The Ultimate Asylum

by Stefi

Chapter 1

Though her presence was diminshed by the sheer numbers of celebrants at the club, it seemed she irresistably drew his attention.

He had an hour to kill before his business dinner in The Loop. To his taste, Lawry's was a tourist trap. But it seemed every out-of-town client always wanted to go there.

He had entered the club, notorious for its eclectic crowd--a loose collection of gays, straights, punks, and fetish-pervs--expecting it to be nearly empty at that relatively early evening hour. Instead, it was packed as a result of semi-private party which had started there an hour before. Maybe he'd get lucky, get the client fed, closed, and out early, then return to the club for some action.

She was dressed in a conservative and yet provocative manner: a sheer, white, pirates blouse, slim stirrup pants, simple black pumps, and a short-waisted black jacket. Her hair was jet black, her eyes deep and mysterious, her lips full and provocatively red.

When first he sighted her at a table, talking with a blonde whose back was towards him, he moved further up the bar, hoping to place himself in a better vantage point from which, if he were lucky, he might be able to discretely intrude upon her attention.

The only point available at the bar, however, forced him to stand with his back towards her. He took the place, never-the-less, resigning himself to an occassional, discrete glance in her direction. Ordering a beer, he faced the bar and was delighted to find that he could monitor her somewhat distorted reflection on the side of the highly polished capaccino machine. Staring intently at her reflection, he noted that--even though she and her friend's details were blurred--he could observe their movement. As his attention riveted upon their reflections, he noted the movement of their hands and arms; They were having--apparently--a rather animated, intense discussion. Groping further for the details of their relections, he observed that, curiously, though it was mid-summer, both appeared to be wearing gloves as the images of their hands relected black and shiny on the silverey surface.

Further intrigued, he risked discretion and turned towards them. His earlier assumption proved correct....not only were they having an animated discussion, they appeared to be arguing.

The blonde, whose back was towards him, thrust both hands into the air in either defiance or resignation, he wasn't sure which, and stood. She was tall, with closely cropped hair. His eyes traveled from her head down her length. She was dressed in all white: a jacket, below which her rounded hips were encased in a leather mini. As she moved her chair aside to leave, he noted her shapely thighs and calves were encased in skin-tight, jet black, glistening hose which appeared to be either vinyl or latex. His eyes followed her as she moved to the exit, melting into the crowd.

Oblivious to everything and everyone else in the bar, his thoughts drifted into his own sexual fantasies as he imagined himself being with her, in bed, feeling her firm, lithe, latex-encased limbs wrapped around him: imagining what it would be like to have such a person as his lover, his slave: having her as his to use: what it would feel like for her to have him controlling her, driving her to previously-unreached levels of excitement and bliss: what it would feel like for him if he were her, flaunting her sexuality, encased in exquisite latex, eliciting desire from the men--and some women--who...

He would not permit himself to think in such terms. He would not permit such fantasies to permeate his sexuality. He would permit no thoughts which compromised his masculine dominance of women. No; he had fought that battle throughout his life.

He again imagined himself taking her, driving deeper and deeper into her as she gripped him, moaning that she couldn't take anymore even as she pulled him, with increasing force and increasing rapidity, deeper and deeper into her.

Entranced, he found himself abruptly jolted from his trance-like fantasy, by a voice. "Turn to me," the voice said, but he hadn't heard it with his ears. Instead, the voice had simply occured, it seemed, within his head. Instinctively, even without the sense of direction his ears would have provided him, he turned in the direction which was somehow required, and found himself staring into the eyes of his black-haired provacateur. His eyes fastened on hers as hers seemed to burn into his very soul. He was unable--and unwilling--to turn away. As he stared into her coal-black eyes, he realized nothing--no sound, no noise, no movement, no feelings--eisted for him excepting her presence and her image, filling his entire consciousness. For eternity or for a nonosecond--he had no concept of time--his soul was controlled by the eyes from which he could not turn.

He merged back into reality--sounds, fragrances, movement--at the exact instant at which she imperiously gestured to the seat previously occupied by her departed blonde companion. He threw a "five" onto the bar, and moved through the crowd towards her oblivious to those into whom he bumped on the way. As he arrived, she again gestured at the chair: "You may be seated."

Without further consideration, he sat.

"I wish to look at you. Do not move," she stated cooly with no hint of emotion and no inflection in her voice. "You may look into my eyes as I do so."

The hubub of the bar melted into the background, then disappeared for him as, again, his vision of her overwhelmed all his other senses. In his subconcious, surrealistic images blurred into his mind, blurring into others which disappeared before taking form. Yet even though they were undefinable, he found them somehow to be overwhelmingly arousing. Then, as small wisps of fog hanging over a warm field on a cool, autumn morning, they coalesced into a single unified form. Another image slowly merged into his mind: the blonde again.

Sexual fantasies of her flitted into and out of his numbed conciousness: her appearance, her attire, her makeup, the divinely sensual hose and gloves she wore, the inate sexuality she projected, how wonderful it must feel to her, how wonderful it might feel to him, how overpoweringly he wished to share her experience, her sensuality, her clothing, her aura, her body; He imagined himself in her role...he was her, within her mind, wearing her clothing; and he was trying to warn someone...

The driving back-beat of the bar's music became a reality to him at the same instant that his other senses reawakened.

"Would you like another drink?" She was smiling at him and, he suddenly realized, was holding his hand.

