Strawberry Tits [BDSM] [MF] [FF] [MCtrl] [sadism] [fetish] [latex] [leather] [boot] [foot] [slime] [urine] [abduction] [rape] [corruption]

^Work ^in ^progress, ^to ^be ^continued.

^Very ^perverse, ^but ^not ^quite ^crafted ^for ^masturbation. ^Story ^focused.

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#Chapter 1: The Meeting

“The secret is in the bonding, the consistency. For example: If you take egg white and mix it with something else in a blender, you may get the overall taste right, but it’s just not the same. It’s like drinking Brandy from the used plastic cups of last night’s party. Egg white draws these swinging goopy spider webs between your fingers. What comes out of your blender does not.”, Watson explained, then took another tiny slurp from the mug of black steaming coffee on his executive desk.

“Ah, I get it. That is why we use females, to get their bodies to mix the ingredients in a … an organic fashion.” Steinberg felt the need to show his understanding explicitly. While he was no simpleton, he had only been with the company for a few months. And the task he was being called to discuss seemed like an early chance to show his usefulness and to cement his position.

“Precisely. The female body is so incredibly versatile, especially after neutralization treatment, we use it for all kinds of purposes in our facilities. Fermentation, for example. Mechanical treatment like mixing, which benefits from the chemistry of their skin. Which also makes for some very fine leather.” Steinberg noticed how Watson’s right hand, resting on the side of his impressive executive chair, moved slightly over the surface of the brown wavy material. “Advanced food products like our top-selling Strawberry Squeeze are just another such purpose, albeit a more obvious one. Of course the public can never know, but I needn’t tell you as an officer of our covert branch. Do I.”

Steinberg chose not to show any reaction to the remark. It was a non-topic for a professional, and that’s all he wanted to be in the eyes of this man. Watson continued: “We tried males, too, but in comparison, they are basically useless. The products lacked something we could not identify. Sales were uninteresting, not worth the effort. These days, we focus entirely on females.”

“So, I understand my main occupation in the foreseeable future will be in acquisition?” Watson continued investigating a smudge on his wine red tie, identified it as merely lint, picked it away, then replied: “That’s right. You grab ’em, we tap ’em. You will be given access to a database of potential candidates, with their score, schedules, everything. You choose your own hours, adapt as the subjects you selected require. Long hours, short hours, your problem. Try to remove them at the most opportune time. And …” Watson leaned forward, pointing his right index finger straight at Steinberg. “NEVER SKIP ON A SCAN. If you detect electronics, microwave the bitch. RFID chips, GPS beacons, it’s all out there, and we can’t have it in here. Treat no moment of this like routine, never. Priority one: Stealth. Priority two: Throughput. Got it?”

Steinberg nodded slightly. With mouth closed and a serious face, he licked the inside of his upper lip, then replied: “Won’t the radiation damage the goods?” “Not if you keep it under thirty seconds. Basically, wave until you see sparks, then keep going about ten more seconds. It’s all tried and tested. Slight damage will be resolved in neutralization. Just don’t run it for more than thirty. We’ve had a guy who kept it running out of sheer sadism. He said it was the tone of their screams as it eventually changed. Gives me the creeps. Don’t be that guy. We’re a business. The specimen were hardly usable, even after neutralization.”

Watson, who had kept his penetrative eyes focused on his inferior for the last minute, leaned back in his large chair and took another sip of his coffee. Since it seemed to make him somewhat talkative, Steinberg inquired: “What happened to the man?” “Reprimanded.”, Watson replied without missing a beat. “Moved him to a department more suitable for his talents. Happens a lot here, that you apply for job X then end up doing something completely different. Flow division decides these things. They determine what suits the company best, and so it is done. Speaking of doing …”

Steinberg got up and prepared to leave. “I understand throughput, of course. But what kind of frequency are we talking about?” Watson, who was again slurping on his coffee, replied: “The more the merrier. But keep your priorities absolutely in order. Doing it right is a must. Numbers come second.” “Sir, in all honesty, I do enjoy working here. I have been in covert business for a while, but never for such a company. … I feel as if I have found my calling, if I may be so frank. Therefore … could you please give me a ballpark figure of what will be expected of me? I do like to gauge my situation at all times.”

