The sleekness of the rubber is what set it apart for you. There was no escaping it, no turning back when your Owner presented it. His intent was obvious – to make you a gimp. The suit’s attention to detail meant that it fit exactly what was decided that it should be in a slave uniform. Custom fit for your size, each individual toe held in its own enclosure, starting the process of separating skin-on-skin touch. Your Owner’s fetish for you not experiencing most human contact in the fulfillment of your role meant that no half measure would be taken. Your legs gleamed in the light as you pulled the suit up your powdered, muscular frame until your lower half was a sheer black. Fitting your caged member through the hole in the front was your next task, stretching the material and pushing it through exposed…at least as much as it could be in its prison. Disconnected by the suit from the rest of your body, you try to harden only to be defeated again and again by the unrelenting permanent