Chapter Three: The Second Mask (Part 1)

Marcus didn't answer right away. His hands were still resting on her ass, and through that thin layer of black he could feel her body heat seeping up into his palms, a little at a time.

Elena didn't rush him. She stood between his knees, head bowed, looking at her own hands.

She raised them to her chest and turned them over, then back again. The light didn't sink into the black; it was lifted up whole, flowing from her wrists to the base of her fingers, from the base of her fingers to their tips, and gathering at last into a tiny bright point on each of the five sharp claws. The latex shone like it had just been brushed with oil, like a coat of lacquer that hadn't dried. There wasn't a single line or grain on its surface; only the rise and fall of her own knuckles pushed the highlights back and forth. She spread her fingers, then slowly closed them again. The latex between them bunched into fine creases, the shine breaking into thin threads inside each fold before it smoothed back out.

She touched the claw-tip of her left index finger to the claw-tip of her right.

Tak.

Light and crisp, like two glass marbles clicking together. She paused, startled, and did it again. Tak. Then middle finger to middle finger, ring to ring, pinky to pinky—tak, tak, tak—as if she were playing an invisible piano. She lined up all five claw-tips and brought them together at once, a rattling tak-tak-tak much louder than before. She was entranced by the sound, and those latex lips, swollen full in the middle, curled up at the corners.

On the fourth round, her eyes slid sideways toward the full-length mirror.

The black figure in the mirror was lifting its head at that exact moment. A smooth, bare head, two little horns on the forehead, a waist so narrow it looked like someone had pinched it in by hand, breasts thrust out, ass perked up, and on its feet a pair of pointed, red-soled heels. She looked at herself in the mirror for one second, then darted her eyes back and landed them on Marcus's face.

A second later they slid back to the mirror.

Then back to him.

She thought he hadn't noticed. Her eyes were pure black, with no whites at all, so wherever she looked it was just one solid sheet of black—but she couldn't hide the way she turned her head. It tilted left, then right, her pointed ears twitching along with it. Her fingers kept tapping, tak, tak, faster and faster, as if she were urging something along.

She slid one foot forward, her heel giving the floor a light knock. Fourteen-centimeter heels made her a little unsteady, so she used the wobble as an excuse to shift her weight onto the other leg, bent her knee just slightly, and turned her face to look at that leg in the mirror. From toe to the top of her thigh it was one unbroken stretch of smooth black. A streak of light slid up along the curve of her calf, slid into the hollow behind her knee, then slid back down as her knee bent—bright enough to reflect the floor. She stared at it for two seconds, then drew her foot back in, as if afraid of getting caught.

Then she raised a finger and pressed the pad of it against her lower lip. The soft flesh in the middle sank in, then slowly sprang back. But her gaze wasn't on the mirror anymore. It was on Marcus. She looked at his mouth, at his jaw and cheekbones, and the look in her eyes was like she was taking measurements—like she was imagining what this face she'd been looking at for years would become once that mask closed over it.

When she'd looked her fill, she bent forward, reached past his shoulder, and fished the mask off the bed.

It hung soft and limp in her claws: the same matte black, the same frayed edge, the same thin dark-red line running along the rim. She held it up beside her own face, compared the two in the mirror, then brought it back in front of her eyes and tilted her head at it.

"Huh."

She turned the mask over, then back again, holding it so close that its nose nearly touched hers.

"It's not the same as mine."

It really wasn't. The difference was subtle; you'd never see it unless you got up close. The brow ridge sat a little lower, casting a narrow shadow over the eye sockets, as if it were always sizing something up. The two eye slits were slightly longer, their outer corners slanting up toward the temples with a look that was almost, but not quite, a smile. The corners of the mouth curled up just a touch too—not a smile, but that particular curve that says I know exactly what you're thinking—with a few sharp fangs hidden behind the lips, only two little points showing.

Like two demons cast from the same mold: one baring its fangs and claws to scare you, the other not having to do anything at all—just watching you, until your skin crawled and you still couldn't look away.

"Look at the way it's looking at you." Elena turned the mask around to face Marcus. "Pure evil. Exactly like you looked that day you panicked and flipped your phone face-down."

"That day was... an accident."

