The Latex Room
The clinical brightness of the room stung Jake’s eyes, a sterile white oblivion that offered no comfort, no escape. His wrists burned in the steel shackles, suspending him just high enough that only the tips of his toes scraped the cold floor. His body trembled from exhaustion, but the deeper, colder terror inside him had nothing to do with pain.
It was what he saw.
Across the room, seated rigidly on a padded bench, was what Jake could only call a doll. A gleaming, latex-coated figure of surreal beauty — feminine, perfect, inhuman.
It was Andy.
Or what remained of him.
Jake had watched — helpless, horrified — every step of the transformation.
Andy hadn’t gone willingly. Even gagged and drugged, he had struggled fiercely, his body writhing against the padded straps that pinned him to the table. His muffled cries filled the air as the two women — clad in gleaming red latex uniforms — worked around him with cold efficiency.
They had begun by coating his exposed skin with a thick, sweet-smelling latex glue, its chemical tang heavy and cloying. Then came the suit — a masterpiece of engineered cruelty, laid out like a second skin. It shone like molten honey under the lights, a deep amber gold, so glossy and smooth it reflected the ceiling tiles above in distorted curves.
They worked the suit onto him inch by inch, the slick material squelching and squeezing as it clung to his body, obliterating every hint of the boy he had been. His limbs were encased, molded into sleek, slender shapes, while the suit’s exaggerated female curves pressed into place — swollen, artificial breasts; a waspish, doll-like waist; hips widened to an absurd hourglass.
Jake could hear every sound — the sticky pull as latex met skin, the creak of the material stretching over joints. Andy’s eyes rolled in frantic disbelief as the women forced his feet into the ballet-heeled boots that were part of the suit, stretching his tendons painfully into a permanent, tip-toed stance.
Even paralyzed, Andy had found the strength to shake his head in silent horror when they brought out the mask.
It was a work of art — and a weapon.
They held it up between them, reverently, displaying its flawless, hyper-feminine features. Glossy, doll-like lips parted in a breathless ‘O’, arched brows sculpted into a look of perpetual surprise, and enormous, wide eyes framed with painted lashes. It was a face built for seduction and vacancy — a beauty so unreal it belonged in a shop window, not on a living soul.
Andy thrashed his head, what little he could move, trying to avoid it. The attendants were patient. Smiling. They pinned his head still, hands gripping his skull.
There was a pause — a frozen, awful moment.
Then the mask was pulled open, stretched wider than seemed possible, and lowered onto his face.
Schhhhlick.
The sound was nauseating — the slippery, wet kiss of latex sealing over flesh. Andy’s muffled scream died instantly as the mask molded itself over his features, the inner surface gripping tightly, erasing him. The attendants smoothed it into place with slow, deliberate caresses — sssshhh, sssshhh — their gloved hands gliding over the latex, pressing it tighter, shaping it flawlessly to the underlying face.
They brushed the forehead smooth. Pressed the cheeks flat. Ran fingertips lovingly over the new, glossy red lips.
A thin brush was dipped into the glue again, painting a perfect line around the seam at the base of his neck. The collar of the bodysuit was pulled up, meeting the edge of the mask with surgical precision.
There was a final hiss.
A soft click.
The mask locked into place.
Jake’s breath hitched in his throat. Andy was gone. Where once there had been fear, defiance, life — now there was only the frozen, radiant face of a doll. The mask gleamed under the lights, lacquered and polished to unnatural perfection. Andy’s body sat perfectly posed, his legs elegantly crossed, his hands resting delicately at his sides. His new synthetic hair — a golden, cascading mane — was being brushed by one of the women as she hummed quietly to herself.
Behind the doll’s painted eyes, Jake thought he saw a flicker — the faintest twitch, a trapped scream too deep to reach the surface.
"Your friend resisted too," the other woman said, stepping close to Jake with a smile that made his blood run colder. "They all do. But look at her now. So beautiful. So still."
Jake shook his head violently, every muscle screaming with fear and rage. "He’s not a she! That’s Andy! You can't do this!"
The woman tilted her head sympathetically. "Not anymore. Andy is gone. Amber is born."
