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About Literature / Hobbyist PhantomFemale/United States Group :iconmiragecorp-intl: MIRAGECorp-Intl
When bondage meets industry!
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Kris simply couldn’t take his eyes off of her. Light reflected from her suit. Oily radiance scattered off of her sublime form. Her breathing and movements were controlled and calculated. Slowly, she would inhale, her stomach bulging slightly, and slowly she would in turn exhale. All the while, she stood nearly motionless.

A long, scandalously tight habit formed a mockery of a traditional cleric. The black rubber formed a thick and highly visible cinch around the top half of her figure. Unmistakable curves were clearly visible; the purple-trimmed rubber hugged her thighs and squeezed her stomach. The outfit was made not for comfort or practicality – it was made to entice! He eyed each bone in the purple corset, studying its vertical lines. His eyes traced it up and down, glimpsing the fantastically silvered chastity belt and rising to her bust. Kris couldn’t help but ogle her, objectify her, fantasize and take her in the way he would a model or a picture. She seemed dressed to entice.

Her bust was a rare spot to show skin, and of course, it displayed it in an obscene fashion; a heavy V between her shoulders and the bottom of her bust showed off a gratuitous amount of cleavage. It was a tremendous contrast when compared to the rubber-black skin that coated the rest of her form – her habit, her hood, her gloves….

His glistening idol was emblazoned with the symbols of her faith; black rubber and mauve satin. Tall, black platform heels were zipped up tight and buckled in place. Were she to move from her sacrosanct incantation, no doubt a cacophony of metal would jingle – but she did not. She stood, ever-silent.

Even if she were ambulatory, no doubt she wouldn’t be speaking much. He didn’t know what was behind that mask, but he could imagine. She wore a traditional veil that obscured her hairline, but a porcelain-white mask took the place of her face. No eyeholes, no noseholes, nothing at all to indicate a living person beneath it. The eyes weren’t sculpted, either; the whole mask was a surreal and stylized impression of a human face. It was, in its own way, quite terrifying; the sight of what was essentially a fetish goddess juxtaposed with a cold and highly inhuman visage. He trembled in his suit and reflexively wrung his hands.

His nervous reaction reminded him of his own predicament. Suited, hooded, gagged, collared, cuffed… it truly was a rubber nirvana. An escape from the world outside, of suffering and despair – and he was starting to regret it! His mittened hands only allowed his fingers to flex as one unit, and he didn’t have much manual dexterity with only his digits and thumb. It certainly wasn’t cohesive to fine digital manipulation, but it was quite suited to the prayer he had been brought to perform. He slowly bent to his knees, shifting his weight to the padded floor. In his quiet supplication, he was already stewing with repentance…

The Ebon Tapestry had seemed very welcoming when he had first arrived. Kris was always eager to engage in a dialogue with the faithful, always willing to meet new people, and constantly hoping to lend a helping hand. Certainly, that was the line he towed with every new church and temple he arrived at. He would never stay long, of course – just long enough to pick out those weak-willed congregants and engage in a sinful excursion with them. He assumed that the Ebon Tapestry would be no different.

Certainly, he never questioned why they never advertised – it just meant an exclusive crowd. If it was all undesirable men and women, so be it – he’d lose an afternoon. This lackadaisical attitude, Kris realized, made him blind to his suspicions. A lack of advertising? A lack of signage? A hidden entrance? A bizarre location, far from the residential areas it claimed to service? No, like any church, community group, or social club, it was only a little quirk.

The idiosyncrasies had accrued at an alarming rate. Gigantic, iron doors at what was supposedly a public temple. Strange signs and symbols that forbade him from exploring the church grounds. Dozens of verbose warnings excoriating visitors for even thinking about entering the forest or swimming in the church’s private lagoon.

