She Who Sleeps

SHE WHO SLEEPS: The Duffle Bag

This morning? She was still asleep when I got up; her nightly dose of Zanaz had seen to that. She usually takes it before getting ready for bed so the effects are well underway by the time I tuck her in for the night. Taking it helps keep her pliable and cooperative; it relaxes her and makes her docile. By the time she comes out of the bathroom she's usually feeling chill enough to deal with whatever I might have planned for her.

It takes about an hour for the little blue pill to begin slowing down her brain functions and that's when I did my thing. I often use up most of that hour getting her ready, the length of time depends on just how complex that night's sleeping arrangement is going to be. Once I've finished with her prep I sit with her as she begins to slip away. She seems to find it comforting and, most of time, it gives us a chance to talk before she's finally asleep.

As she gets closer to oblivion her conversation becomes playful and a little on the dreamy side. I like to speak to her in soothing tones as I complete my chores and by the time I'm done she's more than ready to slip off into the darkness. Although she's often too groggy by this time to return the gesture, the last thing I do each night is seal the deal with a big kiss on her lips (if they're available).

In the mornings I have another set of rituals that I follow without fail. The first thing I do is check her breathing and the general state of her wellbeing before I ever roll out of bed. Most of the time she's still deep in the caverns of REM sleep, and that's the way I like it. In the early days she used to occasionally roll over during the night, which I didn't like, but a few customized adjustments to her side of the bed quickly cured her of that bad habit. Nowadays she stays put and I sleep a lot more soundly knowing that she is, shall we say, more

secure

.

On this particular morning, however, she had somehow managed to wiggle out of the covers enough to expose her torso to the open air. She was, of course, totally unaware of her condition and continued sleeping contentedly as I sat there admiring her. I was enthralled by her stillness and the compact outline of her reclining figure as it lay on the bed. Impulsively I reached for her, but stopped myself just before making contact for fear of disturbing her repose. Instead, I simply chose to pull up the covers and straighten the quilt before getting on with my day. Besides, I thought, there would always be plenty of time for such things later on.

As I sat at the foot of our bed putting on my socks and sweat pants, I could hear her gently snoring behind me. It sounded like she was purring. Reassured by the comforting sound of her torpor, I pulled on a t-shirt and started downstairs in pursuit of the day's first cup of Sumatran coffee. I could still see the outline of her body over my shoulder as I descended the stairs and couldn't help smiling with satisfaction as I hit the last step and headed towards the kitchen.

The sound of her snoring, mixed with the erratic rhythm of the percolating coffee maker, greeted me as I walked into the kitchen. The music of her inertia was being broadcast on a baby monitor that sits on the counter near the salt and pepper shakers. It is an unlikely appliance to find in the home of a childless couple like us, but it has nevertheless proven itself to be an essential part of our morning routine. It allows me to eavesdrop on the status of She Who Sleeps and alerts me if she should call out or begins to wake.

Morning is my quiet time. After coffee and a light breakfast, I spend most of it reading

The Post

, checking my emails and organizing her agenda. I make a list of her daily duties and routines, I choose her wardrobe and schedule her activities for the rest of the day. Then I write detailed diary entries that record the previous night's predicaments, giving each a grade according to their aesthetic appeal, her tolerance to the individual restraints, her performance successes and demerits, as well as suggestions meant to encourage her continued growth as a submissive. And a notation, of course, about how long she has slept.

Last night was one of my favorite scenarios of late. Although we rarely discuss our plans for any given evening, I do often tease her with hints about what might be coming her way. Yesterday, for instance, I let her know that I expected her to be totally hairless. I didn't tell her why. The last time she was clean shaven she'd wound up spending two whole days trapped inside of a particularly devious plaster body cast. (She didn't like that one bit.) I knew that any hint of her going through something like that again would shake her confidence and keep her in a mild state of panic all afternoon until, finally, her evening sedative could calm her down. Nevertheless, she still seemed unusually nervous when she presented herself to me in the bedroom.

