Archived Version

Sexual desire?! How does one satisfy a girl with an insatiable hunger?!
A dimly lit basement — a hell where countless men and women were wrung dry!
Disguise! The thrill of latex and prosthetics! The ultimate satisfaction of every sense!
A long-awaited update — hope you enjoy it

In a dimly lit basement.

Bzzzz… The hum never stopped — not loud, but penetrating.

Hff… hff… hff… Air forcing through narrow nostrils, heavy and urgent. Mmph… mmmph… Muffled sounds followed, their owner clearly trying to say something, straining as though screaming — yet what emerged was only a formless, smothered whimper, as if something had been stuffed deep into their mouth.

If anyone had followed the sound to its source, they would have found a figure clad entirely in black — a full-body latex suit that concealed every feature. Slender. Almost pitifully so. Restrained on an iron examination table shaped like a spread-eagle cross: both legs clamped at the ankles to either end of the table by steel shackles, both arms locked into a black straitjacket of the kind used on psychiatric patients, wrists pressed firmly against the chest, the latex squeaking with every involuntary rubbing motion. That was where the sound was coming from.

At the figure's throat sat something like a silver collar, fused to the examination table itself, anchoring the body so completely that sitting upright was impossible. And there was more: over the face, a jet-black gas mask sealed every feature away, three thick transparent tubes extending outward from its body — two rising toward the ceiling, one trailing downward. Flanking the mask, a pair of black ear-cups shaped like headphones swallowed the figure's ears entirely.

Between the figure's thighs stood a black cylinder. More precisely: the cylinder had swallowed the cock inside it whole. Lean close enough, and you could just make out a faint wet slap-slap-slap — the interior of that black tube working rhythmically up and down the shaft. A milking machine.

A transparent tube extended from the top of the cylinder and connected to one of the tubes leading into the gas mask. With each wet schlick, thick ropes of cloudy white fluid were pumped upward through the line, into the mask. Glk — mmph — glk glk… The whimpering was replaced by the helpless sounds of swallowing. A rod-shaped bulge travelled visibly down the figure's throat. Something enormous was occupying that mouth, ravaging it without pause. Mmmmph!!! — a low, pained groan, animal and smothered.

And it still wasn't over. At the figure's ass, a metal ring had been secured by latex straps running in four directions, anchoring it to the waist. A black rod was locked inside the ring — thrusting forward, driving deep into the ass, then pulling back, pulling almost free, then driving in again. Relentless. The humming rose and fell with each stroke. Occasionally, the rod blurred at the edges when it withdrew, the vibration leaving a ghost image. Fluid had already seeped from the seal between rod and body, making that portion of the latex gleam even more.

Mmh~ mmh mmh mmhh~… A different sound now — not the desperate strain from before. This one was languid. Almost pleased. A woman's soft nasal moan, breathy, and at the very end, the faintest sound of suction. The kind of sound that makes the blood run hot.

Following that feminine voice led to another figure, equally black from head to toe, equally faceless, equally bound to an examination table — but where the first had been slight, this one was lush. Full in every sense of the word. Especially the chest: two heavy breasts that swayed with every motion, obscenely, irresistibly.

Her gas mask was different. Four tubes extended from it instead of three — two reaching up toward the ceiling, two trailing down toward her groin. On either side of the mask, additional breathing valves had been fitted, each one connected to two more tubes whose ends terminated in transparent dome-shaped cups. Inside each dome, a small circular clamp gripped a nipple. The domes worked ceaselessly; at intervals, milky-white fluid was drawn out and pumped up through the tubes into the woman's gas mask. She swallowed it with sounds of pure contentment.

Below her waist, there was no black cylinder — instead, the two tubes descending from her mask ended in latex dildos that had been driven into her sex. They pumped steadily, endlessly. The slick fluid that overflowed from her cunt was caught by the tubes and carried back upward, into the mask. Mmh~ mmmglk~ gulp… The woman drank it all, the mingled taste of milk and her own arousal.

Mmf~! The woman's voice was like a lit fuse. From elsewhere, a thin sharp cry; then from another direction, a low moan edged with excitement. The space filled with overlapping sounds — groans, whimpers, wet gasps — composing their own strange symphony in the dark.

Creeeeak. The heavy door was pulled open from outside, hinges scraping.

Click… click… click… A heel struck concrete in a steady rhythm. A figure entered. Somewhere, a switch was thrown.

The lights came on all at once.

The underground space was revealed in full — larger than it seemed, at least three hundred square meters. Every wall was lined with white acoustic foam, leaving only a central corridor clear. Dozens of examination tables stood in neat rows on either side of that aisle. On nearly every one of them, a black latex figure was bound. Unseeing in the light, they continued as before — some twisting, some utterly still.

Moving through the aisle: a tall woman. She walked at leisure, glancing at the latex figures as she passed.

