Boots2Suits

By kathrin-inaka

Yes, I wasn’t dressed appropriately. But it was summer. And not some old summer, but the mother of all summers. At least it felt like that on that day. So hot and humid, even the most slender girl would start melting the moment she stepped outside. And I’m not the most slender girl. I have all the right curves at all the right places, as they say.

So I had picked a dress that covered the least amount of skin possible without causing too much of a scandal. Like that I made it to the office without melting away. Or needing a shower. And it also made the anemic air conditioning in the office somewhat more tolerable.

If only my assistant hadn’t missed the construction site inspection. The contractor thought the previous architect didn’t get his math right and now there was water everywhere. So they looked for someone with more experience in water management and found me. But I wasn’t going to take the job before having a look at the problem with my own eyes.

The foreman didn’t mind my dress as long as I put a hardhat on. Personally he liked my dress, the way he looked at my body. But for safety a hardhat was enough. I wasn’t going to get anywhere near anything dangerous, but in underground construction there was always the risk of stuff hitting your head. Or you hitting your head on something.

He also liked my wedge heel sandals. Aesthetically. But not for safety. And also I wasn’t going to ruin them by sloshing through ankle deep muddy water. So I needed a pair of rubber boots.

I’m not only curvy, but also petite, so the only available pair was about five sizes too large, because it was meant for burly construction workers. Five sizes US or UK. Don’t ask me how much that was in European sizes. Too much, anyway.

With me unwilling to look ridiculous and the foreman unwilling to have me trip over my boots, we were at a loss. Until one of the workers muttered something about some boots. He wasn’t exactly clear in his speech, probably because he was too busy trying to hide his fascination for my body.

But the foreman made sense of his words and excused himself to go and dig around in the back of the storage container for a pair of women's rubber boots that they had found when they tore down some old structures left on the building site.

I didn’t expect much, but for having sat in a derelict building for unknown time and then being thrown in the back of a construction storage container, they looked surprisingly pristine. Even more so after having the dust wiped off: They looked not only as good as new, they looked new. No scratch, no discoloration, not even a dull spot.

And all of that would be painfully visible, because the boots were two things not exactly normal for rubber boots: Clear as glass and polished like a mirror. Yes, they looked like glass, except that they were somewhat flexible. Very Instagram, I had to say.

I resolved to have the material analyzed later, it couldn’t be regular rubber. Rubber wasn’t that transparent and also not that shiny. Except when polished, but that would rub off instantly and not still be there after even just a few hours on a construction site.

But what else? Well, I was going to take them with me and have them analyzed.

The boots looked both rugged and girly: A slim shape and a somewhat pointed toe box, but thick profiled soles and a thick profiled heel that was just half an inch too high for a boot meant for hard work. Even the thick profiled soles and the chunky heels looked like they were made from crystal. Except that they gave slightly when squeezed, like hard rubber.

The shaft was knee high, but so tight at ankles and calves that I wondered how to get my feet in.

Also I wasn’t too keen on putting my delicate, sock-less feet into rubber boots of unknown origin. That’s gross. But they were clear, so it was obvious that they didn’t have the usual fabric liner soaked with years of sweaty feet. Instead they were the same smooth and slick surface inside and outside. So after we gave them a good spray of disinfectant I was fine to push my feet in.

It took a bit of pushing and squirming (and laughing, mostly from the workers) until my feet popped in with a somewhat obscene noise. By then my feet had gotten rather sweaty from all the effort, which explained, together with the smooth inside surface, the wet slurping noise that caught everybody by surprise, when my feet finally popped in. Everybody looked a bit embarrassed, but then we laughed some more and I jumped on my newly booted feet.

The boots fit perfectly, as everybody could see through the clear material. At least everywhere the material touched my skin. All other places, for example between my toes, the material had fogged up from my sweat.

A somewhat obscene, but also surprisingly erotic view. Maybe that’s why clear shoes and boots were all the rage on Instagram. I just wouldn’t have thought I’d ever wear some.

The boots were surprisingly soft and comfy on the inside, so I decided to preserve my dignity and not to try to take them off before I was hidden away in my office. Because now that my feet were in there, I was sure they weren’t going to come out without a good amount of undignified struggling.

There isn’t much to say about the rest of the inspection, except that the boots proved to be watertight and surprisingly comfy, and that I got two emergency calls before we were even halfway through. Some days are just like that. After we finished the inspection early, I hurried from emergency to emergency, from construction site to construction site, mostly to hold hands and pat heads of clients, telling them that everything was going to be alright, even if it didn’t look like it at the moment.

I never found the time to extract my feet from the boots, but they were comfy, not as sweaty as I had feared and much better suited for saving the day than my wedge heel sandals.

That day I did not make it back to the office and instead ended up on the couch with a take-away pizza and a glass of wine.

While wolfing down the food I looked at the boot on the table and my feet in them: Even after getting dragged through mud and gravel and concrete and whatnot all day and getting clumsily (yes, that’s me) knocked against rebar frames, steel girders and all kinds of construction stuff and finally getting hosed down to remove the dirt, they looked new and freshly polished without even the slightest scuff mark or scratch. They must have been made from some hell of a tough material. Clear as glass, soft and flexible, and nearly indestructible? I really had to get that into a lab and have it analyzed.

My feet inside the boots still looked (and felt) fine. Everything was even more fogged up than in the morning, but in contrast to my expectations my feet were not swimming in sweat.

I wriggled my toes and thought that it was both scientifically interesting to see how your feet looked inside of boots. And also disturbingly hot.

Done with the pizza I pulled the first boot up and tugged. And pushed. And twisted. And pulled. And clawed. And jerked. And wrenched. And yanked. And heaved. And bumped. And jolted. And prodded. And poked. And all other kinds of exerting mechanical force known to mankind.

The boots didn’t even budge. I was hardly able to wiggle my toes in the pointed toe box. My feet must have swollen from the heat of the day.

The boots were nice and flexible and comfortably hugged my feet, but I just couldn’t get them off. No matter how hard I tried, nothing gave. Not even the one and a half inch heels, no matter how hard I wrenched on them.

Wait, one and a half inches? Haven’t they been only one inch when I put them on? Ah, never-mind, my eyes have never been good at guessing lengths.

Next I tried all cutting implements to be found in my house. And there were a lot, I liked DIY work. None left a dent in the material. Not even the angle grinder. Or the blow torch. Or the metal shears.

The next half hour I spend in the bathroom with my feet in a tub full of cold water, hoping to get the swelling down. But my feet didn’t really feel hot and swollen, so that didn’t work, either.

When I could see that my feet had turned blue inside the boots I pulled them out.

Last I tried lubes. The only skin-friendly one I could think of was the one on my bedside table. Ah, well. At least it was as clear and transparent as the boots.

The result was underwhelming in the sense of getting my feet out of the boots. No matter how much I squeezed in the small gap between skin and rubber and no matter how much I worked it down to my feet, the boots stayed stubbornly on my feet.

But it made my feet and toes slip around on the smooth inside of the rubber boots in a most distracting way. Much more than a bit sensual, that feeling.

And it also removed all the fogging by filling every void with transparent lube, making my feet look like they have been cast in transparent resin. Or glass. Or crystal. Or whatever. Which looked even more sensual to me. Oh my.

Frustrated and despairing, I finished the day by… masturbating. You didn’t expect that, did you? Me neither. But something deep in my mind. Or between my legs, probably, somehow found the idea of being involuntarily stuck in rubber boots most arousing.

Don’t ask me how often I climaxed, I don’t know. I fell asleep very tired but relaxed.

“What a wicked dream!” I thought the next morning when I woke up horny as hell. Stuck in a pair of indestructible fashionable rubber boots. Where did my mind pull that from?

Well, it was still some time before the alarm went off and my vibrators weren’t far away, waiting for me on the pillow on the other side of the bed. The pillow where I preferred to find a man. But lacking that, my vibrators lived there.

Only after I was done taking care of that distraction did I notice that my feet were hugged (or compressed) by something both tight and flexible.

What the hell?

I threw away the blankets and found my feet in exactly the same clear-as-crystal, pointed toe, medium-heel, ultra-tight, glossy rubber boots that I had dreamed of.

