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From: "Impala" <impala@erols.com>
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Subject: REPOST THE ULTIMATE ASULUM
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From: nostrumo@nienor.IN-Berlin.DE (Nostrumo)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.tg
Subject: New TG: The Ultimate Asylum by Stefi (1/2)
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Hi.
This is a rather weired story.
As ever I DIDN'T write this story and haven't any claim on it. If
you have some usefull hints or some good coments, your mail is then
welcome. Flames, you know, they will be piped to /dev/null.
If you are an author and wish to remain anonymouns or just try to
avoid the replies to your work. I offer you the chance of posting your
stories and collecting the response for you. This offer only stands for
story postings and for nothing else.
Enjoy the story.
Ciao
Nostrumo
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> cut here with a sharp knife =
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
The Ultimate Asylum
by Stefi
1. Chapter
Though her presence was diminished by the sheer numbers of celebrants
at the club, it seemed SHE irresistibly drew his attention.
He had an hour to kill before his business dinner in The Loop. To his
taste, Lawry's was a tourist trap. But it seemed every out-of-town
client always wanted to go there.
He had entered the club, notorious for its eclectic crowd--a loose
collection of gays, straights, punks, and fetish-pervs--expecting it to
be nearly empty at that relatively early evening hour. Instead, it was
packed as a result of semi-private party which had started there an
hour before. Maybe he'd get lucky, get the client fed, closed, and out
early, then return to the club for some action.
SHE was dressed in a conservative and yet provocative manner: a sheer,
white, pirates blouse, slim stirrup pants, simple black pumps, and a
short-waisted black jacket. Her hair was jet black, her eyes deep and
mysterious, her lips full and provocatively red.
When first he sighted her at a table, talking with a blonde whose back
was towards him, he moved further up the bar, hoping to place himself
in a better vantage point from which, if he were lucky, he might be
able to discretely intrude upon her attention.
The only point available at the bar, however, forced him to stand with
his back towards her. He took the place, never-the-less, resigning
himself to an occasional, discrete glance in her direction. Ordering a
beer, he faced the bar and was delighted to find that he could monitor
her somewhat distorted reflection on the side of the highly polished
capoccino machine. Staring intently at her reflection, he noted
that--even though she and her friend's details were blurred--he could
observe their movement. As his attention riveted upon their
reflections, he noted the movement of their hands and arms; They were
having--apparently--a rather animated, intense discussion. Groping
further for the details of their reflections, he observed that,
curiously, though it was mid-summer, both appeared to be wearing gloves
as the images of their hands reflected black and shiny on the silvery
surface.
Further intrigued, he risked discretion and turned towards them. His
earlier assumption proved correct....not only were they having an
animated discussion, they appeared to be arguing.
The blonde, whose back was towards him, thrust both hands into the air
in either defiance or resignation, he wasn't sure which, and stood.
She was tall, with closely cropped hair. His eyes traveled from her
head down her length. She was dressed in all white: a jacket, below
which her rounded hips were encased in a leather mini. As she moved
her chair aside to leave, he noted her shapely thighs and calves were
encased in skin-tight, jet black, glistening hose which appeared to be
either vinyl or latex. His eyes followed her as she moved to the exit,
melting into the crowd.
Oblivious to everything and everyone else in the bar, his thoughts
drifted into his own sexual fantasies as he imagined himself being with
her, in bed, feeling her firm, lithe, latex-encased limbs wrapped
around him: imagining what it would be like to have such a person as
his lover, his slave: having her as his to use: what it would feel
like for her to have him controlling her, driving her to
previously-unreached levels of excitement and bliss: what it would
feel like for him if HE were her, flaunting HER sexuality, encased in
exquisite latex, eliciting desire from the men--and some women--who...
He would not permit himself to think in such terms. He would not
permit such fantasies to permeate HIS sexuality. He would permit no
thoughts which compromised HIS masculine dominance of women. No; he
had fought that battle throughout his life.
He again imagined himself TAKING her, driving deeper and deeper into
her as she gripped him, moaning that she couldn't take anymore even as
she pulled him, with increasing force and increasing rapidity, deeper
and deeper into her.
Entranced, he found himself abruptly jolted from his trance-like
fantasy, by a voice. "Turn to me," the voice said, but he hadn't heard
it with his ears. Instead, the voice had simply occurred, it seemed,
within his head. Instinctively, even without the sense of direction
his ears would have provided him, he turned in the direction which was
somehow REQUIRED, and found himself staring into the eyes of his
black-haired provocateur. His eyes fastened on hers as hers seemed to
burn into his very soul. He was unable--and unwilling--to turn away.
As he stared into her coal-black eyes, he realized nothing--no sound,
no noise, no movement, no feelings--eisted for him excepting her
presence and her image, filling his entire consciousness. For eternity
or for a nanosecond--he had no concept of time--his soul was controlled
by the eyes from which he could not turn.
He merged back into reality--sounds, fragrances, movement--at the exact
instant at which she imperiously gestured to the seat previously
occupied by her departed blonde companion. He threw a "five" onto the
bar, and moved through the crowd towards her oblivious to those into
whom he bumped on the way. As he arrived, she again gestured at the
chair: "You may be seated."
Without further consideration, he sat.
"I wish to look at you. Do not move," she stated coolly with
no hint of emotion and no inflection in her voice. "You may
look into my eyes as I do so."
The hubub of the bar melted into the background, then disappeared for
him as, again, his vision of her overwhelmed all his other senses. In
his subconscious, surrealistic images blurred into his mind, blurring
into others which disappeared before taking form. Yet even though they
were undefinable, he found them somehow to be overwhelmingly arousing.
Then, as small wisps of fog hanging over a warm field on a cool, autumn
morning, they coalesced into a single unified form. Another image
slowly merged into his mind: the blonde again.
