Waiting for Ross #24
The purple head of Tim’s cock throbbed as he squeezed it. His right arm shook as he pounded his meat harder. Tim’s neck and shoulder were stiff from the repetitive motion. The cum/piss channel inside the shaft of his swollen, red dick burned as he pulled relentlessly, unable to stop the masturbatory action evoked by the images on his computer. Consumed by horniness and his unfettered ability to satisfy it, Tim didn’t care if he dislocated his shoulder or ripped his cock off, as long as he came one more time.
Sitting naked at his computer, aware of feeling chilled but choosing to ignore the odd sensation of rubber-free skin open to the air, Tim continued the jack-off frenzy as he studied the photos displayed on the computer monitor. Knowing that he was the anonymous-looking, hooded rubber slave pictured, Tim matched the images with the corresponding text and his own memories of each situation. Awestruck, Tim kneaded his cock as he studied the aborted “hog blog” Ross had made him begin and the photos Ross had just posted at the web site documenting Tim’s 10 day incarceration.
Earlier today, as Ross had driven Tim home to his own apartment, finally ending Tim’s imprisonment, Tim had thought he had never wanted anything more in his life than to be free forever of the captivity of Ross’s relentless rubber encasement, bondage, and control. Now, barely a few hours later, Tim hated himself for his reaction to the photos of the extreme restraint Ross had made him endure. His hard, overworked cock pulsated with excitement. Fuck! It was a cycle Tim had repeated before: Hating Ross for enforcing the inescapability of his captivity while it was happening, vowing never to see him again after it was over, and then getting so excited by pictures and memories afterward that he was eager for more. Tim promised himself that this time would be different. Ten days spent encapsulated in rubber, severely bound and locked in confinement had been too extreme. Tim would never let it happen again. Determined to get past his horniness, Tim felt certain that cumming one more time would cure him forever.
Tim alternately pumped his sore cock, pinched his nipples, and clicked through the perverted galleries showing Ross’s depraved exploitation of the captive rubber pig. The pictures were posted in five separate galleries; his cock erupting with thick gobs of pent-up cum, Tim had barely viewed galleries I and II before shooting his wad four times in succession. Galleries III and IV had prompted the fifth orgasm. Now that Tim, pumping wildly but unable to cum again so soon, had finally viewed Gallery V, he realized the pictures were posted in chronologic order. Trying to reconstruct the general sequence of events in his own mind, Tim felt confused. What happened during the first few days triggered vivid memories, some of which were described in the hog blog, but the predicaments making up the rest of Tim’s imprisonment, after he lost his regular break and blogging privileges, were indistinguishable in his mind, where they merged together into a huge, dark time block of immobilizing, sensory-depriving rubber encasement and isolating confinement. By the end of the 10 days he had been almost comatose with exhaustion from suppressing the agonizing desperation for release, and yet now he couldn’t stop his cock from wanting more!
Still determined to cum again, a sixth time, to rid himself of such thoughts, Tim massaged his painfully hard cock and studied one image in which the slave appeared particularly photogenic. From head to toe, the cocooned male form gleamed with the sleek, shiny blackness of impossibly skintight rubber. Tim suddenly realized that in viewing the photo, he was seeing himself from Ross’s point of view, standing over his totally encased rubber pig, sealed in rubber and trussed helplessly, exactly as Ross preferred. The rubber hood gripped so perfectly that Tim’s head looked skull-like, with the visible outline of his compressed ears tightly sealed in place and the only opening a small tube at the mouth, which Tim knew was part of the gag concealed underneath. In contrast to the long lines of the narrow sleepsack, the tightly encased rubber mummy was constricted by a wide, black rubber posture collar and multiple rubber belts encircling the molded cocoon from shoulders to ankles. Even in the picture the tightly fastened rubber straps looked extremely restrictive, and Tim’s cock further solidified as he correlated the image with the physical sensations he remembered. Tim thought about Ross’s distrust of rubber sleepsacks as a sole basis for inescapable bondage: “If the pig squirms vigorously enough, rubber can fail.” The rubber sleepsack in the photo, with its extra thickness and integrated reinforcing straps, was the only one Ross felt confident did not require an outer layer of leather in order to prevent escape. With recall of that knowledge, Tim’s engorged cock stiffened painfully straight as he rubbed his thumb over its inflamed head and pulled at the smoothly shaved root of the tender shaft. Although undetectable in the photo, Tim also knew that he was gagged, butt-plugged, catheterized, and sealed in another layer of rubber under the tight sleepsack.
As he worked his cock, Tim counted the six belts on the sleepsack and examined the wide bondage collar and its D rings, all plainly visible in the picture. Tim’s thoughts, reconstructing his incarceration as a horny memory, returned to the situation depicted. He remembered that Ross had later boasted that he had kept Tim that way for 2½ days. Studying the picture further, Tim knew that the entry into the sleepsack, through a set of rear zippers invisible in the picture, was probably fastened with a padlock. The small crotch level zipper in front, concealed by one of the straps, allowed Ross access to Tim’s urinary catheter, which Ross kept plugged except to drain Tim’s bladder, sometimes into Tim’s mouth, at varying intervals. Ross used the air tube extending from the concealed gag through the mouth hole of the hood for cautious infusions of fluid, water, piss, or Gatorade, to keep Tim hydrated. Careful preparation for 24 hours beforehand with enemas and a liquid diet had ensured that Tim’s ass could remain plugged for the duration of the encasement.
Tim recalled further details. About three or four days into Tim’s 10 days of ‘probation’ in Ross’s dungeon, Ross had changed the rules. After catheterizing Tim’s dick and discontinuing the blogging sessions as punishment for cumming without permission, breaks became fewer, and the time between breaks grew interminably. Afraid to make a peep after the severe punishment Ross had administered early on when Tim made noise without permission, Tim endured the longer stretches of uninterrupted confinement in silence. And Ross rewarded Tim by making them longer and longer, culminating in the 2½ days in the rubber sleepsack. Tim’s familiar mantra entered his head: “Fucking bastard.”
Tim clicked on other thumbnail photos in Gallery V to enlarge them and found that several of them, some with captions, documented his multi-day imprisonment in the rubber sleepsack.
The caption under the photo Tim had been studying read,
“Day 1 – Preparations completed: Tightly hooded, gagged, collared, locked in a sleepsack, sealed in 100% total rubber encasement, arms trapped inside inner sleeves, heavily bound outside with rubber belts from shoulders to ankles. All holes plugged underneath. The pig is in rubber bondage heaven.”
In the next photo, showing another view of the rubber sleepsack, Tim was standing in Ross’s vertical steel cage. The caption read,
“Day 1 – Contemplation: Forced to stand locked in the vertical cage, the pig slave endures in silence (as trained). The slave was left as shown for 12 hours to contemplate its love of rubber encasement.”
The next photo showed Tim, still strapped up tight in the rubber sack but lying inside a horizontal wooden enclosure with one side open to the camera. The caption read,
“Night 1 – Overnight storage: With no letup in the 12+ hours of tight encasement and bindings, the rubber slave has been transferred to a horizontal wooden box for overnight storage. The greedy pig can’t get enough. Sweet rubber dreams, pig.”
Tim thought, “Fucking bastard makes it seem like it was all my idea.” The next photo, without caption, showed the door of the box, closed with latches and padlocks.
Tim quickly read the captions for two more photos:
“Day 2 – Still wallowing in hog heaven in his rubber cocoon without break after 24 hours, the encasement pig is committed to solitary confinement in the isolation chamber, his favorite place to spend a day.”
“Night 2 and Day 3 – Still strapped tightly in his rubber cocoon at 36 hours and counting, the pig wants more, so it is enclosed in an outer leather sleepsack, attached to a hoist, and left suspended and ignored for an additional 24 hours. This pig can’t get enough! OINK!”
Tim studied the last photo showing his own mummified form, helplessly suspended in Ross’s dungeon closet, where Tim had spent up to 36 hours in previous bondage sessions waiting for Ross. While this session had lasted only 24 hours, it had been excruciating for Tim, and now he better understood why - he had already been in the rubber sleepsack for 1½ days, and then Ross had put the leather one over top and left him that way for 24 hours more! “Fucking bastard. 'OINK' yourself.”
The burning sensation in Tim’s cock increased as Tim struggled to achieve the orgasm he thought would put an end to his interest in Ross forever. He was very close to cumming, as he had been several times before, but each effort, punctuated with ass clenching and pelvic thrusting, ended in frustration. Fuck! He just had to cum one more time.
Tim clicked on a picture he had not previously viewed at the very top of Gallery V. It was a photo of Ross, in full Rubber Master Regalia. Exuding brawn and ego, Ross posed standing with legs parted wide, hands on hips, biceps bulging, and a commanding, arrogant expression on his masculine, chiseled face. A sleeveless rubber tank top, under a rubber vest, tapered down Ross’s torso to a large belt and buckle, below which Ross’s prominent crotch and muscular thighs were encased by rubber jeans. The reflection of the camera flash on the stretched surfaces of the shiny black rubber emphasized the muscularity of Ross’s pectorals and quads. His face was framed top and bottom by a rubber military-style cap and dark goatee. His commanding posture, the tattoo and black band on the left arm, and the high black boots completed the hyper-masculine effect. The setting was his dungeon, with its dark background, a glimpse of a white urinal, and chains hanging from the ceiling. At his feet, between his spread legs, was the familiar form of the encased slave, strapped up tight in his rubber sleepsack. In chalk-white letters, the word “pig” was visible on the rubber hood over the slave’s forehead. The photo perfectly captured Ross’s superiority, overpowering dominance, and absolute control of the bound rubber slut at his feet.
Tim moaned as he pounded his dick repeatedly.
