I’m already sealed inside layers before I even register the shape around me. Multiple rubber catsuits cling to my body, one over another, each layer slightly different in thickness and tension. Together they create a dense, compressive weight that holds me firmly in place. Every movement is slowed, magnified by resistance, as if my body has been padded and restrained at the same time. The rubber smells faintly sharp and synthetic, a scent trapped between layers and warmed by my skin.

The g*s mask dominates my face. Its straps pull tight against the hoods beneath, locking everything together into a single unit. Each breath echoes inside it, loud and mechanical, reminding me constantly that the air I’m drawing in is controlled, filtered, mediated. The lenses narrow my vision, curving the world and cutting away my peripheral awareness. I can see forward, but everything else feels implied rather than present.

I’m sitting inside an inflatable alien egg, its interior slick and organic despite being artificial. The shape curves inward around me, cradling my body in a way that feels intentional, almost anatomical. The walls press gently but persistently against the rubber layers, dimpling slightly where my weight meets them. The egg’s surface is ribbed and segmented, echoing the iconic forms from the Alien films, as though it could peel open at any moment if it chose to.

The sensation is one of containment more than confinement. I’m not pinned or crushed, but there’s no room to stretch out either. The egg defines my posture, holding me upright and centered. My knees are drawn in, my back supported by the rounded interior, my shoulders brushed by the curved sides. The inflatable material shifts subtly with each breath I take, responding to me while also reminding me that I’m enclosed.

Sound behaves strangely inside the egg. My breathing through the g*s mask is the loudest thing, steady and unavoidable. Beyond that, everything is muted and distant, as though I’m submerged. The rubber layers dampen vibration, and the egg absorbs what l*ttle remains. The outside world feels hypothetical, something that exists beyond several barriers I can’t see through.

Heat builds slowly. The rubber catsuits trap it efficiently, and the egg keeps it from escaping. It’s not overwhelming, but it’s constant, wrapping around me the same way the pressure does. Sweat has nowhere to go; it simply becomes part of the internal environment, another reminder that this is a closed system.

Sitting there, I become acutely aware of stillness. Any small movement—shifting my weight, flexing my hands, adjusting my head—registers immediately through every layer. The egg creaks softly, the rubber stretches, the g*s mask responds with a change in breath rhythm. There’s no such thing as an unnoticed action here.

The resemblance to the Alien eggs isn’t just visual. There’s a sense of being stored, held in reserve, as if the egg has a purpose beyond comfort or restraint. I’m not sure whether it’s meant to protect what’s inside or simply keep it contained. Either way, sitting there wrapped in rubber, breathing through glass and filters, I feel suspended—sealed off, waiting, defined entirely by the smooth, enclosing shape around me.

G*s Mask Catsuits Rubber Fetish Layers of Tight Rubber, a Gasmask and an Inflatable Alien Egg. with C4s.com