Trigger warning: claustrophobia
It was only called a bed because that was what it was made from. What it felt like was a prison, or a cocoon. How she felt about it depended greatly on which of those two it was.
The only sound she could hear was the drone of the vacuum which sucked all the air out between two vinyl sheets that used to be the top and the bottom of a water bed. The only thing left between the sheets was her naked body. The only connection to the outside of her prison cocoon was a tube that held her mouth open and gave her air.
The vinyl was pulled tight by the vacuum and touched her skin everywhere. It pressed against her breasts and held her arms in place. She could feel it mold itself around her legs, her thighs. It pressed against her sex. It wrapped around her head, between her fingers and pressed tight against her shoulders.
She’d been bound before. Rope wrapped around her body, suspended from a ceiling, but that was nothing compared to this. She couldn’t move and the vinyl, while it touched her everywhere, was nothing like the rope.
The rope rubbed against her (smooth and rough at the same time) and the vinyl just disappeared. It touched her everywhere, but she couldn’t feel it. It was like air that way — ubiquitous and invisible. She only knew it was there because of its effects. Because she couldn’t see; because she couldn’t move.
Outside there were people looking at her, she knew. She wondered if her nipples were hard enough to be seen, two points frozen in carbonite. She wondered if it pressed tightly enough that they could see the folds of her sex outlined in vinyl. She wondered if they could tell how wet she was.
She couldn’t move. She couldn’t hear. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t see. The plastic hose had no taste, and the smell of the vinyl waterbed overpowered any other scent.
There was nothing to do but think and be, and in that she was totally free. No choices or responsibilities or anything that needed doing. All she could do was lie there and try to feel the vinyl hug her tight and keep her imprisoned in her cocoon.
Fingers trailed down the outside of the cocoon and it was like a million fingers — not hard or big, but intense. It was the only difference. One trailed up her arm and it was the most intensely sensual gesture she’d ever felt. Then they slid over her breasts and idly ran around and over her nipples. Then they were gone.
An eternity later, touches on the inside of her thigh. Light, thunderous slaps that she could — almost — hear. Then touches against her sex, light, easy, hard, easy, light and gone. She wanted to yell out, to tell them to touch her. To touch her however they wanted so long as they did something, anything, anything at all.
But there was nothing. Just the stillness and the drone and the smell of vinyl.
She breathed in through the tube and out again.
Fingers then against her thigh, in the place there, then running up and over her sex. Her breath caught. The fingers pressed on, a bit harder, a bit surer, a bit more insistent. It had to be him. No one else touched her that way.
Please let it be him.
Please let it be anyone, so long as they didn’t stop.
She arched her back against the touch to get more, but still couldn’t move. She was bound in the dark with nothing but the touch of a strangers (or his?) fingers against her sex.
There wasn’t anything else.
There wasn’t anything else to do or focus on.
So she just felt it.
And the fingers pressed on, and she was coming (moaning around the tube, unheard by anyone, even herself) and she was writhing (in place, held there by the vacuum bed) and she felt electricity flow through her (and at first there was nothing to do but notice) and then she was all of that. Fingers, pussy, come, electricity, quiet, bound and sated.
The fingers stopped and she just lay there quietly, thoughtlessly, forever.
Until the vaccum was turned off and the vinyl was lifted, and he was there.