I don’t know how to start. It feels cheesy to write this. I wish Ross wouldn’t make me do it. He’s standing in back of me, hovering over the stool I’m tied to, and he just wacked my rubberskin ass. He says stop complaining, that’s not what it’s for, don’t be whiner, get on with it pig, you just wasted 45 seconds.
He calls me “pig.” My name is Tim, but I’ve never heard Ross use it.
I see the Internet URL above, but I don’t know who has access and whether anyone except Ross will read this. (Still at my shoulder, Ross says to assume his rubberpig's hog blog will be read by kinky Rubbermen like him and horny rubber bondage pigs like me.)
Okay. I get your drift. I still don’t want to do this. (Wack! “YOU have no choice!”)
Ross just walked away. I don’t know what to write, except for things about him. Now he’s off across the dungeon. Looks like he’s unpacking something from a box. He told me keep your eyes on the computer, keep typing pig. I think he is unwrapping a new piece of gear. He has a passion for buying new rubber/bondage toys to try them out – on me. (I share the passion :-))
I have blogged before but never about Ross. So, if this new blog is for Rubbermen to read, they would probably want to know that Ross is the hottest Rubberman I have ever seen. He gets off on his own butch attitude and male ego but in spite of his self-assurance is not oppressive with his conceit – just realistic: He knows that he is an incredible package. Chiseled face, hairy muscles, big cock, athletic pecs and masculine hair patterns that make you want to bury your face in parts of his powerful body. He looks amazing in rubber – strapping as all get out, latex beefcake, a total rubber stud, but no one has or will ever see him in bondage. Strictly a Top (the rubber bondage type), his big thing is control, if possible through prolonged ‘encasement’ (a term he uses a lot) combined with heavy long-term restraint. That’s where I come in. He gives me a lot of both and is uncompromising about enforcing the rules and making me follow through, sweating it out to the end. (Thinking about his lack of sympathy for the problems of bondage bottoms makes my dick twitch!) He knows that I need such regimens even when I am ready to cop out (like I am now).
Ross and my cock are partners, conspiring together to convince me that increasing encasement and restraint are my lot. I think they are never happier than when I'm Ross’s rubber captive: totally rubber-encapsulated, tightly sealed in black, shiny latex, plugged, tubed, gagged, wrapped, strapped, sacked, zipped, bagged, tied, fastened, laced, hooded, muzzled... and left... waiting... with no choice but to wait... for Ross to find me, hours later, exactly the way he left me. Usually after I am well encased and tightly bound, he puts me away somewhere in his dungeon, in some kind of locked cell or container – ‘storage,’ often isolated and out of sight.
I should probably explain that Ross said I will do my blogging during breaks. Ross says that on routine days I will get a break after each 8-12 hour block of ‘storage’ time. It’s impossible to write everything he said (he is extremely verbal when it comes to describing how I will be encased and bound), but the gist of it is that he said routine breaks will ‘last no longer than 25 minutes.’ He gave me the exact break schedule per minute, but, hearing the details put me off a bit, and I don’t remember it. Around half of the break time is for blogging, to write my impressions here. The remaining break time is for bodily functions, hygiene, food/water intake, maybe some exercise. (Knowing Ross, he will keep everything scheduled within the 25 minutes, clocked to the exact second! Though I do think he said something about separate exercise breaks now and then.) In any case, 25 minutes seems a little stingy to me, but I’m sure Ross chose it carefully: less than a half hour, it can be counted only in minutes and seconds. For the next week or more, except for the breaks, Ross says I will spend my days and nights ‘bound, sealed in gear, plugged, tubed, under control, and stored.’
I guess I should also explain that all of this depends on my behavior: I have to follow the rules. One of them is I am not allowed to talk. Even when I am not gagged, use of my voice is not permitted. In addition to the control factor, maybe this is Ross’s way of encouraging me to write in this blog.
If I don’t follow the rules, Ross says my ‘break privileges’ will be ‘revoked,’ and I’ll be left in storage ‘indefinitely’ until I learn to conduct myself properly. Ross says he has other ways too of enforcing the rules. Only trouble is he hasn’t told me all of the rules. I think he makes them up and adds additional rules whenever he wants. (He’d wack me for that if he weren’t busy doing whatever it is he’s doing that I’m not allowed to look at.)
This whole arrangement of the upcoming days of storage and breaks came about very early this morning, when Ross came to my rescue at my apartment. I am making it sound romantic, and I suppose it could have been, but mostly it was just uncomfortable and dumb on my part. I got myself into a stupid horny predicament tying myself up to impress him. Alone in my apartment, already locked into 'rubber underwear' and a chastity device/butt plug earlier in the day by Ross, I rubberized head to toe, gagged, and bound myself into a tight little ball, restraining myself really well, no escape possible, just to wait for him, but then found out too late from a note under my door that he wasn’t coming, because he thought I was sick. Sealed in rubber, gagged, and locked in restraints – joined wrists to neck, elbows to knees, ankle to ankle and heels to buttocks – I spent a good part of last night squirming around my apartment trying to figure out how to get loose. Perspiring and sick to my stomach with nervousness, at first I struggled against the restraints holding me in the tight position and failed to get free, then rested to calm myself down, and even fell asleep a couple times while trying to think of an escape plan. Finally around 6 AM I got hold of my phone when I blindly pushed one of the receivers onto the floor by shoving a broom up on top of the kitchen counter. The phone came flying down, and I rolled around trying to pick it up and then fumbled with my rubber-mittened fingers enough to push the right keys to connect to Ross’s cell. Trying to listen for his voice, barely able to hold and operate the phone because of the way I had restrained myself, unable to speak because of the way I ball-gagged myself, I did frantic grunts for help into the phone, using redial to try to call him repeatedly, until eventually he arrived at my place, coming to see what was up. He laughed endlessly when he figured out the situation, and then made me stay that way while he lectured me on my incompetence and dictated the conditions of my release. (My leg and arm muscles are aching today from being trapped in such a cramped position all night, but I know I have no one to blame but myself. I was so horny and sore I would have agreed to anything to get of that predicament!)
Ross said that after my self-bondage fiasco I can no longer be trusted on my own, that someone as obsessed with bondage and rubber as I am needs to be kept in a supervised setting: ‘A 24/7 encasement pig, bound and incarcerated’ is one way he likes to describe it. Threatening to leave me the way he had found me, Ross prescribed the terms of my ‘incarceration’ while I was still helplessly bound and gagged. Grunting my consent around the ball gag, I would have agreed to anything he said I was so desperate to get free. When he released me, he had me call out sick from work with flu for today and tomorrow (Thursday and Friday). Since I had already requested time off next week, this clears my calendar for a week or more, to be spent ‘on probation,’under Ross’s control, for a trial phase that could lead to becoming the no-limits, permanent 24/7 encasement pig that Ross says he wants. After releasing me this morning at my apartment, he took me to the gym and supervised my workout and then brought me back to his house, where I am now, in his basement dungeon.
All through the morning, while he told me the rules as we exercised and ate breakfast and I got prepared for the day, Ross has been describing the forthcoming periods of ‘storage’ with a sadistic smile on his face and a nasty gleam in his eye, using vocabulary like ‘incarceration’ and ‘solitary confinement’ and ‘isolation’ to refer to how I will serve out my ‘sentence,’ endure my ‘captivity’ in silence and “tough out’ my ‘sequestration.’ He says that at all times without exception I will be sealed in head to toe rubber (which I am now, concentrating on trying to hit the right keys with the encased fingers of my gloved hands) and in bondage (which I am now, my wrists in cuffs that allow typing, my legs separated wide, ankles pulled back and up, tied securely to a crossbar of the stool). Ross said that when I am ‘sequestered,’ while the degree and severity of the bondage and ‘storage’ will vary, I should expect the norm to be ‘heavy encasement’ and ‘total isolation.’ (I admit that it felt like my heart missed a few beats when I heard Ross talk in those terms.)
Earlier, Ross had me call my family to tell them I’d be away. Then he took my cell phone and said he’ll take care of messages. I gave him the password for my voice mail. Ross knows my boss, my friends, my family. He can return their calls if needed. It feels like he’s in control of every aspect of my life, even now as I write.
Ross said that sometimes he’ll change the regular routine to allow for ‘storage time’ longer than the typical stretches. He said to ‘expect to be ignored most of the time.’ Last weekend I spent something like 36 hours straight suited up in rubber and suspended in a sleepsack in a storage closet of his dungeon, so I already know what he is proposing can be done, but the total duration makes me nervous: a week (or more?) is like a bondage marathon! What is happening to my life? Even so, the idea of a week of submitting to Ross’s plans to habituate me to constant rubber encasement, bondage, and imprisonment, makes me horny and excited – and also frustrated: My cock is in a tight lock-down, still trapped in a chastity device Ross put on me yesterday. He offers no hints about how long it will be in place. So, here I am, on a Thursday, normally a workday for me, but I’m in Ross’s dungeon instead of being at my job. It’s around mid-morning. Sitting low, tied onto a small stool in front of his computer, I’m locked in the chastity device, with a butt plug, which I squeeze with my ass as I type. I’m wearing what Ross calls my rubber underwear (a.k.a. ‘rubberskin,’ ‘bodyrubber’ – terms he uses), plus a separate rubber hood gripping my head, and have another layer over top: my stretchy, one-piece, footed, gloved and hooded face-entry suit from London.
I just stopped typing for a few seconds, to turn around and look at what Ross is doing, and got a reprimand. Here are the direct quotes: “Don’t make me say it again, pig. Eyes on the computer! Keep typing. I’ll tell you when to stop!”
I don’t know what else to write but he said keep typing. He was standing near the wall box. Not sure if he has to go to the office or will work at home today. The wall box is okay, though it’s definitely not for claustrophobic types. I thought it was fun months ago the first few times after Ross started letting me come to his dungeon, but I’ve been in the wall box a lot since then so there is no longer any novelty. It’s too small to extend my legs all the way straight out and gets hot but is comfortable otherwise. I can easily do it for the day. I know Ross is careful about monitoring me and has ways of keeping tabs on my suffering by using friends and even remote devices.
