Uniforms Control Your Mind
by Mr. Scade
Can Resist!
“You can do it, Cynthia.” Her voice was but a whisper, coming from a place far away. “You can stop. You can go without doing it... I know you can... you can... you can… you…” Cynthia trailed off as she saw the inevitable: her hands grabbing the swimsuit by the edges of the tight V cut, and pulling hard. She arched her back, heels and head supporting her weight. It happened slowly. Slow like a snail, slow like the last release of sex, slow like a perfect kiss. Her hands pulled and she felt her self fading away just a little more. 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.
Somewhere in the flat, music played. It was a tether, holding her to reality.
Cynthia felt her lungs expand and contract in increased speed. She was hot all over, and wet all over. 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…” Her voice would’ve been monotonous, or giggly, if it weren’t for the lack of breath. She hadn’t yet decided if she was becoming nothing or... something.
Cynthia closed her eyes. The only rest her hands—or was it herself?—would allow her before whatever she was becoming would use her hands to… She didn’t want to think about that yet. Cynthia let her body be swallowed by the water filling the tub, 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, nearly jumping out of the water. She didn’t want that, not yet, at least. She liked how the fabric clung to her skin; wet, tiny, soft against her skin. Against back and crotch, sides and breasts and… everything. It felt to good. Even if…
Cynthia looked down, looked how tight her pussy was, nearly pressed deep into her body as if it were… the word escaped her. Words were beginning to fade. 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. Hated this. Loved this.
If she could go back in time and stop herself from trying on the suit, she would’ve convinced herself to help others try it too.
“You can resist.” She began her litany once more. It was a sign. Whatever she was becoming liked to warn her—it made things tastier. “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.
“Cathy…” She shook her blonde-crowned head. “Cynthia, yes, Cynthia. That’s right. You 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.
The suit pulled hard, hard, hard. The lycra touched her pussy. Cat screamed.
“You can— YOU CAN’T RESIST!”