Watson slowly returned his mug to the table. “Three per week is alright. Below that, you’re on our radar but not in trouble. Below four per month, and you can expect a talking-to. This business is most lucrative, but we’re not a charity. If someone else does a better job for the same pay, we must eventually prefer them. But don’t put yourself under too much pressure. We don’t pay per catch for a reason – we need our agents levelheaded.” Steinberg felt relieved the man, a medium level executive in this billion dollar machine, did not take his insistence negatively. “Thank you, Sir. I’ll be on my way then.”

#Chapter 2: Departure

The door was ajar. Did she forget to close it, or hadn’t she left yet? Alexandra stood for a moment, then pushed the door open. “Mia? Are you still here?” No response. She left the stairwell, entered the apartment, and closed the door behind herself. At least she tried – it jumped open again. She remembered. This stupid door, when would Mia fix it. With some effort, she lifted the door slightly, then pressed it shut. It obeyed.

Her high heels clacked loudly on the parquet floor of the entrance hall, which was only a small room with a mirror, a tiny desk, a coat rack, and an umbrella stand. It was the ending of a carpeted corridor that lead into a few rooms, all of which were known to Alexandra, especially one of them. It was rather dark. She turned on the light. If Mia was still here, wouldn’t the light be on? But if she had left, wouldn’t she have properly closed her tricky door? Didn’t she even use to lock it behind herself, just to be sure?

“Mia? Please, are you here, darling?” The girl wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to go deeper into her neighbor’s apartment without invitation. She lifted her mobile phone and selected Mia’s number. It went to answering machine. “Hi, it’s Alex! You left the door open. Where are you?” Then she hung up.

She noticed that further down the corridor, a vase was lying on the ground in a dark puddle, a wet bundle of flowers still sticking out of it. She hastily steered her black leather pumps deeper into the apartment, looked into every room, kept calling out the name of her neighbor – but no Mia. Instead, she found more objects way out of place, not befitting Mia’s character. And why had the door been left open? Something had happened here, and Alexandra had a pretty clear idea of what it was.

“Nine one one, what’s your emergency?” “My name is Alexandra Porter, I’m calling on behalf of Michaela van de Kerke from inside her apartment. She seems to have been abducted!” “Ma’am, please stay on the line. … A patrol car has been dispatched to your location. Are you safe? Are you alone on the premises?” Alexandra described how she had found the situation and that she had checked all the rooms. The female officer strongly advised her to return to her own apartment as soon as she learned that it was in the same building.

Alexandra exited through the hall, intently shaped her mindset and moved with purpose, imagined she was driving her car while handling her phone: She focused on the road, the phone only a secondary element in her awareness. She wanted no surprises. Anything could happen. But she safely arrived at her door, made it inside, closed it, which is when the police officer ended the conversation to turn to other potential callers. The cops would arrive any minute now.

Alexandra’s rational mind now relaxed and thus handed the stage to her emotions. She was worried. And slightly shaken. When she had decided to call the police on her mobile, she hadn’t yet been as clear as she was now about the probable reality of the situation, but the call and her almost-fleeing back to her own cave had opened her consciousness to the abyss of seriousness. Had her friend been taken? Abductions, especially of children and women, happen all over the world, even once is too often, but it is always ever only a concept, information transported by routined media voices. Had that terrible world now actually crept into the lives of Alex and Mia? She realized that even if the answer was “No”, it was now in her mind, seemed all too real, and couldn’t be unseen.

Mia felt shaky and insecure and, in expectation of whatever potentially laid ahead, decided to change her shoes. She took off her leather pumps, paid no mind to the fresh warm odor, the sweet smell her nylon-clad feet had concocted in their leather kitchen. She quickly climbed into a pair of flat shiny knee-high boots made of thick black soft leather, whose inside consisted of equally soft beige leather, closed the ankle zippers, and enjoyed the coolness of the shapely but heavy air-cushioned boots. She immediately felt more secure, more ready. Stronger.

