Nightmares...

She was being swallowed.

Not by darkness, but by something cold and creeping. It started at her feet—an icy sensation spreading like quicksilver—and worked its way upward with terrifying patience. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The pressure built, pressing against her chest, her limbs, her throat.

She screamed.

And woke.

Jess bolted upright in bed, lungs heaving. A sheen of sweat clung to her skin, and her oversized sleep shirt was plastered to her back.

But something wasn’t right.

Her legs tingled.

Something was still there.

Beneath the covers, something slick and shifting moved along her skin. It wasn’t a blanket. It wasn’t a dream. She threw the sheets off with a panicked gasp—and froze.

The maid uniform.

It had found her.

The glossy black material shimmered in the dim light from her phone screen, but it no longer resembled folded latex. It moved. Slithered. Adhered. Already, tendrils of it were crawling up her calves, wrapping with biomechanical precision.

Jess tried to kick it away, but the substance clung tight. As it spread, she caught a glimpse of something beneath the liquid surface—not fibers, not fabric, but thin, glowing lines. Circuitry.

Embedded tech.

The latex wasn’t just alive.

It was engineered.

A tendril looped around her thigh, tightening like a tourniquet. Another reached higher, curling beneath the hem of her shirt and slashing through the fabric with a fine monomolecular edge. Her shirt peeled away in two clean halves, falling to the floor.

Jess scrambled, trying to stand, but the floor was slippery—coated in the same dark liquid. It flowed like mercury, thick and invasive. Her hands found purchase on the nightstand just long enough to snatch her phone and switch on the light.

What she saw made her stomach turn.

The uniform wasn’t being worn. It was wearing her.

Black polymer continued to climb her body, smoothing out into shapes—seams, corsetry lines, contours sculpted with obscene detail. It contracted around her hips and midsection, compressing her waist like a built-in corset. Below the surface, small microfilament coils tightened automatically.

She tried to scream, but her breath caught in her throat.

Panels of synthetic fabric lifted and fused across her chest, forming a bodice that pushed her breasts unnaturally high. The material quivered as it adapted to her dimensions, dynamically adjusting like smart armor—except this wasn’t protection.

This was presentation.

Humiliation.

Violation.

Jess clawed at the suit, trying to rip it off—but the material was bonded now. Her fingernails scraped uselessly over the surface, unable to peel it free. It was too smooth. Too intelligent.

As the last tendrils climbed over her shoulders and fused at the neckline, a soft chime sounded.

A thin green line glowed briefly across her chest—a diagnostic readout.

Jess staggered backward, breath coming in shallow bursts, hoping it was over.

She didn’t have long to wonder.

The suit twitched.

Then bulged.

From the small of her back, the polymer stretched and swelled—extruding material like black silk erupting from nowhere. The skirt bloomed outward in a series of smooth, high-speed folds. Nano-fibers meshed into the shape of a flared maid’s skirt, low-cut and trimmed in white.

Jess gasped as she watched it happen—felt it happen.

From her shoulders, new segments began to grow—white latex ruffles forming along the collar and arms, mimicking fabric but feeling alien and cool against her skin. Every component formed in real time, flowing from the original material as if the suit were a living factory.

And then—

Her heels lifted.

Not by choice.

The suit **** her up—coils tightening around her arches, heels forming beneath her feet. She stumbled, catching herself on the bedpost. With horror, she looked down as shiny black stilettos extruded seamlessly from the suit’s lower extremities. They grew from her soles, reshaping her posture, elevating her gait.

“Stop… just stop…” she whispered hoarsely, voice cracking.

But it didn’t listen.

White material crawled up her legs next, thickening around her thighs and forming stockings with faint, glowing seam lines. Her gloves came next—extruding from the sleeves like ink blooming in water, wrapping each finger in articulated polymer.

Then came the apron.

It unfurled from her abdomen, growing rapidly into a decorative white waist wrap, complete with tied bows that moved on their own to cinch her tighter. Last was the bonnet, which rose from the back of her neck and snaked into place around her scalp with eerie precision.

She stood there—fully dressed by a machine she’d never consented to wear.

Jess stared at her reflection.

Not in awe.

In terror.

The person in the mirror was a grotesque parody—her curves exaggerated, her posture ****, her face framed by the aesthetic of submission. She looked like a caricature created to entertain, not exist.

Then the HUD flickered quickly again across her lewdly displayed chest, projecting softly.

Jess reached for her phone, trembling.