Gromet's Plaza Latex Stories
Mistress Latexa's Rubberdoll
by tessa
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© Copyright 2015 - tessa
Storycodes: F/m; D/s; latex; slave; catsuits; hoods; gag; bond; cd; fem; boots; chast; sendep; rubberdoll; maid; objectified; toys; denial; oral; climax; cons; X
de fr nl it es jp
Mistress Latexa's Rubberdoll 3: A Doll's Life tessa F/m; D/s; latex; slave; catsuits; hoods; gag; bond; cd; fem; boots; chast; sendep; rubberdoll; maid; objectified; toys; denial; oral; climax; cons; X
story continued from part two

Part 3: A Doll's Life

Hiss.

Hiss. Silence. Hiss. Wheeze.

Silence.

These are my constant companions now, the sounds of laboured, regulated breathing controlled by a force infinitely greater than myself. I know it is my breath, yet it does not seem to belong to me; I can feel the cool air rush in and out of my lungs through the narrow plastic tube between my lips and yet it somehow feels as though I were hearing it from a distance, a faint echo. The whistle of oxygen is muffled by the super heavy thick latex hood that encases my head entirely; the black rubber contracted to press against every inch of my head deadens the sound of the outside world, and the thick wax applied to my ears mutes even the internal gasps of my abused torso.

I have been cast into a strange, twilight world. It was as if I were in a vacuum, for the wax has by now moulded itself perfectly to my ear formations; I can hear and obey commands only when they are spoken loudly in front of me; in fact, I have become much more adept at lip reading by sheer necessity. And those lips! The inviting yet cruelly mocking curves, the glossy, hopelessly arousing outline to the sweet portal of Mistress Latexa's impossibly sensuous mouth. How I have memorised every nuance of them, and every other detail of her; they are my constant fixation.

My ears are not the only orifices stopped by paraffin; so too are my nostrils. They are completely plugged, admitting of no air whatsoever.; it reinforces my helplessness, reminding me that only a single narrow passage exists to give me life, one over which Mistress Latexa exercises sole jurisdiction. Even the tiniest infant is more free than I; it can breathe freely, hear and smell freely, utter noises. Not I. My dependence upon my owner is complete.

The extent to which I can breathe easily varies directly according to how distended my cheeks have become, for each one contains a bladder connected to an external pump which Mistress Latexa may inflate according to her whims; she smiles fiendishly, wonderfully as the contour of my face becomes curved, my cheeks bloating like a chipmunks as they are forced apart with each squeeze of her hand, making respiration ever more difficult. At such moments I must manually inhale and exhale, forcing the air in and out while my Mistress gently strokes the stretched outline of my cheek, cooing softly to me, luxuriating in the absolute power she holds over even the most fundamental aspects of my existence.

At moments like this I experience I kind of indescribable thrill intermingled with a visceral terror that words cannot begin to adequately describe, for I am in her thrall entirely. Her radiant halo of blonde tresses transfix me as I apprehend them through the darkened lenses of the plastic eyepieces in my helmet; they deny me all peripheral vision, enabling me to see only straight ahead. I can concentrate only upon Mistress; her steely gaze paralyses me with obedient desire, overpowering me.

I find myself spellbound, attentive to her tiniest gestures--the way her glorious face rearranges itself in a thousand almost imperceptible ways to register each shade of feeling. I have become remarkably attuned to this, for I understand now that my sole purpose is to bring pleasure to Mistress Latexa, in whatever form she deems fit. No earthly pleasure can compare to the effusive joy I feel when I have pleased her; no torment devised by man could compare to the abject misery I would experience should I fail her in even the tiniest way.

You might think my life unbelievably confining, and in the physical sense you would be right, for since I became Mistress Latexa's rubber doll and maid I have not experienced a moment of completely unrestricted movement; there never have been, nor shall there ever be, even the remotest possibility of my escape from these bonds, even were I foolish enough to desire it.

Mistress Latexa keeps me constantly fettered in some form. More than the physical restriction, however, all of the arm binders, leg shackles, cuffs, collars and harnesses to which I am subjected are a manifestation of the mental control Mistress exerts over me, the way her mind has invaded my own, gradually but surely removing every vestige of resistance, of the foolish prideful misguided egotism of my former existence, replacing it with a pure ardent longing for servitude, for complete belonging to her. Mistress Latexa is my only religion, my only source of comfort, my only answer to every question.