Minutes later, exasperated that he still hadn’t cum, Tim stopped stroking his cock and took in more details of the photo of Ross and his rubber pig. Tim knew that wannabe rubber slaves, browsing Ross’s rubber site across the country, were probably salivating, groaning, pumping, and shooting cum all over this picture while they wished they were the pig encased and bound at Ross’s feet. Tim had to admit that Ross was devastating. His Rubber God persona, almost too fantastic to be true, was evident, yet Tim knew all too well he was the real thing. Tim wondered how many of the wannabes would be able to deal with the reality of Ross’s requirements: the extended bondage sessions, staying put, comfortable or not, no matter what, until Ross decided otherwise; the isolation and confinement; the unending head to toe rubber encasement; the total control of body and eventually mind, when you reach the stage where you never wanted anything more in your entire life than to be released.
“I’d be crazy to go back for more,” Tim thought, his cock poking up between his legs. Tim suddenly remembered the email from Ross, the one that had started this marathon jack off session. Tim had been so consumed with the galleries that he hadn’t really read the full text. He clicked on the folder and retrieved it:
“pig,
“Go to the URL above to see photos of ur 10-day stay in my dungeon. u hereby have my permission to enjoy them while I am out of town this week.
“I am pleased with the progress u made in these 10 days. u have finally learned to keep quiet, an essential quality if u expect to be my full time encasement pig. From now on, I will count on u to endure captivity in my dungeon in total silence, speaking only at my request, and remaining quiet otherwise, with no pathetic squealing or grunts of objection from ur little mouth, which will be gagged and sealed most of the time. u were very quiet during the ride home earlier today, and I take this as a sign of further compliance. From now on, on the rare occasions when u are in my presence outside the dungeon, such as in the car this afternoon, u will not speak without asking my permission, and u will keep ur head down, concentrating ur gaze at my feet unless I permit u to look up or elsewhere.
“We still need to work on cum training. u are such a bondage pig that ur greedy cock has been able so far to overcome all of the devices I’ve used to try to control it. While I would like to keep u catheterized permanently as one possible solution, in the long term this may not be healthy; plus, I fear the day when u will cum even while catheterized, which also may not be healthy. I am going to look into acquiring electrified shock or spike-lined devices, to deter ur pig’s cock, through use of pain, from seeking enough pleasure to cum while locked up. The goal is to achieve a physical and mental state in which u cum only when I permit it, and to achieve that perfect balance of allowing u to cum often enough to keep u healthy but seldom enough to keep u horny and craving the bondage u were born for.”
Tim grabbed his cock again, now rock hard, and pumped furiously as he continued to read Ross’s message:
“u should expect to have no free weekends from now on. Also, except for this week while I’m out of town, u will be ‘on call’ on weeknights, meaning that u will always be ready to respond to last minute orders from me to clear ur evening. This is part of our plan to continue progress toward 24/7/365 encasement, eventually moving u to full time slavery in my dungeon. I have already dropped hints with ur boss, my good friend Judy, that having u ‘work’ for me may simplify our relationship. I may check in with her this week with a phone call. I’ll be interested to hear from her or u as to whether ur coworkers like ur new ‘do’ – shaved heads are in style these days anyway.”
With his right hand hard at work on his cock, Tim rubbed his left hand over the stubble beginning to grow on his smooth scalp while he read the last paragraph:
“I will return on Friday. Be ready. u should be freshly shaved from head to toe, well cleaned out and corked with a fat butt plug. As soon as u finish work, go home and get encased in ur favorite rubber suit, with that big plug underneath, and wait in ur apartment for me. See u Friday, pig.
-R”
As though Ross were speaking aloud inside Tim’s head, Tim’s cock responded, erupting with an excruciatingly strong, quick orgasm that produced almost no cum. It seemed Tim had wanked himself dry.
An hour later in his bed, Tim’s mental agitation was winning out over the physical exhaustion that should have led to immediate sleep. Thinking about Ross and his staggering presumptions were keeping Tim awake. “Fucking egotistical ballsy bastard,” Tim said aloud. The 10-day stay in Ross’s dungeon had been really tough. Ross had been relentless with the tight bondage and solitary confinement. “Fucking bastard.” There had been countless times when Tim, alone for hours in Ross’s dungeon, had thought he was losing his mind, about to go crazy while waiting for Ross to give him some relief. And now Ross wanted him to live like that. “Not in this life,” Tim thought. Ross couldn’t be for real. But, just in case, Tim resolved to limit his time in Ross’s dungeon to what Tim wanted. He had to overcome his reluctance to speak up and tell Ross that the 24/7 notion was unrealistic. Yes, at first he had wanted it, such a horny idea, but after the 10 day preview, now he wasn’t so sure. An arrangement made up of occasional weekends, maybe even some weeknights, would be enough. Tim would keep his job and his own apartment. And his hair!
While Tim lay in bed, eyes closed, trying to formulate his response to Ross’s email message, his mind, alert and active, insisted on reprocessing the events of the last 10 days. The galleries flashed in his head, showing hugely enlarged photos of the humiliated rubber pig, with their crude captions suggesting he was practically begging for more. The image of Rubber Master Ross towered over him, and the words in Ross’s email message, which it seemed Tim had memorized instantly, were recited automatically: “… part of our plan to continue progress toward 24/7/365 encasement… full time slavery in my dungeon.” Tim snorted, “NOT!” Ross couldn’t be serious. But Tim’s cock, hard again, was rigid against his stomach. “…deter your pig’s cock, through use of pain, from seeking enough pleasure to cum while locked up… keep you horny and craving the bondage you were born for.”
About to cum a seventh time since arriving home just hours earlier, Tim twisted in bed and groaned loudly as the painful orgasm took hold. Pinching his nipples, stretching out his legs, flexing his feet and pointing his toes, Tim enjoyed it to the fullest extent possible while he rolled from side to side and the spasms ran their course.
Minutes later, as he recovered from cumming, Tim began to feel totally relaxed, his cock finally satisfied. His anxiety about Ross dissipated, eased by the thought that he had all week to compose a reply to Ross’s ridiculous message. Convincing himself that Ross had been joshing, deciding to think about it later in the week, Tim fell into a deep sleep.
Waiting for Ross #25
Focusing instead on the sensations of his pulsating cock, Tim ignored the other parts of his body that were stiff and sore – mostly his neck, but also his right shoulder and arm, buttocks, thighs, and asshole. Three days of jerking off 5-10 times every 24 hours had taken a toll on Tim’s masturbation muscles!
Seated at his desk, Tim pushed forward in the chair. It was just past 8:30 PM. He had been home for 15 minutes. Mail unread, laundry everywhere, dishes in the kitchen sink: Tim was oblivious to the waiting chores in his apartment as he sat in front of his computer. Today, jerking off in a stall of the restroom at work, he had cum only twice since leaving his apartment this morning, and the resulting horniness was building up, especially now that he was finally home, all alone with his hard dick. Dropping it for a moment, Tim paused to roll his head from side to side as he massaged his neck. Absentmindedly, he rubbed his hand against the stubble over his scalp. His cock throbbed at the reminder of his shaved head.
Riveted to his computer for the third night in a row, Tim was no longer mesmerized by the array of images depicting his recent rubber imprisonment in Ross’s dungeon. Yes, the photos of the rubberized victim, always severely bound and encased head to toe, still produced unending hard-ons. And no, he hadn’t lost interest in studying every detail, at which he marveled when contemplating the fetishism that addicted him to Ross. In fact, earlier tonight, anxious to get home to browse the galleries for the 100th time, he had rushed through his after-work visit to the gym and subsequent dinner with his parents. A similar state of affairs had also occurred the night before, when he had hit the gym in an exercise fury and then shortened his dinner with Brad, who had annoyed Tim with teasing remarks about his ‘hot new do’ and questions about Ross.
“Fuck,” Tim said aloud. Tim struggled to clear his mind of memories of Brad’s probing comments and the look on his mother’s face as she tried not to stare at his baldness. And, he did not want to think about how difficult it had been this week to concentrate on his responsibilities at work. The 7-day absence, followed by showing up with a shaved head, had elicited unwanted notice by his coworkers, and his boss Judy had been very quiet toward him. Plus, he had been spending a lot of time in the men’s room, where he worked hard to satisfy his perpetually hard cock, instead of in his office, where he should have worked hard to get his assignments done.
Tim tried to snap out of his reverie. His pectoral and ass muscles, hurting from the quick, heavy weightlifting of the preceding days, ached as he stretched and shifted in his chair.
Momentarily diverting his eyes from the rubber-hooded slave on his computer monitor, Tim looked down at the part of his body that usually controlled his thoughts: Demanding his attention, Tim’s cock rose up from the open zipper of his pants; it pumped independently, living its own life, eagerly seeking direct stimulation, telling Tim it was time again to charm the snake. With a mixture of disgust and horniness, Tim closed his hand around his sore, painfully stiff cock and squeezed. It looked and felt like the biggest boner he had ever experienced.
While Tim had not grown tired of viewing the pictures that documented his 10 days of service as Ross’s rubberpig, he had found that the continual self manipulation and beating off of the last 3 days satisfied him only briefly each time; 20-30 minutes post orgasm, his cock was always ready for more. In other words, Tim was dying of horniness. The constant pounding and repeated tossing off had become poor substitutes for the rubber-sealed bondage and control Ross had obliged Tim to endure. Furious at Ross initially when released, now, after only 3 days of freedom, Tim wanted to go back to the real thing. Wanking at galleries was not enough. His plans and efforts to move beyond the compulsion for rubber enslavement that Ross had activated were failing. The exhilarating freedom and sense of survival following his 10-day ordeal were fading in the heat of his current desires. His huff over Ross’s audacity, treating Tim for 10 days like some kind of rubber bondage robot, had passed. Imagining he was back in Ross’s dungeon – helplessly bound, gagged, sealed and locked away in a desolate purgatory of waiting for Ross – Tim pumped furiously until his cock exploded, erupting with enough cum to land on the keyboard, coat his hand, and stain his jeans.
An hour later, Tim was back at it, sitting naked at his desk and choking the chicken. So soon after cumming, however, there was less urgency to satisfy his cock as quickly. Rocking in place gingerly in the chair to grind the largest butt plug he owned deeper into his ass, Tim enjoyed riding the gentle wave of horniness enveloping him. The plug, being too big for regular wear, under normal circumstances would have resulted in instant orgasm upon insertion. With Tim’s current state of sexual overdrive, however, the super-sized discomfort merely engorged Tim’s dancing cock, which felt to Tim like it was directly connected to the plug underneath.
