#gipsz

The room was dimly lit, soft light seeping through the curtains, and the air carried the distinct, chalky scent of fresh plaster. The girl lay on the bed, her body almost completely restrained. Her right arm was locked in a heavy shoulder spica, and both of her legs were trapped in solid white long leg casts, with only her toes peeking out from the plaster edges.

Only her left arm was free. With it, she slowly, almost sensually, stroked the hard, smooth surface of her plastered legs. Her nails scratched lightly across the white surface, sometimes pausing to give a playful tap, enjoying the hollow sound it made. Then her palm slid down again, from her thigh all the way to her foot, where her toes twitched slightly at the edge of the cast.

She looked at you, her eyes glimmering mischievously.

– I know you love this, she whispered as her hand circled over the plaster. I can see how much it excites you when I touch it like this… when you hear my nails brushing against it… when you see me completely immobilized inside it.

She paused for a moment, then touched her exposed toes gently.

– It feels so good, knowing you’re watching me this way. That my cast isn’t just a burden, but something that makes you crave me even more.

Her free hand slid back up and down both of her casted legs, before pointing at the massive cast that locked her shoulder in place.

– I can barely move… every part of me is trapped. Only this left hand remains, so I can feel what you feel. And for me, that’s enough… because I know this is how you find me the most beautiful.

The girl slowly closed her eyes, while her fingers began to rhythmically tap against the plaster, as if sending its hollow sound to you as a secret message.

She speaks softly, with a slight smile on her lips. Her hair is a bit messy, but it only makes her more irresistible. The shoulder spica cast hugs her from her chest to her upper arm, bold and rigid. She slowly lifts her casted leg toward you, showing off the worn, scuffed heel of her walking cast—dusty, a little scratched, every mark telling a silent story.

“Look at this… see how worn down the heel is?”

She leans in slightly, raising her casted foot playfully toward you.

“I’ve been walking in this for days. I can hear it with every step—tapping, slipping slightly on the floor. It’s become a part of me.”

She pauses, locking her eyes with yours. Deep. Unblinking.

“You like watching me, don’t you? The way I wear it. The way it slowly gets dirtier, more used… I show it to you because I know you care. Every worn mark on it… is for you.”

She licks her lips, trailing her free hand slowly along her thigh.

“This cast doesn’t just hold me… it holds you, too. Doesn’t it?”

She turns slightly, revealing more of her shoulder cast, as if she wants you to take in every curve, every edge of the rigid fiberglass.

“Sometimes it’s tight… sometimes it itches… and it’s so heavy. But I kind of love it. Maybe because I know how much it turns you on.”

She smiles again, her voice dropping into a whisper.

Diary – Day 18 in the cast

Date: Mid-summer, 34°C. Mood: exhausted, flushed, resigned.

I still can't quite believe I'm actually in this. Fully. From my hips all the way up to my chin—and beyond. My arms are free, technically, but that doesn’t mean I feel free. The rest of me is sealed inside this hot, heavy shell.

It took me almost half an hour just to get out of bed this morning. I don't rush anymore. I know the rest of the day will unfold just like the last seventeen: slow, sweaty, still. The cast weighs down on my shoulders even though it doesn't cover them—just supports my upper back all the way to my neck.

My neck is completely encased. The plaster rises under my chin like a firm cradle, locking my jawline in place. I can’t turn my head. I always face straight ahead. Sometimes I hear voices behind me, but I can’t look to see who it is. If I want to glance out the window, I have to turn my whole body—and that’s no small task, considering I’m essentially a stone cylinder from the waist up.

The cast curves up behind my head, over the base of my skull. It forms a kind of hump—almost like a helmet. When I lean back, I feel it there, pressing against my occiput, like someone’s constantly supporting my head. Sometimes I instinctively try to lower my head, and the chin brace immediately stops me. Like a leash.

My skin itches. Everywhere. Especially between my shoulder blades and along the back of my neck. I can’t reach it—not with a stick, not with a hairdryer. The plaster isn’t white anymore—it’s grey and blotchy near the bottom. I don’t know if others notice, but I feel it. Even the smell of the cast has changed—no longer fresh, but dusty, body-warm, and a bit stale.

The strangest part is breathing. I can’t take deep breaths. My chest only moves as much as the cast allows, which isn’t much. My breathing is always shallow. I can talk, but sometimes even that takes effort. And since I can’t tilt my chin down, I can’t see my chest or stomach properly. Just the ceiling, or straight ahead.

People stare when I go outside. Some look at me with pity, others with discomfort. For me, it’s become normal—being stiff, slow, and sometimes feeling like I’m not in control of my body. Like I’m just a passenger inside it. The cast is in charge now.