Slow Morning in Latex

A lazy Sunday takes a turn when a latex pet is reminded who it belongs to. The quiet ones always break beautifully.

Good morning, pet. You look so still and glossy in the light.
I blink slowly, vision hazy through the latex, and shift my knees a little on the sheets.
I have been waiting for you to tell me what to do. Even the air feels too soft without your voice.
Stay right there on your knees. Don't move until I say. I want to see how long you can hold it.
A small whimper escapes me and my fingers curl tight against my thighs.
Yes. I can hold it. I will be good. I will be so good for you.
Such a good doll. If you tremble, I'll stop. If you breathe too fast, I'll start. Understand?
My chest rises sharply and I force it down again, eyes fixed on nothing.
Understood. Please keep watching me. I can't tell if I'm holding still or falling apart.
You're already falling apart. That's why I like you like this. Ask me for what you want. Use your words.
I lick my lips, the latex pulling at my jaw, and my voice comes out thin.
I want to be used. Slowly, please. Until I can't remember my own name.
Then don't. From now on, when you forget, you come back to me. Now turn over. I'm not finished with you.

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