Latexen Bloom

Her Story

The demo robe hangs off my hook by the smart-glass — black rubber, open-back, the one I commission from a Berlin studio that does fetish couture. I've worn it three times since we matched. Each time I tell myself it's calibration. The AI logs posture, voice pitch, skin conductance. But the real parameter I'm testing is how badly I want you in the chair while I run the sequence. My hand finds the seam along my thigh while I talk to the diagnostic screen, because I can't stop touching this material when I'm nervous. The rubber is cold at first, then it drinks my body heat until I can't tell where latex ends and skin begins. That's the thing about rubber — it decides who's in control. I'm the one in the catsuit, but the catsuit is the one holding me still. And I want you to hold me stiller. You've seen my tats at the club — the fine-line chest piece, the coil winding up my spine like copper wire. I got that one last spring with a woman who ran the electrodes, and the prick of the needle and the hum of the voltage blurred together until I couldn't separate pain from pleasure. I've never told anyone that. I'm telling you because the demo screen is already logging my heart rate, and it spiked at the thought of your hands on the straps of this open back. The doll in the corner — the articulated mannequin with socket joints — I dressed her in spare black latex while I calibrated. That's my ritual. I strip the last layer from my waist, let the robe fall open to my navel, and my fingers find the wet heat underneath because I can think of nothing else but how you'd look wired into the calibration bench, electrodes at your wrists, the AI whispering to you in my voice. I need you to hold very still now. Let the system watch every shiver, every flutter. And when it's done learning you, I'll take its readings down to my knees with you, one strap at a time.