Archived Version

This is my first time writing, so please feel free to offer your criticism and suggestions.

At seven-thirty in the evening, Wanqi dragged her exhausted body out of the office building, kneading her shoulder as she walked and muttering curses about her inhuman boss.

Fresh out of college, she had an ordinary face, an unremarkable figure, and apart from her youth, basically nothing going for her — spending every day being ordered around by that bastard supervisor, do this, do that.

“Ugh—” she groaned aloud, “I don't want to go to work any more—”

Then something struck the back of her neck with tremendous force, and her vision went black.

“Mmph — my head hurts so much.”

Wanqi came to, immediately registering the searing pain at the back of her skull.

Fighting through it, she forced her eyes open — and found herself inside an abandoned factory. The space was dim and grey; it was only by the faint mercy of moonlight that she could make out the ruined signage on the walls.

“It's so cold!”

She tried to rub some warmth into her arms — and then realized she was completely naked, bound and lying on something that resembled a surgical table.

She struggled for a moment before understanding she wasn't getting free. Her eyes began darting around the space, frantic and searching.

“Who's there — please, please let me go.” Her voice came out in a tremor.

Footsteps answered her.

A man in dark green surgical scrubs and a mask emerged from the shadows, a syringe held in his right hand. He walked to her side without urgency.

“Please — please, just let me go.” Wanqi was shaking all over.

Silence was his only reply.

Without a word, the masked man pressed down her forearm and slid the needle into her vein. Wanqi thrashed wildly — like a fish thrown onto dry land — but he held steady, and whatever was in the syringe flowed into her body without interruption.

Terror consumed her entirely.

And then, her struggling stopped. She lay with her eyes open, perfectly still.

The man leaned down close to her ear.

“That is a new-class compound,” he said, his voice low and resonant. “It severs the subject's voluntary motor control completely — while preserving full consciousness. Right up until death.”

The words were more terrifying than the tone that carried them.

Wanqi couldn't even manage to tremble.

The man pushed the surgical table aside; it clipped something metal, sending a loud, clanging cascade of sound through the factory. He walked to a nearby spot and adjusted a shadowless surgical lamp until its beam fell squarely on Wanqi's position.

Through the only thing she could still move — her eyes — Wanqi saw what the table had knocked into.

A metal frame. The kind used in slaughterhouses to hang dressed pig carcasses. The clanging had been several metal hooks swinging against each other.

I have to get free. I have to run. Her mind screamed it. Her body offered nothing.

The man returned. Unhurried, methodical, he unfastened her restraints. Then he began to murmur to himself.

“My congratulations, Miss. It is my great honour — you are to be my very first subject for modification.”

He lifted one of the hooks from the frame, then picked up a small spray canister from a nearby table and applied it carefully to the hook's surface.

“You will be fully conscious throughout. You will feel every change in your body with perfect clarity.”

He gripped Wanqi's hair and tilted her head, studying the angle with clinical patience. Then he drove the sharp hook upward through the roof of her mouth, threading it into the cavity of her skull, and connected the other end to a chain.

“I practiced this technique for a very long time before I could execute it reliably. The hook will not penetrate the brain tissue itself — it slots precisely into the fissure between the two hemispheres. Structural damage is minimized.”

The pain exploded through Wanqi's head like a detonation. Her body produced no reaction. Not even tears came.

“Rest assured — the first compound has reduced your metabolic rate to its floor. Your heart is likely beating once or twice per minute. Blood flow is negligible. This means that injuries which would ordinarily be immediately fatal will not kill you instantly. You will experience your dying slowly.”

Using the pulley system rigged to the metal frame, the man hoisted Wanqi into the air.

“Fortunately, Miss Wanqi is quite light. The hook won't tear through.”

He returned to the table and selected a sharp surgical scalpel.

“Now — I'll relieve Miss Wanqi of a little excess weight.”

He moved around behind her.

Losing sight of him made the panic worse.

A chill spread across her back. Then a fine, thin thread of pain.

The man held the scalpel steady and drew it slowly down the skin of her back, opening it layer by layer until the fat beneath was exposed. He widened the incision, then inserted a flat metal spatula horizontally into the wound and began separating the skin from the tissue below.

What had been a thin sensation erupted — Wanqi's pupils contracted sharply.

On the other side, the man took up a spray bottle fitted with a narrow tube and applied its contents directly to the exposed wound. A viscous, glutinous liquid coated the surface of the fat layer.

“A specially formulated biological adhesive. It protects and stimulates nerve cell growth along the surface. It also amplifies sensation.”

Then the man fell silent and resumed his work — cold, mechanical, methodical — peeling Wanqi's skin away as if she were something on an operating table in a laboratory rather than a person.

The prolonged agony eventually ground Wanqi down into a kind of numbness.

At some point — she had lost track of time entirely — light began to filter into the factory. Dawn. Thin, pale morning rays through narrow gaps in the walls. By then, the man had finished. He laid her skin out neatly on the surgical table.