Running out of ideas on what to write. The primary hood makes my head feel squeezed, my cheeks and the bridge of my nose compressed. I know from experience I will adjust. The totality of the skintight encapsulation will become more comfortable with time; the sweat will lubricate and my body will adapt. Except for Ross’s deep authoritative voice, raised to a level to penetrate my rubber hoods (“Eyes on the computer KEEP TYPING PIG!”), I already feel insulated from the sounds of the outside world. The effort required to type with the rubber gloves – to concentrate on hitting the right keys, and to backspace frequently to correct when I don’t – is giving rise to more sweat than usual.
The sweat makes my perch on the stool feel slippery, so that every few seconds I shift my butt around, driving the anal plug up against my prostate, which feels like the plug is milking it; locked up and inaccessible under the layers of rubber, I think I can feel my dick leaking precum. My nose always gets accustomed to the scent of rubber, its odor mixed with sweat becoming unnoticeable, but right now my sinuses are full of latex aroma, which triggers thoughts of dark encasement and inescapable rubber captivity. Freshly shined, the outer rubber suit and gloves glisten as I type. A few drops of sweat leaking from an invisible fault in the seal of my encapsulation fall to the floor. The layers of latex creak as I slide and shift impatiently on the stool, waiting for Ross.
Fuck, being sealed in rubber this way and plugged and locked in chastity and cuffed and tied to the stool, all of it is working on me. I feel like a fucking frustrated horny rubber pervert. Am seriously getting into this – being a fucking horny rubber slave ready to serve Ross, every second of every day! FUCK!
With the quick look at Ross I just managed, I saw him arranging gear near the box. Being in the box all day will be more interesting if the bondage is challenging. Thinking that way, I can feel my heart pounding more quickly, and my dick is trying to expand, pushing itself down deeper into the chastity device. FUCK!
Waiting for Ross #22 (Hog Blog #2)
Ross told me he just read “Cowboy Up” and “Sealed and Suffering.” He read them while I serviced him, and now, as I write this, the taste of Ross’s cock and its juices linger in my own sealed mouth.
Feeling disoriented, I’m here, back at Ross’s computer, ordered by Ross to describe my own personal version of ‘sealed and suffering’ (in other words, how I spent my day). Ross has informed me that he may have me reenact the situation depicted in that story, but I don’t know exactly what he means as I am not permitted time to read it.
He says what I wrote in my first blog entry was too disorganized. He wants more structure. Also, Ross warned me that all of this must be in complete sentences. Spelling, grammar, and punctuation errors may result in “penalty time.”
A little while ago, my arms and legs were pretty stiff when Ross got me out of storage and released me. He had me walk on his treadmill for a few minutes, after which he oversaw the opening of the crotch zip of my outer catsuit and removal of the inner suit’s codpiece, to allow me to piss through the chastity device into a plastic container. I know he said head to toe rubber at all times, no exceptions, but I was surprised when he quickly re-closed the suits, keeping me totally encased without break in the slimy sweat that accumulated so far inside the seal of the two rubber suits and hoods I was in all day. Immediately after allowing me to piss and closing up my crotch, he handed me a thick, tight dry suit and supervised its application, zipping me up inside it over top of my rubber suits. He says the extra layer is part of my punishment for violating the rule of silence.
Next, I was cuffed and kneeling in the kennel cage with food and water in dog bowls, from which I drank and ate through the tight hood mouth hole; then I spent time pleasuring Ross’s prodigious cock and booted feet, licking and sucking as well as I could through the hood, while he relaxed and read stories on the Story Board; and now, bound but still able to type, I’m at the computer.
I am in a shitload of gear, with total coverage and lots of layering; black rubber latex sex gear, head to toe. I feel heavy with the thickness of the tight packaging: the three rubber layers plus a fourth of leather encasement from the waist down. Physically, things are very slick, warm and toasty inside my realm of rubber membranes and insulating multiple layers, which all together create a sense of encapsulated rigidity, a form of skin and posture bondage. After I satisfied Ross’s cock with my mouth, he heavily gagged and muzzled me as further incentive for me to remember I must endure my suffering in silence, “absolute silence pig.” I am sitting very straight, with the help of a stiff posture collar and Ross’s admonition, “eyes forward, concentrate on blogging pig.” My hands are cuffed, my feet and legs encased in a tightly laced, strapped leather leg sack, looser at the knees to allow bending and attached at the ankles to the stool on which I am perched. “Sit up and type pig. Blog ‘til I tell you to stop pig.” The leather adds to the heat. I can feel the sweat inside the fingers of my gloves as I type. Way down inside, under the head to toe total encapsulation, my anal plug and chastity device, in place all day, feel like they have become permanent parts of my body.
So far, the rule of silence is the worst part of my sentence, even worse than the isolation of ‘storage’ and the constant frustration of horniness that I cannot relieve. As for how I spent my day...
Ross has a box built into one wall of his dungeon and that’s where I was today, all day. It’s a horizontal rectangle, about 3-4 feet long, 3 feet wide, and 1 ½ feet deep, and it bolts closed from the outside with a side panel. It has a vent on one side, sometimes with a fan outside Ross uses in hot weather, and has thin rubber padding inside. There is a recessed compartment in the floor of the box for a water bowl. Ross has a habit of using the wall box for extended confinement. I have heard him (and know he enjoys to) talk about how it bolts closed from the outside so there is no escape.
This morning, I had (as I still do, under the dry suit) the chastity device, butt plug, rubber skin, tight hood, and then a catsuit over the rubber skin, with attached gloves, socks, and hood with open face. Before Ross locked me in the box, over my rubber suits he fastened a shoulder-to-wrist restraint, locking my wrists behind in a crossed position at my lower back. Next, I was put inside a new piece of rubber gear Ross got from the web called a ‘hog sack.’
It’s a thick rubber sack, somewhat like a combination arms-back armless rubber straitjacket and legs-folded-up rubber sleepsack. It includes an attached hood with small grommet hole at the mouth for the breathing tube of the rubber gag that Ross inserted before sealing me up. After my head was inside the hood, eliminating my ability to see, I had to lie on my stomach as Ross pressed my locked wrists and folded arms against my upper back. I felt him fasten my ankles crosswise somehow and then exert pressure to bend my legs back into a hogtie position while I wiggled around to help him as he pulled the sack into place and zipped me up.
Initially as the zipper closed I had a big bondage rush, a real strong blast of rubber bondage pig excitement through my entire body. Being stuffed in the hogsack produced very intense bondage, creating an incredible connected feeling at first, like an awareness all over my body of each tiny movement; with the thick rubber enclosing me in the hogtie position, I wanted to squirm like crazy. I bucked and moaned out loud in bondage lust and in objection to the fucking chastity device that prevented my wiggling from stimulating my cock. With the butt plug fucking me as I squirmed I must have gone wild, writhing and twisting until I felt hard pressure on my back, from Ross’s boot I guessed, and heard Ross’s loud voice through the layers encasing my head as he told me stay still, shut the fuck up; and then the breathing tube was clamped, cutting off my air, until I stopped my groans and gyrations and it was released.
After I calmed down, over top of the rubber sack I felt there was some kind of harness that Ross tightened up, with straps at my waist and between my crossed legs. The straps added to the intensity of the enclosure and my excitement got the better of me again; I was told to shut the fuck up stop squealing pig as I felt the straps further confine my tightly enclosed arms and hands to the upper portion of the sack, behind my back. I couldn’t keep from bucking and squirming as Ross fastened the other strap, running around between my legs, keeping them pulled up tight into a crossed position inside the lower portion of the sack. While Ross finished the rubber sacking it produced such a tight, encasing hogtie that it had me desperate to cum. I felt the waist belt cinching me around the middle, pinning my arms down even more inside the rubber so I couldn’t lower them or really move them much; and the other strap, forcing my legs and ankles snug up against my butt. The added reinforcement fired me up again, and I started moaning and thrashing, practically oinking out loud, with Ross warning me, I told you shut the fuck up and stop wiggling around pig.
It is making me really horny to write about it. I realize now that early in the day being jam-packed in the hog sack and totally helpless but aware of Ross shoving me into the box and bolting it closed was like entering into rubber bondage pig heaven. Oink!
Ross reiterated rules and warnings as he finished sealing me up and maneuvering me into place. I usually have no trouble remembering Ross’s threats, since he always makes good on them, and some of his final words stayed in my mind all day: “Fuckin’ tight bondage you’re in, slave. A nice compact package in your layers of latex and new hog sack. I think you’re ready to disappear for the day.” Horny beyond reason, I squealed and wiggled in response, and he continued. “You’ll have plenty of time to get used to this treatment. At least a week or more! So you better start off on the right foot. Unless you’re looking to get heavily muzzled and anchored in place, you should stay still and quiet all day in your little box and endure your suffering in sealed silence.” With that, I sensed the box shutting closed and ecstatic horny solitude descending on me.
But I don’t know how to describe the rest of the day in a paragraph or two. The hog sack is a hot piece of gear, yet not so easy to spend a day in, but many times I was ready to explode with horniness, squirming in frustration, especially at first but then not so much as the day went on; eventually I was stifling groans of agony at times when it seemed unending. Right after Ross closed the box, I was overwhelmed by bondage exhilaration as the physical aspects of my predicament set in. Wiggling and squirming, crammed inside a tight rubber sack, transformed into a hogtied rubber mummy, sealed in total encasement except for an air tube through my gag, locked in a confining wooden box, I was on a bondage high.
Of course, the enthusiastic frenzy of being left encased and boxed faded after a while – maybe an hour or two – yet returned at times. Isolated and insulated, with no signals from the outside world and the realization that it might be a long day, I lost track of time early on. I was able to change position, shifting from my stomach to my side, where I could bend my body a little at the waist, and even flip over onto my back if I wanted to put up with lying on top of my arms and feet. My arms and legs felt tingly at times and I would give in to the urge to struggle to try to change their position, while at other times I wiggled around just to keep the blood circulating, all of which stimulated my horniness and reminded me that I was butt-plugged, gagged, locked in chastity, rubber-hogtied, packed in latex encasement, and stuck in a box. My ankles and feet were pretty cramped in that sack, with muscle spasms sometimes when I wiggled them. My knees started to ache. My limbs felt numb at times. The intensity of the triple rubber layers including the thick sack penalized me with heat and sweat when I moved, so after a while I tried to be patient and change position only when I really needed to. Mostly I stayed motionless and silent, afraid to make noise or move about much because of Ross’s warnings.