Then she heard loud steps and voices coming up the stairwell. There would be no time to also switch her long dark purple leather skirt (Also double-sided. Her thing. One of the reasons Mia liked her so much.) for a pair of pants. But maybe it was better this way. The rich soft leather gave Alexandra and her high black boots some privacy.

“POLICE! We’re coming in!” The cops were apparently entering Mia’s apartment whose door Alexandra had of course left open. She slowly opened her own door and began to walk outwards, making sure that her hands were visible in front of her, so the cops would not get ideas. But she had missed them, they had already entered. “I’m here!” she called, walking closer, accompanied by the music of all her leather. One of the cops peeked his head out the door and asked “Who are you, Miss?” – “I called you. About Michaela.” – “Wait right there, Miss!” he said and vanished again. They must have been assessing the situation in the apartment. She heard their voices. “Clear!” “Nobody’s here.” “Have you checked the closet?” “Definitely a struggle.” She focused on the feeling of her tight warm bootlegs to stay calm.

After less than two minutes, the same cop, a young mustached man, returned to the door and invited her in. He let her describe the entire situation once more, while the others, a young woman and an older man, were still looking around the rooms, probably refining their initial assessment. As she finished, the young man said: “Even if she weren’t as tidy as you say, the pattern in the living room really does fit a struggle.”

The other two officers joined them in the hall, which was now feeling a tad crowded. The older guy carefully worked himself past the others and experimented with the door, apparently verifying Alexandra’s hypothesis she had told the 911 operator. Before she turned back to the other two, she glanced the face of the female cop in the mirror. It seemed like she was looking at Mia’s lower body. Mia turned and saw how the cop was quickly looking higher and to the side, at the mustache guy. Was her face becoming the faintest bit red and sweaty? Did that woman actually have a lady boner for Mia’s leather?

The older guy, about 50, with apparently not a single hair under his police cap, said: “Miss Potter”
Alex: “Porter.”
Baldy: “uh we’ll treat this as a probable abduction in our report. Please leave all your contact details with Mrs. Johnson”
Female cop: “Miss.”
Baldy: “uh and we’ll contact you as soon as we know more. And please, don’t hesitate to call us”
Mustache: “On the regular line, not 911 please.”
Baldy: “if you learn anything new. Especially if Miss van de Kerke happens to turn up again.”
Mustache: “Miss Porter … what’s your relationship to Miss van de Kerke?”

Alexandra suddenly felt her blood rush up her head, as she was convinced the female cop was mustering the arrival of her response closely, once again darting her eyes at the lower half of the shiny black boots that was visible below the skirt, possibly wondering how high their shafts actually were. And what it would be like to dwell under the long luscious purple leather between the warm ambrosial legs and breathe the atmosphere of Alexandra’s personal cosmos while staring up, in the darkness, to the reason for all existence.

Alexandra brutalized her mind back into the present. “We’re friends.” she said in a successfully neutral tone while nervously wiggling her nylon toes in their leather caves. “Hmhm, but you don’t have a key to her apartment?” “No, I don’t.” “Then please understand that we must ask you to leave with us now. You can’t stay in here.”

She nodded, and all four began to walk back out into the stairwell. While the two men were ahead, exchanging words, the female cop walked after Alexandra. Her leather … it now sounded exceedingly loud in her ears, and she was convinced that now, as she was trying to walk as neutrally as possible, she threw in some involuntary moves that must have seemed most alluring to the right mind. Which she was convinced was walking right behind her. Which made her sweat a little. Which made her smell a little more. And just then, the female cop – Johnson – passed her to catch up with the other two, and Alexandra was … sure that she heard her breathe in deeply.

The cops said their goodbyes and moved on downwards the stairs. While they were turning around to that direction, Johnson kept her eyes, whose look Alexandra couldn’t identify, on her and definitely turned slightly slower than the others. Alexandra noticed it, but she was too burdened to throw her thoughts at it. She returned into her apartment, which felt empty, melancholic. The world was cold. And she was alone. A bad emotion was nesting in her stomach. Mia was gone. Where was she?

