She calls her girlfriend

Jess lay on the bed, panting and trembling, as the uniform finally stilled. The relentless movement had stopped, but the aftermath pulsed through her in waves. Her muscles ached from resistance. Her skin burned from contact. Her mind reeled.

The suit clung to her like a second skin, its black latex gleaming in the low light—too tight, too knowing. Every curve was sculpted, every motion exaggerated. Beneath its surface, the sensation of a thin gel layer squelched with every movement, producing a nauseating intimacy. There was no space between her and it—only submission.

After a few minutes, Jess pushed herself upright, her breath still shallow. The panic hadn’t passed, only dulled by exhaustion.

She reached for the suit, tugging at the hem, the neckline, the sleeves—**** to find a way out.

Nothing gave.

It was as if the latex had fused to her. Where her fingers clawed, the suit simply stretched, then snapped back into place. There were no zippers. No seams. No fastenings. It was seamless. Perfectly sealed.

And then she saw it—a flash beneath the surface. For a brief moment, as she pulled hard at the neckline, she caught sight of something glowing faintly under the latex—thin circuitry lines, pulsing green and blue. Microfibers, embedded beneath the glossy surface, connected in intricate patterns.

Tech. Bio-integrated. Responsive.

Her horror deepened.

She stumbled to the full-length mirror, knowing full well what she’d see—but unable to resist confirming it.

The reflection struck like a slap.

A fetishized parody stared back at her.

She looked like every grotesque stereotype she had railed against in her writing. Her neckline plunged, breasts propped up high with surgical precision by the engineered material. Puffy sleeves and lace ruffles framed her arms like ornaments. Her waist was cinched brutally tight, her breathing shallow beneath the corset-like tension of the suit. A pristine white apron tied with a girlish bow framed her rear in mocking innocence.

The skirt barely reached mid-thigh. Her legs gleamed in sheer, nude-toned latex stockings. No panties. Every step she took was punctuated by a slick, squelching sound from the gel trapped beneath the suit.

She couldn’t look away.

And then a line from her paper echoed in her mind:

“The costume renders the wearer a prop: decorative, compliant, consumable.”

She wanted to scream.

Tears brimmed in her eyes.

“I’m living my thesis,” she whispered bitterly.

The circuit lines beneath the latex pulsed again—brighter, reacting.

Jess blinked. Every time she strained to escape, the tech responded. As if tracking resistance. Studying it.

Learning her.

She turned, grabbing her phone off the nightstand. Her thumb hit the screen—and nothing happened.

Confused, she tried again. Swiping. Tapping.

Still nothing.

The gloves.

Of course. Latex. Non-conductive. The suit hadn’t just restrained her—it had isolated her. No touch input. No fingerprints. No escape through the only device that could help her.

Her fingers clenched.

Think.

Stylus.

She darted to her desk, rifling through the mess of papers and pens until her hand closed around a thin silver stylus she used for note-taking. The second she touched it to her phone screen, it lit up.

Messages. Calls. Lydia.

Jess tapped out a number with shaking hands.

It rang long enough that Jess was starting to lose hope, before Lydia picked up.

“Jess? What time is it? What’s happening? Are you okay?”

“I’m not,” Jess choked, her voice trembling. “Lydia, it’s… it’s the uniform. It’s on me. I can’t take it off. It’s not fabric, it’s—it’s tech. It grew on me.”

“What?” Lydia’s voice crackled with confusion. “What do you mean it grew on you?”

“It’s fused to me. It—moved. It… it assembled itself on me. Like it was alive. There's circuitry in it. It’s… it’s like some kind of wearable prison.”

“I’m coming over. Right now. Just hang in there, okay?”

“Please hurry.”

Jess ended the call with a trembling thumb and collapsed back onto the bed. The suit shifted subtly as she moved, always adjusting, always holding her.

It didn’t just want to be worn.

It wanted to control her.

She stared at the mirror once more, her reflection now fully obscured by the uniform’s cruel mimicry of servitude. Her bonnet sat primly atop her messy auburn hair. A black choker encircled her throat like a leash. The outfit was complete.

“It’s not just objectification,” her research had said. “It is assimilation. It erases.”

Her phone buzzed.

Lydia: “I’m almost there. Just hold on a little longer.”

Jess clutched the stylus, the only lifeline the suit hadn’t thought to block. She wasn’t sure how much time she had before it did.