Provoke the machine slightly

I wait patiently for my clothes and personal effects to be removed, but just as I feel the warm tip of the metal pipe against my back, I lean forward, playfully dodging it. The machine plays along for a few seconds, following my movement, before it loses patience. In the darkness, I don’t notice anything below me until hard metal clamps snap around my ankles, locking me in place. A similar cold ring closes around my neck, yanking me back to the center of the chamber. The strong, indifferent grip at my throat sends a shiver of arousal through me. My wrists are pulled upward and secured above my head.

The pipe finds the small of my back again and begins depositing the liquid laminate. I shiver with pleasure as it spreads across my bare skin, warm and slick. It reaches the sides of my ribs and flows onto my breasts. My knees weaken as the slow edge creeps toward my nipples, forcing more of my weight onto the collar around my neck. One tendril moves upward over my breasts toward my face; another flows downward across my belly.

Even though I’m used to the liquid latex covering my face by now, I still instinctively draw a deep breath. The sensation is exactly like sinking underwater as it seals over my features, leaving a smooth, featureless black mask. The same happens behind me—my hair is gathered and drawn into a high ponytail as the latex encloses it, leaving only a small opening at the crown. I can see and breathe well enough (though not easily), but once it solidifies I can’t open my mouth to speak. Any sound I make is muffled to almost nothing by the thick mask.

The lower flow continues down my body, encasing my belly, my buttocks, my thighs, all the way to my ankles. Suddenly my left ankle is released. A diagram appears on the display—an unexpected request for me to lift my leg. The system pauses, waiting. I know it’s silently counting down to some arbitrary limit before a punishment triggers, and I’m genuinely startled by this deviation. Usually the laminate simply flows around my foot and forms a high heel.

I hesitate, then reluctantly raise my foot. The flow resumes, but this time the laminate feels unusually stiff. It pours over the top of my foot and presses down with considerable ****. I let it happen, and within moments my foot is sealed into a shape I recognize all too well. I know what ballet heels look like—I’ve watched countless slaves paraded in them—but I never imagined I’d be **** into one myself.

“Transgression: subject will learn not to stray: 3 hours”

Walking in these will be nearly impossible, and worse, the timelock will keep them on me right up to the edge of curfew. It’s illegal on Torei for an unattended woman to be out past curfew without legitimate reason, which means I’ll have to reverse the suit at the very last second.

I try to protest, shaking my trapped foot as if I could fling the boot off, but all that escapes is a muffled moan through the mask. The machine waits a few seconds, then a new message appears.

> “Subject not compliant. Applying corrective measure.”

I feel fresh laminate surge from the hose, sliding down my back and between my buttocks. It presses against the outside of my most intimate entrance. Pressure builds against my labia. Instinctively I clench my thighs together, but it does nothing to stop the insistent push. Suddenly my lips part just enough, and the pent-up liquid rushes inside me in one smooth flood. Despite the shock, the sensation is overwhelming—warm, liquid latex caressing me from within, flowing deeper, forming the perfect illusion of a smooth, inflating cock. Every nerve lights up. I strain against the metal restraints, **** to touch myself, but all I can do is tremble and moan helplessly into the mask as it fills me completely.

In the shaky aftermath, I lower my foot without thinking. The metal ring snaps closed around my ankle again.

> “Corrective measure applied. 24 hours.”

My eyes widen behind the mask. I thrash against the restraints. I can’t possibly wear this… thing… all the way back to the compound. It’s unthinkable. My breathing quickens, and soon the mask’s limited airflow can’t keep up. Lightheadedness creeps in.

> “Continued disobedience: corrective measure applied for 95 hours 59 minutes.”

I **** myself to still, taking stock. My wrists are stretched above me, my neck locked in place, most of a **** suit already sealed over my body, one foot trapped in an **** ballet heel, my pussy filled and plugged by living latex—and I am utterly at the mercy of this cold, dispassionate Wardrobe Machine.