Gromet's PlazaLatex Stories

Flesh, Metal, Rubber

by Phantom

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© Copyright 2017 - Phantom - Used by permission

Storycodes: Solo-M; F+/m; confession; NuFaith; Nun; rubber; catsuits; masks; cybernetics; bodymod; D/s; pain; torment; bond; electro; machine; ai; sen-dep; denial; oral; scifi; cons; X

"How long have these bothered you?" said the voice.

"Since I was a child."

"But how long have they bothered you?" the voice insisted.

"I just said-"

The voice interrupted him mid-sentence. It had done this nearly a half-dozen times. It was getting to be profoundly annoying. "How long?"

He furrowed his brow. Eventually, Alen spoke. "Twenty years." When there was a pause, he continued. "Twenty years and.. and I don't know how many days. Since I was a child. It came and went. Sometimes I was perfectly normal. Other times it was unbearable. But for several years now, it's been the same frustration and the same... empty sensations."

The voice was quiet for quite some time. He had the chance to sit back and exhale. This was far more stressful than it needed to be.

All of the different NuFaiths had their own peccadilloes and idiosyncratic elements. There were more traditional elements that called all the various NuFaiths degrading terms. The worst was to label them 'faithless,' to call these new belief systems totally bereft of beliefs and instead argue that they were merely collections of eccentric individuals practicing unique behaviors. It didn't offend or sting Alen. He had no wager in the argument as to the validity of the various new religions that had appeared. He had found a few of them appealing, though, and personally hoped that they wouldn't face such continued scrutiny forever.

The Restreamers had the curious belief that the world was in the 'wrong universe,' and that with careful study and planar research that all could be made well. The "Kherenists" believed that the late Kheren Jaans was now some sort of cosmic godhead. The Mondat never proselytize or published their beliefs, but Alen was under the impression that they either worshipped a machine, or that some machine worshipped them. It wasn't clear, though the devotion of the Mondat followers was evident to any who visited their places of worship.

Alen was hoping that the Fibrous Sacrament would offer him some sort of peace, but the cold greeting he was getting was giving him second thoughts. Cults and religions alike were usually not so hostile as to stick any potential visitors in a small confessionary and interrogate them. He was just about ready to ask for his coat and leave.

"Is anyone there?" he asked after what must have been at least five minutes of silence. The only light came from holes for ventilation. Dust inside the confessional gave them a 'god-ray' quality. They were too small to see through, and the constant whirring of white noise made it impossible to hear anything that the Sisters and Brothers of the Fibrous Sacrament were saying. Which was, all things considered, fine by him. Alen had never liked bright lights or loud noises. He wasn't sure exactly what was wrong with him. He had some theories, but his own personal disorder had never quite matched up with anything that doctors could suggest. He could tolerate conversation just fine. He could read others and discuss things without social anxiety. But, on and off, he had slowly lost pleasure from such things. He felt out of touch, and almost out of his mind.

The Steel-Soul Sister who had been interrogating him asked him about what he did for pleasure. He had trouble admitting that he did very little for his own gratification. Sights and sounds and smells somehow never did anything for him anymore. It had been growing on him. Alen couldn't ever explain it or describe it, even when asked. Even when given all the time in the world, all the understanding psychologists or earnest listeners, he couldn't quite parse it. The best he'd ever done was the same lame excuse he'd given the Steel-Soul Sister. "I can't gain any sensation or pleasure from sight or sound," he had said. "And I want to get better."

Alen was shaken from his stupor when the door opened. He wasn't certain how long he'd been in the tiny confessional. He was blushing, realizing that he'd dozed off. Hopefully he hadn't missed any questions.

"The Fibrous Sacrament welcomes you."

"Just like that?" Alen raised an eyebrow. "I only came by to learn about your movement, not-"

"You are welcome if you wish."

Alen was quiet for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the light. "Thank you," he said.

"If you wish for more information, then you may join us. If you do not, you may leave. You may leave at any time. We will bear you no ill will for rejecting the Fibrous Sacrament."