She had long black hair that fell across her shoulders like ink. Over the lower half of her face sat a black half-mask gas mask, leaving only her eyes uncovered — eyes that held a smiling-but-not-smiling look, haughty and magnetizing and faintly dangerous. But if you looked longer, there was something glassy about them too, something blunted. Hff… hff… ahhh~ Pink vapour drifted from the breathing valve with each exhale, stirring the ends of her hair, coaxing a sweet, drawn-out tremor from somewhere in her chest.

Below the mask: a black coat, unzipped, revealing a black lace corset and black lace underwear. Black latex gloves on her hands. Black latex over-the-knee heeled boots. The latex caught the light and gleamed — slick, obscene, magnetic. Any man who saw her like this would have his soul pulled right out of his chest.

Bzzz~ A vibration purred from beneath her underwear. Mmhh~ A wet, lazy moan spilled from behind the mask. Look closely, and you could see two thick rods disappearing into her — one in her cunt, one in her ass — both too long to be fully swallowed, their ends nudging the fabric outward, weighing her underwear down slightly. Fluid had already soaked through the black lace, was dripping steadily onto the floor, leaving a slick, musky trail in her wake.

She didn't care. She rolled her hips with each step, walking a slow, predatory sashay through her own domain.

This was Yuharu. She owned this basement.

Yuharu stopped at one of the larger figures on the tables. She reached into her coat pocket and produced a remote control, pointing it at the table's frame. Click. The restraints at the neck, waist and ankles disengaged. She pressed a second button. Clack. The milking cylinder at the figure's cock unlocked. She reached out with her latex-gloved fingers and lifted the cylinder free with a single smooth pull.

White fluid oozed slowly from the bottom of the black tube as she raised it. Beneath it, the cock that had just been liberated shuddered and began to spurt freely, slicking in long, pale ropes — like a fountain uncorked.

“My, what a lot of cum~” Yuharu's voice was soft and thick, just slightly hoarse, every syllable saturated with an effortless, infuriating allure. Her black fingers closed around the thick shaft. The smooth latex glove dragged over the wet surface with a slick, lewd sound.

The feel of something this hard in her grip woke something in her. Mmh~ I need it~ She swallowed the want that rose in her throat, reached down, and pulled the waistband of her underwear aside, revealing what she'd been hiding inside herself.

Two white rods. She grasped the one in her ass and began to draw it out — slowly.

“Ahh~ ah ah ah~ no, no~” Her thighs shook with each millimetre of withdrawal, a small flood of fluid spilling down to the floor. Her body clearly didn't want to give it up. Her ass clenched reflexively around the rod, trying to hold on.

She fought herself like that for a long moment — the pleasure of friction versus the need to pull it free. Eventually, she bit down and yanked it out.

Gluk~ The emptiness hit immediately. Her ass clenched on nothing. It felt unbearable — like the pleasure had been stripped out of her along with the rod, every nerve suddenly crawling. She scrambled up onto the large figure beneath her, lined herself up with that thick cock, and sat down.

“Ahh~ so big~ so thick~ ohh~ so good~ so full mmm~ yes~” ❤

The oversized cock drove all the way in on the first drop. The force of it made her clench, squeezing around the intrusion, refusing to let it go until she'd wrung everything from it. The figure beneath her shuddered. Its body began to move.

“Don't you dare move. Filthy dog.” The sweetness in Yuharu's voice vanished. What replaced it was something cold and absolute that made the skin prickle. The figure went still. It swallowed the stimulation in silence.

“Good~ that's good~ be nice now~” She was already stroking its head as she returned to her own register, cooing, soothing — then using it without another thought. “Mmm~ mmh~ ah ah ah~” Her ass rose and dropped, rose and dropped. The cock pistoned up to meet her. “Ahhhh~ mmhm~” Her gloved hands kneaded her own breasts, dragging out every sensation available to her.

After a while — after she had come several times — Yuharu lay draped across the figure's broad stomach, catching her breath, the cock still gripped inside her. “Hff~ haah~” Pink mist spilled from the breathing valve. She was painted with white, across her hair, her clothes, dried and glistening everywhere — a picture of absolute debauchery.

“Mmhm~” She stretched luxuriously. Something still unfinished nagged at her. She produced a small folding knife from inside her coat and slit open the straitjacket around the figure's arms, then unplugged the transparent tubes from the mask. Then — still gripping the cock inside her — she twisted herself around with a strange, fluid motion, pivoting her body a full one-eighty degrees while still seated, until her back faced the figure's head.

“Up.”

The examination table creaked. The large, heavy figure beneath her began to rise — laboriously, then with purpose. It sat up.

“Hold me. Carry me off the table.”

Thick arms wrapped around Yuharu's waist. The figure stood, stepping down from the table. At that angle, the cock drove even deeper — Yuharu's whole body jolted with the shift, fluid gushing from her ass. “Mmhm~ full, so full~” Her eyes rolled back. Another climax crashed through her without warning. The figure — without an order to move — stood motionless at the table's edge.

