Aether Management

Being at Home

The silence settled over the apartment like a heavy, dense mass. Alma stood before the life-sized mirror in the corner of the bedroom, listening to the drumbeat of her heart in her chest. The blinds were half drawn, and the weak autumn light filtering in from outside glinted dully on the orange latex covering her body.

She hadn't wanted to get up today. For months, every morning had been another slap in the face from reality, another reminder that the world she had left behind perhaps never suited her, and the new one she sought might not even exist. But now, as she locked eyes with her reflection, the anxiety gripping her stomach was replaced by something else. Some dark, hot, and throbbing power.

The orange, frilly, mid-thigh length mini dress clung to her skin as if it had been poured directly onto her. This was no simple dress to her; a second, more perfect skin, an invulnerable armor. She loved the process of struggling into it. The sweet scent of baby powder, the stubborn resistance of the rubber as she had to pull it up inch by inch, the dull sucking sounds when the material finally smoothed into place, locking out all the air. Now that it was on, she felt her own body heat reflecting off the material, creating a peculiar, sultry microclimate beneath the latex. A pleasant, tingling drop of sweat started down her spine, which the material immediately trapped.

She slowly ran her hand down her hip. The orange surface, contrasting with the black trim, was cool, smooth, and untouched, like liquid glass. The rubber let out a soft, squeaking sound in the wake of her movement, and this sound penetrated Alma's ears like music. In the mirror, she saw a confident, dominant, radiant woman. Her eyes were framed by heavy, smoky makeup, and blood-red lipstick provoked the gaze on her lips. Here, between the four walls of her room, in this tight, suffocating, yet infinitely liberating embrace, she was the mistress. She was in control.

"Who are you?" she whispered to her own reflection, but her voice did not tremble. The latex gave her the posture that the sterile, neon-lit offices of the IT sector had systematically killed in her. She remembered the endless, soul-crushing meetings, the empty codes, the male chauvinist remarks she silently endured while deep inside she could have screamed. She left them. She left the secure livelihood, because she felt that if she had to spend one more day in that gray, corduroy-jacketed, coffee-smelling hell, her soul would break into pieces.

She let out a deep sigh, which made the orange rubber pull tight across her breasts. The waistline ruthlessly compressed her ribs, but she loved this pressure. It reminded her that she was alive. She turned in front of the mirror, enjoying the way the ruffle quivered on her shoulder. The sight filled her with perverse joy. Yes, she looked fucking great. Anyone who saw her like this would fall to their knees before her.

Suddenly, a sharp, dissonant sound tore through the silence of the room.

*Beep.*

Alma flinched. It was her laptop on the desk in the living room. A notification. Probably the automated job search portal sending another daily newsletter full of "unmissable" offers: Senior Java Developer, Database Administrator, Systems Engineer. Words that made her stomach cramp.

Normally, she would have cursed and crawled back into bed at this point, but now the adrenaline provided by the latex was still pulsating in her blood. She didn't want to get undressed. She didn't want to return to the role of the vulnerable, unemployed Alma, anxiously fretting about her future in sweatpants. She adjusted the collar of the bolero, raised her chin high, and, accompanied by the loud, rhythmic squeaking of the rubber, walked out into the living room.

She sat down on the office chair. The material sucked loudly against the faux leather. The contrast was surreal: the lights of the cold, technocratic machine illuminated her fiercely shiny, makeup-clad face encased in orange latex. Her fingers, with nail polish perfectly matching the black trim of her dress, touched the touchpad.

It was indeed the Profession newsletter. Alma scrolled down apathetically. Gray, gray, gray. Corporate templates, "competitive salary," "youthful team," "fruit day." They made her sick. Lies, all of them. They were looking for cogs that never squeaked. She was just about to click the X to close the whole damn thing when, at the very end of the list, almost hidden beneath the sponsored IT ads, her eyes caught a short, unformatted text.

"Seeking a secretary for a small, discreet office."

Alma snorted. Secretary? Her, the senior developer? To brew coffee and make photocopies for some aging boss? She wanted to scroll past, but her gaze lingered on the last two lines of the ad.