Even I, who does not lack for imagination, could even begin to conceive what the daily reality of life as a rubber she-male doll would be like. Before I was enslaved, I had little exposure to the world of rubber; I had not known its elastic yet unforgiving caress; I had not smelled the dark, strange aroma of latex bedding and clothes that now are with me always. Now I can fathom no other life, for it is my second skin now.

Now, on those occasions when I bathe, the touch of my own skin against my fingers seems strange, for I am used to the dull, insulated sensation of rubber fingers against rubber skin. Before I knew Mistress Latexa I thought little of rubber, for the outfits I had seen all seemed laughably thin and flimsy, mere novelty toys. The suits which imprison me now are nothing like that; they are constructed out of super heavy rubber that has been made to my measurements precisely; they cling to me without forgiveness, squeezing out every last molecule of air between rubber and skin. I am laminated by the rubber, trapping me inside as surely as a fly in amber.

What does it mean to be a doll?

Each day this question is answered for me in new and unexpected ways. Most of all, it is a transition from subject to object, from autonomous person to owned property, from an independent agent into a dependent, helpless plaything. There is no true selfhood, only absorption into the greater and infinitely wiser, more powerful and just being of my beloved Mistress Latexa. A doll cannot speak; her loudest screams of terror are so muffled that they emit themselves as tiny, pathetic girlish moans. A doll has no control of even her most rudimentary bodily functions; each one is valved and tubed. Bladder and sphincter control is denied; excretions are governed by brass valves that only Mistress Latexa controls. The most private and intimate actions are laid bare for her to control; it is impossible for me to remove the balloon catheters that have invaded my nether regions.

Like a child's plastic doll, my range of motion is constricted or eliminated; the springy, stiff rubber tends to force my limbs into rigid positions. It is impossible to move my head whatsoever, for a thick, heavy leather posture collar encircles my neck, clamping my rubber hood firmly. My arms are almost never free. At their most extreme, they are kept in a u-glove or a single glove behind me, rendering them entirely useless. When I am serving Mistress Latexa, they may be cuffed at the sides to a waist chain, allowing me to hold a platter and to serve her, but little else.

My calves have been so dramatically shortened by the constant wearing of precipitously high heels that it is now painful to walk barefooted; my lower limbs have been reshaped into narrow, tottering pins. I take no swaggering strides; I have been reduced to tiny, dainty mincing ladylike steps. Wearing seven inch heels changes one's entire posture; it is impossible to stoop or slouch. Instead, my footwear and corsetry conspire to make me sway my hips provocatively with each step; I sway seductively yet involuntarily, aware that this only further inflames Mistress Latexa's predatory urges. When I am laced into thigh boots I cannot even bend at the knees; I resemble a slender, sleek black flamingo in my careful, hobbled gait.

I did mention the corset, did I not? There are several, actually, but be assured I am never without one. Mistress Latexa believes in unyielding, constant and progressively more severe figure training for me. My body is literally being reshaped to her specifications. When she feels playful or elegant I might be treated to an elegant satin brocade corset of Edwardian design from Axford's; when she is feeling imperious I am laced into one she calls the Leather Maiden. The steel boning crushes my ribs and flares my hips; I can take only the shallowest of breaths through my breathing tube and so I must breathe more often.

Mistress Latexa delights in my struggle, visibly aroused by my travails. Her objective is for me to have a corseted waist diameter of only 20 inches, and I am nearly there. She flashes a dazzling, catlike smile as the traces her long fingernails down the hourglass contours of my figure, knowing the corsetry exaggerates my already top-heavy figure; her fingers stop to tease my erect nipples jutting out beneath their latex incarceration. Her hands grasp my enormous, pendulous 48DDD breasts, giant globes of firm, feminine flesh that she has bestowed upon me. Each breast is a heavy, round promontory of desire, incredibly sensitive to her touch. They are cupped beneath and squeezed at their bases to push them out further, turning me into an extreme, idealised vision of womanhood. Each day I am reminded anew of this, for the weight of my bosom pulls upon me. My nipples are always tender, almost electrically charged from the regimen of hormones and surgery that have so transformed me.

Womanhood, precious womanhood, the state which will be denied me in perpetuity. I live in the strange limbo of she-maledom, to all outward appearances a beautiful, shapely tall female. Yet the last vestige of manhood remains between my legs, intact and desirous. But I can make no use of it; Mistress Latexa keeps it in enforced chastity. Orgasms for me are exceedingly rare, earned only after exceptional service for prolonged periods; as a result, I live in a constant state of arousal, my body involuntarily attempting to become erect often, yet these futile efforts are choked off by chastity sleeves which surround the shaft.