Tim jiggled his ass on the huge plug, and his smooth cock bounced up, full and hard, over top of the thick rubber stretcher squeezing his shaved balls. The weights attached to his nipple clamps bobbed.
Having been merciless with plugging himself at both ends, Tim sucked the saliva awkwardly to the back of his throat and swallowed hard to avoid drooling around the oversized gag he had strapped in place. Playing with his cock intermittently, Tim browsed the pictures and tried to ignore the nagging concern that entered his mind now that he was no longer totally consumed by horniness: He hadn’t heard from Ross since Sunday. Tim had been in such a snit when Ross drove him home that Tim hadn’t even tried to find out why Ross would be out of town or where he was going.
Aware that his use of the same ISP as Ross allowed him to check the status of messages, Tim clicked on his SENT folder and checked the two email messages, one sent last night and the other this morning. The system showed that Ross had opened both, and yet Tim had received no response. Tim reread the messages:
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Sir,
Thanks for the email message with instructions and photos. Sorry I did not respond sooner. Hope your trip is going well. Also left a message on your cell phone.
Tim
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Sir,
Getting ready for work this morning and just thought I’d touch base. Have been enjoying the photos! (Oink) Hope to hear from you soon.
Tim
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Tim wondered why Ross would read the messages but not respond. He composed a third message and clicked SEND:
Sir,
Your pig is out of its mind with horniness and wishes it were sealed in rubber bondage in Your dungeon all week, left to squirm and sweat while waiting for You to return. Can’t wait until the weekend!
pig
Tim’s cock, at full hardness, was leaking – precum or old cum? – Tim had been masturbating so much he could no longer distinguish between the two. He returned his gaze to the gallery. Taking in the full extent of activities and time span represented by all of the photos that were posted, Tim was impressed with how closely Ross had monitored Tim’s progress during the 10-day ordeal. While he had been encased and sealed up, bound tight and squirming in discomfort, unable to see or hear external stimuli, isolated and locked away, Tim had often regretted the situation bitterly, feeling angry and abandoned; thinking Ross was unreasonable; fretting that he would overheat, dehydrate, suffocate, or be permanently damaged. And yet it seemed obvious from the photos that Ross would never have let such things happen. It was clear that Ross, or one of his friends, had been closely caring for and watching over Tim the entire time. Ross had taken their shared rubber bondage fantasies to new levels – fuck, he had even surpassed them – in what now, in retrospect, appeared to be a realistic and safe manner! As hellish as the extreme, prolonged bondage had seemed to Tim at the time, Tim had to admit to himself that he felt fine and healthy; the only aftereffect was unrelenting horniness, leading him to want more! A sense of ungratefulness, unaccompanied by feelings of guilt, descended over Tim. He wished Ross would respond to his messages.
Scanning the photos for the umpteenth time, Tim’s attention was drawn to a file he had not noticed before, posted next to the gallery photos. Was the file, named “rubberpig in storage,” new? Or, had he simply overlooked it before, in a frenzy of horniness? His cock bobbing with excitement, Tim clicked quickly to open it, which activated the video player on his computer.
He would have gasped if his mouth were not stuffed full and stretched wide by the huge gag. Beating his cock while he squirmed on the massive plug and moaned around the gag, Tim watched the movie play on his computer monitor: A slim, muscular male, his appealing body totally encased in a skintight rubber catsuit, stood submissively at attention, with his head bowed in a slave-like pose. The camera panned into close-ups of a spreader bar locked between his ankles, a harness restraining his hands behind and high on his back, and a view of his head, sealed tightly inside a rubber hood with no openings except a tube at the mouth. The camera lingered for a few seconds at the mouth; with the audio, Tim could hear air enter and exit through the tube. Then the camera faded out of focus, transitioning to a scene that showed a zipper opened at the crotch of the slave’s catsuit, where it exposed a chastity device. The next few scenes, all focusing on similar frontal views, had obviously been skillfully edited to show the change from removal of the chastity device to the installation of a spike-lined pouch over the slave’s rapidly expanding cock and balls. Panning close-ups front and rear visually communicated that straps around the waist, through the ass crack, and over top of the butt-plugged hole were fastened tightly, trapping the slave’s compressed cock and balls within the encasement of the spiked jock before the catsuit was again zipped closed.
A pause in the sequence showed the slave flexing his knees, with accompanying audio indicating panting and moaning muffled by the rubber hood. The slave’s discomfort in adjusting to his new jock was obvious. Watching the video, Tim moaned through his own gag in enjoyment of the rubber victim’s torment.
Fading in and out from one shot to the next to signify sequential steps, the video then proceeded to document removal of the outer restraints and addition of a second layer of black latex, which enclosed the slave in a tightly molded rubber sleepsack, eventually sealed from head to toe with zippers and straps.
Tim continued stroking his cock as the video progressed forward to a point when the slave’s metamorphosis was complete: The tightly-muscled, rubber-catsuited male standing upright at the start of the video had been transformed into a prone, hogtied rubber mummy; supplementing the mummifying encasement of the rubber sack, the knees were bent and legs pulled back by straps connecting the slave’s restrained ankles to the top of his head, where a harness was fastened over the rubber hood and a thick collar encircled his neck. For about 20 seconds or longer, the camera remained still, capturing the squirming slave’s humiliating attempts to wiggle free from the arched position and shift the weight of his body off his crotch. With the time devoted to the scene, it seemed apparent that the cameraman was enjoying this particular sequence. As the picture finally started to dissolve, the struggling slave had managed to lean partially to one side, where he remained still, apparently resting; with a whoosh of air audible on the video, he appeared to sigh as deeply as the restraints and breathing tube allowed, as though in a state of acceptance of his uncomfortable predicament.
Whacking himself furiously, riding the butt plug, on the verge of cumming, Tim thought the movie was over, but the picture came back into view: The camera fade-in revealed that the hogtied rubber mummy had been transferred intact to the inside of a horizontal wooden box. Pulling back to show a lateral view of the open container, the camera then zoomed in on attachment points where the slave was immobilized by tethers to the front, top, and bottom sides of the box, the floor space of which allowed just enough room for him to rest on his stomach, on which he was trapped rigidly in place in the hogtie position. The last scene showed an anonymous, gloved hand closing the box, with the hogtied mummy inside disappearing from view. The camera zoomed back slightly, showing the gloved hand inserting padlocks into latches, and then the camera backed away further, giving a wider view of Ross’s dungeon. The video ended with the box in the distance as the dungeon light was turned off.
His right hand busily pumping, on the brink of allowing the meat-pounding to pass the point of no return, Tim reacted with a startle response as the noise of the telephone on his desk interrupted his wild masturbation. The caller ID showed Ross’s cell phone number. Tim let go of his cock and pulled madly at the straps and gag to get it out in time to answer the phone. Choking on the pooled saliva and sputtering into the phone, Tim cleared his throat and said, “Hello… um, Sir.”
Ross responded: “Hi, pig. What’s all that choking and coughing? Are you sick?”
“No, Sir. Um… My mouth was full when the phone rang.”
Ross chuckled and said, “Well, coincidentally, just before I called I was thinking of your mouth, as I aimed my cock at the toilet and took a long, noisy piss.”
Remaining silent, Tim felt his face coloring with humiliation. Tim was embarrassed to hear Ross talk about him like he was a toilet, and yet he knew that his cock fed on the idea of the control it represented. He stroked it, smeared precum over its head and then sucked the rest off his thumb as he heard Ross’s authoritative voice continue in his ear.
“What were you drinking, pig – your own piss, since you are temporarily deprived of mine?”
Tim was getting annoyed. He took his thumb out of his mouth and spoke up: “No, Sir. Um… I wasn’t drinking anything.”
As though sensing and enjoying Tim’s discomfiture, Ross sounded amused and playful. “Well, if not piss, then what was your mouth full of, pig?”
Tim hesitated. He was embarrassed to admit that he had gagged himself, and yet he knew Ross had a way of interrogating him about details, penetrating his thoughts, and exerting control whenever Tim tried to hide something. Tim cleared his throat again, swallowed and sighed. “I had a big gag in my mouth, Sir. I was so horny I put it in myself.”
Tim heard Ross’s deep, masculine voice take on an encouraging tone. “Excellent. Glad to hear it. My pig should be gagged as often and long as possible. Is there any other gear in place on my cute pig’s humpy little slave body?”
Tim smiled. Ross rarely complimented him on anything. Hearing Ross say “my cute pig” and admit he regarded Tim as “humpy” instantly extinguished Tim’s irritation.
Tim answered freely, almost proudly: “A huge butt plug, a ball stretcher, and nipple clamps.”
Ross suddenly barked through the phone in an imposing voice, “Hands off your cock, pig!”
Startled by the change in tone, Tim quickly let go of his cock, but then laughed at himself. “I really miss you, Sir.”
“How many times have you jerked off so far this week?”
“I don’t know. A lot. I lost track.”
“Sounds like you’ve had far too much freedom, pig. I thought you needed time this week to ponder your place in my life, but now I see I underestimated your interest in being my pig. Maybe I’ll have to devise a way to keep you busy the next 2 days.”
Tim wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. “I was just looking at the pictures and thinking about you. That’s all.”
Ross’s voice became even deeper, taking on an intensely sexual emphasis. “Yes, so it seems. I just read your latest email. I am glad to hear you’re looking forward to being under my control this weekend, but I wish I had known before I left town that you wanted to stay in my dungeon while I’m gone. It could have definitely been arranged. You’d be bound, sealed in gear, plugged, tubed and under control right now, waiting for me for days, all locked up and alone, well on your way to becoming the 24/7 encasement pig I want full time for my dungeon. A week sealed, bound, and all alone in my dungeon with me out of town would have been excellent training for you.”
Afraid it would explode on its own, Tim stared at his cock and stifled a moan. Yet, intruding on his horniness, a nagging doubt entered his mind. “Sir, would that be realistic? Safe?”