OK, maybe not a dream after all.

Scratching my head, I squinted at them for a while. In the evening I had the feeling that the heels had been higher than in the morning, but I had put that down to imagination. Now the heels were quite definitely two inches high, maybe a bit more. Yes, I used a ruler to be sure.

But when I had put on the boots the heels had been merely an inch or maybe even less. Also the heels were less blocky now, somewhat smaller at the bottom than at the top. But they still had profiled soles.

The toe box was pointier and maybe even shorter than before. I could barely wiggle my toes, but I wasn’t sure that this might be caused by the boots still being filled with the transparent lube.

And the whole boot was now skin tight, making it obvious I wasn’t going to get out of them without cutting or seriously stretching the material.

All in all the boots were now fashion boots that hinted at being reasonable rubber boots. When I put them on they were reasonable rubber boots that hinted at fashion.

“Are you changing on me?” I asked the boots, “or am I going crazy?”

“And how is that even possible?”

After some fruitless thinking that got me nowhere I pulled on the boots just to verify that you don’t just pull off skin tight boots made from a material that barely stretched.

Then I applied again the metal shears, the bolt cutter, the grinding disk and the blow torch and got the same result as the night before. But things were so weird, I didn’t quite trust my own brain and decided to try everything again.

The blow torch impressed me most: Even after minutes of pointing it straight at the toes, I could only feel my feet getting slightly warmer. In contrast to the wooden floor of my workshop: That was smoldering so much I had to soak it in water just to be sure.

You think by then I should have been a sobbing mess, alternating between panicked action and tears of despair? Well, first of all, I’m just not so inclined.

And secondly, when I thought about the situation, instead of panicking it just turned me on. Somehow I wasn’t able to go crazy from panic when I was, at the same time, going crazy thinking of cock. Or tongue. Or fingers. Or vibrator. Or whatever could do something about that burning wetness between my legs.

So, yes, I was going crazy, somewhat, but not from panic.

I used the vibrators again (after putting out the fire in my workshop), then I had breakfast, took a long warm shower (in boots, for f… sake!) and spend an awfully long time in front of my wardrobe, trying to find something that both matched the boots and the oppressive heat outside. Not that rubber boots would ever match any kind of heat, even if they were crystal clear. At least from a distance people might mistake me for being barefoot.

Finally I settled on denim shorts (or maybe hot-pants) and a tank top. And yes, with my curves both short and tank tops are quite a sight to behold, which is why I rarely have the guts to wear them. But everything else didn’t match the boots. Or would have me dying in the heat.

Before I finally left the house, I had to change underwear, because they were soaked through. No, not from sweat, my AC is working fine, thank you. Soaked with something else. But nothing the vibrators couldn’t do something about.

Yes, I had to do it again. Just realizing how much the boots dictated my life had turned me on more than I could handle.

No, I wasn’t thinking straight regarding the boots. But the part of my brain responsible for my job was still working fine, so I spent the morning hurrying from construction site to construction site catching up on the leftovers from yesterday’s chaos.

Most workers seem to like what they saw, but some of the foremen had a bit of a hard time accepting my boots as safety boots. They could see that they were not steel toed. Heck, they could see my toes. So I had to drop a sledgehammer on my toes to show that they were, in fact, as good steel toed.

Which they weren’t, of course. Actually the boots always felt rather flexible, if ultra-tight, from the inside. But after my experience with all the tools in my workshop, I just gave it a shot. And indeed, the sledgehammer bounced off without so much as a dent in shoes or feet.

In the afternoon it took me so long to catch up on the paperwork, when I was finished the lab had already called it a day. So no material science for me that day.

If I’d believe in magic, that would be a good explanation. But without that, I was at a loss explaining a material that was crystal clear, soft and flexible (at least somewhat) but still near indestructible. And it seemed it was constantly changing, adapting to…well, what?

Summary: WTF?

Work hard, play hard, right? And I was in desperate need of cock. So I replaced my minimizer day-bra against a pushup, applied some makeup and jewelry and off I went. Wasn’t hard to find an appropriate cock. Or maybe my standards were low that evening.

He took me home, we took care of my desperate needs and when he wanted to snuggle I walked out on him and hit my bed before midnight.

Next day was a workday, after-all.

Next day was a workday and yes, the boots had changed again. Still clear as glass and still rubber, but now they had a three inch heel that was barely thicker than a bottle cap. But they still had decent profiles, both at heel and sole.

I wasn’t sure, but I thought the toe box had become shorter and pointier again, not leaving much space for my toes. They looked somewhat cramped in the toe box. But my feet still felt nicely hugged and not overly compressed, so I didn’t give that a second thought.

But the shaft had changed definitely: At the first day it had ended a bit below my knee. Yesterday it had been exactly knee-high. But now the backside ended right where the joint began, digging somewhat uncomfortable into my skin when I bent my knees too much. And the front side extended well beyond my kneecap, much like rider’s boots.

Was I going to be wearing over-knees with four inch heels tomorrow? I hoped not.

Or maybe I did hope to. At least the thought had made me wet again.

“Traitor,” I said to my pussy.

So the boots were changing. Slowly during the day, faster when I didn’t watch them during the night. I was not only trapped in clear plastic boots I had not idea how to get out of, they kept getting worse day to day, too.

Better get out of them before something bad happens, right?

“Right?!?” I said to my pussy, which was dripping wet.

“Ah, right!” I sighed and brought out the vibrators again.

Again able to think clearly I decided that I could not miss the lab again. Something had to be done.

But what to wear? Tight pants or leggings would have matched the rider’s look, but I wasn’t going to get them into the boots, so that was out of the question.

After a lot of trying I settled on a denim mini-skirt and a white boyfriend shirt. No, I did not add a hat, it looked too much cowgirl anyway.

First I thought I’d go commando (Which I wouldn’t even have considered before. Look how far I had already degenerated.), but when the juices dripped down my legs, I used the vibrators a last time that morning and put on underwear.

There isn’t much to say about the rest of the day. Only one construction site, which was boring, because the foreman knew his job in and out.

Well, OK, maybe not totally boring, because I had to pull the foreman into the backroom to cure a certain condition that was developing between my legs. Again!

Should it be such a turn on to explain a guy why it was totally fine to wear transparent three inch rubber boots on a construction site, carefully avoiding any indications that you might not have a choice at all?

I did make it to the lab in time, just to find it closed. Ah, right, they were all at that conference. For the rest of the week.

And they won’t be working during the weekend. Huh? I wondered how far the boots would have grown on me by Monday. Tit-high?

Ah, well, nothing to do about that.

My own lab I could hope for at least some confidentiality. But in a public emergency room. No thanks.

I still had a bit of a bad conscience from last night. And from that foreman. Using guys like that isn’t me, usually. So I went home and cooked a decent dinner. And ate it while watching TV. Ah, well.

Then I brought out (or maybe in) the vibrators again and used them, looking at my own feet trapped in their glass prisons. Should you be turned on by your own feet? Probably not. Probably I wasn’t, either. More by seeing my feet in the boots. Plainly visible, yet impossible to reach.

Fast forward to next morning and a bed that was at the same time clammy, slippery and sticky. Ever used too much sex lube, getting it all over your bed and then have it partly dry up? That’s what I mean.

Apparently the boots had compressed even more, forming around and between my toes, pushing out all the lube that I had worked in on the first day. The toe box had become so short and pointy, I wasn’t sure there was enough space for my toes left. Or maybe just barely enough space left. My toes felt and looked rather compressed. It didn’t look exactly healthy, perfect for an orthopedic textbook about why you shouldn’t be wearing heels. And yes, it wasn’t exactly comfortable, either. I couldn’t wiggle my toes anymore, except by flexing the whole boot.

Which I could do, because the boots had also lost their profiled soles. The only thing between my toes and the floor was just a thin layer of transparent plastic. So thin I could feel the carpet while moving around my bedroom to replace the lube soaked sheets. That was going to be fun out on the street or, oh my, on a construction site.

Luckily I had no more on-site appointments for the rest of the week.

