The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

In the small hours of the morning, deep below the museum atrium, Darby imitated a Geisha holding her body obediently stock-still in a seiza position as a metal grate dug into her nylon covered knees and ankles. Two staff Goth girls processed her like a victorious hunter’s quarry. First, they pulled the yellow Bunny ears off. Under Libby’s mysterious control, neither Darby nor her costume fought back. Her costume refused to restore itself. It did not sting her body to punish and grow back a new pair of ears. It did nothing. The costume’s magic submitted to being stripped down.

The Goth girls with their solid black eyes, face piercings, latex body suits and platform boots; stood tall, ominous. One girl squatted behind, the latex knees pinching the mute Bunny. She pulled back fast and hard on Darby’s hair, arching the neck, exposing the throat, and aiming the hapless face to the ceiling.

In silent isolation from any hope of escape, the Bunny felt her bowtie snap off, the collar fall away, the wrists cufflinks pop, the French cuffs release, and then the suit’s zipper open. Darby’s costume could have protested and slowed the strip down by quickly growing back the removed accessories. It could have magically removed the rear zipper, leaving only a sewn seam.

The Goths would not dare cut or rip into the satin.

Among costumes, Bunny or Goth, willful damage was heresy.

Any opposition surprisingly fled Darby’s suit. She even found her costume accelerating the process, offering in its own way to help. With a jolting sting in the small of her back, she knew her hidden cincher appeased and offered the Goths removable laces threaded through grommets. Normally the costume left Darby stuck in a cincher sewn shut, no grommets, no strings. Escapable laces were almost always absent. At best she could take the outer shell off and sleep in tights protected by a boned under breast corset. Now strings, zigzagging between eyelets, made the Goths job so easy.

Total submission left her body immobilized, unless ordered. Her costume betrayed her safety. Her mentor and mistress, Maria, was nowhere to be seen. Who knew what these Goths had in mind.

“Oh my goddesses!” said Libby, entering the room. “That laser is beyond excellent. It is so much, much, much more powerful than the last lame-o one.” She pressed her breasts and her entire pencil-skirted body against a brick wall and stroked her arms over the surface, imitating how she molested the upstairs gallery’s Plexiglas display, set aglow by the laser. She breathed against the cold clay and mortar, risking her white silk blouse against the rough stone. She swiped her extended arms up and down from a tall stretch to a wide span, as if trying to make a snow-angel but face down in the white powder. “I could truly see it for the first time through the glass. I could make real contact with it even though the wall prevented my physical caress. For the first time, I could truly hear it talk to me—so clearly—so commanding.” She kissed the wall, almost licking the frigid brick. “Loved it. Thank you Darby.”

Darby imagined the lipstick left behind on the glass upstairs. She wanted the rouge smeared onto her own lips. Shamefully, she still wanted Libby.

The demonic librarian continued, “I pressed myself hard, right against the glass. Just like this. Yes!” She swiped her arms again. She paused to look to her Goth servants. “You may continue. Field dress the silly rabbit.” She pushed herself away from the basement wall as she loomed over Darby. Her eyes peered down through her dark rimmed glasses to the captured pathetic creature. ”I’m enlightened now. I don’t need a scientist anymore. I know exactly what I need to do. Plans have changed. We are going to need something else and you’re it—or will be, soon enough. The process won’t be pleasant I’m afraid, my sweet little Bunny.”

Libby laughed. “It’s sad you won’t see Maria being altered. There’s so much power in her costume. It’s tantalizing to touch and control. As for you, well, all Bunnies have a certain zing to their flavor, but Maria is a Nathalie mentored Bunny. Yummy. It’s like a fine wine in a vintage labeled bottle—you just want to shove it up your pussy and fuck it before popping the cork. How I’ll handle Maria would make you shudder. Of course, it will be a tasteful lovely ceremony. A little cruel for a costume—sure—but you know, making an omelet, cracking eggs—blah, blah, all that nonsense.”

Darby spurted a single breath.

The hair-tugging Goth wrenched harder, punishing the Bunny’s attempted defiance. “We will proceed as you wish, Mistress.”

Both Goth bodies were clad in black shiny latex body suits, including hoods. Only the skin of their faces showed. Metal bolts glistened around their lips and noses. Their full black contact lenses covered the whites of their eyes, making it impossible to see where they were looking. Above their alien horror movie gazes, more metal perforated their brows.

Darby feared how the Goths would probably transform her into one of them—gruesome, cold creatures, yearning for abuse. She remembered scanning Libby’s mind weeks ago and seeing memories showing the Goths dangling from the ceiling, their shoulders impaled on meat hooks. Would she too also start to love the sensation of being suspended? Would she desire to mutilate her own body? But she loved being a sexy glamorous Bunny.

The kneeling Goth gripped tighter and whispered into Darby’s ear, “I’m going to have fun doing this to you.”

“Bye-bye,” said Libby, with her fingers twittling an insincere farewell. “I need my beauty rest before my early morning exercise. Today has been so! So! Exhausting. Oh my! Thanks again for the laser. It was perfect. Tootles!”

The Goths and the captive Bunny all longed for Libby. Their hearts sank as their raven-haired Mistress click-clacked her heels out of the room. When the door closed, the Goths leered back at Bunny Darby as if it were her fault they couldn’t follow their idol. The one pulling the hair whispered a dark order, “Use your magic. Let your hair go. Go bald like us. Under our hoods, we have no hair. None. Now, let yours fall out completely.”