"You know perfectly well what it was." She tapped the curled corner of the mask's mouth with a claw-tip; the latex dimpled softly and slowly sprang back. "It's not fair. Mine's all scary and snarly, and yours is so... so seductive. The old man played favorites."

She held the mask up in front of his face, a finger's width away, and swayed it left and right like she was trying makeup on him. The empty eye slits lined up with his eyes, and that almost-smile fell right where his lips were.

"Mmm..." She drew the sound out, narrowing her pure black eyes. "It actually suits you. With this on, you'd probably be even worse than me."

Marcus looked at the mask. His throat moved. He didn't say anything.

He could feel her gaze leave the mask and land on his face, then on the soft little belly pushing out under his T-shirt, then back on the mask. Her gaze was hot. She was waiting. She was the one who'd already turned into that, and yet the way she looked at him now was more impatient than she'd been the moment she first put the mask on.

Elena drew the mask back and cradled it against her chest, hooking a claw-tip lightly around its edge. She sneaked another look at the mirror; this time she turned a little sideways to check her waistline, ran a hand down her side along that curve, and only then brought her eyes back to his face.

"So," she asked, her voice going soft, "are you putting it on or not?"

Putting it on or not.

When those words dropped, the door inside Marcus swung open, as if a claw-tip had hooked it lightly and pulled.

He thought of the album on his phone. It was hidden in a folder called "Work Files," and the password was the date they'd met. It was full of women in latex: black that wrapped them from neck to toes, red so glossy you could see your reflection in it, the kind that sealed even the face and left nothing but a smooth, shining contour. He'd been looking at them for years—late at night, alone on the couch, swiping through one after another until his heart sped up, then hurriedly locking the album again.

It wasn't that he couldn't afford it. He had all those online shops bookmarked. He'd checked the size charts over and over. Once he'd even filled his cart, his finger hovering over "Checkout" for a full minute, and in the end he'd closed the tab.

It wasn't about money. It was Elena.

He didn't know how to bring it up. He'd imagined it so many times: mentioning it casually over dinner, or pretending he'd stumbled onto a video and asking her, "What do you think of this?" Once she'd leaned over and caught a glimpse of a full-enclosure black latex photo on his screen. He'd panicked, slapped the phone face-down, and mumbled, "Nothing, just browsing." She hadn't asked any more about it, but he'd been rattled for days. After that, every time he thought about saying something, the first thing that came to mind was her frowning—her taking half a step back and looking at him like she didn't know who he was. It wasn't rejection he was afraid of. It was that she'd think he'd changed. That from then on, every time she looked at him, there'd be a thorn in her heart.

So he never said anything. He buried it, and kept it buried for years. Buried it so deep he almost believed it himself: that it was just a minor quirk, no big deal, no different from collecting sneakers.

And now the thing he'd buried for years was standing between his knees.

A smooth, bare head, sharp little horns, a whole body of black so glossy it was almost obscene, a waist he could circle with one hand. A moment ago she'd been sneaking looks at her own legs in the mirror, utterly entranced; now she was holding the other mask, narrowing her eyes, asking if he was going to put it on.

Not only was she not frowning—she was egging him on.

Marcus's throat went tight. It hit him that what he wanted had never been just to wear a latex suit. What he wanted was this: both of them sealed in that slick, tight latex, holding each other, pressed together, not a trace of air left between skin and skin, nothing but the squeak of friction. He wanted her to look at him with those pure black eyes. He wanted every inch he touched to be glossy when he pinned her beneath him in bed. He'd wanted it for so long that the moment the thought surfaced, his cock answered for him.

And then there was their life. Work, home, takeout, weekends curled up on the couch each scrolling their own phone—even sex had turned into a fixed Saturday program: pull up the covers, a few minutes, then each roll over and go to sleep. It wasn't that he didn't love her. It was just that he often felt their life was like a pot of water kept on low heat forever, never once coming to a boil.

And tonight, it seemed, the pot was finally about to boil.

He thought of the note again. To remove them, both wearers must agree.

Both.

She already had hers on, and it wouldn't come off. Whether what the old man said was true or not, whatever this mask really was, right now she was trapped inside it alone. If it took both of them to take them off, then he had to wear one with her. He couldn't leave her alone in that skin.