Ross gave an amused snort. “Absolutely. I have very effective methods of monitoring you, and friends who would be glad to ‘baby sit’ without you even knowing about it until they alter your restraints, feed you, or piss into your mouth at my instruction. And remote systems are in place, monitoring and surveillance, alarm and sprinkler systems, other setups and arrangements. You’d be very secure and protected, with everything under my control, even when I’m miles away. And if anything did go wrong, you’d be rescued. I take very good care of my possessions, especially my rubber toys, and that’s what you’d be.”
Ross’s voice and words sounded so assuring. Tim wanted to jerk off badly. Tim asked, “But is it reasonable to be tied up all the time?”
Ross explained. “Not without close supervision. Right now, you’re still in a training phase, requiring some form of bondage and encasement in rubber 99.9 percent of the time, but that doesn’t mean you won’t exercise and be kept healthy and clean. Later on, the conditions of your captivity may change somewhat. You’ll have chores and duties to attend to as my slave. No one can live tied up 100% of the time forever, even a bondage pig like you. While I’m still breaking you in, though, the solitude and bondage will be extreme at times, very challenging physically and emotionally, but you already know that and keep coming back for more, bondage pig that you are. It’s not bondage until you want out. And I’ll give you plenty of wanting out!”
Tim could no longer resist. He grabbed his cock and pumped. Practically groaning as he said it, Tim blurted out, “Sir, I want to be your pig, and I’m gonna cum!”
“If you cum, I’ll hang up!”
Tim stopped himself just in time. Trying to catch his breath, he attempted to remedy the situation. He panted into the phone and said breathlessly, “Okay. I stopped. Sorry. I promise not to unless you say I can. I do want to be your pig, though.”
Ross taunted Tim: “Then why are you expressing doubts? And why are you being disrespectful, talking on the phone to me without being encased in rubber?”
Dying of horniness but disconcerted by Ross’s comment, Tim squeezed his cock. “Sir?”
Adopting a serious tone, Ross started giving orders. “Put down the phone, strap the gag back in place, take off the nipple clamps, then pick up the phone, and grunt once.”
Tim complied quickly, trying to ignore the fire ignited in his pecs and hastily inserting the huge gag and pulling the straps tight. He picked up the phone and put the receiver against the gag. “Mmph.”
“Outstanding, pig. Oink once for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no.’ Understand?”
“Mmph.”
“We’ve had a nice little chat tonight, but you’ll find that such opportunities will be rare in the future. I prefer to hear you communicate in pig mode only, with oinks, and only then when I give permission. Is your digital camera operational, pig?”
Tim had to think about it for a few seconds before responding positively. “Mmph.”
“Good. I want lots of pictures of you while I’m away. Listen carefully. After I hang up, set up the tripod and use the camera’s timer, the self-portrait feature to take a photo of yourself as you are now. Then, leave the gag, stretcher, and plug in place, and get yourself all situated in your catsuit, the one from London with the hood and gloves attached. When you are finished suiting up, take another photo showing yourself in rubber, and then send both photos to me by 10:30. I’ll call you after I get the pix. You should remain encased, waiting by the phone for me. I expect you to pick up on the first ring and give me an oink. Don’t disappoint me, pig.”
Tim grunted into the phone, but Ross did not respond; he had disconnected.
Twenty-three minutes later, Tim sat at his desk, trying to focus on the computer keyboard through the pinhole eyes of the catsuit’s hood. With the combination of the lube he had used to get the catsuit on quickly and the sweat that had already started to accumulate under it, Tim’s slimy, gloved fingers, glistening with slickness, kept hitting the wrong keys. He fumbled madly, cursing himself for taking Ross so seriously. Yet, he met the deadline, sending the email with its attachments at 10:29. The phone rang soon after.
“Mmph.”
“That’s much better, pig. I want you in total rubber encasement, with no skin showing, whenever you read my email or take a phone call from me while I’m away this week. While you were suiting up, I’ve been composing some messages for you. I will send the first one shortly after I hang up. Each will have a unique subject line indicating exactly what time you are to open it, which I expect you to do at the appointed hour and minute, no earlier and no later. You will be required to follow all instructions in each message in order to earn the privilege of being under my control this coming weekend. If you screw up, the weekend plans are off. Now let me hear an oink indicating you heard me before I hang up.”
Tim had heard, but he wasn’t sure he completely understood. “Mmph.”
“Night, pig.”
Tim felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. Part of him wanted the sound of Ross’s voice in his ear to continue. On the other hand, though, the conversation and the hurried efforts to get the catsuit on, photograph himself and send the pictures, all had exhausted him, and he was looking forward to taking everything off, especially the plug and gag, so that he could jerk off and go to bed.
As he started to unzip the catsuit, Tim tried to remember what Ross had said: “… want you in total rubber encasement… whenever you read my email or take a phone call from me…” Ross had said there would an email soon after he hung up.
Tim groaned into the gag. Silently, he said to himself, “Okay, I’ll wait until I read the email.” Feeling silly, Tim re-closed the zipper, signed on to his email quickly and checked his inbox. There was one message from Ross, and the subject line read, “10:50.”
Impatient and feeling foolish, Tim waited for 5 minutes until the exact time of 10:50, and then opened the message.
---------------------------------------
pig,
I’ve designed a nice little series of exercises to keep u busy tonight, and perhaps tomorrow night too.
To reiterate the ground rules, u must open each message exactly at the assigned time – our use of the same email service provider allows me to track this. If u fail, plans for the weekend are off. Each message u receive from me will include a specific instruction to photograph urself while performing or after following a certain directive.
The catsuit u are wearing now is ur base layer; it will stay in place all night, with ur ass plugged and mouth gagged as they should still be now. When a message instructs u to add more rubber, the additional piece should stay in place in successive photos unless I tell u otherwise. I envision encasing u in at least two or three more suits, a larger catsuit plus wet and dry suits, building the layers of latex as the night goes on. u might be instructed to add ur posture collar, a second or third hood, ur rubber muzzle, rubber body harness, thick latex gloves, rubber waist cincher – hell, u could end up with all ur gear in place by morning! I might have u photograph urself while u assume a particular position, open crotch/ass zippers to show the plug is still in place, or some other task suitable for a rubber pig.
For each task, unless I specify a different time frame in the message, u must respond within 5 minutes with the required photo proving u have followed orders.
As I said, this exercise is designed to keep u busy tonight, under my control while I’m away, like u said u wanted. u should count on staying alert, signed on to your computer and on the lookout all night for new messages while u are between photo sessions. I used the automatic send feature to schedule the times when my messages will be sent by the system, so that the computer is programmed to transmit them all by itself while I relax comfortably or sleep in bed.
I will check ur responses carefully tonight and tomorrow morning, to ensure u have followed each instruction promptly, filling my inbox with photos of ur rubber adventures right through the night.
Time for u to get started, pig. Strap ur rubber head harness on over ur hood and gag; then do a full frontal shot and send it to my inbox by 11:00.
---------------------------------------
Tim groaned loudly through the gag. “Fucking bastard,” he thought. Tim checked the time; he had less than 5 minutes to look for the harness, strap in on, and then complete the task of taking and sending the picture. Nervous and sweaty, about to enter into personality disorder mode, Tim felt ambivalent about what to do next. One of his multiple personalities wanted to lead him away from Ross, putting an end to the entire Ross scenario, present and future. This part of Tim reasoned that, while it had been fun for a few months to dissociate and spend all his “free” time tied up and encased in a hot rubberman’s basement, he should now return to the real world, a ‘normal’ life of work, family, friends, and relationships where he was an equal. He should turn off his computer, divest himself of the fetish apparel, and go to sleep like a ‘regular’ person who has to wake up early for work the next day.
The other part of Tim’s dual identity, the inherent rubberpig inhabiting his mind and connecting his psyche directly to his surging cock, wanted to lead him further into Ross, past the point of no return, where Ross’s desire for 100% control would be fully realized.
Tim considered what that would mean tonight: Staying awake all night, sealing himself under layer after layer of rubber, and documenting the process with photos – all while Ross slept comfortably. Tim thought, “I’d have to be crazy with horniness to go along with that.”
An image flashed into Tim’s mind: Tim pictured himself as had been months ago, before Ross – he was Brad’s partner, surrounded by friends and family who doted on them, building his career and their network of friends and interests, enjoying the essence of open gay life. As that image faded, a second one came into focus: Tim pictured himself as he had been last week, a rubber prisoner in a basement – he was Ross’s pig, the gagged, plugged, jock-spiked, latex-sealed rubber mummy in the video, sleepsacked and hogtied, boxed and abandoned, left to squirm in the dark discomfort of rubber isolation and immobility, a human rubberworm.
Tim realized the contrast of the two images symbolized his impending choice, and his indecision. He squeezed his latex-gloved right hand over his rubber-encased crotch. He pressed down hard, squashing his enlarging cock with his palm. Trapped at an awkward angle and compressed uncomfortably inside the tight latex of the rubber catsuit, Tim’s cock stiffened further, in apparent enjoyment of Tim’s torment. The root of his being, the cause of all his rubber troubles and source of all his rubber passion, it pulsed against Tim’s palm with each heart beat, reminding him that seconds were passing, and time was running out...
Waiting Ross #26
A surreal moment caught Ross off guard; for a split second, the certainty typical of his consciousness, that feeling of total control over his environment, seemed altered. There was the sensation of his cock, swollen to hardness within the rubber jock under his tight leather jeans. The sudden increase in his erection, combined with the resurrection of the long-ago familiar stroke of the palm and fingers of the rough, masculine touch of Jack’s large, strong hand, roughly grazing the buzzed hair on Ross’s head, confused Ross’s senses.
With no intention of letting Jack be the source of the stimulation, Ross causally pushed Jack’s hand away from his head. Complying seemingly without notice, Jack moved his hand down to his side but continued to stand close behind Ross, seated at a desk in front of his computer in the guest room of Jack’s house. Acting on Ross’s advice, Jack ignored a new series of grunts, barely audible from within the storage compartment under the window seat in the corner of the room. Jack stared over Ross’s shoulder at the images on Ross’s computer screen.