I should have known when Ross said ‘expect to be ignored’ that’s definitely what would happen, but eventually the drawn-out hours of darkness and bondage storage seemed like the upper limit of what he said I could expect (if not longer). There was ample time to think about the next week of days and nights of more of the same stretching out in front of me. At times some serious horniness resulted, surpassing any other thoughts, almost as though confirming that my purpose in life had been found, but at other times also second thoughts, doubts, panic crept in.
Much of the time horniness and bondage gluttony ruled – a very horny day overall. Overwhelming, intense horny frustration at most times – rubber rapture! But at other times also isolated, lonely feelings, overpowering confinement and physical torment. But the horniness was there, on and off, mostly on, all through it. With the chastity device, there is no release from the horniness except when it fades inexplicably on its own. At one point hogsacked in the box I was feeling horrible boredom and sensory deprivation overload, and I hollered through the gag, but nothing happened, and then my heart pounded with fear of punishment, because I broke the silence rule, but then I hollered again; and eventually as minutes passed, accumulating to what might have been an hour or more, my dick hurt when it tried to get harder from the knowledge that making noise had no effect and I would still be ignored. Then another time the boredom was replaced by total detachment, like I was no longer in my body. I was pretty unhappy after a while though but those feelings disappear quickly once you are released. Difficult to summarize the ups and downs in writing. Maybe I was not so unhappy. Maybe I was getting what I needed...
At times the situation was even restful, my existence reduced to the level of a rubber-hogtied pig, dehumanized and transformed into Ross’s rubber bondage object, a rubber-encapsulated android unit focused solely on its rubber bondage, encasement, and mouth-tube breathing. I fell asleep a few times but did not like waking up, automatically in a panic state in reaction to the darkness and immobility of the tight encasement and boxed confinement. I knew from prior experiences in the box about the water bowl, so eventually feeling my way around poking carefully with my hooded head I found it and sucked from it through the tube of the gag. At other times in the past it was Ross’s piss except today it tasted like pure water but I did not drink a lot of it to try to avoid pissing myself inside the layers of rubber. I could hear my breathing and the rubber creak when I moved around, but otherwise there was dead silence in the box – except for when I tried to cry for help, which (as I said before) was ignored, and for which I am now being punished.
At times I held my breath to listen for noise outside in the hope that Ross was coming to let me out. But he didn’t let me out until my sentence, however many hours he had decided on, was complete. He was never out of my thoughts as the day passed and I waited – mostly quiet, patient, and very horny overall. At the end, fighting the desperation to be released was hard work, a type of a hellish mind game – telling myself you wanted this you stupid fuck and now you have it – and repeating one of the bondage mantras Ross taught me, “Enjoy when you can, and endure when you must.”
Enjoy when you can... rubber rapture! Endure when you must... rubber torture!
Waiting for Ross #23
Greetings, horny Rubbermen. Ross’s pig is back, writing my hog blog and thankful for the opportunity! Read on to understand why.
At present, I am perched on my blogging stool. Wrists are cuffed, arms are otherwise free. Legs are spread, knees bent, and ankles tied back at the rear. The relative freedom feels almost unnatural. About an hour ago, Ross stripped me entirely of all rubberpig gear in order to clean his pig inside and out, including a thorough shave from head to toe. Under my new rubberskin, applied following the cleansing, I feel the effects of the hair removal: the sheath-bondage sensation of tight latex encasing sensitized skin; the hood gripping my exposed scalp under it, never before shaved down completely as it is now. Of strategic location and size, openings in the latex – at the nipples, crotch, and ass – accommodate clamps that Ross applied to torture my freshly denuded tits, cock, and balls, the pain in which I’ve been ordered to ignore. (Ross, reading over my shoulder, reminds the pig to use proper terminology in referring to its body parts.) A vibrating dildo fixed to the stool impales my “hoghole” on a giant fucking plug, the ultimate pleasure of which I’ve been ordered to resist. Typing on the computer, I am straddling the stool, riding the pole buzzing inside me, flexing my “pig’s feet” in opposition to the ropes binding my ankles. Ross says to keep his pigometer (i.e., my cock) up and hard but DO NOT CUM. Free from the chastity device for the first time in days, Ross’s pigometer, with halo of excruciating clamps, bobs hugely erect and oozing precum between my spread legs. I am not allowed to touch it.
The overwhelming sense of euphoria that comes with surviving a challenging experience is influencing my thoughts as I type, along with an emotional bonding even deeper than before with the man who administered the challenge.
Ross says I am to create a thorough narrative, reconstructing details of the pig’s “silence training” since the last blog entry. Here is the story:
Actually, although I didn’t know it at the time, the torturous process had started even before I wrote the last blog entry. Over his pig’s two layers of rubber, Ross had added a third layer, encasing me neck to toe in a dry suit. He had also added a huge gag with muzzle and a thick posture collar over the pig’s rubber hood, plus a leg sack, binding me in leather from the waist down. As I finished writing the last blog, I was beginning to wish for some relief from the added encasement and the gag. I had been sealed in rubber all day (see my last hog blog), and my skin needed air. The heat level was rising fast under the multiple layers. The pressure created by the muzzle, clamping my jaw around the gag, was also noticeable. Without really thinking about it as I typed, an assumption had rooted in my mind. I presumed the regimen Ross had imposed to punish me for violating the rule of silence would not last longer than the duration of my blogging. After I had spent the day sweating in the new hogsack and box storage (again, see my last hog blog), I developed growing expectations, unarticulated though they were, that Ross would give his pig a relatively comfortable night when I finished my hog blog: perhaps one layer of rubber, maybe a cozy sleepsack, and storage horizontally under Ross’s new dungeon bed. In short, the pig, though excited and horny from writing his blog, was also uncomfortable, tired and wanted to sleep.
Unaware of my unspoken assumptions, Ross, who had been reading over my shoulder, informed me when my blogging time was up. I finished quickly and stopped typing. He removed the posture collar, disconnected rope tying my sack-enclosed ankles to the stool, and helped me to stand, unsteady on my legs because they were still inside the leg sack. Anticipating that removal of another piece of gear would come next, I was relieved when Ross started to work on the leg sack. With the layers underneath, the sack felt less than comfy, and I was looking forward to getting out of it. When I sensed that Ross’s adjustments, rather than loosening, were tightening the sack further, preventing me from bending my knees, I was caught off guard and almost tipped over. “Stand straight. Keep fucking still, pig.” It was at that point that I noticed Ross’s voice had taken on a more unsympathetic emphasis than usual, perhaps even an ominous-sounding tone. Already sweating under all the layers, I felt a wave of adrenaline course through me, creating a rush of nervous heat and added perspiration. Rather than removing it, Ross was cinching the leg sack to maximum tightness!
I gulped unintentionally. Swallowing nervously around my gag, I began to suspect that a matching fourth layer of heavy leather for my upper body was coming next, confirmed when Ross removed my handcuffs and the leather gear appeared in his hands. “Arms inside, pig.”
“Mmph!” I was on the verge of protest, but Ross acted quickly.
“No oinking unless I order it, pig!” The meaning in Ross’s voice was unmistakable. He was not in the mood to hear complaints, gagged and muffled though they would be. Before I could get up the nerve to grunt any further objections through the gag and muzzle, Ross was well on his way to packing his layered pig into the tight straitjacket, and I was doing my best to cooperate and remain standing. I started trying to convince myself, bondage pig that I am, that it wouldn’t be such a bad way to spend the night, even with the three layers of rubber underneath.
Snug under “normal” circumstances, the straitjacket that went with the leg sack did not close up easily over the layers created by the two catsuits and drysuit. As it tightened around me, I felt the slimy sweatiness within. Underneath, I was slick and wet with the new, nervous perspiration, on top of the old, thickened sweat that had been basting me all day. Through the eyeholes in my rubber hood, I could see that Ross looked handsome and freshly showered, and I felt embarrassed by the contrast: the beefcake stud and the sweaty rubber pig. Despite my efforts to talk myself into accepting the tight leather encasement, with no relief from head to toe rubber and sweat under it, my anxiety was building.
I heard Ross’s voice. “One oink for ‘yes’ and two oinks for ‘no.’ You hear me in there, pig?”
“Having fun yet, pig?”
I watched Ross grab the posture collar and then stoop down. I felt a shove against my waist, an arm wrapping around me, and a loss of control as I was lifted off my feet.
“Lean forward, pig.”
I tilted forward, rigid inside the leather gear, and felt Ross lift me further off the floor. A quick trip across the dungeon deposited me in a standing position, with my tightly bound feet in the center of a pile of leather directly in front of the isolation chamber, inviting entrance with open door waiting. Around my eyes, the only part of my body exposed, I felt cool air coming from the chamber and seeping through the eyeholes of my rubber hood.
Fuck! The isolation chamber! Now I was getting angry.
“One more layer, pig.”
I looked down. Visible through my rubber eye holes, I saw that the pile of leather under and around my feet was a sleepsack. “Uh, uh.”
Ross chuckled. “That was not a question. Your job is to stand still, straight as an arrow, sucking in your stomach and chest when told. And no oinking unless I ask a question. I don’t think that’s too much to ask of a pig while its Master is doing all of this hard work. Understand?”
I gave a single, reluctant oink, but my heart was pounding in protest in my chest. I felt desperate to avoid being trapped in a standing position all night in the isolation chamber, sweating to death inside layers of rubber and leather, in addition to whatever else Ross had in mind. If only he would remove the muzzle and gag to let me explain!
Ross proceeded to pull the thick leather sleepsack up my encased body and into place over my shoulders. Obviously he thought it was easier for him to put the sleepsack on while I was in a standing position, rather than let me lie on the floor, but the work required on my part to wiggle around at his command and simultaneously maintain my balance felt humiliating. I didn’t want what was happening, yet he was making me help him do it. I wobbled with my efforts to keep from tipping over, a fate that Ross prevented on a few occasions. Struggling with the physical balance, I also struggled to keep my emotions in check. Forced to cooperate with what I didn’t want in the first place, I was on the verge of losing my temper!