She knelt in front of me, hands behind her back and head bowed. Her skin was shiny after being depilated and her head was completely bald except for a bright orange stripe of hair that stretched across the top of her head. She had asked permission to save it from the razor and I'd consented, knowing full well that it wouldn't actually interfere with any of my plans for the evening. Besides, I like how it looks and I know that she does, too. I had her stand up and spin around so I could inspect her body and she could have a good look around the room. She was obviously relieved when, instead of a tarp and a bucket of water, she saw a pile of latex catsuits, a few different hoods, and a leather item that was unfamiliar to her. She said that it looked a lot like a giant duffle bag.

"No, umm, casting tonight?" she asked cautiously. She was unsure of herself and her eyes were still darting around the room as she spoke.

"What ever made you ask that?" I replied.

"Well, sir, the last time you told me to shave everything, I-I-I..."

"You what?" I interrupted. "You ended up getting totally plastered?"

"Yeah," she scowled. "I had a really

hard

time, thanks to you--

for two goddamn days

!

"Don't worry, you're safe," I laughed. "No sculpting tonight." She seemed genuinely relieved.

"But why did you have me spend all afternoon trying not to cut myself

all over

if you didn't want...?" I interrupted her again.

"Here, put this on," I said, holding up her transparent blue catsuit and a large bottle of lube.

"But, sir, you know I prefer talc," she whined. "The lube makes me too sweaty."

"Yes, I know that, and

that's

why I had you shave," I told her. "I like it when you get good and sweaty. All those nasty ol' hairs of yours just get in the way of you slip slidin' around inside all that lovely latex."

She grimaced in mock anger and turned away from me as she pumped a pool of lube into her palm. I smiled my biggest Joker smile at her as a reply, even though I knew she couldn't see me with her back turned. After a few moments of petulant silence she asked me to help her spread the lube down her back, which I was happy to do as it afforded me an opportunity to continue south and run my hands across her lovely ass.

When she bent over to grease up her legs I could see the bright pink tip of her Rush II peaking out of her pussy just below the cut glass ruby that decorates the head of my favorite buttplug. It's funny, I used to have to write it down every day on her accessories list to remind her to include it as a part of her wardrobe, but recently she's been wearing the plug out of habit. I guess she's finally gotten used to it. That's progress!

"I love finding hidden treasure," I teased her. At first she seemed confused about what I talking about, but she finally figured it out when I told her that I was going to reward her for remembering to wear "it" without being told.

"Oh? Like what?" she chirped. She'd spun around and was facing me again, her eyes wide with anticipation. "Maybe some kind of a break?" she suggested hopefully. "How about a week without having to wear 'it'

at all

?"

"Aww, I was thinking about getting you a bigger one," I said feigning disappointment. "Maybe with a big blue stone in it this time."

"How about a big old diamond?" she asked sarcastically.

"How about you get in that damned catsuit," I grunted back at her. I was losing my patience.

It didn't take her very long. She was well lubricated by then and the delicate latex slipped across her skin like it had a will of its own. She stood in front of me adjusting herself, twisting and pulling the transparent material over and across her hips and down each limb. She and it looked amazing. I loved how it stuck to her every curve (the lube helped with that) and how I could still see most of her tattoos through the suit's pale blue panels. For a moment I was totally distracted by her, but then she spoiled it by opening her mouth.

"All right, what's next?" she asked impatiently.

Without replying I held up her black latex gloves in one hand and her black latex socks in the other. She glowered at me and took them without saying anything. I pointed to the stool that sits at the side of our bed (for just such occasions) and she sat down obediently. Once she had squeezed her feet into the socks and smoothed the fingers of her gloves she looked up at me for her next instruction. Without speaking I handed her the hood that matched her catsuit and then made a show of my own impatience.

The helmet itself, once it was zipped in place, hugged her face and pressed against the long ladder of earrings that snaked up each of her ears. Designed to leave her nose and mouth uncovered, it hid her eyes behind two large almond-shaped portals. The design of the eye holes gave her face a vaguely Persian appeal, which was enhanced considerably by her septum ring and other bits of face metal. Once she'd finished smoothing out her mask, I tucked the tops of her gloves into her sleeves and then took out my keyring and locked all of her zippers closed.