She turned toward a steel table by the bench, lifting another folded mass of latex — thinner, darker — dripping with promise. The scent hit Jake immediately, stronger than before: industrial, sweet, suffocating.
"This one’s yours," she said.
Jake’s stomach lurched. He pulled against the chains with a desperate, furious strength he didn’t know he had, but the restraints were unbreakable. His heart hammered in his chest.
He looked at Andy one last time — at Amber — shining and still.
And he knew:
Unless he found some impossible way out, the next doll to sit polished and perfect on that bench would be him.
And no one would even remember his name.
Only the doll he became.
Jake hung limply in his restraints, his muscles trembling, too drained to struggle — but his mind was sharp with a terror that refused to dull. His wide, tear-stung eyes stayed locked on the figure across the room: Andy — Amber — perched obediently atop the bench, a frozen monument to what had once been his friend.
Andy was still fighting. Jake could feel it.
Though his body sat perfectly still, forced into an impossible pose of poise and femininity, there was a visible tremble — almost imperceptible — at the edges of his latex-encased thighs. A minute shiver running through the impossibly high-arched feet locked in their cruel ballet heels.
Andy was aware.
He was alive inside the doll.
The women moved around him with ritualistic grace, unhurried, their glossy red uniforms squeaking faintly with every motion. From a cabinet nearby, one of them retrieved a canister — sleek, silver, with a long, narrow nozzle — and gave it a delicate shake. Jake heard the faint rattle of liquid inside.
The second woman gently tilted Andy’s chin upward with two gloved fingers, positioning him to receive the final indignity.
Then the hissing began.
A fine mist sprayed out from the nozzle, enveloping Andy’s latex-coated body in a shimmering cloud. The scent hit Jake even across the room: sharp, chemical, heavy with permanence. It clung to the air like an invisible weight.
Everywhere the mist touched, the latex transformed — deepening from its already wet-looking sheen into something almost supernatural. A glassy, mirror-like finish bloomed across Andy's figure, sealing him inside a living sculpture of impossible, gleaming perfection.
Jake watched as the light above fractured and danced across Andy’s skin, warping and sliding along the freshly coated surface. He could see his own horrified reflection twisting across the swell of Andy’s new, artificial breasts; the curve of his smooth, swollen thighs; the glossy perfection of the doll's parted, painted lips.
Andy — Amber — was now complete.
A doll not just in form, but in essence. A breathing, conscious soul trapped forever behind an unyielding, mirrored shell.
The woman finished spraying, stepping back to admire her work, while the other delicately smoothed a gloved hand over Amber’s polished cheek, leaving not even a fingerprint.
Jake’s gaze locked onto the doll’s face.
The vacant blue eyes stared straight ahead — unblinking, immobile — framed by thick, synthetic lashes that would never flutter naturally again. The lips remained parted in a mindless, breathless pout. There was no movement, no sign of thought, only flawless, frozen beauty.
But Jake knew better.
He imagined Andy behind that perfect mask — screaming, begging, clawing at the inside of his own face with hands that no longer moved. He imagined the suffocating, tight embrace of the latex, the unrelenting grip of the heels, the agony of awareness trapped beneath a perfect, polished surface that would never, ever betray the horror within.
Jake’s breath hitched violently, a low whimper escaping him. His legs buckled against the restraints, his own body betraying him.
One of the women turned her head, smiling sweetly at him.
"You’ll be even more beautiful," she said. "When you’re finished, you’ll reflect the world, too. But you won't feel it anymore."
She stroked a finger along the fresh canister — still misted with condensation — and advanced toward him.
The thick, sickly scent of latex and lacquer hung in the air.
Jake's heart thundered in his ears, and all he could do was watch, helpless, as the first touch of glue was dabbed onto his trembling, bare skin.
Jake thrashed as hard as his weakening muscles allowed, his wrists twisting painfully against the unyielding shackles, his bare feet scraping uselessly against the cold floor. Panic coursed through him like fire — raw, animal, uncontrollable.
But the women didn’t flinch. They moved with the same calm, clinical detachment they had shown with Andy. As if his terror was simply part of the ritual.