"Uh, I can't," he stammered, totally confused and off-balance. "I was just coming in for the one. I've got an 8:00 business dinner."

"My pet," she said, her former smile taking on a sarcastic, derogatory, appearance, "it is 1:00 AM."

He jumped to his feet and started to check his watch; He could not. Even though she had relaxed her grip and her hand was lieing open-palmed on the table, he was unable to seperate his hand from her's. "My god," he nearly screamed, "I'll lose my job. That dinner was to close a deal I've been working on for two years..."

"Yes, my pet, you will lose your job--a small price to pay," she said cooly. "But it really doesn't matter does it?"

"No, Mistress Susan," he replied meekly. "I only wish to do your bidding. Please Mistress, may I continue to hold your hand?"

He had no recollection of how he even knew her name or what had possessed him to speak the words he had spoken.

Chapter 2

Though he experienced none of the agonizing headache associated with having drunk one's self blind the night before, David's thoughts were as confused upon awakening as if he he had been at the company's "golf trip." Vague recollections of the previous evening filtered in and out of his mind: intermingling visions of a mysterious Mistress with those of a blonde, allowing a white leather mini to slide to the floor, revealing what could have been a naked body, seemingly encased from head to toe in a clinging rubber body-suit, sitting astride him in bed, enraptured by the passion of the moment, undulating her latex covered rear, as he penetrated it, plunging deep within her...

...the phone had rung six times before he realized where it was and how to pick it up. "Strabinsky," his boss's voice crackled over the hand-set, "you son of a bitch, it's 10 fucking o'clock, you fucking blow off the fucking biggest deal we've had in two fucking years, and then you fucking sleep in the next morning and don't even bother to call!? Get your fucking ass in here right fucking now so we can try and perform some kind of damage control on this fucking mess!" Slam, the receiver went dead.

Dave rolled over on his side, returning the phone to the cradle with his right hand and, as he did so, was distracted by the glimmer of light beneath him. Looking down, he was fascinated to find he was wearing, on his left hand extending all the way to his shoulder, an exquisite latex glove either the same or like the one worn by Mistress Susan and her blonde companion the night before. His mind reeled; Who was Mistress Susan.

Inexplicably, his mind filled with her image and, it seemed, his thoughts were as hers. He recalled, through her eyes, giving David the large, black patent patent handbag, and instructing him to wear one of the gloves, contained within the first of two packages within it. Through her eyes, he recalled handing the luxuriant latex garment to the zombie-like male seated across from her. With her eyes, he watched as the new slave mindlessly unbottoned his cuff, rolled his sleeve up, and painstakingly drew the opera length garment, full-length up his arm, smoothing every wrinkle and every crevice from it. Through her mind, he felt the burning passion growing between her legs as she contemplated the sexual use of yet another slave. Through her mind, he savored the stimulation which she only obtained through the final metamorphosis when this slave too would become...

Reality returned but Dave's total, concious attention was fixated on the glove. During the night, its incredible thinness had consricted further around his arm until, utimately, it had seemed to merge with his very skin. He stared intently at his arm noting that even his veins and tendons were visible in the shiny blackness of the garment. The constriction had also reduced the size and angularity of his arm giving it a softness, a smoothness, almost feminine in nature, exaccerbated by the totally-smooth, hair-free surface.

He felt compelled to touch his latex-covered hand and arm, gently stroking its length, revelling in its blackness, its sheen, its unblemished smoothness. As he did so, even though all tactile sense his arm formerly possessed was now hidden below its rubberized exterior, he found himself stimulated by the appearance of his limb. He pinched the black rubber; Even though he felt nothing of the touching of his latex-encased limb, the pinch hurt.

He drew his latex-enshrouded hand down the length of his torso--every inch of skin he touched succombed to a stimulation unlike anything he had ever experienced--down his stomach, across his abdomen, until his rubber hand found and grasped his raging manhood, then slowly, rythmically began the copulation which both hand and member seemed to desire on their own, as if Dave was merely a passive observer.

His passion and sense of sexual urgency spent, Dave repaired to the restroom to shower, noting the time as he went. He needed to hurry but, to his dismay, found it impossible to remove the glove. Panicked, his mind raced: how could he present himself at the office wearing a latex glove? He had an idea; At least, he thought to himself, it gives me an out.

When Dave arrived at the office, the receptionist was startled to see his left hand swathed in gauze and surgical tape. It was, he had told her, the stupidest thing he had ever done, knocking the tea-kettle off the stove then, relfexively, attempting to catch it in mid-air, scalding himself in the process. Both his boss and Wainright, the client whom Dave had bypassed the night before, accepted Dave's apology for his absence the previous evening and his tardiness the following day. In fact, Dave's boss apologized for his own outburst and suggested that Dave stay home the remaining four days of the week, in order to recuperate from the trauma.

Dave, feigning reluctance, agreed, eager to return home to revel in his fascination with the glove, and insatiably curious regarding the remaining contents of the bag.

Chapter 3

During the 35 minute commute home, his head clearing further, his conciousness becoming one with reality, Dave's attention moved away from his monomanical fascination with the glove and the events of the preceeding evening, focussing instead on the bookwork he'd been avoiding for the last two weeks.

At the entryway of his home, he doffed his coat and shirt and went upstairs to the bedroom to remove the glove and replace it into the bag he had brought home the previous evening. He flipped on the bedroom television, hoping to catch the noon news.