When I was finished she looked up at me again and pressed her shiny black fingers against her face and lips. "What's next?" she asked from behind them. I smiled down at her and handed her the lube bottle again. "Why?" she asked softly. I didn't answer, but pointed towards the next catsuit on the pile instead. Shaking her latex covered head in resignation, she silently filled her gloved hand with lube and once again began slathering it across the surface of her body.

The second suit was made of a slightly heavier gauge of latex, with attached feet and hands included this time. It hadn't been shined yet when I handed it to her, but it would end up looking like polished ebony before the night was over. It took longer for her to wiggle into it than the first one had. She shimmied herself into the legs and stretched the suit up and over her hips with considerable difficulty, no doubt hampered by the restrictions that came with already being so tightly sheathed by the first layer of her ensemble.

Halfway through her battle with the suit she paused to catch her breath before finally plunging her arms down into the depths of the outfit's bulky sleeves. She pushed her way into the attached gloves and struggled to find a home for her fingers. It was slow and tiresome work that left her hands feeling clumsy under the two layers of rubber. Nevertheless, she carried on with her task. Taking another deep breath, she arched her back and raised her arms over her head. The momentum of her movements slid her well lubricated forelimbs the rest of the way into the sleeves and she was finally able to flex her way into the suit's sagging shoulders.

Then, using her already raised arms for balance, she slowly stood up and inched the front of the suit up her torso until, miraculously, her already encased titties popped into the second outfit's built-in bra. A smile briefly flickered across her face as she held her triumphant pose, but it faded again as soon as she realized that she had to figure out some way to hold everything in place and

still

be able to zip the suit closed. Denying gravity simply wasn't going to work for very long.

The beads of sweat that rolled down her face seemed to confirm her impending defeat; she knew she wasn't going to be able to keep her precariously arranged outfit in place for very much longer. Standing there with her arms in the air, she looked like somebody had stuck a gun in her back. Her expression betrayed her confusion as she considered her options. She stared off into space until, suddenly, she appeared to have an epiphany.

Aha!

She had come to the realization that she'd done all she could do on her own and that it was time to finally seek some masterly assistance with her dilemma. Putting on a proud face, she finally glanced in my direction and smiled timidly.

"Stick 'em up," I said playfully.

"Please, sir, will you help me?" she asked.

"Of course, sweetie," I consented. "How can I help?"

She said nothing in reply, but slowly turned around one more time and presented her backside to me, exposing the wide gap between the two halves of her unfastened catsuit, and its very long zipper. It was like a latex Grand Canyon. I must admit that I don't know

how

she could have done it by herself. There was lube everywhere. It took me three tries before I could finally get ahold of the back of the open suit, pull the two halves together and begin tugging on the zipper that ran up her spine. It fought me, especially around her chest and shoulders, but eventually I was able to persuade the two halves to come together. She Who Sleeps was at last sealed inside her second layer of latex. I celebrated her enclosure by locking the stubborn zipper in place with a flourish of the key and a hearty "ta-da!"

"It feels really weird," she said. The two suits were frictionless; they didn't seem to rub against each other when she moved around inside them, but flowed around each other instead, in a slick of lube and sweaty skin. "Each layer seems to be strangely independent of the other," she continued. "I can feel the surface of my body, but the layers of rubber seem to have no connection to each other, or to my skin." I nodded with considerable interest. "It just feels really weird," she said, repeating herself. "

I

feel weird."

It had all hit her at once. She looked spent and was feeling a little woozy. Getting into the two catsuits had worn her out. She'd gotten a little overheated and her sleepy time helper had really starting to do its job, as well. I handed her a chilled sports drink to help cool her off and restore her electrolytes. She pressed the cold bottle against her cheeks in-between sips and asked if we were almost done getting her ready for bed?

I gave her a chance to catch her breath. I knew full well that she was going to run out of steam very soon, but I wanted her to keep going as long as she could.

"You look like you could use a hug?" I told her. That perked her up and she raised her heavy arms for my embrace. "Well then, I've got just what you need," I said without moving towards her. Instead, I reached into the pile of gear on the bed and returned with one of her straight jackets. She frowned and dropped her arms to her sides. "With this on you'll be able to hug yourself

all night long

," I said in my best game show voice. She was not amused. "Come on," I told her. "Get 'em up, little missy, we're burning daylight." She continued frowning, but raised her arms again and began stuffing them into the jacket's long dangling sleeves.

