Cocoon

Alexa Von Tess lay rigid inside a skin-tight latex cocoon in 2008, arms pinned, legs useless. She rested on a low box, septum clamp biting down, chain to the floor. Even the smallest twitch yanked the raw flesh and made her eyes water. The camera lingered on the two small serrated clamps still gripping her nipples. One by one they came off. Metal teeth scraped. Her body quaked inside the shiny sheath; her head tried to jerk but the chain held fast, twisting pain through her septum. Eyes darted left and right, wide, glassy, a frantic silent-movie tick. The gag kept every sound locked behind her teeth. She couldn’t twist away, couldn’t close her eyes, couldn’t do anything except ride each fresh sting while the latex creaked around her.