Pointing to a particular photo, Jack asked, “Is that the guy you told me about? Have you finally found your mythic slave? Is he the bondage pig you’ve been searching for all these years?”
Knowing Jack was trying to get a rise out of him, Ross ignored the judgments inherent in the words Jack used to form his questions. “Yep, he may be the one,” Ross explained. “Though he gets a bit moody, running hot and cold, confused at times. But there’s no doubt he’s a bondage pig – my best pig yet.”
“Hard to tell what he looks like from those,” Jack said.
“These are all from the last few hours. Self photos he sent to prove he stayed awake all night, following my orders to encase himself in layer over layer of hot rubber right through the night.” Ross checked his watch, noting the three-hour time difference. “It’s still early back east. He has one or two more duties, little rubber assignments, with a few pictures to take this morning before he’s allowed to remove all that gear and go to work.”
Folding his arms and reinforcing his wide-legged stance behind Ross, Jack tried to sound serious: “Poor guy. I’d feel sorry for him if he’s your slave. He’ll be sealed airtight and tied up all the time, never to see the light of day again!”
Ross snorted. “I always let him out… eventually!”
As they both laughed, the increased noise of exaggerated, elongated pleas coming from the storage space was notable. “Mmmmmmmm! Mmmmmmm! Mmmph!”
Jack replied, “Sounds like Mark hears us talking. Are you sure he’s all right?”
Ross responded, “It’s his problem if he’s not. He knew what he was getting into.”
Jack explained, “I thought he’d be perfect for you. That’s why I hooked you two up while you were here.” Jack continued, “Thought you’d hit it off. He’s a good bottom, and says he’s looking for the kind of fulltime thing you always talk about.”
Ross responded, “He told me he had been looking forward to my visit, anxious to serve a real Master for a change.”
Jack laughed. “Fuck you.”
Ross responded, “I don’t think so!”
Jack moved forward, leaning his arms heavily on Ross’s shoulder, and smiled. “I’m just teasing you, Ross. You know I can’t resist. Do whatever you’d like with him, as long as he survives, healthy and intact. I don’t play with him much anymore, but this is my house!”
Ross knew Jack was right. The competitiveness between them, the struggle to exert power over each other, dormant while they lived on opposite coasts, was threatening to rise to the surface during Ross’s visit to Jack’s west coast home. Ross wondered if the rubber prison to which he had subjected Mark was a manifestation of their old rivalry, the struggle to prove that one could top better than the other.
Putting thoughts of Mark out of his mind for the moment, Ross positioned his mouse pointer over one of the pictures of Tim. “This one lives for it, a born bondage pig, meant to be sealed 24/7. He’d know better than to whine.”
Jack asked, “Is he ready to move in with you?”
Ross responded. “I thing he’s on the verge, and I can be patient. Anyway, if he doesn’t work out, I can find another pig with a click of my mouse.”
Jack leaned further down, with his mouth at Ross’s ear, and talked in a mock whisper, though it was nothing more than an excuse to get closer. “They’re plentiful in this city. But even here, you might have to search quite a while for someone willing to stay tied up in rubber gear, locked away alone in your basement for days, weeks, hell, if it’s left to you - months at a time!”
Ross turned and pushed Jack’s face away. Turning back to the computer display, Ross said, “Well, I have invested a lot of time in him, not to mention the customized gear. You know my addiction to tight gear. There’s nothing better than the sight of a tightly encased rubber pig ready for service.”
“Does the pig have a name?”
Ross actually had to think about it for a moment before responding, “Tim.”
Jack said, “That reminds me. The custom made item you ordered should be ready today. We can go to the shop and pick it up after breakfast. I assume it’s for Tim.” Ross nodded yes. Leaning closer again, Jack scanned the photos. “Still can’t tell what he looks like.”
Indulging Jack’s curiosity, Ross began clicking through the portfolio of Tim that happened to be on his laptop. There were more photos than he would have guessed, easily hundreds. Ross browsed quickly though them, trying to locate one that revealed something of Tim’s identity and cuteness. The images flashed across the computer screen. Photo after photo of Tim showed a rubber-hooded male figure, small and slim but well-proportioned; bound, sealed in gear, plugged, tubed and under control; imprisoned in rubber and leather straitjackets and sleepsacks; squeezed into armless pod suits and bound tight in sacks and bags; totally encapsulated and mummified, sometimes in contorted, uncomfortable-looking positions; sealed in a rubber dog suit; encircled by collars and restraints of rubber and leather and steel; tied with ropes; suspended in closed areas, locked in boxes and a lowered into a pit; encased in head to toe rubber, doubled up and bowed back in a tightly hogtied mass of rubber and straps and tubes.
The photos gave the impression of a slave essentially into no limits s/m, a genuine 24/7 encasement pig, totally dominated by its Master. Ross’s enjoyment of controlling the rubber-encased slave with extreme bondage was evident in the images displayed on his computer and in the bulge displayed in his crotch as he searched through the photos.
Jack resisted the urge to grab Ross’s crotch. Instead, he chuckled and said mockingly, “I can see he’s very cute.”
Ross laughed also. “Well, you know I don’t like my slaves to show much skin!” Ross continued clicking and searching, until he finally found the photos he remembered. “Here are some.”
Jack leaned in for a closer look as Ross zoomed in successively on a half dozen photos of different views showing the same situation: a tightly muscled, totally naked and hairless male was trapped in a triple rigid restraint system, a metal stock enclosing wrists and ankles, each held separately and locked tightly in a rigid line at floor level in the combination ankle/wrist component, which was bisected by a short iron bar connecting it to a wide steel collar encircling the subject’s neck. Trapped in the severe device, Tim had been forced to pose in different squatting and kneeling positions, seriously restricted by the difficult posture required by the unyielding metal restraint. Ross explained, “I wanted to photograph him rubberless the first time he was totally shaved, head to toe.” In addition to documenting Tim’s hairless state, the variety of positions and photographic angles showed his ass cheeks pushed apart by the mammoth black base of a huge butt plug; his mouth stretched wide and jammed full around a large ball gag tightly strapped to his newly shaved, shiny, bald head; his cock penetrated by a catheter tube, its end closed off by a small cork; and his ballsack encircled by a thick leather stretcher tied to the center of the rigid bar at his ankles and wrists. A frontal close-up shot, with Tim sitting uncomfortably hunched forward, revealed clamps on his nipples. A rear view showed Tim in an ass-up, face-down position: his ankles, knees, shoulders, and head were against the floor, allowing the camera to focus between his legs on spikes lining the inside of the ball stretcher.
Jack studied the set of photos. The physical posturing enforced by the rigid array of connected metal looked contorted and sadistic. The plug, tube, gag, and ball spikes appeared cruel. The facial expressions, distorted by the huge ball filling the mouth, looked stretched and agonized. Yet, in spite of the obvious discomfort the slave was in, or perhaps because of it, he had a raging hardon in all of the pictures. His erect cock stuck up and out, straight and very stiff, with the yellow catheter tube protruding. Taking in the well-proportioned muscles and body, cute, masculine feet and handsome (though distorted) features, Jack ascertained that Ross’s ‘pig’ would be a good-looking young man under normal circumstances.
Jack commented, “I guess he is pretty cute. Do you always keep him cath’d?”
“I like my pigs totally plugged and tubed at all times, all holes under my control...”
Interrupted by loud, rhythmic groans, Ross stopped in mid-sentence.
“Mmmm mmmm mmmmm mmmm. Mmmm. M-M-M-M-M!"
Ross said, “Speaking of pigs, sounds like your friend Mark is oinking.”
The agonized groaning continued for 20 seconds or so, followed by low moans and the faint sound of gasps of heavy breathing, and then silence. Soon after, however, muffled little yelps were audible.
“L-P!” “L-P!” “L-P!”
Jack said, “Sounds like ‘UNCLE’ to me. He probably wants out.”
Ross checked the time. “Not yet. He has 6 more hours to go. He committed to 16 hours in there.”
“L-P!” “L-P!” “L-P!”
Jack began walking to the corner. “I’m gonna check on him. I’m curious anyway to see what you’ve done with him.”
Ross clicked COMPUTER OFF and stood as his system began shutting down. He turned to Jack. “I just checked on him before you came in, and he was fine. I’d leave him be. Let’s go to breakfast. He’ll calm down when he realizes we’re gone.”
But Jack had already bent down to unlatch the cabinet on the front of the window seat, only to find it was padlocked.
Jack asked, “Where’s the key?”
Unwilling to give up control, Ross hesitated. His second thoughts about staying with Jack during this trip, and playing with Jack’s friend, were rising to the surface and filling his mind with doubt. Ross weighed his basic need to have 100% control against his friendship with Jack. Slowly, Ross reached into a pocket and handed the key to Jack. Soon thereafter, the door under the window seat swung open. Inside the dark space, in the small compartment originally intended for storage, the first visible sign of Mark was a tightly hooded, rubber-encased head, completely sealed, with a tube protruding at the mouth.
“Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh…”
As the door opened completely, Jack felt as though one of Ross’s photos had leaped out of Ross’s computer to become a real event. The situation was ‘pure Ross’: Jack’s friend Mark had been transformed into a rubber life form of unrecognizable species. Although its eyes were covered by the latex of the hood, the tightly bound rubber creature tried to turn its head to the side, aware that its container had been opened and trying to see. Struggling uselessly against the bindings keeping it in place, it squirmed and snorted, redoubling its efforts to groan loudly for attention.
“Uht, uht, uht, uht, uht, uht, uht…”
“He’s saying ‘out, out.’” Jack looked at Ross with a quizzical expression.
Ross said, “Last night after you were gone Mark went wild over a picture he saw on my computer of my pig all bound up and boxed. He asked me a million questions about it, begging for it, licking my boots and sucking my cock, all the while pleading for me to do the same to him, so I gave him what he asked for.”
Jack squatted down to study the vulcanized form as it wiggled and squealed. “So why isn’t it time to let him out?”