Not wishing to harm the garment in any way, he went to the master bath where he would have the use of the mirror to aid in its removal and storage. Naked above his beltline, he looked at himself in the mirror, fascinated by what he saw; his left arm bore no resemblance to his right in terms of girth or muscle definition. It was, instead, wonderfully, provocatively feminine in appearance.

With a start, Dave realized that the glove was seemingly changing his arm's configuration the longer it was left in place. Somehow, someway, the glove was casuing his arm to metamorphosize into something feminine and foreign. Nearly seized in panic, using his fingernails, he began digging at the skin of his upper forearm, groping for the rolled seam at the glove's edge, so he could peel it off.

But there was no seam; the smooth latex now simply blended and merged into his own skin, becoming one with it. His frantic scratching only served to scrape his flesh; the latex was unblemished. Even as he was repulsed by what was happening, he found himself, at the same time, stimulated by the mental image of his perfectly-proportioned, porcelain-smooth, ebony appendage.

Briefly, Dave balanced on the edge of real panic and total resignation;

At first: would he have to live out the rest of his life like a freak? Could he forever hide this part of himself from the world.

Then: how beautiful his arm had become, how he wanted to touch it, feel it, flaunt it for all to see.

He focussed on the latter and shortly found himself moving toward the bedroom dresser upon which resided the bag within which resided the new focus of his altered attentions.

Again, Dave's mind seemed to blur. He was in a dream-like state as, with his ebony left hand, he delicately lifted the sack while, with his right hand he nearly tore it groping for the contents; It was as if his left arm moved and acted with graceful feminity while his right was controlled by an enraged male.

Inside, atop three other neatly-stacked smaller sacks within, he found a note:

"You will be totally unable to turn back after the first step is complete.

Within the sack are seperate packages, numbered

one and two. Your glove was in the first.

I will be with you tonight only if you succumb."

Mistress Susan

As he read the note, his mind bolted back to reality. He stepped into the walk-in closet and from the top shelf, began to slide out his old Army trunk. He would lock the packge and its contents where no one would ever find them. As he reached upwards with both arms, he realized that latex-encased arm was noticably weaker than his other. His feminine appearing arm collapsed under the weigh, allowing the trunk to crash to the floor, its corner landing painfully upon his left foot.

Enraged, Dave stomped across the bedroom, then with his right fist, flailed out, knocking a lamp from the dresser and shattering it on the adjacent wall. In an uncontrollable rage, he prepared to punch his right fist through the wall when suddenly, he stopped short: the cool softness of his left hand, soothingly carressing and stroking his face's right cheek, seemed to calm him. For a moment, he revelled in the softness of his own touch against his cheek then, kneeling down, gently picked up the bag from the floor and removed the top sack from inside, laying it upon the bed, incogniscent of the fact that his feminine appearing am had seemed to have comforted him with a will of its own, noting--but paying little attention to--the short, blonde strand of hair, on the floor next to the bag.

He bent, permitting his rubber-clad hand to delicately retrieve the sack from the floor and gently place it upon the bed. With no conscious effort on his part, the hand gently retrieved the first small bundle from the sack, gently opened it and drew out the remaining glove, laying it out across the bed.

He opened the second sack and withdres a lipstick red latex corselette with molded-in bra cups, black latex hose, and high-waisted bicycle shorts with, curiously, what appeared to a molded-in female labria.

At first fascinated, he drew the exquisite corselette across his face, inhaling its fragrance, relishing in its coolness and suppleness as it touched his cheek.

He wanted so much to wear them yet, until he found how to removed the glove which already seemed to adhere to him, he couldn't dare. Picking them up, he tossed them onto the chair adjacent to the bed.

Briefly, he glanced at the remains of the antique lamp shattered on the floor, a gift from his grandmother, before her death ten years earlier. He felt totally depleted from the adrenaline-rush he'd just experienced: so depleted, so weakened, so confused about the events of the past eighteen hours. He sat upon the bed and began to cry, then reclined onto it, his face buried in the pillow. He fell into a deep, splendidly comforting sleep.

It was pitch black outside when Dave awoke. He glanced at the clock; It was 1:00 AM. Despite the fact that it was now the middle of the night, he felt perfectly relaxed and refreshed. He had slept nearly 12 hours.

Somehow, he realized, he had managed to get his pants off and crawl under the covers, even though he didn't recall having done so. He felt incredibly mellow considering the rage he'd experienced before sleeping. In fact, he felt almost languid: uncharacteristically calm.

Dave withdrew his left arm from beneath the covers, extending it out full-length, curious as to whether he might now be able to remove the latex glove. Noting its perfect, delicate proportions, he allowed his wrist to droop down limply, then angled it up at an angle to enjoy the sight of his now-delicate fingers, then drooped his wrist again. His arm and hand were so beautiful, so delicately, delightfully feminine in both form and movement. He longed for others to appreciate that beauty too.

He began to withdraw his right arm from beneath the covers, to delight in its touch of his left, noting curiously as he did so, that he couldn't feel the sensation of of his arm hair sliding against the cotton sheets. As the reality struck him, he abruptly withdrew his right arm and stared at it in horror; It too, was now smooth, shiny, jet black, and delicately proportioned.

Dave sat bolt upright in bed, the covers falling from him revealing that what--a few hours before--had been the corselette was now his torso: wasp-waisted and large-breasted, while the "skin" covering it was now smooth, flawless, shimmering red latex.

