch your back and squirm. You’re a little rubber worm - no, a caterpillar, about to enter a chrysalis from which you’ll emerge as a new creature entirely.

The endless sounds of rubber squeaking seem to fill your entire sensorium as you’re brought to a storage and processing pod. Locked to the slab, slowly lowered in, pressurized and packed and encased within a new techno-tomb with no hope of escape. You’re feeling it now; your brain has been changed enough that you’re able to recognize your new status, but not enough that you can’t try to resist. You’re screaming, moaning ,groaning as your white-masked form appears on the visor - she’s broadcasting it all, letting you see your fate. God, it’s tight. You look so GOOD. Fingers rubs all over your body, waving goodbye as your sealed and sacked form is lowered and locked, struggling and thrashing.

You’re doing everything you can to escape, to resist; what remains of you trapped in this horrible rubber hell is still able to know you MUST escape. But the bonds are so tight. The endless layers feel so intimate. Your mouth begins to fill with an inflating plug, forcing your mouth and lips to suck and enjoy as a new oral toy. Images fill your head; sounds fill your ears. You can already imagine yourself as obedient rubber oral service unit ,eager to work on anyone’s folds or cheeks as a loving little helper. Your mouth fills and you salivate.

From the outside, the Directrix stares at your pod as it’s lowered into the floor. She leans down, lying atop your little hexagonal rubber tomb, staring inside and smiling. Already she can imagine you, glassy-eyed and glossy as a forever-needy toy. Already, the Directrix is imagining having every single orifice filled to the brim as you’re used often, repeatedly, endlessly. She’s almost sad; you’ll be in there for weeks, months; a long time as the slow brainwashing converts you in to a perfect doll.

And that’s before testing. She’ll have to often take you out to test your status; test your body and mind and obedience and resistance. There’s no guarantee it’ll take, and if it doesn’t, if your willpower is too strong, then it’s back in the pod. That personality and willpower will be suppressed deep within, packed up just as your body is ensconced.

And when you’re ready, when you’ve finally earned your new face, she’ll find a perfect spot for you. A wig, an outfit. An identifier - not an identity. Dolly.

Inspired in part by chats with https://twitter.com/AxxonWolf