Once he'd thought that far, he actually felt relieved. As if heaven had finally handed him a reason—one that needed no explanation, nothing to be embarrassed about, perfectly respectable.

"Babe?" Seeing him silent for so long, Elena tilted her head and tapped a claw-tip lightly on the edge of the mask. Tak. "Are you scared?"

"No."

He raised his head and looked at her. His voice was a little hoarse, but steady.

"I'll wear it."

Elena froze. She'd probably had a whole speech ready—to coax him, to dare him, to pout and beg—and she didn't get to use a single word of it. Her pure black eyes blinked once, then again, and those latex lips, swollen full in the middle, slowly parted.

"...Just like that?"

"Yeah."

"You're not even going to ask what you'll turn into?"

"You changed too." Marcus reached up and brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. The latex was cool and slick, and at his touch it gave a soft little squeak. "You look good."

Elena looked down at the wickedly smiling mask in her hands, then back up at him. Suddenly she burst out laughing, her shoulders shaking, and the two soft mounds on her chest, sealed tight in latex, bounced along with her, the light swaying across them.

"Marcus," she said, leaning in until her nose almost touched his, her voice low and soft, "be honest with me. Have you... been wanting to do this for a long time?"

He didn't answer.

But his ears turned red—so red there was no hiding it.

Elena didn't push. She hugged the mask to her chest, stepped back half a pace, and nodded her chin at him.

"Then strip first."

"...All of it?"

"What else?" She tilted her head, her pure black eyes sweeping him from top to bottom. "Once you change, this skin is all you'll have. You can't exactly transform in a T-shirt."

Marcus looked down at himself. An old gray T-shirt, washed so many times the collar had gone loose, the soft little belly underneath pushing the fabric out in a shallow curve. He never usually cared about it. But right now Elena was standing in front of him, sculpted by that black into what she was: her waist pulled in so tight, her ass so round and high, even the hollows of her collarbones holding a little pool of shine. Standing side by side, they looked like a retouched photo next to an unedited one.

He grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and pulled it up. It got as far as his navel and stopped.

"Why'd you stop?"

"No reason," he said, his ears going a shade redder. "Just... don't stare at me the whole time."

"I'm going to stare." Elena laughed and shifted the mask to one hand, pressing the claw-tip of the other against her lower lip. "Babe, what are you shy about? It's not like this is the first time I've seen you."

"You've never looked at me like this before."

The moment it was out, they both went still.

Elena didn't reply. She just took one small step forward, her heel knocking on the floor—tak—and then stood there, waiting for him. Her chest rose and fell gently with her breath, light sliding back and forth over those two full curves like water running over black glaze. The way she looked at him was so focused it made him want to pull his T-shirt back down and rip it off as fast as he could, both at once.

He gritted his teeth and yanked the T-shirt off over his head.

His belly was out now—soft, pale—and next to all that obscenely glossy black of hers it looked even softer and paler. Without thinking he sucked in a breath, trying to pull it in. It didn't work.

"Hey, don't suck it in." Elena reached out a single finger and touched a claw-tip just above his navel. Ice-cold and smooth, like a piece of black candy fresh out of the fridge. His stomach flinched, and she laughed. "It's cute. Nice and squishy."

"It'll be gone in a minute," he muttered.

"Mm." Her claw-tip drew a little circle on his belly, and her voice suddenly dropped. "It'll be gone in a minute."

There was something in the way she said it that he couldn't quite name. Not regret. Anticipation.

He undid his belt, shoved his jeans and boxers down to his ankles together, and kicked them away. He stood naked in front of her. His cock had been hard for a while now, jutting up high, not cooperating in the slightest with how shy he was feeling. Elena's gaze dropped and stopped there. Her latex lips pressed together slowly, then parted again.

"Looks like someone's more honest than you are."

"...Give me the mask."

She didn't. She lifted it, brought it up to her own eyes first, took one more look at that wicked smile, and only then turned it over with the inside facing him. The inside was wet, glistening with an oily sheen as if it had been coated in warm gel, and he could faintly make out a few small, sharp fangs growing inward.

"I'll help you," she said. "I nearly suffocated putting mine on. Don't do what I did."

