The middle of the night is the best time for a snag. It'd be like a weird dream you wake up from partway and realize it's actually happening. A strange dream of slithering goo taking over your bed and sealing you to it.
The bedroom really is the scariest, most vulnerable, and most fantastical place to have something like that happen. Especially if you hear a familiar voice afterwards. Just a little chuckle and a whisper in your ear right before the rubber seals over your face.
"Found you."
At first a brushing, as though it was just a bug or an itch. Then a sudden panicked surprise. Hesitation, not knowing if it's real or dreamt. A few seconds too long. Enough to let the goo get up to the waist, and back.
A desperate attempt to signal security systems, but - oh no - someone turned them off.
Now it's too high, too much of the body encased. Can't even get up. Liquid latex pouring down one's throat. Squeezing at curves. Gently massaging, almost as if to say "it's just a dream, nothing wrong, right?"
Can you suffocate in dreams? You can't suffocate in dreams. Can't breathe. What's happening. Why groping.
Mind's still a confused, panicked mess, and now you can't even suck in air. The worst dream is knowing that your good dream is coming true. Now that's a nightmare. That's the moment. Pure, animal terror. The recognition, the bucking as it gets tighter, sucking further and further. Pressure increasing as you're forcibly 'put back to bed'.
Sealed flat to it now, even. Every little twitch is met with an opposite and very forceful reaction.
All but frozen in place with the pounding in your head only getting worse.
Cybernetic enhancements keep you going longer, but there's still a limit. And it's coming.
Stretching against it, only to realize that it's useless. Designed or adapted to make sure there's absolutely no escape. Designed to make absolutely certain that whomever's voice that was gets to see the whole show as surprise turns to terror, then to panic, then to desperate half-aroused moans and groans
There it is. Showing what you want, but maaybe not how you wanted it.
A body forms atop as the seal completes. Its weight presses down, grinds upon. A firm grip on your cheeks, and suddenly the rubber pulls back from just around your lips.
A full, firm, and forceful kiss, barely able to breathe in between soft lips and an eager tongue forcing itself down.
Air sucked from lungs. Pressure, sweet and cute and full of energy. Basking and bathing, knowing that the poor rubber-sealed slave beneath is desperate in new and many ways.
The surprise at the visitor and the sweet breath of fresh air made all the sweeter by an immense kiss.
It's enough to keep you from passing out, but it really only makes it worse. Half the fun of kissing is exchanging scents. Getting close. Sharing breath and, to a degree, flavor. Hot, cloying, and obnoxiously rubbery. Your world is squeaks and impossible pleasure pressure.
The kiss breaks, but a thin line of spittle connects full pairs of lips. Panting and the most beautiful sound of lips parting.
The firm hands start to stroke and slide around a smooth, glossy head. Is it even possible to speak?
Can't think. Gotta breathe.
What would there be to say?
Certainly not "let me out." Useless. Not that the thought would even occur.
And then, before you're allowed to hold your breath, the rubber slides inward again.
Smooth, sleek, faceless. But every other detail's on display. Complete with a body trapped mid-squirm. Warm, inviting, and unable to decide how much more it wants. (The answer irrelevant, of course.)
Legs that quiver in immobilizing rubber, and a stomach that barely rises and falls with breath
A gorgeously smooth series of curves to be touched whenever needed. There's just enough give to twitch, to shudder. But never enough to move.
You can really only hear the thing sealed to the bed moan if you press your ear to its shiny nothing. A smooth face, weirdly, invites more touches too. A desire to lean on it, to smother it, to tease it, to run fingers over where sensitive spots would be. Pecking kisses while lazy hands swirl and glide across it, an even curvier body beneath squashing itself up against the other.
Suffocating again, panic returning, but this time it's even longer.
Scary. Good thing the thing can't ask for air or beg.
Luckily, it can still squirm - just barely.
Juuust barely.
Just enough to show it's still going. Only enough to know that it can't bend enough. Can't quite muster the energy needed to break out.
It knows it's at the mercy of whatever this thing is, but it keeps trying anyway.
But now the body atop it shifts to the side, and its hands start exploring all over.
Now they follow curves, grope at breasts and tweak at very stiff nipples.
Still can't breathe. Really getting weak. Whimpering softly at best, totally muted by the suffocating mask.