He leapt from the bed, nearly stumbling from the awkwardness induced by his unaccustomed, reproportioned body mass. What of his legs?

Looking down he found his view blocked by full, rounded, latex skinned breasts thrusting out from his chest, their pointed, erect nipple protruding magnificently. They moved up and down as his breathing increased in its heaviness. Carefully balancing on one foot, he lifted the other from the ground and extended his leg in front of him, pointing his toes and slowly raising his foot to his view.

The beauty of the vision of the perfectly proportioned, female leg, shimmering in black latex was only overwhelmed by his horror at what was happening to him.

He had to find Mistress Susan: had to stop this process before it went any further.

Regaining his coordination, he hurried toward the rest room, only to find his steps were short and delicate, his movements unaccustumedly strange and awkward, impeding his progress. His lower torso seemed to undulate from side to side as he moved. Quickly, he turned the corner into the bath, wincing at the pain as his left breast swung into the corner of the doorframe, inflicting pain: the breasts were real and they were his!

Switching on the light, he stood, transfixed, staring at the mirror. Before him stood a reflected vision like nothing he had ever beheld: a sublimely erotic female figure, encased from toe to chest and from shoulder to fingertip in brilliantly shiny, wrinkle free, un-seamed latex. Every detail of the figure's erect nipples, even the small bumps ringing their centers, was readily apparent. As he looked, they became even more erect, jutting forward as if being pushed from behind. The figure's ribcage, narrowed by the corsolette, narrowed to a tiny waist which rapidly curved outward.

Dave was captured by the perfection of his own feminine form. He ran his hands across his full, plump breasts, cupped them in his rubber palms, then--with both hands--followed the contour of his ribs down to his now-tiny waist, finding he could nearly touch his thumbs and forefingers as he squeezed its wasp-like diameter, bringing his hands to rest on his now-flaring hips.

The image in the mirror posed for him, hands on hips, breasts out-thrust, slowly rotating its head to the right and body to its left, adopting a pouty face as, looking down across an upraised right shoulder, it admired the form of its own breast, viewed from the side. Slowly, it turned, again facing the mirror.

Dave found himself lusting for the body which was, in fact, his own as his eyes travelled down the throat to the breasts, to the flat stomach and flared hips, to the parting of the legs where...

Dave fell backwards against the wall, still staring at the mirror. Where his male appendage had been, a smooth, shiny, hairless, jet-black mound of venus, its lips swollen and puffy, now remained. Gently, he probed its length with his center finger, drawing the outline of its slit from back to front and up to his clit. It reponded with moistness and he felt flushed.

Apprehension overwhelming him, he rested the heel of his hand on the top of his mound, curling his nearly feeling-less fingers rearward in search of his testicles. There was no evidence of them nor of their ever having been.

"Come to me." The unheard voice appeared in Dave's mind.

Chapter 4

Dave hurried to the closet, grabbing the first things--a pair of jeans and an oxford cloth dress shirt--he could find. Pulling on the shirt, he found himself strangely stimulated by the feel of the material sliding up his arms.

Glancing in the mirror, he was relieved to find that, with the collar of the shirt unbuttoned, his latex covered chest was hidden, his little, remaining, naturual skin--head, face, and throuat--being all that was visible. He was less comforted as he realized the feminine outline of his full breasts were readily apparent beneath the material of his shirt. He would need to wear a sportcoat.

Sitting on the bed, he bent forward and inserted his feet into his jeans to pull them up his legs. But his grapsping latex skin would not allow the denim to easily slide. Rolling onto his back, with his feet in the air, he pulled the material of his jeans until the cuffs were above both ankles, then stood again, wiggling as he pulled and worked them up the length of his legs. Reaching his full hips, he found himself wiggling, bending, pulling, and compressing his buttocks in order to get the pants up to his waist. It took nearly all of his strength to start the zipper, then it suddenly moved easily. He snapped the button at the top only to find the waistline, now much higher on his hips than ever before, hung loosely about his waist, leaving a sizable gap. Retrieving a thin belt from the bureau, he hurriedly ran it through the loops, drew it to the last hole, and buckled it. A 2 inch gap still remained around his waist. Removing the belt, he tossed it aside and grasped an old military slide belt, inserted it through the loops and pulling it tightly, cinched in the loose material.

He again turned to the mirror, realizing he could never again be perceived as a male. The rounded fullness of his hips and butt strained for release from their denim confinement. The lower portion of his jean's fly disappeared into his slit , outlining--even through the denim material--his swollen labria.

He could not go out as a man; He had to be as feminine as possible if he were to avoid the attention of which he was now becoming desperately afraid. He was near panic. He had no female clothing nor any means of getting any.

He returned to the restroom. Having no makeup, at least--he reasoned--he could be cleanly shaven and, perhaps, do something more feminine with his hair to avoid scrutiny.

Removing his razor from the medicine cabinet, he turned to the mirror for a closer inspection of his face, then returned the razor to the cabinet; It would not be necessary. Whatever the mysterious physiological changes were that had been wraught by latex garments, they extended beyond the areas of his anatomy which they now encased.

Not only did he not need to shave, but his facial skin was totally smooth, stubble-free, and--somehow--softer in appearance. With his black, gleaming fingers, he stroked his cheek, thrilling to his own touch, and relieved at his more-likely ability to avoid the unwanted attention of which he was afraid.

