Satin Shrouded Encasement

by Tonya Satin (Rugeley, Staffordshire, England)

My fingers tremble, just a faint quiver, as I reach for the foil packet on the nightstand. It’s almost weightless, a promise in silver. I tear it open with deliberate care (the small rip loud in the stillness), and the condom unfurls like liquid mercury. Cool and impossibly thin, it glides down over my already aching cock, sheathing me in a trembling second skin. Safe. Secure. A fragile barrier between me and the avalanche of satin to come. A bead of pre-cum kisses the latex tip; I smile. Patience, little sissy. You’ll have your reward.

The first layer is a whisper-pink satin chemise, so fine it feels wet. I let it slither over my head, down my chest, until the hem brushes mid-thigh. Instantly it warms, clings, releases, and clings again with every breath. My palms chase the fabric, front and back, greedy for the slick heat blooming beneath my touch.

Next, the ivory nightgown (double-layered, heavy, devotional). I step into it and draw it upward like a bride reversed. The inner lining kisses the chemise, and they sigh together: shhh, shhh, my private lullaby. It falls to my ankles in a perfect liquid column. When I move, both layers ripple, cool against cool, warmer where my body heat pools.

I’m already trembling.

The robe is deep rose, quilted satin outside, and champagne gloss within. Arms slide into sleeves, and the lining floods over my skin like chilled cream poured slow. I cinch the sash, and the world contracts: four surfaces of satin now stroking one another with every heartbeat (chemise on nightgown, nightgown on robe lining, lining on skin). I walk barefoot across the room, and the fabrics answer in overlapping waves: the chemise clings, the nightgown glides, and the robe slithers and sweeps. A private orchestra of frictionless lust.

In the mirror I’m only blush and ivory shimmer, face flushed above an ocean of gloss. I lift my arms; sleeves fall back like slow-motion waterfalls. When they drop, the collapse is a soft, wet thud against my body that I feel in my teeth.

I sink onto the midnight-blue satin duvet and let the robe bloom beneath me. On my back, layers flatten and spread, cool against my shoulder blades, my thighs, and the arches of my feet. I arch (just slightly) and the slide is obscene: satin on satin on satin, endless, merciless.

Knees drawn up, fabric pools thick and warm between my thighs like molten candy. My palms smooth down the front (quilted diamonds, slick columns, clinging chemise, skin), and every layer moves with me, against me, inside me.

Time dissolves.

Now the headscarves (my favorite sacrament).

First, ballet-slipper pink, three yards of pure satin. Folded wide, draped, pulled beneath my chin, crossed, and knotted tight. It cups my jaw and seals my throat. A second knot sits just under my lower lip like a soft gag. The world muffles instantly.

Second scarf, ivory and heavier. Over the first, tied again. Four thicknesses now cradle my skull, press my cheeks, and frame my face in a gleaming oval.

Third, a deep rose bandeau wound low, looped twice, and knotted at my nape. My chin is forced gently down; swallowing makes every layer glide against my throat in one slow, liquid swallow of its own.

Then the veils.

Blush-pink chiffon, so sheer it’s barely there, yet it turns every texture beneath into a caress. Ivory voile next, pinned high, floating like breath. Last, pale mint over my face alone, tucked beneath the lowest knot. The room becomes watercolor. Breathing through it is filthy intimacy: the fabric flutters against my lips, tasting faintly of dye and my own heat.

A final white satin ribbon, narrow and merciless. Three coils around my neck over every knot, until only a thick, glossy band remains, pulsing with my heartbeat.

I am sealed.

From crown to toe, only satin and chiffon speak. When I turn my head, the scarves whisper, and the veils drift like perfume. Pressure under my chin is constant, loving, and absolute.

I stand before the mirror one last time. The creature looking back is untouchable (face a soft bulge of rose and ivory knots, body lost beneath shimmering acres). A slow throb rolls through the condom. Beautiful. Perfect. Mine.

Back to the bed. The duvet sighs as it takes my weight. I curl on my side first, knees high, layers folding around me like petals closing. Then onto my back.

One sleeved hand slips beneath the pooled folds at my thighs (satin, satin, satin, then the cool, taut drum of latex). The contrast is blinding. I stroke once, slowly. My breath flutters the veil against my lips.

Knees higher. The other hand presses the stacked knots beneath my chin (gentle ownership). I begin: lazy circles that turn greedy. The condom translates every ridge of fabric into bright, liquid fire. Veils drift across my chest with each ragged inhale. Heat blooms, trapped, multiplied, sacred.

Faster. Hips rock. The robe lining slithers against the duvet in one long, wet slide. Scarves tighten as my head sinks deeper into the pillow; the ribbon collar throbs.

Release crashes silent and total. I bite down on nothing but chiffon, a muffled whimper swallowed by layers. Pleasure pours into the latex sheath in thick, obedient pulses, trapped and perfect, echoing through every fold until my whole body is one long satin tremor.

After, I lie glowing. The condom keeps me immaculate (another reverent layer). My chest rises and falls beneath quilted satin and drifting voile; tiny aftershocks ripple like quiet tides.

I stay curled, small, cherished.

First ritual: I do not unwrap. Not yet.

Second: the smoothing. One hand emerges to stroke every reachable surface (robe lapel, pooled thighs, ribbon collar), pressing just enough to feel the layers spring back, whispering thank you.

Third: the condom. When my pulse is steady, I ease it off with the same devotion I used putting it on. Warm, heavy, slick. Tied neatly, placed on the silver tray (an offering).

Fourth: the warming. I draw the midnight-blue duvet over me completely. One last heavy layer. Heat gathers, slow and womb-like. Sweat beads between satin skins, and everything turns languid, slippery, and intimate.

Fifth: the voice. Barely sound, only vibration through knots and ribbon.

“Thank you… Good girl… stay…”

Sixth: surrender.

I drift (minutes, hours) inside the perfect shell. Breathing. Orgasm is still glowing faintly under all that gloss, breathing through chiffon, cradled by satin, and polished by my own careful hands.

Eventually I will unpeel myself, veil by veil, scarf by scarf, like dawn undressing a rose. But not yet.

For now I am still encased, still shimmering, still whole.

I take care of myself.

And I always will.