Sexual fantasies of her flitted into and out of his numbed
consciousness: her appearance, her attire, her makeup, the divinely
sensual hose and gloves she wore, the inate sexuality she projected,
how wonderful it must feel to her, how wonderful it might feel to him,
how overpoweringly he wished to share her experience, her sensuality,
her clothing, her aura, her body; He imagined himself in her role...he
was her, within her mind, wearing her clothing; and he was trying to
warn someone...
The driving back-beat of the bar's music became a reality to him at the
same instant that his other senses reawakened.
"Would you like another drink?" She was smiling at him and, he suddenly
realized, was holding his hand.
"Uh, I can't," he stammered, totally confused and
off-balance. "I was just coming in for the one. I've got an
8:00 business dinner."
"My pet," she said, her former smile taking on a sarcastic,
derogatory, appearance, "it is 1:00 AM."
He jumped to his feet and started to check his watch; He could not.
Even though she had relaxed her grip and her hand was lying open-palmed
on the table, he was unable to separate his hand from her's. "My god,"
he nearly screamed, "I'll lose my job. That dinner was to close a deal
I've been working on for two years..."
"Yes, my pet, you will lose your job--a small price to pay,"
she said coolly. "But it really doesn't matter does it?"
"No, Mistress Susan," he replied meekly. "I only wish to do
your bidding. Please Mistress, may I continue to hold your
hand?"
He had no recollection of how he even knew her name or what had
possessed him to speak the words he had spoken.
2. Chapter
Though he experienced none of the agonizing headache associated with
having drunk one's self blind the night before, David's thoughts were
as confused upon awakening as if he he had been at the company's "golf
trip." Vague recollections of the previous evening filtered in and out
of his mind: intermingling visions of a mysterious Mistress with those
of a blonde, allowing a white leather mini to slide to the floor,
revealing what could have been a naked body, seemingly encased from
head to toe in a clinging rubber body-suit, sitting astride him in bed,
enraptured by the passion of the moment, undulating her latex covered
rear, as he penetrated it, plunging deep within her...
...the phone had rung six times before he realized where it was and how
to pick it up. "Strabinsky," his boss's voice crackled over the
hand-set, "you son of a bitch, it's 10 fucking o'clock, you fucking
blow off the fucking biggest deal we've had in two fucking years, and
then you fucking sleep in the next morning and don't even bother to
call!? Get your fucking ass in here right fucking now so we can try
and perform some kind of damage control on this fucking mess!" Slam,
the receiver went dead.
Dave rolled over on his side, returning the phone to the cradle with
his right hand and, as he did so, was distracted by the glimmer of
light beneath him. Looking down, he was fascinated to find he was
wearing, on his left hand extending all the way to his shoulder, an
exquisite latex glove either the same or like the one worn by Mistress
Susan and her blonde companion the night before. His mind reeled; Who
was Mistress Susan.
Inexplicably, his mind filled with her image and, it seemed, his
thoughts were as hers. He recalled, through her eyes, giving David the
large, black patent patent handbag, and instructing him to wear one of
the gloves, contained within the first of two packages within it.
Through her eyes, he recalled handing the luxuriant latex garment to
the zombie-like male seated across from her. With her eyes, he watched
as the new slave mindlessly unbuttoned his cuff, rolled his sleeve up,
and painstakingly drew the opera length garment, full-length up his
arm, smoothing every wrinkle and every crevice from it. Through her
mind, he felt the burning passion growing between her legs as she
contemplated the sexual use of yet another slave. Through her mind, he
savored the stimulation which she only obtained through the final
metamorphosis when this slave too would become...
Reality returned but Dave's total, conscious attention was fixated on
the glove. During the night, its incredible thinness had constricted
further around his arm until, ultimately, it had seemed to merge with
his very skin. He stared intently at his arm noting that even his
veins and tendons were visible in the shiny blackness of the garment.
The constriction had also reduced the size and angularity of his arm
giving it a softness, a smoothness, almost feminine in nature,
exacerbated by the totally-smooth, hair-free surface.
He felt compelled to touch his latex-covered hand and arm, gently
stroking its length, revelling in its blackness, its sheen, its
unblemished smoothness. As he did so, even though all tactile sense
his arm formerly possessed was now hidden below its rubberized
exterior, he found himself stimulated by the appearance of his limb.
He pinched the black rubber; Even though he felt nothing of the
touching of his latex-encased limb, the pinch hurt.
He drew his latex-enshrouded hand down the length of his torso--every
inch of skin he touched succumbed to a stimulation unlike anything he
had ever experienced--down his stomach, across his abdomen, until his
rubber hand found and grasped his raging manhood, then slowly,
rhythmically began the copulation which both hand and member seemed to
desire on their own, as if Dave was merely a passive observer.
His passion and sense of sexual urgency spent, Dave repaired to the
restroom to shower, noting the time as he went. He needed to hurry
but, to his dismay, found it impossible to remove the glove. Panicked,
his mind raced: how could he present himself at the office wearing a
latex glove? He had an idea; At least, he thought to himself, it gives
me an out.
When Dave arrived at the office, the receptionist was startled to see
his left hand swathed in gauze and surgical tape. It was, he had told
her, the stupidest thing he had ever done, knocking the tea-kettle off
the stove then, reflexively, attempting to catch it in mid-air,
scalding himself in the process. Both his boss and Wainright, the
client whom Dave had bypassed the night before, accepted Dave's apology
for his absence the previous evening and his tardiness the following
day. In fact, Dave's boss apologized for his own outburst and
suggested that Dave stay home the remaining four days of the week, in
order to recuperate from the trauma.
Dave, feigning reluctance, agreed, eager to return home to revel in his
fascination with the glove, and insatiably curious regarding the
remaining contents of the bag.