Mercifully, the heels hadn’t increased in height. But without the platform, I had to deal with their full three inch of height. Nothing I couldn’t manage, actually quite a nice height for office heels. But in the office I’d kick them off the moment my butt hit the chair. Those I couldn’t kick off, and they were getting to the point where they didn’t seem comfortable for long-term wear.

Also the heels had become pointier again, down to about the size of my thumb. Still a reasonable thickness, far away from stilettos, but thin enough that I couldn’t afford to walk around absentmindedly anymore.

While most of the boots had kept most of their flexibility (as much as they had been flexible in the first place), part of the sole and the thin heels seemed to have turned into actual crystal.

I wasn’t sure what that meant for the next few days, but at least it provided enough support for walking.

You might have guessed it, the shafts had crept up my legs even further, well into over-knee territory. And they were tight. Probably too tight. And not flexible enough.

I could sit down, but I had to do it carefully and slowly, because bending my knees was uncomfortable. Even painful after a couple of minutes, if I didn’t stretch my legs after sitting down.

I looked at my legs in the mirror: The transparent plastic shaped them to the point of perfection. As I said, I was far on the curvy side, so my legs never look perfect, except when helped by tight stretch clothes.

But the boots ended slightly below mid-tight and there was just too much of, well, I guess, “me” bulging out of the top. I sighed, then went looking for my shape-wear. A pair of pants should do the trick, smoothing the transition from the perfect boots to my not-so-perfect legs.

The heat had subsided slightly, so I thought I’d get away with shape-wear, a knee length skirt and a blouse. Well, at least I did not die on the way from home and office, but I had to drink a lot of ice tea to compensate. If you’re shrink wrapped in plastic up to your thighs, even a skirt doesn’t make the heat anymore tolerable. Even less with shape-wear under it.

And that blouse turned out to be made of some wicked artificial fiber that didn’t seem to be breathable at all. Why did I buy that again? Ah, right, because of the nice sheen. Ah, well.

Walking to the train and from the train to my office turned out to be less painful than I thought. Maybe the soles firmed up a bit, maybe they weren’t that soft from the beginning. The boots still felt softer than the flimsiest shoes I have ever worn, reporting every nook and cranny in the road to my poor toes. But while it was a bit painful and I might have winced every now and then, even unexpectedly stepping on glass shards did not cause more than a sudden inhale of breath.

Previously the profiled soles had had a somewhat rough finish, but the new thin soles were as clear and polished as any other part of the boots. And they stayed that way, no matter how hard I kicked them or how far I walked.

At some point I started stepping into every patch of dirt I could find, just to watch all dirt, mud, water or whatever just slide off the material, leaving not even a trace.

I just had to find out what the boots were made of. It was going to make me rich.

All in all I wouldn’t want to go on a hike or run in those boots, but I thought I should be able to manage the day, I decided.

There isn’t much to say about the rest of the day.

I tried hard to ignore the boots to get my work done, but they were so tight and hot and uncomfortable, they kept sneaking back into my mind, making me horny.

I had used the vibrators after breakfast, but the effect didn’t seem to last very long.

So there was that guy in the lunch restaurant, right next to me at the bar. Handsome enough for me to be happy about the open crotch of the shape-wear. And he seemed to be quite into my legs and feet and toes in their glass prison.

Maybe I should not leave the house without my vibrators. Looks like I need them regularly, lest I pick up random guys over lunch.

Still not quite trusting my new self and its relationship to random strangers, I spent the evening at home again. Alternating between looking for outfits to wear with transparent boots and using the vibrators to calm down again.

The alarm dumped me right out of a wet dream. After clearing away the erotic cobwebs I wondered why I was sleeping that well. Yes, I said I wasn’t inclined to panic. But I did have a tendency to sleep badly when the future wasn’t clear cut.

Stuck in a pair of transparent plastic boots that seemed to be set to swallow me whole, the future wasn’t exactly clear. Still I slept well. OK, after I used the vibrators and still woke up horny. But other than that, I slept well.

Turning that though left and right didn’t bring any more insights, so I got out of bed and checked myself in the wall mirror.

Four inch. That was as high as my highest heels ever had been. And I’ve never worn them for longer than a couple of hours at a party where there have been enough chairs to spend most of the evening sitting, dangling my fuck-me shoes to see what bites.

Wait, did I actually do that? Fishing for guys with high heels as bait? I never looked at it that way, but yes, in hindsight I’d say I did.

And yes, looking at it that way, I liked it if guys found me hot for my high heels and tight, short dresses. Not for my body, though I knew that a lot more guys were into curves than those who would admit it. Might explain why I only ever took them off after sex.

Who would have thought that. I didn’t.

Anyway, no dangling in these boots, I guessed. Also no taking them off, as it seemed, when the feet were tired. Or after sex. Better I plan my days with much more sitting than I used to.

Also they were crotch high. Literally. Yes, literally in the literal meaning. The shafts had crept up my legs, ending right at that crack between thighs and butt cheeks. It did kind of look like my butt was sitting on the boots, getting pushed up significantly. Now that’s what shape-wear should work like, I thought, taking a few steps and seeing my unnaturally round booty bounce with each step.

So much about my backside. But between my legs the boots went so high, they touched my sensitive bits. Not much, just barely enough to send shivers down my back whenever I moved my legs.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked the universe. As if I hadn’t been horny enough already.

I pushed them down the critical few millimeters, but at the first step they snapped back up, slapping my labia. Ouch! I wasn’t going to do that again.

The toe boxes didn’t seem to have gotten any tighter or pointer. Not that I’d know how they should do that without turning my poor toes into mush.

But the heels had narrowed again, their tips now down to about the size of my middle finger. Not quite what a fashionista would call a stiletto heel, but it still meant I had to be extra careful where I placed my feet.

I managed to hold back the vibrators until after I had taken care of the laundry and breakfast and I even had a shower. But the boots rubbing softly on my sensitive bits had me so horny by then, I was about to go cross-eyed, so I used the vibrators before dumping them into my handbag. I was going to need them to make it through the day.

With my booty already pushed up I got out my party-hard push-up bra. For balance, you know. Wink-wink. Maybe people would stare at my cleavage instead of my butt. That would be better, right? Right?

And with my legs already looking full-on Instagram, I decided to go all the way: A skin tight, barely long enough, low cut stretch dress. In beige, of course. Insta chic. Not sure why I had bought that one, I had never worn it before. Probably I had spent too much time on Insta, ordered it online and then didn’t have the guts to wear it.

On that day I didn’t really have the guts, either, so I grabbed an oversized blazer to go over and hide the worst of it.

Except that the heat was back and I had to dump the blazer halfway to the train lest I melt. The stretch dress wasn’t exactly breathable, not to talk about my legs. And the constant rubbing in my crotch added “emotional” heat to the physical heat.

Without the blazer to cover things up, everybody stared at my body. Or so it felt. Well, at least there were some handsome guys in the group of watchers. I focused on those and ignored the weirdos.

One thing didn’t change: I could sit down, slowly, but then I had to stretch my legs, showing them to the world. Otherwise the tight boots cut off the blood flow. Which quickly became painful. And also looked weird, when my feet turned blue in their clear shells.

Maybe thinking about the handsome guys and their cocks hadn’t been that smart of an idea. Each time the train bounced I bounced on my soft butt. And that made the boots do distracting things to my pussy.

I could only hope my panties wouldn’t soak through. Wet stains on beige dresses were impossible to hide.

Finally in the office I locked the door and lowered the blinds, then pulled out the vibrators to, uhm, cool down. Except that, afterwards, I felt sweatier than before.

I think I was the first one around, but I still muffled my screams with my other hand. If things went on like that, I had to buy a ball gag or something. Soundproofing my office might raise eyebrows.

Thinking about sitting in the office, chewing on a ball-gag held in place by a head harness, locked and the keys left at home, had me so horny again I nearly had to do something about it, before I pushed the thought aside.

Later my assistant came in with the mail and to discuss the schedule of the day. I had my feet on the desk, staring out of the window deep in thoughts when she opened the door. I stashed away my thoughts, which weren’t suitable for work anyway, then looked at her and found her staring at my legs. I think in envy. Maybe something else.

