The white van with the clear logo of a local TV station stopped in front of the building. It slightly rocked side to side a few times before the large side sliding door opened, and two people in HAZMAT suits walked out, one holding a microphone, the other, a camera on the shoulder.
They walked their way along the concrete sidewalk, leading directly from the street to the building, which looked like a small assisted living home.
Even under their Hazmat suits, one could identify the one holding the microphone as being a woman, and the one with the camera, being a man.
As they reached the glass door, the woman stopped and extended a hand indicating to the cameraman to stop, which he did, and immediately turned on his camera. The woman turned toward it, mic on hand, bringing it to her face, but hitting the large Hazmat helmet.
“Ouch, damn! Err… This is Valerie, reporting for Channel-4 News, we…” she began to say, while going back and forth between looking at the camera and at the door, “we have tried to get in contact with a center where people are quarantined following the latest virus outbreak, but each time, for sanitary reasons, we were turned down. However, this center invited us in but… honestly, I’m not sure what we’re getting into.” she said, turning sideways, so the camera could take a good view at the large glass door.
Behind it, something, or someone, was waiting. It was a woman, tightly enclosed in a dark and very shiny suit, wearing a gasmask. She was gesturing to them to enter.
The door slid open as they approached, not feeling too secure.
“Hello, please come in, we were expecting you.” said a muffled voice from behind the gasmask.
The journalist and the cameraman entered, and were stunned. In the large lobby, about a dozen or so other people, all dressed similarly, in shiny suits of different colors, some with high heels shoes and boots, others with slippers, others with Doc Martens, or thick platform boots. All were totally enclosed, all had gas masks, and all seemed to have some sort of corsets.
The woman herself was clad in a full, shiny, black latex catsuit, a tight corset circling her waist, a full hood covering her head in addition to a gas mask.
She was standing on calf high, high heels, black leather boots with golden studs.
“Is this a joke?” asked the journalist.
“What? There’s no joke with virus protection.”
“Then… what… what is this all about?” she said, gesturing around.
“Isn’t it obvious? Our suits are latex. We are completely sealed, except of course, for breathing and feeding, although there are some that are on the next level. That way, we can still interact with each other, we can still get close to each other, and if one had to go into a public place, it is sure not to contaminate anybody, and upon his or her returns, he only has to be sprayed with an antiseptic and all is fine. The virus will not stick on latex.”
The journalist looked at the people, evidently enjoying their confinements. Some are watching TV, a woman in a red suit is playing poker with two men in black suits. Another in a white suit is playing a video game.
Even under her Hazmat suit, she could hear some talking, some laughing, and mostly, the creaking of latex and… clicking of the heels.
The cameraman doesn’t seem to know where to focus: there’s too much stuff happening at once.
“But…” said the journalist, “looks more like a freak show to me, I mean, those… what are those things?” she asked, pointing a woman easily walking on her toes.
“Ballet toe boots. Those ones don’t have a heel. Quite easy actually, once you get the hang of it, of course.”
“Yeah, right, so tell me. What those suits, corsets and… ballet boots have to do with protecting against the virus?”
“Easy. The suits are skin tight,” she said, showing it by trying to grab the suit off her arm, but it was so tight, she couldn’t “which means that there’s no space where the virus could stay. The rubber is everywhere. So if I touch a contaminated object, your suit for example,” she said, reaching and wiping her black latex fingers over the journalist’s Hazmat suit, “even if I wipe it on my face, there’s no risks to contaminating myself. The gasmask has HEPA air filters in addition to anti-bacterial membranes which would kill bacteria and virus on contact.”
“Okay, I can buy that.” said the journalist, “But what about corset? What use does this have?”
“Oh easy: shallow breaths”
“Really?” said the puzzled journalist. “And having shortness of breath helps?”
“We’re not engaging into any strong physical activities here, although some are, she said, looking at a woman in a purple latex suit, running on the treadmill, in thigh high leather ballet boots, “but Lynda is the exception, she’s a triathlon athlete and she wants to keep in shape. In fact the shorter breaths protects us, by taking less air at a time, we leave time for the protective membrane of the gasmask to work at killing the virus.”
“Wow… this is really… far fetched.” said the journalist, her voice trembling. “And how about the footwear?”
“The basic idea is to have a small footprint, which translates by less chance to spread the virus. Of course, not everybody is at ease in heels.”
“Contrary to… is that a she or a he?” she said, pointing at a tall person, walking easily on five inches heels.
“Oh, that’s a he. That’s Pete. He likes high heels, that’s all, and he figures that if it might control the spread of the virus, then so be it.”
“But…how do you eat? How do you go to the bathroom? I mean, how did you put those suits in the first place, there’s no opening, no zipper anywhere. Oh my gosh! You are aliens…”
The woman laughed.
“No, we’re not aliens. We are intubated. Some more than others.”
“Int… what do you mean?”
“We have tubes going up her urethra, and rectum. We press here,” she said, pointing at a place on her crotch “to pee, and for the bigger jobs, we pressure wash.”
“Pressure wash?” said the journalist, eyes wide.
“We perform an enema, miss Valerie.” answered the woman, giggling. “To eat, I have a tube I can reach with my mouth, which comes out here.” she said, showing a small hole on the side of her gasmak. “We insert a large syringe with a nutrient paste,or water, or anything we want. I had a raspberry smoothie a few minutes before you arrived.”
“And… you’re all like that?”
“No, like I said, some are more intubed than others. Lynda, or Suzy, here, who are fully intubated, for feeding and breathing. That also makes them unable to speak, which is sometimes a good thing.” said the woman, winking at Suzy, who answered by giving the finger, laughing, then turned around, her head held stiff by a wide rubber collar.
“And that tall collar? What is it all about?”
“With tubes running down your throat, a collar is just a nice support.” said the woman, to which Suzy answered with two thumbs up.
“Uh… Err… Okay…” said the journalist. “Can we… shoot around? And if I have more questions, I can reach for you?”
“Sure, have a ball.” said the woman.
The journalist walked back to her cameraman, and sticking her helmet against his, had a little private chat.
“Sounds like a bunch of weirdos to me.” said Phil.
“Yeah… I don’t know what I can make up for that story. There’s nothing really to make the evening news. Just a bunch of freaks in rubber.” she said.
“I dunno. Continue recording. We might get into something more interesting as time goes by.” said Valerie.
“You’re the boss.” answered the cameraman, putting his camera back on his shoulder.
Valerie walked around, amazed at the sight of people, clad in shiny latex suits, reflecting the sunlight through the windows. Some were even outside in the large backlot of the residence, enjoying the sun on lawn chairs.
Then she spotted something that attracted her attention, but it vanished too quickly for her to fully see. She approached the woman who let them in.
“Excuse-me, but I have a question.” her microphone down. She approached until her helmet was against the woman’s gasmask. “I think I saw someone tied up in that room over there, before the blinds were shut down. Care to talk about it?”
The woman paused for a moment.
“This is a private matter, and won’t be discussed in public. That room is a bedroom, and what happens in a bedroom is private. You understand me?”
The journalist nodded she understood. “Yes, it’s already off. So, what is it?”
“You fully realized that most of us here are fetishists. I mean, look at us. So, yes, there’s private activities that might involve bondage and other stuff, but everybody is agreee… eeing for it.” said the woman, discreetly reaching for her crotch.
“I think I heard… are you wearing… toys?”
The woman didn’t answer verbally, but winked.
The journalist turned around and walked to her cameraman. The woman suddenly looked embarrassed, if not shocked, even visible through the small eyeports of her gasmask.
She gestured for him to pack and head for the van, while she walked back to the woman.
“Well, I would like to thank you for this visit, and, just out of curiosity, any… place left? You know, in case someone else would want to join your group.”
“Actually, we don’t want it to be publicised, we’ll get flooded by freak calls, if you get what I mean.” said the woman.
“Yes… Of course… So? Do you?”
The woman nodded a small yes, to which the journalist smiled, then headed back out to her cameraman, waiting by the van, spraying some disinfectant on his Hazmat and waiting for the journalist.
As she reached him, she took the spray hose and sprayed his back carefully, before handing the nozzle back to him.
He began to spray then stopped and had a shocked expression, pointing at her suit, on her left hip, where a large tear could be seen.
She pointed to her suit, then, gesticulating, pointed at the building, all under the watchful eye of the woman who let them in in the first place.
The cameraman made it clear that he didn’t want her with him in the van. She apparently tried to argue and then walked back to the building while he was getting off with the van, tire screeching.
The door of the building opened as she walked to it, to her surprise, and the woman was still there, waiting for her.
“I… I seem to have tore open my suit. I… I don’t know how this happened and… why were you still waiting by the door?”
“I don’t read minds, but I read sings.I saw you tear your suit open while you were making your cameraman look away, and I saw your eyes when you mentioned the bondage, and the toys.”
“I… was it so obvious?”
“What color do you want your suit?” said the woman, inviting her toward the back.
“I… Well… Red. I think. By the way, what’s your name?”
“Oh, silly me of not presenting myself. I’m Karen.”
© Pete / monsterp63, March 21, 2020
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