Elsa’s Bitchsuit Halloween Costume

The gag is latex too, a sphere the size of a billiard ball lodged behind her teeth and buckled at the nape of her neck under the hood. Her jaw is stretched and aching already. Spit runs from the corners of her mouth and collects on her chin and drops onto the sidewalk in a pattern she can see if she looks down, which she is trying not to do because looking down means seeing the suit and seeing the suit means knowing what she looks like right now, on a public street at sunset in October, dressed as a dog and locked into a posture that keeps her ass in the air and her tits pressed against the latex shell of the chest piece.

She pulls. She pulls hard. The straps are part of the suit or the suit is part of the straps, and she cannot find where one ends and the other begins. Her arms flex and the latex creaks and the straps dig into the soft skin of her inner arms but they do not give, not a millimeter. She tries to straighten her right leg and the binding between her calf and her thigh holds like it was welded, the latex groaning in protest while her thigh muscle shakes with the effort. She gets her knee an inch off the ground and then the geometry wins and she drops back down with a clatter that sends the tail swaying against her ass.

She screams again and it comes out as a thick, wet sound, something between a grunt and a moan, and she knows what it sounds like. She knows what it sounds like to anyone walking by, to anyone watching, to you. You’re watching, aren’t you. She can feel it in the way the sun is hitting her back and lighting up the latex and making every curve of her body visible through the material. Her tits are flattened under her weight, pushed out to the sides under the suit’s chest panel, and the latex is thin enough that the cold from the sidewalk has her nipples hard and obvious through it. She rocks forward and back, trying to find purchase, trying to get her knees under her better, and the motion does something else entirely. It makes her ass rise and fall, makes the tail swing, makes her look like she is doing exactly what the suit was designed to make her do.

She stops and breathes. Her ribs expand against the latex and it resists, and she breathes again, harder, and the sound that comes out around the gag is something she does not want to hear. It is too much like panting. The street is empty for now. Golden hour light stretches long across the pavement and turns everything amber and warm, and she is a dark shape in the middle of it, black latex catching gold at every edge. A couple of candy wrappers scatter past her in the breeze. Somewhere a car horn sounds. Halloween decorations hang from a lamppost ten feet away, paper ghosts and orange string lights, and she is on the ground beneath them like she is part of the display, like someone set her here on purpose, like this is the trick.

She tries to crawl forward. Her knees scrape on the concrete and her bound arms cannot reach forward to balance her, so she lurches and catches herself on her chin. The hood saves her from scraping her face but the impact rings through her skull and the ball gag shifts and she gags on it, throat convulsing. She has to hold still with her face on the ground and her ass in the air and wait for her stomach to settle. The position is unbearable, exactly what a bitch in a suit would be in. Her pussy is pressed against the latex between her legs, the material pulled taut across it, and she can feel every ridge of the sidewalk through the thin suit when she shifts her weight. The seam running under her catches against her pussy and she flinches and the sound she makes is not a scream. It is smaller than that. It is a whimper.

She gets back up with her knees under her, arms folded and useless behind her, head up. She is breathing through her nose in sharp, hard bursts and her chest is heaving and the latex over her tits stretches and contracts with each one. She looks down the street, then the other way. Both directions are open and empty and lit with that impossible gold light and she is in the middle of it all, stuck on all fours in a dog suit, gagged, bound, her body a display piece for anyone who rounds the corner.

She tries to say something to you through the gag. Her eyes find a point past the frame, past the image, past wherever you are sitting and looking. She tries to tell you this is not what she signed up for. The sound that comes out is a mess of vowels and spit and the ball sitting on her tongue. She tries again and her jaw aches. The latex over her ass creaks as she shifts her weight and the tail sways and she knows what she looks like, knows what you see. Her pussy aches from the pressure of the seam and the cold of the ground through the latex and the way her thighs are forced apart by the bind. She can feel every inch of it and she sees you seeing it.

Her arms pull again, both of them, every muscle in her upper body firing at once. Her shoulders bunch under the suit, her back arches, her tits pressing hard against the latex as her chest expands with the effort. The straps hold like they were made for her, like they were made to hold exactly this much fight and no more. She holds the pull for five seconds, then six, then seven, and then her body gives out and she sags, panting, her head dropping between her shoulders, spit swinging from her chin in a long strand. The latex between her legs pulls tight again and the pressure on her pussy is constant and grinding and she hates that she can feel it at all.

The sun is moving and the gold is deepening and the shadows are getting longer. She has maybe twenty minutes of this light left and then it will be dark and the streetlights will come on and the trick-or-treaters will be out and she will still be here, on her knees, in this suit, in this bind, making these sounds. She looks at you again and her eyes are sharp and furious above the gag. She is telling you that she is going to get out of this, that she does not care about the magic or the straps or the way the latex has fused to her skin like it was always there, that she is not a dog, that this is not what she is.

Her knee shifts. Her ass rises. The tail sways. She pants. She is going to be here for a while.