She, too, was in clear plastic boots. Regular clear plastic boots, loose enough to get in and out, fogged up from the heat and with normal soles and heels. In short, the kind of clear plastic boots you can buy, well, not everywhere, but you can buy them. Then you have about five minutes to take glamor pics for Insta before you get out of them again as quickly as you can.

She caught me looking at them and put one foot out to present them, then she looked away embarrassed.

“Good morning. Nice boots.” I smiled.

She smiled back: “I had them for months. But never dared wearing them in the office. Until you came in with those things.”

I grinned, looking at my smooth, shiny, perfect legs in all their glory, then blushed and quickly pulled them off the table and under the desk. Wincing slightly, when I had to bend my legs and the boots dug into my knees. Under the desk I quickly stretched them again.

“Yeah, they are great, aren’t they?”

“Much better than mine.” She said, “Where did you get them? And how do you stand them all day? I’m in them for less than an hour and my feet are cooking.”

“Long story.” I blushed again and shrugged. “Maybe later. What’s on the plan?”

She lasted for another hour, then I saw her naked feet poking out from under her desk, the boots nowhere to be seen.

I envied her so much, I closed the door and spent some minutes tugging fruitlessly at my boots. Not only my feet were cooking in the heat, my whole legs were. And the rest of my body seemed to sweat even more to compensate. Also my poor toes and ankles wouldn’t mind a break from being constantly compressed and locked in a high heel position. And I wasn’t sure my legs were getting enough blood in their tight prisons. At least they had a habit of tingling in the most distracting fashion.

I didn’t get anywhere, except repeatedly snapping the top of the shafts against my crotch, so I had to stop before it made me cum again. And use the vibrators to get my brain back into working conditions.

I managed to get some work done that day, but only by using the vibrators once during the lunch break and some time during the afternoon. I could not see the boots when my legs were under my desk, but I could feel them all day. Impossible to forget.

I tried to avoid moving as much as possible, but still even the slightest movement of my hips did something to my labia. That didn’t help, either.

When I finally called it a day, I pushed my chair back and looked at my poor feet: “Do you want to dance?”

My feet weren’t sure if they wanted to, but I had already said “I’m in” to my girls, so there was no way out.

Wicked boots and a skin-tight dress were good enough for the clubs we hit regularly, so I just updated my make-up using my secret office supplies and headed out.

My feet didn’t really want to dance, at least not for long. But their complaints never made it through drinks, adrenaline and horniness.

I’d never thought there were so many guys that wanted to pay for a drink for that girl with the shiny, perfect legs and the tight dress, whose boobs and booty bounced all over the dance floor.

I picked three and went backstage with them. No, not all three at the same time. One after the other with enough time between to not get caught.

When I returned from the first, my girls grinned. After the second they looked doubtfully. After the third they were nowhere to be found. As were the guys who had been trying to hit on them.

No, they weren’t gone. They returned a short while later, a bunch of very happy guys in tow. Who turned into a bunch of very confused guys, when they were unceremoniously dumped and we headed home.

I barely made it into bed when the evening finally caught up with my poor feet in their high heeled prison. Luckily I fell asleep before the pain registered.

By the way, don’t wear shoes with thin, soft soles out to the clubs. You really do not want to feel first hand (well, first foot) all the gross stuff that’s on a dance floor.

“Uuuuoooohhhhargh!”

Or some noise like that came out of my throat when I was woken very early in the morning by the sun shining straight into my face. I hadn’t closed the blinds before falling into a post-party coma. I groped for the remote control for the blinds and went back to sleep while they were still moving down.

I had vaguely realized that the boots had changed again, but I was down before that fully registered.

Some hours later I woke somewhat rested and without the disgusting noises. Until I swung my legs out and sat up. Then I made a weird mix between groan, moan and squeak.

My feet and the shoes felt about the same as yesterday, as did my knees: Reluctant to bend but otherwise fine.

But my butt, hips and crotch felt oddly compressed. And something dug into my hip joints and my belly, somewhere between uncomfortable and painful.

That accounted for the groan.

But also something tugged at my labia and my clitoris and, most confusingly at the inside of my vagina and my rear orifice. And all that in a most distracting way, hitting all the sensitive spots.

That caused the surprised squeak that turned into a moan.

I got up carefully and minced over to the wall mirror, purposely not looking down, not to spoil the surprise.

Let’s start at the bottom: The heels had grown another inch. But at the same time, a platform of about an inch had formed under my toes, keeping the effective heel height the same four inches of yesterday.

Small mercy, because the heels had narrowed again, ending not much thicker than my pinky finger. Also the crystal clear plastic block that formed the platform was tapered, significantly smaller at the bottom, compared to the top, which was just barely large enough to support my toes and the balls of my feet. All in all not exactly stable to walk in, thus dangerous for my joints, except that the boots had solidified considerably up to about mid-calf, providing excellent support for my ankles.

From there on up to my crotch I did not notice any changes. Maybe everything was somewhat tighter, but I wasn’t sure about that.

Further up, however, the boots had extended again, ending somewhere between hips and waist. Confused? Yeah, well, about where pants usually ended. Not low-riders, not high-waisted, normal pants height.

Could I still call them boots? They were more like pants, or better leggings, with attached shoes rather than boots. So let’s call them leggings from now on.

The leggings were as tight as physically possible, shaping my hips and butt to perfection. Somewhat artificial, cartoony, gravity-defying perfection, but still a sight to behold. They followed and accentuated the line between tights and butt, giving the perfect push-up effect.

But they also pulled deep into my butt crack, pushing my cheeks apart to form two perfectly separated orbs.

Even worse, they dug deep left and right of my pussy and also right into it, giving me the mother of all camel-toes. There was probably no better way to expose a pussy than covering it in transparent plastic like that.

Digging deep between my labia meant that it rubbed directly on my clitoris. I couldn’t not see any of that from the outside, but it felt like the plastic was covered in ribs or nubs or something like that on the inside. The rubbing was much more intense than a smooth plastic layer should be able to do.

While that was much worse than yesterday, in terms of involuntary stimulation, the worst was yet to come: The plastic did not stop at the entrance. It went right in, front and aft. Not sure how deep, but it felt deep. Deeper than my finger could reach, I found when I tentatively tried.

Yes, I could reach in, front and aft, so it wasn’t a solid filling but more like a lining. Ready to receive…well, I guess you know what.

Very disturbing. And very hygienic, I had to admit, when my finger came back dry and clean. It went in and out easily enough due to the smooth, slippery surface of the rubber, but the lining seemed to be closed off deep inside.

And it was again ribbed or something like that. Pushing in a finger was much more arousing than it should be, even with the slightest movement. And it also felt very nice on my finger, too. Probably equal fun for someone using my openings as it would be for me.

Wait, what, water-tight linings? How was that going to work for, well, you know what? Number 1 and 2? No way but to try it, right?

The answer was as boring as it was confusing: It worked just fine when I sat down on the toilet and relaxed. But then the toilet paper came back clean. Just like the finger I inserted.

How did that work? I didn’t know, but I decided to book a CT or MRT to see the mechanism that must have been somewhere inside me.

After all that testing and probing I just left my fingers in there and took care about a certain urge. What did you expect? Whatever the details in there, everything seemed to be connected to my clit and my G spot and all the other sensitive bits.

I had to bite my lips to not squeak when I moved my hip joints in any direction. Moving my knees sent shivers up and down my spine. Even my feet seemed to be connected to my clit, causing distracting sensations whenever I moved my ankles or my toes.

The day before I asked the universe if it was kidding me. That day I was sure.

“You are kidding me!” I accused the universe, but it did not answer.

I shook my head, then dressed for the day. Very, very slowly. Because moving too fast turned me into a moaning mess.

Similar to the day before yesterday, where there was a bit too much of me bulging out where the boots ended, there was now a not-so-nice bulge where the leggings ended. So I had to put on shape-wear again to get a smooth transition from artificial to natural. Well, at least regular-shape-wear-assisted natural.

When I was finally squeezed into the shape-wear corset, a skirt and a t-shirt, I posed in front of the mirror and finally understood what had been nagging me the whole morning: My hips did not go straight.

No matter how hard I tried, my hips always kept a slight bend, the leggings just did not allow anything else. And that meant that I could stand with either my knees slightly bent or with my back slightly arched.