Filling the sink with water, he dunked his head into it, wetting his close-cropped hair. Towelling it to partial dryness, he brushed it up as he blow-dried it, giving it more body, then sprayed it to hold it in what was now a semi-punk hairdo.

Returning to the mirror, he decided he would look less conspicuous if his shirt tail were left out. Removing it, he beheld the image of a casually-dressed, 30-ish, city chick. The only flaw in her attempted anonymity being the latex gloves she incongruously wore.

"Now, Cherise," the voice in her head said. "Tonight, two more." Dave knew that he was the "Cherise" to whom the voice spoke and accepted that "Dave" no longer existed.

Donning a pair of tennys which only yesterday fit, yet now were loose upon her feet, she picked up her car keys.

Chapter 5

It was nearly 1:30 PM when Cherise arrived at the club. Somehow, she knew she was to meet the Mistress there.

Afraid to walk the street alone, she pulled to the club's entrance and handed her keys to the red-eyed attendant.

"Thanks babe," he said, making no eye contact but, instead, focussing on the fulfillment of the shirt she wore. "Mistress is inside."

He drove off, leaving Cherise wondering how the attendant had any way of knowing why she was there.

In the short distance to the entrance, two obviously-imbibed young men, slightly built and holding hands, passed her on the sidewalk. "Go girl," one said flippantly in Cherise's direction. She quickened her pace into the club.

The activity was frenetic, the packed club bustling with the activities of those celebrating with one they had already found, the others desperately seeking the fulfillment of finding a lover before final call. Hands, arms, legs and necks of those sitting or standing all seemed to be intertwined while those on the dance floor moved their bodies rythmically to the pounding music, as if engaged in a primeval mating ritual.

All, it seemed, wore clothing announcing the particular fetish which expressed their sensuality: latex, leather, vinyl, lycra, chains and plastic, accentuated or revealed the flesh beneath. Only a few persons she could see--apparently a group of business persons--six men and two women, all wearing business suits--were not costumed for the occassion.

Cherise, in her attempt not to gain attention, felt increasing uncomfortable, her conservative attire now standing out rather than blending in, and drawing attention to her. It seemed as if everyone was staring at her; In fact, everyone was staring at her. Amongst the hundreds of partyers, everyone was looking at her as the music stopped and all conversation ended.

"May I present," the Mistress' voice, siren-like and languid, broadcast from the PA system, "Cherise!"

The entire crowd broke into applause, smiles coming from the faces of the men as some of the women smiled, blew kisses, or shared an "air kiss" puckering their lips in Cherise's direction.

Cherise nervously glanced in the direction of the business party; Three of the men were all focussed upon their pawing of a young chick who sat between them, clad in a rubber mini and red latex bra overlowing with her bosom, obviously over-served. The other man and the two females, were focussed on Cherise: one woman looking curiously at her face, the other looking at her breasts with hungry, wanton desire, and the male staring straight at the outlines of her crotch, visible through the taut denim.

"And now, in honor of Cherise, our entertainment, beginning with Sabrina, then the dance of transfiguration." The Mistress extended her hand toward Cherise who, instinctively, moved through the crowd to the Mistress. Their latex covered hands touched as Cherise assisted her Mistress down from the stage escorted her, still holding hands, to her reserved table adjacent. Mistress very touch sent a thrill through Cherise's every cell, exciting her in a way she'd never before experienced. It seemed for the first time her entire groin--from her vulva to her anus became alive as blood and sensations poured to those areas, demanding manipulation. She felt her crotch becoming increasingly moist as it strained further against the tight blue jeans.

Cherise was oblivious to the beginning of the first act: Sabrina, a willowy blonde wearing a black vinyl, open-breasted cat-suit and carrying a whip who, with the assistance of her slave, a compact, heavily muscled black male wearing only a leather thong and a studded slave collar, perfomed a beautifully coreographed domination ritual. Instead, she could only gaze longingly into the eyes of the Mistress.

"You are inappropriately dressed." The Mistress' lips had not moved.

Cherise stood, courtsied, and--without even knowing why--walked around the stage to the backstage entrance door.

Chapter 6

Cherise was apprehensive and somewhat frightened as she moved down the dimly-lit hallway behind the stage. Every three feet, on either side of the hall, were unmarked doors, apparently small closets. She passed them by, one after the other, until she came to a large metal door, with a lift handle. Somehow, it seemed frightening to her and after a brief instant of indecision, she hurried by it. No more of the closet doors remained but, 10 feet farther up the hall, was another door, with a star adorning it. Below the star was a slide-in name sign: Cherise. As she reached for the knob, the hallway virtually shook with the uproar and applause from the crowd at the stage. She had no idea why.

She entered and looked about. Along one wall, latex garments hung, one after the other: skirts, dresses, hose, gloves, bras, panties, catsuits, masks, hoods: virtually any type of rubber garment imaginable. At the back wall was a large dressing table and makeup mirror, the table top covered with cosmetics and perfumes while along the right wall, curiously, was a medical stirrup table, covered by a latex sheet.

Cherise moved to the dressing table, removing her man-tailored shirt as she went. Even though she had never before worn makeup, she seemed to instinctively know which items to use and how to apply them. Within a few minutes, her few facial lines were softened, the high countours of her cheeks were emphasized, the broadness of her nose was minimized, and her lips were full, red, and pouty looking. Her eyes were emphsized and enhanced so they would receive the attention they deserved and her mascarra-lengthened lashes batted flirtatiously.

