I long for the perfect escape of rubber.
The dark, enfolding embrace of that chemical latex skin - closer, tighter and more complete than any lover’s - as it coats and encases every muscle in overwhelming anonymity, and squeezes between each finger, toe, and crevice.
The rippling completeness of a sleepsac, expectant, waiting to welcome my willing flesh into its damp womb like folds - and the breath-squeezing compression as each zipper, buckle, and lace is sealed around my now grub-like body.
The self-erasing silence and blissful blindness of a close-fitting hood - the bitter-sweet swell of the gag, protest-muffling as it fills my mouth.
The hypnotic hiss-and-pop of breath through valves and hoses - and the groaning thought-dissolving pang of poppers in my nose and throat.
The floating stillness of waiting, suspended, for whatever my captor wishes of my transformed flesh and newly-surrender mind; no thought, no time, no will, no purpose - simply a rubber object, mindless, open, waiting, willing.