My Wife Turns Me Into Her Latex Doll

Friday starts dying in the office window. Tomás flicks the switch and the click is the first brick in a wall he himself raises between his life and what comes next. He collects his keys, says good night to a coworker whose name he barely remembers, and goes down to the street. The sky has that dirty color late-October afternoons get, neither day nor night, an indecisive hour that suits the state he’s in.

The subway is a sauna of tired bodies, cheap perfume, and other people’s sweat. He doesn’t see them. He rides standing, holding the bar, his gaze lost in the glass where his own reflection overlays the black tunnels. He thinks of only one thing: the weight of the chest waiting in the living room, the smell of clinical talc the inside will have when he opens it. Part of him fears it. The other part has spent the whole week counting the hours, with his cock half-hard under his pants ever since he got on the train.

At home, Irene has already started. Not with an order, but with a steaming cup of tea and the story of a stupid coworker who has made the same mistake for the third time. They laugh. Her laughter is a sharp blade brushing his nerves, because he knows what that normality hides. They eat cheese and bread, their fingers brushing as they take the last piece. It is the last skin-to-skin contact there will be between them in seventy-two hours, and they both know it.

They finish putting the plates away. She dries her hands on the apron, takes it off, and leaves it over the back of a chair. She passes by him and gives his ass a pat. It isn’t a caress. It’s a signal.

—All right —she says.

Tomás nods. There is nothing else to say, and he has no permission to say it. He gets up, picks up his cup out of habit, and leaves it in the sink. Then he goes to the bathroom.

The shower hits him hot, almost painful. He soaps himself slowly, as someone erasing something. Then he shaves, and not just his face: his neck, chest, armpits, groin, balls, the base of his cock, between his ass cheeks. The blade scrapes and his skin is left smooth, sensitive, exposed, like a newborn’s. He turns off the tap, dries off, and walks naked into the living room without fully drying his hair. He likes that last chill on his back. It will be the last thing he chooses for himself.

The black chest waits in the middle of the room like a shiny plastic coffin. Tomás kneels in front of it. The cold of the floor climbs through his knees and makes his freshly shaved skin prickle. He closes his eyes. Waits. His cock, already hairless, stands up on its own against his belly, throbbing to the rhythm of the pulse pounding in his temples.

***

He hears her bare feet on the wood. He feels her shadow before her hand. Irene’s palm settles on his head, not affectionately, possessively, the way one rests a hand on something that is already one’s own. Then he hears the creak of the chest hinges opening.

The smell hits him full force: rubber, talcum powder, something chemical, a dirty promise he would recognize among a thousand. Irene takes out the suit. She spreads it over the floor with the heavy noise of material that weighs more than it seems, stretches it centimeter by centimeter, and Tomás lies down on top of it without being asked, offering himself to the second skin that is going to devour him.

Before dressing him, she dusts his entire body with talc. She runs her hand over his pectorals, over his stomach, and grips his cock with two fingers, almost in disgust, like someone picking up a cut of meat from the butcher. She lifts it, lets it fall, powders his balls, slips a floury finger between his ass cheeks and brushes his hole. Tomás moans, and the moan is the first thing Irene punishes: a dry slap on his thigh.

—Not a sound. Dolls don’t moan.

She dresses him with a watchmaker’s concentration. She pulls on the latex, stretches it, presses out the air pockets with the palm of her hand. Tomás’s feet disappear first, then his legs. The rubber squeezes his ankles, his knees, his thighs. Every centimeter of his body that gets sealed away is a piece of the man going dark. By the time the suit reaches his chest, he can barely recognize himself. The black, taut surface throws back the ceiling light in an oily shine.

The mask is the last part. Irene fits it over his face, aligns the openings, and pulls up the zipper. It climbs over his nape with a metallic hiss and the world goes out. First his sight: only two slits that barely let a line of light through. Then his hearing, muffled by the rubber. All that remains is the rhythmic whistle of his own breath going in and out through the tube. He is blind, deaf, encapsulated inside himself. And yet his sex rebels, hard against the latex, a bulge of tense flesh that breaks the black perfection of the suit.

Irene looks at him. Tomás cannot see her, but he feels her crouch and the tip of a finger trace the outline of his erection over the rubber. A gesture almost scientific, without tenderness, a check. She closes her hand over the bulge, squeezes, lets go. She gives it two little taps with her open palm, plap, plap, like someone testing a piece of fruit. Tomás feels the dull impact reach the head of his cock and barely manages to swallow another moan.

