![]() Why did it have to be latex? That was a question Liz often asked herself in her isolation.īound in a straitjacket, mummified, sacked, and restrained in some wonderful hybrid of sarcophagus and chair, Liz could barely move a muscle. She was just miserable, stewing in her sweat from the multiple layers of heavy bondage, and constantly wishing for her imprisonment to end. But she couldn’t get herself even the slightest bit horny. She loved the isolation and the immobility and wanted nothing more but to melt away into the bliss of perfect bondage. Instead, she was immobilized, isolated, and forced to endure the feel of her least favorite material ever.īondage of this caliber was something she always dreamed of in her darkest fantasies. Soon after she had been locked away, she had started to hope that eventually, she would learn to enjoy it and could finally live her fantasy of being locked away and forgotten, but that moment never came. Or was it former mistress now? She hated its artificial touch and the way it stuck to her skin. She still hated it as much as she had the day her mistress Elena had taken her in. In all that time, Liz had never gotten used to the touch of latex. ![]() How much time had passed? Days? Months? Years? The answers to those questions lay outside the silence and darkness of her cell. At first, she tried counting the number of meals she had been fed, back when she had more hope about getting out, but she had lost count a long time ago. In complete isolation, the sense of time and space was the first things to go. Liz had no idea how long she had been trapped in the 17th basement of the JF Institute.
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