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Latex ecstasy mask without zipper and with a small hole for breath control
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Latex mask with translucent face and holes for mouth and eyes
Latex mask with back zipper and contrasting eyes and mouth
Latex ecstasy mask with a small hole for breath control
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Black latex mask with only breathing holes for nostrils
One piece wet look spandex swimsuit
Latex catsuit with a full length three sliders zipper
One piece swimsuit with decorative belt and front insert
One piece wet look spandex swimsuit
Latex catsuit with a full length three sliders zipper
One piece swimsuit with decorative belt and front insert
One piece wet look spandex swimsuit
Latex catsuit with a full length three sliders zipper


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We offer clinging catsuits, swimsuits, pantyhose, stockings, leggings and mini-dresses, made of lustrous and delicate lycra (spandex, elastane, supplex), stretch velor and vinyl. All the products are manufactured on order taking into account clients wishes and individual sizes. On our Website you can order spectacular lustrous catsuits of various colors and styles; leggings, stockings and pantyhose from lycra (spandex, elastane, supplex), vinyl and also strech velor, which perfectly match with other elements of clothes and will be suitable for any event in your life. In addition, glamor stylish mini-dresses of different models and colors, represented on our Website, will seductively emphasise each your body curve and will add lure to your whole image.

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they put us in metal masks. They locked us in. THEY LOCKED US IN IRON MASKS.
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In 1968, the war in Nam' was raging, like a injured animal wrapped in razorwire, into the so-called 'bad years'. An invisible enemy. A jungle decorated with human flesh, a booby-trapped labyrinth.. A living hell.
Some men revel in the glory of their personal war stories, tales of honor and horror, but seldom does a man speak when he has really seen what the darkness holds. I won't tell you my name, or my rank, or even where exactly this story takes place. What I will tell you, is the story itself.. A story that I would regard as a probable fiction If it wasn't for the fragmented memories and scars, both physical, and mental. The jungle was fear, manifested into reality.
We didn't even know what we were fighting for.
Politics, one hundred dollar bills, misplaced ideology, carelessness for human life, and other factors led over 200,000 young Americans to be killed or wounded. The pot-bellied, caviar-filled, cigar smoking politicians wouldn't have lasted 5 minutes here, let alone lived through whole tours with a story to tell. You can look up the "reasons" for the war yourself... If you want to call them reasons. Gulf of Tonkin bullshit still has me foaming at the mouth ready to snap on some blue blooded socialite type. Relax. Take a deep breath and relax.
About a month and a half into my first visit to the jungle, I already hated it. I had what I thought was advanced training, and I felt more intelligent then most of the grunts who were becoming hamburger meat around me. Mostly black, late teenagers from dilapadated hellholes like the South Bronx, Newark, all over the south and California. These kids were amazed to see a place on earth that was more fucked up then their own neighborhoods back home. Some of them may have become politically concious, and turned their guns on their original oppressors, like Muhammad Ali did verbally and mentally, if the present environment wasn't so calling for immediate attention. The government loved letting the blacks die, at home and abroad. At least that part made sense..at least In the way of seeing how things were back in New York where I'd came from .
I had two 20-something year old guys that would make me forget my surroundings with laughter, and marijuana. They both died a week apart by hidden traps in the bush, bodies mangled, skin dangling from platforms high up in the trees. The sight, especially after getting to know them, sickened me. For the next three weeks I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, and couldn't find happiness in anything. War never slept, so neither did I. 24 hours a day I "lived" in a dreary haze of misery, fog, and spider webs. Rain soaked my heavy clothes and my boots sloshed in insect infested mud. My helmet fell from side to side, with the buckle being broken, and a shoelace from a recently deceased infrantry man held it crudely in place on my headache plauged skull. Snakes and flies and Mosquitos whizzed around me, stinging and biting into the soft skin for a bite to eat. I was ready to die, and I hadn't even been there three months.
I should have dodged the draft. The fuckin' draft. I would have strangled that crooked bastard Nixon myself if I could have.
My third month I met a man who I later realize had given me a fake name. He called himself Carlson, and said he had just arrived where I was after working on a special operation called the Pheonix program. This isn't important, what was important was his C.I.A connections, intelligence training, and whatever his current mission entailed. Before long, the man who called himself Carlson introduced me to something called Opium, and later heroin.
He claimed he wanted to lift my spirit after seeing me so broken, so detached, so much worse then any type of depression or sadness. Total and utter despair pushed me towards any relief I could find.. And the jungle, with its war, helped make that my primary goal. Forget. Numb out. Dumb down. Maybe even sleep ..