“Hff~ wonderful~” Yuharu, returned to herself, savoured the satisfaction of a slave well-used. She couldn't reach its head from this angle, so she patted its ass instead. “Such a good boy~”

Mmm… The figure made a pleased, obedient sound.

“That's #17, yes?~ Take me to the storage lockers~” Another sound in reply, and the large figure began to move — slowly, steadily — carrying her toward the far end of the basement.

The space held more than just examination tables. Beyond the last row, a compact white-walled area had been partitioned off for Yuharu's equipment. Glass cabinets lined the back wall in a neat row, stocked with implements of every variety. Along the left side: drugs — aphrodisiacs, diuretics, other compounds — arranged in a medical cabinet. Along the right: the restraints, gags, deep-throat plugs, straitjackets and more, organized and accessible in storage units.

#17 carried Yuharu the full length of the basement, pausing when she indicated what she needed. “Ahh ah, ah~” — with each step, the cock shifted inside her, and she sank into it shamelessly.

“Hmm?” A faint irritation when #17 stopped moving. She looked up.

They were in front of #90's table.

She understood immediately.

Yuharu ran her fingers along #90's body. The figure in question felt the touch and began to writhe. Bzz… mmph mmph! Mmhnn! Glk… glug… Frantic resistance sounds, then another bolus of semen was forced into his mouth, and the struggling dissolved into the helpless sound of swallowing.

She didn't pay it much mind. #90 had only been taken last week. He was still adjusting. He'd become like #17 in time.

Yuharu tilted her head and exhaled. White vapour drifted from the breathing valve. Her gaze slowly sharpened.

She let #17 lower her. The cock withdrew. That hollow feeling returned — but the appetite was manageable, for now.

Clack. She unlatched #90's milking cylinder and caught the cock underneath with her gloved hand before it could retreat. She worked it steadily — rolling, stroking — then pressed a black fingertip into the slit at the tip, rubbing directly against the urethra. The swollen cock, already raw, spasmed again under that treatment and came — some of it landing on Yuharu's face.

“Cum this watery and thin… I doubt you could even get a girl pregnant~” She wiped her face with the back of her hand. Mild annoyance settled over her. If the boy weren't cute, she wouldn't have bothered bringing him back.

“Useless.” She looked at the soft little cock with contempt. She raised one stiletto heel and pressed it down — the fine point driving directly into the slit. “MMPHH!!!” #90's whole body seized, convulsing. Yuharu applied more pressure, unhurried, until she felt she'd made her point. Then she lifted her foot. The cock was bleeding.

“Oh my~ looks like your little nub's actually better suited to being a clit, isn't it~” She produced a chastity cage and snapped it over #90's cock. The fleshy protrusion disappeared behind a silver lattice plate above his balls. Blood seeped slowly through the gaps.

Still not finished. She took a small bottle of liquid, pulled free one of the tubes connected to #90's mask, and poured it directly in. Mm… glk glk… #90 had no choice but to swallow. “That's a potent aphrodisiac, darling~ enjoy the heat~” Yuharu said, satisfied.

“Ahh~” Pink vapour from the valve again, and her gaze went molten. She reached for the double-headed dildo she'd prepared earlier. “Mmhh~ ahh~” She pulled the vibrator from her cunt — “ahh~” — lined the dildo up, and pushed it in.

“Ahh ah ah ah~” She stroked the length now jutting from her groin with appreciative hands, moaning lewdly. This wasn't an ordinary toy. The double-ended dildo was engineered with haptic feedback, letting the wearer feel penetration from the other end as genuine pleasure. And at its midpoint, two testicular bulbs held a reservoir of fluid — matching human semen in colour and scent — designed to discharge through a one-way valve on climax.

Yuharu detached the fucking machine from beneath #90's table and pulled out the long, slick dildo it had been using. Slick enough. She grabbed #90's thighs and drove the dildo from her own groin into his now-vacant ass, then turned to give #17 his instruction: use your cock on me.

Both holes filled at once. Both in motion at once. She was fucking #90 while #17 fucked her — a three-body chain, one collision driving the next, like a car ramming a car ramming another car. “Ahh~ ah~ ahhhh~ fucking him feels so good~ #17's cock is filling me right up~ stuffed full again mmhh~ so packed so good my body is such a filthy slut I love it I love it ahhhh~” ❤ Her mind reduced itself to the wet, rhythmic sound of thrusting.

When the edge came and went enough times, Yuharu finally relented. She pulled the dildo free from #90's ass, breathed out a long, white breath, and pressed the jutting dildo into the milking cylinder. “Drink up~ hahaha~” The fluid the dildo discharged was rapidly drawn through the tube into #90's throat. Glk… Wrung out, #90 couldn't even whimper any more. Just faint bubbling.

