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Your Bondage Stories / Re: Is this board still alive?...
Last post by Zoé Cordelier - Today at 03:24:53 PM12 parts in total, but there are at least 2 more edit passes needed to make it good, so sorry about the current state, and feedback wanted.
#2
Your Bondage Stories / Re: Is this board still alive?...
Last post by Zoé Cordelier - Today at 03:24:24 PMChapter 3: The Run
That last command belonged to me for less than a second.
I stood in the meeting-room tub with the finished suit glossy from toes to neck and the puck sealed into the unreachable hollow between my shoulder blades. On the laptop, the program summary filled the screen. Food stocked. Phone available. Survival limits enabled. Default release in fourteen days. Daily window randomized.
My finger rested over Enter.
I had imagined this moment too often. In those fantasies I trembled, hesitated and perhaps whispered something dramatic before giving myself away. In reality, the suit was warm, the room smelled faintly of old carpet and I already needed to pee.
I pressed the key.
The laptop returned to an ordinary prompt. It would show no suit state now. The puck vibrated once against my back, the only acknowledgement I received.
Resistance gathered across my body, subtle at first, then unmistakable. My knees straightened. My shoulders settled. The material fitted itself into the cleft of my ass and the lips of my cunt as casually as it tightened around my wrists. Then the two shapes I had deliberately specified formed inward. The vaginal dildo filled me first; the anal one followed, stretching me until I had to breathe through my mouth. Both settled slightly too thick and too deep to forget.
The catheter came last, narrow and clinical compared with the two blunt shafts. The suit eased it into place and closed the valve. The pressure in my bladder did not disappear. I tried to let go by reflex and could not. Before the run had taken its first step, I had lost the right to piss.
Pressure closed around my ankles and turned my feet toward the door. The boundary warning had begun.
"Shit."
I had tested activation with boundary enforcement disabled. In the final build, the meeting room became forbidden as soon as the run began. The grace interval was thirty seconds—enough, I had decided, to leave a place accidentally entered.
Not enough to cross a room in a suit that opposed every hurried movement.
I turned toward the door. The material tightened over my hips, enforcing a short, controlled stride. I pushed harder and it pushed back harder. My feet slapped the carpet with infuriating little steps.
I counted twenty seconds in my head.
The doorway seemed to recede. I tried to run. The suit locked my knees almost straight and squeezed between my thighs, converting urgency into a humiliating waddle.
Ten.
"Come on, come on."
The pressure around my ankles sharpened. I threw myself forward and got one foot over the boundary, but the puck between my shoulder blades stayed inside the fenced area. The pulse caught me. Both dildos fired at once.
The pulse struck deep inside my cunt and ass, then spread through my pelvis and lower belly. Both shafts seemed to turn electrically hard while my body clamped around them. I jerked my hips away on instinct, but there was nothing to pull away from: the dildos moved with me, continuous with the suit, carrying the current wherever I went. My legs folded. The suit kept my joints aligned as it forced me down, and both knees hit the corridor carpet after my trailing foot dragged across the boundary.
I caught the wall with both hands as the current cut off.
The pain vanished. The knowledge did not.
I leaned there breathing hard while the afterimage burned beneath my skin.
The program had been active for forty-one seconds.
The counter was one now.
No display confirmed it. No status light changed. The punishment itself was the acknowledgement. I had crossed the boundary too late, the controller had delivered level one and the next ordinary violation would be level two.
Every mistake after that would raise the consequence again.
Care posture. Charging. A forbidden stair. A hand between my legs when denial became too much. One lapse would make the following lapse hurt more, and the counter would never forgive anything until the run ended.
I tried to imagine carrying that fact through a day.
Then another day.
I had tested level two. I knew the way it reached farther around my hips and lower belly. Level three had put my forehead against the floor. Level six had emptied my lungs and left me crying while the suit recorded every response. Beyond six waited levels I had refused even to calibrate.
The finished program could reach them without asking whether I had changed my mind.
I looked back through the doorway at the laptop.
It was only a terminal now. The signed image lived in the puck between my shoulder blades, beyond my reach. I could not lower the counter, pause the rules or restore an ordinary release command. The only exit I had left myself inside the program was the random five-minute window, the password, the request, and then twenty-four more hours before release. If I missed it, I waited. If I kept missing it, the distant fourteen-day default remained.
That was all.
I carried the prison with me. It covered my skin, filled my cunt and ass, held the catheter shut and kept its controller where my hands could not reach. I could walk away from the meeting room. I could not walk away from the rules.
Past Anna had written them while safe, free and horny. Current Anna could beg that woman for mercy until her voice failed. The code would not listen. It would administer exactly the discipline she had authorized, with no distinction between a careless mistake, an exhausted body and deliberate disobedience.
Fear tightened my stomach.
My body answered somewhere lower.
The vaginal dildo shifted as my cunt clenched around it. A second involuntary contraction gripped the anal form. Heat moved through me beneath the fading pain, unmistakable and shameful.
I was afraid of level two. Afraid of the day ahead and the possible days after it. Afraid that one mistake could begin a climb I would not be able to stop.
And the inescapability aroused me.
Not the pain. Not the thought of injury. The fact that consequence was real now. I had wanted rules that remained binding after fear made me plead for exceptions. I had them. My future mercy depended on code written by a version of me who had deliberately removed mercy from the interface.
My cunt tightened again.
"Fuck," I whispered.
It felt unfair.
I had written every line that made it unfair.
The program did not care that I finally understood what that meant.
The first care summons came four hours later.
By then I had learned that ordinary life contained more postures than my tests had considered. Reaching a high cupboard made the suit pull my arms down. Sitting was impossible: the slightest downward weight drove both dildos farther into me. To work, I knelt on the modified Balans chair with its shifted panel carrying my thighs and my pelvis hanging free. Scratching an itch was impossible because the itch existed beneath a seamless black skin that would not admit my fingers.
The suit pinched both nipples at once.
It began almost gently, two firm little reminders through the black skin. I knew exactly what they meant and headed for the adapted stall. The pinches did not release while I walked. They tightened with every few seconds that passed, twisting my nipples hard enough to pull my shoulders forward.
That frightened me more than an icon could have. The signal used my body to make the instruction impossible to misunderstand.
I reached the stall before the electrical stage, but not the pose. The first shocks snapped through both nipples as I spread my feet over the squat toilet. I dropped into the deep crouch, heels down, thighs wide, hands behind my neck. The shocks strengthened once while I adjusted—knees farther apart, pelvis lower, spine straighter—then vanished the instant the controller accepted me.
By then my bladder ached. The suit opened the catheter valve. Urine rushed through a channel I could neither reach nor close and rattled loudly into the squat toilet. Relief made me sag, but a warning compression from the suit reminded me of the correct pose. The controller decided when it began, how completely I emptied and when the valve shut again.
The dildo in my cunt stayed thick and deep. The one in my ass softened, slid out, and reshaped itself into the "care channel", a black trunk that extended to the bucket waiting on its floor mark.
I had tested this. I knew every stage.
Knowing did not help when the suit entered me. The trunk gulped water with noisy, hollow glugs and filled me while holding me open above the drain. The position made my thighs shake. Pressure swelled in my belly until holding it hurt.
The channel stayed closed. A cramp folded through my abdomen and found nowhere to go. I panted against it, cheeks burning while water shifted audibly inside me. Then gas escaped around the care tube with a wet, obscene noise that the tiled stall threw straight back at me. I was alone. I still wanted to cover my face.
I felt less like the designer of a hygienic system than a rubber-clad animal being serviced in a stall.
I could not close the valve, push the tube out or stand up and finish in private. My body had been reduced to something the routine filled, held and emptied on its own schedule. All I could do was keep the required posture and let it use the openings I had given it.
The shame was worse because nobody had done this to me. I had specified every stage, tested every threshold and then locked myself inside the result. I had taken a private need and engineered it into a procedure that did not care how degraded I felt once it started. Even alone, my face burned at the deliberate, self-inflicted violation of it.
The routine lasted far longer than the rehearsal.
My left heel lifted.
Guidance pressure forced it down. A sharper pressure pulse warned me. I corrected, but the cramp in my calf pulled the heel up again.
Level two struck.
The pulse crushed my hips and belly inward around the tube. My abdomen seized against the water trapped inside me, multiplying the pain until pressure forced gas past the seal in two wet, barking bursts. I screamed and nearly pitched forward, but the suit held me open until the current stopped.
"I know," I panted. "You don't have to fucking gloat."
I had one correction interval. That was not mercy. I forced my heel down and forced myself into a crouch while tears blurred the tiles, terrified that one more failure would earn level three. The program registered the pose and continued. It did not care that I was crying, or that my cunt was shamefully wet around the dildo while the rest of me hurt.
At last the channel opened. The release came out of me in a loud, helpless rush: water, waste and air splashing into the squat toilet while I remained spread above it with my hands behind my neck. The suit rinsed me, made me hold again, and emptied me a second time. By the end my abdomen hurt, my thighs were quivering and sweat ran down my face.
The program cleaned and dried my lower body and closed the care channel. Then it rebuilt the anal dildo inside me.
I knew the shaft was exactly the same size. I had written the dimensions and tested the state transition. My sphincter, relaxed and tender after the enema, insisted that it was enormous. The unyielding thickness stretched me as though it had grown while it was gone. I breathed through the pressure until the muscle slowly adjusted around it and the impossible size became merely the old, constant fullness.
Only then did the suit allow me to stand. My legs almost failed. I caught the stall wall and stayed there until the black spots left my sight.
Later, in the bedroom, the distraction routine began.
At first I welcomed it. The vaginal dildo withdrew almost to its thickest point and pushed back into my cunt. The anal one followed half a beat later. A smooth ridge rose between my labia and settled against my clit.
I was sore, frightened and still helplessly wet. The paired shafts worked in alternating strokes, never leaving me empty. I rocked into them.
The routine brought me close, stopped, and began again. On the third climb my body responded differently than it had during calibration. Sweat and hours of constant contact had made everything too sensitive. The suit read my signals late. By the time it reduced the pressure, I was ready to tip over the edge.
I chased it. When the clitoral pressure withdrew and both dildos went rigidly still, I reached between my legs and pressed my palm over my cunt. I knew the rules I had coded: I could not touch my tits, press a hand to my cunt, or reach around to my ass without inviting a warning and, if I persisted, punishment, yet I was unable to stay still.
The glove tightened around my fingers and wrist: the no-touch warning. I could still pull away. Instead I rubbed hard against the black surface, trying to recover the friction the program had stolen.
"Fuck you," I gasped, and kept my hand there.
Level three erased the pleasure.
Pain slammed through the material from collar to toes. My back arched. My jaws snapped shut on a scream. The punishment locked every muscle it covered, seizing my disobedient body.
The pulse ended. I lay on the floor with tears leaking into my hair.
This was not the level three I remembered. The number was the same; my body was not. Hours in the suit had sensitized my skin and exhausted my muscles. A penalty I had classified as painful now felt terrifying.
When the last involuntary tension drained from my limbs, I still did not move. Both dildos remained buried and motionless. My cunt and ass ached around them, obscene little pulses beneath the greater aftershock.
I no longer wanted to discover level twelve. I no longer wanted to discover level four.
Later, I stood in front of the kitchen phone next to the coffee machine for a long time. I could call emergency services. I could call Steve. I imagined his face when he arrived and saw me sealed in black, the suit fitted so tightly that there could be no polite fiction about what it did between my legs. I imagined explaining the material's self-repair, the unreachable puck, the fourteen-day default.
Outside help might not free me quickly. It would certainly expose me.
Some time today, the five-minute window would open. I could reach the laptop, request release and be out one day later. That was a plan, not hope. I only had to obey until then.
I lifted my hand from the phone.
"Next window," I told the empty kitchen. "I'm done."
The program gave no sign that it had heard.
At ten that night, I made another stupid choice because I was still horny enough to find it attractive.
My bed restraints predated the nanoliquid by years. Leather ankle cuffs clipped to rings at the foot of the bed. A padded collar anchored near the headboard. The wrist cuffs were connected by a short steel bar with a timer inside it. Once I closed the bar, it would not open until the interval expired.
Level three had erased the pleasure, not the need beneath it. Hours later I was still wet, still aching around the dildos and still craving the particular certainty of restraints I could not open. Fear said I needed to remain free for the window. Need made eight hours of greater helplessness feel delicious.
I had speculated about exactly this while writing the program. Keep me aroused. Deny me release. Let the frustration make objectively stupid choices attractive, then leave me inside a portable prison that would enforce the consequences. Past me had understood what prolonged need would do to my judgment and had built around it.
Needy me did not care.
I had slept in them often enough to know their moods: the ache at the base of my neck, the little panic on waking, the delicious certainty that no amount of fumbling changed the timer.
The suit did not require them. That was precisely why I wanted them. Choosing one piece of bondage for myself felt like reclaiming something from the machine.
I set the wrist timer for eight hours.
My ankles went first, spread toward opposite corners. I fastened the collar, lay back and closed the wrist bar around the headboard rail. The lock clicked. My hands were trapped above me.
The suit tightened as if acknowledging a configuration it liked.
"Don't get ideas," I muttered.
I slept badly. Every turn ended at leather, steel or the corrective pull of the black skin. Once I woke as the dildos began shallow alternating strokes in my cunt and ass, too mild to bring release and too exact to ignore. I pulled at the wrist bar until the headboard creaked. Nothing changed.
One deep pulse filled both my cunt and ass.
I came awake violently. The daily window had opened.
For one stupid second I tried to sit up. The collar caught my throat and the wrist bar hammered the rail.
"No."
I twisted my hands, searching for play that did not exist. The suit resisted my movement, pressing my arms flat and tightening over my spread thighs.
"No, no, no."
I could not reach the laptop. I could not leave the bed. I could do nothing except feel the window pass while my own familiar restraints kept me from the only door the program would open.
A minute after the first pulse, both dildos squeezed twice. Then came three pulses, four, and five. None hurt. Each was impossible to ignore. After the fifth group, nothing followed.
Silence filled the bedroom.
I did not know whether it was still before midnight or already morning. I had left the clock face-down because time awareness spoiled the ordeal. If the window had belonged to the calendar day just ending, another could come after midnight. If it belonged to the new day, I had lost my chance for nearly twenty-four hours.
I lay awake until the room paled, wrists locked above my head and legs spread for a suit that never slept.
The wrist timer released me in the morning. I got up, groaning from the restrained sleep. At seven twelve, a customer array reported a failing disk.
I was drinking coffee from a mug when the alert appeared. The affected machine was in rack C14 on the first floor, one forbidden stairwell away.
Under ordinary circumstances, I would have taken a replacement drive from stores, walked downstairs and swapped it before the customer noticed degraded performance. I could picture the exact cabinet, the amber light and the blue release tab.
The program would punish me before I reached the first landing. Even if I endured that, the suit's gloves and the escalating punishment would make the physical work slow and dangerous. A dropped drive or badly seated connector could turn one failed disk into an outage.
The customer had not consented to my private stupidity.
I opened the monitoring console and mapped the remaining redundancy. The array could survive the disk loss, but a rebuild onto another local drive would stress the rest. I had spare capacity in a newer server across the room. If I installed a network RAID driver and exposed a block device over the isolated storage fabric, I could restore redundancy without touching the rack.
It was ugly. It would work.
Halfway through the driver configuration, while I knelt on the Balans chair, the suit began a distraction cycle.
The dildo in my cunt thrust upward. The one in my ass withdrew, swelled, and pressed back in. I widened my knees against the chair to keep my balance. A slow vibration started over my clit.
"Not now."
The program had no category for production incident.
I kept typing. The two dildos began to fuck me in opposing rhythms while the vibration strengthened whenever I held still, as if rewarding attention to my work with a more destructive kind of attention. My nipples hardened beneath two small tightening circles. I could move whenever I wanted, but both hands had to remain on the desk or keyboard; touching my tits or reaching between my legs would begin with a warning and end with the next punishment. Sweat made my palms slick inside the gloves.
I nearly selected the wrong target.
The device name differed by one digit. Formatting it would have destroyed a live volume belonging to another customer. My finger hovered over Enter while the suit pressed hard enough between my legs to break my thought into fragments.
Something in the capacity figure looked wrong.
I stopped. Read the line again. Swore. Cancelled the command.
The correct volume came online three minutes later. I attached it, began the rebuild and watched redundancy return. Only then did I let my forehead touch the desk.
The suit withdrew the vibration and stopped both dildos at once, satisfied with whatever threshold it had been pursuing. It left them lodged deep inside me while I stayed wet, stretched, aching and furious.
I drafted the customer update twice because the first version sounded as exhausted as I felt. I described the disk fault, the remote mitigation and the planned replacement without mentioning that their administrator had almost destroyed another volume because an industrial catsuit was edging her at the keyboard.
The workaround held. The business was safe for the day.
I was not going to risk another one.
The charging summons came at four in the afternoon.
A touch began at the puck between my shoulder blades and flowed down my spine like one slow fingertip. I knew better than to mistake its gentleness for a request. I still took too long closing the terminal at my desk.
The vaginal dildo shocked me first. The anal one fired a fraction later. The pain was internal, hard and concentrated, wrenching a cry out of me before I was fully upright. A second pair struck while I crossed the kitchen, stronger than the first. Charging had none of care's patience. I had taught it that the puck's battery mattered more than my dignity.
I entered the niche, knelt facing the wall and spread my knees to the marked width. I put my hands on my head, straightened my back and pulled the charging arm into place. The magnetic contact snapped to the base of my neck.
The internal shocks stopped. Their private escalation reset without adding anything to the punishment counter.
The pose was easy for a minute. That was its meanness. Twenty minutes with my spine rigid, hands useless on my head and thighs spread without support turned obedience into work. Thirty made my shoulders burn. By forty, the muscles beside my spine twitched each time I breathed.