I used the stuff to forget. I used to forgive. I used not to care anymore. I used to be happier. I used and I used and I enjoyed it. I used for long enough that I became highly addicted, but thanks to Vietnam's abundance of opium, and my ignorance of dependence on a substance, I didn't feel any real negative effects, yet.
All the while Carlson and I laughed and spoke, walked and ran, ate and slept, fought and feared. We got close over the next 6 weeks, close enough where I really trusted him, even though I didn't know much about him, or the orders he was given. One day, after I ran out of dope, and became irate, I went to find Carlson for some help. He gave me some heroin, but he acted differently, even looked slightly different.. Just a little. Here and there, Carlson would vanish into the woods, just to reappear a half hour or so later with something to talk about, questions to ask me, and drugs to do. I figured he was being nice, but from time to time, the questions he would ask were very personal, or a little off-putting. Things like "what is your blood type?". Or "do you have any allergies, like from medications?" Even "can you write me a list of all living family members and friends that would contact you when you get back home?". I asked why for that last one, but he made me feel paranoid when he said he wanted it in case anything ever happened to me. He would contact them and say his peace.
So a disheveled, slightly peculiar looking Carlson, with a nasty attitude, gives me some tan powder to cure my cravings.. I thanked the back of his head as he walked away, and retreated back to a tent I pitched a few days earlier when we set up camp. I didn't look closely at the powder, but I should have, not that it would have made much of a difference.. As long as it was from Carlson, and tan, and powder, and I had this vicious desire to get fixed up..I couldn't refuse it. Addiction consumed me.
I snorted the powder, which I had done several times before.. But this time.. I tasted something horrifyingly unfamiliar, saw bursts of light, and blacked out. As I went in and out of total darkness, all I saw was what looked like the riot police you now see at protest events.. All black plastic and fiberglass armor; shins, knees, elbows, wrist, and masks. High jack boots tied tightly to the top. I realized the masks were gas masks, and made a mental comment about never seeing that type of gear before, especiallly In the jungle... then everything went deep space. Pitch black. Absolute visual sensory deprivation. Total stop of conscious brain function.
I spun into awareness in reverse. My head felt heavy. I felt chains on my wrists. A thick cast iron mask was closed around my face, a thick chain attaching it to a wall behind me. I tried to pull away but I was locked in a twisted submission hold, "what the fuck?", was my first full thought. I focused on the darkness ahead of me as I heard footsteps approaching. A door opened and two men stood In the gap.
A secret prison. Possibly underground.
I was dragged by the chain on my mask through a hallway, wrists pulled above my head from the back in a stress position. The long corridor had multiple rooms, all with surgical equipment that appeared new. Other men in metal masks were being held down as they reacted violently to injections and strange procedures..I didn't see much of any single prisoner, but I did see at least 30 of them in various stages of what seemed like torture. I was brought into a room and strapped to a restraint chair, face first with my iron encased head pulled through a wooden hole with a layer of leather. I tried to scream.. My mouth had no room to open. I exploded in rage.. It didn't help.
Over the course of what I found out later to be a year, I lived like a dog, a slave, a laboratory rat. Addiction kept us docile.. But we were weaned off over time. These men had other plans. The mask never came off of any of the prisoners, we ate through tubes. I watched men as they were raped, my head chained to a wall as I sat on my knees.. Electric currents ran though my body. Cocktails of drugs were rammed into our collapsing veins, visual and auditory hallucinations rocked our blank minds, the weakest were continuously dominated sexually as we watched, makeshift contraptions wrapped around our masks.. Sparks dancing from the exposed wiring. A sickening torture experiment? Was this the Vietcong? Was this communist mind control? Would we die like this???? Could it be possible that Carlson would realize I was missing, and I would be rescued?
All hope died the day Carlson unlocked my chain in the sleeping room.. Two men who looked similar, two Carlsons.. They strapped me into a rolling restraint chair and brought me across the facility into a cube shaped room with two chairs in it.. The chairs faced eachother.. One chair was occupied by a man with no shirt on, a television as a head, wrists strapped to the arm rests. Television head was trying his hardest to break out, veins protruding from his pumped up biceps, grunting the whole time. The Carlsons laughed as they locked me in the room, strapped to the chair opposite television head. The screen turned on, the man resisted violently. Images flew across the screen.. Colors, lines, symbols, grass fields, cattle in a slaughterhouse groaning and screaming, colors, lines, a family being skinned alive in their home, strange sounds, lines, colors. A mesh of random horror flashed before my eyes, the man snapping out In his chair. At the end of the video, a message from the Central Intelligence Agency ran along the bottom of the screen. In the end, a cctv cameras live recording of a room of men in iron masks, chained to the walls, wrists cuffed, played in silence. We stayed like this for hours. One of the Carlsons entered later and dragged the television headed man out.. Then I was brought back to my room.