Yuharu set down the cylinder and turned to #17. “You. Starting now, you feed him every day.” She handed the cylinder over. #17 accepted it and pressed it over his own cock. Click. The machine locked on. Mmph mmph… The familiar, uncomfortable pull made #17 groan despite himself. “There, good boy~” Yuharu gave the base of his cock a reassuring squeeze. He quieted.

She walked out of the basement. The lights went off. The space returned to its particular kind of darkness.

Yuharu would come back tomorrow. She always did — to choose one of her latex figures at random for relief. That was routine.

Several days passed.

Still ravenous, Yuharu returned to the basement. She unlocked the cylinder from #17 and pulled her underwear aside, presenting herself, commanding him to fill her again. #17 shuffled toward her — trembling, visibly wasted, barely able to hold himself upright. She didn't care.

He held her and began thrusting. “Mmhh~” She let herself sink into it.

He stopped.

“Who told you to stop? You filthy—” She started to turn, irritated.

#17 fell straight backward. The enormous body hit the concrete floor with a dull, heavy boom.

Yuharu crouched and checked for a pulse, for breath. Nothing. Milked to death.

She felt no fear. No panic. She sat on the corpse and used the cock — already beginning to stiffen with rigour — until she'd climaxed enough times that the floor beneath her was slick. Then she stopped.

“A pity. Live ones really are more satisfying. Time to hunt something new~” She walked the rows looking for anyone comparable to #17's dimensions. There was no one. A brief, genuine flicker of regret — and then it was gone.

She released a handful of the figures from their tables and had them load #17's body onto a cart and push it out of the basement. Then she ordered them back to their positions. Dozens of latex shapes filled the tables once more.

On her way out, she remembered something. She hit a green switch near the door. Above the ceiling, a massive reservoir of nutrient solution sat waiting — enough to sustain all of them at a basic level. Below it hung a large black sphere packed with concentrated aphrodisiac compound — enough to bring anyone to heat within minutes.

The switch triggered a rush of liquid through the pipes. It flowed into the black sphere, was charged, and was then distributed through the web of transparent tubes below — pale pink-white fluid delivered to every figure's mouth simultaneously.

Glk glk~ gluk~ gl… The cacophony of varied moans collapsed into a single rhythm: uniform swallowing, some willing, some not, as every latex figure drank their aphrodisiac nutrition feed.

Yuharu left with the body. The basement went dark again.

Back in her apartment — small, two bedrooms and a living room, clean and without clutter. She dropped #17's body to one side and started undressing: the coat, the sodden lace underwear, all of it left on the floor wherever it landed. The over-the-knee boots. The latex gloves.

“Mmhh~” She eased the vibrating rod out of her ass with deliberate slowness, and a wave of fluid hit the floor. “Mmm~ mmhh~ mmglk~ gulp~ gulp~ cough cough…” Then she went to work on the gas mask, releasing the clasps and beginning to remove it. The process was slow. There were reasons for that: two slender, flexible tubes were coaxed out of her nostrils as the mask came free. And from her mouth — a rod began to emerge. It kept coming. Finally, a dildo filmed entirely in saliva was drawn from between her lips — and Yuharu gagged, and gagged, tears at the corners of her eyes, the collected fluid of hours running from the corners of her mouth. By its length, it had been lodged well into her throat. She looked like nothing had happened.

She reached to the back of her neck and felt for something. Zssshk — a zipper ran down her spine. She pulled. The skin at the back of her neck opened up, and she kept pulling until she could grip the edges and peel: face first, then torso, the whole skin-suit sliding free and falling at her feet. What had been her skin was a prosthetic — a body-sleeve of extraordinary realism, a disguise, nothing more.

Underneath: a figure in black latex, gleaming, airtight. Similar in shape to any of the figures in the basement below. But different in one detail: a round ring-gag was locked in her mouth, forcing her lips wide open around the gap. A pink tongue darted out and retreated, shy. A long thread of saliva hung from the corner of that held-open mouth. And between her legs — both openings an angry red, slick with residue. She looked exactly like a sex doll that had been used past its limits. ❤

Yuharu found the seam of the latex suit and began to work that off too. This took longer. She was careful — peeling the damp latex from skin slowly, as if afraid of what force might do.

Eventually, the latex suit joined everything else on the floor. Her hands stopped moving.

This was her real skin.

And anyone seeing her real face for the first time would have recoiled. It was not the colour of normal skin — something reddish and uneven, mottled. Her scalp was bare: no hair, no brows. Her face was mapped with scars from burning, the tissue warped and thick in places. Her body bore knife scars across many surfaces. Her back, too, carried burn scarring — though if you looked closely, the damage there seemed almost deliberate, as if laid down over something older. Tattoos, maybe. Hidden beneath.