The first looked slightly stupid, like I put on too high heels. And it turned out to be rather exhausting, because it was basically an eternal squat. Not a deep squat, but still tiresome for my thigh muscles over time.

Arching my back allowed me to straighten my knees, solving that problem. But it also meant that I pushed out my already pronounced booty even more. And it forced me to pull my shoulders back for balance, pushing my boobies up and out.

Ah, well, better posing like an aerobic trainer than getting my legs tired.

But it looked like I should be able to balance something on my booty or on my boobies. They weren’t far from horizontal.

I think I never made more of a mess preparing a breakfast that was just cereal with milk and coffee. But I kept forgetting and each thoughtless step had me flinch. Mincing around was fine, but steps of a more normal length gave me more of a stimulation than I could handle.

Getting down on my hands and knees to clean up the spilled coffee didn’t help, either.

And there wasn’t even a guy around to ogle at all the booty on display.

At first I wasn’t able to do anything (except sitting perfectly still) for more than half an hour without getting so horny that my mind shut down. And moving around like doing the laundry pushed me over the edge within minutes. So I pushed back grocery shopping, knowing that I had to do it eventually, but not knowing how.

Things got better over the day. I don’t know if the leggings got less stimulating, or if my libido got tired down, but in the afternoon I found myself able to go for more than an hour without needing the vibrators.

So I packed up and used the vibrators a last time to give me some head start.

Except that the vibrator bounced off my pussy. WTF?

Close inspection revealed a newly formed layer of hard and impenetrable plastic over my pussy including the clit. Oh, and by the way, also covering my asshole.

Below that layer everything seems to be the same as before, transmitting every movement of my legs and hips to very sensitive places. But the protective plastic layer was so thick and hard, I could hit it with a hammer and not feel much more than a gentle touch. Yes, I tried. And it wasn’t a small hammer.

I tried everything else, too. Like doing all kinds of leg exercises. But nothing worked. I just could not get me over the edge.

What I could do: Make me more and more horny and frustrated. In the end I was reduced to a moaning mess of a girl that thrashed her legs and clawed at her crotch, screaming in frustration.

Finally I had worked myself to exhaustion and was more than a little bit sweaty, and I was as horny as before. Maybe even more so.

After lying motionlessly (not counting occasionally twitches) on my couch for about half an hour I had calmed down enough to peel myself out of the sweaty shape-wear, take a shower and squeeze myself back into new shape-wear. Very, very slowly, avoiding every unnecessary movement of my legs.

Then I grabbed my shopping bag and headed out to the grocery store. Very, very slowly with very, very short steps.

Walking to my car was acceptable, it didn’t park too far away. Riding the car was bad, making me shiver whenever I had to operate the pedals, twitch on each small bump and scream on larger bumps. But at least I could twitch and scream in the safety of my own car.

After that ordeal, walking from my car into the grocery store was pure torture and I had to bite my lips to block the screams until I reached the first aisle, where I could stop and stare motionlessly at the label of the first item I plucked out of the shelf at random. I don’t even know what I stared at for several minutes, before I had calmed down enough to put it back.

That pattern repeated for the next hour or so: Slowly and carefully walking to the next aisle with a product I wanted, then standing there “reading” the labels until I dared to move my legs again.

Until a hand touched my shoulder, making me flinch so hard I flung something over into the next aisle. Don’t ask me what it was, I do not think I intended to buy it, it was just a distraction. Luckily I did not hear any destructive noises, so it must have been something light and soft.

“Miss, would you please follow me!” The store detective said. It was technically a question, but it ended in an exclamation mark. It didn’t seem I had anything to say about that. Not with his muscular hand still on my shoulder.

A nicely shaped hand attached to a nicely shaped arm attached to a nicely shaped body.

And boy, did those tight pants show his sexy ass. And his crotch seemed well equipped as well.

He guided me to his office, one hand very obviously on my shoulder, the other hand less obviously squeezing my butt. I wondered when I did give him permission to squeeze my butt. I couldn’t recall any explicit communication, but maybe I had leered at his body so obviously he didn’t even have to ask.

Not that I was able to do a lot of thinking on the way to his office, because he pushed me so fast, all I could do was bite down on the screams, but I shivered and twitched the whole way.

Office door closed, he pushed me onto his desk and I bent over. His first thrust into my pussy made me cum. And it continued until I ran out of air to scream and nearly fainted. It probably was the best ever climax and it was not in the slightest his merit. Though I’m sure he thought so.

Then he switched to my back entry until he was done. It did not make me cum again, but it was a surprisingly pleasant experience, probably because the weird plastic coating of my holes made the whole thing go smoothly. Literally.

Finally he grunted, pulled back and I heard his zipper closing. I gingerly put my fingers to my crotch, but found the unyielding plastic plate back in place.

Oh, fucking was fine, but fingering not? Thank you, universe. That made my future a lot easier. Not.

I pulled down my skirt and adjusted my shirt before turning around. I barely opened my mouth before he brushed me off:

“I don’t know what you were doing in there, but obviously you didn’t steal. No place to hide something.” He gestured at my body, then at the door.

“The company wants to express its deep regret for interrupting your shopping experience.”

The latter sounded rehearsed.

I opened my mouth again, but he was already busy typing something into his computer. Shaking my head I left the office and went looking for my shopping cart.

Sufficiently calmed down after my visit to the detective’s office, I quickly finished my shopping and went home.

To spend the rest of the day in horny frustration, alternating between futilely trying to focus on a movie and my fingers bouncing off my shielded pussy.

Yes, “meeting” the detective had me relaxed, but riding my car home had brought me back right back to where I started. I nearly dressed up again to look for a cock that would break my pussy shield, but in the end I fell asleep with a vibrator resting on the pussy shield.

It was the big boy vibrator, the one with the intolerable max setting and the power cord. It did work without the cord, at least until the internal battery ran down, but with the cord attached it could go on forever.

I could hardly feel it even on max setting, where it shook so much it nearly jumped out of my hands. On low setting, which is what I fell asleep with, it emitted not much more than a barely perceptible hum. It did not do anything to my crotch, but the low noise helped me find sleep.

Sleep was full of hot guys and girls in various stages of dress or undress, from which I woke up gasping.

It wouldn’t have been the first time I woke up panting from a wet dream, when I transitioned directly from dreaming to masturbating. But there is a difference between panting and gasping.

I dropped the vibrator and tried to sit up, but did not manage much except flail my arms and legs. Something was wrong with my hips and waist. Even more so than the day before.

I dropped back on the mattress and spread arms and legs and took a couple of deep breaths to calm down. Or at least as deep as possible. Something was compressing my waist, making it impossible to breathe into my belly. Instead all breathing had to come from my upper torso, flexing my rib-cage.

I had already expected the “leggings” to creep further up my body, so it didn’t take a lot of investigation with my fingers to find that it now ended right under my tits. At what point do I have to call it a suit? Or even a catsuit? Well, at that time it could still be called leggings, even though very high waist leggings.

I rolled onto my belly, then dropped my legs out of the bed and used my arms to push me on my feet. Then I minced over to the wall mirror. One thing hadn’t changed: Every movement between shoulders and toes was transmitted to my sensitive bits in a most distracting way.

Which got even more distracting when something stopped me hard halfway to the mirror by grabbing me between my legs. Or so it felt.

I looked down, but could not see much, except that there was a power cord that connected my pussy to the wall. What?

You probably have guessed it by now: The big boy vibrator was still there. And it was not only still there, it was inside me! Deep inside me. And it was running.

Only on its lowest setting, which is why I had missed it before, but now that I knew it was running I couldn’t ignore it anymore. Which added even more distraction.

I tried to switch it off, but the hard, impermeable plastic layer in my crotch had not only swallowed half of the vibrator, it had coated the rest of the device up to the power cord, blocking any access to the controls.

No matter how hard I wrenched on the device, it did not come out and it did not switch off. On the contrary, even without being able to reach the controls, I somehow managed to switch it to full power.

The head of the vibrator rested (or vibrated) against my G-spot, which was bad enough. But the hard plastic molded around the base (which also vibrated) was connected directly to my clit. And somehow to something inside of my asshole. Everything which was even remotely sensitive between my legs was vibrating at the same time, on full power.