Ross gestured with both hands. “As you said, this is your house. Go ahead. Let him out if you want. He told me he wanted the same as my pig, 16 hours overnight that way. I warned him that my pig is well trained in advanced bondage, but Mark assured me he could take it.”
“UHT!” “UHT!”
Jack inhaled, taking in the scent of rubber emanating from the storage space. He observed the squirming movements, which suddenly seemed to be fueled by anger, and listened to the pleas for help, which suddenly sounded pitiful, almost annoyingly so. Jack issued a loud, sharp command for Mark to shut up and keep still.
The bound rubber form became motionless and silent, quietly breathing in and out through its rubber tube. In addition to the latex aroma, Jack felt rubber heat radiating from Mark’s encased and bound body. A line of escaping perspiration squeezed out from under the bondage collar around his neck, but otherwise Mark appeared to be a perfectly sealed rubber pig, salt-curing in its own sweat, concealed under the layers of tight rubber.
Jack wanted to free Mark’s mouth, but only its tube was accessible, protruding through a hole in the muzzle harnessed to Mark’s head. Intertwined with tethers connected to anchors at the top and sides of the enclosure to prevent movement, the muzzle and bondage collar, fastened tightly over the rubber hood, were strapped firmly in place and secured with padlocks.
Jack asked, “He’s been that way all night?”
Ross responded, “He wanted it, assured me he’d be okay, and I’ve been checking on him periodically. He panicked two or three times, and I had to talk him through it, telling him to remember he got what he asked for, quite an intense predicament, all sealed up, sacked, strapped, with his legs bent back like that.”
Mark started whining anew, and Jack ignored him as he studied Ross’s work. Mark was on his stomach, with limited ability to shift his weight from side to side as he wiggled and squirmed as much as the anchoring ropes allowed. In addition to the cocoon effect produced by the rubber sleepsack Ross had used to mummify Mark, a collection of rubber belts encircled Mark’s encased body. His knees were bent, and his legs were doubled up, held in position by belts encircling lower to upper legs and ankles to thighs.
Just as Jack stood up, Mark began to moan and struggle again in earnest. The decibel level of Mark’s objections increased as the bound rubber cocoon bucked and jerked inside the small space. Stepping aside, Jack said, “Okay, Ross, let me see you talk him through this.”
Ross quickly walked over to the window and squatted beside the storage compartment. He reached inside and clamped his left hand over Mark’s muzzled chin, collapsing the tube of Mark’s gag with his fingers. Calmly studying his watch, Ross felt his own cock surge as he observed the struggles of the rubber mummy while it kicked, squirmed, and sucked rubber at mouth and nostrils, helpless in its efforts to breathe within or escape from its tightly sealed cocoon. At the 30-second mark, Ross released the tube. Mark gasped and moaned loudly, panting and wheezing through the tube in relief. A few deep breaths followed, until Ross clamped the tube again promptly. Ross spoke loudly. “I decide when you breathe. Remember, pig?” Mark responded quickly with two muffled grunts, in an obvious attempt to say, “Yes, Sir!”
“And I decide when you get out! Copy that, pig?”
Mark seemed to grunt in agreement, but Ross kept the tube clamped anyway, for 40 seconds this time, to emphasize his point. Standing behind Ross, Jack observed the action in silence. Ross’s no-nonsense approach with Mark was having an effect on Jack’s cock. His earlier concern for Mark was giving way to horniness as he watched the bound rubber cocoon squirm, helpless to do anything about its breathless state until Ross released the tube.
While Mark caught his breath for the second time, Ross put his mouth next to Mark’s rubber-sealed head and talked loudly. “If I were to treat you like my pig at home, which is what you said you wanted, here is what I’d say to him: You had six more hours to go until your temper tantrum, which gets you a two hour penalty. Looks like you’re staying put, sweating it out, just the way you are, for eight more hours, after which you will have the privilege of taking the contents of my full bladder through your mouth tube before I let you out of this.”
Ross quickly stood up and closed the door of the storage compartment, but within seconds a muffled braying sound penetrated its walls and filled the room. Ross looked at Jack, giving him a smirk, and reached into his pockets to fish out the keys to the padlocks on Mark’s muzzle and collar.
Within a few minutes, Ross had extracted Mark from the storage compartment, unfastened the bindings, and released him from the sleepsack. Standing before them in his catsuit, which glistened with rubber-sweat, Mark peeled off the rubber hood. A red, wet face greeted Ross with an apologetic look.
Mark coughed a few times, clearing his throat. In a quiet voice, he said, “Guess I’m not at the same level as your pig back home.”
Ross had a sudden onslaught of tender thoughts, full of Tim, missing Tim and his acceptance of control, and Ross was annoyed at himself for the sentimentality of it. He replied bluntly, “That’s right. You’re not in his league. Now go get cleaned up and we’ll take you to breakfast.”
The purple head of Tim’s cock throbbed as he squeezed it. His right arm shook as he pounded his meat harder. Tim’s neck and shoulder were stiff from the repetitive motion. The cum/piss channel inside the shaft of his swollen, red dick burned as he pulled relentlessly, unable to stop the masturbatory action evoked by the images on his computer. Consumed by horniness and his unfettered ability to satisfy it, Tim didn’t care if he dislocated his shoulder or ripped his cock off, as long as he came one more time.
Sitting naked at his computer, aware of feeling chilled but choosing to ignore the odd sensation of rubber-free skin open to the air, Tim continued the jack-off frenzy as he studied the photos displayed on the computer monitor. Knowing that he was the anonymous-looking, hooded rubber slave pictured, Tim matched the images with the corresponding text and his own memories of each situation. Awestruck, Tim kneaded his cock as he studied the aborted “hog blog” Ross had made him begin and the photos Ross had just posted at the web site documenting Tim’s 10 day incarceration.
Earlier today, as Ross had driven Tim home to his own apartment, finally ending Tim’s imprisonment, Tim had thought he had never wanted anything more in his life than to be free forever of the captivity of Ross’s relentless rubber encasement, bondage, and control. Now, barely a few hours later, Tim hated himself for his reaction to the photos of the extreme restraint Ross had made him endure. His hard, overworked cock pulsated with excitement. Fuck! It was a cycle Tim had repeated before: Hating Ross for enforcing the inescapability of his captivity while it was happening, vowing never to see him again after it was over, and then getting so excited by pictures and memories afterward that he was eager for more. Tim promised himself that this time would be different. Ten days spent encapsulated in rubber, severely bound and locked in confinement had been too extreme. Tim would never let it happen again. Determined to get past his horniness, Tim felt certain that cumming one more time would cure him forever.
Tim alternately pumped his sore cock, pinched his nipples, and clicked through the perverted galleries showing Ross’s depraved exploitation of the captive rubber pig. The pictures were posted in five separate galleries; his cock erupting with thick gobs of pent-up cum, Tim had barely viewed galleries I and II before shooting his wad four times in succession. Galleries III and IV had prompted the fifth orgasm. Now that Tim, pumping wildly but unable to cum again so soon, had finally viewed Gallery V, he realized the pictures were posted in chronologic order. Trying to reconstruct the general sequence of events in his own mind, Tim felt confused. What happened during the first few days triggered vivid memories, some of which were described in the hog blog, but the predicaments making up the rest of Tim’s imprisonment, after he lost his regular break and blogging privileges, were indistinguishable in his mind, where they merged together into a huge, dark time block of immobilizing, sensory-depriving rubber encasement and isolating confinement. By the end of the 10 days he had been almost comatose with exhaustion from suppressing the agonizing desperation for release, and yet now he couldn’t stop his cock from wanting more!
Still determined to cum again, a sixth time, to rid himself of such thoughts, Tim massaged his painfully hard cock and studied one image in which the slave appeared particularly photogenic. From head to toe, the cocooned male form gleamed with the sleek, shiny blackness of impossibly skintight rubber. Tim suddenly realized that in viewing the photo, he was seeing himself from Ross’s point of view, standing over his totally encased rubber pig, sealed in rubber and trussed helplessly, exactly as Ross preferred. The rubber hood gripped so perfectly that Tim’s head looked skull-like, with the visible outline of his compressed ears tightly sealed in place and the only opening a small tube at the mouth, which Tim knew was part of the gag concealed underneath. In contrast to the long lines of the narrow sleepsack, the tightly encased rubber mummy was constricted by a wide, black rubber posture collar and multiple rubber belts encircling the molded cocoon from shoulders to ankles. Even in the picture the tightly fastened rubber straps looked extremely restrictive, and Tim’s cock further solidified as he correlated the image with the physical sensations he remembered. Tim thought about Ross’s distrust of rubber sleepsacks as a sole basis for inescapable bondage: “If the pig squirms vigorously enough, rubber can fail.” The rubber sleepsack in the photo, with its extra thickness and integrated reinforcing straps, was the only one Ross felt confident did not require an outer layer of leather in order to prevent escape. With recall of that knowledge, Tim’s engorged cock stiffened painfully straight as he rubbed his thumb over its inflamed head and pulled at the smoothly shaved root of the tender shaft. Although undetectable in the photo, Tim also knew that he was gagged, butt-plugged, catheterized, and sealed in another layer of rubber under the tight sleepsack.
As he worked his cock, Tim counted the six belts on the sleepsack and examined the wide bondage collar and its D rings, all plainly visible in the picture. Tim’s thoughts, reconstructing his incarceration as a horny memory, returned to the situation depicted. He remembered that Ross had later boasted that he had kept Tim that way for 2½ days. Studying the picture further, Tim knew that the entry into the sleepsack, through a set of rear zippers invisible in the picture, was probably fastened with a padlock. The small crotch level zipper in front, concealed by one of the straps, allowed Ross access to Tim’s urinary catheter, which Ross kept plugged except to drain Tim’s bladder, sometimes into Tim’s mouth, at varying intervals. Ross used the air tube extending from the concealed gag through the mouth hole of the hood for cautious infusions of fluid, water, piss, or Gatorade, to keep Tim hydrated. Careful preparation for 24 hours beforehand with enemas and a liquid diet had ensured that Tim’s ass could remain plugged for the duration of the encasement.
