Sealed in Submission: A Rubber Gimp’s Ritual

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The air is thick with the scent of latex, the suit clinging tightly to every inch of my body. My hands are the last connection to my human form. I trace my rubberized chest, my thighs, my encased form, feeling every contour, every tight press of latex against my skin. The sensation is electrifying, a farewell to flesh before I slip on the final piece.

With a deliberate motion, I slide my hands into the rubber gloves. The moment the material molds to my skin, I cease to be myself, leaving only a rubber gimp - bound, obedient, and transformed.

Its cock is already sheathed in latex and locked within a metal chastity. It can feel the hardness inside, restrained, throbbing with every movement. A slow, constant reminder of submission. Its body is primed, but the ritual is not yet complete - it's time for inflation.

Lowering itself to the floor, legs spread, its gloved hands fumble for the bulb. The plug is already nestled deep inside, an unrelenting presence. With each squeeze of the pump, it expands, stretching it further, making it more aware of its own helplessness. The gimp prepares itself, ensuring every sensation is dialed to perfection before continuing.

More rubber straps encircle its wrists, tightening with each tug - another layer of restriction, another reminder of control. But the gimp is not done. It pumps itself further, feeling the tightness intensify, locking itself deeper into submission.

The gas mask comes last. It lifts it over its head, aligning the edges before sealing it in place. The filter clicks, and it inhales deeply - drawing in the intoxicating mix of rubber-scented air and confinement. Each breath is deliberate, controlled, a ritual in itself. It pants through the filter, chest rising and falling in steady waves, accepting the pressure, embracing the fullness.

Then, the stretching begins - a ritual of control and surrender. The suit moves with it, shifting, tightening, guiding its body into deep, deliberate poses. It pushes its rubber-bound limbs against the floor, arching its back, feeling the tightness grow with each movement. The gimp longs for touch, but all it can feel is the smooth resistance of its second skin. It slides its gloved hands over its thighs, up its chest, reveling in the slickness, the restriction, the tease of something just out of reach.

But the gimp just wants to have fun. It kneels, rocking, pressing against the inflated pressure inside. A slow, steady rhythm, teasing itself, enjoying its own confinement. The suit squeaks with every movement, every thrust. It pumps itself up further, lost in the sensation of rubber against rubber, friction against friction.

The world is gone - only this moment exists. This blissful isolation, this endless play of submission and pleasure. The gimp is fully realized, fully immersed, a creature of pure indulgence in its own rubberized ecstasy.