The service hadn’t lasted long; Kris blanked out completely. Were they praying? Chanting? Talking? He thought he heard latin a few times, Thai at least once, and he was completely certain that the dark-skinned woman at the pulpit had used the word 'dominion' quite a bit. He had spent far less time analyzing these surreal discrepancies than he had spent eyeballing the gathered supplicants. Few in number, to be certain, but Kris was already going over the ideal approach. In Kris’s mind, “ideal” was whatever could get him in bed the fastest

There was a ceremony of communion. He had been busy trying to ask the gentleman to his right about the demeanor of the woman to his left. He stopped for a moment, determined to resume his conversation and proclivities shortly thereafter. He stepped out of the pews, and took his time walking forward to the pulpit.

Only as he was able to fully view the edifice that the peccadilloes and habits of the faithful finally congealed. The altar was massive, large enough for a human being to lie on, and to his great alarm, deep grooves in which a human might lie with their arms and legs outstretched. Across from this debased altar, he was passed a small cup of tea. The dark-skinned cleric eyeballed him greatly, and he felt a lump in his throat. He was pierced by her gaze. The congregants to the left and right sipped from their tiny ceramic teacups. He held it in his hands, fingers running over the simple gray craftwork. There wasn't even a handle, so he grasped it in two hands. He was feeling his fingers go cold and it warmed them. They drank, and he drank. Anything to relieve this piercing gaze. He felt his throat grow soft, and the warmth of the tea spread from his stomach to his body and his limbs. When he returned to his seat, he attempted to finish his conversation. He was unable to voice words. His tongue was tied, and he could only voice his concerns helplessly. The ceremony finished soon after. Muted and softened, but no less determined, Kris provided a modicum of resistance when two gloved clerics took him to the ambulatory.

The church seemed far larger indoors than it had from outdoors. Dark hallways, poorly lit by candles and cheap flourescent lights, provided auburn glow. It made it easy to look into the innumerable long hallways that flanked the dorsal passage. Once, twice, and three times he could see small rooms that seemed to be littered with glass beads. The second time he heard the squeak of rubber-on-rubber. The third time he heard a muffled moan amidst the sound of beads clinking. After that, he focused inward, trying to wriggle free. His noodly, unresponsive appendages weren't quite the polished pectorals he would need to escape, and onward he was escorted into ever-darkening rooms.

It was here that he was finally permitted a view of the Reverend. It was here that the other adherents to the Ebon Tapestry allowed him a view of their living saint, and permitted him communion with her rubbery grace. All this they explained while preparing him for the experience. He was fatigued, but not feeble, and it was easy to strip him bare. While he stood they brought his legs and arms into the ebony prison that would become his new vestments. The two zealots first permitted him a longing glance at a neoprene suit. It absorbed the light, consuming the light into a thick pit of fetishwear. Each leg was first slipped into the long stockings of the neoprene suit. His toes, then feet, then ankles and calves and thighs all disappeared into the suit's black, constricting maw. It stretched, welcoming his legs and making him blush. The neoprene wicked away his sweat, but kept his physical form pleasantly compressed.

As they pulled it higher, he let an audible squeak escape his lips as something tickled his rear. Lubricated and oily-slick, his squeak turned into a masculine grunt as a hollow plug penetrated him. It was an experience that he was not permitted to discuss, but the red in his face and moans escaping his lips told the Reverend that he was enjoying his penetrative plug.

His arousal grew, and the Reverends allowed his manhood into a slimming sheathe as a part of the suit. It slipped through, with the head extending out the end. The neoprene sheath cradled his shaft and testes separately, kept packed snug and kept rigid by the equipment he was rapidly being laden with. Kris curled his toes as the two Reverends fit his hands into the wetsuit. His fingers slipped into the individual digits and he flexed in his catsuit. Strange writing covered his flanks and he moved his fingers over their raised edges.

Completing his vestments was the hood. This, at least, he accepted willingly. Even as the poisons left his body, he was accepting of the equipment - far be it from him to heresy against this most holy of ceremonies. Perish the thought that he would reject the hood! Its rubbery embrace stretched across his face. It was the epitome of fetish, creating a devilish visage of matte black. Only his eyes, nostrils, and puckered lips were visible. The hood was slipped beneath the collar of his wetsuit. The two Reverends zipped each and every zipper up  to the top, removed the tab, and sealed the suit with adhesive.