I must have been hallucinating, I must have been drugged in my sleep, I was in a fog I couldn't escape. The sexual torture, the drugs, the electroshock.. Continued. Then we were questioned with strange logic riddles.. None of it made any sense.. One thing that seemed strange was that everyone of the staff, all of these criminals, looked extremely similar.. They all looked like Carlson.
One day I became conscious, heavy black metal mask staring into a mirror. I turned around to see skin, facial skin, real human skin... With hair attached, a Carlson face. There must have been two dozen of them. I ran full speed out of the room and turned what looked like a tank hatch at the end of a hall, stumbling through a tunnel until I reached a ladder.. I climbed up and found a locked gate at the top. I slammed my head, mask on, into the lock. When it broke open I climbed into wilderness..
In America. I was in a hospital, mumbling a story to nurses who wouldn't have believed me even if I could speak in concise sentences. It was real. It felt real. I remembered everything. When I was finally able to speak, it was too a lawyer, and I wanted to bring a lawsuit against the United States government and the Central Intelligence Agency. The hospital report, and the U.s. Army, both claimed I had a brain injury from an accident during training.. They claimed I never made it to Vietnam.. They made me look crazy.. People scolded me for my anti American fairy tales, for my overactive imagination.. They excused me in the end because of my "brain injury"... But I knew I something was wrong.. I was in Vietnam.. I remembered it clearly. I remembered it. I fucking remembered it. I was there.
Black iron restraint masks, rape, electroshock, surgical torture... These things, spoken against my own country, promised to land me in a institution. No one believed me.
Now I'm much older.. Sometimes I am on the deep web, looking through leaked documents and reading classified materials.. I'm alone now, ever since my "accident". Ever since people started treating me like a leper. But I still know what happened.. I still remember something happened. I read one document that was a review of stem cell grown, human skin face masks, for intelligence agencies in wartime, for covert operations and psychological warfare. Agents were all using the same identity, so they could be in multiple places at once. For years, stories of secret mind control and torture programs circulated throughout veterans circles, and on the Internet. A lot of men disappeared, a lot of them went mad, and a lot of them died.. But someone in that hellhole must still be alive.. It had to be real..
Sweet merciful christ that was fantastic. Had me on the edge of my bed the whole time.
So what's super weird....there's a drug detox facility in my area called Carlson...maybe it's all connected? Or maybe not and it's just a coincidence
Unfortunately, I believe every word of this account. One day, one hundred years from now, some document will be released or leaked that will detail OPs story.
Project MK ultra. The Project started just before the Vietnam war, it was based around the concept of Mind control, Used blacks for the most part as test subject(explains OP's belief that most people around him were black) and distorts memories which would explain delusions about being in the war.
I was thinking that they were going to try to fabricate a war hero named Carlson. Every time an opportunity for heroics arises, you send in the current "Carlson," as soon as the current Carlson dies, they would send in the next one and the Carlson mythos would continue to grow.
What about your family? The ones Carlson was asking about in order to "inform them if something happened to you" - surely they know you were in Vietnam for over a year?
I wouldn't doubt this for a second. They're always covering up some kind of fucked up shit, especially during wars. This was truly terrifying.
sorry to break it to you, man. you were probably never in vietnam. brain injuries and the comas that come after will give you these types of vivid, ongoing, messed up dreams and hallucinations. its pretty common in severe traumatic brain injuries.
my boyfriend was hit by a car almost 2 years ago and was in a coma for two months from it because of the brain injury he acquired from the accident. he had a very similar experience happen to him; a dream that felt like years, of torture, almost death, and frequent attempts of failed escape, so real that when he awoke, it took him a while to understand that none of it ever happened. and even for a while after, he still had terrible nightmares about it and it controlled alot of how his mind worked.
This is crazy startling. How is your boyfriend now?
Just wanted to point out that if what he says is true that would lead to it being a common after-effect of brain injury. Correlation is not causation.
I would not doubt that it all was real the government is fucked
"Snakes and flies and mosquitoes whizzed by me." The fuck kind of snakes are those? Damn, a flying snake would freak the hell out of me (I haven't read the whole story yet so don't say that the masks are worse).
Edit: The rest was worse. Bravo op. Hope you find someone else that survived.
That's enough internet for now. Bye bye
OP, your writing is absolutely phenomenal. You had me on edge and squirming with every paragraph. I'm sure there's someone out there who was locked in there with you. Just gotta find him.

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This diabolical hand crushing machine was used by the Catholic Church in the 15th century to punish those with “greedy hands.”
A scold's bridle was placed over a woman's face to keep her from speaking, early 1900's Ireland.
Instrument of torture called interrogation chair, used in the Middle Ages

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