One of them laid the new suit across a sterile metal table beside him, unfolding it with a slow, deliberate care.
Jake’s heart stuttered in his chest.
The latex was different.
Darker.
Where Andy’s had been a soft, honey-amber shade, this one gleamed with a rich, smooth tone — not black, not brown, but a beautiful, deeply warm tan, like polished bronze. A perfect imitation of Indian or Asian skin, stylized for maximum exotic beauty. Even without being worn, the suit shimmered with a mirror-like finish, slick and almost wet in appearance.
"You’ll look stunning," one of the women said casually, as if discussing a dress fitting. She traced a gloved finger down the length of the suit, pausing at the high, pert breasts and the impossibly narrow waist built into the design. "This client requested something a little more... international. A blend of features. The market is always expanding."
Jake froze, breath caught in his throat.
The market.
His mind reeled.
They weren’t just doing this for themselves. They weren’t making dolls for pleasure or display alone — they were manufacturing products. They were selling them.
Turning people into exquisite objects — silent, obedient, permanent — to be purchased, owned, and displayed around the world like luxury trophies.
His stomach twisted so violently he thought he might vomit.
"No—no, you can’t—! Please" he rasped, his voice cracking. He yanked against the chains again, muscles screaming in protest, but it was useless. The restraints had been designed to withstand far more than his panicked thrashing.
The women only smiled in that same detached, motherly way.
"You should be honored," said the first, lifting a soft brush and dipping it into the jar of latex glue. "You’re going to be admired. Desired. Protected."
"And you’ll never have to make another decision again," added the second as she picked up the thick, glossy suit, turning it toward him.
It glistened obscenely in the bright white lights — a perfect, liquid second skin, molded to an idealized form that had nothing to do with Jake’s real body. He could already see how the suit's long, slender legs would fuse into those cruel ballet heels, how the sculpted hips would distort his frame into a luscious, exaggerated hourglass, how the suit’s surface would reflect the world around him, erasing him.
The first brushstroke hit his skin, cold and wet.
Jake screamed — a raw, animal sound — but the glue was fast-drying, tacky. It clung to him immediately, seeping into every pore, a promise of what was coming.
They worked methodically, brushing him from ankles to thighs, torso to arms, coating his bare, vulnerable flesh in the sweet, cloying scent of latex and industrial finality.
Jake's mind spiraled.
He tried to imagine escape, anything — biting, kicking — but his body wouldn’t respond. The paralytic they had used on Andy was already taking hold, seeping into him through the glue, through the scent, through the overwhelming terror. His limbs were growing sluggish, trembling under their own weight.
The second woman cradled the empty suit now, guiding it toward him.
"Time to put your new skin on," she whispered.
Jake sobbed, twisting his head away, but they were too practiced, too calm.
The suit opened — impossibly elastic, shimmering under the fluorescent lights — and began sliding up his legs with a slick, wet shhlurp. The sensation was unbearable — the suctioning, squeezing pressure of the latex molding to him, climbing higher, sealing his body into the alien, glossy tan form inch by inch.
It felt like he was being erased.
The suit's interior clung with a perverse, intimate familiarity, smoothing over every muscle, every joint. His calves were compressed, shaped into slender, endless curves. His knees locked slightly backward, his thighs pressed together by the suit’s demanding contours.
Jake sobbed harder as the latex reached his hips — the exaggerated female hips of the suit — forcing his pelvis into an unnatural flare.
He looked down in horror, seeing the glossy, dark-tanned legs emerging where his own should have been, glistening under the lights.
Gone.
Already, he was disappearing.
Above him, one of the women unfolded a hood — darker toned like the suit, the features just as cruelly perfect: large, doll-like eyes, soft, pouting lips, high cheekbones — unmistakably Asian, or some engineered fusion of beauty, made to appeal to the widest, richest market.
It gleamed like a liquid mirror.
Jake whimpered, his head lolling weakly.Tears in his eyes
He thought of Andy — of Amber — sitting eternally still just feet away, coated in gloss, unable to blink, unable to move, unable even to scream.
And he realized with a soul-crushing certainty:
In a few minutes, he would be gone.
XXX
Andy