3. Chapter
During the 35 minute commute home, his head clearing further, his
consciousness becoming one with reality, Dave's attention moved away
from his monomanical fascination with the glove and the events of the
preceding evening, focusing instead on the bookwork he'd been avoiding
for the last two weeks.
At the entryway of his home, he doffed his coat and shirt and went
upstairs to the bedroom to remove the glove and replace it into the bag
he had brought home the previous evening. He flipped on the bedroom
television, hoping to catch the noon news.
Not wishing to harm the garment in any way, he went to the master bath
where he would have the use of the mirror to aid in its removal and
storage. Naked above his beltline, he looked at himself in the mirror,
fascinated by what he saw; his left arm bore no resemblance to his
right in terms of girth or muscle definition. It was, instead,
wonderfully, provocatively feminine in appearance.
With a start, Dave realized that the glove was seemingly changing his
arm's configuration the longer it was left in place. Somehow, someway,
the glove was causing his arm to metamorphosize into something feminine
and foreign. Nearly seized in panic, using his fingernails, he began
digging at the skin of his upper forearm, groping for the rolled seam
at the glove's edge, so he could peel it off.
But there was no seam; the smooth latex now simply blended and merged
into his own skin, becoming one with it. His frantic scratching only
served to scrape his flesh; the latex was unblemished. Even as he was
repulsed by what was happening, he found himself, at the same time,
stimulated by the mental image of his perfectly-proportioned,
porcelain-smooth, ebony appendage.
Briefly, Dave balanced on the edge of real panic and total resignation;
At first: would he have to live out the rest of his life like a freak?
Could he forever hide this part of himself from the world.
Then: how beautiful his arm had become, how he wanted to touch it,
feel it, flaunt it for all to see.
He focussed on the latter and shortly found himself moving toward the
bedroom dresser upon which resided the bag within which resided the new
focus of his altered attentions.
Again, Dave's mind seemed to blur. He was in a dream-like state as,
with his ebony left hand, he delicately lifted the sack while, with his
right hand he nearly tore it groping for the contents; It was as if his
left arm moved and acted with graceful feminity while his right was
controlled by an enraged male.
Inside, atop three other neatly-stacked smaller sacks within, he found
a note:
"You will be totally unable to turn back after the first step
is complete.
Within the sack are separate packages, numbered
one and two. Your glove was in the first.
I will be with you tonight only if you succumb."
Mistress Susan
As he read the note, his mind bolted back to reality. He stepped into
the walk-in closet and from the top shelf, began to slide out his old
Army trunk. He would lock the package and its contents where no one
would ever find them. As he reached upwards with both arms, he
realized that latex-encased arm was noticeably weaker than his other.
His feminine appearing arm collapsed under the weigh, allowing the
trunk to crash to the floor, its corner landing painfully upon his left
foot.
Enraged, Dave stomped across the bedroom, then with his right fist,
flailed out, knocking a lamp from the dresser and shattering it on the
adjacent wall. In an uncontrollable rage, he prepared to punch his
right fist through the wall when suddenly, he stopped short: the cool
softness of his left hand, soothingly caressing and stroking his face's
right cheek, seemed to calm him. For a moment, he revelled in the
softness of his own touch against his cheek then, kneeling down, gently
picked up the bag from the floor and removed the top sack from inside,
laying it upon the bed, incogniscent of the fact that his feminine
appearing am had seemed to have comforted him with a will of its own,
noting--but paying little attention to--the short, blonde strand of
hair, on the floor next to the bag.
He bent, permitting his rubber-clad hand to delicately retrieve the
sack from the floor and gently place it upon the bed. With no
conscious effort on his part, the hand gently retrieved the first small
bundle from the sack, gently opened it and drew out the remaining
glove, laying it out across the bed.
He opened the second sack and withdrew a lipstick red latex corselette
with molded-in bra cups, black latex hose, and high-waisted bicycle
shorts with, curiously, what appeared to a molded-in female lambia.
At first fascinated, he drew the exquisite corselette across his face,
inhaling its fragrance, relishing in its coolness and suppleness as it
touched his cheek.
He wanted so much to wear them yet, until he found how to removed the
glove which already seemed to adhere to him, he couldn't dare. Picking
them up, he tossed them onto the chair adjacent to the bed.
Briefly, he glanced at the remains of the antique lamp shattered on the
floor, a gift from his grandmother, before her death ten years earlier.
He felt totally depleted from the adrenaline-rush he'd just
experienced: so depleted, so weakened, so confused about the events of
the past eighteen hours. He sat upon the bed and began to cry, then
reclined onto it, his face buried in the pillow. He fell into a deep,
splendidly comforting sleep.
It was pitch black outside when Dave awoke. He glanced at the clock;
It was 1:00 AM. Despite the fact that it was now the middle of the
night, he felt perfectly relaxed and refreshed. He had slept nearly 12
hours.
Somehow, he realized, he had managed to get his pants off and crawl
under the covers, even though he didn't recall having done so. He felt
incredibly mellow considering the rage he'd experienced before
sleeping. In fact, he felt almost languid: uncharacteristically calm.
Dave withdrew his left arm from beneath the covers, extending it out
full-length, curious as to whether he might now be able to remove the
latex glove. Noting its perfect, delicate proportions, he allowed his
wrist to droop down limply, then angled it up at an angle to enjoy the
sight of his now-delicate fingers, then drooped his wrist again. His
arm and hand were so beautiful, so delicately, delightfully feminine in
both form and movement. He longed for others to appreciate that beauty
too.
He began to withdraw his right arm from beneath the covers, to delight
in its touch of his left, noting curiously as he did so, that he
couldn't feel the sensation of of his arm hair sliding against the
cotton sheets. As the reality struck him, he abruptly withdrew his
right arm and stared at it in horror; It too, was now smooth, shiny,
jet black, and delicately proportioned.