“Those two filthy pieces of shit! AAAAAHH!!!” She screamed at nothing, both hands pressed to her ravaged face, shrieking into the empty apartment. “Bastards— ah— fine! HA! HAHAHA—” And then she was laughing, crying, laughing again, crumpling to the floor and then surging back up, hands raking through the air, cycling through grief and rage and mania with the speed of something that had been doing this for a very long time.

Eventually, she came back.

She stood up. She walked to the bathroom and showered, washing away everything. Then she stood in front of her wardrobe — lined with latex suits and body-sleeves of every variety — and considered what shape to take tonight.

She made her decision quickly. A new delivery was waiting in the living room: a brand-new active-latex suit, fresh from the courier, the latest generation. Self-cleaning function. Thermal regulation. Designed for prolonged wear without removal. It was smooth to the touch — visually almost identical to the old model, but slightly thicker, denser.

Yuharu pulled it on with practiced efficiency. She aligned the suit's intimate openings with her own, let it envelop her body, drew the zipper closed. Then she found a fresh ring-gag, forced her mouth wide open, and snapped it into place.

The sex doll had returned. “Mmhh~ mmhaa~” No words now — just warm breath and the soft sounds that came with it.

She rummaged through the wardrobe and brought out a prosthetic skin-suit. Staring at the face of it, she paused for a moment — something crossing her expression — and then she dressed herself in it anyway, layer over layer: feet first, legs, torso, chest, finally the head, the back zipper closing last.

“Mmhh~” The woman in the mirror had long brows that arched like a crescent moon at night, eyes foxy and magnetic, a nose with a fine upward tilt, lips the deep colour of something venomous and beautiful — a face that made you want to move closer even as it warned you away.

Yuharu felt an inexplicable happiness rise in her. It was like wearing her own old face. Like being beautiful again.

She kept working. Tonight required proper preparation.

From somewhere, she produced a pair of white mechanical arms and white mechanical legs. She positioned the arm assembly at her shoulder joints. Zzzt. The white prosthetic arms adhered and locked. Fully responsive to her control.

“Mmhh~” [easy now~ going to be bound~] The white arms went to work on Yuharu's own real arms — forcing them behind her back into a reverse prayer position, then sealing them into a black single-arm binder. The roughness of it made her try to cry out — a reflexive, half-formed protest — and then the excitement hit, rolling through her in a wave.

A leg. The white arm bent it backward, folding thigh to calf, pressing her toes to her own ass. She tested it — nothing, no movement at all. Yuharu was satisfied. White mechanical legs were mounted at both knees; the other leg received the same treatment.

She had bound her own hands and feet. Only the prosthetics could move her now. She let herself imagine it — being driven by the prosthetics, straining, unable to control her own body.

[Be a good slave. You filthy bitch.] [No! Please!]

A shiver moved through her entire body.

Another prosthetic, this one different from the one she was already wearing. Where the first had been magnetic and feral, this face was frozen. Not cold — simply without expression, without affect, a blank that nothing could penetrate.

This suit had no zipper. The back had to be torn open by force to be entered. The white mechanical arms ripped the seam wide and manoeuvred the body inside. At the crotch of this suit, two thick rods waited. Yuharu knew exactly what they were for. She lined both hollow dildos up with her two openings and pushed them in to begin her fantasy.

“Mmhm~ mmhahh~” [no~ too thick~] [Shut your mouth, slave] The prosthetics pulled the suit higher, covering all evidence of her bound limbs [no one will see you're being controlled~] [let me go! PLEASE!] — and then lifted the face of the suit, the interior of which held one more long hollow dildo, and eased it through the gap of the ring-gag [quiet, bitch. No one will hear you.] [help me mmph~ it's too big~ stop~ stop~ going to break me glk glk~] ❤

The suit sealed itself around her. The torn seam at the back slowly closed — the memory material drawing shut millimetre by millimetre, as if swallowing the woman inside. Gone were all signs of anything beneath. The material could not be removed without a specific chemical solvent. Yuharu had planned it that way.

The face that looked out from the mirror now was absolutely without expression. Forbidding. Impossible to approach.

Inside, Yuharu was drowning in her own fantasy — sucking at the dildo in her mouth, clenching around the rods in her body, imagining the prosthetics forcing her where they willed, imagining struggling, imagining losing, imagining becoming nothing but a vessel. [Yuharu is just a filthy bitch~] ❤

She surfaced eventually. Without urgency, she finished dressing: lace bra, lace underwear, over-the-knee latex boots, long latex gloves, black coat over everything. A spiked collar at her throat. A spiked armband.

She looked in the mirror. Ice-queen expression over a whore's body. The heat building inside her.