“Huh?” huffed Darby in disbelief with the only word she could get passed her lips.

She received another sharp jerk.

Darby could feel her costume give in. “No!” shrieked Darby. Feeling a latex hand stroke over her long locks, several strands began dropping to the floor. More fast gloved strokes followed removing more hair. Seconds later, the final latex strokes slipped over a perfectly smooth scalp. Darby knew her hair was no more.

“Why?” asked Darby.

“Shhh. Now the eyelashes and eyebrows too.”

Each swipe of a rubber fingertip around the traumatized eyes removed the last bits of hair. The costume ejected every tiny follicle. The magic obeyed. Without her perfectly plucked brows and primed hair, even friends would have to look hard to recognize Darby. Her unique visual identity hadn’t just diminished. It disappeared. She had dated a bald guy once. A head of hair proved to be a major visual cue. She once almost turned and kissed the wrong man in a crowded bar. Bald guys did all look alike. She quickly ended the relationship. She preferred women anyway, but these rubbered Goths were golems. She didn’t want to be one of them.

The first Goth smirked. “Open your mouth. I need to properly line you up.”

Darby’s lips parted. A wood yardstick pushed down her throat. Her body gurgled and gagged as the flat rod went deep, hitting her stomach.

“Don’t you dare throw up, rabbit.”

The Bunny stared up at the florescent lights, so bright and lonely like Seven Eleven’s at night, offices with no windows, and all the other many places not home. She thought of love—Meredith—and touching her lover’s petite body, stroking her green satin costume, and playing with her light brown hair. They would never be together again.

With the Bunny’s back zipper teeth pulled apart, the fingers yanked its tab carelessly under the base of the large covering cottontail protecting the end of the zipper path. Some tail mounting hooks popped and left the fluffy white ball dangling on a thread. Causing a little damage didn’t seem to bother the Goths. The weight of the opened costume’s spiral metal boning began to pull the bra cups away, exposing Darby’s breasts. The Bunny wanted to instinctively hug the satin against her chest, cover herself, but her arms stayed stuck to her sides as instructed.

Decorating the tops of the leg holes, bow knotted yellow strings snugged the costume at the hips. Grubby hands released the strings from their grommets and dropped them to the metal grate. The second Goth ruthlessly clawed and batted the costume down to Darby’s lap.

The dressing down continued.

The outer yellow satin flopped forward, laying limp across Darby’s dark nyloned thighs. Her yellow Bunny costume had been peeled open like a banana revealing a white cotton inner lining of the shell. The cincher, revealed underneath, not original to outfit of the 1960’s clubs, offered laces to the Goths’ fingers. With more pulling, the strands went awry in wide wild loops. The jerking tugs loosened the torso hugging tube, expanding it away from Darby’s flat athletic midriff and allowing the Goths to crush the boned garment down below the waistline.

The ‘Bunny Darby’ nametag fell to the floor.

“Don’t forget that. All of her has to stay together.”

The tag was retrieved. “Darby,” read the kneeling Goth in front. “No one’s going to know your name now.” She jammed the first prize ribbon against the Bunny’s crotch. It slid down inside a crevasse between the opened costume and the double-layered pantyhose.

When both layers of pantyhose rolled down, tucked under the collapsed cincher, the violent doffing ceased.

“Keep your arms tight against your body. I don’t want a gap anywhere.”

The lithe arms pin themselves to Darby sides. The stick shoved down her throat kept her head back, her eyes open to the blinding ceiling lights. She could only guess what was next.

“So little jack rabbit, we’re now going to spray you with a composite cement. I envy how fully enclosed you’ll become.” A bucket banged about. Liquids were mixed. “Instead of water, we use a latex in the blend. It makes it unperceivably flexible but much more durable, so no cracking. While it dries, you’re not allowed to move. Don’t even breathe. We’re going to get a nice even coat over you. Keep your eyes open and hold your breath. Hold your breath forever. Let your costume’s magic keep you alive.”

The second Goth girl took pity on Darby. “The cement is acidic. It’ll sting. Here use my contacts.” She squeezed her left eye and popped out a black hemisphere lens. She extracted the right contact too. Both eyes now felt the cool air for the first time in many years. With contact lenses in her gloved hands, her former alien gaze suddenly looked human. She had hazel sympathetic eyes, actually sweat and innocent. Her heart seemed pure—just not enough to bother with rescuing Darby.

Easing some guilt with a kind offer probably led to a need for alleviating the prisoner’s minor discomfort.

Darby’s eyes pleaded. Then anger flashed. She didn’t want either Goth to feel better for offering anything, especially some superficial sympathy. She looked straight to the steal I-beams above and stayed quiet as rubber fingers fidgeted around her eyes. It took effort to push the plastic in. Plastic covering the entire ball of the eye seemed worse than simply being maced with cement.

“Come on,” said the other Goth. “Hurry up already. Let me just paint her. She’s going to be in agony anyway. I mean she isn’t even aloud to inhale air.”

“I just need a second more.”

“Let her eyes burn for a few lousy minutes. What’s the difference? We have to put her on display before opening. Hurry. Libby will get angry.”

Darby felt her eyelid pulled back and the full cover of a black alien contact pushed over the ball. The next lens compressed the other eye. The overhead lights tinted with a sunglass filter. She felt the plastic squeeze. She wanted it removed. She wanted to swirl her eyes about her sockets to get comfortable. The plastic firmness made her body beg for a forceful squint. None happened. She had never worn contacts, let alone encasements.

