Big Red #7 Living Latex

The boutique pulsed with subtle bass, more nightclub than clothing store. Neon accents lit the walls where mannequins posed in glossy, body-melting designs: rubber, vinyl, latex, all stitched tighter than skin.

Marla--Big Red--stood at the center, a black dress painted onto her curves. Her tits strained against the fabric, nipples fully outlined, her ass clinging to the hem with desperation. Her thighs rubbed together with every shift, soaked from anticipation and friction.

A saleswoman appeared from behind a curtain--tall, porcelain-skinned, obsidian eyes. She carried something folded impossibly small: a matte black latex bodysuit that shimmered like oil.

"This is our prototype," she said, her voice so low it barely registered in Marla's ears. "It learns what you want. And gives it to you. Whether you're ready or not."

Marla's eyes burned with curiosity. Her fingers brushed the latex. Warm. Alive?

She didn't hesitate.

Inside the fitting room, she stripped down. Her tits flopped free, nipples already hard. Her pussy glistened beneath her thong, which she tossed aside. Then, she stepped in.

The latex drank her in.

As it sealed shut up her back, she felt it lock--not zip. Her limbs twitched as the suit clung tighter, vacuum-sealing every roll, curve, and fold until she looked like a living sculpture of sin.

Then the hum started.

Low. Deep. It wasn't mechanical. It was biological.

"Okay, no," she whispered, tugging at the collar. "This isn't--"

The latex surged. Wrist cuffs snapped tight. Ankles pulled wide. Her arms were dragged upward, legs forced apart. She was held--suspended, mid-air, naked inside the suit, but completely exposed. And then...

The first tendril slipped between her lips. Not her mouth--her other lips.

It was warm.

It throbbed.

Her clit was enveloped in something smooth, firm, and buzzing with the intelligence of a predator. The tendril wrapped around it, pulsating like a heartbeat.

Marla gasped. "No fucking way--"

"Yes," the suit hissed back. The voice vibrated through her spine. "You're mine now."

Dozens of smaller threads spread across her body, flicking her nipples, coiling around them like ropes. Others teased her asshole, tracing wet, slow circles. Her cunt was being explored by something that didn't ask.

It took.

A bulge formed at her entrance. It wasn't a toy. It was evolution. A perfect shape, designed to split her open.

It slid in.

She screamed--head thrown back, tits jiggling with every thrust. The suit didn't pump. It throbbed inside her, the cock changing size, thickness, curve--all in real time, based on her moans.

"You love it," the suit said, now wrapping tendrils around her throat and jaw. "Scream for me."

Marla came. Hard.

But the suit didn't stop. It grew another cock. This one slithered into her mouth, wide and pulsing, leaking something sweet that made her eyes roll back. The suit fed her. Used her.

She was vibrating in midair, bouncing on a custom-built cock, being throatfucked by sentient fashion. Every hole used. Every nerve overloaded.

The climax that hit her next wasn't one.

It was six.

One after another.

Wet. Gushing. Drenched.

Until--

The suit came.

Warm, thick fluid pumped into her from every direction. Her pussy flooded. Her stomach bloated. Her mouth filled. Her nose dripped.

And still, the suit pulsed.

Still, it throbbed.

Still, it whispered.

"Round two..."

•••

Marla came to on the cold tile of the fitting room.

Her thighs were trembling. Her tits slick with sweat. The latex had peeled away on its own, pooled around her like a lover who'd finished with her and left her leaking, twitching, and ruined.

She tried to stand, but her legs weren't convinced.

The boutique was silent. No saleswoman. No hum of electricity. No light.

Just the suit.

Still twitching.

Still breathing.

She should have run. Screamed. Reported it to someone.

But her hand reached down, touched her lips. Soaked.

She stepped forward.

The suit lifted itself.

Hovered.

Opened.

It wanted her.

Again.

And she was already stepping inside.

This time, it didn't wait. No easing in. No soft submission.

It slammed into her. Limbs pinned. Jaw forced open. Throat widened. Ass spread and plugged with something that felt alive. Her pussy stretched to the brink as the suit's new cock twisted like a drill made of flesh.

It wasn't fucking her.

It was unmaking her.

Tendrils whipped across her tits, her nipples pulled and twisted, pulsing with heat. Her clit was sucked into a vibrating chamber of smooth latex that thrummed like a jet engine.

Her voice was gone. Just breath. Just primal sound.

She was gagged with pleasure, eyes wide, pupils blown. The suit wrapped around her brain, pumping her with filthy affirmations in whispers only she could hear.

"Breedmeat."

"Cumtrash."

"Perfect fuckhole."

Her body stopped resisting.

She spread wider.

Offered everything.

The latex drilled her from behind while feeding her from the front, tits bouncing in rhythm, every nerve ending on fire.

And then, it grew bigger.

The cock inside her inflated, pulsing, pushing further, and further.

She screamed.

Came so violently she pissed. Squirted. Spasmed.

The suit pumped her full.

Warm.

Endless.

It leaked from every hole.

She drooled it.

Sweated it.

Bled it.

It was in her now. Through her.

And as she collapsed again--limp, twitching, bliss-struck--she heard it.

One last whisper:

"You passed the test."

The suit melted off her skin.

Folded itself.

Turned into a box.

A tag dangled from the zipper.

Complimentary. For our new model.

•••

Marla walked out barefoot, black dress, legs soaked, box in hand.

And the boutique?

Gone.

Replaced by an empty storefront window and a faded "For Lease" sign.

THE END.