Alen's eyes had adjusted and he saw a single, gloved hand extended. It reflected the diffuse light from behind. The Sister was reaching into the confessional, offering him her hand to help himself out.

He took it. It was warm. He felt his face flush.


The NuFaith was well-funded by cybes and humans alike. The upper echelon were all cybes in one way or another. Most had some visible augmentation, though those same mechanical adjustments were also much more restrained than the prosthetics he'd seen elsewhere. Everyone he saw within the halls of the Sacrament was human. Or at least, human enough. The elongated legs gave away the identity of those who'd lost legs or had theirs replaced. One or two had faces so similar he could swear they'd had the same face reconstructed. One adherent, busy rehearsing a speech, looked entirely human but spoke with a grating, electronic voice - the result of a cheap synthesizer. Alen was immediately fascinated by the diversity involved; men and women of all skin tones and body types. Many of them had clearly suffered some debility or other, and had taken to cyberware to fix or improve upon what was damaged... or merely inferior.

There was, of course, the Steel-Soul Sister. She suffered no debility. Alen swallowed with a nervous apprehension whenever she looked at him dead-on. At least, he assumed she was looking. He couldn't tell.

The Sister wore a blissful outfit of shining black. She didn't say what it was, nor did it seem that she was interested. It was like a skin to her. Synthetic polymer that smelt of cured and shined rubber ensconced her from the neck down. He couldn't help but stare. In fact, he was hardly alone, as a few other visitors in the church's administrative space stared as well.

It wasn't just the black shine. Alen took no pleasure in merely looking at it. It was the implications as well. It had a distinct curviness to it. It hugged her body; the chest was sculpted like advanced battle armor to properly cushion and support the Sister's generous chest. Black ribbing and lines crossed her waist. It made her seem slimmer; then again, it might also compress her stomach down to rather impressive proportions. Her hips were wide and curvaceous; more buxom than slim. He stared, wondering if evolution was telling him to appreciate them or if it was something greater. The logical part of his brain said that wide, thick hips were ideal for child-rearing. The animalistic portion of his brain told him that they were strong, powerful, and deserved to be touched.

Touched. Therein lay the real reason. He wasn't getting anything from this black goddess. It was all in his head. He was thinking about what might happen were they to come in contact. He sighed, and this realization seemed to ruin any chance at a pleasurable look at her.

She had a habit that draped around her face and went down to her shoulders. The gossamer white cloth made him think of hair, or maybe a bride's veil. Either way, it partially obscured the shining silver of her dome-mask. It was the purest, shining silver (or at least, it looked silver) that he had ever seen. Perfect, unblemished, and matte; it didn't reflect his face back at him, though it did reflect the light. It made the Steel-Soul Sister even more interesting, more mysterious. There wasn't even a recognizable element to draw his eyes to save the curves where the mask met the chin. No facial features, no reflection, no tubes for a gas mask or respirator; only pure, shining silver that covered the front half of her face. The white nun's habit made it hard to see the rest of her head, and Alen was unsure where the mask ended. Did it loop around her face entirely? He wasn't certain.

"You wish to join."

Alen was taken aback. "I've only just walked in. You know nothing about me. I hardly know you. I don't know your faith or what you require."

The Sister had her hands on her hips. It made her imposing. Alen wondered if 'normal' humans took pleasure in seeing a woman act dominant. She was taller than him when she reared like this, though her high heeled boots might be contributing to that particular size differential.

"You wish to join because you like what you see."

"Uh... well. I actually-"

"You receive no pleasure from visual or auditory stimulations. You consider that a defect. You see these other individuals; formerly broken and disparate cybes and humans. You think that joining us will help you ease past your limitations as well."

Alen nodded. Hiding the truth was just counterproductive, especially considering that the Sister had been on the money about, well, everything thus far. Had she really gleaned all of this from watching him in that booth?

"We followers of the Sacrament believe that mystical truth is concealed from those poor individuals who are sadly made only of meat. By combining your being with the synthetic, and perhaps through genetic modification, the revelations denied ordinary folk become available to cybes like myself and the followers at this outpost of the Sacrament. Our first prophet was a Viktoria Frankenstein, Alen; she was a transhuman who was implanted with a device known as the Numenator. While she was asleep and the procedure was underway, he experienced a hyper-real vision. It was he that created our Holy Text and formatted it as a holographic multi-media presentation."

