Beauty

Isn't it ironic?

Think about it. All those hours you've spent agonizing over whether you're hot enough to be with a good man. All that time on make-up and diets and staring yourself in the mirror, sizing yourself up, destroying your worth with your own devilish judgement.

And how much money have you spent on primer, foundation, concealer, lipstick, eyeliner, eyeshadow, mascara, blush, and lipstick? How many hours of sleep down the drain so you had the time to make yourself pretty in the morning?

All that energy and effort, just to appease the panicked voice in your head that asks, Do I look like the women on TV yet?

You're constantly trying and failing to tame that dreadful, burning stress poisoning you from the inside out. The crisis of beauty -- its attraction, its unattainability -- looming over you at every moment like a monster in the shadows.

You had no idea, did you?

The universe has a funny way of bringing things full-circle. You never could have guessed that you would fall for a man like me. A man whose fantasy is to steal your appearance away from you.

And now that you're here in my apartment, beauty is of no concern at all.

Good riddance.

Look at you, covered up everywhere.

Your head, your torso, your arms, your thighs... every single part of you is hidden behind a veil of black, skintight latex.

Even your eyes are covered.

You are fully encased, young lady. There's no going back now.

The only exposed bits are your nostrils, mouth, and pussy.

You agreed to all of this. That's how eager you are to please me.

What a strange, strange girl you are.

And it's just as well. Because I'm an even stranger man. That's why my cock is stiff and long from the sight of you.

You didn't expect to enjoy the slippery sensation of latex on your body. You didn't think it would make you wet and tingling.

Sometimes, we don't know our own desires. Some of us deny they're even there.

But I caught you red-handed. Your nipples hardened as I zipped it up. You can't hide a thing from me, you unusual animal.

It's a good thing you met me, huh? Because now you're waking up to your touch like you never have before. This light, lubricated texture squeezes effortlessly on every muscle, every toe, every finger -- as though your body in particular is exactly what it was waiting for.

You don't look pretty, by the way. And you don't look ugly either.

What you look like... is property.

Shiny.

Obedient.

Divinely submissive.

I kneel down and worship you.

I kiss your feet and stomach, letting you know that this is exactly what I desire. I'm promising you with my enamored lips that you have nothing to be afraid of.

You don't get to feel my touch directly of course, except when I lick your clit and eventually tongue-kiss you. The rest of the time, you feel only my pressure. Out of reach, yet somehow closer than ever.

I want you to be comfortable in your new skin, Sarah.

It feels so odd to call you by that name, now that you look so... anonymous.

If someone saw you through the window, they would have no idea who you are. All they would see is the shape of you; a glossy arrangement of curves at my disposal.

They would assume I've made company with some very bizarre creature.

Which is exactly why I left the curtain open. It thrills me to imagine someone noticing you in your present state. If I'm lucky, maybe the cute frat boys in the other building will catch a peek. We can only hope, right?

But you don't get to see anything. You can only feel my lips caressing you, my hot spit dripping everywhere. Your labia is pinker and puffier than ever before, like it's anxiously waiting for a tongue, or a cock.

Who knew being identity-less would feel so electrifying?

You've been waiting for this costume all your life, but you didn't know it until just now. Don't worry about being seen. Don't worry about being caught.

My finger traces across your chest, feeling both your nipples, before dropping down to your throbbing clitoris. I'm rubbing you fast enough to hypnotize you, skillfully melting away any pesky, lingering self-consciousness.

If anyone asks, I will calmly explain that I own you -- and it happens that this is how I dress my gimps.

That should suffice to make them go away. And if not... well, I supposed we'll have an audience.

Now get on the fucking bed.