Rubber Reboot 3

Chapter 3: Studio 4B 

Catch up on chapter 2 if you haven’t already…

At 3:17 a.m., the bus deposited him onto a curb slick with last night’s beer and piss. Barry stood under the streetlamp, envelope clutched to his chest, flip flops dangling from dumb toes. The building across the street was a six-story corpse, most of its windows blinded with plywood. He crossed when the crosswalk beeped, counting each chirp like a heartbeat. A hand-scrawled sign taped to the buzzer read: 4B—VACANT. 

Inside, the hallway stank of piss and lukewarm takeout. One fluorescent tube flickered overhead, strobing the peeling wallpaper. Barry’s key scraped the lock three times before the tumblers finally gave. The door to 4B opened into a cloud of mildew. The studio was no more than 200 square feet. A bare mattress lay on the floor, and a mini fridge hummed like an angry bee in the opposite corner. The single window overlooked an air shaft where a lone pigeon cooed. Barry stepped in, shut the door, and the walls closed around him again. Walls are good. Walls are boundaries. The thought was comforting. 

He set the envelope on the slab of plywood counter and removed the cash, counting it twice and stacking bills in neat towers of ten. The bills felt slippery against his fingers, and the movement was uncomfortably dexterous after years of wearing mitts. Mack had sent him away with $5,000. Was that enough? What was the going rate for a slave to fund a new life? 

It will suffice, Barry thought. Objects have very few needs. 

Speaking of needs, Barry was struck by an unexpected twinge in his cock. The former rubber slave needed a piss. The idea of relieving himself of his own accord, outside of any permission or maintenance schedule set by a Master, perplexed him. Where does it go? The studio apartment had no facilities beyond those that he could see. 

Barry stuffed the cash back into the envelope and hid it inside the microwave on the counter, then grabbed his trash bag of rubber gear and the key and crept out into the hallway. He found a communal bathroom at the end of the hall, the lock long broken off. He hesitated, then pushed inside. A single showerhead dripped rust. He turned the knob. Water sputtered, then blasted hot, filling the closet-sized space with steam. He shed his clothing, stepped under the spray, and as he scrubbed his body with bare hands and no soap, he relieved himself into the floor drain. 

His cock, half hard, flushed red under the superheated water. He wrapped a hand around it. The sensation was alien and overwhelming. His knees buckled. He dropped to the tile floor, water pooling around him, and curled fetal. The empty ring of his ass clenched on nothing, a hollow ache that gathered at the top of his tailbone. He sobbed without sound, forehead pressed to cracked grout. 

When the water turned icy, he stood, unbagged the rubber suit, rinsed it clean, and toweled it off with a rag that smelled of bleach. Back in 4B, he redonned the rubberlike armor, the familiar compression grounding him. Then he sat on the mattress, his back to the wall, and waited for morning. 

Barry woke to the pigeon’s coo and the hard line of the wall against his spine. It must see to its biological needs, the thought arrived. There was no Master Mack, no dog bowl, no feeding schedule. He stood, rubber creaking, and opened the mini-fridge to find only a half-empty bottle of hot sauce and a fossilized lemon, so he counted out some bills from the cash stack, folded them into the rubber’s wrist seam, donned the sweatpants and T-shirt, and stepped into the hallway where the smell of someone’s bacon drifted like a command he finally understood how to obey. It needs to be fed. Only people have “meals.” 

The upscale part of downtown was only ten blocks from his building, but standing amidst well-dressed joggers and mimosa-drinking soccer moms, Barry felt like he’d landed on a different planet. Nestled between a yoga studio and a boutique real estate agency was a bookstore: Rainbow Pages. As Barry crossed the street, a delivery truck driver leaned out of his window and flipped Barry a middle finger. 

“Hurry up, asshole!” 

Barry instinctively dropped to his knees, palms flat, waiting for a punishment strike that never came. The truck rolled on. A panhandler shuffled over. “Spare a dollar, man?” Barry pulled a twenty from his sleeve and handed it over without meeting the beggar’s eyes. A group of teenagers across the street filmed on a phone, laughing. Barry didn’t notice. 

The bookstore’s sign was hand painted, its front door framed by frayed and fading pride flags. A bell jingled when he pushed inside, and he was instantly comforted by warm air, dust, old paper, and jazz on vinyl. Shelves sagged under hardbacks and paperbacks, rainbow spines mixed with sci-fi and romance. A man behind the counter—late sixties with a maroon cardigan and a salt-and-pepper beard—looked up from a ledger. 

“Morning. Looking for anything specific?” 

Barry’s finger traced a row of spines. “It browses, Sir.” 

The man adjusted his crooked name tag and smiled gently. “Folks call me Clyde. And you are…?” 

The question hung. Barry opened his mouth, closed it. The name Barry felt like swallowing glass. Clyde’s eyes flicked to the rubber peeking out from underneath the T-shirt, then back to Barry’s face. He crossed over to one of the stacks, pulled a worn copy of Giovanni’s Room, and presented it to Barry. 

“On the house. First timers get a classic.” 

Barry took the book with both hands, cradling it like contraband. Clyde stepped away to ring up a real customer. Barry drifted to the back stacks, opened the book, and stared at the words without reading. The jazz needle skipped and restarted. 

“Thank you, Sir,” Barry said, voice barely above a whisper. 

Clyde closed the register drawer and approached with a smile. “Don’t mention it. You new in town?” 

“It…” Barry struggled to form thoughts, let alone words. “It was away.” 

Clyde rested a paw-like hand on Barry’s shoulder. Barry flinched, then leaned into it. “Tell you what?” Clyde started. “How about you come back tomorrow. Just so I know you’re staying out of trouble.” 

Barry’s eyes cast downward. Commands phrased as suggestions are commands nonetheless. “It will comply, Sir.” 

Back in 4B, Barry sat on the mattress, book beside the leftover bills from his sleeve. His rubber suit had dried stiff, and the sweat from his walk bonded the material to his skin. He ran a palm over his crotch and felt the cock beneath soften, then stir. His first voluntary stroke was slow, experimental. Guilt flashed, and then a spark ignited low in his belly. He stopped, zipped the crotch closed, and placed the book on top of the cash like a paperweight. That night, he slept upright against the wall again, knees drawn, rubber gleaming under a bare bulb. Outside, the city kept its own rules.