There was nothing to do and nowhere else to look. The bare wall filled my vision, close enough for me to count bumps in the stippled paint but too far away to rest my forehead against it. The charge gave no estimate. I was not a person waiting for a battery; I was part of the equipment, docked in the posture required to service me. Each sag brought pressure under my chin and across my lower back until I straightened again.
Near what felt like the end, my right calf cramped.
My heel jerked upward. Guidance pressure forced it down, stretching the knotted muscle until I cried out. I tried to straighten the leg but the charging pose allowed no such movement.
The suit tightened hard under my chin and across my spine: the warning.
"It's a cramp. I know. Give me—"
My heel lifted again.
Level four punched the breath out of me. My exhausted torso clamped around the current, heat blazed across my ribs and the cramp went white. I folded despite the suit's support, and the magnetic contact snapped away from my neck.
I had only the correction interval before the broken contact became another violation. Half blind with tears, I caught the charging arm, slapped the magnet back into place and forced my hands onto my head. Knees apart. Heel down. Spine straight. The suit tightened around me until every angle registered.
Level five waited behind one more mistake. Panic held me more rigidly than the suit did. My wet cunt squeezed around the dildo, but I did not dare move my pelvis by a millimetre. I faced the wall, crying quietly, and gave the program exactly the compliance the punishment had been designed to encourage.
If I had to endure another charging session, I would practise the pose between cycles. I would stretch. I would do anything the stupid code could interpret as obedience.
Both dildos gave one deep, painless pulse.
For a moment I thought pain had made me imagine it. Then I understood. The daily window had opened while I was still holding the charging pose.
This was the chance I had missed in bed. If these five minutes closed without a valid request, there would be no appeal and no second opening later tonight. I would remain sealed in the suit until tomorrow's window, carrying the same counter through another care cycle, another charge and another day of rules I was already too tired to obey perfectly.
I would make another mistake. I was certain of that now. The next one would be level five. The one after that would be level six. Every failure would hurt more than the punishment that had just left me crying at the wall.
I pulled against the charging arm just hard enough to feel the magnet shift.
It was not locked. I could rip it free whenever I chose. The program would treat that as abandoning the charge: the internal shock summons would restart and the persistent counter would rise. Level four still burned through every muscle. Pulling away now meant asking for level five before I even reached the meeting room.
I did not dare.
Fear of level five held me in the pose while panic screamed that obedience was costing me my only exit.
"No. End charge. End charge!"
The local routine continued. The five-minute window did not care.
A minute later the dildos pulsed twice. Then three pulses passed. Only then did charging complete and the magnetic contact drop away.
I ran.
Or rather, I lurched down the corridor with short stiff steps, one hand sliding along the wall. My cramped calf threatened to fold. I could still feel level four burning through my torso, but stopping meant another day in the portable prison and punishments beyond the one I had barely endured. The meeting-room door stood open. Four pulses rolled through both dildos.
I crossed the boundary and reached the laptop. The screen woke at my touch. My password was twenty characters because, in another life, I believed that was responsible.
I typed it with shaking black fingers.
Incorrect.
The laptop imposed a timeout. Both dildos pulsed five times. The final minute had begun.
Panic hollowed out my chest. Miss this minute and the suit would keep me. Tomorrow was not an abstraction anymore; it was more care, more charging, more denial and a counter that could only climb.
"Fuck. Fuck you."
The timeout cleared. I made myself type slowly. The desktop opened.
I pulled up the terminal and entered the release request from memory.
SYNTAX ERROR: EXPECTED –CONFIRM
I had designed that confirmation to prevent accidental release.
The window continued closing while I stared at my own safeguard. Somewhere inside the puck, an indifferent clock was reducing my escape to seconds. If it reached zero first, begging would change nothing. Level five would still be waiting for my next mistake, and I would spend another day knowing level six waited behind it.
"You absolute bitch."
I recalled the command, added the flag and pressed Enter.
The cursor hung.
Nothing appeared except another prompt.
Then the suit contracted around my whole body, slowly and unmistakably, from collar to toes. The dildos pressed deep, a ridge found my clit, and the first low wave of the twenty-four-hour denial pattern began.
Relief hit so hard I laughed. A full unseen day remained, but the ending was real. The ESP32 had accepted the command. No mistake I made now could cancel it.
Pressure closed around my ankles. The window had ended, and the room was forbidden again.
I staggered toward the door.
A chair stood where I had left it after testing the laptop. My shin struck its seat and knocked it over and I tangled with the caster base. With my knees still stiff and my right calf trembling, I could not recover. I fell sideways.
My right knee hit the chair's base. Something inside the joint twisted beneath my weight. The pain was sharp, local and immediately different from anything the suit produced.
Then the boundary penalty arrived.
Level five seized me. My legs locked. My back arched, forcing my hips against the desk edge. Pain sheeted through the suit while the pressure mapping between my thighs became brutally, absurdly clear. The same material that cradled my cunt tortured every nerve around it. I screamed. The pulse ended. I curled around it.
The material compressed the joint at once, immobilizing it and monitoring the swelling.
The doorway lay two metres away.
The restricted-zone warning continued.
"I can't," I said. "Wait. Please wait."
The boundary's patience ended.
Level six found me on the floor.
There was no room left inside the pain for dignity. I screamed, kicked with the leg that still worked and clawed at carpet the gloves could not grip. The injured knee tried to move; the suit held it stable while punishing the rest of me. By the time the pulse stopped I was crying so hard I could barely see.
I crawled.
One elbow, one knee, drag the injured leg. The suit resisted the ugly posture but the open doorway came nearer. I crossed the boundary and collapsed in the corridor.
Behind me, the laptop showed only the terminal prompt. Inside the suit, the denial pattern continued its slow first cycle.
Around my knee, the black material thickened into a firm compress. The swelling slowed. I lay on the cold floor, shaking, grateful for the machine I hated.
"One day," I whispered.
That last command belonged to me for less than a second.
I stood in the meeting-room tub with the finished suit glossy from toes to neck and the puck sealed into the unreachable hollow between my shoulder blades. On the laptop, the program summary filled the screen. Food stocked. Phone available. Survival limits enabled. Default release in fourteen days. Daily window randomized.
My finger rested over Enter.
I had imagined this moment too often. In those fantasies I trembled, hesitated and perhaps whispered something dramatic before giving myself away. In reality, the suit was warm, the room smelled faintly of old carpet and I already needed to pee.
I pressed the key.
The laptop returned to an ordinary prompt. It would show no suit state now. The puck vibrated once against my back, the only acknowledgement I received.
Resistance gathered across my body, subtle at first, then unmistakable. My knees straightened. My shoulders settled. The material fitted itself into the cleft of my ass and the lips of my cunt as casually as it tightened around my wrists. Then the two shapes I had deliberately specified formed inward. The vaginal dildo filled me first; the anal one followed, stretching me until I had to breathe through my mouth. Both settled slightly too thick and too deep to forget.
The catheter came last, narrow and clinical compared with the two blunt shafts. The suit eased it into place and closed the valve. The pressure in my bladder did not disappear. I tried to let go by reflex and could not. Before the run had taken its first step, I had lost the right to piss.
Pressure closed around my ankles and turned my feet toward the door. The boundary warning had begun.
"Shit."
I had tested activation with boundary enforcement disabled. In the final build, the meeting room became forbidden as soon as the run began. The grace interval was thirty seconds—enough, I had decided, to leave a place accidentally entered.
Not enough to cross a room in a suit that opposed every hurried movement.
I turned toward the door. The material tightened over my hips, enforcing a short, controlled stride. I pushed harder and it pushed back harder. My feet slapped the carpet with infuriating little steps.
I counted twenty seconds in my head.
The doorway seemed to recede. I tried to run. The suit locked my knees almost straight and squeezed between my thighs, converting urgency into a humiliating waddle.
Ten.
"Come on, come on."
The pressure around my ankles sharpened. I threw myself forward and got one foot over the boundary, but the puck between my shoulder blades stayed inside the fenced area. The pulse caught me. Both dildos fired at once.
The pulse struck deep inside my cunt and ass, then spread through my pelvis and lower belly. Both shafts seemed to turn electrically hard while my body clamped around them. I jerked my hips away on instinct, but there was nothing to pull away from: the dildos moved with me, continuous with the suit, carrying the current wherever I went. My legs folded. The suit kept my joints aligned as it forced me down, and both knees hit the corridor carpet after my trailing foot dragged across the boundary.
I caught the wall with both hands as the current cut off.
The pain vanished. The knowledge did not.
I leaned there breathing hard while the afterimage burned beneath my skin.
The program had been active for forty-one seconds.
The counter was one now.
No display confirmed it. No status light changed. The punishment itself was the acknowledgement. I had crossed the boundary too late, the controller had delivered level one and the next ordinary violation would be level two.
Every mistake after that would raise the consequence again.
Care posture. Charging. A forbidden stair. A hand between my legs when denial became too much. One lapse would make the following lapse hurt more, and the counter would never forgive anything until the run ended.
I tried to imagine carrying that fact through a day.
Then another day.
I had tested level two. I knew the way it reached farther around my hips and lower belly. Level three had put my forehead against the floor. Level six had emptied my lungs and left me crying while the suit recorded every response. Beyond six waited levels I had refused even to calibrate.
The finished program could reach them without asking whether I had changed my mind.
I looked back through the doorway at the laptop.
It was only a terminal now. The signed image lived in the puck between my shoulder blades, beyond my reach. I could not lower the counter, pause the rules or restore an ordinary release command. The only exit I had left myself inside the program was the random five-minute window, the password, the request, and then twenty-four more hours before release. If I missed it, I waited. If I kept missing it, the distant fourteen-day default remained.
That was all.
I carried the prison with me. It covered my skin, filled my cunt and ass, held the catheter shut and kept its controller where my hands could not reach. I could walk away from the meeting room. I could not walk away from the rules.
Past Anna had written them while safe, free and horny. Current Anna could beg that woman for mercy until her voice failed. The code would not listen. It would administer exactly the discipline she had authorized, with no distinction between a careless mistake, an exhausted body and deliberate disobedience.
Fear tightened my stomach.
My body answered somewhere lower.
The vaginal dildo shifted as my cunt clenched around it. A second involuntary contraction gripped the anal form. Heat moved through me beneath the fading pain, unmistakable and shameful.
I was afraid of level two. Afraid of the day ahead and the possible days after it. Afraid that one mistake could begin a climb I would not be able to stop.
And the inescapability aroused me.
Not the pain. Not the thought of injury. The fact that consequence was real now. I had wanted rules that remained binding after fear made me plead for exceptions. I had them. My future mercy depended on code written by a version of me who had deliberately removed mercy from the interface.
My cunt tightened again.
"Fuck," I whispered.
It felt unfair.
I had written every line that made it unfair.
The program did not care that I finally understood what that meant.
The first care summons came four hours later.
By then I had learned that ordinary life contained more postures than my tests had considered. Reaching a high cupboard made the suit pull my arms down. Sitting was impossible: the slightest downward weight drove both dildos farther into me. To work, I knelt on the modified Balans chair with its shifted panel carrying my thighs and my pelvis hanging free. Scratching an itch was impossible because the itch existed beneath a seamless black skin that would not admit my fingers.
The suit pinched both nipples at once.
It began almost gently, two firm little reminders through the black skin. I knew exactly what they meant and headed for the adapted stall. The pinches did not release while I walked. They tightened with every few seconds that passed, twisting my nipples hard enough to pull my shoulders forward.
That frightened me more than an icon could have. The signal used my body to make the instruction impossible to misunderstand.
I reached the stall before the electrical stage, but not the pose. The first shocks snapped through both nipples as I spread my feet over the squat toilet. I dropped into the deep crouch, heels down, thighs wide, hands behind my neck. The shocks strengthened once while I adjusted—knees farther apart, pelvis lower, spine straighter—then vanished the instant the controller accepted me.
By then my bladder ached. The suit opened the catheter valve. Urine rushed through a channel I could neither reach nor close and rattled loudly into the squat toilet. Relief made me sag, but a warning compression from the suit reminded me of the correct pose. The controller decided when it began, how completely I emptied and when the valve shut again.
The dildo in my cunt stayed thick and deep. The one in my ass softened, slid out, and reshaped itself into the "care channel", a black trunk that extended to the bucket waiting on its floor mark.
I had tested this. I knew every stage.
Knowing did not help when the suit entered me. The trunk gulped water with noisy, hollow glugs and filled me while holding me open above the drain. The position made my thighs shake. Pressure swelled in my belly until holding it hurt.
The channel stayed closed. A cramp folded through my abdomen and found nowhere to go. I panted against it, cheeks burning while water shifted audibly inside me. Then gas escaped around the care tube with a wet, obscene noise that the tiled stall threw straight back at me. I was alone. I still wanted to cover my face.
I felt less like the designer of a hygienic system than a rubber-clad animal being serviced in a stall.
I could not close the valve, push the tube out or stand up and finish in private. My body had been reduced to something the routine filled, held and emptied on its own schedule. All I could do was keep the required posture and let it use the openings I had given it.
The shame was worse because nobody had done this to me. I had specified every stage, tested every threshold and then locked myself inside the result. I had taken a private need and engineered it into a procedure that did not care how degraded I felt once it started. Even alone, my face burned at the deliberate, self-inflicted violation of it.
The routine lasted far longer than the rehearsal.
My left heel lifted.
Guidance pressure forced it down. A sharper pressure pulse warned me. I corrected, but the cramp in my calf pulled the heel up again.
Level two struck.
The pulse crushed my hips and belly inward around the tube. My abdomen seized against the water trapped inside me, multiplying the pain until pressure forced gas past the seal in two wet, barking bursts. I screamed and nearly pitched forward, but the suit held me open until the current stopped.
"I know," I panted. "You don't have to fucking gloat."
I had one correction interval. That was not mercy. I forced my heel down and forced myself into a crouch while tears blurred the tiles, terrified that one more failure would earn level three. The program registered the pose and continued. It did not care that I was crying, or that my cunt was shamefully wet around the dildo while the rest of me hurt.
At last the channel opened. The release came out of me in a loud, helpless rush: water, waste and air splashing into the squat toilet while I remained spread above it with my hands behind my neck. The suit rinsed me, made me hold again, and emptied me a second time. By the end my abdomen hurt, my thighs were quivering and sweat ran down my face.
The program cleaned and dried my lower body and closed the care channel. Then it rebuilt the anal dildo inside me.
I knew the shaft was exactly the same size. I had written the dimensions and tested the state transition. My sphincter, relaxed and tender after the enema, insisted that it was enormous. The unyielding thickness stretched me as though it had grown while it was gone. I breathed through the pressure until the muscle slowly adjusted around it and the impossible size became merely the old, constant fullness.
Only then did the suit allow me to stand. My legs almost failed. I caught the stall wall and stayed there until the black spots left my sight.
Later, in the bedroom, the distraction routine began.
At first I welcomed it. The vaginal dildo withdrew almost to its thickest point and pushed back into my cunt. The anal one followed half a beat later. A smooth ridge rose between my labia and settled against my clit.
I was sore, frightened and still helplessly wet. The paired shafts worked in alternating strokes, never leaving me empty. I rocked into them.
The routine brought me close, stopped, and began again. On the third climb my body responded differently than it had during calibration. Sweat and hours of constant contact had made everything too sensitive. The suit read my signals late. By the time it reduced the pressure, I was ready to tip over the edge.
I chased it. When the clitoral pressure withdrew and both dildos went rigidly still, I reached between my legs and pressed my palm over my cunt. I knew the rules I had coded: I could not touch my tits, press a hand to my cunt, or reach around to my ass without inviting a warning and, if I persisted, punishment, yet I was unable to stay still.
The glove tightened around my fingers and wrist: the no-touch warning. I could still pull away. Instead I rubbed hard against the black surface, trying to recover the friction the program had stolen.
"Fuck you," I gasped, and kept my hand there.
Level three erased the pleasure.
Pain slammed through the material from collar to toes. My back arched. My jaws snapped shut on a scream. The punishment locked every muscle it covered, seizing my disobedient body.
The pulse ended. I lay on the floor with tears leaking into my hair.
This was not the level three I remembered. The number was the same; my body was not. Hours in the suit had sensitized my skin and exhausted my muscles. A penalty I had classified as painful now felt terrifying.
When the last involuntary tension drained from my limbs, I still did not move. Both dildos remained buried and motionless. My cunt and ass ached around them, obscene little pulses beneath the greater aftershock.
I no longer wanted to discover level twelve. I no longer wanted to discover level four.
Later, I stood in front of the kitchen phone next to the coffee machine for a long time. I could call emergency services. I could call Steve. I imagined his face when he arrived and saw me sealed in black, the suit fitted so tightly that there could be no polite fiction about what it did between my legs. I imagined explaining the material's self-repair, the unreachable puck, the fourteen-day default.
Outside help might not free me quickly. It would certainly expose me.
Some time today, the five-minute window would open. I could reach the laptop, request release and be out one day later. That was a plan, not hope. I only had to obey until then.
I lifted my hand from the phone.
"Next window," I told the empty kitchen. "I'm done."
The program gave no sign that it had heard.
At ten that night, I made another stupid choice because I was still horny enough to find it attractive.
My bed restraints predated the nanoliquid by years. Leather ankle cuffs clipped to rings at the foot of the bed. A padded collar anchored near the headboard. The wrist cuffs were connected by a short steel bar with a timer inside it. Once I closed the bar, it would not open until the interval expired.
Level three had erased the pleasure, not the need beneath it. Hours later I was still wet, still aching around the dildos and still craving the particular certainty of restraints I could not open. Fear said I needed to remain free for the window. Need made eight hours of greater helplessness feel delicious.
I had speculated about exactly this while writing the program. Keep me aroused. Deny me release. Let the frustration make objectively stupid choices attractive, then leave me inside a portable prison that would enforce the consequences. Past me had understood what prolonged need would do to my judgment and had built around it.
Needy me did not care.