Tim recalled further details. About three or four days into Tim’s 10 days of ‘probation’ in Ross’s dungeon, Ross had changed the rules. After catheterizing Tim’s dick and discontinuing the blogging sessions as punishment for cumming without permission, breaks became fewer, and the time between breaks grew interminably. Afraid to make a peep after the severe punishment Ross had administered early on when Tim made noise without permission, Tim endured the longer stretches of uninterrupted confinement in silence. And Ross rewarded Tim by making them longer and longer, culminating in the 2½ days in the rubber sleepsack. Tim’s familiar mantra entered his head: “Fucking bastard.”
Tim clicked on other thumbnail photos in Gallery V to enlarge them and found that several of them, some with captions, documented his multi-day imprisonment in the rubber sleepsack.
The caption under the photo Tim had been studying read,
“Day 1 – Preparations completed: Tightly hooded, gagged, collared, locked in a sleepsack, sealed in 100% total rubber encasement, arms trapped inside inner sleeves, heavily bound outside with rubber belts from shoulders to ankles. All holes plugged underneath. The pig is in rubber bondage heaven.”
In the next photo, showing another view of the rubber sleepsack, Tim was standing in Ross’s vertical steel cage. The caption read,
“Day 1 – Contemplation: Forced to stand locked in the vertical cage, the pig slave endures in silence (as trained). The slave was left as shown for 12 hours to contemplate its love of rubber encasement.”
The next photo showed Tim, still strapped up tight in the rubber sack but lying inside a horizontal wooden enclosure with one side open to the camera. The caption read,
“Night 1 – Overnight storage: With no letup in the 12+ hours of tight encasement and bindings, the rubber slave has been transferred to a horizontal wooden box for overnight storage. The greedy pig can’t get enough. Sweet rubber dreams, pig.”
Tim thought, “Fucking bastard makes it seem like it was all my idea.” The next photo, without caption, showed the door of the box, closed with latches and padlocks.
Tim quickly read the captions for two more photos:
“Day 2 – Still wallowing in hog heaven in his rubber cocoon without break after 24 hours, the encasement pig is committed to solitary confinement in the isolation chamber, his favorite place to spend a day.”
“Night 2 and Day 3 – Still strapped tightly in his rubber cocoon at 36 hours and counting, the pig wants more, so it is enclosed in an outer leather sleepsack, attached to a hoist, and left suspended and ignored for an additional 24 hours. This pig can’t get enough! OINK!”
Tim studied the last photo showing his own mummified form, helplessly suspended in Ross’s dungeon closet, where Tim had spent up to 36 hours in previous bondage sessions waiting for Ross. While this session had lasted only 24 hours, it had been excruciating for Tim, and now he better understood why - he had already been in the rubber sleepsack for 1½ days, and then Ross had put the leather one over top and left him that way for 24 hours more! “Fucking bastard. 'OINK' yourself.”
The burning sensation in Tim’s cock increased as Tim struggled to achieve the orgasm he thought would put an end to his interest in Ross forever. He was very close to cumming, as he had been several times before, but each effort, punctuated with ass clenching and pelvic thrusting, ended in frustration. Fuck! He just had to cum one more time.
Tim clicked on a picture he had not previously viewed at the very top of Gallery V. It was a photo of Ross, in full Rubber Master Regalia. Exuding brawn and ego, Ross posed standing with legs parted wide, hands on hips, biceps bulging, and a commanding, arrogant expression on his masculine, chiseled face. A sleeveless rubber tank top, under a rubber vest, tapered down Ross’s torso to a large belt and buckle, below which Ross’s prominent crotch and muscular thighs were encased by rubber jeans. The reflection of the camera flash on the stretched surfaces of the shiny black rubber emphasized the muscularity of Ross’s pectorals and quads. His face was framed top and bottom by a rubber military-style cap and dark goatee. His commanding posture, the tattoo and black band on the left arm, and the high black boots completed the hyper-masculine effect. The setting was his dungeon, with its dark background, a glimpse of a white urinal, and chains hanging from the ceiling. At his feet, between his spread legs, was the familiar form of the encased slave, strapped up tight in his rubber sleepsack. In chalk-white letters, the word “pig” was visible on the rubber hood over the slave’s forehead. The photo perfectly captured Ross’s superiority, overpowering dominance, and absolute control of the bound rubber slut at his feet.
Tim moaned as he pounded his dick repeatedly.
Minutes later, exasperated that he still hadn’t cum, Tim stopped stroking his cock and took in more details of the photo of Ross and his rubber pig. Tim knew that wannabe rubber slaves, browsing Ross’s rubber site across the country, were probably salivating, groaning, pumping, and shooting cum all over this picture while they wished they were the pig encased and bound at Ross’s feet. Tim had to admit that Ross was devastating. His Rubber God persona, almost too fantastic to be true, was evident, yet Tim knew all too well he was the real thing. Tim wondered how many of the wannabes would be able to deal with the reality of Ross’s requirements: the extended bondage sessions, staying put, comfortable or not, no matter what, until Ross decided otherwise; the isolation and confinement; the unending head to toe rubber encasement; the total control of body and eventually mind, when you reach the stage where you never wanted anything more in your entire life than to be released.
“I’d be crazy to go back for more,” Tim thought, his cock poking up between his legs. Tim suddenly remembered the email from Ross, the one that had started this marathon jack off session. Tim had been so consumed with the galleries that he hadn’t really read the full text. He clicked on the folder and retrieved it:
“pig,
“Go to the URL above to see photos of ur 10-day stay in my dungeon. u hereby have my permission to enjoy them while I am out of town this week.
“I am pleased with the progress u made in these 10 days. u have finally learned to keep quiet, an essential quality if u expect to be my full time encasement pig. From now on, I will count on u to endure captivity in my dungeon in total silence, speaking only at my request, and remaining quiet otherwise, with no pathetic squealing or grunts of objection from ur little mouth, which will be gagged and sealed most of the time. u were very quiet during the ride home earlier today, and I take this as a sign of further compliance. From now on, on the rare occasions when u are in my presence outside the dungeon, such as in the car this afternoon, u will not speak without asking my permission, and u will keep ur head down, concentrating ur gaze at my feet unless I permit u to look up or elsewhere.
“We still need to work on cum training. u are such a bondage pig that ur greedy cock has been able so far to overcome all of the devices I’ve used to try to control it. While I would like to keep u catheterized permanently as one possible solution, in the long term this may not be healthy; plus, I fear the day when u will cum even while catheterized, which also may not be healthy. I am going to look into acquiring electrified shock or spike-lined devices, to deter ur pig’s cock, through use of pain, from seeking enough pleasure to cum while locked up. The goal is to achieve a physical and mental state in which u cum only when I permit it, and to achieve that perfect balance of allowing u to cum often enough to keep u healthy but seldom enough to keep u horny and craving the bondage u were born for.”
Tim grabbed his cock again, now rock hard, and pumped furiously as he continued to read Ross’s message:
“u should expect to have no free weekends from now on. Also, except for this week while I’m out of town, u will be ‘on call’ on weeknights, meaning that u will always be ready to respond to last minute orders from me to clear ur evening. This is part of our plan to continue progress toward 24/7/365 encasement, eventually moving u to full time slavery in my dungeon. I have already dropped hints with ur boss, my good friend Judy, that having u ‘work’ for me may simplify our relationship. I may check in with her this week with a phone call. I’ll be interested to hear from her or u as to whether ur coworkers like ur new ‘do’ – shaved heads are in style these days anyway.”
With his right hand hard at work on his cock, Tim rubbed his left hand over the stubble beginning to grow on his smooth scalp while he read the last paragraph:
“I will return on Friday. Be ready. u should be freshly shaved from head to toe, well cleaned out and corked with a fat butt plug. As soon as u finish work, go home and get encased in ur favorite rubber suit, with that big plug underneath, and wait in ur apartment for me. See u Friday, pig.
-R”
As though Ross were speaking aloud inside Tim’s head, Tim’s cock responded, erupting with an excruciatingly strong, quick orgasm that produced almost no cum. It seemed Tim had wanked himself dry.
An hour later in his bed, Tim’s mental agitation was winning out over the physical exhaustion that should have led to immediate sleep. Thinking about Ross and his staggering presumptions were keeping Tim awake. “Fucking egotistical ballsy bastard,” Tim said aloud. The 10-day stay in Ross’s dungeon had been really tough. Ross had been relentless with the tight bondage and solitary confinement. “Fucking bastard.” There had been countless times when Tim, alone for hours in Ross’s dungeon, had thought he was losing his mind, about to go crazy while waiting for Ross to give him some relief. And now Ross wanted him to live like that. “Not in this life,” Tim thought. Ross couldn’t be for real. But, just in case, Tim resolved to limit his time in Ross’s dungeon to what Tim wanted. He had to overcome his reluctance to speak up and tell Ross that the 24/7 notion was unrealistic. Yes, at first he had wanted it, such a horny idea, but after the 10 day preview, now he wasn’t so sure. An arrangement made up of occasional weekends, maybe even some weeknights, would be enough. Tim would keep his job and his own apartment. And his hair!
While Tim lay in bed, eyes closed, trying to formulate his response to Ross’s email message, his mind, alert and active, insisted on reprocessing the events of the last 10 days. The galleries flashed in his head, showing hugely enlarged photos of the humiliated rubber pig, with their crude captions suggesting he was practically begging for more. The image of Rubber Master Ross towered over him, and the words in Ross’s email message, which it seemed Tim had memorized instantly, were recited automatically: “… part of our plan to continue progress toward 24/7/365 encasement… full time slavery in my dungeon.” Tim snorted, “NOT!” Ross couldn’t be serious. But Tim’s cock, hard again, was rigid against his stomach. “…deter your pig’s cock, through use of pain, from seeking enough pleasure to cum while locked up… keep you horny and craving the bondage you were born for.”
About to cum a seventh time since arriving home just hours earlier, Tim twisted in bed and groaned loudly as the painful orgasm took hold. Pinching his nipples, stretching out his legs, flexing his feet and pointing his toes, Tim enjoyed it to the fullest extent possible while he rolled from side to side and the spasms ran their course.
