Uniforms Control Your Mind
by Mr. Scade
A Question of Self
What was Self?
Where in the body was Self stored?
Can it be tempered with? Can it be touched? Changed? Removed?
The Converted saw only a faceless, mindless Initiate. The Masters of Skin saw just another toy to play with. And the other Initiates saw only a sister. A faceless, encased twin of a sister.
If only they knew she was still a person underneath the layers of latex, underneath the shallow programming forced into her brain, underneath the flaming passion her body had become accustomed to. Programmed. That’s the word the Masters of Skin used. Her body had been programmed, and her mind rewritten. It wasn’t her choice, or even the programming’s fault, that her body reacted the way it did to certain stimuli. It had been programmed, like a machine made of meat. Programmed to love this, programmed to hate that, programmed to move a certain way and answer with a specific tone of voice.
If she had been able to laugh, she would have.
If she had been able to move, she would have.
Some would call it hell, purgatory, but not her. It had been her choice. It had been her dream, since she was but a teenager. But it hadn’t worked quite right. She felt her latex fingers inside her latex-encased sex, moving on their own, reacting to the song that kept going off inside her brain, like a bad radio tune, from those parts that were forever closed for her own use. If she concentrated, she was aware of that which had been changed. Libido was amongst those, compliance too. Something had been done that made her react to certain words, and certain gestures; not just with her body, but with the thoughts that appeared. How she could see those gestures, was beyond her. The latex covered her face—made her a featureless object, with only a red hole for a mouth. She could feel obedience in her brain, but not in her mind. Not in her Self. If she concentrated, she could see and be inside the parts of her brain that were property of the Programming, but she could no more use them as a cripple could run unaided.
The Masters of Skin and the Converted worked very hard on her. Harder than on the others. But all of their effort had barely touched who she was. Their promises had been empty. Their promises to take who she was away and put a fantasy in its place were broken.
But, wasn’t she living a fantasy already?
She had no control over her body, not while she could hear the song. Oh, she could stop herself whenever she wanted. She could move without being told to. She could think. Oh, could she think!
But her fantasy had been the opposite. Unthinking obedience. Mindless bliss.
To be Faceless. To be without Self.
But she could still recall her name. The song couldn’t take that away. Wouldn’t take that away, for some reason.
She pinched her latex-covered mound. Pain. She needed pain to remind herself she didn’t want her name. She needed to train herself.
And right there was proof that she still was herself under the layers of latex, under the layers of programming.
She decided not to think and enjoy the tight fit of her new, black, glossy skin. She decided not to think, and let the song wash over her.
It was her choice.
It was her Self that decided to be obedient.
And for that she should feel happy. It had been her fantasy to become this. But the fantasy was incomplete. Self still existed. Self still had control. Self could chose to stop all of this, all the latex, all the fucking, all the mindbending, all the sister using, all the kidnapping, and all the transformations.
As she stopped thinking, as she allowed the song to drown her fears of freedom, as she allowed the tightness on her body to become one with her and the facelessness to be everything, she couldn’t help but think: where was Self stored?
And how could she destroy it?