[SS-1612] Latex Wiping

LATEX WIPING

I don’t even know why we live here.

Me and Mark: best linebackers in the league, the most alpha, jacked dudes ever. Girls literally scream our names, like, “Take me home!” after every game. And yeah, we could. But we just… don’t.

Because home is this apartment.

It’s cheap. Too cheap for two pro players like us. But the rent was like, laughably low, and we were like, “Hell yeah, more money for protein shakes.” But there’s… stuff here.

At night, when we get back, it’s quiet. Too quiet. Like the air is thick. And then we hear it.

The voices.

They come from the ceiling, or the vents, or maybe the walls, I dunno. They whisper: “Put on the latex… clean the latex… worship the latex…”

And bro, we just… do it. I can’t even explain why. It’s like my brain gets all soft and floaty. I don’t even laugh about it anymore.

We go to the bathroom. There’s this box. Shiny suits inside, and these silver briefs. I pull mine on. He pulls his on. It’s like… the tightest thing ever, hugging every muscle, every vein. I can feel my heart beating in my biceps.

Then it just happens.

Mark kneels first tonight. His big shoulders gleam in the bathroom light. I stand. He takes the wet cloth and wipes me. My thighs, my chest, slow circles, like he’s polishing me into some kind of statue. My body hums. The voices hum with it.

Then we switch. I kneel. I wipe him. His abs twitch under the latex. My hands slide down, up, over every curve of him. The smell of rubber and soap fills my head until I can’t think. The voices are louder now.

“Good… worship… polish the body… become latex…”

I don’t even feel like me anymore.

We go slower. Then faster. Breathing hard, cloths sliding, dripping. The tile is cold under my knees. Mark’s hand is on my head now, not even saying anything, just breathing. My vision blurs.

The lights flicker. Or maybe it’s in my head.

The voices change... they’re singing? Or laughing? Or… moaning? The sound slides into me like water in my ears. My name doesn’t feel like my name anymore. I’m just… latex. Just muscle. Just this ritual.

I think we end up on the floor. I think we fall asleep there. Or… maybe we dissolve.

Because every morning we wake up in our beds. No suits. No wet cloths. Just the smell of rubber and sweat in the air. And no memory.

Until the next night.

And the voices start again.

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