A light misting of a selected perfume freed her to select her attire.

Moving to the clothes rack, she found sorted through, one garment at a time, looking for anything which would germinate an idea for the "look" she needed. Her quest ended with high-waisted, red latex mini skirt, the exact color as her latex torso. Regretably, it seemed several sizes too large but she resigned herself to wearing it anyway.

She briefly considered latex panties to wear beneath it but discarded the idea; Without them she would be more "accessible"--and she desired to be accessed. Laying the skirt across her arms, she moved back to the dressing table, fascinated by her reflected image as she approached it. She was incredibly beautiful.

Sitting, she crossed her legs, knees together, ankle on ankle and, surprised, noted that on the edge of the table was the bag, from her house, which had appeared the night before. Curiosity overwhelming her, Cherise felt compelled to open it. Inside were to new sack.

She opened the first withdrawing two, highly-shined, black rubber masks. Both had small holes for the nostrils but they differed where the mouth should have been. The mouth opening on the first had molded-in lips but they were not facial lips; The were vaginal lips, extending vertically from the chin almost to the nostrils. The other mask seemed to have a screw-on attachment holder for something where the mouth should have been. Reaching into the bag again, she withdrew a large, black, soft-rubber dildo. At its base it was threaded, obviously permitting it to attach to the second mask.

No way, she thought to herself.

Opening the larger bag, she found a pair of black, latex, thigh-high boots, with pointed toes and spike heels.

Swiveling her chair, she caressed them, feeling their suppleness, glorying at their highly-shined glimmer, and marveling at the incredibly thin, five inch spiked heel. Alternately extending her legs, she pulled the boots on, surprised with the ease with which she did so. Standing, she nearly stumbled, unaccustomed to her weight being transferred so far forward. Regaining her balance, she found that since the heels moved her center of gravity forward at the hips, to compensate, she needed to bend backwards slightly at the waist, effectively moving her butt farther out behind her and her breasts farther out in front of her.

She practiced walking back and forth across the room a few times and found, with her new posture, it was not as difficult as she would have imagined, although it did force her to take smaller, mincing steps.

Assured that she could, in fact, be mobile in the boots, she picked up the latex skirt, hoping that, despite being too large, it would fit adequately for the evening. She was able to wiggle into the skirt but was disappointed at the looseness of its fit around her tiny waist. Smoothing it with her hands she found that the waist of the skirt extended up to the base of her ribcage while the hem hung only a couple of inches below her crotch.

Still, she was concerned that the high waist might be too loose, tending to "gap" on her. But, she noted as she looked in the mirror, the resilient rubber seemed to have shrunk back, removing the gap. In fact, it fit quite well. It was acutually, a little tight. In fact...

Cherise was suddenly panicked as the air was squeezed from her diaphragm and at the same time, her legs were racked in cramps. Both the high waist band of the skirt and the boots were shrinking onto her and into her. She bent forward in an effort to regain her breath and, as the pain in her legs increased to intolerable levels felt a strange, buzzing sensation in her tongue which spread into her head. The garments were constricting her so tightly, she was unable to breathe. Falling forward, she lost consciousness.

Chapter 7

Cherise felt she could have been out no more than a few minutes. She had difficulty standing from the combined effects of the high heels and the tight skirt but, grasping the edge of the table, she was finally able to do so.

She turned again toward the mirror. Just as with the others garments, the edge seams, where they had orginally overlapped her skin, had now become one with it, blending into a continuous, smooth surface. The waist band of the skirt now melded into and became one with Cherise's latex torso. The lower portion of her skirt, now excrutiatingly tight, had not melded with her black, latex legs, but the high waist band, now constricting her previously shrunken waist even more, had become so tight it was a moot point; Moving back towards her chair, she found she could now take only the tiniest of steps, the stretching, firm rubber inhibiting all but the smallest movements.

Slowly, she sat upon the chair. With effort to overcome the constrictive skirt, she demurely crossed her legs and ran her fingers down her almost-completely exposed thighs, down her shapely, shimmering calf, to the red latex boot-top which now blended seamlessly with her black rubber-skinned thigh, to the delicate spike heel at the bottom of the boot. Encircling it with her fingers, she tugged lightly at it, curious if she could any longer remove the boot.

The spike hurt when she tugged it; It exhibited pain; It too, was one with her.

Cherise knew, somehow, she must shortly reappear in the crowd but wanted to complete her outfit before doing so. Moving with small, mincing steps to the clothesrack, she delighted in the ways her body now moved: the slight side-to-side movement of her buttocks, the fore and aft movement of her shoulders and breasts. She found a wide, black patent belt (from this, at least, she felt safe) which she donned immediately, and a black latex, studded slave collar with a ring in front.

She knew the consequences of the rubber garments but no longer cared. She placed it around her neck, felt it constrict briefly, then felt a strange sensation as it too, melded into her latex skin, causing brief tingling sensations as each of the cool metal studs became a part of her skin.

Suddenly, Cherise was overcome by hunger as it occured to her she had not eaten in nearly two days. At the same instant, the voice in her head said, "Here."

Chapter 8

Cherise paused briefly after leaving the dressing room, to contemplate one of the many closet-like doors, lining the hallway, curious as the their contents when, again, the voice inside her head resounded: "Now."

