It wasn't often that Natasha Zhukov was truly and completely alone. In those rare circumstances that verbal and digital communication was cut off, she would often still be able to contact Phantom. She and other transhumans formed a living, breathing working group. It was comforting.

But now, Natasha was isolated. Her spandex suit, her unforgiving sack, and long strips of tape sealed her in place. The hard shell was much more notable. She had squirmed as each latch was shut, mewled as each one was glued in place, and found herself begging for release as she had been buried.

Or had she? Natasha had no idea where she was. Padding and hours of isolation had made her exquisite bondage take over her other senses. Maybe she had been moved. Maybe she was buried beneath the barn. Either way, she was isolated, rubberized, and encased. Rescue was her only hope; escaping of her own volition was impossible.

And she was loving it . Tasha adored the warm embrace of clothing against her skin. She felt safe and comforted in being so covered. When the clothing happened to be engulfing spandex and thick leather, she was inspired to other sensations. Short of breath but with endless time, Tasha squirmed and cooed in her case. The fear had morphed to terror and then to tension and finally arousal. Her enormous chest throbbed, eager to be touched. Her body tingled and she squirmed in her case - not that she had any hope of escaping it, but the micromovements provided just enough give to rock and grind in her temporary tomb. She pressed her chest against the top of the case while simultaneously trying to rub her rear against the bottom. She was in agony. She was in ecstasy. She breathed in the smell of rubbery, processed air. Fear ebbed from her mind, and in came another wave of pleasure.
/
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Some imagery inspired by my previous story,

The Acolytes of ArtemisHuntress Bernice was always a stickler for tradition. She would claim, quite loudly, that the Acolytes of Artemis were of profound and genteel heritage. The ebony-skinned socialite waxed poetic about the traditions of the lodge and how observance of ritual only further exalted their mission. The other members of the lodge generally ignored Bernice. The prey didn’t have that option.
“The inspection commences.” Bernice tugged Natasha by a short leash attached to her thick collar. Natasha turned her head away and her eyes narrowed. Bernice tugged harder, choking the prey slightly, but she only managed to extort a grunt from the target. With her right hand tugging on the leash, Bernice slid her left across Natasha’s spandex-enclosed bust. That action coerced the acutely endowed captive to groan. The huntress kneaded deep into her breasts, cradling them, gripping them, massaging them; supporting and teasing them all at once through careful use of her thumb.
Scientist . The poor package / lucky lady on display is Natasha Zhukov, the Fanni Hall-style superscientist, belonging to NatashaMilasevic

This piece was drawn by

and inspired by the late Robert Bishop's iconic "Fanni Hall" piece.

Original artist's version here:

Mature Content

Natasha Encased (commission) by UsagiForehead

Part of a brief, 3-part series about the Acolytes of Artemis.

Mature Content

Natasha's Total Encasement by phantomdotexe

Vignette 5 - Acolyte's End Bernice longed to roll down the windows. It didn’t matter if you were a hedonistic huntress or pathetic prey, everyone loved fresh air. There was a slim (and growing shorter) window of time between the heat of summer and the chill of winter that she sincerely loved. There were a few days or a few weeks sometime in the midst of Autumn when the temperature indoors was perfectly attuned to the temperature outside. She loved to turn off all the climate controls and let the air into the home. The cloying, false scents of fragrances and fresheners and detergent seemed to flow away. She loved walking into her home and smelling the fresh, earthy tones of a cool October day.
She grinned and shifted. The car’s leather interior squeaked slightly against her catsuit. Bernice unbuckled a few of the belts and dropped some of the pouches. She wasn’t hunting any longer. The Acolyte of Artemis was already relaxing; luxuriating in the bac