Alexandra called Mia’s number again. Voice mail. “The cops were here. We worry about you, where are you?” She was too numb to say more. She knew no acquaintances of Mia’s, as their blooming relationship was still young, there was nobody she could call and ask about her, nothing else she could reasonably undertake to find her. Worry was all that was left. And she did not have the heart to strive for distractions, to intently forget about her friend who was possibly in dire trouble.

She realized this situation to be a powerful example for how incredibly important it is, as an aspect of the human existence, that you have to experience every moment. There are no cuts, there is no pause, you’re always inside of it, no matter what shape Now has. No pause other than sleep. It would be best to end this day, she thought. It was well after eight, anyway. She removed the luscious leather hose around her belly, waist, and legs, which released an onslaught of her leather and body aroma into the air-conditioned room, but her mind was too insensate to take delight.

She removed the rest of her clothes, but as she opened the ankle zippers of her boots, out of pure habit, she breathed deeply from the honey caves that were accessible through the leather mouths at her ankles. And decided to zip them up again. The turned off the lights, and, in complete darkness, crawled into her bed, still wearing her slip, her black transparent nylon stockings, and her luscious boots. The sensation of leather helped her drift into an uneasy sleep.

#Chapter 3: Drive

“Benkis Chemicals” it said, recedingly, in Steinberg’s rear view mirror. A semi-monotonous artificial voice generated by his encrypted laptop read some fields of the first few database records, sorted by score, into his earphones. He wasn’t really listening, he was just trying to get a feel for his new assignment. Hunting people wasn’t entirely foreign to him, but rarely had the purpose been to abduct. And the few he did have to take, the only thing that separated them from obsoletion was the time it took to get them to talk.

He drove far, leaving the remote industrial district behind, closing in on the twinkling skyline. On the outskirts, he left the main road and had to follow a labyrinthian amount of side roads to get to the house.

It was dark night when he pulled his car round the back of the building, exited, typed in the garage key code, returned to the car, drove through the electric door and triggered the motion sensor light, exited with his laptop, pushed the button to close the garage door, and typed the other code into the keypad on the inner wall, making the door lock snap open loudly. He entered the outpost and let the door closer shut the door behind himself.

He inspected the rooms. The main room held a few simple white metal beds, a table, a few cupboards, and some devices. He gave the electronics scanner a test run. Same for the microwave bed. All straightforward, just as advertised by the field manual he had listened to. Then he grabbed a kit from the shelf, checked it, then checked his firearm and magazines (The last resort.), and sat down with his laptop. It was time to come up with a game plan.

He studied the most highly scored targets first. Women whose biological and chemical suitability was estimated optimal. He wanted to make a good first impression. Third from the top, he saw a woman whose schedule denoted a high likelihood for abduction during these very hours, a weekday night. Location: Two-apartment building across from a motel. He digested all available information and found basically nothing outside the expectations he had already formed … he had made his choice. Then he clicked the alternative targets button, which gave him the same list except sorted by distance to his chosen subject, and picked out two alternatives he could reasonably pursue, in case his intended hunt would be without success.

In the changing room, he stripped entirely naked. Used the toilet one last time. Then entered the adjacent chamber where warm water, at first mixed with a harmless cleaning agent, gushed all over his body, while he forcefully massaged his hair of head. He moved on to the next chamber that dried him with strong warm airflow. The whole procedure took less than a minute. Then he entered the final chamber, took one of the thick black latex catsuits from the racks, size XXL to fit his muscular stature, and crept into the talcum coated cool smooth skin through the neck opening – the only opening – making sure his package had room and the correct orientation, because while the suit was a means of pure necessity to avoid leaving behind genetic material, it was also unavoidably stimulating. After he had closed the shoulder zippers with the white skin colored glove parts of the suit, tightening the latex around his neck, he was hermetically sealed from the world.