After Ross manipulated the open sack (and pig within) into position, he ordered me to draw in my stomach and chest. I felt the sack come together as Ross worked the heavy zipper, with ease up my already tightly bound legs, but with difficulty over the bulge of my arms, held crossed in front within straps binding the straitjacket sleeves. Exasperated and on the verge of resisting, if I had not been muzzled and gagged so tightly I would have tried to tell him it would never work. The sleepsack was not meant to enclose a straitjacketed torso.
“One more time, pig. Exhale and suck in.”
Pulling my shoulders together, I exhaled at Ross’s command and felt something give. The leather converged, compressing my upper body as one of the zippers slid over bound forearms and up the chest to the target, where the sack fused at my neck to complete the total enclosure.
“Excellent!” Ross sounded elated. He circled around me, tugging at the outer leather casement here and there and testing the zippers, as if to be certain the fit was acceptable. Trying to resist the urge to panic, I concentrated on my posture and breathing, of which the added, binding constriction made me acutely aware. Feeling the compression over my body, I inhaled slowly through the narrow tube leading from mouth, through gag and muzzle, to outside air.
Through my hood, I saw a mocking expression on Ross’s face as he surveyed the result of his efforts.
“Very stylish. And so you! Straitjacketed and sleepsacked simultaneously. The height of bondage pig fashion!”
I wanted to say, fuck you, I’d like to see you try it. Instead, I exhaled, still attempting to regulate my breathing, as Ross, chatting as he worked, thoroughly tied the laces and fastened the straps of the leather sack. Attempting to stand straight as instructed, demeaned by my own compliance and Ross’s sarcastic comments, and reacting to the increasing pressure as Ross jerked and pulled at the straps, I was all too aware of Ross’s words (which I reconstruct here to the best of my memory).
“Pay attention to what I’m telling you, pig.”
I gave a single, resentful oink.
“This dungeon is thoroughly monitored. Today, despite my explicit instructions, you grunted for help, violating the order of silence six times while you were hogsacked and boxed. Why didn’t you follow the rules? Did you think you were in danger?”
At this point, exhausted, overheated, and uncomfortable inside the tight leather packing, I almost didn’t care what answer Ross wanted. Reluctantly, I oinked twice, indicating a “no” answer. “Uh, uh.”
“Okay. I didn’t think you were in danger either. And it seems you survived quite well, doesn’t it? From what I read over your shoulder in your hog blog, you were in hog heaven today. Don’t you think it’s a bit peculiar, seeing as how you were enjoying yourself so much, that you oinked for help in spite of my warnings? ”
Fighting the urge to seek relief from the binding tightness, I stood still. A few seconds of silence passed until, “Uh,” I finally oinked once, unwillingly agreeing.
I heard Ross’s voice take on an unmistakably contemptuous tone. “So, in other words, you are the pig that cried wolf. How can I trust you to indicate real trouble if you whimper at the slightest discomfort?”
Through the eye holes of the rubber hood, I saw Ross, at last finished with the sleepsack. His gaze seemed to penetrate my eyes as he stared sardonically into his pig’s hooded, gagged, and muzzled face. The addition of the sleepsack felt unbearable at that moment, but, embarrassed by Ross’s words, I was oinkless. I saw Ross bend over to pick up a piece of leather gear and recognized it was a heavy sensory-deprivation hood.
“I told you this morning at the beginning of this that if you didn’t follow the rules, you could lose your break privileges, but I can see now that you need more specific training around the rule of silence. I trust you agree?”
My anger replaced by fear, I oinked once, trying to redeem myself, responding to the authoritative, no nonsense manner in the tone of my Master’s voice. Around this time, Ross launched into a lengthy discourse, impossible to remember verbatim, of the pig’s silence training. Here is my recollection, as close to Ross’s words as possible.
“What’s happening here is this: You have lost your break privileges for 24 hours, maybe longer, which you will spend standing in the isolation chamber and contemplating the value of suffering in silence. I will add this padded hood and the posture collar and then lock you in. You will be closely monitored. After eight hours are up, I’ll open the cell door and temporarily remove enough of your head gear to give you fluids. If you have been quiet, with no oinking for those eight hours, I will reward you by leaving the leather hood and collar off after I give you something nourishing to drink. If you have not been quiet, you will be given piss to drink instead; you will be regagged, head sealed, and left that way again.
“Understand so far, pig?”
The mortified pig did not respond.
“The next consecutive eight hours will be similar. Quiet is rewarded, oinking is not. It is a simple concept. If you are quiet twice, 16 hours in a row, in addition to the hood staying off, the sleepsack comes off, and you get something pleasant to drink. If not quiet, you get no additional freedom and only piss to drink. If you behave by being consistently quiet, the hood comes off first, the sleepsack second, the leg sack third, and then you get out of the straitjacket and cell at the end of 24 hours. If you misbehave and cry wolf, you get yourself eight hours more of the same you had for each session when you didn’t stay quiet. It’s up to you. Stay quiet, get progressive relief, and you’re out in 24 hours. Cry wolf, get no relief, and you could be in there for days, until I decide you’re not the pig for me and send you home. Understand all this, pig?”
Now I was totally pissed. The pig understood and did not like what it heard. It oinked twice, loudly. “Uh, uh!”
“Well, if not now you will soon. I should hear absolutely nothing from the audio in that cell except the sound of breathing and the creak of leather. Understand that, pig?”
Defiantly, I shook my head no and oinked twice, as if to say, fuck you. “Uh, uh.”
I tried to twist my head away when I saw Ross’s hands holding the hood as it approached my face; I felt the firm grip of Ross’s hand forcing my head into position; and, quickly, there was complete darkness. I felt leather against rubber as Ross lined up the small grommet hole, the only opening in the padded leather hood, with my mouth tube. With no vision to distract from physical sensations of tight enclosure, I began feeling overpowered by the intensity of it all. The hood was reinforced with extra thickness in special places, and I could feel Ross sealing my rubber-encased head in the heavy leather, which he zipped, laced, and strapped to the max. I imagined the expression on his face, relishing the forced encasement. I panted through my breathing tube as I felt the posture collar close around my neck to complete the leather mummification. Aware of my own helplessness inside my rigid leather pod, I felt Ross’s hands under my elbows. I was lifted and set back down quickly on my tightly packed feet.
With Ross’s steadying hands immediately withdrawn, I teetered backward, and then forward to compensate. I felt my shoulders and elbows brush against solid walls. Shifting my bound feet, pushing and scraping my outer leather cocoon against each of the four walls, my bondage pig self twisted around in distress, testing to see if the cell door had really been closed and locked.
Writing about my silence training now, I look down at my crotch. I feel and see Ross’s pigometer rising and pulsing against the biting clamps that Ross applied to its shaft and head. The dildo is vibrating in my ass, and my clamped nipples are on fire. I feel on the verge of cumming. I am too horny to continue…
... but Ross has not given me the signal to stop.
Back to the story...
Locked in the narrow chamber, initially I was hyperaware that all of the layers of rubber and leather combined had turned me into a rigid mummy. I tensed my muscles, deliberately testing the boundaries of the multiple encasements and tightly applied restraints. The only part of my body capable of movement, very limited at that, was my feet. With my ankles bound together tightly, I twisted around by wiggling my toes and shifting my weight on the balls and heels of my feet. Aimlessly bumping the walls, I had nowhere to go in the cramped vertical cell. The rigid cocoon and narrow chamber kept me in a standing position. I soon figured out that the padded hood and layers of encasement that imprisoned me also insulated me from any harm. Within the limited cell space, I was barely able to lean against one cell wall or the other. Relief from standing was not in the cards. Rest would be impossible. My production of sweat was increasing. I quickly understood that the only way I could hurt myself was by squirming around too much and overheating. Sealed in my own sweat, I would be sealed in piss too if I needed to urinate inside my tight cocoon.
I was cooked, and I knew it. I had consented to be under Ross’s total control for the coming week or more, and Ross was not likely to renege on the agreement. Ross meant what he said, and said what he meant. I realized that I would need to learn the lesson of silence that he was determined to teach me. In my dark, insulated world of tight encasement, heavy bondage, inescapable confinement, and total sensory deprivation, I contemplated my state of existence as Ross’s pig. Barely able to grunt even if I weren’t afraid to try, knowing that I would be penalized for any infraction, I felt overwhelmed by the realization that I had no choice except to endure yet another level of Ross’s control. That realization, coupled with the acute physical sensations of my predicament, set off horny sensors in my entire body, suddenly in pursuit of bondage pleasure from head to toe.
Squirming uncontrollably in response, I struggled against the heavy restraints and close confinement of the narrow chamber. Unable to harden inside the chastity device, my reawakening cock compensated for its inactivity and imprisonment by turning my entire body into a giant, sheathed erection. Reveling in being plugged at both ends, I used my neck muscles to strain forward and maximize the penetration of the huge gag stuffing my mouth; I clenched my ass muscles to squeeze and thrust forward the thick dildo filling my ass. My entire being felt transformed, taken over by a rush of bottled-up sexual energy.
Oinking in agony and pleasure, alternately sucking and blowing air through the tiny mouth tube, sweating my plugged ass off inside the confines of the tight cocoon, the greedy, squirming, rubber bondage pig in me struggled to cum, over and over, again and again, as many times as my rubber-encased, leather-mummified, imprisoned body would endure it.
Writing about it now, my pigometer is bursting with appreciation of Ross. It feels ready to explode with each word I come up with to describe the agony he put me through. I know I must continue writing, to describe the endless misery that engulfed me after I finally stopped cumming, but it’s difficult to focus on blogging, I keep rereading the text above, my tits are aching, the dildo feels like it just went into overdrive, and my dick feels
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POSTSCRIPT from Ross: The pig failed to complete this entry, interrupted when, without my permission, he shot pig glop all over the computer before his time was up. Trust me, Rubbermen, he is already regretting it!
He calls me “pig.” My name is Tim, but I’ve never heard Ross use it.
I see the Internet URL above, but I don’t know who has access and whether anyone except Ross will read this. (Still at my shoulder, Ross says to assume his rubberpig's hog blog will be read by kinky Rubbermen like him and horny rubber bondage pigs like me.)
Okay. I get your drift. I still don’t want to do this. (Wack! “YOU have no choice!”)