With no further thought, she moved as quickly as possible up the hallway, finding that her constrained steps forced her behind to sway back and forth while her now-pendulous breasts move in opposition as she attempted to hurry.

She again entered aside the stage area to take her seat beside the Mistress. "Our entertainment," the Mistress stated.

Cherise turned toward the stage. Upon it, her back to the audience, a tall, slender, feminine form, covered from head to toe in a seamless, black latex cat-suit, perched atop 5" spike heels, moved with feline grace, swaying in unisons with the background music.

"Please, Mistress, may I order food," Cherise asked, turning to her owner? "It has been so long since I've eaten, I feel dizzy."

"Yes, my pet," Mistress Susan replied. "You are here to be fed." The nod of her head, without so much as a word, indicated that Cherise was to look at the stage. She turned to do so.

The dancer on-stage slowly rotated as her body writhed to the music. As she did so, Susan recognized her close-cropped blonde hair: it was the woman who, the night before, had been arguing with Mistress Susan.

Cherise's intrigue, however, was overwhelmed by her hunger. She was truly afraid of fainting if she did not receive some nourishment. "Please, Mistress..."

Again, the nod indicated that Cherise was to look towards the stage, even as a roar came from the crowd.

For the first time, the dancer now faced the crowd. Cherise was shocked to see that her face--pale white yesterday--was now black, shimmering latex and that her lips--full, perfect and pouting the night before--had been transformed into a vagina, hideously out-of-place next to her other delicate facial features. Above the noise of the crowd and the amplified music, Cherise could hear muffled grunts and gutteral sounds from the dancer as she and Cherise stared directly into one another's eyes. It was clear she was trying to warn Cherise but was no longer capable of speech.

Suddenly, the crowd roared its approval as the dancer seemed to faint, falling forward onto the stage floor, to weak to stand, then crawled toward the edge of the stage, as close as she could get to Mistress Susan. Cherise recoiled from the pathetic creature who was gazing now into Mistress Susan's eyes, even as tears flowed from her own.

With a look of total resignation, as the crowded room became suddenly, completely silent, the blonde nodded her head to Mistress Susan in apparent, resigned, affirmation of something. The crowd went hysterical, chanting in unison: "Feeding time! Feeding time! Feeding time!..."

Hearing movement from within the crowd, Cherise looked out into it and noted that from several of them young men, were getting up, then moving toward the stage, some apparently of their own volition, others being urged on by their laughing friends. They assembled at the foot of the stage, in a group.

Mistress Susan, picked up the portable mike next to her: "Ladies and gentlemen," she said, "let's have a round of applause for our feeders."

The crowd erupted, coming to its feet.

"Let the feast begin!"

The blonde on stage, obviously to weak for any forceful movement, slowly raised herserlf with one arm, then rolled onto her back. The group of young men--five of them now--climbed onto the stage and proceeded toward the blonde, shedding their glothes as they moved, laughing and talking amongst themselved.

The first of them to approach the blonde, a large, muscular, blue-eyed blonde, positioned himself on his kness next to her and began to knead her fleshy, latex covered breasts. Despite hear weakened condition, the blonde responded to the stimulation, moving her hands down her hips, across her abdomen, then messaging her pussy.

The young stud, fully errect now, lifted her shoulders, placing her in a seated position on the stage. As she continued to greedily play with herself, the stud laid on his back next to her, and with seemingly little effort, lifted the emmaciated blonde, both hands around her waist, lowering her atop his raging memeber which entered her easily.

He lowered his back to the floor as the blonde rode his cock, moving her entire body up and down with animal-like passion.

The crowd was roaring its approval as a second youth, dark-haired and swarthy, stood straddling the first and, with his hands on the back of the blonde girl's head, pulled her pussy-mouth onto his tool. With a hunger both sexual and physical, she grasped his naked buttocks and began rythmically pulling him back and forth, sliding his manhood into and out of the orifice on her face. In only a few brief seconds, he unloaded his jism into her as the other three studs lined up behind him for their turns. In less than a couple of minutes, they too were spent.

The blonde girl, her strength apparently replenished, stood up on her knees, removing her cunt from its envelopment of the the stud's penis, turned and descended upon it with her pussy-mouth, taking its full length up and down into her face. In moments his body became rigid then convulsed as he too emptied his testacles into her.

The crowd continued roaring its approval but now, a new chant was building from it. It seemed they were saying, "Cher, Cher, Cher..."

Cherise was terrified. Was she to be the next on stage? Her eyes darted to her Mistress but hers were oblivious to Cherise. Instead, she gazed with contenment at the stage.

Cherise turned back towards it. The young studs were climbing down from it and the blonde female was nowhere to be seen, but she detected a rustling movement from behind the stage curtains.

The crowds chanting became more frenzied and Cherise realized what they were chanting: "Share! Share! Share! Share!"

From behind the curtain, the blonde stepped to center stage. Obviously re-strengthened, she now carried, cradled in her arms, another feminine figure, smaller yet equally endowed, with long, flowing, brunette hair, seemingly lifeless, also covered head-to-toe in smooth jet black latex. Effortlessly, she lowered the still figure onto the stage, standing over her, and momentarily looking down at her. From the brunette's groin, a huge black penis stood fully erect.