Her thoughts quickly switched to a wet thick wash starting to cover her bare skin. Her shoulders didn’t shudder or move—it took all her will to obey and stay still.

A spraying sound moved side to side, up and down. The clammy wetness covered and ran down her torso in streaks. It sounded like rain on a tarp when it hit the costume, flayed open like a dead fish over her lap.

The scream for needed air flooded all her thoughts. Still, Darby subserviently held her breath, ignoring the hunger to respire. Her muscles ached. Her body silently bawled. Her arms remained dutifully held tight against her body. Her breasts, with cold plump nipples, pointed forward. A bucket and handle clanked overhead. Pouring cement pounded on her costume below her waist. The muddy slosh piled higher entombing her legs and feet. Simultaneously, the spraying continued. Darby sat there like a mannequin, no movement allowed.

The crude costumed creatures mixed more cement.

More spray hit. Grey cement smoothed over the hairless head, finally coating across the open eyes. Her vision fogged, like watching a car wash through a windshield. Then everything went black when her pupils were painted over. She imagined the sting in the eyes without the plastic covers. The burning might have helped distract from the need to breathe. She begged to pass out. The mud slid down the rod protruding from the breathless lips. It hurt when she accidently flexed her throat.

“Stay still. Do not move.”

Shocks of short sprays hit the perfect perky breasts and the flat tummy. The arms glued to her sides as it harden. Surely though, it couldn’t have dried that fast. Maybe time was passing in a hurry. Maybe that was a blessing.

Darby found no relief. She starved for air. Her costume fought her human limitations and kept her alive and conscious—fully alert and thinking. She begged harder for death, but she had nothing to offer her costume. Normally a promise of sexual deviancy could gain help from a costume, but what could an imprisoned soul possibly barter? What offerings did she have?

Her costume refused to let her pass out. No sexual act offered in trade would ever have sufficed anyway, because the satins and cottons worried that an unconscious human body would not hold the pose desired by their new Mistress Libby. Every thought was wrong. Who cared about a statuesque pose? How did Libby get so much control?

Time lost in agonizing torment slowly continued.

Motorized buffing whirred outside somewhere. Darby’s lungs blazed in the darkness. Air! Please! The pain always grew with no lulls or relief. Thoughts failed to find a way to achieve unconsciousness.

How long had it been?

Outside Darby’s living hell, the Goths buffed and polished the dried surfaces above the waist. The solid cement pile below remained rough, neglected. Above the waistline, any imperfections covering Darby’s exposed body, such as dried drips and streaks, quickly vanished under the spinning buffer wheel. The girls shaped the Bunny into a shiny statue depicting a woman emerging from a rock with a backward arching neck, arms pressed to the sides, and a face aimed up to swallow a yardstick. The stick had kept the mouth aimed just right, until the cement hardened. Once solidified, the girls carefully freed the stick from the cement dried in the mouth. They used tiny chisels to crack the resin behind the teeth, clearing a path to slowly extract the stick from its human sheath. As the last part of the wooden rod pulled free, a puff of dust exhaled from the stone lips.

“Don’t you dare breathe inside there,” yelled a Goth. “I don’t want any cracks. Your almost dry now.” She gently tapped a stone human ear and spoke as she pushed filler into the passage to the eardrum. “I know you can still hear me. You probably sense me with your Bunny costume curse.” She mixed more filler on a painter’s palette. “I’m going to make certain you’re all sealed up.” She finished plastering over any possible openings in the ears and nose. The mouth she left open. Using a latex finger, the Goth pushed more plaster into Darby’s nostrils, leaving a smooth concave round surface shaped like a perfect Michelangelo marble carved nose. She finished with a Dremel tool, sanding the face with a fine grain buff cone.

The motoring vibrated inside. It scrubbed upwards and over the baldhead. It sanded across the round surface of the open eyes.

A far off voice said, “Perfect. Nice and smooth.”

Below Darby’s waistline, dried crinkled cement buried her costume. Her outfit stayed flopped, dejected, like a used towel draped over her legs. Her Bunny ears, cuffs and cottontail hid between her folded legs, in a cement pile below her rear, between her high-heeled feet. Coated in grey, her yellow high heel stilettos extended like horns out of the rocky mound. Nothing of yellow or human skin showed. She had been permanently joined to a metal grill and posed as if she could spew water like a Roman cherub fountain.

A Goth dusted away the sanded powder, pushing some of the powder between the open lips. She didn’t care. “I can’t even imagine the pain you must feel in there, not being allowed to breathe. Mmm, so totally encased. I envy you. But, don’t worry, it’s almost over. We’re going to put you into a vacuum chamber now. I need you to use your magic to stay alive. You can’t move one bit. So I need you to understand what’s about to happen to you. We’re going to coat you in aluminum. We used to do this with cursed artifacts to shield their magic forever. We didn’t want them to infect spectators. Unfortunately, the evil magic started to burn through the metal. Plating proved useless. We stopped aluminizing and gold electroplating. Instead we use leaded display cases that didn’t make direct contact. But you—well—you’re alive. You want to obey. So don’t fight it. Don’t burn the metal off. Just let yourself be plated. Give in. It’s so important to put cursed objects, like yourself, on display. It lets the magic feel sexy even without a host. Voyeurism keeps the enchantment inline.”

