Drysuit Sleepsack Solo 1

Author: lairtherubear
Title: Drysuit Sleepsack Solo 1
Date: 31 May 2019

The cool ebon pool beckons from within the subdued pointillism of my night vision—severely greyed-colours of Prussian cobalt, Tyrian purple, burnt umber….

“Warmth…security…acceptance….” I hear it beckon.

Oh wait, that’s me, muttering…yearning….

My bare feet stumble forward; my body floats over them, drifting forward like that odd animation of a lover-of-scents, floating on a ripple of fragrance, hooked through the nostril to be reeled in by the essence emanating from some aromatic comfort food—a hot fruit pie set out for cooling, mayhap—a hamburger, in some ancient antique cartoon. Wimpy comes to mind, for some reason….

“I’ll gladly pay you Wednesday for my fetish play today,” I mouth in parody….

My hands encounter the frigid smoothness of the raven puddle.

Frigid, I think benignly—like me—unloving…unlovable…asexual except for the near-clinical voiding of prostate and testes through masturbation. Only FANTASIZING mortal intimacy—a perverse DELUSION of total surrender to unmitigated coverage, uncompromising encapsulation, abject objectification, in order to TOLERATE human closeness…human amity…human TOUCH…. Just the other side of this platonic polymer veneer. I’m so totally sexually imprinted on fetish gear….

My trembling hands and knees crawl over the cold smoothness. I crouch, trembling, anticipating, at the opening—the watertight drysuit zipper that will soon cross my chest from shoulder to shoulder—soon to enclose me.

I pause, desperately clenching the buttplug that instinctually wants to defecate from my rectum while I’m in the anatomically prompting crouch. The three O-rings at the base of my genitals, and the single smaller one encircling my prick sensuously pinch my engorged flesh, intensifying the erotic sensation. They are tied together, and around my hips, with wiry leather shoelaces so they don’t slip off in case of erectile lassitude.

As if!

My bear toes creep between the two layers of rubber…. My bear feet…bear ankles…shins…knees…hips…bear gut…torso…enter the rubber casing…. The stiff zipper scrapes my skin, uprooting hairs, demanding its ‘pound of flesh’ as entrance fee, while my bear body is imbibed by the nekros womb.

Head and shoulders remain unencumbered; and arms, as yet to be engulfed, pull the sleepsack up around my fidgeting feet…legs…hips…as they move down until my toes are forbidden further access.

Moving my hands inside the sleepsack, I push up on its shoulders, wriggling on the mattress like an inchworm until the attached hood rests directly under my head. Flushed and twitching I lie, catching my breath, trying to be inanimate, desperately fighting my prick’s impulse to erupt.

No! Be still, prick! If you cum now I’ll stop—I’ll crawl out—I ALWAYS want to—after you spurt…. And I so need this extended contact, to be HELD in the secure embrace of this animate skintight rubber right—NOW….

♫Raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens♫….
Julie Andrews swinging around birches in a mountain meadow….

Scarlett O’Hara swinging in long arcs under a huge live oak at Tara, in slow motion….

Yesssss…. Distractions…. Just breathe…. Deep, slow, yoga breaths…. In—1-2-3-4…. Out—1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8…. In—1-2-3-4…. Out—1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8…. Yeeessss….

I push the sleepsack up—feeling it stretch enough to duck my head under the zipper, then beyond the snug neck, into the hood. I quickly move my hands outside to help align the gag in my mouth, so I can mouth-breathe through its internal tunnel while I position the two separate swollen tubes up my nostrils. I maneuver built-in lenses, like swimmers’ goggles, into my eye sockets, insulating my vision from excesses of briny moisture that could uncomfortably impede sight. I collapse back, forearms crossed over my chest—an Egyptian mummy—trying to calm myself….
[Ground station to major Tom?]
♫E-mission Control from Major Wade♫—I parody Bowie….