I had slept in them often enough to know their moods: the ache at the base of my neck, the little panic on waking, the delicious certainty that no amount of fumbling changed the timer.
The suit did not require them. That was precisely why I wanted them. Choosing one piece of bondage for myself felt like reclaiming something from the machine.
I set the wrist timer for eight hours.
My ankles went first, spread toward opposite corners. I fastened the collar, lay back and closed the wrist bar around the headboard rail. The lock clicked. My hands were trapped above me.
The suit tightened as if acknowledging a configuration it liked.
"Don't get ideas," I muttered.
I slept badly. Every turn ended at leather, steel or the corrective pull of the black skin. Once I woke as the dildos began shallow alternating strokes in my cunt and ass, too mild to bring release and too exact to ignore. I pulled at the wrist bar until the headboard creaked. Nothing changed.
One deep pulse filled both my cunt and ass.
I came awake violently. The daily window had opened.
For one stupid second I tried to sit up. The collar caught my throat and the wrist bar hammered the rail.
"No."
I twisted my hands, searching for play that did not exist. The suit resisted my movement, pressing my arms flat and tightening over my spread thighs.
"No, no, no."
I could not reach the laptop. I could not leave the bed. I could do nothing except feel the window pass while my own familiar restraints kept me from the only door the program would open.
A minute after the first pulse, both dildos squeezed twice. Then came three pulses, four, and five. None hurt. Each was impossible to ignore. After the fifth group, nothing followed.
Silence filled the bedroom.
I did not know whether it was still before midnight or already morning. I had left the clock face-down because time awareness spoiled the ordeal. If the window had belonged to the calendar day just ending, another could come after midnight. If it belonged to the new day, I had lost my chance for nearly twenty-four hours.
I lay awake until the room paled, wrists locked above my head and legs spread for a suit that never slept.
The wrist timer released me in the morning. I got up, groaning from the restrained sleep. At seven twelve, a customer array reported a failing disk.
I was drinking coffee from a mug when the alert appeared. The affected machine was in rack C14 on the first floor, one forbidden stairwell away.
Under ordinary circumstances, I would have taken a replacement drive from stores, walked downstairs and swapped it before the customer noticed degraded performance. I could picture the exact cabinet, the amber light and the blue release tab.
The program would punish me before I reached the first landing. Even if I endured that, the suit's gloves and the escalating punishment would make the physical work slow and dangerous. A dropped drive or badly seated connector could turn one failed disk into an outage.
The customer had not consented to my private stupidity.
I opened the monitoring console and mapped the remaining redundancy. The array could survive the disk loss, but a rebuild onto another local drive would stress the rest. I had spare capacity in a newer server across the room. If I installed a network RAID driver and exposed a block device over the isolated storage fabric, I could restore redundancy without touching the rack.
It was ugly. It would work.
Halfway through the driver configuration, while I knelt on the Balans chair, the suit began a distraction cycle.
The dildo in my cunt thrust upward. The one in my ass withdrew, swelled, and pressed back in. I widened my knees against the chair to keep my balance. A slow vibration started over my clit.
"Not now."
The program had no category for production incident.
I kept typing. The two dildos began to fuck me in opposing rhythms while the vibration strengthened whenever I held still, as if rewarding attention to my work with a more destructive kind of attention. My nipples hardened beneath two small tightening circles. I could move whenever I wanted, but both hands had to remain on the desk or keyboard; touching my tits or reaching between my legs would begin with a warning and end with the next punishment. Sweat made my palms slick inside the gloves.
I nearly selected the wrong target.
The device name differed by one digit. Formatting it would have destroyed a live volume belonging to another customer. My finger hovered over Enter while the suit pressed hard enough between my legs to break my thought into fragments.
Something in the capacity figure looked wrong.
I stopped. Read the line again. Swore. Cancelled the command.
The correct volume came online three minutes later. I attached it, began the rebuild and watched redundancy return. Only then did I let my forehead touch the desk.
The suit withdrew the vibration and stopped both dildos at once, satisfied with whatever threshold it had been pursuing. It left them lodged deep inside me while I stayed wet, stretched, aching and furious.
I drafted the customer update twice because the first version sounded as exhausted as I felt. I described the disk fault, the remote mitigation and the planned replacement without mentioning that their administrator had almost destroyed another volume because an industrial catsuit was edging her at the keyboard.
The workaround held. The business was safe for the day.
I was not going to risk another one.
The charging summons came at four in the afternoon.
A touch began at the puck between my shoulder blades and flowed down my spine like one slow fingertip. I knew better than to mistake its gentleness for a request. I still took too long closing the terminal at my desk.
The vaginal dildo shocked me first. The anal one fired a fraction later. The pain was internal, hard and concentrated, wrenching a cry out of me before I was fully upright. A second pair struck while I crossed the kitchen, stronger than the first. Charging had none of care's patience. I had taught it that the puck's battery mattered more than my dignity.
I entered the niche, knelt facing the wall and spread my knees to the marked width. I put my hands on my head, straightened my back and pulled the charging arm into place. The magnetic contact snapped to the base of my neck.
The internal shocks stopped. Their private escalation reset without adding anything to the punishment counter.
The pose was easy for a minute. That was its meanness. Twenty minutes with my spine rigid, hands useless on my head and thighs spread without support turned obedience into work. Thirty made my shoulders burn. By forty, the muscles beside my spine twitched each time I breathed.
There was nothing to do and nowhere else to look. The bare wall filled my vision, close enough for me to count bumps in the stippled paint but too far away to rest my forehead against it. The charge gave no estimate. I was not a person waiting for a battery; I was part of the equipment, docked in the posture required to service me. Each sag brought pressure under my chin and across my lower back until I straightened again.
Near what felt like the end, my right calf cramped.
My heel jerked upward. Guidance pressure forced it down, stretching the knotted muscle until I cried out. I tried to straighten the leg but the charging pose allowed no such movement.
The suit tightened hard under my chin and across my spine: the warning.
"It's a cramp. I know. Give me—"
My heel lifted again.
Level four punched the breath out of me. My exhausted torso clamped around the current, heat blazed across my ribs and the cramp went white. I folded despite the suit's support, and the magnetic contact snapped away from my neck.
I had only the correction interval before the broken contact became another violation. Half blind with tears, I caught the charging arm, slapped the magnet back into place and forced my hands onto my head. Knees apart. Heel down. Spine straight. The suit tightened around me until every angle registered.
Level five waited behind one more mistake. Panic held me more rigidly than the suit did. My wet cunt squeezed around the dildo, but I did not dare move my pelvis by a millimetre. I faced the wall, crying quietly, and gave the program exactly the compliance the punishment had been designed to encourage.
If I had to endure another charging session, I would practise the pose between cycles. I would stretch. I would do anything the stupid code could interpret as obedience.
Both dildos gave one deep, painless pulse.
For a moment I thought pain had made me imagine it. Then I understood. The daily window had opened while I was still holding the charging pose.
This was the chance I had missed in bed. If these five minutes closed without a valid request, there would be no appeal and no second opening later tonight. I would remain sealed in the suit until tomorrow's window, carrying the same counter through another care cycle, another charge and another day of rules I was already too tired to obey perfectly.
I would make another mistake. I was certain of that now. The next one would be level five. The one after that would be level six. Every failure would hurt more than the punishment that had just left me crying at the wall.
I pulled against the charging arm just hard enough to feel the magnet shift.
It was not locked. I could rip it free whenever I chose. The program would treat that as abandoning the charge: the internal shock summons would restart and the persistent counter would rise. Level four still burned through every muscle. Pulling away now meant asking for level five before I even reached the meeting room.
I did not dare.
Fear of level five held me in the pose while panic screamed that obedience was costing me my only exit.
"No. End charge. End charge!"
The local routine continued. The five-minute window did not care.
A minute later the dildos pulsed twice. Then three pulses passed. Only then did charging complete and the magnetic contact drop away.
I ran.
Or rather, I lurched down the corridor with short stiff steps, one hand sliding along the wall. My cramped calf threatened to fold. I could still feel level four burning through my torso, but stopping meant another day in the portable prison and punishments beyond the one I had barely endured. The meeting-room door stood open. Four pulses rolled through both dildos.
I crossed the boundary and reached the laptop. The screen woke at my touch. My password was twenty characters because, in another life, I believed that was responsible.
I typed it with shaking black fingers.
Incorrect.
The laptop imposed a timeout. Both dildos pulsed five times. The final minute had begun.
Panic hollowed out my chest. Miss this minute and the suit would keep me. Tomorrow was not an abstraction anymore; it was more care, more charging, more denial and a counter that could only climb.
"Fuck. Fuck you."
The timeout cleared. I made myself type slowly. The desktop opened.
I pulled up the terminal and entered the release request from memory.
SYNTAX ERROR: EXPECTED –CONFIRM
I had designed that confirmation to prevent accidental release.
The window continued closing while I stared at my own safeguard. Somewhere inside the puck, an indifferent clock was reducing my escape to seconds. If it reached zero first, begging would change nothing. Level five would still be waiting for my next mistake, and I would spend another day knowing level six waited behind it.
"You absolute bitch."
I recalled the command, added the flag and pressed Enter.
The cursor hung.
Nothing appeared except another prompt.
Then the suit contracted around my whole body, slowly and unmistakably, from collar to toes. The dildos pressed deep, a ridge found my clit, and the first low wave of the twenty-four-hour denial pattern began.
Relief hit so hard I laughed. A full unseen day remained, but the ending was real. The ESP32 had accepted the command. No mistake I made now could cancel it.
Pressure closed around my ankles. The window had ended, and the room was forbidden again.
I staggered toward the door.
A chair stood where I had left it after testing the laptop. My shin struck its seat and knocked it over and I tangled with the caster base. With my knees still stiff and my right calf trembling, I could not recover. I fell sideways.
My right knee hit the chair's base. Something inside the joint twisted beneath my weight. The pain was sharp, local and immediately different from anything the suit produced.
Then the boundary penalty arrived.
Level five seized me. My legs locked. My back arched, forcing my hips against the desk edge. Pain sheeted through the suit while the pressure mapping between my thighs became brutally, absurdly clear. The same material that cradled my cunt tortured every nerve around it. I screamed. The pulse ended. I curled around it.
The material compressed the joint at once, immobilizing it and monitoring the swelling.
The doorway lay two metres away.
The restricted-zone warning continued.
"I can't," I said. "Wait. Please wait."
The boundary's patience ended.
Level six found me on the floor.
There was no room left inside the pain for dignity. I screamed, kicked with the leg that still worked and clawed at carpet the gloves could not grip. The injured knee tried to move; the suit held it stable while punishing the rest of me. By the time the pulse stopped I was crying so hard I could barely see.
I crawled.
One elbow, one knee, drag the injured leg. The suit resisted the ugly posture but the open doorway came nearer. I crossed the boundary and collapsed in the corridor.
Behind me, the laptop showed only the terminal prompt. Inside the suit, the denial pattern continued its slow first cycle.
Around my knee, the black material thickened into a firm compress. The swelling slowed. I lay on the cold floor, shaking, grateful for the machine I hated.
"One day," I whispered.
#3
Your Bondage Stories / Re: Is this board still alive?...
Last post by Zoé Cordelier - Today at 03:23:43 PMChapter 2: The Program
The sensible response to nearly trapping myself was to improve the release command.
I improved the trap instead.
The magnetic cable had been the weakest part of the first test. It tethered me to one room, snagged when I moved and gave panic an obvious target. Pulling it free had made everything worse, but that did not stop the connection from feeling like a leash I held in my own hand.
I wanted the next leash out of reach.
On my workbench, I opened the puck and mapped its board. There was room in a new enclosure for an ESP32, a respectably sized battery and the original interface hardware. The ESP32 would store the active program, maintain the release timer and speak directly to the material. A laptop could send instructions over Wi-Fi when the connection existed, but it would not be the authority. If the network vanished, the puck would continue.
I modelled the enclosure as a smooth oval and placed it between the shoulder blades of my suit design. Once the material formed around it, I would not be able to touch it. I tested the reach in front of a mirror, twisting until my shoulder hurt. My fingertips missed the printed dummy by nine centimetres.
Nine centimetres was not far in ordinary life. In bondage it was another country.
I printed the enclosure, assembled the board and spent two nights on the firmware. The local program was deliberately dull. It watched power, connection state, position and body telemetry. It held the current restrictions. Every four hours without Wi-Fi it would invoke the care routine. It would never interpret a missing network as permission to release.
That rule gave me a tight, shameful thrill each time I read it.
For the outage test, I wore only a sleeve of nanoliquid from fingers to shoulder. The puck sat on the sleeve, feeding it a sequence of flexion limits. I killed the access point. The laptop's control panel went red.
The sleeve continued to straighten my arm.
I waited through an accelerated simulation of the four-hour interval. At the correct time, the local care flag appeared in the log and the sleeve drove my arm into the programmed test pose. Restoring Wi-Fi made the laptop green again, but did not interrupt the sequence or restart the timer.
"Good girl," I said to the controller, then laughed at myself.
It was not a girl. It was not a master either. It was a cheap microcontroller executing my code. Yet I had written that code so my future self could beg and receive the same answer as a failed network packet: nothing.
My confidence lasted until the late command.
I sent an instruction reducing the sleeve's extension force and saw no change. The laptop showed the message as transmitted, so I assumed I had made a mistake in the payload. I stopped the test, revised the frame and began another with my arm bent behind my back.
The old reduction arrived first.
The material loosened just as I committed my weight against it. My hand slipped upward, my shoulder wrenched and I struck my cheek on the edge of the padded bench.
I lay still, swearing into the mat.
The delay lived between the laptop, the puck and the nanocells. A sent command was not an applied command. I added acknowledgements at every layer and a visible state log. After that, I could see acceptance, transmission and propagation separately.
I could not make propagation instantaneous.
I wrote it in red in my notes and tested it until I trusted the log.
Then I installed the finished puck into the suit specification, exactly where my hands could never reach it.
The building already had more access points than people. I gave the puck its own isolated network and used signal timing and passive scatter to estimate its position. The first model located me within half a metre. After I taught it the walls, furniture and my body's effect on the signal, the uncertainty shrank to centimetres.
On the laptop, a white dot moved through a plan of the second floor. Another window showed a wire figure assembled from the suit's telemetry. When I raised my arm, the figure raised hers. When I spread my fingers, hers opened with an intimate little precision that made me feel watched.
I drew boundaries.
The stairs were forbidden. So was the meeting room containing the control laptop, except during the release window. My bedroom, kitchen, workroom, shower and adapted washroom remained available. The program did not need to understand why a place was forbidden. It needed only to know my puck had crossed a line.
On the first walking test, it punished me inside my own office.
The suit snapped tight around my thighs and delivered a low electrical bite across my buttocks. I yelped and grabbed the desk. The map showed my dot beyond the boundary although both feet were visibly on the safe side of the door.
I disabled the rule and spent an hour discovering that a metal cabinet had biased the positioning model. After recalibration, I moved the punishment boundary twenty centimetres away from the physical threshold. I walked through it from every angle, carrying a laptop and crawling once on hands and knees. The reading stayed stable.
One false punishment should have warned me away from automatic authority. Instead, fixing it made the authority feel earned.
The penalty counter began at zero and moved only upward. A warning applied guidance pressure: a tightening at the relevant joint, a push toward the required pose. Ignoring it produced a pulse and incremented the counter. Every later violation used the new level. There would be no reset command until the run ended.
Level one stung.
The pulse struck through the suit in a broad electrical sheet, sharp across my buttocks and thighs and gone before I could move away from it. That speed mattered. There was no useful reaction. By the time my body jerked, the punishment had already happened.
Level two made me gasp.
It reached farther around my hips and lower belly. My muscles tightened beneath the black skin. I grabbed the edge of the desk, but the material carried the impulse across every surface it had selected. There was no electrode to pull away from and no safer direction to twist. The suit was the contact.
When it ended, fear arrived before the pain had faded.
Level three waited on the laptop.
I knew exactly how to trigger it. I could stop the calibration between pulses, but once I sent the command there would be no gesture, word or change of heart that cancelled the consequence. The controller would deliver the complete level I had requested.
That certainty frightened me.
It also made my cunt tighten around the internal dildo.
The response was not pleasure replacing fear. The fear stayed. So did the memory of level two burning through my hips. Arousal arrived beside both of them, shamefully physical: heat, wetness and a needy contraction around the black shape inside me because the next punishment would be inescapable once I chose it.
I pressed Enter.
At level three I found myself on my knees with my forehead against the floor, although the pulse lasted less than a second. Pain radiated through the suit in a sheet rather than from a single point. My body had no direction in which to escape it. The material stabilized my joints while current seized everything between them, keeping the involuntary collapse from becoming an injury without making the correction feel merciful.
I stayed down after it ended.
My hands trembled against the floor. My breath came too fast. The vaginal dildo remained thick inside my cunt and the anal one held my ass open with the same obscene accuracy as before. Neither had punished me directly in this calibration, but both made the helplessness impossible to forget. The suit that had just hurt me still occupied my holes, still enclosed every surface and still waited for the next number.
My cunt clenched again.
"You stupid bitch," I whispered.
I meant myself.
Pain was real. I did not enjoy the bright electrical sheet or the way my muscles locked. Fear was real too. Level four would be worse because I had written it to be worse, and the machine would not become sympathetic when my confidence failed.
The arousal was equally real.
Knowing that did not make the punishment less frightening. It made my response harder to forgive.
I waited until my hands stopped trembling before testing higher.
Level four drove the air out of me and left a hot afterimage across my torso. I curled around it after the pulse, too late to protect anything. Sweat gathered beneath the suit. The telemetry showed my pulse climbing before the command and my cunt contracting after it.
Level five scared me enough that I stood over the keyboard for several minutes.
The counter display showed the number without drama. The suit held no threat in reserve except the one I had encoded. If I pressed Enter, it would hurt me. If this were the long run, a violation would make the choice for me.
