covered-up-bondage - Tumblr blog

[covered-up-bondage]

A high-risk prisoner caught in the act of letting her gaze drift to one side while standing at attention. The electrodes in her suit correct her immediately. High-risk prisoners such as enemy agents and members of illegal rebel organisations wear a heavier and far more uncomfortable uniform, a blue padded suit which weighs at least half their body weight, as well as a thin collar which constantly presses at their throat, even when they are resting. Just like the regular prisoners, the cells are kept at 35°C and 90% humidity, with large volumes of nutrient fluid force-fed to prisoners at regular intervals to prevent heat exhaustion. The suit has no proper outlet for bodily waste. Furthermore, the padding and reinforcements in the suit make it incredibly restrictive despite adhering to their bodies, allowing little movement in the joints, stopping them from taking large steps, or from raising their arms above their waists. Despite this, for about one-third of the day high-risk prisoners are expected to march about a specified route within the cell, maintaining a minimum speed and specific marching posture on pain of severe punishment. The inspections still take place at random as per normal. Another third of the day is spent standing at attention, staring straight ahead without fidgeting or making a sound (even through the gag), and for the last third they are allowed to rest on the cell floor.

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They take turns peeing into the cup and forcing me to drain the contents. After a few cups my bladder feels full, but they don't care. It is prickly and sweaty and scratchy in the suit, and my full bladder is a new layer of discomfort. To make it worse, they throw a rubber ball and force me to fetch it for them between my elbows, and then force me to drink more cupfuls of liquid, this time water mixed with their discharge. I scream and moan into the gag, but they only laugh and leash me outside for the rest of the day, while they go in to enjoy the air-conditioning. I watch them through the windows, trying to imagine, to remember the feel of cool air on my skin, the taste of fresh water on my tongue and throat, the feeling of standing up and sitting down with unencumbered limbs.

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When the alarm sounds, she stands at attention in her tiny cell, keeping her eyes trained straight in front of her. Until the sound stops, she is not to shift her position. She waits for the inspection to be over, trying not to fidget, trying to ignore the sweat tickling her all over. No guards are needed for this inspection: the camera is trained to send corrective measures straight to the electrodes in the suit below the thick padded uniform at the slightest deviation from the posture she is required to hold. The inspection times are random, every few minutes or so, and the amount of time she has to hold the posture is random, another few minutes before she is allowed to move. On good days they let her rest for 8 hours, and on other days she gets no rest at all, forced awake by the blaring alarm every time she tries to doze off a little. Even the precious hours of sleep she gets are constantly curtailed by her own drool dripping from the gag, her own sweat pooling and stinking in the suit, the hard cell floor.

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Another day spent watching others put on and take off their suits, watching them stand and sit and walk, another day spent stuck in the smelly and sticky outfit, her hands confined in rubber paws, her legs folded and constrained. No matter how they deny her humanity, she refuses to give up, trying to find any weakness in the suit, trying to pry the horrid mask gag and blinders away from her face, to no avail. She gazes with deep longing, with untold misery, at the humans who play at covering their skin with rubber. The difference is that they take it off later, that they can eat and drink and speak like humans while in their rubber skin, while she cannot even move from this humiliating position without their command without being punished. She mewls piteously into the gag, the only sound allowed her, and they do not even notice, deepening her humiliation.

[covered-up-bondage]

At the very least, she is allowed to sleep on the bed tonight. In the morning it will be back to the cage for the rest of the day, and if her master finds even a drop of urine leaked onto the bed, there go her bed privileges for another month, in addition to another few km on the cage floor treadmill. Just before bed, she is forced to drink a whole litre of water, giving her the cruel dilemma of wetting the bed for a single good night's sleep, or holding it in so that she avoids the punishment. In the end she does neither, trying to hold it in all night until a few drops leak onto the pristine sheets, and even then she does not let go, hoping her master will be lenient if she does not stain the sheets too badly, trying to hold her bladder as much as possible as the seconds of the night tick cruelly by, feeling each of the countless trickles of sweat and each gnawing itch in the sticky suit worse than ever. In the morning she is punished with the same severity anyway, her whimpering pleading falling on deaf ears.