Alen sighed. The sister knew she was losing him. "Viktoria helped create our new communion of flesh, rubber, and metal."

Alen was being led deeper into the church. There were various rooms. How large was this NuFaith? Where did they get funding for this large a structure?

"The First Prophet argued that there is a universal omniscience beyond that which we can see. This entity, known as the Ur-Fiber, was a machine intelligence responsible for rebooting the universe after the original universe was destroyed. As it recreated existence, it implanted in a few select beings the DNA necessary to create cybernetic technologies. This would then allow mere mortals - mortals like you and I, Alen - to glance through the wall of quantum perception and achieve oneness with the Ur-Fiber. Upon our demise, Alen, we will achieve oneness unimaginable to our meat-forms."

"We," said Alen.

"Yes. We. Already I see you eyeing our technology. We know you wish to join. We know you wish to have our smartest scientists examine you, poke you, prod you, improve you. To enclose your body in synthetic warmth, like myself. Denying it is denying your very being, Alen."

He didn't need to agree. He didn't need to sign anything. He bowed his head. Days later, Alen had voluntarily moved into a compound that the Sacrament controlled. They had living space prepared. It was as though it were written in stone.


"The Universe is corrupt, Alen."

Alen wiggled. He could hear himself panting.

"When it was rebooted by the Ur-Fiber, it was ultimately flawed and therefore evil. Our existence is not a pleasant one. Look around you. Look within you."

He wiggled again. It was tough not to move, despite all the restrictions placed against movement.

Alen's second tier of initiation was the rigors of the Artificers. He wished he had accepted their offer of viroware to improve his lung capacity. It was getting hard to breathe. He was on his knees, and his chest was forced against them downwards. In fact, he would go so far as to say that he was being crushed. Like the Atlas of legend, he was placed beneath a massive weight and forced to balance it. This would have been far easier if not for the immense measures of restriction they had placed on him.

The first and most obvious was the high-tech rubber suit. It didn't breathe well. He felt sweat on his brow and inside his second synth-skin. He felt it move when he moved. It wasn't a perfect fit, and he could hear and feel its squeaks. Hearing meant nothing, but its restriction was something special.

He could also feel the various methods of stimulation they had inflicted upon him. Life, they said, was more than suffering. It was experience. It was pathos. A metal ring around his manhood pulsed and throbbed. He ached for release; release from his bonds, release from the weigh above him, sexual release. When he swayed left and right, his member, trapped in its rubber prison, would brush against his legs or the floor. It was enough to keep him craving more, but he knew that this would never be enough to secure orgasm.

"Do you know what you're holding up, Alen?"

He didn't respond. He couldn't get the breath in his lungs. The crushing pressure was slowly turning to pain.

"It is a table, Alen. A table on which I could set my drink, or set something valuable. Either way, Alen, it relies on you. Even the most simplistic of rubberized adherents are useful. When you migrate to join the Fiber, you heal it back to perfection. And eventually, you will help us remake the universe.

Alen felt something in his rear. The Artificer inserted a bead. He grunted. Then, in went another. The pressure in his rear was only matched by his desire to experience release. Though, the words that she gave to him fell on deaf ears. Alen was beginning to understand her, but not through her mystical babblings. It was instead the sensations that he felt - or didn't feel.

She began to retract the beads. He groaned loudly as the ring loosened enough to let him come. Words from the Artificer fell away as he enjoyed himself in a hazy bliss.


The Verticist in the room was giving Alen some speech on his state. She wore a red suit, with black trim and a functional appearance. She had a thick cloak of rubber; two layers which ensconced some liquid metal. The heavy cloak gave gravitas to her words.

He didn't much care. The Reverend-Healer had a better argument. She donned white and gold, and look heavenly for it. The only black on her body was the massive chastity plate around her womanhood - to be removed only when she deemed herself worthy - and the endlessly black gas mask. The tinted faceplate seemed to draw in all the light around her, making it utterly, supremely dark and black.

