Your not prepared to wear this latex catsuit any longer than you have to and stalk off down a corridor in search of the kitchen, hoping to find a knife sharp enough to cut through the shiny material.
The lights of the mansion reflect brightly on your outfit as you move; an oil slick in human form seeking freedom from your mobile prison.
You pause cautiously at the threshold of a likly door, listening out for the pursuit of those bunny mannequins that chased you into the house and vaguely wondering what you'd say if you run into whoever lives in this stately pile.
Theres no sound, so you try the handle, the door swinging silently open to reveal a large kitchen with a mixture of modern units and old fittings. You cross the threshold slowly, looking in the corners for hidden surprises and pyschotic mannequinns but the room seems empty.
Including empty of knives you note with a groan, the spotless nature of the benchtops making your visual examination an extremely quick one. Your suit seems to tighten further, squeezing your body in a victorious embrace causing you to gasp and steady yourself against the sink. Your arms and legs shake, seemly weaker and thinner than when the catsuit first ensnared you.
You shake your head to clear it. The suit must be restricting your circulation, you try to reassure yourself that clothes don't transform you...but they also don't magically come to life and dress you either...a sensation of nausea starts to sweep through you and fear that something dreadful is about to happen. Your fear gives you burst of adrenaline and you bite down on the nausea and decide to: