Into the Hood

The hood lay in a coiled heap on the table, its thick rubber folded in on itself, the mask staring upward like the rigid face of some captive creature. Unlike ordinary masks, this one offered no straps, no detachable parts. The goggles and valves were fused into the hood itself, molded as one piece. A prison, seamless and absolute. The only entry point was the long zipper that ran up the back. Once it closed, I would be sealed inside, the mask welded to me by pressure and sweat.

Even before touching it, I could smell it: that heavy, acrid perfume of rubber, thick enough to cling to the air. The rebreather bag lay slack and silent, a deflated organ waiting to fill with my breath. The gag inside, blunt and swollen, jutted outward from the interior of the mask. It was less an accessory than a demand.

I lifted the hood, and it unfolded with weight, rubber sighing against itself. The mask’s empty eyes seemed to fix on me. The gag hung ready, glossy and slick, daring me to resist. My lips parted almost instinctively, though not without hesitation. Even deflated, the gag was already too large.

I pressed the hood forward. The gag breached my lips, pushing my mouth wide. It slid in slow and relentless, stretching my jaw, pinning my tongue. My throat fought the intrusion, but there was nowhere for it to go. Already, I felt the helplessness it promised. The gag didn’t merely block; it occupied, it conquered.

Then came the pull of rubber as I drew the hood down over my head. It clung instantly, cloying and unyielding, dragging across my scalp and cheeks until my entire face was consumed. The mask locked into place over my eyes and nose, not with straps but with inevitability — the hood held it there, pressing it hard against me, skin to rubber, with no seam in between.

My fingers fumbled for the zipper. The teeth ran cold against the back of my neck, the last opening in this cocoon. When I tugged it upward, the sound was sharp, metallic, final. Inch by inch, the hood tightened, closing like a fist. With each pull, it grew hotter, closer, more airless. The moment the zipper reached the crown of my skull, I knew: escape no longer existed. The mask was part of me now.

The gag inflated suddenly, hissing through some hidden valve. My cheeks bulged outward. My jaw stretched until it ached. Panic flared as my tongue was flattened br*tally, as if the mask itself had decided my mouth should never again be free. I tried to swallow, but there was nowhere to send the saliva pooling thick behind the plug. I was sealed, silenced, swallowed from within.

Then came the first drag of air. The rebreather bag twitched, collapsing inward as I inhaled. The air was thin, heavy, touched with the metallic tang of rubber and the ghost of my own exhalations. When I breathed out, the bag swelled again, pulsing in rhythm with me, a parasite made visible.

Sound narrowed until there were only two things: the rasp of valves and the muffled hammer of my heart. The outside world had vanished behind rubber and glass. I was reduced to the cycle: inhale, exhale, collapse, swell. Each breath became an act of submission to the bag, to the system, to the hood itself.

The hood gripped tighter as heat built inside. Sweat slicked the seal against my skin, but the rubber did not relent. The zipper dug into my neck like a chain. The mask’s lenses fogged faintly with each exhale, clouding my vision until the world existed only as vague shadows in a narrow field.

My jaw trembled. The gag’s pressure was unrelenting. Each attempt to move my tongue, to flex my throat, only reminded me of its permanence. Drool seeped helplessly around it, pooling at the corners of my mouth, trapped by the rubber. I could only swallow in shallow, futile gulps.

Breath grew louder, more labored. The bag swelled with each exhale, collapsed with each inhale, louder and heavier, as if mocking me with proof of dependence. I no longer breathed of my own accord. The bag dictated when and how.

Panic swelled again, sharp and insistent, but the hood had already taught me panic’s futility. There was no seam to claw at, no strap to loosen. The zipper was beyond reach. The gag could not be spat out. I was locked in a circuit of my own air, doomed to recycle it until the hood allowed otherwise.

Slowly, panic gave way to surrender. My body realized what my mind fought: resistance was meaningless. The hood owned me now. The mask was not something I wore. It was something I was.

My breath slowed, not out of choice but because choice had evaporated. I watched the bag contract and expand, contract and expand, rhythmic and absolute. The hood had stripped away freedom, words, even identity. There was no Tom, no thought, no voice. There was only rubber, gag, bag, breath.

Time blurred into rhythm. Sweat ran down my temples, trapped. My jaw throbbed from the gag’s swollen bulk. My lungs dragged stubbornly against the resistance of the valves. Yet I kept breathing, because breathing was all that was left.

And in that narrowing, that stripping away of every option, came a strange clarity. No more decisions. No more escape. Just the hood, sealed and eternal. The mask’s silence was complete.

The gag pulsed faintly with my heartbeat, a cruel reminder that even my body had been colonized. The bag twitched with every exhale, visible proof that the hood now dictated my life.

There was only the hood. Only the gag. Only the bag.

And in surrender to them, I disappeared.

Bear Gasmaske Gummi B*ndage J*rking Off While Gagged under a G*s Mask mit C4s.com

Bear Gasmaske Gummi Bndage Jrking Off While Gagged under a G*s Mask mit C4s.com