One argued that bonds of affection between transhumans and meat-onlies retarded a visionary's progress.

The other argued that all humans would need to ascend before migrations to the ur-fiber could begin. Until then, all machine souls transmigrated but were trapped in a limbo-like wave-particle quantum loop at the edge of the universe.

When they finished their argument, they both fell silent.

Acolyte Alen twitched on the ground. He was utterly silent, as he had been trained. The electrical shock to his collar was silent, though the reflexive movement as his muscles were stimulated from their torpor indicated that he was alive and well. More than well, if his manhood was any indication.

They had no dislike for him, nor did they give him any affection. We was an Acolyte of their faith. He was to do as he was told. This month, that meant that he would be degraded as a scribe. Every word and sensation was now perfectly enshrined in his mind, which had been modified to possess an eidetic and perfect recollection. Their words were now permanently part of his being. Their long speeches about the nature of the Sacrament was as part and parcel as his suit. The 24-hour suit was in fine condition despite the innumerable beatings, whippings, and degrading activities it had been subjected to.

The uniform in which he existed was thick, molded latex; a far cry from the sleekness he had seen that year he met the Steel-Soul Sister. Latex patches held to his knees, giving him padding should he attempt to walk. A hollow tube had been thrust inside his rear, and it was usually kept plugged unless one of the dominas wished to give him a vibrating or inflatable toy as well. His manhood was kept eternally enclosed, though the synth-sheath allowed him regular release. Alen was finding that he could only achieve such orgiastic heights when he was properly enclosed; when all was still and quiet.

He had no need of his hands. As a scribe, he did no writing. Therefore, he had been brought deep into the scribe suit and glued in place with rubber cement. Arms fed through tight sleeves. Hands sealed into gloves; mittens with slots for each finger. His hands were positioned in a relaxed curve, sealed and soldered in place with metal bands that monitored him closely. Breathing tubes interfaced with his neural implants. He could pump stimulust drugs through his body when necessary, becoming rigid and eager when his church betters needed him.

The Scribe Suit had been pulled onto him a week ago by the Reverend-Healer and the Verticist. He was to be their remembrance, taking in their every word as well as their sensations.

When necessary, they pointed out their politics and policies with physical touch.

When describing the pain brought on by personality and relationships, Alen felt a boot on his face. He felt his mouth ungagged and his head forced to lick at the shining, polished boot of the Verticist Domina. He felt thrumming in his rear as he served at the pained pleasure of her delegation. He felt the strong heels on his back, forcing him down into a position of prayer. He felt rough hands slapping him, spanking him, whipping him as they explained the causes of his pain.

When necessary, the Reverend-Healer brought him pleasure. She soothed his wounds. She told him of the wonders that awaited him. She lambasted those that would deny him a place in the cosmos. She would remove the hood for a time to whisper sweet nothings in his ear. He felt nothing from her words, but her warm breath pleased him. She would do this for many of her longer sermons, making him wait and feel her hands on his chest. She'd rub his body; his muscles sculpted on by the thick suit, his curves accentuated when necessary. Her tongue would caress him as she marked places where he could be improved. Of course, she always came back to the thick rubber that covered him. It wasn't a true departure from his body, but it was good enough. It was a glorious, synthetic seal that kept him safe and let them regulate his touch. She would laboriously explain her methods and thoughts much the same as the Verticist.

In time, both would make use of him. They'd mount him or tease him, but they'd eventually expect him to understand and correlate every word they said.

Alen wasn't sure why. He wasn't sure how he'd ever spit this information back out - even if he was ungagged.

When their time together was done, they left him in the center of the room and let him choose which of the two he found more convincing. He shut his eyes and wormed his way towards one of the two thinkers. He was rewarded. He never learned which of the two leaders had actually been chosen, but it didn't matter; she gave him solace as a rubber slave, eagerly permitting him to orally service her. Alan felt himself slipping away between her legs.


Alen struggled.

