Let’s Talk About Masks

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Not the fabric ones that you choose to wear in the street now. No. A different kind. The helmet-type ones with sealed, circular glass eyepieces and a screw-on filter. Rubber ones. The ones transformed from a protection from radioactivity to a legitimate fetishwear.I used to wear masks like that once a week or so. Not for long, for ten minutes at a time. It was a time when being nuked was a real possibility and it was at school – we were ushered into a room with a lot of instructional and propaganda posters and told to put on the GP-5 mask. I was seven at the time. I remember the mask pulling my hair in all directions if I messed up the sequence needed to pull a very tight piece of rubber onto your head.Once the mask was on, breathing was restricted, the vision was compromised, the feeling was claustrophobic.It definitely was not one of those loose faux-leather masks that are available in every sex shop, at the front, the vanilla section. almanbahis şikayet The seal was tight around my head; the only air I could get was through the filter – it tasted metallic, mixed with the taste of rubber. The sound inside the mask resembled the one of being underwater – strangely contained, intensified, interspersed with your own breaths that are so much more audible than normal.It was a most successful mini sensory deprivation chamber. Every single time I had to talk myself into understanding that the air was still coming in and I could take it off relatively quickly, if I needed to; I could still see a bit, not much, but still. That calmed me down.The only thing that could not be remedied ever was the rubber edge digging into my neck. It suffocated me, more mentally than physically.I never complained about it – questioning authority is not my forte; I am more submissive than I am dominant. Being suffocated and not bringing almanbahis canlı casino it up as an inconvenience – once a week and at a point where your mind is very susceptible – ends up transforming into an interesting fetish.I was exposed to this experience again quite recently. My requirement was that the rubber mask be tight, the inside of the filter removed. His requirement was that I wear a latex gimp costume, with a zipper from the top of my pubic hair to the tailbone and a leash. The mask was dark green, faded; the costume was black.Scuba-divers are very familiar with the feeling of slipping into a rubber costume – not easy. Nothing about rubber or latex is easy. But – oh my – it looks fantastic! Anybody would look fantastic in such a costume. Think a toned-down version of Cat-Woman.Our version is toned-up: I am ordered to kneel in a corner, my arms to my sides, my head down, the rubber edge digging into my neck as almanbahis casino in the good old days.My leash is attached to a radiator. Through the mask, I can hear him making coffee. I cannot smell it, but I hear the coffee maker working. I hear the teaspoon hitting the sides of the mug. He brings the coffee nearer, to the kitchen table, puts it down. Then I hear his steps approaching. He undoes the leash and pulls me up to my feet. I am not supposed to change anything else – arms by my side, head down. My knees hurt from kneeling for twenty minutes, but it will go, I just need to stand straight, it will go.He presses himself to me, with his arms around me, hands cupping my breasts. His groin presses into the zipper, which feels slightly cold still, even though I am hot inside the costume. He presses my breasts, then lets them go, slaps my ass and steps away.“Okay,” he says, “I will get my coffee.” I am not supposed to react, so I do not.He brings his coffee, puts it on the windowsill. He brings a chair to my corner – I can hear it being dragged on the floor – and sits on it. He is unrushed, relaxed. Reaches out and unzips my zipper from my tailbone to the pubes. Phew! That’s nice, cool.

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