2017.0210—The Ritual of Total Enclosure
(c) 26.0607-1202.32 by AtaraxiA under Creative Commons CC BY-SA license
SUMMARY:
Thalia describes the step-by-step process of suiting up in latex, from
powdering the suit to sealing herself in a hood, gloves, and socks. She
explains the sensations of “dissolving” into the rubber, the meditative
state it induces, and the eventual need to emerge. She reflects on how
her practice has evolved from shame to routine, finding peace in the
discipline and comfort of her fetish.
---
Dear Marla,
You
asked what it’s like—the actual, physical process of total enclosure. I
realized I’ve never described it in detail. Maybe I was saving it for
myself, or maybe I just thought it would sound ridiculous out loud. But
tonight, with the wind howling off the creek and my skin prickling with
anticipation, I’m going to write it out for you, step by step.
The
ritual begins with the suit itself. I keep them in the lowest dresser
drawer, each folded inside a pillowcase. It’s not about secrecy anymore
(I doubt the Hahns would care if they saw me, at this point), but about
preservation. Latex is finicky. It tears easily and hates sunlight; it
crumbles if you let it dry out, and every little crease is a potential
rupture point. So I handle them like museum artifacts: slow, careful, a
little bit reverent.
Tonight is black catsuit night—a tradition I
started for myself to mark Fridays. The suit is heavy, chlorinated for
ease of dressing, but I still dust the inside with cornstarch, just
enough to make it slide. I’ve gotten good at using the old cotton sock
as a powder puff, making sure to get into the toes and fingers, every
joint. The smell is sweet and sharp, and already I can feel my pulse
speeding up in my wrists.
I undress, sit on the edge of the bed,
and pull the legs on first. There is a moment of resistance as my calves
and thighs enter, and then a wet, silken gasp as the latex yields and
wraps me tight. Arms are next, then the body. The suit has a back zipper
that ends just above the butt, and I use a length of dental floss
looped through the zipper pull to finish the job. There’s a trick to
it—raise one shoulder, then the other, wriggle like a fish, and finally,
with one decisive tug, seal myself in.
Now for the hood. I’ve
had this one for years—a custom job, black outside, scarlet inside. The
eyes are cut, but the mouth is just a tiny hole, and there are two more
tiny holes for the nostrils. I powder the inside, stretch it over my
head, and roll the edge until it mates perfectly with the collar of the
suit.
The first breath through the hood is always a shock. The
world narrows. Sound dims. I can feel my own exhale warming the latex
over my face. The gloves and socks are last. Each finger must be aligned
just so, or else the suit will bunch and pull. I smooth out every
wrinkle, then sit on the bed, my hands in my lap, and let the sensations
settle in.
At this point, the hunger is sated and replaced by
something else: a low, constant hum of pleasure that is not quite sexual
and not quite spiritual. I have called it “becoming rubber” in my
letters, but that’s not quite right. The better word is “dissolving.” My
sense of where my skin ends and the suit begins vanishes. My body is
encased, but my mind is free.
The house is silent except for the
faint drone of the fridge downstairs. I go to the balcony door, unlock
it, and step outside. The cold hits me like a slap, but the latex is
insulation—for a brief moment, then the cold hits, especially if it’s
raining, which is most of the time here. The wind snakes over my head
and shoulders, smooth and relentless. I close my eyes and listen to the
waterfall.
The sound is different like this—muted, but somehow
closer, as if it’s coming from inside my own skull. I stand there for a
while, breathing slowly through my nose, letting the cold bite at the
rubber, until I start to shiver—not from cold, but from a weird, joyful
tension that builds up until I have to move.
I lean on the
balcony rail and imagine the moonlight bouncing off my head like a disco
ball. I wonder if the crow is out there, watching me. (Hello,
Persephone.)
Eventually, I come back inside. I sit at my desk,
still in the suit, and do what James calls “the R.A.S.P. thing.” He
taught it to me as a meditation: Relax, Accept, Savor, Persist. It’s
supposed to quiet the mind, but in my case it just amplifies the
sensations.
I relax my jaw, accept the urge to fidget, savor the
weird rubbery hug, and persist—try to stay in the moment for as long as
possible. Sometimes I write in my journal during these sessions, though
my handwriting changes a bit with the gloves on. Mostly, I just sit and
stare at the wall, counting my breaths, letting the pleasure build and
subside like the sound of the water outside.
It’s nothing like
the furtive, frantic sessions I used to have when Frank was away on his
frequent business trips. Back then, every second in the suit was haunted
by guilt, or by the fear of getting caught, or by the worry that I’d
never be able to take it off in an emergency. Now, it’s just a part of
my routine, no different from brushing my teeth or making the bed. There
is no more shame in it. Just relief.
Most of the time I sleep in
it—that took a while to get used to. The first few nights I did not
sleep well, but, by about the fifth night of enclosure, my body finally
‘mapped’ it as normal and I slept like a baby. Now it expects it and
won’t let me sleep if I don’t put something on.
Eventually, I
have to come out. Latex does not tolerate long-term wear, no matter what
the fantasies say. If you stay in too long, your skin blanches and
puckers, and you start to feel clammy and weird. So, by the following
morning, I go to the bathroom, peel off the suit, and rinse it in cold
water.
The release is always a shock. My skin tingles and flushes
then. I hang the suit over the shower rod to dry and stand there, naked
and buzzing, for a minute or two before coming back to myself.
And
that’s it. That’s the whole thing. I go to bed, read a little (tonight
it’s Ursula Le Guin again), and drift off knowing that I’ll do it all
again tomorrow.
I wonder if this is how monks feel—caught between
the discipline of the flesh and the longing for something beyond it.
I’m not pretending that latex is enlightenment, but it is a kind of
peace. And for now, that’s enough.
Yours in black rubber and the moonlight,
Thalia