It went on quickly and without incident. It wasn't a full straight jacket, it was what they call a harness style jacket. It was designed to expose the wearer's breasts while her folded arms stay secured underneath them. It all still fastens in the back like the original style but it allows, you know, easy access to all things titty. I like how it looks, but it always reminds me of a Shrug, a mutant kind of high fashion sweater from the Ninties that consisted almost entirely of sleeves.

Once the last buckle was cinched I quickly moved on because she was starting to have a little trouble staying on her stool. Her body began swaying from side to side and I had to put my hand on her shoulder to keep her from falling over. With some difficulty I got her on her feet and guided her over to our bed where the next items in her wardrobe awaited her.

"Is it bed time, sir?" she asked groggily. "I'm sooo sleepeeeeee."

"Not quite yet," I whispered. "You've got two more layers to go.",

"Layers? Like a cake?" she asked. "I like cake."

Ignoring her babble, I reached across her supine torso and stuck my hands under her shoulder, grabbed her ass, and rolled her onto her right side. She grunted when I knelt next to her on the mattress and then giggled as I steadied her rubber clad body against my thighs. Wasting little time, I grabbed the edge of the garment that was lying on the bed next to her--a thick neoprene sleepsack--and tucked it under the curves of her nearly limp body, and then pushed her onto her back again.

Naturally, I had to reposition her several times before I could get her heavily encased figure inside the stiff rubber sheath and she squealed sleepily each time I moved her. Finally ready, I pushed her feet inside the sleepsack. Once I had done that it was relatively easy to get the rest of her secured away, except, of course, for when I had to zip her up. That was when she suddenly caught her second wind and decided to fight for her freedom.

Despite her rambunctiousness I finally got the sleepsack fastened all the way up to her collar. She gave me some trouble while I was trying to close the zipper over her straight jacketed arms but I was finally able to pull it closed by resting my full weight against her and yanking the zip with all my might. She thought I was being needlessly aggressive, but the final result was impressive. The surface of the sack was taut and the rubber clung to her curves like an oil slick. She was reduced to a shiny wedge of femininity. I couldn't help thinking that she looked like some kind of a giant kinky slug.

"You look like some kind of a giant kinky slug," I told her. She chuckled. "But I think there's still something's missing," I added. This time she didn't chuckle, knowing that there was obviously more to come. "Don't you think there's still something's missing?" I asked her conspiratorially.

"Cake?" she replied. "I sure miss cake. Don't you miss cake, sir?"

Even though I had been a little rough with her, it was obvious to me that she was feeling no pain. Instead of engaging her in further debate about her favorite dessert, I focused on the final stages of her preparation. Knowing that I had a short time to finish getting her ready, I chose yet another piece of latex off the pile, a black hood made of the same heavy rubber as her catsuit.

Lifting her head, I sat down on the bed beside her and cradled her latex covered face in my lap. I could see her eyes beginning to flutter as she fought the influence of her dream tablet. When a sweet grin spread across her face, I smiled down at her, kissed her cheek, and then unceremoniously began pressing the hood against her jaw. She started to object as I pulled it up and over her head but the sudden and unexpected loss of her vision brought her up short. Unlike the first hood, this one covered both her eyes and her nose. She snorted defiantly through the two metal grommets set into the bottom of the mask and shook her head side to side as I lowered the zipper and locked it.

"You fucker," she barked. "That's not cake."

Despite her declaration, all the fight had gone out of her by then. She didn't even complain when I locked her into her "favorite" posture collar. She wiggled defiantly for a moment and then went limp. Needless to say, she looked amazing laying there like a beached dolphin and for a moment I contemplated leaving her like that. She was truly helpless, that was for sure, but I just couldn't bring myself to abandon my plans when we were so close to finishing. Sure she was tired, but the challenge would be incomplete if I quit, it would be a failure--our failure. I didn't like the idea and I knew she wouldn't either, so I pushed on to the big finale: "the duffle bag," as she'd called it.