“I’m envying you so much,” said the other Goth. “We’ve never aluminized a living person before. It’d kill ’em. I wish I could try this myself.”

“Bunnies have such power. I want it.”

Darby felt shifts in motion as the metal grate lifted. Her fate fell to some primitive tribal ritual, trying to appease a volcanic god. She was a sacrifice being carried on a raised platform to her doom. Her need for oxygen drummed in her mind like wild primitive fanatics dancing to a sacrifice ceremony. Through the polished stone layers, she could still sense beyond her body. She could actually see how she was being placed inside a steal container that looked like a huge 19th century iron furnace with an enormous steal door. The closing hatch banged. Bolts screwed into place.

The Bunny senses struggled through the depravation of oxygen, through the metal walls. Darby could sense two Goths talking.

“Be careful,” said the first Goth, as if Darby were a collapsible soufflé about to be baked in an oven.

A wheel cranked and air whistled as a vacuum pump chattered. Darby’s costume struggled to fight the sudden drop in air pressure. The expired air inside her body had nowhere to go. It’s pressure wanted to vent out and, if needed, rupture the organs, skin and cement shell. The magic held. It didn’t let anything break, except Darby’s spirit.

Inside the chamber, the atmosphere dropped to nothing. Heating coils, wrapped in aluminum foil, glowed. The metal melted. Before the liquefied aluminum foil almost dripped to the floor, the lack of pressure forced the metallic fluid to vaporize. The gas aluminum atoms floated free to find either a contact surface on Darby or an inner chamber wall. Either way, an atom’s touch caused its own condensation. Every passing second added more aluminum coatings over everything in the chamber, including the statuesque Darby. Layers of atoms built up a perfect glaze.

Darby lost track of time. She held herself motionless and oxygen deprived. Primitive artifacts probably found the aluminum impenetrable to the senses, but her Bunny costume pushed out and searched the emptiness around her. She found her body had been removed from the deadly chamber and placed in the museum’s main atrium. What day was it? What month? Had it been minutes or years?

She searched the enormous hall. She sensed the details and distances of the surroundings. She was among the strap-on dildos and the display cases. The wood stick had been replaced with a sword. Her nude upper body served as an art piece. A display case built around her lower-half, covered the chunky rough pile of cement entombing her legs and crushed costume. Glowing glass, cut to hug her waist just below the belly button and her arms just above the wrists, created the illusion of a continuous tabletop.

Only an upper body nude female form showed, a half statue, a nude bust, placed on top a glass lightbox.

And now she knew what they had done to her. Her worst fears had been realized. She had been transformed into one of the museum pieces. She was one of the artworks, frozen, catalogued, and displayed—probably named something derogatory.

“She turned out perfectly,” said a Goth, admiring their work.

The other Goth with hazel eyes nodded her head in agreement. Then she flinched. New black full contacts magically grew in. She winced and then looked through her solid black eyes at the statue. “Yes. The mirror finish is perfect. I was worried she might move in the vacuum chamber causing micro-cracks, but she held herself perfectly. What a trooper.”

“It would have been a bitch if we had to resurface her.”

“Yeah. Bunnies must be tough to kill. Do you think I could survive that?”

The Goths gushed at the idea of being tinned in metal. They held each other close. A hand slid down and patted a buttock.

“I’d love to fuck you over like that, but you know we wouldn’t survive it.”

“Mmm, but what a wonderful way to die.”

Their morbid thoughts grew. They kissed briefly and pealed their wet lips away to observe once more.

They enjoyed their latest creation: a perfect mirror surfaced chrome statue of a woman swallowing a sword, the ultimate deep throat.

Inside the museum’s newest acquisition, the need for air grew endlessly. Physiologically, the hunger could reach infinity. Relief was impossible. Fighting hard enough, Darby could concentrate for a second or two. She could sense flashes of the world around her. Vague shadows of shapes moved about her. She sensed people readying the museum to open. Guards walked passed as if she wasn’t there—as if she was no longer a person.

The thundering sounds of a fountain started to vibrate the stone floor. Her Bunny senses heard splashing water. Agony periodically blocked her connection to the outside. Through short glimpses, she retargeted her senses and heard white noise from rushing water. An image flashed of her chrome body. Her contorted mannequin self had been given a periphery location to the large phallic art piece, the one called Rock Hard, that dominated the center of the atrium. White bubbling water shot up from the phallic’s tip. The turbulent flow fell on itself. Excess slid down around the shaft crashing into a pond below that outlined two circular pools like an abstract scrotum. Large sperm white koi swam the rippling waters.

Unable to flex her throat, she felt the impaling sword’s sharp edges. It had been carelessly shoved inside her. Her body healed, but the edges still somehow cut. She sensed the uncaring metal around her, skintight chrome.

She really was a museum piece—a chromed commission frozen forever.

The painful asphyxiation intensified.

She tried to clear her mind. The pain refused to stop.

Inside she screamed: focus on something else! She wondered about needless thoughts with answers that couldn’t help her now. Still any distraction would help. And how the fuck did she forget about a huge squirting dick taking center stage in a museum? How had Libby flushed memories from her mind?

More pain hit.

How did Libby do this? How!?

Darby wanted to madly laugh. Insanity might disconnect her from such a horrid fate. She wanted to go crazy, lose reality.

Anything would be better than this. Anything.