I imagined crossing a forbidden boundary while exhausted, hearing the warning and failing to retreat in time. I imagined knowing level five was coming while being unable to pause the program, lower the counter or bargain it back to four.
My nipples hardened under the black surface.
I hated that too.
Then I pressed Enter.
The punishment folded me over the desk. My jaw locked around a cry. The suit stiffened at my knees and elbows to keep them aligned while the impulse passed through me. When it released my muscles, I remained bent there, breathing through my mouth and feeling the dildos shift with every aftershock.
Level six was next.
The number frightened me before I touched the keyboard. My body had learned the curve now. Each level did not merely hurt more; it made the next one imaginable. Five had given six a shape in my mind, larger and unavoidable.
That anticipation was part of the authority I wanted. The counter did not need to restrain me physically if fear of the next level could do it. During the real run, I would obey guidance pressure because the alternative was not abstract. It was this suit, everywhere against me, delivering pain I could neither dodge nor shorten.
The thought made me wet enough for the suit to record it.
I read the telemetry and nearly stopped.
Instead I triggered six.
The pulse was overwhelming. It locked my muscles and emptied my lungs. White flooded the edges of my vision. I heard a crude animal noise and realized it came from me. Joint stabilization kept me from falling badly, but nothing softened the pain itself. For that fraction of a second the suit owned every muscle it touched, and it touched nearly all of me.
When it ended, the black skin still fitted my cunt and ass with obscene precision. It still gathered sweat from my body. It still reported that my pulse was high, my thighs were shaking and my cunt was clenching around the dildo.
I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling.
Tears escaped the corners of my eyes. I was frightened of a level that had already ended. More than that, I was frightened by how immediately my mind asked what seven would feel like.
Not because I wanted more pain.
Because a higher consequence existed, and in the finished program it could reach me no matter how afraid I became. That inescapability pressed directly into the helplessness I craved. My body answered it even while I lay shaking and wished it would not.
Pain. Fear. Arousal.
All three were real. None cancelled the others.
The counter would stop at twelve.
I looked at the distance from six to twelve and felt sick.
I did not test twelve.
I did not test seven.
That refusal made me feel responsible, which was convenient. It let me ignore the fact that I had just built a system capable of reaching twelve without asking me. In the locked run, every violation would raise the counter. A frightened future version of me could not reset it, negotiate it downward or decide she had calibrated enough.
She would only know the next punishment was worse.
I adjusted the pulse duration and ran shorter trials under different conditions: rested, tired, after coffee, after an orgasm. My response varied enough to be uncomfortable. The same number could be sharp one day and vicious the next. Sustained wear would change temperature, hydration, fatigue and skin sensitivity in ways I could not reproduce in a ten-minute session.
It would change the fear too. A level I could choose calmly in the lab would feel different after hours of waiting for the next mistake.
My notes said a full calibration required a long test.
A long test required the finished program.
The logic was circular. I chose a conservative curve, added telemetry cut-offs for dangerous heart-rate patterns, and stabilized the suit's joints during punishment. I called it bounded risk.
What I meant was that I wanted to know what level six felt like when I could not roll over, close the terminal and stop.
What I did not write was that I wanted to fear level seven while knowing fear would not save me from it.
I also kept the fit routine's most indecent mistake.
The first suit had formed two internal shapes because my instruction told it to explore every cavity inside the enclosure. I could have excluded them with one line. Instead I modelled them properly: one dildo for my cunt, one for my ass, each continuous with the suit and independently controllable.
I made them slightly thicker than comfort required. Not dangerously large, but large enough that neither could fade into the background. I made them longer too. Standing and kneeling left enough room for them to fill me without bottoming out. The moment I lowered my weight to sit, my pelvis moved down the extra length and both dildos were driven deeper.
I tested that once on a padded stool.
The vaginal shaft struck deep enough to make me gasp. The anal one forced a raw, stretching pressure through my ass. I shot upright before my weight had fully settled.
Ordinary sitting was not uncomfortable. It was impossible.
I saved those dimensions to the final suit.
Keeping me helpless was easy. Keeping me alive, clean and able to work was where the engineering became indecent.
I built the charging station into a niche beside the kitchen. A jointed arm carried the magnetic power contact. To connect it, I had to kneel upright facing the wall with my knees apart, my back straight and both hands resting on my head. The pose exposed me while making my shoulders burn. It was inefficient in every way except the one that mattered to my fantasy.
The washroom was worse.
I converted one stall to a squat toilet. Beside it, I marked the bucket's exact position on the floor and programmed the intake channel to extend along a fixed path to that mark. The care pose was a deep, exact crouch: feet wide, heels down, thighs spread, hands behind my neck. The program guided my joints into position with increasing pressure.
For the long run, a narrow catheter would remain inside me, continuous with a waste channel the suit could open and close. I gave that valve to the controller. The anal dildo provided the other seal. Between care cycles I would still feel a filling bladder and the need to piss, but neither piss nor shit would leave me because I wanted it to. Once the suit accepted the crouch, it would drain my bladder first, then retract the anal dildo, draw water for an enema, manage the rest of my waste and clean its own inner surface.
I had not merely automated hygiene. I had put every bodily function on somebody else's schedule, except the somebody else was code I had written myself.
I gave the routines summonses that could not be overlooked. Care began with a mild simultaneous pinch at both nipples. Delay made the pinch steadily harder; further delay added sharp electrical shocks through the trapped nipples. The escalation stopped and reset the instant the controller accepted the exact crouch over the squat toilet.
Charging was less patient. Its first warning was almost gentle, a touch flowing from the puck down the length of my spine. If I did not comply, the suit shocked me through the vaginal and anal dildos. Those shocks escalated much faster than the nipple signal. A flat battery could endanger the entire run, so I had designed charging to win any argument. It reset only when I held the approved pose and the magnetic charging arm was physically connected.
The arm never locked. Its magnet could hold the power contact firmly against my neck, but I could always pull away. Doing so before the charge completed would restart the internal shocks and count as an ordinary violation. The program did not need an unbreakable connector when fear of the next punishment could keep me attached.
Both summons channels were separate from the violation counter. They could climb, hurt, and return to zero without changing the level that made later punishments worse. Once I was in either pose, however, failing to hold it still counted as an ordinary violation.
No person would watch. That did not make the posture less humiliating.
In the first integrated test, the drainage path folded against my thigh.
Dirty water ran where it absolutely should not have run. I lurched out of the crouch, swore so loudly the empty washroom threw the words back at me, and killed the routine from the laptop. The suit's surface prevented the mess from touching my skin, but not my dignity. I stood encased in black material while wastewater dripped into the wrong part of the stall and wondered how anybody could be intelligent enough to run a data center and stupid enough to automate her own enema.
Then I cleaned the floor, inspected the routing and found the bad transition.
The revised test worked. I waited until my bladder was uncomfortably full and tried to piss before the cycle. The pressure was real. The release was not. I could bear down, relax, swear at the valve and feel nothing leave me.
The instant the controller accepted my crouch, the catheter opened and relieved me. The vaginal dildo remained buried in my cunt while the anal one softened, withdrew, and re-formed as the care channel. The suit held me open, emptied me, rinsed me, then rebuilt the oversized anal shaft inside me and returned every surface to dry black gloss. I was sweaty and shaky when it finally let me stand, but also emptied and cleaned. The log was beautiful.
I tested charging the same way: ten minutes rather than an hour, enough to verify contact and posture guidance. I tested the four-hour fallback interval at accelerated time. Each component behaved. None of the tests required me to discover how the pose would feel after two days of fatigue.
Private distraction became its own subsystem.
The suit already knew pressure, pulse, muscle tension and the small involuntary movements of my hips. I wrote routines that used those signals to keep me near climax. The vaginal dildo could thrust while the anal one held still, then they could reverse. Either could swell, vibrate, or push slowly deeper. A ridge formed against my clit to work with them. Every motion came from the suit itself; there was nothing between my legs I could grip, dislodge, or beg into mercy.
My first calibration overshot.
For calibration I chose to lock my hands behind my back in separate leather cuffs, then knelt while both dildos fucked me in alternating strokes and the firm nub worked tight circles over my clit. The controller was supposed to stop when my response crossed a threshold. Instead it interpreted my rigid stillness as reduced arousal and increased the stimulation.
"Stop. Stop, you dumb fucking—"
The orgasm cut the sentence apart. I lost the wide kneeling posture I had chosen and sagged against the separate cuffs while the suit drove both dildos deep. For several seconds there was nothing in the world but my cunt clenching around one shaft, my ass stretched around the other, and the humiliating sounds I could not keep inside my mouth.
I changed the metric.
The corrected version stopped early three times in a row.
The first cycle withdrew just as my body committed to the rhythm. Both dildos went still. The ridge over my clit softened into a useless seam, leaving me wet and clenched around shapes that no longer moved.
The second began before the ache from the first had faded. It used a different rhythm, learned the new response and stopped closer. I pulled against the leather cuffs, trying to grind my cunt against pressure the suit removed faster than I could follow.
The third brought tears of frustration to my eyes.
"Please."
Nothing in the program recognized the word. The vaginal form held at full depth, the anal one kept my ass stretched, and every stimulation surface became inert while my body begged them to continue.
I remained kneeling, wet, aching and resentful.
That was not merely a technical success. It was the desired result.
The routine had no success state called orgasm. If every threshold worked, it would never finish me. It would keep my arousal high, allow it to fall only far enough that another cycle could build cleanly, then bring me back to the edge and remove everything again. Different rhythms and different channels would prevent my body settling into one predictable pattern. Telemetry would tell it when I was frustrated, when I was recovering and when I was ready to be made desperate again.
I could struggle. I could beg. I could try to grind myself against the suit. None of those reactions provided release. The things inside me were part of the same continuous black skin that covered my hands and hips. I could not pull them out, hold them still or force them to continue. Once the long run locked, I could not edit the threshold because I had stopped enjoying it.
That was what I wanted.
I did not know why.
I could explain the mechanics in exact language: sustained arousal, controlled withdrawal, randomized intervals, no-touch enforcement. I could not explain why the idea of spending hours wet and needy inside an unresponsive machine made my cunt tighten. I did not know why helplessness became more desirable when it included the certainty that frustration would not persuade anyone to let me come.
There was no anyone. That was part of the shame. I was building the refusal myself, in advance, because some private and unreasonable part of me wanted future Anna to suffer for wanting relief.
I could not explain the desire.
I could build for it.
I added another rule: distraction routines would continue during the final release countdown. Requesting release would not turn the program kind. It would only promise an ending twenty-four hours later.
The short tests told me I could bear every individual part.
They did not tell me what all the parts would do to the same exhausted woman.
I provisioned for five days and pretended that made the plan cautious.
The storage room beside the kitchen filled with bottled water, soda, meal drinks, crackers and soft ready meals I could manage with restricted fingers. I put a stool beside the counter, then removed it. Sitting would force both dildos brutally deeper.
In the washroom, I filled the care bucket with water and set it squarely inside the mark beside the squat toilet.
The old Balans kneeling chair from my father's bad-back years came out of storage. Its support panel could slide forward. I moved it until it would carry my thighs while I knelt on the lower pad, leaving my pelvis completely unloaded, and placed the modified chair at my work desk.
I tested the kitchen phone. Steve's number was in it. So were the emergency services.
Calling either would mean explaining why I was sealed inside resilient industrial nanomaterial. Firefighters might cut through a wall faster than they cut through the suit. Steve would come if I asked; I was almost sure of that. Then he would know what I wanted, what I had done, and how badly I had needed someone to rescue me from it.
The phone was a safeguard. It was also the most mortifying object in the building.
Work presented a cleaner risk. I could administer nearly everything from upstairs. Spare capacity covered most failures. But if a drive needed hands, if a pump jammed or a cable burned, I would be unable to go downstairs. I scheduled the run after maintenance, checked every array and told myself several quiet days were likely.
At last, only the release mechanism remained.
Once per calendar day, the controller would choose one random five-minute interval. During those five minutes, the meeting-room boundary would open. I could enter, unlock the isolated laptop and send a release request. The ESP32 would acknowledge it and begin an irrevocable twenty-four-hour countdown. All ordinary restrictions, care and distraction routines would continue until the countdown reached zero.
There would be no clock to watch. At the start of the first minute, both dildos would give one deep, unmistakable pulse. At the start of the second they would pulse twice, then three times, four, and finally five. The pulses were not painful. They were too intimate to miss.
If I missed the window, I waited for the next day.
If I missed every window, the material returned to default after fourteen days.
I tested the complete path before locking it. One pulse filled my cunt and ass. A minute later came two. I crossed into the meeting room, typed my password and entered the request.
The laptop showed only the command I had typed. The acknowledgement came through my body: a slow contraction beginning at my collar and travelling down to my toes, followed by the first low cycle of stimulation and denial. That physical pattern was the only promise that the ESP32 had begun its irrevocable twenty-four hours, or, in this test, a few minutes.
I imagined feeling it while tired, sore and desperate, with no digits to reassure me. Twenty-four unseen hours would be monstrous then. They felt monstrous now.
I could have made the window an hour. I could have added a voice command, an emergency gesture, a second laptop or a safe word. I could have made the countdown ten minutes.
Chance was part of what I wanted. So was failure. Not injury, not death—failure. I wanted to arrive at a locked door thirty seconds late. I wanted to know the program would deny the woman who had written it. I wanted to hate my earlier self for being such a horny, arrogant bitch.
So I kept the five minutes and the day.
I reviewed the final program line by line. Survival limits remained. The phone remained. The fourteen-day default remained. Within those distant fences, however, the rules could not be edited after activation. No reset for the counter. No pause for work. No mercy because I had stopped finding it sexy.
I signed the build, transferred it to the puck and verified the hash.
The control panel changed from DRAFT to READY.
Tomorrow, I would stand in the meeting-room tub, seal the puck between my shoulder blades and press the one command that still belonged entirely to me.
The sensible response to nearly trapping myself was to improve the release command.
I improved the trap instead.
The magnetic cable had been the weakest part of the first test. It tethered me to one room, snagged when I moved and gave panic an obvious target. Pulling it free had made everything worse, but that did not stop the connection from feeling like a leash I held in my own hand.
I wanted the next leash out of reach.
On my workbench, I opened the puck and mapped its board. There was room in a new enclosure for an ESP32, a respectably sized battery and the original interface hardware. The ESP32 would store the active program, maintain the release timer and speak directly to the material. A laptop could send instructions over Wi-Fi when the connection existed, but it would not be the authority. If the network vanished, the puck would continue.
I modelled the enclosure as a smooth oval and placed it between the shoulder blades of my suit design. Once the material formed around it, I would not be able to touch it. I tested the reach in front of a mirror, twisting until my shoulder hurt. My fingertips missed the printed dummy by nine centimetres.
Nine centimetres was not far in ordinary life. In bondage it was another country.
I printed the enclosure, assembled the board and spent two nights on the firmware. The local program was deliberately dull. It watched power, connection state, position and body telemetry. It held the current restrictions. Every four hours without Wi-Fi it would invoke the care routine. It would never interpret a missing network as permission to release.
That rule gave me a tight, shameful thrill each time I read it.
For the outage test, I wore only a sleeve of nanoliquid from fingers to shoulder. The puck sat on the sleeve, feeding it a sequence of flexion limits. I killed the access point. The laptop's control panel went red.
The sleeve continued to straighten my arm.
I waited through an accelerated simulation of the four-hour interval. At the correct time, the local care flag appeared in the log and the sleeve drove my arm into the programmed test pose. Restoring Wi-Fi made the laptop green again, but did not interrupt the sequence or restart the timer.
"Good girl," I said to the controller, then laughed at myself.
It was not a girl. It was not a master either. It was a cheap microcontroller executing my code. Yet I had written that code so my future self could beg and receive the same answer as a failed network packet: nothing.
My confidence lasted until the late command.
I sent an instruction reducing the sleeve's extension force and saw no change. The laptop showed the message as transmitted, so I assumed I had made a mistake in the payload. I stopped the test, revised the frame and began another with my arm bent behind my back.
The old reduction arrived first.
The material loosened just as I committed my weight against it. My hand slipped upward, my shoulder wrenched and I struck my cheek on the edge of the padded bench.
I lay still, swearing into the mat.
The delay lived between the laptop, the puck and the nanocells. A sent command was not an applied command. I added acknowledgements at every layer and a visible state log. After that, I could see acceptance, transmission and propagation separately.
I could not make propagation instantaneous.
I wrote it in red in my notes and tested it until I trusted the log.
Then I installed the finished puck into the suit specification, exactly where my hands could never reach it.
The building already had more access points than people. I gave the puck its own isolated network and used signal timing and passive scatter to estimate its position. The first model located me within half a metre. After I taught it the walls, furniture and my body's effect on the signal, the uncertainty shrank to centimetres.
On the laptop, a white dot moved through a plan of the second floor. Another window showed a wire figure assembled from the suit's telemetry. When I raised my arm, the figure raised hers. When I spread my fingers, hers opened with an intimate little precision that made me feel watched.
I drew boundaries.
The stairs were forbidden. So was the meeting room containing the control laptop, except during the release window. My bedroom, kitchen, workroom, shower and adapted washroom remained available. The program did not need to understand why a place was forbidden. It needed only to know my puck had crossed a line.
On the first walking test, it punished me inside my own office.
The suit snapped tight around my thighs and delivered a low electrical bite across my buttocks. I yelped and grabbed the desk. The map showed my dot beyond the boundary although both feet were visibly on the safe side of the door.
I disabled the rule and spent an hour discovering that a metal cabinet had biased the positioning model. After recalibration, I moved the punishment boundary twenty centimetres away from the physical threshold. I walked through it from every angle, carrying a laptop and crawling once on hands and knees. The reading stayed stable.
One false punishment should have warned me away from automatic authority. Instead, fixing it made the authority feel earned.