She lifted her familiar gas mask and seated the long internal dildo into her throat — “mmhh~ urp~ sluuurp~ glk glk~ ahh, wonderful~ my mouth is completely full~” — the ring-gag letting it seat perfectly in her throat. The aphrodisiac in the mask's breathing valve waited to be deployed at her discretion. And unlike her usual muffled vocalizations, this particular mask's design allowed speech while providing full oral stimulation — she could talk, and be heard, while being fucked in the throat.

“Ahh, perfect~” White vapour curled from the valve. She was satisfied with what she saw. She left the apartment, descended to the underground parking garage, loaded #17's body into the trunk, and drove out to the suburbs.

A funeral parlour. An old man received the body, assessed it, produced a paper bag and passed it to Yuharu. She squeezed the bag, gauged the thickness, and nodded once. She turned and left. The old man would handle what needed to be handled. Certain people always did.

“Boss, that woman's outfit is so… damn…” The young employee hadn't finished the sentence before the old man's hand covered his mouth.

“I'm warning you. Don't get any ideas about that woman. If you do, there's nothing I can do for you.” The old man's expression was flat and final.

“Boss? Who is she?”

The old man sighed. “That woman is insane. Anyone who gets close to her ends up ruined. Before you started working here, I'd already received a dozen bodies through her. Do you understand me now?”

The young man felt cold sweat break out across his entire body.

“Now stop gawking. Get me my scalpel. The body's not rigid yet — the organs might still be usable.”

“Y-yeah…”

“…Boss, why did she end up like that?”

The old man didn't look up. “Word is, she was held and abused by her ex-boyfriend and his mistress. That's what made her this way.”

“Get back to work. Stop thinking about things that don't concern you.”

“Yeah…”

On the other side of the city, Yuharu was counting her money, oblivious to the conversation she'd left behind. She drove to the nearest slum district and parked nearby.

A couple passed by on the street below. Something in her snapped.

“Goddamn it. AAAAAHH!!!” Two faces surfaced in her mind — faces she knew. She bit down on the dildo in her mouth, shrieking a sharp staccato into the interior of the car, slamming both hands against the door. Eventually, the storm passed.

“They're dead! I killed them! HAHAHAHA!” She laughed, wild and bright.

Those two faces belonged to people who had remade Yuharu into what she was.

Her ex-boyfriend. His mistress. She had walked in on them. They had responded by knocking her unconscious, restraining her, and locking her in their rental apartment. Then they had kept her there — on daily injections of sedatives and aphrodisiacs, used as a communal orifice on whatever schedule suited them. Yuharu lost all sense of time. She had no framework left for begging. She only knew arousal, and being fucked, and sometimes being dragged to a public restroom for a group session.

They used other things on her too. Whips. Rods. Candles. Whatever was available.

Eventually, the ex and the mistress broke up. The mistress came looking for the man, couldn't find him, and redirected all of it onto Yuharu — suffocation, beatings, escalating methodically. Then the mistress decided that Yuharu's face was the problem. That her ex had kept feelings for Yuharu because of her face. She found acid and solved the problem.

Then one day Yuharu escaped.

She lived in nightmares for a long time afterward. The ruination of her face meant she could barely leave the house. Her body had been trained into a state of permanent, hollow sexual hunger. She decided to make them pay.

It took a long time to find them both. In the meantime, she discovered latex and skin-suits — things that could cover what her face had become. Things that let her be seen.

When she finally had them, she built the cage below her apartment specifically for them. She locked them in it. She kept them on minimal food and maximum chemical stimulation. She took her revenge one day at a time, for years, until neither of them could remember their own names — until they were just meat that functioned. Then she ended them.

And found, afterward, that nothing had been satisfied. Only expanded. The hunger had gotten worse, not better.

“Ahh~ I need it so badly~” Even with the vibration still working inside her, she was starving.

She opened the car door. Pulled the vibrator out. “Activate prosthetic control. Duration: three hours.” Her voice was steady. Her chest was not. She wondered who tonight's prey would be. The prosthetics engaged, and she relinquished control of her own body — she dropped the gas mask into the car, and that was the last voluntary action she performed. After that, she could only make sounds.

[oh god oh god my body~ someone help me~] She imagined herself as a puppet — trapped inside, unable to move, unable to call for help, being taken somewhere by the things strapped to her body.

Her body walked into the slum district. Graffiti walls. Garbage underfoot. [stop stop please~] The prosthetics kept walking.

“Yo, look at her outfit. And the floor—” A young man with dyed hair stared.

“Mmm mmhh~ mmhh~” [don't look at me~ walk faster please~] Yuharu performed trembling with her shoulders. Inside, she was begging him to knock her down.

“I can't take it, bro.”

“Mmph mmph~” [let go of me~] The dyed-hair man yanked her coat off and pushed her down onto the ground. Belt buckle. Cock out. Lace underwear torn aside. He grabbed her hips and drove in. “Mmph! Mmhh!” [not there~ please~]

He thought she was moaning for him. He went harder.