Is there any torment more tantalising, more frustrating? I find myself almost out of my mind with yearning sometimes, awakened in the middle of the night by a body that still craves what it does not know it cannot have. This is surely the single most effective training tool that my Mistress has at her disposal, for it renders me utterly vulnerable to her whims, knowing that only she has the power to release me, if only for a moment. It is a brand upon my very soul that I exist for her pleasure, not my own.

How Mistress Latexa treasures this! I cannot begin to tell you how many hours she has toyed with my erect shaft through its rubber coating, bringing me to the verge of climax then laughing as she stops to watch my wide-eyed pleading and my pathetic useless moans. Sometimes I am mummified beneath layers of packing tape so that I cannot move even a single muscle; she will arouse me then place a hollow dildo over top of me, denying me pleasure as she rides atop me with wild abandon, pleasuring herself again and again while I can do nothing. Her eyes are half-closed as she thrusts herself in a passionate reverie, and at such moments I know I am truly her doll.

Mistress Latexa need not even touch me to torture me sweetly. I spent yesterday at home in complete mummification and sensory deprivation in her playroom while she went to work. But I was not truly alone; she had placed headphones over my ears and a microphone near my breathing tube, and attached them both to the telephone. She would call periodically, delighting in my aroused gasps for air, my helpless struggle against my bonds while she casually recited the indignities she would enact upon me once she returned home. My response to her voice is almost Pavlovian now; I can feel my knees tremble, my mouth go dry, my hands tremble and my heart palpitate wildly with longing.

However, I would not wish to leave the impression that my life was in any way stagnant or repetitive. It is one of the many pleasurable paradoxes of my existence that within severe confinement and complete submission comes a profound, liberating freedom. It is as if enslavement were a flame, burning away all of the inessentials of my cluttered former existence, revealing and leaving the inner self, the core. It has made me much more creative than ever I was before. One of the few remnants of my former life that I took with me to England when I became Mistress Latexa's property was my most treasured possession, my piano. In the evening, Mistress often demands that I play for her, to which I gladly accede. I will improvise for long periods, my mind clear and placid, unsullied by the cares of an ordinary humdrum life, free to focus on only my inspiration, Mistress Latexa. I can barely see the keys beneath my now Amazonian breasts as I play, I dare not shift my weight too much for fear of disturbing the enormous inflatable buttplug that is nestled deep inside me. I can feel Mistress Latexa's head upon my shiny shoulder as I spin the notes out, utterly contented to be in her presence.

And, in fairness, I am not always entirely imprisoned within latex. Mistress Latexa also loves ornate Edwardian garb; I am perpetually thunderstruck by how much her passions match my own. I may be dressed as a maid in a satin uniform, with layers upon layers of bustling petticoats and extravagant bloomers, lined with rows of lace. I feel transported to an eras decades ago, meekly prancing about in my antique ankle boots while serving the lady of the manor. Mistress Latexa will invite her female friends over for a tea party, as they amuse themselves at the sight of me kneeling before them offering them food and drinks. Their hands grope me roughly as I take halting steps in opera pumps, my legs hobbled by a small chain. Afterwards, one or two might stay for more intimate play in Mistress Latexa's bedroom, where I am made to do her bidding.

I know that I shall never again experience intercourse as a male, and that I must pleasure Mistress orally instead. Sometimes I am given the indescribable privilege of caressing her with my tongue; at those moments, I am in paradise, ecstatic at the sweet scent of her arousal, the wet, warm, sticky nectar of her desire. Every tiny ridge and curve is burned into my mind; her intimate topography is a source of endless delight to me as I offer her my most sincere and passionate worship and tribute, thrilling to her lusty sighs and gasps as she contorts above me

At other times, Mistress Latexa regards me as a mere attachment, binding me tightly and then buckling a strap-on dildo harness to my head as she draws me into her rocking me back and forth as she explodes in waves of electric climax, spasming powerfully as the folds of her dress fall around my head, reducing my oxygen while her thighs clamps me in place. Afterwards she smiles devilishly at me as she demurely lowers her skirt while leaving me nearly insane with longing, yet unable to relieve myself, mocked by my enforced chastity. I find myself addicted to her like a drug, her beauty fills my veins and spreads itself through every fibre of my being. I can never leave her.

Hiss.

Hiss. Silence. Wheeze. Hiss.

Silence.

 

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05.04.15

story continues in part 4: The Wedding Album

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