The penalty counter began at zero and moved only upward. A warning applied guidance pressure: a tightening at the relevant joint, a push toward the required pose. Ignoring it produced a pulse and incremented the counter. Every later violation used the new level. There would be no reset command until the run ended.
Level one stung.
The pulse struck through the suit in a broad electrical sheet, sharp across my buttocks and thighs and gone before I could move away from it. That speed mattered. There was no useful reaction. By the time my body jerked, the punishment had already happened.
Level two made me gasp.
It reached farther around my hips and lower belly. My muscles tightened beneath the black skin. I grabbed the edge of the desk, but the material carried the impulse across every surface it had selected. There was no electrode to pull away from and no safer direction to twist. The suit was the contact.
When it ended, fear arrived before the pain had faded.
Level three waited on the laptop.
I knew exactly how to trigger it. I could stop the calibration between pulses, but once I sent the command there would be no gesture, word or change of heart that cancelled the consequence. The controller would deliver the complete level I had requested.
That certainty frightened me.
It also made my cunt tighten around the internal dildo.
The response was not pleasure replacing fear. The fear stayed. So did the memory of level two burning through my hips. Arousal arrived beside both of them, shamefully physical: heat, wetness and a needy contraction around the black shape inside me because the next punishment would be inescapable once I chose it.
I pressed Enter.
At level three I found myself on my knees with my forehead against the floor, although the pulse lasted less than a second. Pain radiated through the suit in a sheet rather than from a single point. My body had no direction in which to escape it. The material stabilized my joints while current seized everything between them, keeping the involuntary collapse from becoming an injury without making the correction feel merciful.
I stayed down after it ended.
My hands trembled against the floor. My breath came too fast. The vaginal dildo remained thick inside my cunt and the anal one held my ass open with the same obscene accuracy as before. Neither had punished me directly in this calibration, but both made the helplessness impossible to forget. The suit that had just hurt me still occupied my holes, still enclosed every surface and still waited for the next number.
My cunt clenched again.
"You stupid bitch," I whispered.
I meant myself.
Pain was real. I did not enjoy the bright electrical sheet or the way my muscles locked. Fear was real too. Level four would be worse because I had written it to be worse, and the machine would not become sympathetic when my confidence failed.
The arousal was equally real.
Knowing that did not make the punishment less frightening. It made my response harder to forgive.
I waited until my hands stopped trembling before testing higher.
Level four drove the air out of me and left a hot afterimage across my torso. I curled around it after the pulse, too late to protect anything. Sweat gathered beneath the suit. The telemetry showed my pulse climbing before the command and my cunt contracting after it.
Level five scared me enough that I stood over the keyboard for several minutes.
The counter display showed the number without drama. The suit held no threat in reserve except the one I had encoded. If I pressed Enter, it would hurt me. If this were the long run, a violation would make the choice for me.
I imagined crossing a forbidden boundary while exhausted, hearing the warning and failing to retreat in time. I imagined knowing level five was coming while being unable to pause the program, lower the counter or bargain it back to four.
My nipples hardened under the black surface.
I hated that too.
Then I pressed Enter.
The punishment folded me over the desk. My jaw locked around a cry. The suit stiffened at my knees and elbows to keep them aligned while the impulse passed through me. When it released my muscles, I remained bent there, breathing through my mouth and feeling the dildos shift with every aftershock.
Level six was next.
The number frightened me before I touched the keyboard. My body had learned the curve now. Each level did not merely hurt more; it made the next one imaginable. Five had given six a shape in my mind, larger and unavoidable.
That anticipation was part of the authority I wanted. The counter did not need to restrain me physically if fear of the next level could do it. During the real run, I would obey guidance pressure because the alternative was not abstract. It was this suit, everywhere against me, delivering pain I could neither dodge nor shorten.
The thought made me wet enough for the suit to record it.
I read the telemetry and nearly stopped.
Instead I triggered six.
The pulse was overwhelming. It locked my muscles and emptied my lungs. White flooded the edges of my vision. I heard a crude animal noise and realized it came from me. Joint stabilization kept me from falling badly, but nothing softened the pain itself. For that fraction of a second the suit owned every muscle it touched, and it touched nearly all of me.
When it ended, the black skin still fitted my cunt and ass with obscene precision. It still gathered sweat from my body. It still reported that my pulse was high, my thighs were shaking and my cunt was clenching around the dildo.
I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling.
Tears escaped the corners of my eyes. I was frightened of a level that had already ended. More than that, I was frightened by how immediately my mind asked what seven would feel like.
Not because I wanted more pain.
Because a higher consequence existed, and in the finished program it could reach me no matter how afraid I became. That inescapability pressed directly into the helplessness I craved. My body answered it even while I lay shaking and wished it would not.
Pain. Fear. Arousal.
All three were real. None cancelled the others.
The counter would stop at twelve.
I looked at the distance from six to twelve and felt sick.
I did not test twelve.
I did not test seven.
That refusal made me feel responsible, which was convenient. It let me ignore the fact that I had just built a system capable of reaching twelve without asking me. In the locked run, every violation would raise the counter. A frightened future version of me could not reset it, negotiate it downward or decide she had calibrated enough.
She would only know the next punishment was worse.
I adjusted the pulse duration and ran shorter trials under different conditions: rested, tired, after coffee, after an orgasm. My response varied enough to be uncomfortable. The same number could be sharp one day and vicious the next. Sustained wear would change temperature, hydration, fatigue and skin sensitivity in ways I could not reproduce in a ten-minute session.
It would change the fear too. A level I could choose calmly in the lab would feel different after hours of waiting for the next mistake.
My notes said a full calibration required a long test.
A long test required the finished program.
The logic was circular. I chose a conservative curve, added telemetry cut-offs for dangerous heart-rate patterns, and stabilized the suit's joints during punishment. I called it bounded risk.
What I meant was that I wanted to know what level six felt like when I could not roll over, close the terminal and stop.
What I did not write was that I wanted to fear level seven while knowing fear would not save me from it.
I also kept the fit routine's most indecent mistake.
The first suit had formed two internal shapes because my instruction told it to explore every cavity inside the enclosure. I could have excluded them with one line. Instead I modelled them properly: one dildo for my cunt, one for my ass, each continuous with the suit and independently controllable.
I made them slightly thicker than comfort required. Not dangerously large, but large enough that neither could fade into the background. I made them longer too. Standing and kneeling left enough room for them to fill me without bottoming out. The moment I lowered my weight to sit, my pelvis moved down the extra length and both dildos were driven deeper.
I tested that once on a padded stool.
The vaginal shaft struck deep enough to make me gasp. The anal one forced a raw, stretching pressure through my ass. I shot upright before my weight had fully settled.
Ordinary sitting was not uncomfortable. It was impossible.
I saved those dimensions to the final suit.
Keeping me helpless was easy. Keeping me alive, clean and able to work was where the engineering became indecent.
I built the charging station into a niche beside the kitchen. A jointed arm carried the magnetic power contact. To connect it, I had to kneel upright facing the wall with my knees apart, my back straight and both hands resting on my head. The pose exposed me while making my shoulders burn. It was inefficient in every way except the one that mattered to my fantasy.
The washroom was worse.
I converted one stall to a squat toilet. Beside it, I marked the bucket's exact position on the floor and programmed the intake channel to extend along a fixed path to that mark. The care pose was a deep, exact crouch: feet wide, heels down, thighs spread, hands behind my neck. The program guided my joints into position with increasing pressure.
For the long run, a narrow catheter would remain inside me, continuous with a waste channel the suit could open and close. I gave that valve to the controller. The anal dildo provided the other seal. Between care cycles I would still feel a filling bladder and the need to piss, but neither piss nor shit would leave me because I wanted it to. Once the suit accepted the crouch, it would drain my bladder first, then retract the anal dildo, draw water for an enema, manage the rest of my waste and clean its own inner surface.
I had not merely automated hygiene. I had put every bodily function on somebody else's schedule, except the somebody else was code I had written myself.
I gave the routines summonses that could not be overlooked. Care began with a mild simultaneous pinch at both nipples. Delay made the pinch steadily harder; further delay added sharp electrical shocks through the trapped nipples. The escalation stopped and reset the instant the controller accepted the exact crouch over the squat toilet.
Charging was less patient. Its first warning was almost gentle, a touch flowing from the puck down the length of my spine. If I did not comply, the suit shocked me through the vaginal and anal dildos. Those shocks escalated much faster than the nipple signal. A flat battery could endanger the entire run, so I had designed charging to win any argument. It reset only when I held the approved pose and the magnetic charging arm was physically connected.
The arm never locked. Its magnet could hold the power contact firmly against my neck, but I could always pull away. Doing so before the charge completed would restart the internal shocks and count as an ordinary violation. The program did not need an unbreakable connector when fear of the next punishment could keep me attached.
Both summons channels were separate from the violation counter. They could climb, hurt, and return to zero without changing the level that made later punishments worse. Once I was in either pose, however, failing to hold it still counted as an ordinary violation.
No person would watch. That did not make the posture less humiliating.
In the first integrated test, the drainage path folded against my thigh.
Dirty water ran where it absolutely should not have run. I lurched out of the crouch, swore so loudly the empty washroom threw the words back at me, and killed the routine from the laptop. The suit's surface prevented the mess from touching my skin, but not my dignity. I stood encased in black material while wastewater dripped into the wrong part of the stall and wondered how anybody could be intelligent enough to run a data center and stupid enough to automate her own enema.
Then I cleaned the floor, inspected the routing and found the bad transition.
The revised test worked. I waited until my bladder was uncomfortably full and tried to piss before the cycle. The pressure was real. The release was not. I could bear down, relax, swear at the valve and feel nothing leave me.
The instant the controller accepted my crouch, the catheter opened and relieved me. The vaginal dildo remained buried in my cunt while the anal one softened, withdrew, and re-formed as the care channel. The suit held me open, emptied me, rinsed me, then rebuilt the oversized anal shaft inside me and returned every surface to dry black gloss. I was sweaty and shaky when it finally let me stand, but also emptied and cleaned. The log was beautiful.
I tested charging the same way: ten minutes rather than an hour, enough to verify contact and posture guidance. I tested the four-hour fallback interval at accelerated time. Each component behaved. None of the tests required me to discover how the pose would feel after two days of fatigue.
Private distraction became its own subsystem.
The suit already knew pressure, pulse, muscle tension and the small involuntary movements of my hips. I wrote routines that used those signals to keep me near climax. The vaginal dildo could thrust while the anal one held still, then they could reverse. Either could swell, vibrate, or push slowly deeper. A ridge formed against my clit to work with them. Every motion came from the suit itself; there was nothing between my legs I could grip, dislodge, or beg into mercy.
My first calibration overshot.
For calibration I chose to lock my hands behind my back in separate leather cuffs, then knelt while both dildos fucked me in alternating strokes and the firm nub worked tight circles over my clit. The controller was supposed to stop when my response crossed a threshold. Instead it interpreted my rigid stillness as reduced arousal and increased the stimulation.
"Stop. Stop, you dumb fucking—"
The orgasm cut the sentence apart. I lost the wide kneeling posture I had chosen and sagged against the separate cuffs while the suit drove both dildos deep. For several seconds there was nothing in the world but my cunt clenching around one shaft, my ass stretched around the other, and the humiliating sounds I could not keep inside my mouth.
I changed the metric.
The corrected version stopped early three times in a row.
The first cycle withdrew just as my body committed to the rhythm. Both dildos went still. The ridge over my clit softened into a useless seam, leaving me wet and clenched around shapes that no longer moved.
The second began before the ache from the first had faded. It used a different rhythm, learned the new response and stopped closer. I pulled against the leather cuffs, trying to grind my cunt against pressure the suit removed faster than I could follow.
The third brought tears of frustration to my eyes.
"Please."
Nothing in the program recognized the word. The vaginal form held at full depth, the anal one kept my ass stretched, and every stimulation surface became inert while my body begged them to continue.
I remained kneeling, wet, aching and resentful.
That was not merely a technical success. It was the desired result.
The routine had no success state called orgasm. If every threshold worked, it would never finish me. It would keep my arousal high, allow it to fall only far enough that another cycle could build cleanly, then bring me back to the edge and remove everything again. Different rhythms and different channels would prevent my body settling into one predictable pattern. Telemetry would tell it when I was frustrated, when I was recovering and when I was ready to be made desperate again.
I could struggle. I could beg. I could try to grind myself against the suit. None of those reactions provided release. The things inside me were part of the same continuous black skin that covered my hands and hips. I could not pull them out, hold them still or force them to continue. Once the long run locked, I could not edit the threshold because I had stopped enjoying it.
That was what I wanted.
I did not know why.
I could explain the mechanics in exact language: sustained arousal, controlled withdrawal, randomized intervals, no-touch enforcement. I could not explain why the idea of spending hours wet and needy inside an unresponsive machine made my cunt tighten. I did not know why helplessness became more desirable when it included the certainty that frustration would not persuade anyone to let me come.
There was no anyone. That was part of the shame. I was building the refusal myself, in advance, because some private and unreasonable part of me wanted future Anna to suffer for wanting relief.
I could not explain the desire.
I could build for it.
I added another rule: distraction routines would continue during the final release countdown. Requesting release would not turn the program kind. It would only promise an ending twenty-four hours later.
The short tests told me I could bear every individual part.
They did not tell me what all the parts would do to the same exhausted woman.
I provisioned for five days and pretended that made the plan cautious.
The storage room beside the kitchen filled with bottled water, soda, meal drinks, crackers and soft ready meals I could manage with restricted fingers. I put a stool beside the counter, then removed it. Sitting would force both dildos brutally deeper.
In the washroom, I filled the care bucket with water and set it squarely inside the mark beside the squat toilet.
The old Balans kneeling chair from my father's bad-back years came out of storage. Its support panel could slide forward. I moved it until it would carry my thighs while I knelt on the lower pad, leaving my pelvis completely unloaded, and placed the modified chair at my work desk.
I tested the kitchen phone. Steve's number was in it. So were the emergency services.
Calling either would mean explaining why I was sealed inside resilient industrial nanomaterial. Firefighters might cut through a wall faster than they cut through the suit. Steve would come if I asked; I was almost sure of that. Then he would know what I wanted, what I had done, and how badly I had needed someone to rescue me from it.
The phone was a safeguard. It was also the most mortifying object in the building.
Work presented a cleaner risk. I could administer nearly everything from upstairs. Spare capacity covered most failures. But if a drive needed hands, if a pump jammed or a cable burned, I would be unable to go downstairs. I scheduled the run after maintenance, checked every array and told myself several quiet days were likely.
At last, only the release mechanism remained.
Once per calendar day, the controller would choose one random five-minute interval. During those five minutes, the meeting-room boundary would open. I could enter, unlock the isolated laptop and send a release request. The ESP32 would acknowledge it and begin an irrevocable twenty-four-hour countdown. All ordinary restrictions, care and distraction routines would continue until the countdown reached zero.
There would be no clock to watch. At the start of the first minute, both dildos would give one deep, unmistakable pulse. At the start of the second they would pulse twice, then three times, four, and finally five. The pulses were not painful. They were too intimate to miss.
If I missed the window, I waited for the next day.
If I missed every window, the material returned to default after fourteen days.
I tested the complete path before locking it. One pulse filled my cunt and ass. A minute later came two. I crossed into the meeting room, typed my password and entered the request.
The laptop showed only the command I had typed. The acknowledgement came through my body: a slow contraction beginning at my collar and travelling down to my toes, followed by the first low cycle of stimulation and denial. That physical pattern was the only promise that the ESP32 had begun its irrevocable twenty-four hours, or, in this test, a few minutes.
I imagined feeling it while tired, sore and desperate, with no digits to reassure me. Twenty-four unseen hours would be monstrous then. They felt monstrous now.
I could have made the window an hour. I could have added a voice command, an emergency gesture, a second laptop or a safe word. I could have made the countdown ten minutes.
Chance was part of what I wanted. So was failure. Not injury, not death—failure. I wanted to arrive at a locked door thirty seconds late. I wanted to know the program would deny the woman who had written it. I wanted to hate my earlier self for being such a horny, arrogant bitch.
So I kept the five minutes and the day.
I reviewed the final program line by line. Survival limits remained. The phone remained. The fourteen-day default remained. Within those distant fences, however, the rules could not be edited after activation. No reset for the counter. No pause for work. No mercy because I had stopped finding it sexy.
I signed the build, transferred it to the puck and verified the hash.
The control panel changed from DRAFT to READY.
Tomorrow, I would stand in the meeting-room tub, seal the puck between my shoulder blades and press the one command that still belonged entirely to me.
#4
Your Bondage Stories / Is this board still alive? I'd...
Last post by Zoé Cordelier - Today at 03:22:54 PMSelf-f; Machine/f; latex, nanosuit, stuck, dildos, corset, heels, hood, timed self-bondage, denial and a few other things.
Chapter 1: Incomplete Failure
I was dressed for nobody, which was the best way to dress.
Black latex covered me from the neck down, polished where my breasts and thighs caught the light from the monitor and wrinkled softly at the elbows when I moved. The catsuit was one of my better ones: made to measure, back zip, no cheap molded breasts or ridiculous red trim. Just a second skin that made every shift in my chair audible and made me feel held while the servers hummed below me.
Nobody at work knew about it. That was easy, since nobody worked there but me.
My father had left me a data center, a building far too large for one woman. The first floor housed the machinery, and I had modernized half of it into something that could run modern inference jobs without cooking itself. A small subset of those models ran for me and helped me do a job alone that had previously required several teams of admins and coders. The second floor housed coolers, and several offices. I had turned several of them into a zoning violation, and moved in. I kept the rest closed behind doors whose little plastic nameplates still remembered companies that no longer existed. I slept here, above the racks, showered in an old staff washroom, and answered customer tickets at whatever hour they arrived. It was lonely in ways I seldom admitted and private in ways I treasured.