Ross just walked away. I don’t know what to write, except for things about him. Now he’s off across the dungeon. Looks like he’s unpacking something from a box. He told me keep your eyes on the computer, keep typing pig. I think he is unwrapping a new piece of gear. He has a passion for buying new rubber/bondage toys to try them out – on me. (I share the passion :-))
I have blogged before but never about Ross. So, if this new blog is for Rubbermen to read, they would probably want to know that Ross is the hottest Rubberman I have ever seen. He gets off on his own butch attitude and male ego but in spite of his self-assurance is not oppressive with his conceit – just realistic: He knows that he is an incredible package. Chiseled face, hairy muscles, big cock, athletic pecs and masculine hair patterns that make you want to bury your face in parts of his powerful body. He looks amazing in rubber – strapping as all get out, latex beefcake, a total rubber stud, but no one has or will ever see him in bondage. Strictly a Top (the rubber bondage type), his big thing is control, if possible through prolonged ‘encasement’ (a term he uses a lot) combined with heavy long-term restraint. That’s where I come in. He gives me a lot of both and is uncompromising about enforcing the rules and making me follow through, sweating it out to the end. (Thinking about his lack of sympathy for the problems of bondage bottoms makes my dick twitch!) He knows that I need such regimens even when I am ready to cop out (like I am now).
Ross and my cock are partners, conspiring together to convince me that increasing encasement and restraint are my lot. I think they are never happier than when I'm Ross’s rubber captive: totally rubber-encapsulated, tightly sealed in black, shiny latex, plugged, tubed, gagged, wrapped, strapped, sacked, zipped, bagged, tied, fastened, laced, hooded, muzzled... and left... waiting... with no choice but to wait... for Ross to find me, hours later, exactly the way he left me. Usually after I am well encased and tightly bound, he puts me away somewhere in his dungeon, in some kind of locked cell or container – ‘storage,’ often isolated and out of sight.
I should probably explain that Ross said I will do my blogging during breaks. Ross says that on routine days I will get a break after each 8-12 hour block of ‘storage’ time. It’s impossible to write everything he said (he is extremely verbal when it comes to describing how I will be encased and bound), but the gist of it is that he said routine breaks will ‘last no longer than 25 minutes.’ He gave me the exact break schedule per minute, but, hearing the details put me off a bit, and I don’t remember it. Around half of the break time is for blogging, to write my impressions here. The remaining break time is for bodily functions, hygiene, food/water intake, maybe some exercise. (Knowing Ross, he will keep everything scheduled within the 25 minutes, clocked to the exact second! Though I do think he said something about separate exercise breaks now and then.) In any case, 25 minutes seems a little stingy to me, but I’m sure Ross chose it carefully: less than a half hour, it can be counted only in minutes and seconds. For the next week or more, except for the breaks, Ross says I will spend my days and nights ‘bound, sealed in gear, plugged, tubed, under control, and stored.’
I guess I should also explain that all of this depends on my behavior: I have to follow the rules. One of them is I am not allowed to talk. Even when I am not gagged, use of my voice is not permitted. In addition to the control factor, maybe this is Ross’s way of encouraging me to write in this blog.
If I don’t follow the rules, Ross says my ‘break privileges’ will be ‘revoked,’ and I’ll be left in storage ‘indefinitely’ until I learn to conduct myself properly. Ross says he has other ways too of enforcing the rules. Only trouble is he hasn’t told me all of the rules. I think he makes them up and adds additional rules whenever he wants. (He’d wack me for that if he weren’t busy doing whatever it is he’s doing that I’m not allowed to look at.)
This whole arrangement of the upcoming days of storage and breaks came about very early this morning, when Ross came to my rescue at my apartment. I am making it sound romantic, and I suppose it could have been, but mostly it was just uncomfortable and dumb on my part. I got myself into a stupid horny predicament tying myself up to impress him. Alone in my apartment, already locked into 'rubber underwear' and a chastity device/butt plug earlier in the day by Ross, I rubberized head to toe, gagged, and bound myself into a tight little ball, restraining myself really well, no escape possible, just to wait for him, but then found out too late from a note under my door that he wasn’t coming, because he thought I was sick. Sealed in rubber, gagged, and locked in restraints – joined wrists to neck, elbows to knees, ankle to ankle and heels to buttocks – I spent a good part of last night squirming around my apartment trying to figure out how to get loose. Perspiring and sick to my stomach with nervousness, at first I struggled against the restraints holding me in the tight position and failed to get free, then rested to calm myself down, and even fell asleep a couple times while trying to think of an escape plan. Finally around 6 AM I got hold of my phone when I blindly pushed one of the receivers onto the floor by shoving a broom up on top of the kitchen counter. The phone came flying down, and I rolled around trying to pick it up and then fumbled with my rubber-mittened fingers enough to push the right keys to connect to Ross’s cell. Trying to listen for his voice, barely able to hold and operate the phone because of the way I had restrained myself, unable to speak because of the way I ball-gagged myself, I did frantic grunts for help into the phone, using redial to try to call him repeatedly, until eventually he arrived at my place, coming to see what was up. He laughed endlessly when he figured out the situation, and then made me stay that way while he lectured me on my incompetence and dictated the conditions of my release. (My leg and arm muscles are aching today from being trapped in such a cramped position all night, but I know I have no one to blame but myself. I was so horny and sore I would have agreed to anything to get of that predicament!)
Ross said that after my self-bondage fiasco I can no longer be trusted on my own, that someone as obsessed with bondage and rubber as I am needs to be kept in a supervised setting: ‘A 24/7 encasement pig, bound and incarcerated’ is one way he likes to describe it. Threatening to leave me the way he had found me, Ross prescribed the terms of my ‘incarceration’ while I was still helplessly bound and gagged. Grunting my consent around the ball gag, I would have agreed to anything he said I was so desperate to get free. When he released me, he had me call out sick from work with flu for today and tomorrow (Thursday and Friday). Since I had already requested time off next week, this clears my calendar for a week or more, to be spent ‘on probation,’under Ross’s control, for a trial phase that could lead to becoming the no-limits, permanent 24/7 encasement pig that Ross says he wants. After releasing me this morning at my apartment, he took me to the gym and supervised my workout and then brought me back to his house, where I am now, in his basement dungeon.
All through the morning, while he told me the rules as we exercised and ate breakfast and I got prepared for the day, Ross has been describing the forthcoming periods of ‘storage’ with a sadistic smile on his face and a nasty gleam in his eye, using vocabulary like ‘incarceration’ and ‘solitary confinement’ and ‘isolation’ to refer to how I will serve out my ‘sentence,’ endure my ‘captivity’ in silence and “tough out’ my ‘sequestration.’ He says that at all times without exception I will be sealed in head to toe rubber (which I am now, concentrating on trying to hit the right keys with the encased fingers of my gloved hands) and in bondage (which I am now, my wrists in cuffs that allow typing, my legs separated wide, ankles pulled back and up, tied securely to a crossbar of the stool). Ross said that when I am ‘sequestered,’ while the degree and severity of the bondage and ‘storage’ will vary, I should expect the norm to be ‘heavy encasement’ and ‘total isolation.’ (I admit that it felt like my heart missed a few beats when I heard Ross talk in those terms.)
Earlier, Ross had me call my family to tell them I’d be away. Then he took my cell phone and said he’ll take care of messages. I gave him the password for my voice mail. Ross knows my boss, my friends, my family. He can return their calls if needed. It feels like he’s in control of every aspect of my life, even now as I write.
Ross said that sometimes he’ll change the regular routine to allow for ‘storage time’ longer than the typical stretches. He said to ‘expect to be ignored most of the time.’ Last weekend I spent something like 36 hours straight suited up in rubber and suspended in a sleepsack in a storage closet of his dungeon, so I already know what he is proposing can be done, but the total duration makes me nervous: a week (or more?) is like a bondage marathon! What is happening to my life? Even so, the idea of a week of submitting to Ross’s plans to habituate me to constant rubber encasement, bondage, and imprisonment, makes me horny and excited – and also frustrated: My cock is in a tight lock-down, still trapped in a chastity device Ross put on me yesterday. He offers no hints about how long it will be in place. So, here I am, on a Thursday, normally a workday for me, but I’m in Ross’s dungeon instead of being at my job. It’s around mid-morning. Sitting low, tied onto a small stool in front of his computer, I’m locked in the chastity device, with a butt plug, which I squeeze with my ass as I type. I’m wearing what Ross calls my rubber underwear (a.k.a. ‘rubberskin,’ ‘bodyrubber’ – terms he uses), plus a separate rubber hood gripping my head, and have another layer over top: my stretchy, one-piece, footed, gloved and hooded face-entry suit from London.
I just stopped typing for a few seconds, to turn around and look at what Ross is doing, and got a reprimand. Here are the direct quotes: “Don’t make me say it again, pig. Eyes on the computer! Keep typing. I’ll tell you when to stop!”
I don’t know what else to write but he said keep typing. He was standing near the wall box. Not sure if he has to go to the office or will work at home today. The wall box is okay, though it’s definitely not for claustrophobic types. I thought it was fun months ago the first few times after Ross started letting me come to his dungeon, but I’ve been in the wall box a lot since then so there is no longer any novelty. It’s too small to extend my legs all the way straight out and gets hot but is comfortable otherwise. I can easily do it for the day. I know Ross is careful about monitoring me and has ways of keeping tabs on my suffering by using friends and even remote devices.
Running out of ideas on what to write. The primary hood makes my head feel squeezed, my cheeks and the bridge of my nose compressed. I know from experience I will adjust. The totality of the skintight encapsulation will become more comfortable with time; the sweat will lubricate and my body will adapt. Except for Ross’s deep authoritative voice, raised to a level to penetrate my rubber hoods (“Eyes on the computer KEEP TYPING PIG!”), I already feel insulated from the sounds of the outside world. The effort required to type with the rubber gloves – to concentrate on hitting the right keys, and to backspace frequently to correct when I don’t – is giving rise to more sweat than usual.