Then he hears a drawer. What she takes out is not a toy: it is an instrument. A rigid red sheath, one that will fit over him and isolate him completely. She smears it with lubricant —a cold viscous slick seeping through the rubber— and slides it on. Before she puts it all the way in, Irene crouches, runs her tongue over the sheathed tip, just for a second, a wet, mocking kiss that goes nowhere. The saliva dries on the latex and that dead kiss is the last caress he will receive from a mouth for three days. The plastic closes. The flesh stays inside, trapped, separated from the world by a layer that transmits nothing.

—From now on you’re mine —she whispers, and the vibration of her voice travels through the floor to Tomás’s bones.

She fastens the last clasp, at the level of his neck. The transformation is complete. There is no longer a man in the living room. There is an object that breathes.

***

Irene does not waste time. She pulls her nightgown off over her head, tosses it onto the sofa, and stands naked on top of the black doll. Her tits hang over the latex chest, the nipples already hard, dragging over the rubber with a barely audible squeak. She squats over him, spreads her legs, and with two fingers parts the lips of her cunt. Tomás can’t see anything, but he hears the splashing, that thick liquid sound of a woman who has been hot for hours and is already soaked. Irene has been getting herself ready all through dinner. She must have already come earlier, probably in the kitchen, while he was shaving.

She grips the red sheath with her hand, straightens it, spits on it —Tomás hears the crack, feels the distant vibration of the spit bursting against the plastic— and impales herself. She drops all at once, mercilessly, until she is speared to the root. A guttural groan tears out of her chest.

—Fuck. That’s good.

She starts moving. Not with the sway of a lover, but with the pounding of a woman fucking a dildo. Up, down, writhing, grinding her clit against the base of the sheath. The red sleeve enters her again and again, smooth, relentless, and Tomás feels the weight of her body, the rocking of her hips, the heat radiating from where they are joined. But nothing else. It is as if he were fucking her through a glass wall. He knows he is inside her, knows she is using herself with him, but he doesn’t touch a thing. The rubber stands between every sensation and his nerve endings.

She leans forward, plants her hands on his latex chest, and fucks the sheath with her hips, giving sharp, loud thrusts from behind. The splashing turns obscene, a liquid noise filling the living room. Tomás feels her juices running down the base of the sheath, hot, searching for the rubber, but never reaching the skin. It is torture in reverse: she is the one getting off, and he, locked away, can only feel the dead echo of someone else’s pleasure.

—Shitty doll —she hisses, without stopping her bounce—. You don’t even notice, do you? Me coming over here and you right there inside, still as a post. That’s what I keep you for.

She gives the mask a soft slap, more warning than blow, and keeps going. Tomás rises and falls beneath her like a mattress. His hands tingle inside the rubber gloves, he wants to grab her, wants to sink his fingers into her hips, wants to answer her, but his arms are stretched out at his sides and there they stay. And in that denial, in that abyss between what she feels and what he cannot feel, he finds a twisted pleasure. A pleasure fed by his own annulment, by knowing himself reduced to a tool fulfilling its function.

Irene’s gasps grow faster. She claws at his latex chest, her thighs begin to shake. She straightens up, finds her clit with two fingers, and rubs it while still impaled. She comes with a long, hoarse groan, a “I’m coming, I’m coming, fuck,” collapsing for a moment over him, her tits flattened against the mask, her cunt pulsing in waves around the red sheath. Tomás feels those contractions through the plastic like dull taps, the only thing even remotely like contact he has received, and for a second his vision clouds inside the helmet.

She stays still on top of him, breathing. Then she gets up with a sharp motion. She brings two fingers to her cunt, pulls them out dripping, and slowly wipes them on the red sheath, leaving the evidence of her pleasure there. She retrieves her nightgown and turns on the television.

***

The hours drag. Irene watches a series. The canned laughter fills the living room silence and reaches Tomás distorted, like sounds underwater. Every now and then, without looking at him, she stretches out a leg and pokes his side with her toe, the way one checks whether a piece of furniture is still in place, hasn’t melted away. During a commercial, bored, she stands up and puts her bare foot on the red sheath. She presses with her heel. Pushes, moves it back and forth, rubs the sole over the sheathed cock for a good half-minute and then abandons it, without getting anywhere. Like stamping out a cigarette without caring. It’s like having a strange lamp in a corner. A lamp that breathes and at ten o’clock sharp has to be taken to the bathroom.

When the time comes, she guides him with gentle shoves to the bathroom and seats him on the toilet. She removes the plug from the base of the sheath, waits, puts it back. It’s a routine function, like changing a fish’s water. Then, back to his corner.