Steve's message appeared in the corner of my screen.
Incomplete failure, he had written. Thought of you, for the engineering. Not the oil spills.
The link led to a trade article about a discontinued pipeline project. That was Steve's particular talent: finding the saddest dead-end technologies on the internet and delivering them like strange shells from a beach. He liked abandoned robots, impractical batteries and military procurement disasters. Sometimes I wondered if he liked me. If he did, he had been tactful enough to make the question irrelevant.
He certainly had no idea I was reading his message with my nipples pressed against shiny black rubber.
The article began with the verdict. A consortium had spent years developing what its press releases called a nanoliquid maintenance platform. Injected into a pipeline, the stuff was supposed to find a leak, travel to it and seal it without shutting down the line. It had failed every important test. It could not navigate. It could not identify damage reliably. The photographs showed black fluid sagging uselessly in transparent test pipes while men in hard hats frowned at it.
I almost closed the tab.
Then I reached the paragraph describing what had worked.
Given an external specification, the nanocells could assume a shape. They could hold it against heat and pressure. They could maintain local tension, change their surface properties, report deformation and return to a safe default after a specified interval. The material had failed because it could not decide where to go or what shape a repair required.
I sat forward. Latex creaked beneath my arms.
"You're not a robot," I said to the picture of the black puddle. "You're a programmable restraint."
The thought went through me with indecent speed.
It did not need to crawl down a pipe if I poured it where I wanted it. It did not need to diagnose anything if I supplied the shape. And a suit did not need to move itself. It only needed to move with me—or refuse to.
I imagined the glossy fluid climbing my ankles, joining over my calves and thighs, finding my waist and breasts with machine precision. Ordinary latex stretched. Leather straps left gaps. Even a sleepsack could be rolled against if I worked hard enough. This stuff had been built to hold against oil pressure. If it understood a human body closely enough, it might resist every movement at once.
My hand had settled between my thighs before I noticed. The pressure through the latex was warm and frustrating, exactly the sort of almost-contact that could occupy me for an hour if I let it.
I pulled my hand away.
First I read the article again, this time taking notes.
By the third pass I had stopped seeing a failed industrial product. I saw a gallon of possibility and a problem interesting enough to be dangerous.
Finding the material took four evenings.
The consortium had dissolved into a nest of acquired companies, expired domains and patents assigned to holding firms. I followed names through conference programmes and cached brochures until I found a laboratory supplier liquidating the last development samples. Their sales contact replied to my business address within twenty minutes, which told me they had been waiting a long time for anyone to ask.
The price stopped me.
My data center made money, but not the sort of money people imagined when they saw a building full of blinking machines. Electricity took its bite. Cooling took another. Replacement drives and insurance and the ancient roof took the rest. The sample cost more than a good server and would not earn a cent.
I left the quotation open while I walked downstairs and checked the racks. That was a superstition of mine: when a purchase frightened me, I went to look at the thing paying for it. Cold air pushed through the perforated floor tiles. Fans screamed behind cabinet doors. Green status lights ran away into the dimness.
The place had survived my father's death and my clumsy first year in charge. It would survive one foolish purchase.
Upstairs, I clicked Accept.
The crate arrived nine days later on a pallet absurdly large for its contents. I signed for it in jeans and a company fleece, waited until the truck had left, then dragged it into the old meeting room nearest my flat. Inside the shock foam sat a squat polymer canister containing roughly a gallon of black liquid. A flat control puck occupied its own cut-out, with a USB lead on one side and a magnetic contact on the other. Under it lay six printed pages.
Six.
"You expensive little bastard," I murmured.
The manual barely deserved the name. Two pages described voltages and physical connections. Three listed frame headers, addressing fields and checksums. The last page warned that the experimental interface exposed L1 and L2 functions only and that undocumented commands could produce persistent non-default material states.
No SDK. No sample program. No list of higher-level operations. Not even a reassuring diagram drawn by an intern.
I tipped the sealed canister enough to feel its weight move. Whatever was inside flowed slowly, heavier than water. The black surface visible through the translucent neck seemed to drink the room's light.
My frustration sharpened into excitement. This was not a product. It was a dare someone had put in a box.
I carried in my cheapest laptop, wiped it, and disabled every radio it possessed. If the puck did anything stupid over USB, it could murder that machine without reaching the network below. Then I fetched a broad, square plastic tub with low sides I could easily step over, and a coil of extension cable.
Before opening the canister, I changed into my oldest catsuit. There was no technical reason for that. I told myself I wanted a familiar material for comparison.
The lie was transparent and pleased me anyway.
The meeting room had not hosted a meeting in twelve years. Executive chairs stood around a long table under individual plastic covers, like important corpses waiting to be identified. I shoved them against the wall, folded the table and cleared a patch of carpet wide enough for the tub. I poured the canister into it.
The nanoliquid landed without splashing. It gathered itself around the magnetic face of the puck in a glossy black mound, neither quite oil nor quite gel. When I nudged the tub, the mound shivered but did not spread far.
My first frames produced nothing. The next made the puck warm. I checked my checksum routine, swore at an endian mistake, and tried again. The fluid twitched.
I froze with both hands above the keyboard.
"Hello."
It was ridiculous to speak to it. It was less intelligent than the washing machine. Still, the movement felt like an answer.
I spent the afternoon reducing the command until I understood which bytes mattered. The self-hosted models downstairs helped me reason about the fragments of documentation, but I transferred only my own notes to the isolated laptop. I made the liquid flatten into a disk, then rise into a crude wall. I told it to hold a shallow curve and pushed my palm against it.
It pushed back.
Not actively. It had no muscles, no intent. It simply preserved the specified geometry with a firmness out of proportion to the black shape in the tub.
Over the following week I learned the outline of its obedience. Shapes were repeatable if my messages were exact. With power removed, it retained both its form and a low level of telemetry from an internal reserve. A timer could return it to its default state, which was the same heavy puddle gathered around the puck. I set that fallback to fourteen days and verified the encoded value until I was sick of looking at it.
The surface could be told to slip or grip. It could measure pressure finely enough to distinguish one finger from two. It could tighten a curve around my wrist without needing to know what a wrist was.
That last test made me breathe through my mouth.
I dipped my gloved hand into the tub and let the material close from palm to mid-forearm. Its shine was deeper than latex, almost wet-looking even when dry. I programmed the cylinder to follow the pressure map of my arm and reduce its diameter by two millimetres.
The black sleeve hugged me.
I pulled. It lengthened just enough to prevent injury, then corrected itself, drawing my hand back toward the center of the tub. The sensation was not like a cuff. A cuff held one band of skin. This held every contour it covered. It knew where I was trying to go before I had gone there.
"Fuck," I whispered.
I released the shape and the sleeve slumped from my arm. I stood staring at the puddle while my heartbeat knocked at my throat.
My normal gear had taught me what restraint felt like. Straps pulled at joints. Rubber compressed, folded and warmed. This material could do all of that without buckles, without seams and potentially without any reachable release.
The only important quantity I still could not interpret was resistance. The protocol accepted a number. The manual did not say what a human-scale number looked like. My little shapes suggested a range, but a wall in a tub was not a suit fighting the combined leverage of my legs and back.
I wrote CALIBRATE BEFORE WEARABLE TEST across the top of my notes.
Then, beneath it, I began drawing the wearable test.
My home lab occupied another former office on the second floor. The carpet had been replaced by cleanable flooring, the walls by shelves of resin, filament, sheet stock and half-finished data-center parts. A full-body scanner stood between the printers and a laser cutter whose exhaust duct disappeared through what had once been a window.
I had used the scanner to make fan shrouds and cable guides shaped around inaccessible corners. Turning it on myself should have felt no more intimate.
I stripped.
The scan required me to stand on a marked circle with my arms slightly away from my sides. Light travelled down my body. On the monitor, a grey version of me assembled in bands: short dark hair, small breasts, soft belly, wide hips, thighs I was always more conscious of in photographs than in mirrors.
I rotated the model and felt absurdly exposed. Then I started cleaning the mesh.
The suit would begin at my neck and end in attached gloves and feet. I left my head uncovered; this was a first test, not suicide. The flat puck would sit over my right hip, captured around its edges by the suit while its magnetic socket and cable remained exposed. I built in generous tolerances around every joint and instructed the surface to find my actual skin by pressure rather than trusting the scan completely.
That instruction was elegant. It was also, though I did not understand this yet, filthy.
I specified limits for constriction, a maximum correction speed and a staged return to default. The release command sat in a terminal on the meeting-room laptop, ready to run with a single key. If I disliked the suit, I would press Enter. If the laptop failed, the fourteen-day fallback remained.
Fourteen days sounded reassuring when written in a configuration file. I tried not to picture living through them.
Resistance was the ugly part. The small tests gave me numbers but no honest scale. A setting that felt firm over my forearm might become immovable across the length of both legs. I chose a value below the strongest bench test, simulated the resulting forces and reduced it once more.
Then I raised it again.
I wanted the suit to resist. That was the point. If I merely wanted black clothing, I owned a wardrobe full of it. I wanted to have to fight for each movement. I wanted my own machine to make me weak.
The admission heated my face even though I was alone.
At last I carried the laptop and the puck into the cleared meeting room. The material waited in the tub. I checked the release command, the timer and the network isolation. I put a bottle of water on the floor where I could reach it. I put my phone beside the laptop.
Then I took the phone away and left it in the kitchen.
I told myself a ringing phone near an unknown electromagnetic system was an unnecessary variable. The truth was uglier: I did not want an easy, humiliating surrender within arm's reach.
Then I went to the staff washroom and showered.
I scrubbed away the sweat and latex dressing left by my earlier experiments, used no lotion afterward, and dried until there was no moisture left in the folds of my skin. The fit routine needed bare boundaries, not oil, rubber residue, or trapped water. I walked back to the meeting room completely naked.
I stepped into the tub. I put the puck into the black mass in the tub. Then I connected the puck's magnetic cable to the laptop and left enough slack for the forming suit to pull the puck up to my hip without pulling the lead free.
For a moment I watched my cursor blink after the activation command. Every safeguard I had designed was waiting behind that cursor. So was every mistake.
I pressed Enter.
The puddle climbed because I had told it exactly how.
It spread over my feet first, cold between my toes, then sealed them into smooth black shapes. The surface crept past my ankles and joined around my calves. I could still lift each foot, though the liquid pulled at me with increasing weight. At my knees it divided into the joint geometry I had designed, thickening behind them before flowing higher.
I was already breathing too quickly when it reached my thighs.
The fit routine found me everywhere. It pressed into the crease beneath my buttocks, traced the cleft between them and slid into the intimate folds at the front with clinical thoroughness. There was no padding of air, no modest gap. The suit mapped my cunt as if it were merely another complicated joint that needed accurate telemetry.
"Oh, fuck."
The material closed over my hips and waist. It cupped each breast separately, tightening until my nipples stood hard against the slick inner surface. Then it flowed along my arms, divided around every finger and met at my collar.
The room went silent except for my breath.
The fit routine was not finished.
It had enclosed every surface in the scan. Now it explored the cavities left inside that enclosure. A blunt projection formed between my labia and pushed into my cunt, widening as it followed the pressure map deeper. Before I could process that invasion, a second nub pressed against my anus.
"No. I didn't tell you to—"
The material did not need that instruction. I had told it to find and fit every boundary of my body.
The anal probe slipped inside.
I clenched against it. That gave the routine more pressure to map. The nub lengthened through my resistance and thickened into a second dildo while the first continued widening in my cunt. Both shapes grew until the suit found pressure in every direction, one filling me from the front and one plugging my ass.
They were not separate toys I could pull out. They were continuous with the black skin covering me. There was no base to grip, no edge to catch with a finger, nothing between the thing inside me and the suit tightening over my hips.
My knees tried to close. The motion drove both dildos deeper.
I made a sound I would later pretend not to remember. It began as panic and broke into something needier when the penetration shifted.
My cunt clenched around the accidental shape.
The suit felt that too.
Heat spread through me with humiliating speed. I was frightened enough to want everything off and aroused enough that my body pulled the vaginal dildo deeper when I tried to escape it. The anal form held my ass open with a fullness I had never programmed and could not separate from the skin sealing the rest of me.
I looked down at a body poured in black. No zip. No seams. No edge except the high ring at my neck and the cable running from the puck captured over my right hip to the laptop.
I bent one elbow.
The suit allowed perhaps three centimetres, then corrected. My arm straightened despite the effort I put into it.
I tried again with my whole shoulder. The resistance rose smoothly, not like a hard stop but like an invisible hand increasing its strength to match mine. The harder I pulled, the more completely the black surface held every part of me. My fingers curled slowly and were pushed straight.
I twisted at the waist.
The suit corrected my hips toward the scanned pose. Both dildos moved inside me as it forced me back. I jerked the other way and felt the vaginal shape drag against my cunt while the anal one levered deeper. Pleasure flashed through the panic so sharply that my knees weakened.
I tried to clamp my legs together. The material thickened around my thighs and held them apart.
"Let me go."
I threw my weight forward.
One foot moved perhaps a centimetre. The suit pulled it back. My arms strained away from my sides, gained a few degrees and were pressed down again. Each useless effort shifted the two dildos with horrible precision. My body answered them despite me: wetness, tightening muscles, a pulse of pleasure that made the next breath come out as a moan.
That was worse than the strength.
I had wanted resistance. Some part of me was still thrilled that I had finally made myself too weak to overcome it. The rest understood that the suit had invaded both holes, locked me in the scanner pose and was winning every struggle without even knowing I was there.
I had chosen the wrong number.
I lunged for the laptop.
The movement became a grotesque slow fall. I forced one knee forward a fraction, dragged my other foot and nearly pitched sideways when the suit tried to restore both legs at once. My hip struck the desk. I caught myself with the heel of one black hand, arm trembling while the material pushed me back toward upright.
For several seconds I fought it blindly. Shoulder, hip, knee. Every gain was measured in millimetres and every correction moved the dildos. Sweat sprang beneath the sealed skin. My cunt kept clenching around the front shape while I made frightened, shameful noises into the empty room.
I caught myself before panic became thrashing.
The suit matched movement. More force only gave it more to resist. I stopped, took one ragged breath and chose the next centimetre instead of the whole distance.
Knee forward. Hold. Shift the hip. Hold. Drag the other foot.
The black surface opposed every stage, but it could not return me faster than its correction limit. I crawled toward the keyboard while standing, held upright and spread by my own specification.
By the time my fingertips reached the desk, my shoulders were shaking and both holes throbbed around the shapes I had accidentally created.
The staged command needed only Enter.
My finger descended. The glove resisted the bend, straightening it against the key beside the one I wanted. The terminal filled with an error and returned to a prompt.
"No. No, you stupid bitch."
I tried to type the command by stabbing with nearly rigid fingers. Three letters. Backspace. Two letters. Another mistake. The suit corrected my wrist each time, dragging my hand away from the key while it held the rest of me bent against the desk.
It was not attacking me. It was faithfully undoing every movement that differed from its reference shape, and that obedience made my helplessness feel obscenely complete.
My cunt clenched again.
I hated the response. I wanted it. I was terrified of what wanting it meant if I could not reach the release.
Panic took the place of thought. I twisted hard enough to tear the magnetic connector from the puck.
The cable snapped free and struck the floor.
Nothing released.
The suit held its last instruction. Worse, without the live connection it no longer received my attempted changes. I stood bent over the desk, one hand hovering above the keyboard, trapped in the posture I had reached when the link broke.
My breath made the black skin over my breasts rise and fall. The two accidental dildos remained locked inside me, shifting whenever I fought the bent posture. I could not straighten and could not easily bend farther. The phone lay in the kitchen, beyond a door I could barely face, much less reach.
Fourteen days.
I stopped fighting. The resistance eased only because I stopped giving it movement to resist. I counted ten breaths, then another ten, until I could think in commands again.
Disconnecting had not damaged the configuration. It had only frozen it. If I reconnected the magnet, the material should accept a revised specification. The laptop was within reach. I needed to change one value and get the cable back onto the puck.
Typing took nearly half an hour.
I used the side of one stiff finger, moving my entire arm for each key. Sweat ran down my spine and pooled wherever the suit held most closely. Twice I had to stop because the fight against it made my vision grey. I reduced the resistance to one tenth of its original setting and checked the digits three times.
The connector lay near my foot.
Getting it took another humiliating sequence of millimetres: hip, knee, shoulder, pause; hip, knee, shoulder, pause. I managed to trap the cable under my toe, drag it upward along my shin and catch it between both rigid hands. The puck was visible at my right hip and ordinarily easy to reach. Inside the resisting suit, moving the connector those last few centimetres took everything I had. I scraped its magnetic face across the black surface until it found the puck's exposed rim and snapped home.
The laptop reported that the update had been accepted.
Nothing happened.
"Please," I said.
I pulled my arm. The suit pulled it back with the same appalling strength.
For several seconds I was no longer an engineer. I was a frightened, stupid woman sealed in a black machine she had paid too much money to build. A sob escaped me. The suit registered it as movement across my ribs and tightened to preserve their shape.
Then my elbow shifted.
Only a little, but it stayed where I put it. The revised value was propagating through the cells. My shoulders came free next, then my hips and knees. The pressure did not disappear. It became something I could work against: heavy, close and deliciously exhausting, like impossibly thick latex fitted by a patient sadist.
I straightened. I flexed my hands. I took one cautious step and the suit yielded while reminding me that it did not have to.
Relief left me weak. I braced both palms on the desk and laughed once, raggedly.
I should have released it at once. Instead I stood there feeling the black surface grip every curve of me. My cunt and ass throbbed around the invasive shapes the fit routine had invented. The fear was receding, but the memory of absolute resistance remained, bright and poisonous.
I had made a mistake that could have kept me helpless for two weeks.
What I wanted, even before I admitted it, was to make the same helplessness safe enough to do on purpose.
Chapter 1: Incomplete Failure
I was dressed for nobody, which was the best way to dress.