"The pay isn't much, the work is monotonous. However, we have no dress codes, no corporate training, and no expectations regarding your personality. Only one thing matters: get the job done. Other than that, ANYONE can be themselves here. If you're an alien, we don't care about that either, as long as the paperwork is in order."

Alma's hand stopped in mid-air. Her heart skipped a beat, then began to pound violently and painfully beneath her ribs, straining against the tight latex casing. [cite: 43] "Anyone can be themselves." The words burned into her brain like hot iron. She slowly glanced down at herself. The orange surface glistened in the blue light of the monitor. She felt the squelch of the material between her thighs as she shifted in the chair. She felt the sweat between her breasts, the unmistakable, intoxicating scent of the rubber.

Herself. What if... what if she really could be herself? Her imagination broke loose like a burst dam. She pictured herself walking into an office. Not in stretched-out, lying jeans with an obligatory smile. But like this. In clicking stilettos, in tight, squelching latex. She imagined her boss placing a folder in front of her, and her taking it with a rubber-gloved hand, the material sighing with every movement. She imagined not having to live a double life anymore. That her secret passion, branded as perverse, this wonderful material could become a part of her everyday life, without anyone judging her.

The thought made heat flood her face, and her legs unconsciously squeezed tighter together. The sound of the rubber rubbing together now seemed much more erotic, much more real. "I'm crazy," she whispered in the dark room, but there was no trace of fear in her voice. Only some wild, trembling excitement. She clicked the "Apply" button.

A blank email window popped up. They didn't ask for a resume, just an introductory letter. Alma raised her hands above the keyboard. Her fingers were shaking. Not from the cold. From raw, visceral adrenaline. [cite: 59] Her breathing sped up, the corset almost cutting into her skin from her rapid breaths. [cite: 60] Never in her life had she felt so vulnerable, and yet so powerful. [cite: 61] Slowly, considering every single keystroke, she began to type. The clacking of the keys mingled with the soft, stretching rustles of the latex.

"Dear Prospective Employer,

I am writing because of the last lines of your advertisement. I worked in the IT sector for many years, in rather high positions. I was impeccable professionally, but my soul slowly died in the sterile, lying world of corporate culture, in having to wear a mask every single day that slowly rotted onto my face.

I quit. I am looking for a place where precision, speed, and intellect matter, but where I don't have to apologize for who I am. I am perfectly familiar with office software, administration, and deadlines. I am capable of running an office independently, without errors.

But in return, I ask for the freedom your ad promises. To be myself. For me, self-expression and my existence have certain... unconventional layers that traditional society despises, but I draw my strength and confidence from them. I don't care about a high salary. I only care about a desk, and not having to leave my true self at home in the mornings.

If you truly meant that even an alien could come as long as the paperwork is in order, then I look forward to your reply.

Sincerely,

Alma"

She read through the text. Her heart was beating in her throat. Too much? Too obvious? Maybe they'll immediately think she's some psychopath. But then she looked down at the orange, frilly marvel that hugged her body like the dearest lover. No. This was the truth. If they don't accept it, then it's not meant for them anyway.

She hovered the mouse over the Send button. Her hand was shaking so much now that she could barely hold the cursor steady. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, feeling the latex stretch to the maximum across her lungs. Click. The email was sent.

Alma leaned back in the chair. The rubber gave a loud squeak. A single tear rolled down her cheek, plowing through her perfect makeup. She didn't know if it was a tear of fear or of relief. She just sat in the blue glow of the monitor, in her orange latex armor, waiting for her life to change.

The Agony of Waiting

The first twenty-four hours were one long, throbbing nervous cramp. Alma spent the next day almost in a trance. She didn't put her phone down for a single moment; she even took it with her to the bathroom, with the volume turned up to the maximum. Every single time the device signaled the arrival of a new e-mail with a sharp beep, Alma's body produced an immediate, drastic response. Her pulse skyrocketed in a fraction of a split second, as if an invisible hand had suddenly grabbed her heart. Her stomach contracted into a painful, icy knot, and her esophagus narrowed, making breathing difficult. At times like this, her palms would instantly become clammy, and with trembling fingers and held breath, she would open the locked screen.