He stumbled slightly before he was caught by the two Reverends. Clearly, he was unable to handle the grace and sublime presence of the Reverend Maxima. His unclean hands would grasp, his fleeting legs would make him run, and his lustful body was unprepared for her sacred nature. Long, thigh-high stockings were presented above the legs of the suit. Once again, they fit his feet into the garment, zipped it up, and sealed it and the straps together. They did this with casual precision, suggesting the two had performed this so many times it had become rote. This, too - this dehumanizing, machined precision - sent a shiver down his spine. This, combined with the simply divine outfit he had been enclosed in, excited him greatly
To complete his attire, pair of long and mittened gloves replaced his hands. It was only now that he was permitted to see the Reverend Maxima. He stared at her, longingly, unsure how to respond in his new suit.

He stared and reflected on his lot in life. On her command, he approached her. On her command, he bowed. The bronze skin of her bust indicated she was the same that he had seen at the altar. Kris imagined that  same stony, piercing gaze behind the eyeless mask.

At her request, he demonstrated his dedication - it might not be the hookup he was hoping for, but this was more fun than any one-night stand. It brought him - and , presumably, her as well - great joy. He lavished attention on her tall boots, licking their polished black surface, nuzzling her polished thighs, and kissing at her feet. The supplication was gauged, measured, and found sufficient. She, in turn, lavished attention on him. She moved! The caryatid column relaxed in a chair, allowing him to touch her, allowing him access to her zaftig form. The Reverend leaned further back, taking his hooded head in her hands. She maneuvered it between her legs and deftly placed his cranium between her thighs. She kept him there, hooded, warm, and deprived of breath. His moaning, rubberized skull was treated as her orbus cruciger. This latest supplicant was the ultimate symbol of her puissance, willingly serving and servicing her.

It was, to the Reverend Maxima's great regret that it was not to last. The rubberslave's service was adequate, his submission gratuitous, and his accession to the ranks of the Tapestry quick and efficient. He  saw a vague vestige of regret in her visage as the others pulled him away. He saw her turn her head, perhaps pitying the packaged acolyte as he was brought to the same hallway he had passed through.

When he returned, more supplicants were there. More lights were lit as well; torches and electric lights alike. Red candles dripped wax onto the hands of the black rubber-clad attendants. He puckered his lips; flames danced in the reflections of those whose vestments had been polished to a shine, and was absorbed by those with dull and matte attire. He looked behind him, and found that another covering had been hung; this time, he had his back to a long sheet of rubber that hung from ceiling.

He was pressed by the crowd back, farther, against the wall. His arms were bound in cuffs - kept spread by a massive metal bar - and his legs did the same. Acolytes on ladders rose him higher and higher towards the stone walls of their church until he was a few feet off the ground. Straps of leather and iron were wound around his arms and legs, trapping his spread and vulnerable body against the wall. Holes were drilled, sending small clouds of dust into the air as they bolted the straps to the wall - trapping him quite thoroughly. Around his neck, around his waist, around his thighs... his distributed weight kept him from falling down, and left him and his exposed asset vulnerable to any visitors.

The Reverend Maxima performed the final rites.
A second hood, featuring dark lenses and a circular oral gag, was slid over his head, finally removing any trace of his human skin beneath black vinyl. The supplicant groaned as tubes were fitted around his member and into his rear. Life-giving sustenance flowed through tubes in his nose and mouth. The faceless inductee was then sealed between a second sheet of latex; air was removed, and the edges were molded over with a liberal application of sticky rubber cement. The equipment around his manhood surged, prodded, and pumped. Behind the massive, immobilizing sheets, he wriggled his fingers in ecstasy. Supplicants brought their hands to his sex-starved form, teasing at his erogenous zones until he could no longer resist, allowing himself powerful, orgiastic release. His secretions were wicked away by the suit and tubing, brought underground for nefarious intent.

She would make sure he was well-maintained; as their latest relic, he would be an object of great veneration.

The Reverend bowed her head and thanked him for his sacrifice. He was the first of many tapestries that would hang in the hall.

My top choices for a woman on US currency: 

Lydia Marie Child
Sandra Day O'Connor
Lt. Ellen Ripley

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Deck three had almost no lighting. That was always by design; it was materially more effective to mimize both power and resource consumption. Gentle illumination came from the floor; glowing diodes in the grout between ceramite tiles. It gave the halls the feel of a chapel; when the different servants roamed the halls, the click of the heel echoed like an ancient building of stone and wood. The ceiling could almost never be seen due to the low lighting, though it was at most seven meters tall. This only heightened the effect, and any passing observer might remark that it was impossible to tell whether they were in a moving vessel or high-ceiling cathedral.

The sounds weren't much like a church, though.  There was a hum of the engines against the void and the sound of micro-servitors skittering through the halls. The tiny robots sometimes had an insectoid appearance, and the gentle sounds of their appendages still echoed. This was coupled with the mechanical sounds of the biological servants and drones taking care of the craft. Rubber squeaked, heels clicked, and the constant whirr of respirators juxtaposed an industrial soundscape against a sanctified temple.

And finally, there was the sound of the slaves. This was deck three of thirty, rack five - though it was emblazoned with a huge Latin number. A gigantic "V" with Romanesque serifs denoting that this production rack was the fifth one. Not that this physical touch mattered;  all of the workers saw everything behind a thick layer of rubber, smart-glass, and augmented reality. The information to the workers was unending. But to those uninitiated, it was just a strange chapel filled with strange creatures.

Among these creatures were those on the production rack. This one was full, with ten individuals all in matching attire. Their body shapes differed, but all of them were humanoid and all female. Every single one of them bore the same accoutrement and attire, though a few had heavier, smaller, or larger equipment to accommodate their size.

Each unit's curvaceous hips, narrow waist, and jutting breast were smothered in an unbroken and unending layer of smart-fiber latex. It was black, of course, and its design kept it perpetually glossy. Just as the subjects were perpetually plumbed, they remained perpetually and permanently glistening as though just polished. From head to toe, tip to stern, the anonymous women's ebony skin never let up. The only spots of color were the dull metal tubes and golden-yellow straps that formed the myriad restraints.

Each of them knelt in supplication. They rested on their knees, each leg dipping into a groove custom-built for their body shapes and then worn with constant use. A padded interior kept their legs reasonably comfortable, and golden straps at strategic locations kept them from leaving the grooves.

Past their knees and legs, each female was heavily harnessed into a web of restraints that took most of the burden from their legs. Golden yellow bands of rubber and dull obsidian metal clasped around the neck, shoulders, arms, breasts... it compressed the torso like a pallet wrapped for transport. Arms were kept at the sides, ending in thick, bulbous mittens. Each hand's mittened contained a viscous gel , allowing some vague degree of movement but never enough to escape or even attempt removal.

The units did move, of course. Each of them was trapped in a dreamy state between wakefulness and sleep. They wore matching helms and matching masks. Their headgear was nowhere near as bulky as that of the hive-workers, but it didn't need to be. Tight, featureless rubber was the only thing required. Sight, sound, and vision could all be provided inside the mask, in the rare cases that it was needed. The result was sublime enclosure, a complete and nearly airtight seal. There were a few exit points; tubing and piping ran from the subjects' heavily plumbed nethers and from the back of the hood, but these were minor additions. The production units were 'complete.' They were docile and compliant, making many of the restraints unnecessary most of the time. Only when they were roused from their induced torpor did they shake and moan.

And moan they did! On the occasions when their hallucinogens ran dry, production slaves would understand the severity of their predicament. Tell-tale whines and moans, shrieks of displeasure mixed with long, lusty moans that resulted from their constant stimulation. A stimulated unit was a distracted unit - and distracted units were obedient. Those that had been here the longest were quite thoroughly trained.

Production wasn't constant. It generally happened in bursts - bursts that the subjects often were quite cognizant of. The milking procedure was intense and rapid. Every unit was implanted into the milking system, of course; tubing, piping, suction were all provided. Worker drones only needed to take filled canisters and add empty ones. It was simple and efficient. Issues with plumbing were nonexistent, and rack five on deck thirty was no exception.

So it continued. The production units were treated as objects, not women. The workers treated them as less than cattle, for even cattle require attention and care. The most attention a production slave could hope for would be a thorough groping and intense molestation of their mammaries in the uncommon event that production would stop.

Milking was critical to the society.  These production units (fed a steady diet of nanoproduction robots and nutritional liquids) produced not milk but "nectar". This rare ambrosia was the basis upon which their encasement hinged. No longer was it sufficient to harvest natural latex from trees; no longer could it be synthesized in a lab. Nectar was much more advanced - capable of sustaining life, creating fabulous structures, and allowing the soldier-drones afar great weaponry. Nectar was life, and so it was the life of every woman on Rack 5.

When Unit E began to decline in production, a note was made. No action was taken for a  day, then a week, then a month and then three. No new acquisitions had been made to replace her. Nothing could be done without a substitute. It was nearly four months later that when the first worker finally touched her.

"Status." The techo-lingua used was far more efficient than crude verbal communication. In an instant, Worker Drone V52 "Von" was acquainted with 3VE. He saw her old life. He saw the day she 'volunteered' and the day she was whisked away. Years had passed, with 3VE in splendid isolation, unaging, immobile, and bountiful. Her production had declined; Nectar had suffused her body. She was something greater than the ordinary human when first acquired. She was something more terrible and beautiful, and this really was no place for her.

He methodically stepped towards Eve and, one at a time, removed her restraints. Not all of them, and certainly not all at once. Her form was strong, muscular, and endowed from constant suffusion with Nectar.

V52-Von pulled her to her feet. She hadn't stood up in years, even if her body was built for it. Clipping a cable leash to her collar, her tugged her gently. Soon, she would be welcomed as a member of the Collective. She needed to be prepared. Von scarcely noticed the automated units preparing a replacement.
Processing Fane
Enjoy my latest piece. It's a quickie, originally part of a commission but now spun off into its own flash fiction.

Featuring loads of latex, reams of rubber, and dripping with technobabble, "Processing Fane" is a slice-of-life featuring the Posthuman Hive, a concept explored in the past.
  • Mood: Joy
  • Listening to: Public Enemy
  • Reading: Shadowrun
I just wanted to re-iterate that Mad Max: Fury Road may best movie to come out in my lifetime. It's certainly the best action movie I've ever seen. 

The film is supremely well-crafted. Every element is painstakingly handcrafted. Every scene is tense and evocative. Not a single frame was wasted.

Skepticism - especially about a big-budget action movie - is a good thing. However, Fury Road is as close to 'perfect movie' as I've seen. 

So yeah. Go watch it. Or get the DVD or whatever. 


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Darknighthawk Featured By Owner 2 days ago  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Hope all is well!
RDishon Featured By Owner Sep 19, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you for :+fav:ing! 
MarikoSpandex Featured By Owner Sep 16, 2015  Hobbyist Filmographer
Thanks for the fave!('ω')ノ
gatorbackradial Featured By Owner Sep 2, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
Much appreciated on the fave, boss!
Dragon-Cana-Love Featured By Owner Sep 1, 2015  Hobbyist Digital Artist
What doujin was that commission from?
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krioss Featured By Owner Aug 17, 2015  Professional Filmographer
as always thanks for the new favs

you interested in being in a new pic, beyond the one where krioss brings you to justice?
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coutoo Featured By Owner Aug 10, 2015
Thank you for the fave :)
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joyofsunfire Featured By Owner Aug 9, 2015   Photographer
Many thanks for the fave ^^ :hug:
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1KNG Featured By Owner Aug 9, 2015  Hobbyist Artist
thanks for the fave!
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ClaudiaBlackfan102 Featured By Owner Jul 10, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
OMG i just did the slave to machien are there more things like that? 
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