Duchess woke to the sounds of high heels. Bunnies were leaving their kennels. The combined Bunny hutch and dog kennel had no clock or windows. Was it day or night? She concluded that it had to be morning. She saw Jet over in her cage still sleeping—motionless, depressed maybe. The puppy costume had to be the cruelest imprisonment possible. What could be worse?

“Don’t worry,” said Nathalie, bowing by the cage—cleavage showing front and center. “By Friday, we’ll pose you at the museum and then take a picture—with our Civil War camera. The curator should have the film plate ready by then. That’s our only hold-up. It takes time for her assistants to coat and prep a plate.”

Meredith’s legs came into view. She hunched down and pushed her clipboard to the floor for support. “Taking a flash picture is like a light switch. Boom, you won’t think at all after that. It’s really the most humane tech we’ve found—for puppies and those cursed forever under tar and feathers.”

Both Bunnies awkwardly paused in silence not knowing what else to offer. Puppy girls never added to a conversation. No one ever knew what they really thought.

Meredith stayed silent because of her own lack of words.

Did Nathalie’s silence mean the same?

Duchess wondered if the maniacal Mistress bitch actually felt guilty. Her Mistress’s silence probably meant she was starting a mental list, going through her day’s calendar of chores and meetings. If Duchess could cross her arms and huff, she would. But the cage ceiling was too low to even sit up and her body ignored her thoughts anyway.

With people around, the costume wanted her to role play with barks, begs, and bounces.

The head Bunny added a half-hearted hope: “Who knows, maybe we can get you out someday.” She turned to Meredith as if no one else was there. “I scanned a puppy girl once, a longtime ago.”

“But you didn’t change.”

“It was dangerous, but I had to know if there was real life inside, real thoughts. I only found muddled confusion, insanity. Duchess, here, probably doesn’t understand us anymore.”

“What if she does?”

“That would be a terrible fate.”

Duchess so badly wanted to say, “Fuck you for doing this too me!” Instead she pawed at the cage door and wiggled her butt and looked happy and—fuck—she couldn’t believe this nonsense, she wanted to be petted so badly. She had no control. Her body rushed off into an eager cloud of puppy imitating motions. Maybe this total darkness, frozen as a stuffed taxidermist hunting trophy, would in fact be better. What kind of choice was that?!

Nathalie took a doggy biscuit from a steel bowl and sniffed it. She and Meredith rose out of view. Duchess could only see their nylon legs and shiny patent leather pumps. The puppy girl noted the black Bunny costume Nathalie wore. The color meant something official happening: a VIP visit. It contradicted with the empty calendar the former assistant had cleared for the week remaining. All meetings, except with R&D, were dropped until the weekend’s deployment of the top secret Bunny Candie project. Duchess thought: whatever! It wasn’t her concern anymore. Fuck you Nathalie!

“Bunny Reddie,” summoned Nathalie.

“Yes Mistress,” said a far off voice.

Another pair of legs and purple heels joined-in. Duchess eye’s glared from behind her dog mask. That backstabber! Reddie was wearing purple now. Duchess lowered her shoulders to look-up at the three Bunnies: R&D green, executive black, and assistant purple. The doggy snout blocked her from getting closer to the metal bars. It was really pissing her off. She pressed it hard, but its strapped-on hand-tooled leather would not bend. The extension of the snout made her face tilt downwards. She jammed the protrusion into a corner, straining her neck and eyes to see anything. She got only a glimpse of the Bunnies chatting above.

It was Reddie, alright—the other redhead—of course. Nathalie seemed to like us redheads. It seemed she went through them like redshirts on Star Trek. Blast her. Blast Reddie too. The bitch was the new assistant to Miss Almighty. But how could Reddie help out? She didn’t even know her own past. Duchess wanted to growl—‘denied’ seemed to be her costume’s response. Duchess tried to pound and paw against the cage in anger. Denied. But it was a legit doggy thing to do. Why couldn’t she do at least that much? Duchess looked up at the three pairs of long smoky colored legs. The words heard were English, but the sounds started to get scrambled. The language was becoming foreign gibberish. Great! So listening in was denied too. Duchess screamed in her head: someone please help me out of this costume! Please!’

The green Bunny stepped away.

The new Purple Bunny sat on her haunches, balancing on the tips of her shoes. She smiled.

An intended growl at the Bunny came out as a sad whimper. No! You bitch! Don’t get close like that! Duchess watched the Bunny lean in and put her fingertips between the tiny bars. The puppy desires to play flooded the mind. If it weren’t for the snout, she’d lick the candy coated nails. After all, an owner was reaching to her, showing love and affection. Rambunctious play and barking became everything. No! Don’t put your hand against the cage door! The latex took over. Her body went into full happy ‘puppy time’ mode again. Her hips wiggled. The show started. She even gave a friendly bark or two.

The redhead Bunny stood and continued to talk some garbled language with Nathalie.

NO! Don’t leave me! The puppy pain of being neglected hurt even more than the latex stealing her free will. Just you wait Reddie. You’ll get fucked over like me before you know it!

Reddie always felt nervous around Nathalie and when something strange was being done, her apprehension grew. She tried to hide it, but Nathalie probably sensed it anyway. Nathalie seemed to know everything.

As the redheaded Bunny had walked across the white floor towards her Mistress, Orange Bunnies skipped and pranced by. They were everywhere—and they were stupid beyond belief. Where had all these bimbos come from? She glanced down at her purple satins and worried they could change to orange.

“The doggy biscuits,” said Nathalie, pointing with a doggy treat in hand. “Smell it.”