A promotional newsletter from the supermarket. A notification about an unpaid bill. Another automatic rejection for an IT position she applied for weeks ago.

As the days passed, the adrenaline rushes were followed by deeper, more exhausting crashes. By the third day, Alma physically felt the withdrawal symptoms. The cotton sweatpants and stretched-out, gray sweater she wore hung on her like coarse, lifeless rags. It was as if her skin had rebelled against everyday textiles; she itched, and desperately craved that tight, all-encompassing pressure, the cool touch, and that tingling, sultry microclimate that only latex could give her. But she didn't put the orange set back on. She felt that until she received an answer, she had no right to it. That dress belonged to hope, and now hope was slowly seeping out of her.

On the fifth day, when she went down to the corner store for milk, she moved like an automaton. The weight on her chest had become a leaden burden. Her joints ached from the lethargy, and the dark circles under her eyes told of sleepless nights spent staring at the ceiling, agonizing over whether she had gone too far. "They think you're a crazy pervert," she whispered to herself in front of the mirror while brushing her teeth on the evening of the sixth day. Her throat was dry, a lump growing in it. "They were looking for an alien, not a psychopath. It was too much. The letter too, the whole thing. I have to return to reality."

On the seventh day, she gave up. It was a rainy, gray Tuesday morning. Alma clutched a mug of lukewarm coffee in her freezing hands and apathetically opened the programmer job portals in her browser. The cramp in her stomach had been replaced by that dull, empty ache one feels when finally letting go of a dream. Her muscles were flabby, her shoulders slumped forward. She would be a cog again. There was no other way.

Her phone lay on the kitchen counter, on silent, with only the vibrate function turned on. Bzzzt. Alma didn't even look up from the monitor. Her service provider probably sent an SMS. She took a slow, heavy sip of her coffee. Bzzzt. Bzzzt. A minute later, she walked over anyway, purely out of habit. She touched the screen. A new e-mail. The sender's address was unfamiliar: office@aether-management.com. And the subject line simply read: Response to your application.

The phone almost slipped from Alma's hand. Her heart, which had barely beaten over the past few days, now sprang to life with one massive thud, almost bursting through her ribs. The air got stuck in her lungs.

"Dear Alma,

We apologize for the delayed response. Our systems are currently undergoing a revamp, and unfortunately, your introductory letter ended up in our spam folder. We only noticed it today while checking the filters.

Your letter piqued our interest. The honesty and precision hidden behind your words are exactly what we are looking for. As we wrote in the advertisement: the paperwork and tasks are what matter, and your personality and self-expression are your private affair, which we fully respect here.

We would like to invite you for a personal interview tomorrow morning at 10:00 AM. The address is... "

Alma couldn't finish reading. Her knees suddenly buckled, and she was forced to grip the edge of the kitchen counter. Her fingers went white from the grip as her body plunged into an ecstasy she had never experienced. The blood was literally roaring in her ears, a hot, electrical tingle started at the nape of her neck, sweeping down her spine, all the way to her trembling thighs. Her skin flushed, her chest rising and falling violently as she gasped for air. Tears sprang to her eyes, but these were now tears of incredible, liberating joy. They didn't think she was crazy. They didn't throw her out. They accepted her. A place where she could truly be herself!

She jumped up and spun around in the middle of the living room, clutching the phone to herself. The adrenaline pulsating through her body washed away all the exhaustion of the past week. She laughed, a loud, clear, tension-relieving laugh that practically echoed in the quiet apartment. Her muscles tensed, ready for action. She was alive again.

Then she suddenly stopped. The laughter died on her lips as her gaze drifted toward the bedroom, in the direction of the huge wardrobe. Her body was still trembling from excitement, but a new, completely different kind of tingling knot appeared in her stomach. An interview tomorrow. At a place where "anyone can be themselves". Alma slowly, almost in a trance, started toward the closet. As she opened the door, the carefully foil-wrapped latex clothes caught the glint of light in the dark. Her breathing quickened again. Oh my God. What is she going to wear?