Black latex covered me from the neck down, polished where my breasts and thighs caught the light from the monitor and wrinkled softly at the elbows when I moved. The catsuit was one of my better ones: made to measure, back zip, no cheap molded breasts or ridiculous red trim. Just a second skin that made every shift in my chair audible and made me feel held while the servers hummed below me.
Nobody at work knew about it. That was easy, since nobody worked there but me.
My father had left me a data center, a building far too large for one woman. The first floor housed the machinery, and I had modernized half of it into something that could run modern inference jobs without cooking itself. A small subset of those models ran for me and helped me do a job alone that had previously required several teams of admins and coders. The second floor housed coolers, and several offices. I had turned several of them into a zoning violation, and moved in. I kept the rest closed behind doors whose little plastic nameplates still remembered companies that no longer existed. I slept here, above the racks, showered in an old staff washroom, and answered customer tickets at whatever hour they arrived. It was lonely in ways I seldom admitted and private in ways I treasured.
Steve's message appeared in the corner of my screen.
Incomplete failure, he had written. Thought of you, for the engineering. Not the oil spills.
The link led to a trade article about a discontinued pipeline project. That was Steve's particular talent: finding the saddest dead-end technologies on the internet and delivering them like strange shells from a beach. He liked abandoned robots, impractical batteries and military procurement disasters. Sometimes I wondered if he liked me. If he did, he had been tactful enough to make the question irrelevant.
He certainly had no idea I was reading his message with my nipples pressed against shiny black rubber.
The article began with the verdict. A consortium had spent years developing what its press releases called a nanoliquid maintenance platform. Injected into a pipeline, the stuff was supposed to find a leak, travel to it and seal it without shutting down the line. It had failed every important test. It could not navigate. It could not identify damage reliably. The photographs showed black fluid sagging uselessly in transparent test pipes while men in hard hats frowned at it.
I almost closed the tab.
Then I reached the paragraph describing what had worked.
Given an external specification, the nanocells could assume a shape. They could hold it against heat and pressure. They could maintain local tension, change their surface properties, report deformation and return to a safe default after a specified interval. The material had failed because it could not decide where to go or what shape a repair required.
I sat forward. Latex creaked beneath my arms.
"You're not a robot," I said to the picture of the black puddle. "You're a programmable restraint."
The thought went through me with indecent speed.
It did not need to crawl down a pipe if I poured it where I wanted it. It did not need to diagnose anything if I supplied the shape. And a suit did not need to move itself. It only needed to move with me—or refuse to.
I imagined the glossy fluid climbing my ankles, joining over my calves and thighs, finding my waist and breasts with machine precision. Ordinary latex stretched. Leather straps left gaps. Even a sleepsack could be rolled against if I worked hard enough. This stuff had been built to hold against oil pressure. If it understood a human body closely enough, it might resist every movement at once.
My hand had settled between my thighs before I noticed. The pressure through the latex was warm and frustrating, exactly the sort of almost-contact that could occupy me for an hour if I let it.
I pulled my hand away.
First I read the article again, this time taking notes.
By the third pass I had stopped seeing a failed industrial product. I saw a gallon of possibility and a problem interesting enough to be dangerous.
Finding the material took four evenings.
The consortium had dissolved into a nest of acquired companies, expired domains and patents assigned to holding firms. I followed names through conference programmes and cached brochures until I found a laboratory supplier liquidating the last development samples. Their sales contact replied to my business address within twenty minutes, which told me they had been waiting a long time for anyone to ask.
The price stopped me.
My data center made money, but not the sort of money people imagined when they saw a building full of blinking machines. Electricity took its bite. Cooling took another. Replacement drives and insurance and the ancient roof took the rest. The sample cost more than a good server and would not earn a cent.
I left the quotation open while I walked downstairs and checked the racks. That was a superstition of mine: when a purchase frightened me, I went to look at the thing paying for it. Cold air pushed through the perforated floor tiles. Fans screamed behind cabinet doors. Green status lights ran away into the dimness.
The place had survived my father's death and my clumsy first year in charge. It would survive one foolish purchase.
Upstairs, I clicked Accept.
The crate arrived nine days later on a pallet absurdly large for its contents. I signed for it in jeans and a company fleece, waited until the truck had left, then dragged it into the old meeting room nearest my flat. Inside the shock foam sat a squat polymer canister containing roughly a gallon of black liquid. A flat control puck occupied its own cut-out, with a USB lead on one side and a magnetic contact on the other. Under it lay six printed pages.
Six.
"You expensive little bastard," I murmured.
The manual barely deserved the name. Two pages described voltages and physical connections. Three listed frame headers, addressing fields and checksums. The last page warned that the experimental interface exposed L1 and L2 functions only and that undocumented commands could produce persistent non-default material states.
No SDK. No sample program. No list of higher-level operations. Not even a reassuring diagram drawn by an intern.
I tipped the sealed canister enough to feel its weight move. Whatever was inside flowed slowly, heavier than water. The black surface visible through the translucent neck seemed to drink the room's light.
My frustration sharpened into excitement. This was not a product. It was a dare someone had put in a box.
I carried in my cheapest laptop, wiped it, and disabled every radio it possessed. If the puck did anything stupid over USB, it could murder that machine without reaching the network below. Then I fetched a broad, square plastic tub with low sides I could easily step over, and a coil of extension cable.
Before opening the canister, I changed into my oldest catsuit. There was no technical reason for that. I told myself I wanted a familiar material for comparison.
The lie was transparent and pleased me anyway.
The meeting room had not hosted a meeting in twelve years. Executive chairs stood around a long table under individual plastic covers, like important corpses waiting to be identified. I shoved them against the wall, folded the table and cleared a patch of carpet wide enough for the tub. I poured the canister into it.
The nanoliquid landed without splashing. It gathered itself around the magnetic face of the puck in a glossy black mound, neither quite oil nor quite gel. When I nudged the tub, the mound shivered but did not spread far.
My first frames produced nothing. The next made the puck warm. I checked my checksum routine, swore at an endian mistake, and tried again. The fluid twitched.
I froze with both hands above the keyboard.
"Hello."
It was ridiculous to speak to it. It was less intelligent than the washing machine. Still, the movement felt like an answer.
I spent the afternoon reducing the command until I understood which bytes mattered. The self-hosted models downstairs helped me reason about the fragments of documentation, but I transferred only my own notes to the isolated laptop. I made the liquid flatten into a disk, then rise into a crude wall. I told it to hold a shallow curve and pushed my palm against it.
It pushed back.
Not actively. It had no muscles, no intent. It simply preserved the specified geometry with a firmness out of proportion to the black shape in the tub.
Over the following week I learned the outline of its obedience. Shapes were repeatable if my messages were exact. With power removed, it retained both its form and a low level of telemetry from an internal reserve. A timer could return it to its default state, which was the same heavy puddle gathered around the puck. I set that fallback to fourteen days and verified the encoded value until I was sick of looking at it.
The surface could be told to slip or grip. It could measure pressure finely enough to distinguish one finger from two. It could tighten a curve around my wrist without needing to know what a wrist was.
That last test made me breathe through my mouth.
I dipped my gloved hand into the tub and let the material close from palm to mid-forearm. Its shine was deeper than latex, almost wet-looking even when dry. I programmed the cylinder to follow the pressure map of my arm and reduce its diameter by two millimetres.
The black sleeve hugged me.
I pulled. It lengthened just enough to prevent injury, then corrected itself, drawing my hand back toward the center of the tub. The sensation was not like a cuff. A cuff held one band of skin. This held every contour it covered. It knew where I was trying to go before I had gone there.
"Fuck," I whispered.
I released the shape and the sleeve slumped from my arm. I stood staring at the puddle while my heartbeat knocked at my throat.
My normal gear had taught me what restraint felt like. Straps pulled at joints. Rubber compressed, folded and warmed. This material could do all of that without buckles, without seams and potentially without any reachable release.
The only important quantity I still could not interpret was resistance. The protocol accepted a number. The manual did not say what a human-scale number looked like. My little shapes suggested a range, but a wall in a tub was not a suit fighting the combined leverage of my legs and back.
I wrote CALIBRATE BEFORE WEARABLE TEST across the top of my notes.
Then, beneath it, I began drawing the wearable test.
My home lab occupied another former office on the second floor. The carpet had been replaced by cleanable flooring, the walls by shelves of resin, filament, sheet stock and half-finished data-center parts. A full-body scanner stood between the printers and a laser cutter whose exhaust duct disappeared through what had once been a window.
I had used the scanner to make fan shrouds and cable guides shaped around inaccessible corners. Turning it on myself should have felt no more intimate.
I stripped.
The scan required me to stand on a marked circle with my arms slightly away from my sides. Light travelled down my body. On the monitor, a grey version of me assembled in bands: short dark hair, small breasts, soft belly, wide hips, thighs I was always more conscious of in photographs than in mirrors.
I rotated the model and felt absurdly exposed. Then I started cleaning the mesh.
The suit would begin at my neck and end in attached gloves and feet. I left my head uncovered; this was a first test, not suicide. The flat puck would sit over my right hip, captured around its edges by the suit while its magnetic socket and cable remained exposed. I built in generous tolerances around every joint and instructed the surface to find my actual skin by pressure rather than trusting the scan completely.
That instruction was elegant. It was also, though I did not understand this yet, filthy.
I specified limits for constriction, a maximum correction speed and a staged return to default. The release command sat in a terminal on the meeting-room laptop, ready to run with a single key. If I disliked the suit, I would press Enter. If the laptop failed, the fourteen-day fallback remained.
Fourteen days sounded reassuring when written in a configuration file. I tried not to picture living through them.
Resistance was the ugly part. The small tests gave me numbers but no honest scale. A setting that felt firm over my forearm might become immovable across the length of both legs. I chose a value below the strongest bench test, simulated the resulting forces and reduced it once more.
Then I raised it again.
I wanted the suit to resist. That was the point. If I merely wanted black clothing, I owned a wardrobe full of it. I wanted to have to fight for each movement. I wanted my own machine to make me weak.
The admission heated my face even though I was alone.
At last I carried the laptop and the puck into the cleared meeting room. The material waited in the tub. I checked the release command, the timer and the network isolation. I put a bottle of water on the floor where I could reach it. I put my phone beside the laptop.
Then I took the phone away and left it in the kitchen.
I told myself a ringing phone near an unknown electromagnetic system was an unnecessary variable. The truth was uglier: I did not want an easy, humiliating surrender within arm's reach.
Then I went to the staff washroom and showered.
I scrubbed away the sweat and latex dressing left by my earlier experiments, used no lotion afterward, and dried until there was no moisture left in the folds of my skin. The fit routine needed bare boundaries, not oil, rubber residue, or trapped water. I walked back to the meeting room completely naked.
I stepped into the tub. I put the puck into the black mass in the tub. Then I connected the puck's magnetic cable to the laptop and left enough slack for the forming suit to pull the puck up to my hip without pulling the lead free.
For a moment I watched my cursor blink after the activation command. Every safeguard I had designed was waiting behind that cursor. So was every mistake.
I pressed Enter.
The puddle climbed because I had told it exactly how.
It spread over my feet first, cold between my toes, then sealed them into smooth black shapes. The surface crept past my ankles and joined around my calves. I could still lift each foot, though the liquid pulled at me with increasing weight. At my knees it divided into the joint geometry I had designed, thickening behind them before flowing higher.
I was already breathing too quickly when it reached my thighs.
The fit routine found me everywhere. It pressed into the crease beneath my buttocks, traced the cleft between them and slid into the intimate folds at the front with clinical thoroughness. There was no padding of air, no modest gap. The suit mapped my cunt as if it were merely another complicated joint that needed accurate telemetry.
"Oh, fuck."
The material closed over my hips and waist. It cupped each breast separately, tightening until my nipples stood hard against the slick inner surface. Then it flowed along my arms, divided around every finger and met at my collar.
The room went silent except for my breath.
The fit routine was not finished.
It had enclosed every surface in the scan. Now it explored the cavities left inside that enclosure. A blunt projection formed between my labia and pushed into my cunt, widening as it followed the pressure map deeper. Before I could process that invasion, a second nub pressed against my anus.
"No. I didn't tell you to—"
The material did not need that instruction. I had told it to find and fit every boundary of my body.
The anal probe slipped inside.
I clenched against it. That gave the routine more pressure to map. The nub lengthened through my resistance and thickened into a second dildo while the first continued widening in my cunt. Both shapes grew until the suit found pressure in every direction, one filling me from the front and one plugging my ass.
They were not separate toys I could pull out. They were continuous with the black skin covering me. There was no base to grip, no edge to catch with a finger, nothing between the thing inside me and the suit tightening over my hips.
My knees tried to close. The motion drove both dildos deeper.
I made a sound I would later pretend not to remember. It began as panic and broke into something needier when the penetration shifted.
My cunt clenched around the accidental shape.
The suit felt that too.
Heat spread through me with humiliating speed. I was frightened enough to want everything off and aroused enough that my body pulled the vaginal dildo deeper when I tried to escape it. The anal form held my ass open with a fullness I had never programmed and could not separate from the skin sealing the rest of me.
I looked down at a body poured in black. No zip. No seams. No edge except the high ring at my neck and the cable running from the puck captured over my right hip to the laptop.
I bent one elbow.
The suit allowed perhaps three centimetres, then corrected. My arm straightened despite the effort I put into it.
I tried again with my whole shoulder. The resistance rose smoothly, not like a hard stop but like an invisible hand increasing its strength to match mine. The harder I pulled, the more completely the black surface held every part of me. My fingers curled slowly and were pushed straight.
I twisted at the waist.
The suit corrected my hips toward the scanned pose. Both dildos moved inside me as it forced me back. I jerked the other way and felt the vaginal shape drag against my cunt while the anal one levered deeper. Pleasure flashed through the panic so sharply that my knees weakened.
I tried to clamp my legs together. The material thickened around my thighs and held them apart.
"Let me go."
I threw my weight forward.
One foot moved perhaps a centimetre. The suit pulled it back. My arms strained away from my sides, gained a few degrees and were pressed down again. Each useless effort shifted the two dildos with horrible precision. My body answered them despite me: wetness, tightening muscles, a pulse of pleasure that made the next breath come out as a moan.
That was worse than the strength.
I had wanted resistance. Some part of me was still thrilled that I had finally made myself too weak to overcome it. The rest understood that the suit had invaded both holes, locked me in the scanner pose and was winning every struggle without even knowing I was there.
I had chosen the wrong number.
I lunged for the laptop.
The movement became a grotesque slow fall. I forced one knee forward a fraction, dragged my other foot and nearly pitched sideways when the suit tried to restore both legs at once. My hip struck the desk. I caught myself with the heel of one black hand, arm trembling while the material pushed me back toward upright.
For several seconds I fought it blindly. Shoulder, hip, knee. Every gain was measured in millimetres and every correction moved the dildos. Sweat sprang beneath the sealed skin. My cunt kept clenching around the front shape while I made frightened, shameful noises into the empty room.
I caught myself before panic became thrashing.
The suit matched movement. More force only gave it more to resist. I stopped, took one ragged breath and chose the next centimetre instead of the whole distance.
Knee forward. Hold. Shift the hip. Hold. Drag the other foot.
The black surface opposed every stage, but it could not return me faster than its correction limit. I crawled toward the keyboard while standing, held upright and spread by my own specification.
By the time my fingertips reached the desk, my shoulders were shaking and both holes throbbed around the shapes I had accidentally created.
The staged command needed only Enter.
My finger descended. The glove resisted the bend, straightening it against the key beside the one I wanted. The terminal filled with an error and returned to a prompt.
"No. No, you stupid bitch."
I tried to type the command by stabbing with nearly rigid fingers. Three letters. Backspace. Two letters. Another mistake. The suit corrected my wrist each time, dragging my hand away from the key while it held the rest of me bent against the desk.
It was not attacking me. It was faithfully undoing every movement that differed from its reference shape, and that obedience made my helplessness feel obscenely complete.
My cunt clenched again.
I hated the response. I wanted it. I was terrified of what wanting it meant if I could not reach the release.
Panic took the place of thought. I twisted hard enough to tear the magnetic connector from the puck.
The cable snapped free and struck the floor.
Nothing released.
The suit held its last instruction. Worse, without the live connection it no longer received my attempted changes. I stood bent over the desk, one hand hovering above the keyboard, trapped in the posture I had reached when the link broke.
My breath made the black skin over my breasts rise and fall. The two accidental dildos remained locked inside me, shifting whenever I fought the bent posture. I could not straighten and could not easily bend farther. The phone lay in the kitchen, beyond a door I could barely face, much less reach.
Fourteen days.
I stopped fighting. The resistance eased only because I stopped giving it movement to resist. I counted ten breaths, then another ten, until I could think in commands again.
Disconnecting had not damaged the configuration. It had only frozen it. If I reconnected the magnet, the material should accept a revised specification. The laptop was within reach. I needed to change one value and get the cable back onto the puck.
Typing took nearly half an hour.
I used the side of one stiff finger, moving my entire arm for each key. Sweat ran down my spine and pooled wherever the suit held most closely. Twice I had to stop because the fight against it made my vision grey. I reduced the resistance to one tenth of its original setting and checked the digits three times.
The connector lay near my foot.
Getting it took another humiliating sequence of millimetres: hip, knee, shoulder, pause; hip, knee, shoulder, pause. I managed to trap the cable under my toe, drag it upward along my shin and catch it between both rigid hands. The puck was visible at my right hip and ordinarily easy to reach. Inside the resisting suit, moving the connector those last few centimetres took everything I had. I scraped its magnetic face across the black surface until it found the puck's exposed rim and snapped home.
The laptop reported that the update had been accepted.
Nothing happened.
"Please," I said.
I pulled my arm. The suit pulled it back with the same appalling strength.