Then he climbed into a one-piece suit that was designed to look like a pair of black jeans and a black wool pullover mostly covered by a fake black jeans jacket, which was, like all the other such assets in the various compartments of this room, free from any contaminations. While the latex feet of his suit had thick patterned soles, were basically boots (except one with the catsuit), they would not hold up against glass shards or nails. He put on a pair of slightly oversized black jackboots and the black baseball cap that was part of the getup. Were it not for the dull shininess of his skin colored latex hands, there would be no telling that he was entirely surrounded by the warming hug of thick black latex. Finally he grabbed a towel and the latex hood that belonged to his suit, which would cover his whole head, face, and parts of his shoulders, and returned to the main room.

Steinberg grabbed the keys to the outpost’s van, the kit, and his gun and magazines, which he placed in the holster and pockets built into his fake jacket. Time to move. He returned to the garage of the facility, unlocked the dull gray van, and inspected its back. As advertised by the manual, it had a false bottom and some buckets and craftsmen utensils to make it seem not all that empty. He opened the large lid to the secret compartment: Lots of space – and a few large milky transparent heavy duty rubber bags and rebreather gags. He checked their level meters, then entered the driver’s cabin, left the garage, closed it with the remote, and slowly made his way back out of this obscure neighborhood to the main roads.

The night traffic and yellow-ish street lights gave him a weird melancholic/romantic vibe, and he chose to amplify it by driving a little more slowly and, pressing his flesh colored latex finger on the controls, letting down the driver-side window. He breathed in the flavored atmosphere of the night. Like this, he dreamed for a while, while his thick latex suit was becoming ever more sticky and slippery, giving him the comfortable feeling of just being at home where he was and in what he was doing.

It was only this one last stretch to his victim. “Potential victim”, he reminded himself. Never assume what reality will do. The trick to succeed, especially in this business, was to be always a little more liquid than the flow one’s embedded in. He might not be able to take her. He might not even be able to pursue the alternatives. Something entirely unexpected might happen. A terror attack, chemical spill, anything, that could let the cops shut down all highways, as an extreme example. He kept reminding himself of Richard Feynman’s words. Reality must take precedence. What you perceive from the outside must be more important in your mind than your will that dwells in it and seeks to distort everything to your liking. Be open to possibilities, don’t blind yourself.

It was a narrow street, few cars parked, the main road with the motel at the other end of it. He drove once around the whole block, saw with satisfaction that the late hour left nobody to enliven the neighborhood, and stopped the vehicle. Removed the baseball cap, pulled the latex hood over his head, adjusted the mask’s generous openings around eyes, nose tip, mouth, and the many small holes where the latex covered his ears, put the baseball cap back on, and, after a long careful look, left the van behind. The bedroom of the apartment in question was in the back corner, next to the street from where he was approaching. Summer, 27 degrees, windows open. Perfect. The window was a little above head height, so he had to use the extendible periscope from the kit to inconspicuously peek into the room.

A bed. A woman. Was it her? Who else would it be. He moved further around the house and checked every window he could reach. The situation indeed seemed ideal. After another careful look for pedestrians and cars, he put on the minimalistic disposable rebreather mask from the kit, climbed up to the windowsill, grabbed one of the kit’s large glass ampules with his latex hand, carefully broke off its head with a flick of his thumb, and flung the sevoflurane into the bedroom, against the wall near where the woman’s head was resting. Then he silently dropped down, his latex boots pressed into the grassy ground, and listened with all might.

Nothing. After a full minute, he took another peek with his periscope, climbed back up, and pulled himself in. Darkness. Moonlight. Red LED alarm clock. Breathing body. He removed the blanket, but before he could glimpse her round breasts, a muffled sound of surprise escaped into his rebreather. She wasn’t alone. Another woman. He pulled out this flashlight, set it to a low brightness, and studied the breathing flesh. A girl, much younger than the woman who, as he saw now without doubt, was indeed his target. The girl was snuggling with the woman’s shoulder. They were both completely naked. Their faces were slightly distressed from the chemical burden that had been forced into them. What now.