Dave sat bolt upright in bed, the covers falling from him revealing
that what--a few hours before--had been the corselette was now his
torso: wasp-waisted and large-breasted, while the "skin" covering it
was now smooth, flawless, shimmering red latex.
He leapt from the bed, nearly stumbling from the awkwardness induced by
his unaccustomed, reproportioned body mass. What of his legs?
Looking down he found his view blocked by full, rounded, latex skinned
breasts thrusting out from his chest, their pointed, erect nipple
protruding magnificently. They moved up and down as his breathing
increased in its heaviness. Carefully balancing on one foot, he lifted
the other from the ground and extended his leg in front of him,
pointing his toes and slowly raising his foot to his view.
The beauty of the vision of the perfectly proportioned, female leg,
shimmering in black latex was only overwhelmed by his horror at what
was happening to him.
He had to find Mistress Susan: had to stop this process before it went
any further.
Regaining his coordination, he hurried toward the rest room, only to
find his steps were short and delicate, his movements unaccustomedly
strange and awkward, impeding his progress. His lower torso seemed to
undulate from side to side as he moved. Quickly, he turned the corner
into the bath, wincing at the pain as his left breast swung into the
corner of the doorframe, inflicting pain: the breasts were real and
they were his!
Switching on the light, he stood, transfixed, staring at the mirror.
Before him stood a reflected vision like nothing he had ever beheld: a
sublimely erotic female figure, encased from toe to chest and from
shoulder to fingertip in brilliantly shiny, wrinkle free, un-seamed
latex. Every detail of the figure's erect nipples, even the small
bumps ringing their centers, was readily apparent. As he looked, they
became even more erect, jutting forward as if being pushed from behind.
The figure's rib cage, narrowed by the corsolette, narrowed to a tiny
waist which rapidly curved outward.
Dave was captured by the perfection of his own feminine form. He ran
his hands across his full, plump breasts, cupped them in his rubber
palms, then--with both hands--followed the contour of his ribs down to
his now-tiny waist, finding he could nearly touch his thumbs and
forefingers as he squeezed its wasp-like diameter, bringing his hands
to rest on his now-flaring hips.
The image in the mirror posed for him, hands on hips, breasts
out-thrust, slowly rotating its head to the right and body to its left,
adopting a pouty face as, looking down across an upraised right
shoulder, it admired the form of its own breast, viewed from the side.
Slowly, it turned, again facing the mirror.
Dave found himself lusting for the body which was, in fact, his own as
his eyes travelled down the throat to the breasts, to the flat stomach
and flared hips, to the parting of the legs where...
Dave fell backwards against the wall, still staring at the mirror.
Where his male appendage had been, a smooth, shiny, hairless, jet-black
mound of venus, its lips swollen and puffy, now remained. Gently, he
probed its length with his center finger, drawing the outline of its
slit from back to front and up to his clit. It responded with
moistness and he felt flushed.
Apprehension overwhelming him, he rested the heel of his hand on the
top of his mound, curling his nearly feeling-less fingers rearward in
search of his testicles. There was no evidence of them nor of their
ever having been.
"Come to me." The unheard voice appeared in Dave's mind.
4. Chapter
Dave hurried to the closet, grabbing the first things--a pair of jeans
and an oxford cloth dress shirt--he could find. Pulling on the shirt,
he found himself strangely stimulated by the feel of the material
sliding up his arms.
Glancing in the mirror, he was relieved to find that, with the collar
of the shirt unbuttoned, his latex covered chest was hidden, his
little, remaining, natural skin--head, face, and throat--being all that
was visible. He was less comforted as he realized the feminine outline
of his full breasts were readily apparent beneath the material of his
shirt. He would need to wear a sportcoat.
Sitting on the bed, he bent forward and inserted his feet into his
jeans to pull them up his legs. But his grasping latex skin would not
allow the denim to easily slide. Rolling onto his back, with his feet
in the air, he pulled the material of his jeans until the cuffs were
above both ankles, then stood again, wiggling as he pulled and worked
them up the length of his legs. Reaching his full hips, he found
himself wiggling, bending, pulling, and compressing his buttocks in
order to get the pants up to his waist. It took nearly all of his
strength to start the zipper, then it suddenly moved easily. He
snapped the button at the top only to find the waistline, now much
higher on his hips than ever before, hung loosely about his waist,
leaving a sizable gap. Retrieving a thin belt from the bureau, he
hurriedly ran it through the loops, drew it to the last hole, and
buckled it. A 2 inch gap still remained around his waist. Removing
the belt, he tossed it aside and grasped an old military slide belt,
inserted it through the loops and pulling it tightly, cinched in the
loose material.
He again turned to the mirror, realizing he could never again be
perceived as a male. The rounded fullness of his hips and butt
strained for release from their denim confinement. The lower portion
of his jean's fly disappeared into his slit , outlining--even through
the denim material--his swollen lambia.
He could not go out as a man; He had to be as feminine as possible if
he were to avoid the attention of which he was now becoming desperately
afraid. He was near panic. He had no female clothing nor any means of
getting any.
He returned to the restroom. Having no makeup, at least--he
reasoned--he could be cleanly shaven and, perhaps, do something more
feminine with his hair to avoid scrutiny.
Removing his razor from the medicine cabinet, he turned to the mirror
for a closer inspection of his face, then returned the razor to the
cabinet; It would not be necessary. Whatever the mysterious
physiological changes were that had been wrought by latex garments,
they extended beyond the areas of his anatomy which they now encased.
Not only did he not need to shave, but his facial skin was totally
smooth, stubble-free, and--somehow--softer in appearance. With his
black, gleaming fingers, he stroked his cheek, thrilling to his own
touch, and relieved at his more-likely ability to avoid the unwanted
attention of which he was afraid.