My legs buckled and I dropped to the floor, not even able to scream when my whole body spasmed in an instant orgasm.

Then I passed out.

Well, I guess I must have passed out, because I awoke a bit later, again gasping and squirming, but this time on the floor.

The vibrator was still running, but it had returned to a lower setting. Still high enough to make me twitch, shiver, squirm and moan every time I lost focus, but not enough to make me cum. At least not right away.

I groaned, rolled on my knees and hands and crawled over to unplug the power cord of the vibrator. Which did not change anything, because it had internal batteries. Which would last for hours, maybe even the whole day, I had never used it that long.

I used the bed to push myself back on my feet, then minced unsteadily back to the mirror to assess the situation: Save for the vibrator everything was as I had expected.

The leggings had extended upwards again, past my waist to just below my tits. And they were as tight as ever, maybe even tighter. But my belly and waist were much more compressible than my butts and legs, so the effect was  much more dramatic: It had pulled my waist down from its natural 30 inch (curvy) to something like 25 inches (breathtakingly curvy).

Much less uncomfortable than it looked, but still nothing for extended exercise. Not that I was going to do much sport in heels that had grown another inch to a total of six inches. Also the platform had grown by half an inch, bringing the effective heel height down to “only” four and a half inches: Barely walkable, but walkable.

Looking at myself in profile I noticed that the new corset forced me to push out my butt and tits even more, bending my spine back into a nearly ninety degree curve. My posture wasn’t even suitable for aerobics anymore, more like an aerobics fetishist’s wet dream.

I shook my head in disgust, then shrugged and admitted to myself that I liked what I saw. Well, no, I did not really. But thinking about being seen by a hot guy (or girl) looking like that had me horny all over again. Or was it the running vibrators?

Anyway, there was still too much of me bulging out at the back where the leggings ended, but this time I didn’t need shape-wear: A sports bra provided enough tight fabric to smooth things out and also stopped my tits from bouncing all over the place. And it did not overly emphasize my boobs. If I’d put on a push-up bra I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to look past my tits anymore.

OK, now I’m joking. But a sports bra was still the better choice for getting the apartment in order.

I sighed, wrapped the stupid power cord around my thin waist and tied it into a knot, then put on loose shorts to go with the bra. Quite an interesting challenge to put on shorts when you feel stiff like a board from your waist down.

Breakfast first: Not much to report, except that sitting on a chair with a vibrator sticking out of my pussy was quite an event all by itself. Usually impossible, but made possible by said vibrator being embedded in a solid plastic chastity belt. I sat a couple of inches higher than usual and very wobbly. But when I spread my legs indecently I was able to keep my balance. It also increased the effective seat height by a couple of inches, which went quite well with the high heels. Just that the table was too low then.

After not getting anything done except grocery shopping the day before and being very much distracted the whole week, my apartment was a mess.

With my hair tied back with a scarf and my hands in yellow rubber gloves, twitching and shivering while I tried to not get unduly horny again, I looked…ridiculous. No way around that. But ridiculous in a way that would make a lot of guys burst spontaneously out of their pants.

The next couple of hours passed in a daze, with me hovering on the edge of orgasm while I tried to get something done. I had a tendency to spend half an hour polishing a single spot, gyrating my hips, not sure if I tried to cum or tried not to cum. Something wicked was going on, because the hornier I got the slower the vibrator ran.

In case you’re wondering why it took half a day to clean a small apartment: Everything went soooo slow. I teetered unsteadily on my high heels, reduced to mincing, not able to take a decent step for fear of toppling over.

Then I wasn’t able to bend over due to the stiff hips and back-bend spine, so everything below my knees were out of reach. And on six inch heels my knees were so high above the floor, a lot was out of reach.

Crouching didn’t work either, not with stiff hips and knees.

So whenever I needed to reach something below my knees, I had to get down on my knees first. Have you tried getting down on your knees when you can hardly bend your knees and hips? Let me tell you, it is nearly impossible. I had to mince over either to the bed or the sofa, drop down onto it, then roll off until I was down on my hands and knees with my butt sticking high up in the air. Then I could crawl back to where I came from and do whatever I had to do. Then I had to crawl back to the bed or sofa, pull myself onto it and with some effort, push myself back on the skyscraper heels.

It was so annoying. So slow. So exhausting. So stupid. So helpless. So sexy. So arousing. And so frustrating, because the stupid vibrator just didn’t let me cum.

At least not until I had gone down on my knees one last time and stored the cleaning utensils under the kitchen floor. Then I just collapsed on the hard kitchen floor, doing the spread-eagle, staring blindly at the ceiling.

That was when the vibrator switched to high gear again. I spasmed and rolled over into an embryo position to protect my pussy. Except that I couldn’t, because my body was too stiff for that. So my legs just flayed around uselessly and my hands drummed on the plastic shield, trying to get hold on the torture device.

Nothing helped and so I climaxed within seconds.

The vibrator stopped when I was done, gave me a couple of seconds to catch my breath and then went back to work. I climaxed again.

Rinse and repeat. And loose count.

Unknown time later it stopped running and instead beeped. When I had collected enough of my wits I recognized the beeping: The battery was running down. Finally!

I crawled onto the sofa, fished for the remote and switched on the telly. I felt very much in need of a shower, but I was just too exhausted to move. I couldn’t even make myself find the right button on the remote to switch the TV to something even remotely interesting.

“Beep!” - “Ouch!”

The vibrator beeped again, just like it had been doing for the last couple of minutes, but this time it hurt.

“Beep!” - “Ouch!”

“What the fuck!”

“Beep!” - “Ouch!”

My brain had been turned into jelly so much, it took me several more ouch-beeps until I got what I had to do: I groaned, rolled over, unwrapped the power-cord from my waist and plugged it into the outlet next to the sofa.

The beeping stopped, the pain stopped and the vibrator started running again.

“Oh noaaauuuh!” I groaned. Or moan.

But the vibrator was back to a very low level: Not enough to turn me on, but enough to constantly remind me that the vibrator was there. And that I was not going to get rid of it. And that turned me on, even more than the vibrations.

I shook my head in disgust, flopped back on the sofa and continued to look at the TV without actually seeing something.

Is that how a squeezed out lemon feels like, I wondered idly. Until my smartphone played a very specific warning sound: Mom and Dad incoming.

“What the fu…?”

Yes, I thought “What the fu…”. Don’t you automatically censor your thoughts when you think about Mom and Dad? I do.

Anyway, “What the fu…?”

I groped for the phone to check the date: Indeed, the second Sunday of the month.

“Fu…!”

Mom and Dad visited every second Sunday of the month.

I panicked slightly and looked around, but while it had taken me forever to clean, the result looked as good as ever. Except for myself. I looked far from ship-shape.

Out of options, I unplugged the power cord again, hoping that it had charged enough for me to take a shower and dress.

It hadn’t. I had barely made it to the bathroom when: “Beep!” - “Ouch!”

Luckily there was an outlet placed conveniently to plug in the power cord and still have a shower.

How would you feel taking a shower with your crotch connected to a mains power outlet? I felt giddy. But nothing happened, except that I got wet. And clean, eventually. Though the water wasn’t able to reach anything below my bobbies, so effectively I couldn’t wash much more than my hair, face, shoulders, arms and boobs. But that was enough to feel remotely human again.

My skin underneath its plastic prison still felt hot and sweaty like it always did. But hot and sweaty in a weirdly pleasant way. Not the normal, sticky, unpleasant kind of hot and sweaty. Weird, I hadn’t noticed that before.

What should a girl wear for Mom’s and Dad’s visit, when said girl was stuck in stripper high heels, a wasp waist corset, push-up leggings and a vibrator sticking out of her pussy?

I opted for a pair of loose sweatpants made from some fake leather. Last year’s fashion, but good enough for Mom and Dad. Not exactly suitable for a heat wave, but with the AC running it was acceptable. Not that it made any difference for me what I wore over the plastic layer. It was going to be hot and sweaty anyway.

With my legs hidden I found that the sweatpants were still tight enough around my unnaturally firm booty to look overly sexy. So I added an oversized shirt that hid my new waist and at least somewhat my butt.