The more the merrier. Steinberg returned to the van and fetched two of the large rubber bags, also two rebreather gags which were considerably more elaborate than his from the abduction kit, then climbed back into the bedroom of his victim. He placed the bags on the floor and prepared them for entry. Then he grabbed the unconscious woman and sat her lifeless body down in one of the bags. He forced the short thick dildo-like rubber gag of the rebreather mask into her mouth, which also clamped down on her nose, wrapped the broad straps around her face, and tightly closed the buckle behind her head. He verified that she was now being oxygenated by the rebreather, then closed the rubber bag and sealed it shut. “No contaminations from you, bitch” he thought.

Then he turned to the girl, which might well count as another full catch, depending on how she’d evaluate. Else she’d be handed to disposal. The thought made him hesitate for a moment. The stories he had heard. Then he bagged the girl in the same way, took a good look out the window, and, hanging from the window sill twice with one hand, slowly let the heavy bags down the two meters to the unmowed grass. His latex cocoon had become slippery inside from his sweat, and it was sticking insistently to his ass as he was heaving the yellow-ish bags with the two females into the secret compartment, closed it, and then spread the alibi objects around.

Then he sat down in the driver’s compartment, his ass gliding freely on the thick latex skin, took out the rebreather, removed the baseball cap, pulled the latex hood from his head, and dropped all three into the leg area of the passenger seat on which the closed abduction kit was lying. He dried his wet hair and face with the towel, dropped it on the kit, and moved both to the leg area. Then he drove off, very carefully made his way away from the apartment building back to the main roads, a model citizen, except struggling with operating the pedals because his rubber skin’s bottom end had entirely filled with sweat from the heavy lifting and the summer heat.

He checked the watch. Plenty of time until the rebreathers would give out. He went through is mental checklist. All according to plan. The road moved slowly underneath the van. “Patience. Relax.” Steinberg’s professionalism was satisfied and drifted into the background, while he kept rolling the van the long kilometers to the outpost in his warm wet heavy cocoon.

He thought of the two people he had taken. Their lives were over, at least their normal life, the life as persons, as beings with agency. They were now cattle. Flesh. Petri dishes. He was absolutely clear about the fact that they were experiencing, conscious beings, minds, just like him. He wondered what it must be like to be a living, thinking, learning, suffering chemistry machine on the factory floor, for the whole rest of one’s life, for decades, at every hour, without any regard or mercy or company. He did not need to distance himself from this truth to perform his tasks. He had learned to utilize, whatever was available, to empower himself, to think positively, to propel himself forward, enable himself, make the situation, the world his own. And so, he had learned to use the awareness, the consciousness of the people he had occasionally handled as part of his various covert assignments, to draw delight from whatever he did to them. Manipulation, scaring, torturing, anything. He used the mirror that their souls were for him as sort of a magnifying glass, a measuring instrument for the precise situation he was in and for the decisions he was making.

“Curious”, he thought. Any and all experiences of his victims that resulted from his actions, he had used them to amplify his momentum, his will, his awareness. It didn’t matter what exactly the experiences were. But he realized they had all been unpleasant, mostly fear, pain, and the most extreme experience of slowly transforming into a corpse. Now he had two young desirable females, unconscious and naked in sweaty rubber bags in the back of his van, and he was even getting paid for this. What if he’d … pleasure them? Just to see what that would be like. In the spirit of reflecting his reality under the magnifying glass. Exploration. Knowledge. Owning reality, like he had always owned it since he had learned to use everything as a railing, ladder, elevator. It had made his job so much easier for him, and at the same time, this methodical consciousness experience that empowered him so much, it had grown to become the reason why he did this job in the first place, because it was a perfect opportunity to use and develop his method. That was roughly what he had been referring to back at the meeting, when he had talked about “his calling”.