The sweat makes my perch on the stool feel slippery, so that every few seconds I shift my butt around, driving the anal plug up against my prostate, which feels like the plug is milking it; locked up and inaccessible under the layers of rubber, I think I can feel my dick leaking precum. My nose always gets accustomed to the scent of rubber, its odor mixed with sweat becoming unnoticeable, but right now my sinuses are full of latex aroma, which triggers thoughts of dark encasement and inescapable rubber captivity. Freshly shined, the outer rubber suit and gloves glisten as I type. A few drops of sweat leaking from an invisible fault in the seal of my encapsulation fall to the floor. The layers of latex creak as I slide and shift impatiently on the stool, waiting for Ross.
Fuck, being sealed in rubber this way and plugged and locked in chastity and cuffed and tied to the stool, all of it is working on me. I feel like a fucking frustrated horny rubber pervert. Am seriously getting into this – being a fucking horny rubber slave ready to serve Ross, every second of every day! FUCK!
With the quick look at Ross I just managed, I saw him arranging gear near the box. Being in the box all day will be more interesting if the bondage is challenging. Thinking that way, I can feel my heart pounding more quickly, and my dick is trying to expand, pushing itself down deeper into the chastity device. FUCK!
Waiting for Ross #22 (Hog Blog #2)
Ross told me he just read “Cowboy Up” and “Sealed and Suffering.” He read them while I serviced him, and now, as I write this, the taste of Ross’s cock and its juices linger in my own sealed mouth.
Feeling disoriented, I’m here, back at Ross’s computer, ordered by Ross to describe my own personal version of ‘sealed and suffering’ (in other words, how I spent my day). Ross has informed me that he may have me reenact the situation depicted in that story, but I don’t know exactly what he means as I am not permitted time to read it.
He says what I wrote in my first blog entry was too disorganized. He wants more structure. Also, Ross warned me that all of this must be in complete sentences. Spelling, grammar, and punctuation errors may result in “penalty time.”
A little while ago, my arms and legs were pretty stiff when Ross got me out of storage and released me. He had me walk on his treadmill for a few minutes, after which he oversaw the opening of the crotch zip of my outer catsuit and removal of the inner suit’s codpiece, to allow me to piss through the chastity device into a plastic container. I know he said head to toe rubber at all times, no exceptions, but I was surprised when he quickly re-closed the suits, keeping me totally encased without break in the slimy sweat that accumulated so far inside the seal of the two rubber suits and hoods I was in all day. Immediately after allowing me to piss and closing up my crotch, he handed me a thick, tight dry suit and supervised its application, zipping me up inside it over top of my rubber suits. He says the extra layer is part of my punishment for violating the rule of silence.
Next, I was cuffed and kneeling in the kennel cage with food and water in dog bowls, from which I drank and ate through the tight hood mouth hole; then I spent time pleasuring Ross’s prodigious cock and booted feet, licking and sucking as well as I could through the hood, while he relaxed and read stories on the Story Board; and now, bound but still able to type, I’m at the computer.
I am in a shitload of gear, with total coverage and lots of layering; black rubber latex sex gear, head to toe. I feel heavy with the thickness of the tight packaging: the three rubber layers plus a fourth of leather encasement from the waist down. Physically, things are very slick, warm and toasty inside my realm of rubber membranes and insulating multiple layers, which all together create a sense of encapsulated rigidity, a form of skin and posture bondage. After I satisfied Ross’s cock with my mouth, he heavily gagged and muzzled me as further incentive for me to remember I must endure my suffering in silence, “absolute silence pig.” I am sitting very straight, with the help of a stiff posture collar and Ross’s admonition, “eyes forward, concentrate on blogging pig.” My hands are cuffed, my feet and legs encased in a tightly laced, strapped leather leg sack, looser at the knees to allow bending and attached at the ankles to the stool on which I am perched. “Sit up and type pig. Blog ‘til I tell you to stop pig.” The leather adds to the heat. I can feel the sweat inside the fingers of my gloves as I type. Way down inside, under the head to toe total encapsulation, my anal plug and chastity device, in place all day, feel like they have become permanent parts of my body.
So far, the rule of silence is the worst part of my sentence, even worse than the isolation of ‘storage’ and the constant frustration of horniness that I cannot relieve. As for how I spent my day...
Ross has a box built into one wall of his dungeon and that’s where I was today, all day. It’s a horizontal rectangle, about 3-4 feet long, 3 feet wide, and 1 ½ feet deep, and it bolts closed from the outside with a side panel. It has a vent on one side, sometimes with a fan outside Ross uses in hot weather, and has thin rubber padding inside. There is a recessed compartment in the floor of the box for a water bowl. Ross has a habit of using the wall box for extended confinement. I have heard him (and know he enjoys to) talk about how it bolts closed from the outside so there is no escape.
This morning, I had (as I still do, under the dry suit) the chastity device, butt plug, rubber skin, tight hood, and then a catsuit over the rubber skin, with attached gloves, socks, and hood with open face. Before Ross locked me in the box, over my rubber suits he fastened a shoulder-to-wrist restraint, locking my wrists behind in a crossed position at my lower back. Next, I was put inside a new piece of rubber gear Ross got from the web called a ‘hog sack.’
It’s a thick rubber sack, somewhat like a combination arms-back armless rubber straitjacket and legs-folded-up rubber sleepsack. It includes an attached hood with small grommet hole at the mouth for the breathing tube of the rubber gag that Ross inserted before sealing me up. After my head was inside the hood, eliminating my ability to see, I had to lie on my stomach as Ross pressed my locked wrists and folded arms against my upper back. I felt him fasten my ankles crosswise somehow and then exert pressure to bend my legs back into a hogtie position while I wiggled around to help him as he pulled the sack into place and zipped me up.
Initially as the zipper closed I had a big bondage rush, a real strong blast of rubber bondage pig excitement through my entire body. Being stuffed in the hogsack produced very intense bondage, creating an incredible connected feeling at first, like an awareness all over my body of each tiny movement; with the thick rubber enclosing me in the hogtie position, I wanted to squirm like crazy. I bucked and moaned out loud in bondage lust and in objection to the fucking chastity device that prevented my wiggling from stimulating my cock. With the butt plug fucking me as I squirmed I must have gone wild, writhing and twisting until I felt hard pressure on my back, from Ross’s boot I guessed, and heard Ross’s loud voice through the layers encasing my head as he told me stay still, shut the fuck up; and then the breathing tube was clamped, cutting off my air, until I stopped my groans and gyrations and it was released.
After I calmed down, over top of the rubber sack I felt there was some kind of harness that Ross tightened up, with straps at my waist and between my crossed legs. The straps added to the intensity of the enclosure and my excitement got the better of me again; I was told to shut the fuck up stop squealing pig as I felt the straps further confine my tightly enclosed arms and hands to the upper portion of the sack, behind my back. I couldn’t keep from bucking and squirming as Ross fastened the other strap, running around between my legs, keeping them pulled up tight into a crossed position inside the lower portion of the sack. While Ross finished the rubber sacking it produced such a tight, encasing hogtie that it had me desperate to cum. I felt the waist belt cinching me around the middle, pinning my arms down even more inside the rubber so I couldn’t lower them or really move them much; and the other strap, forcing my legs and ankles snug up against my butt. The added reinforcement fired me up again, and I started moaning and thrashing, practically oinking out loud, with Ross warning me, I told you shut the fuck up and stop wiggling around pig.
It is making me really horny to write about it. I realize now that early in the day being jam-packed in the hog sack and totally helpless but aware of Ross shoving me into the box and bolting it closed was like entering into rubber bondage pig heaven. Oink!
Ross reiterated rules and warnings as he finished sealing me up and maneuvering me into place. I usually have no trouble remembering Ross’s threats, since he always makes good on them, and some of his final words stayed in my mind all day: “Fuckin’ tight bondage you’re in, slave. A nice compact package in your layers of latex and new hog sack. I think you’re ready to disappear for the day.” Horny beyond reason, I squealed and wiggled in response, and he continued. “You’ll have plenty of time to get used to this treatment. At least a week or more! So you better start off on the right foot. Unless you’re looking to get heavily muzzled and anchored in place, you should stay still and quiet all day in your little box and endure your suffering in sealed silence.” With that, I sensed the box shutting closed and ecstatic horny solitude descending on me.
But I don’t know how to describe the rest of the day in a paragraph or two. The hog sack is a hot piece of gear, yet not so easy to spend a day in, but many times I was ready to explode with horniness, squirming in frustration, especially at first but then not so much as the day went on; eventually I was stifling groans of agony at times when it seemed unending. Right after Ross closed the box, I was overwhelmed by bondage exhilaration as the physical aspects of my predicament set in. Wiggling and squirming, crammed inside a tight rubber sack, transformed into a hogtied rubber mummy, sealed in total encasement except for an air tube through my gag, locked in a confining wooden box, I was on a bondage high.
Of course, the enthusiastic frenzy of being left encased and boxed faded after a while – maybe an hour or two – yet returned at times. Isolated and insulated, with no signals from the outside world and the realization that it might be a long day, I lost track of time early on. I was able to change position, shifting from my stomach to my side, where I could bend my body a little at the waist, and even flip over onto my back if I wanted to put up with lying on top of my arms and feet. My arms and legs felt tingly at times and I would give in to the urge to struggle to try to change their position, while at other times I wiggled around just to keep the blood circulating, all of which stimulated my horniness and reminded me that I was butt-plugged, gagged, locked in chastity, rubber-hogtied, packed in latex encasement, and stuck in a box. My ankles and feet were pretty cramped in that sack, with muscle spasms sometimes when I wiggled them. My knees started to ache. My limbs felt numb at times. The intensity of the triple rubber layers including the thick sack penalized me with heat and sweat when I moved, so after a while I tried to be patient and change position only when I really needed to. Mostly I stayed motionless and silent, afraid to make noise or move about much because of Ross’s warnings.
I should have known when Ross said ‘expect to be ignored’ that’s definitely what would happen, but eventually the drawn-out hours of darkness and bondage storage seemed like the upper limit of what he said I could expect (if not longer). There was ample time to think about the next week of days and nights of more of the same stretching out in front of me. At times some serious horniness resulted, surpassing any other thoughts, almost as though confirming that my purpose in life had been found, but at other times also second thoughts, doubts, panic crept in.