Marcus bowed his head. She rose onto her toes, lined the bottom edge of the mask up with his chin, and pulled it up.

The first touch of the mask was warm. Not body-warm—warm like something alive, breathing. The moment the gel lining met his skin it latched on gently, sticky, like countless tiny mouths kissing his chin all at once. He shivered.

Elena held the sides of the mask with both hands and pushed upward. His chin went in, then his lips; at the bridge of his nose, it stuck.

The edge cinched tight over his cheekbones and wouldn't budge no matter how hard she pushed. His nose was pressed flat, and he could only draw air through a very narrow gap. His chest went tight almost instantly.

"Mmph..."

"Don't move, don't move." Elena leaned in, her face nearly touching his. "I know. I know exactly how this feels."

Then she opened her mouth, and that long, pointed tongue slid out.

She ran the tip of it along the edge of the mask, licking slowly from his left cheekbone all the way across to his right. Latex tongue against latex mask made a thin, drawn-out squeak, like two pieces of wet glass rubbing together. She licked slowly, carefully. Now and then her tongue-tip slipped past the edge and touched the skin that was still exposed—wet and cool, with that tackiness only latex has. Everywhere she licked, the edge loosened noticeably, went slicker.

"There," she said, her voice right at his ear, with a hint of a laugh. "Babe, breathe in."

He breathed in.

She pressed both palms flat against the mask and shoved upward.

With a wet pop the mask slid up—over the bridge of his nose, over his eyes, over his forehead, wrapping all the way around to the back of his head. Everything went black at once, completely black. All he could hear was his own heartbeat, and all he could feel was her hand pressed against his chest.

There was something in his mouth.

He touched it with his tongue: the little inward-growing fangs, resting right against his teeth, hard and cool, one row lined up against the other, fitting perfectly, as if they'd grown there just for his teeth.

"Bite down on it." Elena's voice came through a layer of latex, muffled but perfectly clear. "Same as me. Once you bite down, it's fine."

Marcus didn't hesitate.

His jaw closed.

Click.

A very small sound, coming from somewhere inside his own skull. The instant his teeth locked against those teeth, he knew: it was sealed.

The moment the mask locked shut, the suction inside it began to spread downward from his forehead.

Not squeezing. Kissing. Countless tiny mouths pressing in all at once, warm and wet, with a faintly sweet, musky rubber smell, kissing from his forehead down to his eye sockets, from his eye sockets to the roots of his ears. Marcus stood in front of the full-length mirror. Everything was still black—and then, suddenly, he could see again. Not through the slits. Through the latex itself. The world lay behind a thin, glossy layer of black, and somehow it was even clearer.

In the mirror, two figures side by side: on the left, Elena, all obscenely glossy black, little horns sweeping back, red-soled heels; on the right, his own still half-naked body, everything above the neck already covered by that wickedly smiling demon face.

His heart gave a hard jolt.

It looked so much like them. Like the full-enclosure women he'd swiped through countless times, locked away in "Work Files." A smooth head, no hair, a layer of black that wrapped a whole person into the shape of desire. The thing he'd been sneaking looks at for years was now growing on his own neck. There was fear, yes, but underneath the fear was something hotter: impatience. He was even urging it on in his head. Faster. Further down. Don't stop.

"Babe," Elena's voice was right at his ear, soft and wet, the tip of her long tongue deliberately sweeping the rim of it, "can you see yourself? Hm? Do you like it?"

He tried to speak, but all that squeezed out of his throat was a muffled "Mm." The latex was pressed against the inside of his lips; every time they moved it was sticky and slick.

She gave a little laugh and first turned her face to look at herself in the mirror. Her claw-tips slid along her collarbone down to her chest, lifted one breast for a moment—the latex sank in and sprang back, the shine wobbling, squeak. When she'd looked her fill, only then did that hand come down on his bare chest. Her claws were cool and his skin was hot; where cool met hot, he shuddered. She scraped down to his lower belly, then deliberately pressed her palm to his latex cheek and rubbed a slow circle, like she was stroking something she'd just gotten her hands on.

"Then watch closely," she said, her voice pitched very low. "Watch yourself turn, bit by bit, into... exactly the kind of thing I most want to fuck."

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