He was excited. Striving for new consciousness, he had just touched on an entirely new set of possibilities. He felt that his penis was beginning to creep, slowly, rhythmically, like a caterpillar, upwards in his soaking wet latex cocoon. He observed it, appreciated that it was just … happening to him, like a foreign force that wanted him to enjoy. He began to playfully move his feet, which were submerged in sweat, inside the tight latex boots. And became aware again of the wet latex pressure on his asshole. He swam a few centimeters with his butt and simultaneously felt that his breathing was making the latex hug and tickle and release his dick again and again. The road. The rearview mirror. The distance to target. The watch. Ok. … Breathe. … Oh baby.

He felt brilliant, positive, excited, and very aroused. And, as he had trained himself to do, observed from a higher level. For example, the likely tendency to be sloppy or to confuse things when his will drove himself forward too quickly – this just didn’t happen to him any longer. He had become just too aware. Now, doing all this under the influence of a steady stream of slippery wet warm latex lust was new to him, but, of course, he appreciated the new challenge. Consciousness supreme!

Steinberg had closed in on the end of his journey. Now again through the maze of roads. To the house. Into the garage. He turned off the diesel while the electric door he had triggered with the encoded remote was still descending with a whirring sound, which then transformed into a metal gong that faded out quickly. It was still deep in the night, well before four in the morning. Steinberg just sat there. Listened. Breathed. Intentionally ignored the loving caress of the suit he was obliged to wear for his work.

He could faintly hear the crickets in the hills outside. The rhythmic ticking of the swinging key chain in the ignition. The slight creaking and snapping noises his breathing elicited from the latex. He moved his feet and heard the faint swashing sound. A tiny unexpected latex sound from his hands that still gripped the steering wheel. He smelled the garage wall cement. And the remains of diesel exhaust. And the interior of the well-used van. He’d have experienced some of these smells as unpleasant, but it was all sugarcoated by the strong mint chocolate odor of his soaked latex. And so he sat for a while. Just breathing, being. He realized, again, that this, being conscious, was the meaning of life. And again he was happy that at some point in his life, he had chosen to make consciousness itself his goal, and that he had achieved so much of it. “Every moment is your reward, not the party you pay for on Saturday with your cash and on Sunday with your pain. Not for me, thank you.”

He grabbed the towel, baseball cap, rebreather, abduction kit, and latex hood from the passenger seat’s leg area, opened the driver door, and got out, focusing on his submerged feet, half to enjoy the experience, half to make sure he didn’t slip, though the boot parts of the suit were way too rigid to make that likely. He walked carefully to the interior door, typed in the code, opened the door, and blocked it with the wedge to prevent the mechanism from slowly closing it shut again. He turned on the lights in the main room and verified that the oversized shower tray was free of any obstructions, tossed all items he was carrying onto the table, where his locked laptop had been sitting this whole time, then returned to the van, opened the backdoor, pushed aside the alibi objects, and slowly opened the compartment, ready for anything. No movement. Except … yes, there was the slightest slow rhythmical oscillation. The sleeping beauties were both still breathing.

Steinberg heaved the rubber bags out of the compartment, one by one, carried them into the main room, and carefully set them down in the large shower tray in the corner. Now, in the light, he could finally see that the bags had become a lot more transparent. The dampness from sweat and breathing on the inside had smoothed the rubber surface with liquid. They looked like … amniotic sacs, with fully grown unconscious female bodies inside. He stood for a moment and realized he was feeling the creeping caterpillar again.

Then he left the room, and fetched two new abduction bags with rebreathers from storage and restocked the supply in the van’s secret compartment. Closed its backdoor. Turned off the garage light. Removed the wedge. Waited until the door had fully shut itself. Opened a storage compartment in the corridor directly at the main room entrance. Placed his firearm and magazines inside. Programmed 0330 into the code lock, a mnemonic based on his realization that it wasn’t yet four in the morning when he had arrived back in the garage, closed the compartment.

He grabbed baseball cap, towel, and rebreather from the table in the main room and entered the second changing room, the one used after missions. Removed his fake jeans-pullover-jacket suit and the jackboots and tossed it all with baseball cap and rebreather down the incinerator shaft. He sat down, then laid on his back, then stretched his legs upwards while supporting himself with his arms. A stream of strongly odored salty latex sweat gushed over his body and pressed itself through the neck opening against his head. He got up again while the liquid seeped down the gully. Rubbed himself somewhat dry with the damp towel. Left the room again, hitting a button that let some water flush into the concave room near the ground, cleaning it from the remaining sweat.