Filling the sink with water, he dunked his head into it, wetting his
close-cropped hair. Towelling it to partial dryness, he brushed it up
as he blow-dried it, giving it more body, then sprayed it to hold it in
what was now a semi-punk hairdo.
Returning to the mirror, he decided he would look less conspicuous if
his shirt tail were left out. Removing it, he beheld the image of a
casually-dressed, 30-ish, city chick. The only flaw in her attempted
anonymity being the latex gloves she incongruously wore.
"Now, Cherise," the voice in her head said. "Tonight, two more." Dave
knew that he was the "Cherise" to whom the voice spoke and accepted
that "Dave" no longer existed.
Donning a pair of tennies which only yesterday fit, yet now were loose
upon her feet, she picked up her car keys.
5. Chapter
It was nearly 1:30 PM when Cherise arrived at the club. Somehow, she
knew she was to meet the Mistress there.
Afraid to walk the street alone, she pulled to the club's entrance and
handed her keys to the red-eyed attendant.
"Thanks babe," he said, making no eye contact but, instead,
focusing on the fulfillment of the shirt she wore. "Mistress
is inside."
He drove off, leaving Cherise wondering how the attendant had any way
of knowing why she was there.
In the short distance to the entrance, two obviously-imbibed young men,
slightly built and holding hands, passed her on the sidewalk. "Go
girl," one said flippantly in Cherise's direction. She quickened her
pace into the club.
The activity was frenetic, the packed club bustling with the activities
of those celebrating WITH one they had already found, the others
desperately SEEKING the fulfillment of finding a lover before final
call. Hands, arms, legs and necks of those sitting or standing all
seemed to be intertwined while those on the dance floor moved their
bodies rhythmically to the pounding music, as if engaged in a primeval
mating ritual.
All, it seemed, wore clothing announcing the particular fetish which
expressed their sensuality: latex, leather, vinyl, lycra, chains and
plastic, accentuated or revealed the flesh beneath. Only a few persons
she could see--apparently a group of business persons--six men and two
women, all wearing business suits--were not costumed for the occasion.
Cherise, in her attempt not to gain attention, felt increasing
uncomfortable, her conservative attire now standing out rather than
blending in, and drawing attention to her. It seemed as if everyone
was staring at her; In fact, everyone WAS staring at her. Amongst the
hundreds of partyers, everyone was looking at her as the music stopped
and all conversation ended.
"May I present," the Mistress' voice, siren-like and languid,
broadcast from the PA system, "Cherise!"
The entire crowd broke into applause, smiles coming from the faces of
the men as some of the women smiled, blew kisses, or shared an "air
kiss" puckering their lips in Cherise's direction.
Cherise nervously glanced in the direction of the business party; Three
of the men were all focussed upon their pawing of a young chick who sat
between them, clad in a rubber mini and red latex bra overflowing with
her bosom, obviously over-served. The other man and the two females,
were focussed on Cherise: one woman looking curiously at her face, the
other looking at her breasts with hungry, wanton desire, and the male
staring straight at the outlines of her crotch, visible through the
taut denim.
"And now, in honor of Cherise, our entertainment, beginning with
Sabrina, then the dance of transfiguration." The Mistress extended her
hand toward Cherise who, instinctively, moved through the crowd to the
Mistress. Their latex covered hands touched as Cherise assisted her
Mistress down from the stage escorted her, still holding hands, to her
reserved table adjacent. Mistress very touch sent a thrill through
Cherise's every cell, exciting her in a way she'd never before
experienced. It seemed for the first time her entire groin--from her
vulva to her anus became alive as blood and sensations poured to those
areas, demanding manipulation. She felt her crotch becoming
increasingly moist as it strained further against the tight blue jeans.
Cherise was oblivious to the beginning of the first act: Sabrina, a
willowy blonde wearing a black vinyl, open-breasted cat-suit and
carrying a whip who, with the assistance of her slave, a compact,
heavily muscled black male wearing only a leather thong and a studded
slave collar, performed a beautifully choreographed domination ritual.
Instead, she could only gaze longingly into the eyes of the Mistress.
"You are inappropriately dressed." The Mistress' lips had not moved.
Cherise stood, curtsied, and--without even knowing why--walked around
the stage to the backstage entrance door.
6. Chapter
Cherise was apprehensive and somewhat frightened as she moved down the
dimly-lit hallway behind the stage. Every three feet, on either side
of the hall, were unmarked doors, apparently small closets. She passed
them by, one after the other, until she came to a large metal door,
with a lift handle. Somehow, it seemed frightening to her and after a
brief instant of indecision, she hurried by it. No more of the closet
doors remained but, 10 feet farther up the hall, was another door, with
a star adorning it. Below the star was a slide-in name sign: Cherise.
As she reached for the knob, the hallway virtually shook with the
uproar and applause from the crowd at the stage. She had no idea why.
She entered and looked about. Along one wall, latex garments hung, one
after the other: skirts, dresses, hose, gloves, bras, panties,
catsuits, masks, hoods: virtually any type of rubber garment
imaginable. At the back wall was a large dressing table and makeup
mirror, the table top covered with cosmetics and perfumes while along
the right wall, curiously, was a medical stirrup table, covered by a
latex sheet.
Cherise moved to the dressing table, removing her man-tailored shirt as
she went. Even though she had never before worn makeup, she seemed to
instinctively know which items to use and how to apply them. Within a
few minutes, her few facial lines were softened, the high contours of
her cheeks were emphasized, the broadness of her nose was minimized,
and her lips were full, red, and pouty looking. Her eyes were
emphasized and enhanced so they would receive the attention they
deserved and her mascara-lengthened lashes batted flirtatiously.
A light misting of a selected perfume freed her to select her attire.