“Fuck, I can't either.” His companion jogged over, opened his pants.

“Mmhh~ mmhh~ mmph~” [mmh~ so thick~ so deep~ god the smell~] A second cock forced into her mouth, both men working front and back, and Yuharu stopped having the bandwidth to fantasize. She simply received.

“Ahmmm~” Her moans carried to the far end of the alley. In the dark, eyes opened. Shuffling sounds converged. The crowd thickened around her — vagrants, petty criminals, whoever was nearby. Hands on her breasts. A third cock forcing into her ass, the vacancy claimed before anyone had time to argue. Someone tried to displace the first man and was elbowed aside. A line formed at the back.

[so full~] ❤ Every cavity occupied, the hunger muffled if not sated. She let it carry her.

“Mmhm?” She opened her eyes into deep dark. Quiet. Still. She didn't know when she had passed out. The sky was pure black. Her body still felt plugged, still felt full. She coughed, turned her head, and pushed the weight off her face, then worked the cocks out of her mouth — one, two, three of them, god — rubbing her jaw as she surfaced. Below, the waist was worse: she was half-buried under bodies. Schlick… She counted as she pulled free — five, in total. She got to her feet. Her ass hurt. She'd need to rest it for a few days.

She was naked. The bra and underwear were in pieces. The coat was gone. The prosthetic skin lay completely exposed.

Around her, the men were all unconscious — slumped exactly where they'd fallen, still half-undressed. The skin-suit she wore today had been treated along the oral and genital surfaces with a contact anaesthetic. Any man who inserted himself would be fine for the first half-hour. After that, lights out. They would piece together what had happened to them in time. Roses had thorns.

Yuharu picked through the bodies with a critical eye. She settled on the dyed-hair man. His cock was close enough to #17's dimensions to be worth keeping. She bound him, loaded him into her trunk, and drove home. No cameras in the slum district. Deep night. One fewer person in a place that already had too many — no one would notice.

The unconscious young man was brought down to the basement. Yuharu administered another sedative injection to ensure he stayed under, then cleaned him thoroughly — inside and out — depilated him, dressed him in a full-body latex suit, locked his arms into a straitjacket.

She looked at the cock still visible through the latex, still hard, and couldn't stop herself — she wrapped her mouth around it and sucked until she had a full mouthful of him, then let it go.

She secured him to the examination table. Eyemask: this model could either blind him completely or allow normal vision at Yuharu's discretion — later in training it would play footage on a loop, rewriting him one video at a time. Ear-cups: his hearing would be controlled entirely; he would only be able to hear Yuharu's voice, while every other sound was filtered out; during conditioning sessions the cups would broadcast audio designed to rewire arousal. Gas mask: two nasal tubes, one long throat tube — she forced his mouth open and seated all three, removing his ability to speak, to breathe freely, to choose. Milking cylinder: the black sleeve snapped over the cock with a quiet click, engaged, and began drawing. Fluid moved up through the transparent tube into the mask, into his throat. Fucking machine: she spread his ass, pushed the dildo in, anchored the machine to the table frame and switched it on.

She found the engraving plate at the edge of the table and wrote in the number.

91.

The ninety-first.

The lights went out. Whether they were on or off meant nothing to him yet.

“Mmnngh?!” He came to — and couldn't move, and his ass and cock were agony, and something foul was being forced into his mouth, and he thrashed and thrashed and accomplished nothing. Inside his mask, his screams were silent. Eventually, he tired himself out.

Then the eyemask started playing things he had never wanted to see, and he couldn't look away, and the audio filled his ears with things that sent blood rushing south, and his cock hardened again, and was milked again, and the fluid went into his mouth again.

[NO!] But there was no one to hear it.

Weeks passed. #91 stopped struggling. The imagery he had once found repulsive he now watched with interest, even craving. He drank his own cum with something like gratitude, and in the warm dark behind the eyemask he began to fantasize: what would it feel like if his owner came to him? What if she touched him? Was he being good enough? Did she know?

Yuharu did not know.

She was lying on her bed, wearing her own face's skin-suit, latex body underneath, sprawled in the particular exhaustion of someone running on pure appetite. She'd been watching some yuri content, and now she was fixated on the idea of a female slave who actually fought back — the ones she had now were too compliant, too eager to please, too trained. Even when she commanded them to resist, the obedience was obvious underneath. She could never get that particular thrill from them: the sensation of watching someone resist and then surrender, piece by piece.

She decided to go out.

She pulled a new prosthetic out of storage. The face on this one: a middle-aged man, a little slovenly looking, a little lecherous. The kind of face you cross the street to avoid. She opened the back of it and climbed in, feeding her feet into the leg sections — the body hair of the prosthetic closing around her smooth skin — then pulling it up past the waist, where the suit's two crotch-facing dildos pressed against her. She registered them and kept going without ceremony. Belly next: her waist disappeared into a barrel gut, her chest flattened to nothing, and finally the head sealed over hers, the interior dildo dropping into place behind the ring-gag. She fitted the wig. She found a military overcoat and belted it shut.

