The morning light filtered through the half-closed curtains, pale, cold, almost unreal. He woke up, not with a gasp, not with a cry but with a held breath, because he could not breathe well. The suit clung to his body like a second skin of black latex, shiny, without a crease, without an opening. No zipper on the neck, no seam on the hips, no sign of exit. It was sealed as if it had been melted into it. He tried to move his lips but they were locked into a perfect shape in a red O, taut, shiny, as if painted by divine hands. He couldn't speak, he couldn't close them, he could only breathe through the fine pores of the material.

He looked for the zipper but found nothing, no relief, no edge, no place to grab, as if the suit had not been worn but had grown on him. The mind was a tangle of sensations, fragments, moans, memories of last night when she rode him, the plug that entered, the spiral with the voice that repeated: obey, submit, slave. He begging: "again", she laughing and the pleasure so vast that it erased time. And now... this silence, this black skin that enveloped him like a cocoon. He started to get up, but his body was heavy. Not because of fatigue, not because of surrender, as if every muscle had learned, in the night, not to put up resistance.

It was then that he heard her, light steps on the parquet, a scent of coffee, vanilla and leather. The door opened, she entered. She was a goddess. Black latex stockings, shiny, pulled up above the calf, which merged with a corset as tight as a cage of love, which raised the breasts like sacred offerings.

Her nipples pressed against the material, hard, dark, already excited by the morning light.

Long latex gloves wrapped around her arms up to her forearm.

Tapered fingers held a dark wooden tray: steaming coffee, chocolate biscuits, strawberries shiny with honey.

Around her neck, a high latex collar, rigid, elegant, with a silver ring in the center, perfect for a chain that was not there...

Her black hair, straight, waist-length, fell like a cloak, her bright, calm, absolute green eyes stared at him gently, with possession, with love. He smiled and in a voice that was silky and commanding at the same time, he said:

"Well awake, love."

He couldn't answer, but his body did it for him. A trembling, a slow erection, Inevitable, pressing against the sealed suit. She noticed him and smiled more. She placed the tray on the bedside table, next to the helmet now off, silent, but still present, like a sleeping god. She bent over him, caressed his face with a cold glove.

"Did you sleep well?" he whispered. "Did you dream of me?"

He didn't answer, he couldn't, but his eyes... his eyes did, and she saw him and knew. She knew that he would never get out of that suit again. She didn't want him, she didn't want him, because now... there was no longer any difference between him and the latex. Between him and her, between slave and mistress there was only love, obedience and breakfast. With his latex-gloved fingers, he found the only access point on the suit: a small slit hidden at the height of the penis, sealed by an almost invisible magnetic closure and he snapped it with a dry, almost surgical gesture. His member snapped out, already erect, shiny with restrained excitement, pulsating like an exposed heart.

She did not hesitate, she bent down, took him in her mouth and like a creature that has not eaten for centuries and finally finds her sacred food, she tightened her lips around him, her tongue ran through him with a precision that was not human, it was ritual. She sucked with force, with rhythm, with a devotion that was also dominion until he groaned. The sound was drowned out by the mask, but it vibrated throughout his body with a tremor that started from his toes and exploded into his skull, making him see black stars, spirals, red lips. She continued, harder, faster, until his pelvis lifted on its own, pushing towards her like a desire-driven automaton.

With a mute cry, with his body stretched out like a bow, with the seed that flooded her mouth in a hot, salty wave, he came. She didn't retreat, she swallowed, but not all of it. She kept some on her tongue, warm, alive, dense with surrender. She stood up slowly, her mouth shining, her eyes shining with triumph and tenderness and bent over him. With her gloved fingers, she found the mechanism hidden on the mask, a small valve at the corner of her mouth and snapped it. The red O opened, just enough and she kissed him deeply, her tongue slipping into him, taking with her own seed, the gift he had given her, which she returned to him not as a refusal, but as a seal. The kiss was long, sacramental, while he, motionless, helpless, wrapped in latex, felt his own taste mingling with his breath, his power, his love.

"Good slave," he whispered, "you're perfect like that." and then closed the valve.

Her mouth became a red O again, sealed, silent, devout, and she calmly got up, picked up the tray and went to the window. Outside, the sun was rising and inside, he was already forgetting the world. Because there was no longer any need for words, only for her, only for obedience, only for latex. He tried to protest, really, he felt something inside him, a residue of will, an echo of autonomy that wanted to say "no, this is not right, it is not normal, it is not me". But when his lips moved behind the mask, no word came out of the red O, only a groan. Low, warm, almost pleased, as if his body had already forgotten the language of resistance, and now knew only that of pleasure.

She returned. With a beaming smile, as if she had heard her "protest" and found it Adorably he stopped by the bed, the black remote control between his latex-gloved fingers.

"You know you can't say no, love," she whispered to him, softly. "Especially... now."

He pressed a button and immediately, inside him, the plug turned on. It vibrated in small pulsating waves, like an artificial heart that reminded him of who commanded his pleasure. He gasped, his legs tightened and a higher pitched moan escaped him, uncontrollable, shameful... yet delicious. She laughed, a low, intimate laugh, full of possession.

"Come on," he said, in a soft but firm voice. "It's time to get up."

She approached him behind his neck, unfastened the magnetic closure of the rigid collar and attached a black latex leash, thin but strong, with a silver buckle that shone in the morning light, made him sit on the edge of the bed and gently, but without asking, made him slip on a pair of women's boots: shiny, black, thigh high, with a tapered heel that forced him to arch his back, to stretch his hips, to walk not like a man, but like an object of beauty.