Moving to the clothes rack, she found sorted through, one garment at a
time, looking for anything which would germinate an idea for the "look"
she needed. Her quest ended with high-waisted, red latex mini skirt,
the exact color as her latex torso. Regrettably, it seemed several
sizes too large but she resigned herself to wearing it anyway.
She briefly considered latex panties to wear beneath it but discarded
the idea; Without them she would be more "accessible"--and she desired
to be accessed. Laying the skirt across her arms, she moved back to
the dressing table, fascinated by her reflected image as she approached
it. She was incredibly beautiful.
Sitting, she crossed her legs, knees together, ankle on ankle and,
surprised, noted that on the edge of the table was the bag, from her
house, which had appeared the night before. Curiosity overwhelming
her, Cherise felt compelled to open it. Inside were to new sack.
She opened the first withdrawing two, highly-shined, black rubber
masks. Both had small holes for the nostrils but they differed where
the mouth should have been. The mouth opening on the first had
molded-in lips but they were not facial lips; The were vaginal lips,
1
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DE!fub!sauveur!nienor.IN-Berlin.DE!nostrumo
From: nostrumo@nienor.IN-Berlin.DE (Nostrumo)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.tg
Subject: New TG: The Ultimate Asylum by Stefi (2/2)
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Date: 20 Jan 1997 21:48:48 GMT
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Hi.
This is a rather weired story.
As ever I DIDN'T write this story and haven't any claim on it. If
you have some usefull hints or some good coments, your mail is then
welcome. Flames, you know, they will be piped to /dev/null.
If you are an author and wish to remain anonymouns or just try to
avoid the replies to your work. I offer you the chance of posting your
stories and collecting the response for you. This offer only stands for
story postings and for nothing else.
Enjoy the story.
Ciao
Nostrumo
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> cut here with a sharp knife =
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
2 =
_The_Ultimate_Asylum_____________________________________________by_Stefi=
_
extending vertically from the chin almost to the nostrils. The other
mask seemed to have a screw-on attachment holder for something where
the mouth should have been. Reaching into the bag again, she withdrew
a large, black, soft-rubber dildo. At its base it was threaded,
obviously permitting it to attach to the second mask.
No way, she thought to herself.
Opening the larger bag, she found a pair of black, latex, thigh-high
boots, with pointed toes and spike heels.
Swivelling her chair, she caressed them, feeling their suppleness,
glorying at their highly-shined glimmer, and marvelling at the
incredibly thin, five inch spiked heel. Alternately extending her
legs, she pulled the boots on, surprised with the ease with which she
did so. Standing, she nearly stumbled, unaccustomed to her weight
being transferred so far forward. Regaining her balance, she found
that since the heels moved her center of gravity forward at the hips,
to compensate, she needed to bend backwards slightly at the waist,
effectively moving her butt farther out behind her and her breasts
farther out in front of her.
She practiced walking back and forth across the room a few times and
found, with her new posture, it was not as difficult as she would have
imagined, although it did force her to take smaller, mincing steps.
Assured that she could, in fact, be mobile in the boots, she picked up
the latex skirt, hoping that, despite being too large, it would fit
adequately for the evening. She was able to wiggle into the skirt but
was disappointed at the looseness of its fit around her tiny waist.
Smoothing it with her hands she found that the waist of the skirt
extended up to the base of her rib cage while the hem hung only a
couple of inches below her crotch.
Still, she was concerned that the high waist might be too loose,
tending to "gap" on her. But, she noted as she looked in the mirror,
the resilient rubber seemed to have shrunk back, removing the gap. In
fact, it fit quite well. It was actually, a little tight. In fact...
Cherise was suddenly panicked as the air was squeezed from her
diaphragm and at the same time, her legs were racked in cramps. Both
the high waist band of the skirt and the boots were shrinking onto her
and into her. She bent forward in an effort to regain her breath and,
as the pain in her legs increased to intolerable levels felt a strange,
buzzing sensation in her tongue which spread into her head. The
garments were constricting her so tightly, she was unable to breathe.
Falling forward, she lost consciousness.
7. Chapter
Cherise felt she could have been out no more than a few minutes. She
had difficulty standing from the combined effects of the high heels and
the tight skirt but, grasping the edge of the table, she was finally
able to do so.
She turned again toward the mirror. Just as with the others garments,
the edge seams, where they had originally overlapped her skin, had now
become one with it, blending into a continuous, smooth surface. The
waist band of the skirt now molded into and became one with Cherise's
latex torso. The lower portion of her skirt, now excruciatingly tight,
had not molded with her black, latex legs, but the high waist band, now
constricting her previously shrunken waist even more, had become so
tight it was a moot point; Moving back towards her chair, she found she
could now take only the tiniest of steps, the stretching, firm rubber
inhibiting all but the smallest movements.
Slowly, she sat upon the chair. With effort to overcome the
constrictive skirt, she demurely crossed her legs and ran her fingers
down her almost-completely exposed thighs, down her shapely, shimmering
calf, to the red latex boot-top which now blended seamlessly with her
black rubber-skinned thigh, to the delicate spike heel at the bottom of
the boot. Encircling it with her fingers, she tugged lightly at it,
curious if she could any longer remove the boot.
The spike hurt when she tugged it; It exhibited pain; It too, was one
with her.
Cherise knew, somehow, she must shortly reappear in the crowd but
wanted to complete her outfit before doing so. Moving with small,
mincing steps to the clothes rack, she delighted in the ways her body
now moved: the slight side-to-side movement of her buttocks, the fore
and aft movement of her shoulders and breasts. She found a wide, black
patent belt (from this, at least, she felt safe) which she donned
immediately, and a black latex, studded slave collar with a ring in
front.
She knew the consequences of the rubber garments but no longer cared.
