He staggered but did not fall, for she held him by the leash and with sweet firmness led him into kitchen. Every step was an act of submission, every crunch of the latex a prayer. He sat him down at the table in a padded chair, his wrists lightly fastened to the armrests by soft leather straps, not to constrain him, but to remind him who he was. Then he stopped in front of him and looked at him with eyes shining with pride. He loved every detail: the shiny suit that clung to his body like a second skin, the mouth sealed in that perfect O, the boots that made him elegant and vulnerable, the way his gaze did not dare to lower itself but remained I stare at her, waiting for an order, a smile, a breath.

"You are wonderful," he said, his voice trembling with emotion.

Then she sat down in front of him, poured him coffee, took a strawberry and after dipping it in honey she brought it close to his mouth. The valve opened by itself and he ate, obediently. They had breakfast in silence and peace. After breakfast, the silence in the house became more intimate, denser, not of tension but of waiting. She got up from the table with the grace of someone who is not in a hurry, because she knows that time now obeys her and approached him. With her latex-gloved fingers she untied the magnetic closure at the height of the groin and the jumpsuit it opened with a slight hiss, as if sighing with relief.

Her member was still semi-turgid, sensitive, pulsating with the memory of her mouth. She smiled, took a black silicone ring, soft but resistant and with a small internal device that barely vibrated, and gently slipped it into her base. He breathed in suddenly when she felt him close, squeeze, activate and reminded him that he was there for her, to always be available, to satisfy his every desire. Then, speechless, she bent down and kissed him, not on the lips, on the tip of the glans, still damp from the morning coffee and his own desire. A short, sacred kiss, like a blessing.

Finally, she stood up and gently lifted his chin with the index finger. "If you're good," she whispered, in a soft but firm voice, "I'll take the gag off of you." He paused as his green eyes shone with malice and power.

"Otherwise..." he added, laughing softly, "I'll have to put your helmet back on."

The threat was not cruel, it was a promise and he knew it... she knew that he was perfectly capable of doing it, but she also knew that she preferred his mouth free. She preferred to hear him speak, she preferred to hear him say his name, she preferred to hear him say: "I love you." And so, even with his mind still clouded by pleasure, even with his body tied to his will, he nodded slowly, his eyes full of devotion. She smiled and caressed his cheek.

"Good boy." And with an almost imperceptible click, he turned off the valve on the mask. The red O opened, his lips finally free trembled, and the first word that came out hoarse, uncertain, but sincere was: "Thank you." She closed her eyes for a moment, as if she had just received a gift, then kissed him on the lips And she looked at him, still kneeling, her lips trembling and her eyes full of that mixture of anger, desire and devotion that drove her crazy.

"Now tell me, my love..." he said, in a voice as sweet as wet velvet, "who am I for you?" He swallowed, his voice coming out hoarse but firm, almost provocative.

"A crazy psychopath I love madly," she whispered, with a crooked smile. "Just wait until I can free myself and..." She didn't finish the sentence, she pressed a button on the remote control, a soft beep and...

- The mask closed with a hiss, sealing itself into a single shiny surface with only two small holes for the nose that remained open.

- The magnetic handcuffs integrated into the suit were activated: his arms snapped behind his back, locked in a perfect, unnatural, elegant position.

- The plug inside him turned on again, this time with a more intense, pulsating, almost mocking rhythm and to top it all off the vibrating ring of the penis greatly intensified its vibration.

He fell to his knees, tried to protest but the sounds reached muffled beyond the latex mask.

"No, no, no..." she laughed, shaking her head, her black hair slipping over her shoulders like a curtain closing on a rebellious act. "That's not right, my love."

He tried to speak but only the sounds of hoarse, tremulous moans came out of his throat, full of a pleasure that he did not want to admit. With a slow, almost dancing movement, he knelt in front of him to him and from the pocket of the corset he extracted a small probe: thin, shiny, made of black silicone with silver tips, designed to stimulate without hurting. He brought it close to his penis and slowly inserted it with surgical precision. His member, already excited by the ring and the vibrations of the plug, stretched out towards her like a flower towards the sun. She smiled, he screamed or tried to do so, but the sound immediately turned into a high-pitched, desperate, almost of pain... but it wasn't. It was ecstasy. The probe vibrated inside him, massaging spots he didn't know he had, awakening pleasure in areas he'd never felt.