Much of the time horniness and bondage gluttony ruled – a very horny day overall. Overwhelming, intense horny frustration at most times – rubber rapture! But at other times also isolated, lonely feelings, overpowering confinement and physical torment. But the horniness was there, on and off, mostly on, all through it. With the chastity device, there is no release from the horniness except when it fades inexplicably on its own. At one point hogsacked in the box I was feeling horrible boredom and sensory deprivation overload, and I hollered through the gag, but nothing happened, and then my heart pounded with fear of punishment, because I broke the silence rule, but then I hollered again; and eventually as minutes passed, accumulating to what might have been an hour or more, my dick hurt when it tried to get harder from the knowledge that making noise had no effect and I would still be ignored. Then another time the boredom was replaced by total detachment, like I was no longer in my body. I was pretty unhappy after a while though but those feelings disappear quickly once you are released. Difficult to summarize the ups and downs in writing. Maybe I was not so unhappy. Maybe I was getting what I needed...
At times the situation was even restful, my existence reduced to the level of a rubber-hogtied pig, dehumanized and transformed into Ross’s rubber bondage object, a rubber-encapsulated android unit focused solely on its rubber bondage, encasement, and mouth-tube breathing. I fell asleep a few times but did not like waking up, automatically in a panic state in reaction to the darkness and immobility of the tight encasement and boxed confinement. I knew from prior experiences in the box about the water bowl, so eventually feeling my way around poking carefully with my hooded head I found it and sucked from it through the tube of the gag. At other times in the past it was Ross’s piss except today it tasted like pure water but I did not drink a lot of it to try to avoid pissing myself inside the layers of rubber. I could hear my breathing and the rubber creak when I moved around, but otherwise there was dead silence in the box – except for when I tried to cry for help, which (as I said before) was ignored, and for which I am now being punished.
At times I held my breath to listen for noise outside in the hope that Ross was coming to let me out. But he didn’t let me out until my sentence, however many hours he had decided on, was complete. He was never out of my thoughts as the day passed and I waited – mostly quiet, patient, and very horny overall. At the end, fighting the desperation to be released was hard work, a type of a hellish mind game – telling myself you wanted this you stupid fuck and now you have it – and repeating one of the bondage mantras Ross taught me, “Enjoy when you can, and endure when you must.”
Enjoy when you can... rubber rapture! Endure when you must... rubber torture!
Waiting for Ross #23
Greetings, horny Rubbermen. Ross’s pig is back, writing my hog blog and thankful for the opportunity! Read on to understand why.
At present, I am perched on my blogging stool. Wrists are cuffed, arms are otherwise free. Legs are spread, knees bent, and ankles tied back at the rear. The relative freedom feels almost unnatural. About an hour ago, Ross stripped me entirely of all rubberpig gear in order to clean his pig inside and out, including a thorough shave from head to toe. Under my new rubberskin, applied following the cleansing, I feel the effects of the hair removal: the sheath-bondage sensation of tight latex encasing sensitized skin; the hood gripping my exposed scalp under it, never before shaved down completely as it is now. Of strategic location and size, openings in the latex – at the nipples, crotch, and ass – accommodate clamps that Ross applied to torture my freshly denuded tits, cock, and balls, the pain in which I’ve been ordered to ignore. (Ross, reading over my shoulder, reminds the pig to use proper terminology in referring to its body parts.) A vibrating dildo fixed to the stool impales my “hoghole” on a giant fucking plug, the ultimate pleasure of which I’ve been ordered to resist. Typing on the computer, I am straddling the stool, riding the pole buzzing inside me, flexing my “pig’s feet” in opposition to the ropes binding my ankles. Ross says to keep his pigometer (i.e., my cock) up and hard but DO NOT CUM. Free from the chastity device for the first time in days, Ross’s pigometer, with halo of excruciating clamps, bobs hugely erect and oozing precum between my spread legs. I am not allowed to touch it.
The overwhelming sense of euphoria that comes with surviving a challenging experience is influencing my thoughts as I type, along with an emotional bonding even deeper than before with the man who administered the challenge.
Ross says I am to create a thorough narrative, reconstructing details of the pig’s “silence training” since the last blog entry. Here is the story:
Actually, although I didn’t know it at the time, the torturous process had started even before I wrote the last blog entry. Over his pig’s two layers of rubber, Ross had added a third layer, encasing me neck to toe in a dry suit. He had also added a huge gag with muzzle and a thick posture collar over the pig’s rubber hood, plus a leg sack, binding me in leather from the waist down. As I finished writing the last blog, I was beginning to wish for some relief from the added encasement and the gag. I had been sealed in rubber all day (see my last hog blog), and my skin needed air. The heat level was rising fast under the multiple layers. The pressure created by the muzzle, clamping my jaw around the gag, was also noticeable. Without really thinking about it as I typed, an assumption had rooted in my mind. I presumed the regimen Ross had imposed to punish me for violating the rule of silence would not last longer than the duration of my blogging. After I had spent the day sweating in the new hogsack and box storage (again, see my last hog blog), I developed growing expectations, unarticulated though they were, that Ross would give his pig a relatively comfortable night when I finished my hog blog: perhaps one layer of rubber, maybe a cozy sleepsack, and storage horizontally under Ross’s new dungeon bed. In short, the pig, though excited and horny from writing his blog, was also uncomfortable, tired and wanted to sleep.
Unaware of my unspoken assumptions, Ross, who had been reading over my shoulder, informed me when my blogging time was up. I finished quickly and stopped typing. He removed the posture collar, disconnected rope tying my sack-enclosed ankles to the stool, and helped me to stand, unsteady on my legs because they were still inside the leg sack. Anticipating that removal of another piece of gear would come next, I was relieved when Ross started to work on the leg sack. With the layers underneath, the sack felt less than comfy, and I was looking forward to getting out of it. When I sensed that Ross’s adjustments, rather than loosening, were tightening the sack further, preventing me from bending my knees, I was caught off guard and almost tipped over. “Stand straight. Keep fucking still, pig.” It was at that point that I noticed Ross’s voice had taken on a more unsympathetic emphasis than usual, perhaps even an ominous-sounding tone. Already sweating under all the layers, I felt a wave of adrenaline course through me, creating a rush of nervous heat and added perspiration. Rather than removing it, Ross was cinching the leg sack to maximum tightness!
I gulped unintentionally. Swallowing nervously around my gag, I began to suspect that a matching fourth layer of heavy leather for my upper body was coming next, confirmed when Ross removed my handcuffs and the leather gear appeared in his hands. “Arms inside, pig.”
“Mmph!” I was on the verge of protest, but Ross acted quickly.
“No oinking unless I order it, pig!” The meaning in Ross’s voice was unmistakable. He was not in the mood to hear complaints, gagged and muffled though they would be. Before I could get up the nerve to grunt any further objections through the gag and muzzle, Ross was well on his way to packing his layered pig into the tight straitjacket, and I was doing my best to cooperate and remain standing. I started trying to convince myself, bondage pig that I am, that it wouldn’t be such a bad way to spend the night, even with the three layers of rubber underneath.
Snug under “normal” circumstances, the straitjacket that went with the leg sack did not close up easily over the layers created by the two catsuits and drysuit. As it tightened around me, I felt the slimy sweatiness within. Underneath, I was slick and wet with the new, nervous perspiration, on top of the old, thickened sweat that had been basting me all day. Through the eyeholes in my rubber hood, I could see that Ross looked handsome and freshly showered, and I felt embarrassed by the contrast: the beefcake stud and the sweaty rubber pig. Despite my efforts to talk myself into accepting the tight leather encasement, with no relief from head to toe rubber and sweat under it, my anxiety was building.
I heard Ross’s voice. “One oink for ‘yes’ and two oinks for ‘no.’ You hear me in there, pig?”
“Uh.”
“Having fun yet, pig?”
Fuck you. “Uh, uh.”
“No? Well, don’t worry. We’re not finished yet!”
“No? Well, don’t worry. We’re not finished yet!”
SHIT! That wasn’t the right answer!
I watched Ross grab the posture collar and then stoop down. I felt a shove against my waist, an arm wrapping around me, and a loss of control as I was lifted off my feet.
“Lean forward, pig.”
I tilted forward, rigid inside the leather gear, and felt Ross lift me further off the floor. A quick trip across the dungeon deposited me in a standing position, with my tightly bound feet in the center of a pile of leather directly in front of the isolation chamber, inviting entrance with open door waiting. Around my eyes, the only part of my body exposed, I felt cool air coming from the chamber and seeping through the eyeholes of my rubber hood.
Fuck! The isolation chamber! Now I was getting angry.
“One more layer, pig.”
I looked down. Visible through my rubber eye holes, I saw that the pile of leather under and around my feet was a sleepsack. “Uh, uh.”
Ross chuckled. “That was not a question. Your job is to stand still, straight as an arrow, sucking in your stomach and chest when told. And no oinking unless I ask a question. I don’t think that’s too much to ask of a pig while its Master is doing all of this hard work. Understand?”
I gave a single, reluctant oink, but my heart was pounding in protest in my chest. I felt desperate to avoid being trapped in a standing position all night in the isolation chamber, sweating to death inside layers of rubber and leather, in addition to whatever else Ross had in mind. If only he would remove the muzzle and gag to let me explain!
Ross proceeded to pull the thick leather sleepsack up my encased body and into place over my shoulders. Obviously he thought it was easier for him to put the sleepsack on while I was in a standing position, rather than let me lie on the floor, but the work required on my part to wiggle around at his command and simultaneously maintain my balance felt humiliating. I didn’t want what was happening, yet he was making me help him do it. I wobbled with my efforts to keep from tipping over, a fate that Ross prevented on a few occasions. Struggling with the physical balance, I also struggled to keep my emotions in check. Forced to cooperate with what I didn’t want in the first place, I was on the verge of losing my temper!
After Ross manipulated the open sack (and pig within) into position, he ordered me to draw in my stomach and chest. I felt the sack come together as Ross worked the heavy zipper, with ease up my already tightly bound legs, but with difficulty over the bulge of my arms, held crossed in front within straps binding the straitjacket sleeves. Exasperated and on the verge of resisting, if I had not been muzzled and gagged so tightly I would have tried to tell him it would never work. The sleepsack was not meant to enclose a straitjacketed torso.
“One more time, pig. Exhale and suck in.”