But there was no way of hiding the shoes, so I just had to come up with a good excuse in case Mom asked.

So, what went wrong and how did I deal with it?

Mom noticed that I had a power cord dangling out of my pants that I kept plugged in all the time, that my movements were unnaturally stiff and that I sat awkwardly. She asked me if I had pulled something in my back. That matched exactly what I had come up with, so I was prepared and agreed. The power cord was for a heating pad that I had wrapped around my waist.

I’m sure Mom noticed the shoes the moment she laid eyes on me, but she didn’t comment. At least not until she caught Dad staring wistfully at my feet in their ridiculous shoes. I had noticed him staring before, alternating between my feet and Mom’s feet.

Mom had been relatively young (as had been Dad) when they got me, so they weren’t that old now, and Mom took care of herself, so she was what some people would consider a MILF. That day she was wearing a short denim skirt and wedge heel sandals with more platform and higher heels than appropriate for the situation. So it wasn’t that Dad had anything to complain in that respect.

But he still seemed to like my new shoes. Or more like, he seemed to like the idea of Mom wearing them. Which she wasn’t going to do anytime. But I still had to pull out my prepared excuse to defuse the situation: Me and a friend had bought the shoes online after having too many drinks and we had decided to wear them at least once out to a party. But because they’re higher than everything I had ever worn, I had decided to wear them at home a couple of times for training.

The last mistake I caught myself before they could see it: When I prepared coffee I had put my smartphone in the belly pockets of my shirt. That had pulled the shirt forward and its hem had ridden up my butt and around my waist. Luckily I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror before Mom or Dad had noticed anything. So I quickly pulled the skirt down again and removed the phone.

When Mom and Dad were finally gone, the vibrator killed me. No, not literally, otherwise I wouldn’t be telling that story. But it pushed me through so many screaming orgasmns, I just fell asleep on the spot when it finally stopped.

The alarm woke me from a regular dream. What?

Well, not totally regular, I was still in the suit, wearing nothing but a crop top with everything below my waist open for everybody to see. And there were a lot of everybodies around, because I was at a concert, in the middle of the crowd, bouncing and dancing to the music. But nobody seemed to mind and there was nothing remotely sexual in the dream. Weird.

Before I switched on the lights I did a check-up:

Feet and legs felt unchanged: That is, tightly compressed and too high heels.

My pussy and my butt hole were filled with something big and something was rubbing on my clit, but there were no vibrations. Puh, what a relief. Probably the vibrator was still in but it ran out of juice.

Booty and waist felt about as compressed as my legs.

But now there was something around my upper body and shoulders as well.

I shrugged, which caused pleasant sensations in my nether regions and caused my boobs to bounce slightly. Or great, even more of my body was now connected to my clitoris.

I shivered, then switched on the light and laboriously got onto my feet.

“Whoa!” I twitched and fell back on the bed when the vibrator clattered to the floor. Ok, so that thing was not what was filling me up.

On the second trial I made it onto my feet and looked down, but my tits looked normal, not covered by anything. They were in the way as they’re always, but other than that nothing looked too weird.

While mincing over to the mirror I noticed that my knees didn’t want to go straight. At least not easily. I could get them straight, no problem, but the heels were now so high, they had a tendency to stay slightly bent to relax my ankles.

I had to focus on walking at least somewhat normally and not mince around with my knees bent and my ass out.

Lights, mirror, and action. Or something like that.

Actually I didn’t look that much different than the day before.

The heels had grown another inch to a staggering (literally) seven inch in total. But the platform had also grown by half an inch, keeping the effective heel height at a mere five inch. Haha, just five inches. Not more.

Slightly too much for my ankles, but acceptable. Though probably I shouldn’t do too much walking today.

I stared at my waist for a while. Did it lose another inch? I wasn’t sure, so I fetched a tape measure: 24 inches. I hadn’t measured it the day before, so I didn’t know if it had changed. But I would know the next day.

You’re waiting for the major change, above my waist? OK, OK, here you go: The material had crept up my torso and around my shoulders up to my neck. So I could now safely call it a catsuit, albeit a sleeveless catsuit, with a short tight collar. Not exactly comfortable, but not too bad, either.

Interestingly, the material had flown around my breasts, leaving them free. Except at their base: Each tit had a separate hole in the suit, but each hole was slightly too small. Again not comfortable, but acceptable. And it gave my tits a weird, but also weirdly attractive, ball shape. Or at least more of a ball shape than usual.

For their size my boobs had always retained a nice shape, even without a bra. But large tits always sag and I wasn’t twenty-something anymore. Being squeezed through too-small holes removed some of the sag. Not much, but they looked like they’d lost ten years or so. Not bad.

Being anyway stuck in a knees-bend ass-and-tits-out position, I twerked a bit. My booty didn’t wobble at all, being too tightly packed, but it bounced most unnaturally and sexy. My boobs bounced more than I liked, so I stopped.

I took a deep breath…well, I didn’t. When I tried to pull air into my belly it was stopped by the corset. And when I tried to pull it into my chest, the new plastic layer around my upper torso stopped my rib cage from expanding and my shoulders from rising.

Normal breathing was just fine, but taking deep breaths seemed impossible. Probably better not get me worked up too much today, I decided. As if the outfit was suitable for any kind of exercise anyway. Well, except for the you-know-which-kind. Ahem.

I first tried a sports-bra to maybe make my tits slightly less hey-stare-at-me, but it just felt weird, compressing my boobs against the too-small openings in the suit.

But the push-up bra didn’t fit either. Until I realized I had to shorten the straps quite a lot, my tits now much higher on my chest. I think they have never been that high before.

I checked my body shape in the mirror. Everything looked somewhat ridiculous: Tits too high and too round, waist too thin, booty too large and too round. But the sum of all looked…well, cartoonish, I guess. Not even remotely natural, but hot enough to melt an iceberg. Maybe not for the people who like a natural look, but definitely something for the do-everything-for-the-looks faction.

At least I didn’t need shape-wear that time, there were no significant bulges anywhere the suit ended. But what to wear other than no shape-wear? Anything with a low neckline, or a neckline at all, looked weird. But because I was usually quite fond of my cleavage, nearly all of my tops had a low neckline. Or at least any kind of neckline at all.

After some digging I found a pink spandex turtleneck shirt that didn’t look too out of place in the heat of summer. But it was tight and stretchy, leaving no doubt about my pushed-up tits and my wasp waist.

I tried leggings, but couldn’t fit them over my shoes. Cycling shorts worked, but looked far too sporty and out of place with my shiny legs and the high heels. In the end I came back to the pleather sweatpants. Still somewhat out of place in summer, but with my skin trapped below a plastic layer I could be wearing a trash bag without getting any more sweaty.

I don’t know why, but next I raided my jewelry drawers, digging all the way to the bottom to the stuff I never wore because it was too, well, flashy. You wouldn’t believe what I found.

First a pair of hoop earrings so large, they touched my shoulders when I tilted my head. Not quite happy I combined them with slightly smaller (but still large) hoop earrings. And a pair of earrings that were nothing but a thin chain hanging down all the way to my shoulders. Every bit of metal jingled against the rest with the slightest movement of my head.

Then a chain necklace so thick it looked like it belonged on a truck, not on a neck. I’ve never worn it before, because it was too flashy, too heavy and too tight. But with the tight collar of the suit under the tight collar of the shirt, it actually fit perfectly. And it made me jingle even more, because the long earrings bounced off it with every movement.

Last I put on all bracelets I could find, as long as they were made from some solid material with no hinge or other way of opening them, that is, the squeeze-through type. I had a lot of them, maybe twenty per wrist. And I made sure to put them on in order of size, so there was no way of taking any of them off before taking all them off in reverse order. I finished with the locking bracelets.

Locking? Well, not really, they had no locks, keys or anything. They were just solid metal with a hinge and a magnetic hasp. Too tight to pull my hands though without opening the hasp. But whoever had designed that hasp, he had used magnets that were way too strong. No way I could open them with just my fingers and no tools.

I had bought them on a business trip and I had been stuck in them for a solid week until I had been home again and used a vise and pliers to pull them open.

Even more jingling, now with every movement of my arms.

