After one too many missteps, a walking park ornament is shackled at the wrists and thighs as punishment. Hung around her neck, the release button glows, teasing. Unlike some of her colleagues, her hands are not trapped in mitts, but the heavy suit has been stiffened at the elbows, so that her arms cannot bend beyond a certain angle, just enough to let her fingertips brush against the button, never quite enough to press it to unlock the magnetic lock at the neck which seals her into the suit. Even her shackled steps must follow the regular blips in her earphones. She tugs at the chains, trying to get at the countless crawling itches, the countless places where the itching burrows deep into her despite the suit's automatic cleaning. She twists and writhes against the shackles even as she walks, but only makes the itching worse with each struggle. The release button teases her, tempts her, but even as she raises her shackled hands, even as her fingertips brush the swaying glowing rectangle, they stop just short, hindered by her own cinching suit. Another breath, another mmmph of ragged frustration. A single teasing drop of sweat gathers at the base of her nape just below the heavy collar, crawls down with infuriating tickling clarity between her shoulder blades, slides oh-so-slowly down her back, pauses right at her small of her back, and inches down to her tailbone, bit by bit, untouched even as she moans, squirms, writhes, unable to dislodge even a single drop of tickling sweat, each effort in the heavy cloying suit only worsening her torment.
germansingergirl
discoholicmusic
annaxmalina
kianamaiart
yousharknotpass
romaincrisis