The Dawn Adrenaline

The bedroom floor was covered in colorful, shiny mountains of rubber. Alma was already trying on her fourth latex set. First, she pulled the black, high-necked dress over herself, then a red pencil skirt with a corset, but as she looked in the mirror, the initial ecstasy was slowly but surely replaced by biting panic. In a fetish club, she would have been a goddess. But this was a workplace. Her throat went dry, and staring at her reflection, she suddenly felt small and ridiculous. What if she had misinterpreted the ad? What if "anyone can be themselves" didn't mean this, and the moment she walked through the door in this squelching, provocative rubber, they would immediately laugh at her and send her home? A hot wave of shame flooded her face. As much as she desired it, she simply didn't dare risk it. She wanted this job too much to sabotage her own chances right on the first day.

With trembling hands, she practically tore the latex off herself and rummaged deep into the closet. She had to find something else. Something that gave her the tightness, the posture, the feeling of being special, but didn't scream straight-up perversion. Her hand stopped on a cold, smooth material. It was a snow-white, fine silk blouse with an elegant tie at the neck. Next to it on the hanger hung a black patent leather pencil skirt that she had bought on impulse years ago, but never had the courage to wear to the old office. The patent surface shined almost like latex, it was tight and stiff. To this, she chose a 15-denier, silk-sheen nude pantyhose and black, patent mini-platform high heels, which were just aggressive and feminine enough to provide the necessary confidence.

She carefully ironed the blouse, wiped down the shoes, and pedantically laid everything out on the chair. But even though she went to bed on time, the night was one endless, tossing-and-turning nightmare. The blanket seemed either too warm or too cold. Every time she closed her eyes, the interview ran through her head. What will they ask? Who will be there? Her brain was over-revving, and her stomach was as tight as if she were wearing an invisible corset.

When her phone's alarm finally went off, Alma didn't wake up – her eyes merely snapped open from half-sleep. Her pulse immediately skyrocketed, her heart beating in her throat. Her mouth was completely dry. She felt as if a hundred-pound weight was pressing on her chest, yet at the same time, that incomparable, raw energy vibrated in her limbs.

Standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, she took deep breaths. Her hands were shaking so much that she messed up her eyeliner on the first try and had to wash it off. "Calm down, Alma. It's just an interview," she whispered, but her voice rang out uncertainly. Finally, she managed to apply a more subdued, yet resolute makeup that highlighted her cheekbones and her gaze.

Then came getting dressed. This was the ritual that finally grounded her. As the sheer pantyhose smoothed all the way down her leg, she felt the tingle in her skin. She literally had to squeeze herself into the patent pencil skirt; pulling up the zipper was a minor struggle, but when it clicked into place, the stiff material instantly gripped her hips and forced her to stand straight and tall. The silk blouse fell coolly and softly against her skin, creating a sharp, exciting contrast with the strictness of the patent leather. When she tied the silk ribbon at her neck into a perfect bow and stepped into the mini-platform high heels, her posture completely changed.

It wasn't latex. It didn't squelch, it didn't choke her skin the same way. But as she looked into the mirror, she saw a beautiful, incredibly elegant, and dominant woman. The kind of woman who would never, ever have dared to walk into the neon-lit, gray corridors of the old IT company looking like this. This outfit was both a shield and a weapon.

She stepped out onto the street. The early autumn air hit her face coolly, but inside, she was burning. The patent pencil skirt gripped her thighs tightly, so she could only make progress with smaller, swaying steps. The high heels clicked sharply, rhythmically on the concrete – clack, clack, clack – as if echoing her own supercharged heartbeat.

People came toward her in the morning rush hour. Tired faces, hurried steps. But every time she passed someone, Alma felt the stares. They checked her out. Not because she was flashy or out of place, but because such poise, such radiant pride, and electrifying self-confidence emanated from her that it was impossible to ignore. The gentle rustle of the silk and the subdued squeak of the patent leather reminded her with every step that today she was finally stepping past her own boundaries. The adrenaline no longer cramped her stomach; instead, it fueled her. By the time she arrived at the address provided by the GPS, there was no trace of her morning tremors. Only pure, focused strength remained. She stopped. She looked up at

the facade of the towering office building in front of her, and took one last, deep breath. She was ready.