In—1-2-3-4…. Out—1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8…. In—1-2-3-4…. Out—1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8…. In—1-2-3-4…. Out—1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8…. In—1-2-3-4…. Out—1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8…. Yes…. That’s right….

I contort one inflexible arm to its limit so that, with my other arm’s help, it enters the internal sleeve, pushing and wriggling until it reaches depth.

Now for the hardest part….

With my other elbow outside, I roll and struggle to find the opening into the other internal sleeve. It’s tight, and the zipper exacts another scraping of skin and hairs as I wriggle my hand into the internal pocket. It finally slides down. My remaining arm and shoulder thereby also become engulfed by rubber.

Oh FUCK, I’ve done it again…bagged myself…. Yyeeessss….

Almost….

My rebellious hips twerk my ringed and occluded prick along the smooth interior….

Oh gawd that’s heavenly…!

Calm down…. You’re not finished…. Breathe…. In—1-2-3-4…. Out—1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8…. In—1-2-3-4…. Out—1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8…. In—1-2-3-4…. Out—1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8…. Yes…oh yesss….

I so badly want to MADLY hump this rubber sleepsack…

But…? NO! I really want to be perfectly HELD; HUGGED in the only way I can tolerate…. Protracted…strung out…a marathon of excitement on the edge of explosion…while held tightly in its intractable embrace!!

STOP twerking!

In—1-2-3-4…. Out—1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8…. In—1-2-3-4…. Out—1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8…. In—1-2-3-4…. Out—1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8…. Yeeesssss…. That’s it…. PLACID tolerance….

Except for my endomorphic dimensions, and my hirsute chest, my abominable body has been camouflaged—consumed….

Oh fuck…. I strain to see the zipper pull tab and its attendant leash. Yes, it’s aligned properly…. (I hate having to struggle back out to reposition it…. That always makes me cum…and ENDS my playtime.)

I slowly roll away from the wall, pulling with short tugs, watching carefully as the industrial zipper-pull inches across my chest, pulling the drysuit-weight rubber together, melding, becoming watertight. I end up prone on the mattress, face balanced on my nose, breaths harsh.

Owwwwww…the rings are so tight around my bloated prick and ballsack…. Why do I do this…?

The webbing leash attached to the zipper pull-tab curves around my deltoid, taut across my rhomboids, still securely attached to the eyebolt in the wall. I rhythmically bounce against it, gently, to close that last precious fraction of an inch—the most resistant portion of the process—to become totally leakproof.

Oh Gawd, I want to fuck the bed!

NO!! DON’T!!!

In—1-2-3-4…. Out—1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8…. In—1-2-3-4…. Out—1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8…. In—1-2-3-4…. Out—1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8…. Yes…caallmmm….

Oh Gawd, this feels so RIGHT!! The allover pressure…. PLEASE LET ME ENJOY IT AWHILE…held…secure…loved…hugged EVERYWHERE by the swaddling rubber…. DON’T LET ME CUM YET!

But lying on my engorged prick—the pressure is goading.

I gather my energy to twist and worm from my prone position, to roll back onto my spine, so I can again lie on my back, slackening the zipper’s leash leading to the eyebolt in the wall; lessening the motivation to cum.

Accomplished, the pressure on my niggling prick is a mere fraction of a percentage of what it was while lying on it. I whistle long sighs that harmonize as air enters and escapes through the three ‘woodwind[ow]s’ in the hood—the shafted gag and nostril ‘flutes’.

In—1-2-3-4…. Out—1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8…. In—1-2-3-4…. Out—1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8…. In—1-2-3-4…. Out—1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8…. Yes…. Oh yes….

I rock my hips oh-so gently, rhythmically, as I relish the rubber’s embrace…forcing myself to be content, to be entertained by the serene movement of sweaty rubber against hyper-enervated prick-skin.

I LOVE this sensation….

I gradually zone out…twerking on autopilot…high on curbing sensation….

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