The Masking

The scene slowly resolves itself. There's a naked girl strapped down on a table in a pool of light. I don't recognize her, but her name is Pam. She has long, black hair that spills off the end of the table. Her breasts are perfect cones. So perfect they almost look fake, but I know they aren't. I don't know how I know this, but I know. Her bush is full and lush between shapely thighs. There's a strap across her forehead, one around her throat, two above and below her breasts, and one across her belly. Her legs are raised and spread, her ankles fastened to supports, like in a gyno chair. A tall, masked man is standing between her legs smearing something white. Foam? Behind him, reflecting the light are shelves with white faces and vulvas. Pam is sobbing quietly.

I'm naked, hanging by my wrists. The room is a cellar of some kind. It has that damp, musky smell. I'm backed up against a staircase. I look down and see another girl. She's sitting on the floor, hands tied behind her back, around a support post. She is dressed in jeans and a pink sweater and she is gagged with a broad white strip of cloth over her mouth. She stares straight ahead, eyes unfocused. She looks familiar, but I don't recall her name.

The man's mask, as well as the faces on the shelves, looks like plaster. He glances up at me and I realize his mask is a woman.

My memory is garbled. I remember camping with the two other girls. They are strangers, yet familiar. New friends? I remember Pam and I were having sex in the tent, the other girl sat nearby, staring into space. I remember being outside. I felt an awful pain in my leg and thought I'd been stung by a hornet, but when I looked down there was a shiny, metal dart in my leg. It had a fuzzy red tip. I tried to run, but I couldn't. It was like a dream. My legs wouldn't cooperate. I don't remember blacking out, but I must have because I woke up here.

The man finishes lathering the girl's sex, then he slowly, methodically shaves it bare. He wipes it off with a towel and reaches for a bucket. He dips his hand into it. What it comes out with looks like foam, but when he smears it on the girl's sex it's thick and sticky. Kind of like marshmallow fluff, but thicker and stickier. It seems as much of the stuff clings to his hand as to the girl. But in due course her now-smooth mound is buried under another, a snowy peak of white.

The man moves up to the girl's head.

Again he dips his hand into the bucket.

Again he pulls out a fistful of white goop.

He smears it across the girl's forehead.

More of the white stuff down her cheeks, building up a thick layer. The hand goes in the bucket again and he presses it down on the girl's eyes.

I'm the girl!

I'm not just in her head - I am the girl!

I can see me, naked, hanging in the dark corner, but the other me is blind. I can feel plaster encasing my face, can feel his hands as he works handfuls of the stuff onto me.

He presses handful after handful on my cheeks, down under my neck, up over my chin, and across my mouth. I'm not frightened, but I feel the urge to scream. I can't. My lips are sealed... literally.

I, hanging in the corner, watch him pull out a huge glob of the white stuff and press it down onto my nose, blending it with the covering above and below and to the sides.

The me in the corner is mesmerized by the sight of my encased head and sex. The me on the table can feel the plaster, thick and heavy.

My ears are ringing. Everything is fading. Still strung up in the corner, still encased in plaster, I automatically reach out and whack the alarm.

The dream is fading, but the sensations are still vivid in my mind. The thick  layer of plaster heavy on my face, gripping my pussy. While I can't will myself back to sleep, holding onto the images takes me back. Not all the way back. I'm in a quasi lucid state. I know I'm dreaming and can even direct the action somewhat. It's the kind of thing where some nights I can reenter the same dream several times. But each subsequent visit is a bit different.

I'm wearing the mask. Pam, naked, is still on the table. There are no straps. Her face and sex are still covered in a thick layer of white. Yet, somehow, I know she's still alive. How can this be? Because it's my dream and that's the way I want it. I pick up the bucket and continue to cover her. Handful after handful, the bucket is bottomless, her features disappear. Her hands and arms, her breasts and belly, her thighs all the way down to her feet.

Again the ringing, but this time I'm instantly awake. Groggy, somewhat disoriented, but awake and seriously horny. I make a mental note to myself not to read Gromet's Plaza before bedtime.

30.04.13