Prisoner Ch. 06

"Do it." He knelt, pushing his upper legs into the hollows. A hand pushed against his back and he sank onto the sculpted top, feeling the sticky oil squish and slither. The surface hugged his belly and chest perfectly. As his arms slid down the plastic front legs, he discovered how his throat fit into the well-padded hollow.

"Good boy," he heard, far away. A hand patted his latex covered skull. He tried to retract his right arm and couldn't. Neither would his leg. He understood. The sticky stuff wasn't oil after all. Tears leaked from the slits in his mask. Then he felt a smooth construction lower over his back, and his arms and legs. The fit was tight. Padded plastic encircled his neck now. He heard loud snapping sounds as the two parts closed around his torso, his arms and legs. He was imprisoned in plastic. Then a tight helmet sank over his eyes. His darkness was complete. He could breath and he could just about hear. He was completely immobile now. Finally he understood.

He was a chair. He was Chair.

He felt himself being lifted and put down again. There was a tug and there was movement, but he didn't move himself. He couldn't, could he? They had given him wheels. He swayed gently inside his rigid plastic second skin, his head immobilized by the helmet. He wondered what he might look like. Then he heard voices, many voices. There was laughter and applause. He was pushed and tugged. Hands pounded on his hull.

He was lifted again and put down. A sudden weight made him sway. He discovered that the plastic legs carried most of the weight. He wondered why that made him feel disappointed. He remembered almost fondly the pain in his arms and legs; his special gift to the women he carried. Ah, well, this way he would be tireless, wouldn't he? He'd last longer. He'd be their chair forever.

New tears burned his eyes. The weight on his back shifted. A Voice he thought he'd never hear again came from far, far away.

"Good chair," it said. He sobbed.

The End.