She placed it around her neck, felt it constrict briefly, then felt a
strange sensation as it too, molded into her latex skin, causing brief
tingling sensations as each of the cool metal studs became a part of
her skin.
Suddenly, Cherise was overcome by hunger as it occurred to her she had
not eaten in nearly two days. At the same instant, the voice in her
head said, "Here."
8. Chapter
Cherise paused briefly after leaving the dressing room, to contemplate
one of the many closet-like doors, lining the hallway, curious as the
their contents when, again, the voice inside her head resounded:
"Now."
With no further thought, she moved as quickly as possible up the
hallway, finding that her constrained steps forced her behind to sway
back and forth while her now-pendulous breasts move in opposition as
she attempted to hurry.
She again entered aside the stage area to take her seat beside the
Mistress. "Our entertainment," the Mistress stated.
Cherise turned toward the stage. Upon it, her back to the audience, a
tall, slender, feminine form, covered from head to toe in a seamless,
black latex cat-suit, perched atop 5" spike heels, moved with feline
grace, swaying in unison with the background music.
"Please, Mistress, may I order food," Cherise asked, turning
to her owner? "It has been so long since I've eaten, I feel
dizzy."
"Yes, my pet," Mistress Susan replied. "You are here to be fed." The
nod of her head, without so much as a word, indicated that Cherise was
to look at the stage. She turned to do so.
The dancer on-stage slowly rotated as her body writhed to the music.
As she did so, Susan recognized her close-cropped blonde hair: it was
the woman who, the night before, had been arguing with Mistress Susan.
Cherise's intrigue, however, was overwhelmed by her hunger. She was
truly afraid of fainting if she did not receive some nourishment.
"Please, Mistress..."
Again, the nod indicated that Cherise was to look towards the stage,
even as a roar came from the crowd.
For the first time, the dancer now faced the crowd. Cherise was
shocked to see that her face--pale white yesterday--was now black,
shimmering latex and that her lips--full, perfect and pouting the night
before--had been transformed into a vagina, hideously out-of-place next
to her other delicate facial features. Above the noise of the crowd
and the amplified music, Cherise could hear muffled grunts and guttural
sounds from the dancer as she and Cherise stared directly into one
another's eyes. It was clear she was trying to warn Cherise but was no
longer capable of speech.
Suddenly, the crowd roared its approval as the dancer seemed to faint,
falling forward onto the stage floor, to weak to stand, then crawled
toward the edge of the stage, as close as she could get to Mistress
Susan. Cherise recoiled from the pathetic creature who was gazing now
into Mistress Susan's eyes, even as tears flowed from her own.
With a look of total resignation, as the crowded room became suddenly,
completely silent, the blonde nodded her head to Mistress Susan in
apparent, resigned, affirmation of something. The crowd went
hysterical, chanting in unison: "Feeding time! Feeding time! Feeding
time!..."
Hearing movement from within the crowd, Cherise looked out into it and
noted that from several of them young men, were getting up, then moving
toward the stage, some apparently of their own volition, others being
urged on by their laughing friends. They assembled at the foot of the
stage, in a group.
Mistress Susan, picked up the portable mike next to her: "Ladies and
gentlemen," she said, "let's have a round of applause for our feeders."
The crowd erupted, coming to its feet.
"Let the feast begin!"
The blonde on stage, obviously to weak for any forceful movement,
slowly raised herself with one arm, then rolled onto her back. The
group of young men--five of them now--climbed onto the stage and
proceeded toward the blonde, shedding their clothes as they moved,
laughing and talking amongst themselves.
The first of them to approach the blonde, a large, muscular, blue-eyed
blonde, positioned himself on his knees next to her and began to knead
her fleshy, latex covered breasts. Despite hear weakened condition,
the blonde responded to the stimulation, moving her hands down her
hips, across her abdomen, then messaging her pussy.
The young stud, fully erect now, lifted her shoulders, placing her in a
seated position on the stage. As she continued to greedily play with
herself, the stud laid on his back next to her, and with seemingly
little effort, lifted the emaciated blonde, both hands around her
waist, lowering her atop his raging member which entered her easily.
He lowered his back to the floor as the blonde rode his cock, moving
her entire body up and down with animal-like passion.
The crowd was roaring its approval as a second youth, dark-haired and
swarthy, stood straddling the first and, with his hands on the back of
the blonde girl's head, pulled her pussy-mouth onto his tool. With a
hunger both sexual and physical, she grasped his naked buttocks and
began rhythmically pulling him back and forth, sliding his manhood into
and out of the orifice on her face. In only a few brief seconds, he
unloaded his jism into her as the other three studs lined up behind him
for their turns. In less than a couple of minutes, they too were
spent.
The blonde girl, her strength apparently replenished, stood up on her
knees, removing her cunt from its envelopment of the the stud's penis,
turned and descended upon it with her pussy-mouth, taking its full
length up and down into her face. In moments his body became rigid
then convulsed as he too emptied his testicles into her.
The crowd continued roaring its approval but now, a new chant was
building from it. It seemed they were saying, "Cher, Cher, Cher..."
Cherise was terrified. Was she to be the next on stage? Her eyes
darted to her Mistress but hers were oblivious to Cherise. Instead,
she gazed with contentment at the stage.
Cherise turned back towards it. The young studs were climbing down
from it and the blonde female was nowhere to be seen, but she detected
a rustling movement from behind the stage curtains.
The crowds chanting became more frenzied and Cherise realized what they
were chanting: "Share! Share! Share! Share!"
From behind the curtain, the blonde stepped to center stage. Obviously
re-strengthened, she now carried, cradled in her arms, another feminine
figure, smaller yet equally endowed, with long, flowing, brunette hair,
seemingly lifeless, also covered head-to-toe in smooth jet black latex.