All that pressure, all that movement draining away. But the groans? Still there. Quieiter. A bit higher-pitched.
More mewls,really. The sound of a creature begging for all kinds of attention.
And attention it gets. An idle little handwave has the mask melt back from the trapped toy's lips again, but this time a kiss doesn't force itself on.
The cruel captor really wants to hear its prey mewl while it gets even handiser.
It's an odd sensation, having one pair of hands molest you while a second set of sensations from the bed mimics just behind.
It's an effective one. Feeling hands all over one's body really does have an effect. Nipple gripped, pinched, let go. Everything happens again a fraction of a second later.
It's not twice the pleasure. But it's a curious feeling. One that's totally unique. One that's , daresay dreamlike.
The feeling of not just being powerless, but being totally ensconced in another's power. Quite literally, in fact. A personal little prison that they have all the keys for.
Now one of those damned hands slips really low, between shellacked legs. They push in with two fingers, right through the seemingly solid bed-prison. Now they work up a rhythm, going to the knuckle, palm rubbing hard against a perfectly outlined nub.
Exposed lips sing - in between panting like a dog. It's more than words. Words couldn't replicate stuttered versions of please and yes.
Certainly couldn't replicate the biting of a lip or smacking of gums or heaving chest that squeaks against tight rubber.
Not anything a person really does. Slipping into that toy mindset. (The subliminals pulsing through the ears probably don't help.) Deep, penetrative aural sounds of licking and moaning? Feeling like it's inside one's ear? Maddening. Enough to make them accidentally say 'yes' or even 'more' as they vault over a mountain built up by quite a lot of breathless edging.
Right before that moment, the heavy kissing comes back. The other body presses up, leans in, arm shifting slightly to really start pumping.
Each deep push has the bed itself tweaking at nipples, clit, like a maddening pulse shooting lightning from toes to fingertips.
It's enough to make someone just absolutely fall apart.
The other hand's just busy exploring, following a body that twitches and begs to be touched.
Quivering. Arching their back. Trying to, at least. Just absolutely falling to pieces. A loud moan from all those gropes and touches. A tongue that begs to reciprocate the deep touches. A body that demands to be closer, to rub and hump and touch that comfy weight.
None of it ends, none of it falters. It just keeps going, hellbent on milking out the hardest orgasm of a freshly made toy's life. A little voice implanted in the back of its mind keeps telling it what it is.
Toy. Drone. Doll.
Just a toy. A needy one, at that. One that demands to be used. One that's craved such rough handling, such sharp dealing
And is it ever used. A pumping hand, eager fingers on the other grabbing at rubberized flesh. Soft, but forceful lips basically suffocating the toy anew with how hard they pressed in with the tongue going as deep as it can.
Toy.Cum.Drone.Cum.Doll.Cum.
Releasing all that tension. Taking time. Not really taking its time. But taking a long time .That arched back could maybe have broken the seal if it was three times as strong, but that's a silly, silly thing to picture. After all, a toy with its eyes rolled back - mouth agape; drooling and groaning, bucking and feeling pleasure exploding from every oxygen-deprived nerve - no, that's a proper toy, a proper doll. A drone, fulfilling its purpose in being so filled. Clutched toes. Flexing fingers. Fluttering lips as she pants, feeling aftershocks start to well up.
So the kiss breaks again, the rubber flowing inward once more. But now it builds up around the edges of lips, thickening, forming. Of all things, a stupidly sexualized donut-shape that's quickly re-stuffed with a sudden and very fat tentacle.
Every thrust it pulls is in tune with the hand between the doll's legs, and on top of that the bed/suit is pumping into its mostly hidden, but curvy ass. Now all of the drone's holes are being properly used, the monotone voice in its head seeming so right.
The warm body pressed up tight against its side is as comforting as it is wildly arousing.
Plugs intruding on the ears, repeating sounds and noise and pleasant things.
The comfort of knowing its owner is right there, giving it exactly what it wants.
The wildest, most brain-shattering orgasm of its life.
Broken down and built up, all at once. And then they're gone. Owner and drone alike.
It just kind of schlorps out of the bed like it was a cocoon, sealed in its new skin. They just strut right on out, an arm around the drone's curvy, rubberized waist.
Silent, anonymized, perfect.