He returned into the main room, a muscular black latex figure, sure-footed as his suit was now only slippery but no longer a salty bath, and put the towel back on the table. He looked at the two diffuse female bodies that were slowly oscillating the half transparent bags with their breathing. He could almost hear it, but wasn’t sure. He walked closer. Kneeled. Carefully ripped open the bag he knew to contain his main target, using the dedicated mechanism, rendering the bag unusable. The hot bundle of wet breathing flesh tumbled out, expanding, stretching, and before him laid an immaculate white naked female with beautiful round breasts, long dark hair that was half glued to her lifeless face, and all her body was decorated with hundreds of thousands of tiny beads of sweat shimmering in the bright lights that made sure that every bit of the room was unequivocally known to its observer.

“Beautiful.” he whispered. Then he smelled her, the woman, the warmth, the sweat, the rubber. All in silence. Only his breathing. And now her breathing. And the faint creaking of the other bag. And the humming of the many fluorescent lights.

Still kneeling, he turned to her lifeless outstretched small shapely feet. Laid his right palm under the sole of her right foot, grabbed the heel with his left hand, then slowly moved his face along the foot, from the toes to the ankle, breathing in, first carefully (You never know.), then deeply, as he discovered that this was a fresh, clean female, with a good body odor to boot. “Hmm, boot.” he thought. He planted a strong but tender kiss at the base of her toes, taking in some of her latex sweat in the process. He was now fully erect and kissed her foot again, slightly higher now, and then again, right under the ankle. Then he turned to licking, using his lips as a gathering device for her delicious sweat. As he had harvested most of her foot honey, he took her other foot and gave it the same treatment of kisses and licking.

He realized he could do with these women whatever he wanted. Anything. As long as he didn’t damage the goods, but that wasn’t remotely within his intentions. These were not operatives, politicians, hostages he was tasked to rough-handle. He was merely tasked to deliver select females, reasonably unharmed, to his employer. Stealthily. That was all. He sat down from his kneeling position and gently laid her right foot on his swollen lusting penis under the heavy latex. Pressed it down a little. Then rested. Breathed. Listened. Smelled. “I have the best job in the world.” he thought with a happy smile, and also moved the woman’s other foot onto his wet latex erection. Then he laid his hands on her ankles and stroked them slightly, thereby also massaging his dick a little, which wasn’t even the idea. The rubber slid in arythmic intervals over his considerable cock, making him sigh slightly and close his eyes just a little bit.

Then he got up, carefully dropping the woman’s feet back on the white porcelain of the large shower base. He crawled over her, on all fours, from the feet up. Staring downwards. Scrolling her along his muscular black animal body like a webpage. He stopped when his face was over her pussy. No hair, no beard shadow. He abstained from kissing the long round lips of her inviting love mouth, but he took a careful and then a very deep breath. What a specimen. He touched the lips with the finger tips of both gloved hands and separated them. The humming of the lamps was interrupted by a wet slimy ripping sound. “Oh the smell, what a woman.” He let go of her vagina’s lips, letting them snap shut with a faint wet smacking sound, and continued his journey.

The flat breathing tummy. The navel. The solar plexus. And the hills that have eyes, round and shimmering. He laid his big black latex hands on the sides of her right breast and squeezed it slightly while sinking his mouth down on her nipple. He kissed and sucked it, played with it using his tongue, tasted the rich latex sweat, stroked the breast, kept sucking forcefully until he almost tasted something. Then he gave her left breast the same treatment, while his cock was pounding furiously inside the heavy wet latex cocoon.

[CONTINUED IN [COMMENTS](https://www.reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/90ss2h/strawberry_tits_bdsm_mf_ff_mctrl_sadism_fetish/e2sui1g/?context=10).]

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/90ss2h/strawberry_tits_bdsm_mf_ff_mctrl_sadism_fetish