Wanqi herself was coated from head to toe in a pale, translucent yellow biological adhesive — her eyeballs sealed beneath it, her mouth carefully sprayed and filled. Her teeth had been extracted at some point during the process; the adhesive now wrapped smoothly over pink, bare gums.

The man cleaned and organized his instruments, then picked up two capsule-shaped objects from the table.

He walked to where Wanqi hung and inserted one carefully into each nostril.

“Miniaturized oxygen generators,” he said, his voice rougher now, worn with exhaustion. “They will sustain your current oxygen requirements for forty-eight hours.”

He paused.

“Ah — I nearly forgot.”

He reached for three cylindrical rods of varying lengths and thicknesses. He fitted them one by one into Wanqi's body — two hollow-cored rods into her ass and pussy, and a third into her mouth. The one entering her ass was the longest — nearly forty centimetres — and the bulge it created was visible through the skin of her abdomen. The other two were comparatively proportionate.

He pushed the frame forward. Wanqi swayed on the hook like a dressed carcass.

He wheeled her to a large container filled with black liquid and suspended her above it. Then he produced a disposable syringe and a small vial from his coat pocket, drew a partial measure into the barrel, and injected it into Wanqi's neck.

“This compound distorts perception — it converts pain into pleasure. It will also gradually restore your metabolic rate, and it functions as the antidote to the first injection.”

He discarded the syringe without ceremony, unclipped the chain from above, and lowered Wanqi slowly into the black liquid.

The black liquid was a specialized latex solution — engineered to slowly permeate and assimilate biological cells, though ordinarily blocked by intact skin. It was maintained at forty degrees Celsius by a heating element, keeping it in a highly active fluid state.

The black latex closed over Wanqi's body. Through the hollow cylinders, it entered her womb and her intestines. It also forced its way between her pried-open lips, flowing down into her esophagus and stomach.

Forty degrees is already difficult for a normal person to bear. But with the pain of the hook and the flaying transmuted entirely into pleasure, Wanqi's consciousness was overwhelmed — swamped, drowned in sensation, cresting into an orgasm she couldn't escape and couldn't stop, so consumed by it that she didn't even notice she'd regained control of her body.

Inside the black latex, Wanqi convulsed through wave after wave of climax. The surface of the liquid rippled around her.

A day later, the man hauled the chain upward.

Wanqi emerged — coated inside and out in black latex, still convulsing, suspended in the air. The man withdrew the three cylinders from her body. Excess latex ran down her skin and dripped from the tips of her toes.

The dripping stopped. The surface of her body was uniformly sheeted in latex. Her convulsions began to quiet.

He wheeled her to a second container, this one filled with a different liquid.

“Matched-pair curing agent. Rapidly converts liquid latex to solid — with exceptional flexibility retained.”

He released the chain before he'd even finished the sentence, and let Wanqi drop in.

The curing process was fast. He squeezed her arm afterward, testing it — the latex that had replaced her skin was smooth and sleek, taut and flawless.

He nodded, satisfied.

He wheeled her back to the surgical table — the skin that had been laid out there had been put away at some point — and lowered her down onto it. He removed the hook that had kept her company for the past day, and immediately produced a large-bore syringe loaded with black latex liquid. He pressed it to the wound the hook had left and began injecting.

Wanqi — having recovered her motor control — began to fight. She thrashed hard.

The man's large hand closed around her throat and pinned her down. He finished the injection.

The latex flooded into her skull and pooled around her brain, and she felt it begin to set.

Her struggling grew weak. Then stopped.

“The formulation included a trace sedative. A sensible precaution,” the man said, releasing her and flexing his hand.

“Now — for the deeper modifications.”

He was talking to himself again.

He held two silicone hemispheres in his hands — each roughly the size of a cantaloupe half. He spent a long moment aligning them by eye. Then he pressed them against the flat latex expanse of Wanqi's chest, positioning them to serve as breasts. A soft, precise click — something inside them driving into her body — and Wanqi's latex-encased frame shuddered with a sudden jolt of sharp pain.

“Oxygen compressors are installed inside these prosthetics. Ambient air is drawn in through micropores in the nipples and converted to dissolved oxygen, delivered directly into the bloodstream.”

He picked up a brush and the black latex solution and coated the silicone forms carefully, layer by layer, bonding them permanently in place.

“A properly made latex doll has no need to breathe. The lungs are a redundant organ.”

He took tweezers and removed the oxygen capsules from Wanqi's nostrils. Then he loaded a fresh syringe with latex and pressed it slowly into each nostril. Breathing reflex took over — her lungs worked on instinct — and the black latex flooded in and filled them completely.

She was now coated in black latex, through and through.

She no longer needed to breathe. But the reflex remained — and the signals it sent to her brain were those of violent suffocation. Agony, again, translated by the compound in her blood into obliterating pleasure. Wanqi began to shudder and convulse again, cresting helplessly into endless orgasm.

The man watched the black latex doll trembling before him. He reached out and ran his hand slowly along her surface.

When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with something close to reverence.

“At last. My masterpiece.”