For several seconds I was no longer an engineer. I was a frightened, stupid woman sealed in a black machine she had paid too much money to build. A sob escaped me. The suit registered it as movement across my ribs and tightened to preserve their shape.
Then my elbow shifted.
Only a little, but it stayed where I put it. The revised value was propagating through the cells. My shoulders came free next, then my hips and knees. The pressure did not disappear. It became something I could work against: heavy, close and deliciously exhausting, like impossibly thick latex fitted by a patient sadist.
I straightened. I flexed my hands. I took one cautious step and the suit yielded while reminding me that it did not have to.
Relief left me weak. I braced both palms on the desk and laughed once, raggedly.
I should have released it at once. Instead I stood there feeling the black surface grip every curve of me. My cunt and ass throbbed around the invasive shapes the fit routine had invented. The fear was receding, but the memory of absolute resistance remained, bright and poisonous.
I had made a mistake that could have kept me helpless for two weeks.
What I wanted, even before I admitted it, was to make the same helplessness safe enough to do on purpose.
#5
Latex Discussion / looking for a story: aliens/la...
Last post by sammy808 - Today at 10:46:06 AMit's entirely possible i dreamed it up, as i've been unable to find it.
she wakes up in a rubber sphere, where i think she's being milked. somehow she is able to escape, and sees a vast warehouse of spheres. we learn that it's an alien abduction thing, and she tries to save everyone, but is removed and taken for studies to see how she could escape. i think the aliens are also milking them. i think there are guys, too, but they seemed like an afterthought.
i've seen bits in other stories, so i kind of feel like it may be something i made up and synthesized from other things, but wanted to ask if people recognized it before i sat down to write my best recollection to satisfy my desire to read this story.
not recent. i want to say it's something i read pre-pandemic, but i can't prove that.
thanks for reading, happy to check any similar stories you know, but i've been searching sites for the past month, and haven't had any luck.
she wakes up in a rubber sphere, where i think she's being milked. somehow she is able to escape, and sees a vast warehouse of spheres. we learn that it's an alien abduction thing, and she tries to save everyone, but is removed and taken for studies to see how she could escape. i think the aliens are also milking them. i think there are guys, too, but they seemed like an afterthought.
i've seen bits in other stories, so i kind of feel like it may be something i made up and synthesized from other things, but wanted to ask if people recognized it before i sat down to write my best recollection to satisfy my desire to read this story.
not recent. i want to say it's something i read pre-pandemic, but i can't prove that.
thanks for reading, happy to check any similar stories you know, but i've been searching sites for the past month, and haven't had any luck.
#6
BoundStories Website Stories Feedback / Re: Sophie and Mark by Twisted...
Last post by twistedsmile - November 13, 2026, 12:39:03 AM18. "Stockade" Commentary
Not an actual stockade, but this is about as close as you can get in everyday life.
The basic story idea was a day-long bondage session. The time-stamping gimmick was really a shortcut - it let me write lots of short scenes, rather than have to come up with a single, long narrative.
The tricky part was figuring out what the hell was going to happen over such a span of time. Being tied up and left alone doesn't make for a very compelling narrative. In the first draft, Sophie was just occasionally passing by and doing random stuff to Mark - spanking, writing on him, hanging a weight off his testicles. There is still some of that in the final version, but it feels more intentional.
---
"This was my punishment." - I didn't want to portray this as an ACTUAL punishment. That would have been a bit of an over-reaction considering Mark didn't actually do anything wrong.
"Think you can handle that?" - consent; we're still correcting from chapter 13's 'assumed' consent. And again, not an actual punishment, he can opt out.
"She placed a digital clock on the floor in front of me" - otherwise, how would he know what time it is?
"@ 10:30" - the numerical passages occur at 'round' times because we're effectively periodically checking in on Mark. Other passages happen 'when they happen'. Actually, I planned them out at round times and added/subtracted random minutes to make it feel more 'real'
"213" - the original idea was that Mark would spend some time 'thinking about what he'd done'. Except that he hadn't actually done anything. Mentally factorising numbers was something I did the last time I got a dental filling - good way to keep the brain distracted.
"Window cleaner" - one time, when I was much younger, I was tying myself up (as one does) when I heard the squeak of a window cleaner outside my window. Thankfully, my curtains were closed, but I hid behind the bed all the same.
"Sophie ran in" - originally, I had Sophie actually going shopping. But naturally it's funnier if she's just pretending.
"Sorry baby, traffic was craaaazy." - gotta love someone who commits to a 'bit' (joke).
"guess you want me to let you out then?" - this is what the 'punishment' is really about. The dream brought up fears of abandonment in Sophie, so firstly she's tied Mark down so he literally can't leave. At the same time, she's 'testing' him - giving him every opportunity to ask to be released ('leave'). I'm not sure if Mark is actually consciously aware of this.
"Multiple of 7? I could never remember the test for that" - wikipedia lists several tests for divisiblity by 7. The 'easiest' is probably "Subtracting twice the last digit from the rest gives a multiple of 7". 1597 is indeed prime, in case you were wondering.
"you probably got plenty of practice [giving blowjobs] with Brett." - as we saw in chapter 14, he didn't, in fact.
"I felt the wet cock brush my arse, and I clenched up. She... slid the dildo between my legs" - Sophie paying attention to the way mark's body responds, without calling attention to it (chapter 16)
"22 across, 'devilry', 8 letters starting with 'M'..." - mischief
"14 down, 'unaware', 8 letters with an 'E' in the middle..." - clueless; specifically about the fact that Sophie is writing on his back
"16 across, 'colour', 6 letters, 3rd letter 'L'. Any ideas, baby?" - yellow; trying to trick mark into saying the safe word
Obviously, she's not doing a real crossword. Otherwise those words appearing would be a pretty big coincidence!
"That movie's coming out soon... The one with whats-his-face?" - making small talk in the middle of a bondage session. I didn't want to reference a specific film/actor so as not to date the story.
"She was sitting to the side of me with her laptop" - just hanging out. I think she might be lonely.
"Dani says 'hi', by the way." - Dani was previously mentioned in chapter 15.5; with whom Sophie had a lesbian dalliance. It's nice that they're keeping in touch.
"How does Thai sound?" - the local Thai place is first mentioned in "Alex & Becca" 1
"Her hand was rested on my arm" / "Her hand was now on top of mine... lightly clutching it" / "She slid her hand under mine, lacing our fingers together" - casual, escalating intimacy
"I pictured her in that latex dress" - chapter 15
"I pictured her in the corset" - chapter 8, but also chapter 13. Nice to know Mark doesn't have any lingering, negative associations with the corset from the threesome.
"Cherry Burst" - this is meant to be the name of the candle (fragrance). I considered something more suggestive like "Cherry Spank", "Spanked with Cherries". But they just felt too corny/implausible.
"I could have sworn the candle looked like new" - as in, she didn't actually light it. Obviously, it would have been very dangerous if she had. I thought about doing some wax play, but that felt like just doing it for the sake of doing it; it wouldn't have added anything.
"She sat down on the floor in front of me" - notice that she started in a completely different room (pretending to be out of the house), then sat behind him, then beside him, and now in front - face to face, and physically below him. You might call it a literalisation of emotional distance. At this point she's really waiting for the session to be over, maybe more so than mark
"Dani's got this look like 70s Bowie" - we'll come back to this (literally). Chapter 19 is the story that Sophie is telling Mark here.
"21:12" - quite a long story, as it turns out; over 1 hour
"I'd love to meet her." - I set myself a trap here, where chapter 19 has to believably changes Mark's opinion of Dani
"We could invite Brett over too" - whenever I mention Brett outside of his series, I imagine readers screaming 'stop trying to make Brett happen!'
"oof, that floor is NOT comfortable." / "I had to laugh." - because she's complaining about being uncomfortable to Mark, who has been chained to a table all day.
"Or, is it just because I mentioned Brett?" - Sophie seems to have some amount of jealousy/competitiveness towards Brett; whether or not she's aware of it.
"I bet [Brett] doesn't [give blow jobs] as good as I do" - callback to chapter 14 - "I definitely wasn't comparing [Brett] to anyone else, but if I were... No, stop it." I was tempted to have Mark comment on it in this chapter, but it felt a bit crass.
"I once again felt like that cow" - you might even say that she was milking him
"This milkshake seemed different. It had a strange texture, and a familiar, slightly salty taste" - if you were paying attention, Sophie was still holding on to the empty glass from which she gave Mark his water; into which she captured his seed.
- "strange texture" is to (hopefully) make it clear that it isn't urine he's drinking.
- "familiar" taste because he has tasted his own cum before (chapter 4), as well as someone else's cum (chapter 13)
"You really stayed" / "I promise I'll never leave you like that" - and just like that, all their problems were solved; but for real this time. We've had enough of dealing with relationship problems
"she'd gotten the stockade idea from some smut she'd read online" - I've done some pretty self-indulgent things in this series. Having Sophie read one of my other stories ("The Queen's Trial") has got to be up there.
Listen, I'm a silly person, and I wanted to make all my stories part of the same 'twisted smile pornographic universe'. And really, this was the only want to make that one fit. I actually wrote the draft for this chapter BEFORE I wrote 'The Queen's Trial'.
"about... Wait a minute" - for the sake of taste, Mark's train of thought is interrupted before he can draw too much attention to my self-referencing
"7:30 (ish)" - he just got out of the shower so doesn't have eyes on a clock for an exact time
"When did she do that?" - like I said, during the fake crossword
Not an actual stockade, but this is about as close as you can get in everyday life.
The basic story idea was a day-long bondage session. The time-stamping gimmick was really a shortcut - it let me write lots of short scenes, rather than have to come up with a single, long narrative.
The tricky part was figuring out what the hell was going to happen over such a span of time. Being tied up and left alone doesn't make for a very compelling narrative. In the first draft, Sophie was just occasionally passing by and doing random stuff to Mark - spanking, writing on him, hanging a weight off his testicles. There is still some of that in the final version, but it feels more intentional.
---
"This was my punishment." - I didn't want to portray this as an ACTUAL punishment. That would have been a bit of an over-reaction considering Mark didn't actually do anything wrong.
"Think you can handle that?" - consent; we're still correcting from chapter 13's 'assumed' consent. And again, not an actual punishment, he can opt out.
"She placed a digital clock on the floor in front of me" - otherwise, how would he know what time it is?
"@ 10:30" - the numerical passages occur at 'round' times because we're effectively periodically checking in on Mark. Other passages happen 'when they happen'. Actually, I planned them out at round times and added/subtracted random minutes to make it feel more 'real'
"213" - the original idea was that Mark would spend some time 'thinking about what he'd done'. Except that he hadn't actually done anything. Mentally factorising numbers was something I did the last time I got a dental filling - good way to keep the brain distracted.
"Window cleaner" - one time, when I was much younger, I was tying myself up (as one does) when I heard the squeak of a window cleaner outside my window. Thankfully, my curtains were closed, but I hid behind the bed all the same.
"Sophie ran in" - originally, I had Sophie actually going shopping. But naturally it's funnier if she's just pretending.
"Sorry baby, traffic was craaaazy." - gotta love someone who commits to a 'bit' (joke).
"guess you want me to let you out then?" - this is what the 'punishment' is really about. The dream brought up fears of abandonment in Sophie, so firstly she's tied Mark down so he literally can't leave. At the same time, she's 'testing' him - giving him every opportunity to ask to be released ('leave'). I'm not sure if Mark is actually consciously aware of this.
"Multiple of 7? I could never remember the test for that" - wikipedia lists several tests for divisiblity by 7. The 'easiest' is probably "Subtracting twice the last digit from the rest gives a multiple of 7". 1597 is indeed prime, in case you were wondering.
"you probably got plenty of practice [giving blowjobs] with Brett." - as we saw in chapter 14, he didn't, in fact.
"I felt the wet cock brush my arse, and I clenched up. She... slid the dildo between my legs" - Sophie paying attention to the way mark's body responds, without calling attention to it (chapter 16)
"22 across, 'devilry', 8 letters starting with 'M'..." - mischief
"14 down, 'unaware', 8 letters with an 'E' in the middle..." - clueless; specifically about the fact that Sophie is writing on his back
"16 across, 'colour', 6 letters, 3rd letter 'L'. Any ideas, baby?" - yellow; trying to trick mark into saying the safe word
Obviously, she's not doing a real crossword. Otherwise those words appearing would be a pretty big coincidence!
"That movie's coming out soon... The one with whats-his-face?" - making small talk in the middle of a bondage session. I didn't want to reference a specific film/actor so as not to date the story.
"She was sitting to the side of me with her laptop" - just hanging out. I think she might be lonely.
"Dani says 'hi', by the way." - Dani was previously mentioned in chapter 15.5; with whom Sophie had a lesbian dalliance. It's nice that they're keeping in touch.
"How does Thai sound?" - the local Thai place is first mentioned in "Alex & Becca" 1
"Her hand was rested on my arm" / "Her hand was now on top of mine... lightly clutching it" / "She slid her hand under mine, lacing our fingers together" - casual, escalating intimacy
"I pictured her in that latex dress" - chapter 15
"I pictured her in the corset" - chapter 8, but also chapter 13. Nice to know Mark doesn't have any lingering, negative associations with the corset from the threesome.
"Cherry Burst" - this is meant to be the name of the candle (fragrance). I considered something more suggestive like "Cherry Spank", "Spanked with Cherries". But they just felt too corny/implausible.
"I could have sworn the candle looked like new" - as in, she didn't actually light it. Obviously, it would have been very dangerous if she had. I thought about doing some wax play, but that felt like just doing it for the sake of doing it; it wouldn't have added anything.
"She sat down on the floor in front of me" - notice that she started in a completely different room (pretending to be out of the house), then sat behind him, then beside him, and now in front - face to face, and physically below him. You might call it a literalisation of emotional distance. At this point she's really waiting for the session to be over, maybe more so than mark
"Dani's got this look like 70s Bowie" - we'll come back to this (literally). Chapter 19 is the story that Sophie is telling Mark here.
"21:12" - quite a long story, as it turns out; over 1 hour
"I'd love to meet her." - I set myself a trap here, where chapter 19 has to believably changes Mark's opinion of Dani
"We could invite Brett over too" - whenever I mention Brett outside of his series, I imagine readers screaming 'stop trying to make Brett happen!'
"oof, that floor is NOT comfortable." / "I had to laugh." - because she's complaining about being uncomfortable to Mark, who has been chained to a table all day.
"Or, is it just because I mentioned Brett?" - Sophie seems to have some amount of jealousy/competitiveness towards Brett; whether or not she's aware of it.
"I bet [Brett] doesn't [give blow jobs] as good as I do" - callback to chapter 14 - "I definitely wasn't comparing [Brett] to anyone else, but if I were... No, stop it." I was tempted to have Mark comment on it in this chapter, but it felt a bit crass.
"I once again felt like that cow" - you might even say that she was milking him
"This milkshake seemed different. It had a strange texture, and a familiar, slightly salty taste" - if you were paying attention, Sophie was still holding on to the empty glass from which she gave Mark his water; into which she captured his seed.
- "strange texture" is to (hopefully) make it clear that it isn't urine he's drinking.
- "familiar" taste because he has tasted his own cum before (chapter 4), as well as someone else's cum (chapter 13)
"You really stayed" / "I promise I'll never leave you like that" - and just like that, all their problems were solved; but for real this time. We've had enough of dealing with relationship problems
"she'd gotten the stockade idea from some smut she'd read online" - I've done some pretty self-indulgent things in this series. Having Sophie read one of my other stories ("The Queen's Trial") has got to be up there.
Listen, I'm a silly person, and I wanted to make all my stories part of the same 'twisted smile pornographic universe'. And really, this was the only want to make that one fit. I actually wrote the draft for this chapter BEFORE I wrote 'The Queen's Trial'.
"about... Wait a minute" - for the sake of taste, Mark's train of thought is interrupted before he can draw too much attention to my self-referencing
"7:30 (ish)" - he just got out of the shower so doesn't have eyes on a clock for an exact time
"When did she do that?" - like I said, during the fake crossword
#7
Suggestions / Re: asstr
Last post by teanndaorsa - November 12, 2026, 09:46:47 PMThere are so many links that don't work any more 
But thank you for the suggestion.
Going through the Authors pages and comparing against my own dump of asstr taken in 2020, only a tiny fraction of the authors are on there: a little over 5000 authors had work up on the original, and this one seems to only have a few dozen.
Ahh... bit more digging suggests that the file browser has all the content but the website part with the indexes and search is broken, making it very hard to find stories by author, which is what a lot of our asstr links are. Still, a partially broken site is better than no site at all.
But thank you for the suggestion.Going through the Authors pages and comparing against my own dump of asstr taken in 2020, only a tiny fraction of the authors are on there: a little over 5000 authors had work up on the original, and this one seems to only have a few dozen.
Ahh... bit more digging suggests that the file browser has all the content but the website part with the indexes and search is broken, making it very hard to find stories by author, which is what a lot of our asstr links are. Still, a partially broken site is better than no site at all.
#8
Intros / Re: Hi everyone
Last post by Caras pet - November 12, 2026, 07:38:31 AMWelcome aboard, Sophie!
#9
Intros / Hi everyone
Last post by RainViper - November 12, 2026, 07:27:18 AMHello, my name is Sophie. For several years, I have been a guest on this site, enjoying the various stories about rubber, latex, bondage, and transformation.
#10
Suggestions / asstr
Last post by sammy808 - November 11, 2026, 09:22:25 AMhi, sorry to be a bother. asstr.org no longer resolves, so the link to it in the link section doesn't work. there's a new asstr-mirror.org that has attempted to serve all the stories that were on the original site. it's not complete, but it's like 70-80% complete from my recent studies, so maybe it's worth replacing?
i know there are other old links that don't work anymore, but this one has at least some solution that could help people. again, sorry to be a bother.
<3
i know there are other old links that don't work anymore, but this one has at least some solution that could help people. again, sorry to be a bother.
<3
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