"You're mine," she whispered, as she watched him tremble. "Always," and began to pull it out slowly and then put it back in, rhythmically, artfully, until he came abundantly. The seed splashed on his suit, absorbed by the latex as if it were part of the ritual. She didn't stop and made him cum again and again, three times, four and with each ejaculation she took him in her mouth enjoying every drop of it as if it were a delicious nectar, until her body

He was not shaken by uncontrollable spasms, until the moans became sobs, and until the pleasure became pain. Only then, with another click of the remote control did he deactivate everything and the mask opened, the magnetic handcuffs retracted, the plug stopped and his penis, tired but still tense, throbbed slowly. She caressed his face, pushed a lock of sweaty hair away from his forehead, looked at him with eyes full of love ... and dominance.

Then, gently, he repeated, "Now let's start again..." He paused and smiled. "Who am I to you?"

He was panting, his breath breaking, his body still shaken by the echoes of forced pleasure, his eyes shining with tears and exhaustion rose towards her. There was no more rebellion, no more mockery, only a sweet, tired, inevitable surrender. He swallowed. His voice came out faint, hoarse, but clear.

"You're my goddess," he whispered.

She stared at him for a moment, smiled, looked at him as one looks at a work of art that had just been finished, not with triumph, but with gratitude. Then she took his face in her gloved hands and forced him to look into her eyes.

"And what are you to me?" she asked, with a sweetness that was more threat than caress.

"I am your slave," he said, his voice trembling not from fear, but from devotion, "Your toy, your creature." She closed her eyes, sighed and when she opened them again, there was something new in her gaze. No longer just power, there was tenderness, true, deep, disturbing.

"Well done, my love," he murmured, "You're finally... complete."

She unfastened his stiff collar with a slow, almost ritualistic gesture, and in its place she put a new latex band thinner, more intimate and with a small silver ring on the front, just below the throat. It was not used to tie him up, it was used to remind him who had shaped him. Then she gently helped him to get up and led him to the bathroom. The steam enveloped them as soon as he turned on the hot water and made him sit on a black leather stool, took off his suit with precise gestures, revealing a body that was no longer his: the smooth skin, without hair, the muscles more defined, the nipples swelled by continuous stimulations, the hips marked by the contour of the plug that he had worn for hours.

He washed it with black moss soap, with silk sponges, with hands that were no longer just hands, but instruments of worship and while he dried it, he spoke to him. "I'll never put your helmet back on... if you're good," she said, in a low voice. He looked at her, naked, helpless, perfect. "What if one day I want to leave?" he asked, with a faint voice not to challenge her, but to understand. She laughed, a sweet, sad, endless laugh.

"You won't want it," she said. "Because outside of here... there is nothing so real, nothing so true, Nothing like this... ours." She helped him to dry himself, to get dressed and when he put the leash around his neck again, he did not lower his gaze but raised it towards her, because now he knew he belonged to him. And as they came out of the bathroom, hand in hand, she in all her glory as a goddess in latex, he naked under the black skin that hid him and revealed him at the same time, the morning sun kissed them as a blessing. And the world outside no longer existed, only they existed. Creation and the creator, love and obedience. Time no longer made sense and the days merged into latex nights, whispered commands, programmed orgasms. He no longer counted the awakenings, he no longer remembered his name. It was "love", it was "creature" or "latex doll, and that was fine.

But deep down, deep down, where the helmet had not been able to erase completely, he had learned something. Not rebellion but the art of possession and that night, the night when she, after exhibiting him as an exotic goddess at a private party, had come home exhausted, drunk on power and wine and had fallen asleep naked between the black silk sheets, he did not sleep. He looked at her, her hair scattered on the pillow, her breathing slow, the collar still around her neck, unfastened, like a forgotten memory.

He got up quietly, without haste, and...