Uniforms Control Your Mind
by Mr. Scade
Smooth jazz played from a turntable, sometimes screeching as the old machine stuttered. The music drifted, stuttered in tempo with erratic splashes of water. Harsh white light shone against her skin, on the smooth lycra on her body, reflecting off the porcelain tub. Water spilled on the floor, darkening clothing forgotten. Like a Pierre Bonnard painting, the scene didn’t feel right.
Knuckles white, aching from a grip held too long, Cynthia moaned, panted. Her voice came out as a meagre whisper.
“You can do it, Cynthia,” She strained. “Damnit. You can stop, you can stop!” From a far away place, her voice came, muffled by a veil both real and mental.
“I am… I can go on without doing it…” She shook her head, gritted her teeth. “I know you- No, I can...” Cynthia trailed off as she saw the inevitable: her hands grabbing the swimsuit by the edges of the tight V cut, and suddenly pulling up and to the sides. She felt her back arch, muscles tense, mind go blank. Only her heels and head supported her weight, her voice was saying incomprehensible things, dripping with unwanted desire.
It happened very slowly; glacial slow, government-slow. Slow like the perfect kiss. Her hands pulled and she felt all sensation fading away from her body; toes, fingers, arms, belly, legs… slowly she couldn’t feel anything that was her body. A little a time, an eternity at a time. Cynthia was losing touch with herself, and she knew it deep inside that she wasn’t getting it back. With every tick of the clock, Cynthia was herself anymore. Just a little at a time. Just enough that she could still call herself Cynthia, but enough that she would eventually forget even that.
She had already forgotten her surname.
She could barely remember the music that played in the flat. Who it was, why she liked it. But it kept her grounded, a little. aIt was a tether, holding her to a reality she felt attached to less and less.
Cynthia felt her lungs expand and contract in increased speed. She was hot all over, and wet all over. Glistening sweat? No. Water, water pouring over her. Cooling her down. Panting, gasping for breath, she couldn’t believe how aroused she was. Wouldn’t believe how difficult it was to think.
“That’s… that is what the… the water is for…” Had it not been for the lack of breath, her voice would’ve been devoid of humanity, or so full of something she didn’t have a word for anymore.
Cynthia hadn’t yet decided if she was becoming nothing or... something.
She closed her eyes. Her body relaxed, her hands let go of the swimsuit. She felt an emptiness between her fingers and then felt nothing. She didn’t want to think about that yet. Cynthia let her body be swallowed by the water filling the bathtub, felt the tight suit clinging to her skin. Wet, cool, soft, and oh so right! How had she ever been without this sensation. This wonderful sensation! Regardless of what happened, Cynthia knew she would never be able to exist without wearing the tight, tight navy blue swimsuit, with its sky blue lines on the shoulder and matching logo just between the breasts. Even if she stopped being herself, she would always—
“No!” She screamed with the guttural fear of someone being snuffed out. “No!” Nearly jumping out of the water, she tried to get out of the tub. Water splashed everywhere, an instinct to survive this death of ego. She didn’t want that. No, no, no, no….
“Not… yet. Not now. Not like this,” Her voice was a whisper she didn’t recognize.
A saxophone sound was far away in the other room; textured and older than the woman in the tub.
Cynthia liked how the fabric clung to her skin; wet, soft against her skin; against back and crotch, sides and breasts and… everything. It felt to good. Even if…
Cynthia looked down, looked how close it clung to her sex, more of a tease than nudity or even… the word left her mind. Words had started fading the moment she put it on for the first time and hadn’t stopped since. Just like she was fading away. A little bit at a time. A little bit per orgasm.
Soon Cynthia would be gone. Cynthia knew this.
If she could go back in time and stop herself from trying on the suit, Cynthia knew in her gut she wouldn’t not only encouraged herself but her friends to try it on too.
“You can r-resist,” She began her empty litany once more. It was a sign. Whatever she was becoming liked to give her a little warning, a couple of seconds before her body was wrecked by another mind-numbing rush. It made things hotter; even what was left of Cynthia had to admit that. “You can escape. You can resist. You can… you… FUCK!” Water splashed around her as she trashed. Another word forgotten. The suit grew tighter. She gasped. Back arched, toes curled, neck cramped. Thoughts were in a blender, memories being mixed and chopped and mixed again. Cynthia lost a bit of herself, a bit of everything. The suit, it drained her, used her. It melded with her. Cynthia and swimsuit, Cynthia and the entity possessing it—as one.
It felt so good.
She didn’t regret putting it on.
“Cathia…” She shook her blonde-crowned head. “Cathia? Yes, Cynthia. That’s right; my name’s Katya. I can resist...” She continued, barely being able to breath as she recovered. Something like fear gripped her throat. She looked down, forced herself to look down. Her hands began to move, on their own, controlled by something else; perhaps the suit, perhaps who gave her the suit. Who knows. Catherine didn’t care.
White-knuckled fingers gripped navy blue fabric. They pulled, tenderly, softly.
The record player skipped one last time.