Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Inflation

Beautifully inflated rubber - shared by @Langlitzleathercop.


Imagine being inside this suit Can you feel the soft press of the inner skin - squeezed against you by the building pressure of the enfolding layers…? The rising heat and the slow trickle of sweat down your back, chest and thighs…? 

Can you imagine how it feels to breath inside the muffled silence of that heavily inflated hood - the only sound the struggling hiss of your own breath through the valves and tubes - slow and hypnotic as you struggle to surrender to your predicament…

Your every move feels like it is underwater: resisted by the tightness and the unrelenting press of the suit; it forces your arms, your legs, your neck and body into a simple, upright pose: part doll, part object… 

You catch sight of yourself in the dungeon mirrors: the bulbous head swings around to look, and the lights flash from the misted lenses; you can hardly recognise yourself as human, so transformed are you within the grotesquely swollen form… You walk slowly forward: your movements are awkward, sluggish - forced as they are against restricting rubber. You reach up with gloved hands, touch your distended reflection and then the swollen bulge of your inflated chest: unbelieving that this inhuman perversion is what you now look like. You peer into the ballooned swell of what remains of your face, trying to see any remnants of who you once were within the tiny pin-prick eyes - but only blank and glistening rubber and plastic meets your desperate gaze. 

You hear a hiss as more air is pumped into the suit - the pressure around you builds even more: pressing the inner skin tight against your body, squeezing into every fold, every crack and indentation; the strain of holding your arms up against the press and pressure becomes too much, and your arms are forced down, rigid by your sides. Your body is trapped within the vice-like clamp of the suit as it presses inwards, tighter and more solid with every hissing second. It becomes difficult to breathe as the rubber over your chest becomes so tight, so hard - all of your focus narrows down to the effort required to simply draw the next wheezing lungful of air, laced with poppers and ether… 

As the rubber squeezes the humanity from your body, and the gas erodes the identity from your mind, you slowly surrender to what you now know to be the truth: You are rubber, you are trapped, and this bloated reality will now be your home…



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