He’s not a slave, he thinks in the only pocket of awareness he has left. A slave has will to break, orders to obey, a back to punish when he fails. He has none of that. He doesn’t have to wash dishes, or give massages, or beg. He is an artifact. A piece of furniture with a very specific function, one that is only used when needed and otherwise stays forgotten in its corner. That idea, far from humiliating him, empties him out in a way that feels far too much like peace.

On Saturday morning Irene uses him again on the sofa, face down this time. She lifts his hips, pushes the sheath into his cunt from behind and fucks the air over him, bracing herself on his back to gain leverage. In the afternoon she sits directly on his masked face and rubs her cunt against the mouth of the breathing tube for twenty minutes, while the doll has to keep breathing underneath, inhaling her scent filtered through the rubber. When she comes, she crushes her dripping cunt against the mask and leaves her juices running down the black latex, gleaming in the light.

After that she forgets him again, dumped on the floor, until night.

***

Sunday night brings maintenance. Irene drags him to the bathroom again, onto the cold tile floor.

—We need to empty the tank —she says, in the same tone she would use to announce they’re out of bread.

She positions him on his knees, ass up against the edge of the bathtub. She unfastens the base of the sheath but doesn’t take it off. She takes a vibrator out of a drawer, a big one, made of hard rubber, and a smaller one in the shape of an egg. She switches it on and the electric buzz fills the room, an ugly, mechanical sound. She puts on latex gloves, fills her palm with cold lubricant, and with two fingers opens his ass cheeks encased in rubber. She inserts the egg through the opening the sheath leaves free in his anus, pushing until the doll swallows the whole device. A spasm runs through him; his muscles strain against the latex that won’t let them move.

—Still —she tells him, even though they both know he can’t move even if he wants to.

Then she presses the big vibrator against the base of the red sheath. There is no rhythm, no intention, nothing remotely like a caress. They are cold, regular pulses that stimulate the nerve without touching the flesh. The egg, inside, starts vibrating against the prostate. The doll’s body arches in a dry convulsion. His cock, inside the sheath, swells until it hurts, pushing against the rigid plastic that won’t give. He is trapped inside his own erection, with no space, no friction, nothing, only the electric buzz drilling him inside and out.

Tomás tries to pull away, an animal reflex, but Irene plants a knee in his side and holds him against the tiles. She moves the vibrator up the sheath, runs it over his sheathed balls, returns to the base. Up, down. Up, down. No rhythm, no kindness, with the efficiency of someone milking an animal. Inside the mask, Tomás pants, gasps, moans despite himself, and the moans echo inside the helmet and stick in his ears.

The orgasm rips him out by the roots, a violent, clinical act without the least courtesy. Tomás empties himself into the sheath in spasmodic spurts, one after another, and the semen stays trapped there, a sticky useless heat, a waste sealed against his own skin. He feels his own come streaming between his thighs, inside the suit, mixing with sweat. He trembles, but not from pleasure. He trembles from release, as if an abscess had been drained, like a machine restarting. Irene keeps the vibrator in place a few seconds longer, past the orgasm, punishing him, until a muffled groan tears the silent plea for her to stop out of him. Then she switches off both devices.

—There —she says, and yanks the egg out with a sharp pull.

Then the dismantling begins. The mask zipper comes down and the light assaults him. Tomás blinks, blinded, and the apartment air hits his face, cold and dust-filled. Irene removes the sheath carefully, holding it by the base so nothing spills, and the pool of semen remains inside the plastic, warm, thick, doomed to the sink. Then she takes off the mask, then pulls the suit down from his shoulders to free his torso. The rubber peels away from his sweaty skin with a sucking noise. His cock, finally free, hangs red and sticky, marked by the rigid mold that has imprisoned it for three days. He is exhausted, emptied, and at the same time strangely light, as if they had taken out a weight he’d been carrying inside, not on him.

Irene looks down at him, unsmiling. She runs a hand through his soaked hair, the first gesture in three days that resembles something human.

—Let’s get you showered —she says.

There is no kiss. No “welcome back.” Only the practical need to wash away the remains of the ritual, the sweat, the lubricant, the talc, the dried semen stuck to his groin. Tomás gets up with difficulty, his legs numb, and heads for the shower. To wash the latex hanging on the towel rack. To wash himself. To try to find, under all that rubber, the person who hid in there all weekend.

Tomorrow is Monday. The office, the subway, the cheap perfume, Irene’s laughter as she tells the story about her coworker. And in the middle of the living room, locked again and in the dark, the black chest will still be there. Waiting.