She thought about what it would be like to be a flasher. The image made her pleasantly excited.

Ten minutes later she was back, panting, having sprinted the whole way.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Yes. She really did look like a predator. She had barely made it out of the building lobby before every person in the immediate vicinity was staring. Several older women had given her looks of naked alarm. Someone had actually called the police. She'd run.

Not ideal.

She stripped the overcoat, climbed out of the middle-aged man, and went back to the wardrobe. Another prosthetic. Different face.

The woman looking back from the mirror now had fine lines at the corners of her eyes — the kind earned rather than aged into — and skin that showed its years but had been tended carefully. A strong chest. Long golden hair. Eyes clear and deep, with something settled and authoritative behind them. The composure of a woman who had been beautiful for a very long time.

Yuharu assembled the rest. A special latex harness-underwear with two inverted black latex dildo moulds built into the front, converting them from flesh-tone to gleaming black rubber. Over that: a black latex bodysuit that was technically a suit but functionally wasn't — mostly openwork, mostly void, the chest the only part that covered anything. Latex gloves, elbow-length. Latex boots, over-the-knee. Then the accessories: a collar lined with spikes at the throat, a spiked armband locked around one arm. She looked like exactly what she was — a queen who had come to take something.

Gas mask. “Mmhm~” She voiced her want into the empty room.

A park. Late.

A woman in scrubs was cutting through on her way home, shoulders down with exhaustion, the kind of tired that lives below the level of awareness. A nurse. Just off a long shift. Thinking about her bed.

When she passed a patch of overgrown shrubs, there was a sound. She was too tired to register it.

A hand closed over her mouth and nose.

“Mmph! Mmhh!”

She went under.

Yuharu fitted the nurse's arms into a single-sleeve binder, forced a ball-gag between her teeth and buckled it tight. Then she reached under the skirt and pushed both of the suit's dildos in.

“Ahh~ wonderful~” The haptic feedback was immediate. She began to move.

“Mnn? Mnnph mmph!” The stimulus dragged the nurse back to consciousness faster than Yuharu had expected. She woke to penetration — something in her pussy and something in her ass, both moving — and screamed into her gag, getting nothing but wet muffled sounds back. The ball-gag filled her mouth completely, pushed toward her throat whenever she tried to cry louder.

She surged up, trying to throw the weight off her. Yuharu pressed her flat without effort and kept going. She twisted, bucked, thrashed. None of it helped. And Yuharu, feeling each struggle reverberate through the connection between them, went faster.

The nurse gave up moving. She simply endured.

Yuharu stopped eventually — the exertion requiring a brief break. The nurse felt the pause and bolted — scrambled to her feet and ran, frantic, not watching where she was going.

She went down hard on the path.

Yuharu walked over and bound her ankles.

“You're mine now~” She touched the nurse's face.

The nurse sobbed behind her gag, tears and snot and pure despair.

Yuharu picked her up and kept going. She wasn't finished.

“Mmph mmph mph!!!” [HELP ME!!]

“Don't bother struggling~” Yuharu said pleasantly. “It's so quiet out here at this hour~ no one can hear you~ no one is coming~”

“Besides… the more you fight, the more excited I get~”

“Hahaha~”

“Mmph!” The nurse went still. She tried not to fight. It was the only form of resistance left to her.

It didn't help much. Yuharu was thorough, and unhurried, and when she finally withdrew the dildos and replaced them, or changed angles, she was quick about it, and the nurse's body received everything without being asked. Position after position. Eventually, the nurse's body stopped processing the instructions her mind was giving it. Eventually, she passed out from exhaustion.

Yuharu looked at the motionless nurse. The sky was beginning to lighten at the edges. She gathered the nurse up and left quickly, taking a route that avoided every camera she knew of.

Back in the basement: latex suit, full enclosure. Locked to an examination table. Breast-pumping cups applied. Dildos seated in both openings and connected. Fucking machine anchored and activated.

The plate at the edge of the table received a number.

92.

Now she only needed to wait.

Yuharu returned to the apartment tired in a pleasant way. Five minutes to remove all the prosthetics. Then she was a black latex doll again, faceless and gleaming. She ran a bath and soaked in the tub, turning the night over in her mind. The active-latex didn't need to come off for bathing — she floated in the water and let the heat work through her, replaying the nurse's face.

After, she dressed in her own prosthetic face and a loose sleep-set, and lay down, thinking vaguely about what tomorrow might bring.

She slept.

Down in the basement, the latex figures settled into quiet. They needed rest. They would serve better for it. Only #92 was still moving — still twisting, still making sounds that might have been words if anyone were listening.

She would learn to be quiet. They all did.