Reddie took it and slowly held it close to her nose.

“Well, bite into it, dear” ordered the head Bunny.

“What? It smells so vile.” She hesitated. Giving in, she nibbled a tiny corner of the abhorrent cookie. What was the point of this? Was this a new game? Then the thought hit hard: was this going to turn her into one of the latex girls? She looked down at the puppy girl behind the cage door near her feet. That thought made her drop the biscuit. She squatted down, felt sorrow for the girl inside the rubber suit, smiled at the poor creature, and picked up the fallen doggy cookie.

The puppy girl looked happy and barked wanting to play. Rumors were spreading fast that Duchess and Jet had actually been Bunnies. Reddie tried not to stare at Duchess. It was easier to turn away, so she stood.

Nathalie handed her assistant another doggy treat, taking away the one from the floor.

“Eat it all,” said Nathalie, “Go on.”

Reddie put the crumbling pieces in her mouth, holding a hand in front of her face to breath as she chewed the nauseating gritty supposed treat. She thought that if she held back on breathing through her nose, and kept her mouth slightly open, she would taste less of it.

“What is wrong Mistress?” she said, still chewing with her hand covering her mouth. The grit didn’t melt in her mouth. It swirled over her tongue like sand.

“I could smell it. It’s mostly filler.”

“Oh mercy.” The smell was in her nose now. “I don’t taste anything edible here at all.”

“It’s not bad enough, Reddie. It has to be down-right awful.”

“Are you punishing these puppy girls?”

“You don’t understand. You have to feed a fetish. Feel it. Understand it. Here.” Nathalie reached down her cleavage and removed a Bunny wrist cuff. “This French Cuff was Duchess’s and now has infused into it some trace elements of the latex costume that transformed her from being a Bunny.

“So they were Bunnies? How?”

“Don’t you worry about that. They were careless, unprofessional. Now, we’ll just slide it under here like this.” Nathalie pressed the white cuff against Reddie’s bosom. It slid down underneath a breast.

Reddie stiffened. She did not want to be a puppy girl. This was not good.

“Keep it against your skin today,” said Nathalie.

“But?” Reddie paused. “Yes, ma’am. Of course.” Her eyes crossed, looking down at her cleavage. She realized that Nathalie must know the fear she was putting into her assistant’s mind. Maybe something in doing so got the head Bunny off. Reddie wondered if her own fetishes should be turned on by the threat. She wasn’t sure. But the thought of playing chicken with a puppy costume, while wearing a Bunny suit, didn’t jumpstart any sexual juices. Fear and hate of the taste in her mouth seemed to amuse her boss though.

“Listen to it,” said Nathalie, “I think you, of all Bunnies, should understand what a blatant disabling fetish is like.”

That statement invoked some memories of being a frozen statue, watching the world go by—years went by—so many people pointed and watched and giggled and floated away. Reddie felt a void of loneliness. “Maybe, sure. I’ll try.”

“Puppy encasement is one of the cruelest fetishes, even beyond pony girls. Once a trainer—a caretaker, like you—understands other costumes, it’s easy to learn about your own costume.” Nathalie crouched down, opened the cage and stroked Duchess’s head. A hand slid down the neck, across the smooth back, over the butt and down a leg. She looked into the latex prisoner’s eyes. “I know I can be cold. Yes, I replaced you already, but I’m going to do what’s best for you. Honest. The museum should be able to make a silver plate for the box camera in a couple days. I’ll get them to hurry.”

Duchess involuntarily rolled onto her back, her knees and hands in the air, her flat tummy of black mirroring latex exposed. The only thought was a wish to be rubbed harder. Duchess hoped her Mistress would at least be that caring. Rub me!

Nathalie looked-up, while stroking the puppy girl into a happy frenzy. “Take care of the puppies today.”

“Of course,” said Reddie.

Duchess happily squirmed. Yes! I don’t know what you are saying, but yes!

Reddie extended a timid hand to touch the latex puppy. She somehow knew that such girls were formed in an involuntarily way. A quick index finger tapped the rubber. A few more fingers stroked the slick sheen. She determined Duchess to be safe enough to pet and slid her hand over the smoothed scalp and the belts tied around the head to keep the snout firmly in place. The neck lifted when she scratched the throat. Red lush lips showed underneath the hard leather nose and smiled back at all the attention from two Bunnies. To be a true simple puppy could be fun, but to live as a human trapped inside, it made Reddie pull her hand away.

“These girls,” said Nathalie, continuing to mollycoddle, “need so badly to be leashed, walked, petted, loved, punished, played with, and even fed dog food—but fed only if it lines up with something kinky. Otherwise they spend their time alone, thinking about their latex prisons. They need the puppy fetish to occupy them. So these biscuits have to be the most intolerable concoction of dog food. It’s a way for a poor puppy to cope.” She held Duchess’s precious puppy girl face and switched to a higher pitched parenting voice, “but you wouldn’t listen, would you Duchess? I told you to practice, to meditate everyday, but no, cutsie-wootsie is now encased in latex.” She stopped her mocking tone. “Don’t fight it and maybe, you can talk again.” She shrugged. Even she didn’t believe that. “I hope I made you a little angry inside that suit. Try every emotion, my dearest. There’s always a chance.” That notion Nathalie did believe. The cutsie voice started again, “or maybe you like being a little latex bitch. Huh? Yeah. Who likes being a puppy wuppy? Who likes to be a sex slave slobbering pup? Yeah. You do. Yes, you.”