Oh, ah, I nearly forgot: I already found a belt that looked like it was made from chrome steel (it wasn’t, but whatever). I threaded it through the belt loops of the sweatpants (they were more fashion than sports) and pulled it tight around my waist. Not that someone missed my waist for being distracted by my boobs or butt.

I jingled my way through breakfast, then realized that I had missed shower. I considered getting rid of all the jewelry again, for which I would need tools, then decided to just wash my face and hair, not that there was much left of me that would get wet under the shower, anyway. But without getting rid of the jewelry I wasn’t going to get rid of my clothes, either. So no full shower. But maybe just washing my hair.

A rubber hairdresser cape made sure everything below my neck stayed dry. But even with the cape it still was an interesting adventure getting my hair over the bathtub, stiff like a board from neck down as I was. And nobody around to watch me struggle and get turned on by it.

That somebody should get turned on, not me. I was getting turned on enough for every movement pulling, tugging, pushing and rubbing at my clit and the other sensitive bits. But that horny someone could maybe do something about my horniness.

But alas, nobody around.

Finally clean, dry and with too much makeup on my face, I checked myself in the mirror. Then I had to drop the pants and masturbate. Not because the sight in the mirror turned me on. But because of the effort it had taken and from knowing that I wasn’t going to get out of it for the rest of the day. And because I was curious how masturbation worked with a wide open pussy.

It worked just fine. Whatever held my orifices open, it was both strong enough to keep them open but also soft enough that I felt every little touch from the inside. Access to my sensitive bits had never been easier.

Oh, and of course it left me panting, fighting for air against the stupid suit.

I wasn’t totally sure (somewhat distracted at that point), but it seemed to suit relaxed and tightened dynamically, leaving me just enough air to not faint. But just barely, making me feeling light-headed and out-of-control the whole time.

I resolved to not have sex today, knowing for sure that I was going to bang the first dude who looked remotely interested. Or interesting.

“No, you’re not!” I scolded myself, knowing that the first thing to do was to get to the lab and out of the suit as quickly as possible. Once I wasn’t going to be stimulated by every movement, I was sure I was going to go back to my boring old self. Which was boring. But also much more relaxed. Being horny all the time did something to your mind, I tell you.

The walk to the train, the rattling train and the walk to the lab made sure I was thoroughly aroused again when I finally made it. Luckily there was no opportunity to catch some quality time with one of the handsome guys in their suits en-route to work.

The lab was a bit of a weird thing. Some years ago I had needed a materials test to defend myself before court, which apparently nobody was able to do. So I had hired the best materials expert I could find and spend an unholy amount of money on testing equipment. We had won, so it had been worth it.

Even more so, because it turned out I had not been the only one needing this kind of test, so after spending unholy amounts of money on equipment, we charged even more unholy amounts of money for doing the tests for other people. Just to spend the revenue on more eye wateringly expensive equipment to charge even more money.

Within a year the lab had been making more money than the architecture side of my company. But Mike had never wanted to become a C-whatever-O (her words, not mine), she wanted to stay a lab rat. So I signed the bills and kept an eye on the accounts and she made the money.

Michaela, short Mike. Not Miky, or Mikee or Micky or whatever, just Mike.

I caught her unlocking the doors before anyone else arrived.

She grinned: “Hey, long time no see.”

“Yeah.”

“Looking for where all the money goes?”

That was an old joke, so I gave the prescribed answer:

“No, looking for where all the money comes from.”

“Don’t ask me, I’m not running the show. I’m just twiddling knobs.” She laughed, then headed for her office, talking all the time about the exciting new stuff she had ordered and what she was going to do with all that.

She did walk at a brisk pace, but nothing super-fast for a female human of medium size. But that was still much faster than I managed in my overly high heels and overly tight suit.

She was already in her desk chair, sneakered feet on the table, when I made it into her office, gasping for air.

It suddenly dawned on me what a ridiculous sight I must have been: Tottering on my too high heels, knees bent, ass out, back bent, tits out, tight top showing my thin waist. And my hands on my hips as if to make sure nobody missed my unnatural waist and hips. And panting, hardly able to get enough air after a not-so-fast walk of only a couple hundreds of meters.

“You’re dressed even less practically than ever before.” She mocked me.

She never wore anything but jeans or shorts, sneakers or tracking sandals and t-shirts or hoodies. And she somewhat despised everybody who wore less practical outfits than that. At least to work. She accepted dressing up to “catch dudes” (as she put it), though she rarely did.

Over time she had softened up a bit on her opinions, after I told her that for someone in my job a certain business attire was as much as a tool as a hammer: It made the job easier.

It told much about her mind that she was apparently unable to see the difference between my usual business casual (or business smarts, sometimes) and the night-club-bimbo-fuck-me-outfit I was presenting that day. Except that she noted that it was even less practical.

“That’s the problem!” I squeezed between gasps.

“Oh, how so?” She raised an eyebrow. I knew she had trained that as a child because she thought it cool. Not that she was wrong about the effect it had on people.

“It’s invol…gasp….luntary!”

As you might have guessed, we were best friends, and with nobody else around, I opened up and told the whole story. Including all the juicy and somewhat embarrassing details.

You wouldn’t believe how horny I got just from telling the story. I had to bite my lips not to ask her to fuck me hard with a strap-on. Not that there was a strap-on around, but I was sure we could improvise something. Maybe a broomstick…no, stop that!

Halfway through she asked me to undress, which required a trip to the workshop to free me from my jewelry. While I told the rest of the story, she poked, prodded, squeezed and tweezed the material with everything she had available in the workshop. When nothing had any notable effect, she got more fascinated than I had ever seen in a person.

But she still had enough wits left to mock me: “Are you sure you want out?”

“If I’m sure?” I grinned, then shrugged. And twitched, when the shrug was directly transmitted to my clit.

“Well, “ I concluded, “my pussy doesn’t want out, I guess. It hasn’t had that much fun in years. If ever. But the less, erm, primitive parts of my mind still think that I better get out of this as soon as possible.”

Mike had locked the workshop, putting out a top-secret sign to keep her researchers and assistant from coming in. When nothing in the workshop had any effect, she sent them all home on paid leave for the day to get access to the rest of the lab without anyone having a look at my oversexed naked body.

In hindsight it was the smart thing to do, but at that time I was so horny, I wanted people to look at my oversexed naked body. Not only look at it, but get aroused at it and then do something about my urges.

The results we got from all the tests simply didn’t make any sense. That much was clear even to me, with my profound lack of knowledge in material science.

The stuff could be as hard as diamond and the next moment as soft as water. It could be as tough as carbon fiber and the next moment as pliable as putty.

It resisted cutting and scratching to the point of breaking the tools, but when the force got too large, it somehow grabbed the blade and pushed it away. Or it wrapped around the grinding wheel, stalling the grinder, just to flow back into a smooth surface the moment the disk stopped.

We sometimes managed to grab, hook or pinch a fold and pull it away, but the moment we tried to cut it, it liquefied and pulled back to my skin.

The only part we dared to apply full force were the heels, because they were far enough away from my skin, but even those just retracted into the shoes when the force became too large, but quickly reformed when they got the space.

Mike was frustrated as hell, because not being able to take a sample meant that half of the lab equipment was useless.

All the analyzers we could use either returned no useful result at all or basically told us that the suit was made of every element that existed and probably some that didn’t.

The material was transparent for most wavelengths, i.e. visible light, but opaque for some, with no discernible pattern. It even seemed to actively radiate on some frequency, but we couldn’t find a pattern there, either.

Finally, late in the evening, Mike kicked over a tool cart in desperation and stormed out, probably to spend the night killing monsters in her favorite PC games.

I, on the other hand, spend another hour applying all kinds of vibrating or rotating tools to my pussy. After that day’s experience I was sure nothing would hurt me, worst case I would break a tool if the suit detected any danger of too much force.

Impact drills were quite fun, the reciprocating saw was barely tolerable and the jackhammer was far too much.

I fell asleep propped up in the corner of the room impaled on a pair of sledgehammers.

Not the most comfortable positions, you say? I strongly agree, but at that moment I was too exhausted to do anything about it. I did regret it the next day, though.