Effortlessly, she lowered the still figure onto the stage, standing
over her, and momentarily looking down at her. From the brunette's
groin, a huge black penis stood fully erect.
Lowering herself to the prone brunette, she tenderly reached for her
head, rotating it so the brunette's face was now looking up at the
ceiling. As she did so, the outline of the face came into Cherise's
view, as well the six inch penis occupying the space where her mouth
should have been.
Gently, she bent as if to kiss the inanimate brunette, and lowered her
pussy mouth over the vertical member, moving it up and down, enveloping
the shaft. Gradually, the brunette seemed to regain consciousness as
her fingers bent, then extended. She moved her hands to the blonde's
hips, encircling her waist with her arms, moving her hands up her back,
then clasped them around the back of blonde's head pulling their faces
together in a passionate, kissing embrace that surely must have plunged
the penis to the bottom of the blondes throat.
Semen flowed from around the blondes facial orifice and dripped from
the brunettes shimmering cheeks and chin as Cherise realized that the
blonde, having received her nourishment, was now, in turn, feeding the
smaller woman.
Without withdrawing the penis from its insertion into her face, the
blonde rotated, straddling the brunette with her knees, lowering her
cunt over brunettes groin, effortlessly enveloping the exposed cock
with her cunt.
The brunette came fully to life, rocking and bucking as her two penis
plunged in and out of the blonde's compatible organs.
The crowd was roaring as five and ten dollar bills showered the stage.
Cherise felt her own passion burning between her thighs as her pussy
dripped in anticipation, craving the satisfaction of having such a
member thrust into it. She was mesmerized by the scene in front of her
and captivated by her own building lust. Only one thing kept her from
rushing onto the stage to gain her own satisfaction in front of
everyone there: her hunger had gone beyond a mere desire for food; She
was now so weak she felt dizzy.
She turned to beg her Mistress for ANYTHING to eat but Mistress Susan
was gone.
Dropping her head to the table, burying it in her arms, Cherise began
to cry.
9. Chapter
With great effort, Cherise stood from the table, teetering momentarily
on her spike heels. Catching her balance, she noticed several
lust-filled mails leering at her feminine figure. Turning from them
she toward the stage, now empty. The crowd, subdued, was still
present. Apparently, it was intermission.
She moved around the end of the stage, toward the corridor which lead
back to the dressing room.
Entering the hallway, she shut the stage door behind her, turned and
noted that all of the closet-like doors lining the hallway were now
open except the last two before the dressing room. With dread
curiosity, she approached the first closet and looked inside. With
some relief, she found it empty, excepting a name sign, "Danielle and
Tricia" affixed to its back wall.
Each of the subsequent closets, likewise, was empty, excepting a name
sign.
With growing dread, Cherise proceeded up the hall, toward the dressing
room and the two closed closets. Her abject fear was overcome by
curiosity born of the realization that her ultimate fate was somehow
connected to these closets.
Tentatively approaching the closet on the left Cherise cautiously
extended her shimmering hand towards it, and turned the nob, slowly
pulling it open. At first, it appeared empty but as the dim light of
the hallway gradually entered, two perfectly still forms emerged from
the shadow, jet black, their bodies held together in an
impossibly-tight embrace, face-to-face, breasts-to-breasts,
groin-to-groin: the blonde and the brunette from the stage.
Cherise recoiled in shock; Were they dead? She touched them gently,
terrified that they might suddenly grab her. She detected warmth and
could feel the movement of blood under their latex skin but they seemed
to be in some catatonic state.
Afraid to take her eyes off them, she moved backwards, then stepped
sideways to the remaining closed closet. As she slowly opened the door
and the subtle light slowly illuminated the interior, she was relieved
to find the closet empty. She glanced at the sign within then froze as
she read it:
"Cherise and Yvette"
Moving with all the speed she could muster, Cherise nearly flew up the
corridor, her heels clicking loudly and echoing off the bare walls.
Weak and hungry though she was, she was consumed by a rage unlike
anything she had felt since her feminization had begun.
Rounding the end of the stage, she found Mistress Susan, again seated
at her stage-side table. Insubordinately, she took the seat across
from her without asking.
"You fucking bitch," she shouted over the cacophony of the crowd and
the background music. "You can't do this to me." She smashed her
dainty fist down upon the table in emphasis, realizing that she was
making a scene in front of the couple at the next table. She glanced
in their direction. It was the male and one of the females from the
business party she had seen upon entering the club that night. They
showed no emotion, no recognition, and seemed to be looking straight
through Cherise.
Mistress Susan smiled back at her: a controlling, knowing smile. Her
words appeared in Cherise's mind though her lips did not move: "Are
you hungry, my pet?"
The realization of Cherise's near starvation overcame her and again,
she felt weak and dizzy.
"Two tonight. Then you may feed."
"Yes, Mistress," Cherise intoned.
"A male and a female."
"Yes, Mistress."
"The necessary items are in the dressing room. The bags are
marked for the male and female, including their addresses.
You will drive your car for the last time tonight. When you
arrive, their doors will be unlocked so you will enter
directly. The contents of the bag for the male will be the
same as the contents of the bag you received, including the
pussy mask. The female will receive the the dildo mask and
panties."
"Yes, Mistress."
"You will take your first feeding--and indeed, the last
feeding you'll ever have with your mouth--from the male
tonight. That will give you enough strength to return here."
"Yes, Mistress."
"Following which, you will return here, don the pussy mask,
then go to your closet to sleep."
"Thank you, Mistress."
"Beginning tomorrow night, you will feed nightly, and share
your food with your new dependent."
"Yes, Mistress."
"You will leave now and go to the male's house to await his
arrival."
"Thank you, Mistress."
Cherise stood slowly and turned to leave, moving toward the stage door.
She heard her Mistress voice in the background as she left:
"Yvette, you may sit with me now."
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