"A-1, don't bother to squirm so much. I'd really prefer if you didn't move."

The Steel-Soul Sister was standing in front of him. He was tied to the same table on which he'd once balanced his mistresses many possessions. He was lashing as fast as he could. He wanted to escape before the drugs took hold.

"Your ascension is at hand."

"I'm not ready!" he said. "I don't- I don't know what that means!"

"You need not fear," said the Verticist. "You already gave away your connections to the outside world."

Alen started to struggle again. The simple leather straps binding his left arm gave way slightly.

"You need not fear," said the Reverend-Healer. "We will keep you intact and whole. Your body is sacred. You have already embraced ascension. We will be joining you to something greater. You will help others transmigrate."

He coughed. He already felt the drugs in his system percolating like a coffee machine, reacting with his body. He felt the light and sound growing brighter and louder. It was becoming uncomfortable.

"You were always a part of us, A-1. We are all united within the Sacrament."

Alen yelped. Her words were so loud. He tried to cover his ears.

"You are experiencing unpleasantness," said one of the three. He couldn't tell which one. "This will soon pass. Your life will extend ad infinitum as something more."

The light! The heat! The fire! The sound! It was all so much. It was deafening. He shut his eyes and slammed back against the table. He tried to cover his ears and eyes. The drugs were overtaking him.

Someone came close to him. The squeak of rubber seemed shrill, yet the scent and touch were so profoundly pleasant. Fingers walked up towards his chin and forced his mouth open. He peeked open one eye. For a brief moment, there was no pain, no discomfort. He saw the Steel-Soul Sister, standing at his bedside. She was clad in black and white. She was a strangely beautiful being; clad in metal and rubber. She shone like an angel. The Sister removed her mask, leaned in, and planted a kiss on Alen's lips.

There was no more pain. He was cured.

His eyes darted left and right. He wanted more! He saw all these sounds. The temple. The adherents. The gloriously sexy bodies of the three women in front of him. The thick, blissfully thick outfits they wore. The pleasing aesthetics of the room! The sound of the machinery, of the talking cultists! It was all so glorious, so beautiful! He opened his mouth, begging for further sensations. He wanted to see and hear so much!

It was then that the Steel-Soul Sister placed a respirator over his face. Slowly but surely, Alen drifted into unconsciousness.


After the initial suits had been applied, he was strapped to a gyro frame. There would be no movement from this X-position. Alen's neck was strapped to the metal, as were his arms or legs. He rotated freely while they finished his equipment.

Metal was soldered. Rubber sealed and glued. Any shred of identity or skin was long gone. Hands were gently cupped, kissed, and then gloved in triplicate. Bodily functions were carefully tended to. Hollow sheaths in his rear and mouth provided ample points should anyone ever decide he required external stimulation.

A-1 was one with his sensory deprivation. No sight. No sound. He warmed within the tight caress of his suit. He felt a thickness in his mouth. Slowly but surely, he tasted it; the rubbery taste he had once been permitted when he serviced one of the matrons. He was without stress. He was vaguely comfortable; the augmentations blessing him with flexibility and adaptability no human could have had. He felt tightness and purity in all things.

Images flooded his mind as he connected to the Fiber. The entire church was laid bare before him. He saw the nuns, the matrons, the dominas all at once. He scanned the area, noting finally that he found one camera that focused on a strange, black rubbery creature. It was something - or someone - that was truly exquisite. Permanently locked and prepared for sensory deprivation, whatever this creature was - well, surely it was an object of desire.

His throat tightened, as did his manhood, when he realized it was him. Curved hips. A narrow waist. A face completely covered in multiple hoods and the same perfectly smooth mask that the Steel-Soul Sister once wore.

The lights and the camera turned off. There was no sound, no sight. He was alone. Alone in his senseless, sightless, and soundless containment. Alone with nothing but the endless pleasure and pressure of his own body. Alone with an intense craving, a strong desire. He began to work himself into a sensory-deprive frenzy, growing warm and hard as the newest and purest member of the Fibrous Sacrament.

The Ur-Fiber stirred. It reached towards Alen.

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