Lowering herself to the prone brunette, she tenderly reached for her head, rotating it so the brunette's face was now looking up at the ceiling. As she did so, the outline of the face came into Cherise's view, as well the six inch penis occupying the space where her mouth should have been.

Gently, she bent as if to kiss the inanimate brunette, and lowered her pussy mouth over the vertical member, moving it up and down, enveloping the shaft. Gradually, the brunette seemed to regain consciousness as her fingers bent, then extended. She moved her hands to the blonde's hips, encircling her waist with her arms, moving her hands up her back, then clasped them around the back of blonde's head pulling their faces together in a passionate, kissing embrace that surely must have plunged the penis to the bottom of the blondes throat.

Semen flowed from around the blondes facial orifice and dripped from the brunettes shimmering cheeks and chin as Cherise realized that the blonde, having received her nourishment, was now, in turn, feeding the smaller woman.

Without withdrawing the penis from its insertion into her face, the blonde rotated, straddling the brunette with her knees, lowering her cunt over brunettes groin, effortlessly enveloping the exposed cock with her cunt.

The brunette came fully to life, rocking and bucking as her two penis plunged in and out of the blonde's compatible organs.

The crowd was roaring as five and ten dollar bills showered the stage.

Cherise felt her own passion burning between her thighs as her pussy dripped in anticipation, craving the satisfaction of having such a member thrust into it. She was mesmerized by the scene in front of her and captivated by her own building lust. Only one thing kept her from rushing onto the stage to gain her own satisfaction in front of everyone there: her hunger had gone beyond a mere desire for food; She was now so weak she felt dizzy.

She turned to beg her Mistress for anything to eat but Mistress Susan was gone.

Dropping her head to the table, burying it in her arms, Cherise began to cry.

Chapter 9

With great effort, Cherise stood from the table, teetering momentarily on her spike heels. Catching her balance, she noticed several lust-filled mails leering at her feminine figure. Turning from them she toward the stage, now empty. The crowd, subdued, was still present. Apparently, it was intermission.

She moved around the end of the stage, toward the corridor which lead back to the dressing room.

Entering the hallway, she shut the stage door behind her, turned and noted that all of the closet-like doors lining the hallway were now open except the last two before the dressing room. With dread curiosity, she approached the first closet and looked inside. With some relief, she found it empty, excepting a name sign, "Danielle and Tricia" affixed to its back wall.

Each of the subsequent closets, likewise, was empty, excepting a name sign.

With growing dread, Cherise proceeded up the hall, toward the dressing room and the two closed closets. Her abject fear was overcome by curiosity born of the realization that her ultimate fate was somehow connected to these closets.

Tentatively approaching the clost on the left Cherise cautiously extended her shimmering hand towards it, and turned the nob, slowly pulling it open. At first, it appeared empty but as the dim light of the hallway gradually entered, two perfectly still forms emerged from the shadow, jet black, their bodies held together in an impossibly-tight embrace, face-to-face, breasts-to-breasts, groin-to-groin: the blonde and the brunette from the stage.

Cherise recoiled in shock; Were they dead? She touched them gently, terrified that they might suddenly grab her. She detected warmth and could feel the movement of blood under their latex skin but they seemed to be in some catatonic state.

Afraid to take her eyes off them, she moved backwards, then stepped sideways to the remaining closed closet. As she slowly opened the door and the subtle light slowly illuminated the interior, she was relieved to find the closet empty. She glanced at the sign within then froze as she read it:

"Cherise and Yvette"

Moving with all the speed she could muster, Cherise nearly flew up the corridor, her heels clicking loudly and echoing off the bare walls. Weak and hungry though she was, she was consumed by a rage unlike anything she had felt since her feminization had begun.

Rounding the end of the stage, she found Mistress Susan, again seated at her stage-side table. Insubordinately, she took the seat across from her without asking.

"You fucking bitch," she shouted over the cacaphony of the crowd and the background music. "You can't do this to me." She smashed her dainty fist down upon the table in empahsis, realizing that she was making a scene in front of the couple at the next table. She glanced in their direction. It was the male and one of the females from the business party she had seen upon entering the club that night. They showed no emotion, no recognition, and seemed to be looking straight through Cherise.

Mistress Susan smiled back at her: a controlling, knowing smile. Her words appeared in Cherise's mind though her lips did not move: "Are you hungry, my pet?"

The realization of Cherise's near starvation overcame her and again, she felt weak and dizzy.

"Two tonight. Then you may feed."

"Yes, Mistress," Cherise intoned.

"A male and a female."

"Yes, Mistress."

"The necessary items are in the dressing room. The bags are marked for the male and female, including their addresses. You will drive your car for the last time tonight. When you arrive, their doors will be unlocked so you will enter directly. The contents of the bag for the male will be the same as the contents of the bag you received, including the pussy mask. The female will receive the the dildo mask and panties."

"Yes, Mistress."

"You will take your first feeding--and indeed, the last feeding you'll ever have with your mouth--from the male tonight. That will give you enough strength to return here."

"Yes, Mistress."

"Following which, you will return here, don the pussy mask, then go to your closet to sleep."

"Thank you, Mistress."

"Beginning tomorrow night, you will feed nightly, and share your food with your new dependent."

"Yes, Mistress."

"You will leave now and go to the male's house to await his arrival."

"Thank you, Mistress."

Cherise stood slowly and turned to leave, moving toward the stage door. She heard her Mistress voice in the background as she left:

"Yvette, you may sit with me now."