Pulling my shoulders together, I exhaled at Ross’s command and felt something give. The leather converged, compressing my upper body as one of the zippers slid over bound forearms and up the chest to the target, where the sack fused at my neck to complete the total enclosure.
“Excellent!” Ross sounded elated. He circled around me, tugging at the outer leather casement here and there and testing the zippers, as if to be certain the fit was acceptable. Trying to resist the urge to panic, I concentrated on my posture and breathing, of which the added, binding constriction made me acutely aware. Feeling the compression over my body, I inhaled slowly through the narrow tube leading from mouth, through gag and muzzle, to outside air.
Through my hood, I saw a mocking expression on Ross’s face as he surveyed the result of his efforts.
“Very stylish. And so you! Straitjacketed and sleepsacked simultaneously. The height of bondage pig fashion!”
I wanted to say, fuck you, I’d like to see you try it. Instead, I exhaled, still attempting to regulate my breathing, as Ross, chatting as he worked, thoroughly tied the laces and fastened the straps of the leather sack. Attempting to stand straight as instructed, demeaned by my own compliance and Ross’s sarcastic comments, and reacting to the increasing pressure as Ross jerked and pulled at the straps, I was all too aware of Ross’s words (which I reconstruct here to the best of my memory).
“Pay attention to what I’m telling you, pig.”
I gave a single, resentful oink.
“This dungeon is thoroughly monitored. Today, despite my explicit instructions, you grunted for help, violating the order of silence six times while you were hogsacked and boxed. Why didn’t you follow the rules? Did you think you were in danger?”
At this point, exhausted, overheated, and uncomfortable inside the tight leather packing, I almost didn’t care what answer Ross wanted. Reluctantly, I oinked twice, indicating a “no” answer. “Uh, uh.”
“Okay. I didn’t think you were in danger either. And it seems you survived quite well, doesn’t it? From what I read over your shoulder in your hog blog, you were in hog heaven today. Don’t you think it’s a bit peculiar, seeing as how you were enjoying yourself so much, that you oinked for help in spite of my warnings? ”
Fighting the urge to seek relief from the binding tightness, I stood still. A few seconds of silence passed until, “Uh,” I finally oinked once, unwillingly agreeing.
I heard Ross’s voice take on an unmistakably contemptuous tone. “So, in other words, you are the pig that cried wolf. How can I trust you to indicate real trouble if you whimper at the slightest discomfort?”
Through the eye holes of the rubber hood, I saw Ross, at last finished with the sleepsack. His gaze seemed to penetrate my eyes as he stared sardonically into his pig’s hooded, gagged, and muzzled face. The addition of the sleepsack felt unbearable at that moment, but, embarrassed by Ross’s words, I was oinkless. I saw Ross bend over to pick up a piece of leather gear and recognized it was a heavy sensory-deprivation hood.
“I told you this morning at the beginning of this that if you didn’t follow the rules, you could lose your break privileges, but I can see now that you need more specific training around the rule of silence. I trust you agree?”
My anger replaced by fear, I oinked once, trying to redeem myself, responding to the authoritative, no nonsense manner in the tone of my Master’s voice. Around this time, Ross launched into a lengthy discourse, impossible to remember verbatim, of the pig’s silence training. Here is my recollection, as close to Ross’s words as possible.
“What’s happening here is this: You have lost your break privileges for 24 hours, maybe longer, which you will spend standing in the isolation chamber and contemplating the value of suffering in silence. I will add this padded hood and the posture collar and then lock you in. You will be closely monitored. After eight hours are up, I’ll open the cell door and temporarily remove enough of your head gear to give you fluids. If you have been quiet, with no oinking for those eight hours, I will reward you by leaving the leather hood and collar off after I give you something nourishing to drink. If you have not been quiet, you will be given piss to drink instead; you will be regagged, head sealed, and left that way again.
“Understand so far, pig?”
The mortified pig did not respond.
“The next consecutive eight hours will be similar. Quiet is rewarded, oinking is not. It is a simple concept. If you are quiet twice, 16 hours in a row, in addition to the hood staying off, the sleepsack comes off, and you get something pleasant to drink. If not quiet, you get no additional freedom and only piss to drink. If you behave by being consistently quiet, the hood comes off first, the sleepsack second, the leg sack third, and then you get out of the straitjacket and cell at the end of 24 hours. If you misbehave and cry wolf, you get yourself eight hours more of the same you had for each session when you didn’t stay quiet. It’s up to you. Stay quiet, get progressive relief, and you’re out in 24 hours. Cry wolf, get no relief, and you could be in there for days, until I decide you’re not the pig for me and send you home. Understand all this, pig?”
Now I was totally pissed. The pig understood and did not like what it heard. It oinked twice, loudly. “Uh, uh!”
“Well, if not now you will soon. I should hear absolutely nothing from the audio in that cell except the sound of breathing and the creak of leather. Understand that, pig?”
Defiantly, I shook my head no and oinked twice, as if to say, fuck you. “Uh, uh.”
I tried to twist my head away when I saw Ross’s hands holding the hood as it approached my face; I felt the firm grip of Ross’s hand forcing my head into position; and, quickly, there was complete darkness. I felt leather against rubber as Ross lined up the small grommet hole, the only opening in the padded leather hood, with my mouth tube. With no vision to distract from physical sensations of tight enclosure, I began feeling overpowered by the intensity of it all. The hood was reinforced with extra thickness in special places, and I could feel Ross sealing my rubber-encased head in the heavy leather, which he zipped, laced, and strapped to the max. I imagined the expression on his face, relishing the forced encasement. I panted through my breathing tube as I felt the posture collar close around my neck to complete the leather mummification. Aware of my own helplessness inside my rigid leather pod, I felt Ross’s hands under my elbows. I was lifted and set back down quickly on my tightly packed feet.
With Ross’s steadying hands immediately withdrawn, I teetered backward, and then forward to compensate. I felt my shoulders and elbows brush against solid walls. Shifting my bound feet, pushing and scraping my outer leather cocoon against each of the four walls, my bondage pig self twisted around in distress, testing to see if the cell door had really been closed and locked.
Writing about my silence training now, I look down at my crotch. I feel and see Ross’s pigometer rising and pulsing against the biting clamps that Ross applied to its shaft and head. The dildo is vibrating in my ass, and my clamped nipples are on fire. I feel on the verge of cumming. I am too horny to continue…
... but Ross has not given me the signal to stop.
Back to the story...
Locked in the narrow chamber, initially I was hyperaware that all of the layers of rubber and leather combined had turned me into a rigid mummy. I tensed my muscles, deliberately testing the boundaries of the multiple encasements and tightly applied restraints. The only part of my body capable of movement, very limited at that, was my feet. With my ankles bound together tightly, I twisted around by wiggling my toes and shifting my weight on the balls and heels of my feet. Aimlessly bumping the walls, I had nowhere to go in the cramped vertical cell. The rigid cocoon and narrow chamber kept me in a standing position. I soon figured out that the padded hood and layers of encasement that imprisoned me also insulated me from any harm. Within the limited cell space, I was barely able to lean against one cell wall or the other. Relief from standing was not in the cards. Rest would be impossible. My production of sweat was increasing. I quickly understood that the only way I could hurt myself was by squirming around too much and overheating. Sealed in my own sweat, I would be sealed in piss too if I needed to urinate inside my tight cocoon.
I was cooked, and I knew it. I had consented to be under Ross’s total control for the coming week or more, and Ross was not likely to renege on the agreement. Ross meant what he said, and said what he meant. I realized that I would need to learn the lesson of silence that he was determined to teach me. In my dark, insulated world of tight encasement, heavy bondage, inescapable confinement, and total sensory deprivation, I contemplated my state of existence as Ross’s pig. Barely able to grunt even if I weren’t afraid to try, knowing that I would be penalized for any infraction, I felt overwhelmed by the realization that I had no choice except to endure yet another level of Ross’s control. That realization, coupled with the acute physical sensations of my predicament, set off horny sensors in my entire body, suddenly in pursuit of bondage pleasure from head to toe.
Squirming uncontrollably in response, I struggled against the heavy restraints and close confinement of the narrow chamber. Unable to harden inside the chastity device, my reawakening cock compensated for its inactivity and imprisonment by turning my entire body into a giant, sheathed erection. Reveling in being plugged at both ends, I used my neck muscles to strain forward and maximize the penetration of the huge gag stuffing my mouth; I clenched my ass muscles to squeeze and thrust forward the thick dildo filling my ass. My entire being felt transformed, taken over by a rush of bottled-up sexual energy.
The self-admission that I was Ross’s pig had turned me into a man-sized human cock, rubber-encased and packed tight inside an oversized leather condom, and determined to cum at all costs. Involuntarily, the blood filled my muscles as they flexed and contracted against the tight bindings. My entire bound form struggled and convulsed as the heightening climax finally erupted from far down within me. There was no escape from the heavy restraint or the surges of painful pleasure, and I was helpless to resist when the intensity of my orgasmic struggles gave rise to blasts of seal-like sounds, oinking “ork” noises from deep inside my bound and hooded form. Oink-orking uncontrollably through my gagged, muzzled, and hooded mouth, I was gripped by a succession of volcanic ejaculations, compelling my body to writhe ecstatically inside the tight cocoon and cramped cell. With no outlet for erection and eruption, the surging of my cock pumped through my entire body, convulsing it in series of consecutive orgasms more agonizingly intense and prolonged than I had ever experienced.
Oinking in agony and pleasure, alternately sucking and blowing air through the tiny mouth tube, sweating my plugged ass off inside the confines of the tight cocoon, the greedy, squirming, rubber bondage pig in me struggled to cum, over and over, again and again, as many times as my rubber-encased, leather-mummified, imprisoned body would endure it.
Writing about it now, my pigometer is bursting with appreciation of Ross. It feels ready to explode with each word I come up with to describe the agony he put me through. I know I must continue writing, to describe the endless misery that engulfed me after I finally stopped cumming, but it’s difficult to focus on blogging, I keep rereading the text above, my tits are aching, the dildo feels like it just went into overdrive, and my dick feels
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POSTSCRIPT from Ross: The pig failed to complete this entry, interrupted when, without my permission, he shot pig glop all over the computer before his time was up. Trust me, Rubbermen, he is already regretting it!