“What normally is done with them?”

“Over the centuries, they’ve been whored out. Their sex drive soars and it’s cruel to not have them fucked almost every hour until they pass out. Then the next day starts. But we have the camera. I used it on you, until I could get you back into a body.”

Reddie stopped chewing the dog food, afraid to swallow. She covered her mouth. “These are horrible. Really.” She said that to suppress her real thought: who’s body did Nathalie get? She wanted to know, but then she didn’t want to know. Maybe some innocent woman walking home on lonely night? Hopefully, a magical spell created a body out of nothingness.

“Get something worse, darling.”

“I’m going to vomit.”

“Well then, eat all of them. I insist. Get used to them, because I want you to really truly know bad flavor when you find it. We need to help these puppies.” Nathalie handed over a box of the biscuits. “I want you to first stop by the museum. Get the puppies measured for a display case. It’s important the costumes be seen and admired when frozen. Voyeurism feeds the fetish too. Hit the pet store afterwards. I’ll have Chauffie this morning. When we’re back, she will look after you, protect you. There are a lot of costumes out there. Anyone one of them would love a new inexperienced Bunny trophy sitting pretty in their laps. But remember to feed the fetish. Give in to it.” She left Reddie standing there chewing sandy grit. Nathalie stopped at the doorway to give a sultry look back. “Swallow it.” She smirked and disappeared into the adjacent dark furnace room.

Reddie gulped. Gravel passed her throat. She almost choked. She watched her boss leave the top secret blinding white kennel room. She felt the French cuff under her left breast, padding her bra. It made her skin tingle. That couldn’t be good. Could it? Then she wondered if it made her chest lopsided since it was only under one boob. She cupped her breasts and jiggled them.

It should be fine. Still, it felt dangerous.

She crouched again to see Duchess at puppy eyelevel. She searched closer into the girl’s haunting stare, shaded dramatically in eye shadow. She hadn’t met all the Bunnies, but was this what’s-her-name? Holly shit! Could this be the other redhead? Reddie looked at her own purple satin outfit. Could this girl be the other Purple Bunny? What was her name? Maybe it didn’t matter anymore. It was Duchess now and forever.

“Weren’t you a redheaded Bunny?” she whispered to the girl. No response. “Come-on, what did you do? Tell me, so I don’t do it. You must have screwed up somehow, somewhere. Nathalie wouldn’t be so cruel to let this happen for nothing. Would she?” Reddie pressed a hand against her breast to feel the cuff under her newly assigned purple Bunny costume. The screams of fear held inside the cotton cuff scared her. Getting Duchess or Jet to talk seemed more important than ever. Reddie pivoted on the tips of her shoes. She saw Jet behind her, silently sulking on the floor of her cage.

“Don’t worry, I promise to pet both of you.”

“So,” said Meredith, clipboard in hand and a short white lab coat hemmed just above her cottontail. “I see you’re wearing purple today. I guess Nathalie has a thing for redheads.”

Reddie raised her eyebrows at the contempt hidden in the voice. She had enough to deal with and even though she had only recently been made human again—actually a Bunny, so human-ish—for only a month, she could still identify jealously. She suppressed a couple thoughts: 1) Suck it bitch, and 2) Yeah, I passed right by your sorry ass and moved-up. She composed herself and said, “You have a good day studying the bimbos. I’m going out when Chauffie returns.”

“Oh yeah sure, enjoy your errand for doggy biscuits,” said Meredith, giving the box of treats a tap with her clipboard.

Reddie strode pass Meredith. The redhead confidently popped a doggy biscuit in her mouth. She wanted Meredith to see a look of defiance, but that went out the window when a single crunch of the doggy treat started a nauseating experience resulting in gagging cough.

In a townhome located in San Francisco’s marina district, Libby pushed forward on her aerobics. To add a challenge, she lifted two tiny pink weights in her dainty hands. Morning sunlight filled the second floor bedroom around her. The view overlooked the joggers in the Marina Green Park across the street.

Pausing for a moment, she clicked a remote and turned off a blathering news show making chatter from flat panel TV. She threw the remote off to the side and checked her heart rate monitor.

She should be a tad higher.

Lifting her tiny bright pink dumbbells above her shoulders, she took a few deep breaths to keep going as she held the weights steady. Perspiration drenched her stretchy sports shirt. Its tiny straps arched over her bare shoulders. Her midriff stylishly showed. She wore the kind of shirt with a built-in bra—the type that never really held her in. In this case, her nipples pushed out visibly. It was an intentional choice. Her chest heaved as she increased speed. Her shoulders moved left and right, creating a momentum in her ponytail, resulting in its circular swing. It spun faster and faster.

Her phone rang. She pressed a Bluetooth hanging from her ear.

“Libby here. Oh, hi! Yes! I’m doing my cardio. I’ve got two more minutes, so if I sound out of breath that’s why. Sure you can. You can tell me anything. Oh, really? I’m so sorry, he seemed like an OK guy, I guess. But I never would have thought. Could you wait a second? I need to adjust something. No, No. I’ll just put you on hold for just a second.”

Libby looked over her shoulder at a guy gagged and tied to the corners of a bed. She straddled his waist with her half naked body. Her knees dug into the mattress, her heels pressed into his sides. In a second, she rotated around his erection to face him. They were now belly to belly. “OK, this is where I have to get my last burst of cardio, so you better cum before I stop or I’ll just leave you here. Are we clear?” She started to move-up and down again. “I’ll loosen the cock ring so it doesn’t hurt so much, but you’ll have to concentrate to ignore the pain. You’ll probably feel some throbbing.” Her hands clicked something metallic between her legs. A ring encircled her captive’s shaft and scrotum.

She looked around the bedroom, “I can tell you’re married. And from the decorations, oh wow, she looks difficult—just a tad intense. Doesn’t let you make a mess, does she? Probably more worried about the bed sheets than an affair. Still you probably don’t want her angry. Do you?” Libby quickened her pace, “So let’s get going. OK? Good boy.” She patted him on the head and picked-up her bright pink weights.

The guy grunted. His face reconsidered his favorite fantasy brought to life—the woman’s version wasn’t really matching with his. He looked down at his overly erect shaft, revealed for only brief glimpses as the crazy woman’s hips raised and lowered.

“Yeah, like you have a choice,” she said. “The blood just keeps going in with this cock ring. Hurry up. You don’t want to burst like an over boiled hotdog.” She did a yoga-worthy turn of her body while still mounted on his manhood. The move left her perfect bare butt cheeks aimed towards his face.

He whimpered. The move had levered his member forward against the hardness that tried to aim the opposite angle. “Mmm!”

She moved up and down faster and faster. “Hush!” Unmuting her Bluetooth earpiece, she continued her call. “Sorry, yeah I had a little trouble with the machine. I’m trying to get my heart rate-up. Oh, yeah? Really? No. Oh, my!” She turned her head and gestured for him to hurry.

He moaned and supplicated.

She kicked her ankles into his sides and raised her pink weights a bit higher as she road him increasingly faster. She wished there were some handy ceiling straps available. Then again, doing without made for a more vigorous exercise.

“Look,” she said to her girlfriend, “if he’s going to do that, then screw him. No. I mean in the dump him sort of way. Yeah.” Silence trailed for a second—except for the bed squeaking loudly. “Me? Oh, I need sex. I don’t really think I’m feeling it so much emotionally anymore. It’s just a physical need. It’s good exercise—releases those endorph-thingies. Yeah. For sure. Stop by the museum. We’ll talk more. Hm? Yes. I’ve been doing a lot of research lately, but I’ll make time for a friend. Yes, it has ‘sex’ written on the sign. Yes, right over the front door. Don’t be such a prude. I proudly walk those front stairs everyday. Research? Oh, just some stuff. Learning about some ancient Egyptian myths—yes, of course they did—yes, silly. Kinky sex even back then. You do know the royals liked to keep the genes in the family. See. That was kinky. I know! Ew. So, meet at two? Good. You deserve better. You know it. No, you don’t want the kind of guys I go out with. I just pick pathetic losers all the time. Total shitheads—oops, sorry for my French. Hm? You too? Well, I guess we all do.”

Beeps came from her heart monitor. “I’ve got to do my cool down cycle now. See you later today. Bye!”

Her body began to slow down drastically from her killer pace. She calmly said to the guy below her hips—without even a turn of her head—in fact she kept her eyes closed, “Oh, this was so relaxing. But I don’t feel you cumming though. I’m getting a little angry now. Don’t make me turn around.”

“Mmm!” he grunted through the gag.

Her bare heels kicked him in the sides, like a jockey spurring a horse. She continued slower and slower. “Concentrate. Look at my round butt cheeks. I’ll be very insulted if I don’t feel—oh, there we go! Good boy! Yes. Very, good, boy!” She relaxed her body feeling the warmth fill inside her. She stopped moving and enjoyed the thought of having made a guy think he had voluntarily chosen to have an affair that morning. She knew he was the type to feel guilty later. He’d probably find someplace to be alone, a bathroom or a car, and then cry with a flood of regret.

The thought made her happy.

She sighed, knowing he was also the type of guy who would call later to say that he needed to stay away—that they should break up. She loved that fake resolve men had. Seriously, why even call? She knew that such vows were really guilt filled invitations to do it all again. The very idea that by afternoon he’d be crying alone, thinking about her, almost gave her another orgasm—but there wasn’t time. Checking her heart rate, she said, “Excellent, I’m down to sixty-five already.”

Whimpers came from behind her. She unmounted him.

“Mmmmm” he said, startled at just how fast she had redressed into her spandex bicycle shorts and sneakers. She was now checking her make-up in the dresser mirror, readying herself to go.

“Thank you for a great morning,” she said, putting a hand down to his crotch, clicking and releasing the cock ring. “Wouldn’t want you to explode now, huh?”

“Mmm,” he said in relief. “Mmmm. Mm. Mm.”

“Oh, don’t worry. You can keep the bike chains and even the gag.” She grabbed her phone and did a quick check that she had retrieved all her belongings. Absent of guilt, she headed for the hallway door.

“Mmmm! Mmmm!” screamed the guy into his gag begging, shaking his tied hands and feet to show his limbs stretched out across the mattress. He started to whimper, “Mmmm?”

“Good luck with those. If you want to get back at me for ruining your life, stop by the downtown Fetish and Sex Museum. I’m the curator there.” She put on her dark rimmed narrow glasses, undid her ponytail, letting it all fall free around her shoulders. She swung her head a few times to give the hair volume. With her best naughty librarian voice, she said, “I’ll really take care of you then.”

“MMMM! MMMM!”

The door slammed shut behind her.