Minutes later, as he recovered from cumming, Tim began to feel totally relaxed, his cock finally satisfied. His anxiety about Ross dissipated, eased by the thought that he had all week to compose a reply to Ross’s ridiculous message. Convincing himself that Ross had been joshing, deciding to think about it later in the week, Tim fell into a deep sleep.
Waiting for Ross #25
Focusing instead on the sensations of his pulsating cock, Tim ignored the other parts of his body that were stiff and sore – mostly his neck, but also his right shoulder and arm, buttocks, thighs, and asshole. Three days of jerking off 5-10 times every 24 hours had taken a toll on Tim’s masturbation muscles!
Seated at his desk, Tim pushed forward in the chair. It was just past 8:30 PM. He had been home for 15 minutes. Mail unread, laundry everywhere, dishes in the kitchen sink: Tim was oblivious to the waiting chores in his apartment as he sat in front of his computer. Today, jerking off in a stall of the restroom at work, he had cum only twice since leaving his apartment this morning, and the resulting horniness was building up, especially now that he was finally home, all alone with his hard dick. Dropping it for a moment, Tim paused to roll his head from side to side as he massaged his neck. Absentmindedly, he rubbed his hand against the stubble over his scalp. His cock throbbed at the reminder of his shaved head.
Riveted to his computer for the third night in a row, Tim was no longer mesmerized by the array of images depicting his recent rubber imprisonment in Ross’s dungeon. Yes, the photos of the rubberized victim, always severely bound and encased head to toe, still produced unending hard-ons. And no, he hadn’t lost interest in studying every detail, at which he marveled when contemplating the fetishism that addicted him to Ross. In fact, earlier tonight, anxious to get home to browse the galleries for the 100th time, he had rushed through his after-work visit to the gym and subsequent dinner with his parents. A similar state of affairs had also occurred the night before, when he had hit the gym in an exercise fury and then shortened his dinner with Brad, who had annoyed Tim with teasing remarks about his ‘hot new do’ and questions about Ross.
“Fuck,” Tim said aloud. Tim struggled to clear his mind of memories of Brad’s probing comments and the look on his mother’s face as she tried not to stare at his baldness. And, he did not want to think about how difficult it had been this week to concentrate on his responsibilities at work. The 7-day absence, followed by showing up with a shaved head, had elicited unwanted notice by his coworkers, and his boss Judy had been very quiet toward him. Plus, he had been spending a lot of time in the men’s room, where he worked hard to satisfy his perpetually hard cock, instead of in his office, where he should have worked hard to get his assignments done.
Tim tried to snap out of his reverie. His pectoral and ass muscles, hurting from the quick, heavy weightlifting of the preceding days, ached as he stretched and shifted in his chair.
Momentarily diverting his eyes from the rubber-hooded slave on his computer monitor, Tim looked down at the part of his body that usually controlled his thoughts: Demanding his attention, Tim’s cock rose up from the open zipper of his pants; it pumped independently, living its own life, eagerly seeking direct stimulation, telling Tim it was time again to charm the snake. With a mixture of disgust and horniness, Tim closed his hand around his sore, painfully stiff cock and squeezed. It looked and felt like the biggest boner he had ever experienced.
While Tim had not grown tired of viewing the pictures that documented his 10 days of service as Ross’s rubberpig, he had found that the continual self manipulation and beating off of the last 3 days satisfied him only briefly each time; 20-30 minutes post orgasm, his cock was always ready for more. In other words, Tim was dying of horniness. The constant pounding and repeated tossing off had become poor substitutes for the rubber-sealed bondage and control Ross had obliged Tim to endure. Furious at Ross initially when released, now, after only 3 days of freedom, Tim wanted to go back to the real thing. Wanking at galleries was not enough. His plans and efforts to move beyond the compulsion for rubber enslavement that Ross had activated were failing. The exhilarating freedom and sense of survival following his 10-day ordeal were fading in the heat of his current desires. His huff over Ross’s audacity, treating Tim for 10 days like some kind of rubber bondage robot, had passed. Imagining he was back in Ross’s dungeon – helplessly bound, gagged, sealed and locked away in a desolate purgatory of waiting for Ross – Tim pumped furiously until his cock exploded, erupting with enough cum to land on the keyboard, coat his hand, and stain his jeans.
An hour later, Tim was back at it, sitting naked at his desk and choking the chicken. So soon after cumming, however, there was less urgency to satisfy his cock as quickly. Rocking in place gingerly in the chair to grind the largest butt plug he owned deeper into his ass, Tim enjoyed riding the gentle wave of horniness enveloping him. The plug, being too big for regular wear, under normal circumstances would have resulted in instant orgasm upon insertion. With Tim’s current state of sexual overdrive, however, the super-sized discomfort merely engorged Tim’s dancing cock, which felt to Tim like it was directly connected to the plug underneath.
Tim jiggled his ass on the huge plug, and his smooth cock bounced up, full and hard, over top of the thick rubber stretcher squeezing his shaved balls. The weights attached to his nipple clamps bobbed.
Having been merciless with plugging himself at both ends, Tim sucked the saliva awkwardly to the back of his throat and swallowed hard to avoid drooling around the oversized gag he had strapped in place. Playing with his cock intermittently, Tim browsed the pictures and tried to ignore the nagging concern that entered his mind now that he was no longer totally consumed by horniness: He hadn’t heard from Ross since Sunday. Tim had been in such a snit when Ross drove him home that Tim hadn’t even tried to find out why Ross would be out of town or where he was going.
Aware that his use of the same ISP as Ross allowed him to check the status of messages, Tim clicked on his SENT folder and checked the two email messages, one sent last night and the other this morning. The system showed that Ross had opened both, and yet Tim had received no response. Tim reread the messages:
------------------------
Sir,
Thanks for the email message with instructions and photos. Sorry I did not respond sooner. Hope your trip is going well. Also left a message on your cell phone.
Tim
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Sir,
Getting ready for work this morning and just thought I’d touch base. Have been enjoying the photos! (Oink) Hope to hear from you soon.
Tim
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Tim wondered why Ross would read the messages but not respond. He composed a third message and clicked SEND:
Sir,
Your pig is out of its mind with horniness and wishes it were sealed in rubber bondage in Your dungeon all week, left to squirm and sweat while waiting for You to return. Can’t wait until the weekend!
pig
Tim’s cock, at full hardness, was leaking – precum or old cum? – Tim had been masturbating so much he could no longer distinguish between the two. He returned his gaze to the gallery. Taking in the full extent of activities and time span represented by all of the photos that were posted, Tim was impressed with how closely Ross had monitored Tim’s progress during the 10-day ordeal. While he had been encased and sealed up, bound tight and squirming in discomfort, unable to see or hear external stimuli, isolated and locked away, Tim had often regretted the situation bitterly, feeling angry and abandoned; thinking Ross was unreasonable; fretting that he would overheat, dehydrate, suffocate, or be permanently damaged. And yet it seemed obvious from the photos that Ross would never have let such things happen. It was clear that Ross, or one of his friends, had been closely caring for and watching over Tim the entire time. Ross had taken their shared rubber bondage fantasies to new levels – fuck, he had even surpassed them – in what now, in retrospect, appeared to be a realistic and safe manner! As hellish as the extreme, prolonged bondage had seemed to Tim at the time, Tim had to admit to himself that he felt fine and healthy; the only aftereffect was unrelenting horniness, leading him to want more! A sense of ungratefulness, unaccompanied by feelings of guilt, descended over Tim. He wished Ross would respond to his messages.
Scanning the photos for the umpteenth time, Tim’s attention was drawn to a file he had not noticed before, posted next to the gallery photos. Was the file, named “rubberpig in storage,” new? Or, had he simply overlooked it before, in a frenzy of horniness? His cock bobbing with excitement, Tim clicked quickly to open it, which activated the video player on his computer.
He would have gasped if his mouth were not stuffed full and stretched wide by the huge gag. Beating his cock while he squirmed on the massive plug and moaned around the gag, Tim watched the movie play on his computer monitor: A slim, muscular male, his appealing body totally encased in a skintight rubber catsuit, stood submissively at attention, with his head bowed in a slave-like pose. The camera panned into close-ups of a spreader bar locked between his ankles, a harness restraining his hands behind and high on his back, and a view of his head, sealed tightly inside a rubber hood with no openings except a tube at the mouth. The camera lingered for a few seconds at the mouth; with the audio, Tim could hear air enter and exit through the tube. Then the camera faded out of focus, transitioning to a scene that showed a zipper opened at the crotch of the slave’s catsuit, where it exposed a chastity device. The next few scenes, all focusing on similar frontal views, had obviously been skillfully edited to show the change from removal of the chastity device to the installation of a spike-lined pouch over the slave’s rapidly expanding cock and balls. Panning close-ups front and rear visually communicated that straps around the waist, through the ass crack, and over top of the butt-plugged hole were fastened tightly, trapping the slave’s compressed cock and balls within the encasement of the spiked jock before the catsuit was again zipped closed.
A pause in the sequence showed the slave flexing his knees, with accompanying audio indicating panting and moaning muffled by the rubber hood. The slave’s discomfort in adjusting to his new jock was obvious. Watching the video, Tim moaned through his own gag in enjoyment of the rubber victim’s torment.
Fading in and out from one shot to the next to signify sequential steps, the video then proceeded to document removal of the outer restraints and addition of a second layer of black latex, which enclosed the slave in a tightly molded rubber sleepsack, eventually sealed from head to toe with zippers and straps.
Tim continued stroking his cock as the video progressed forward to a point when the slave’s metamorphosis was complete: The tightly-muscled, rubber-catsuited male standing upright at the start of the video had been transformed into a prone, hogtied rubber mummy; supplementing the mummifying encasement of the rubber sack, the knees were bent and legs pulled back by straps connecting the slave’s restrained ankles to the top of his head, where a harness was fastened over the rubber hood and a thick collar encircled his neck. For about 20 seconds or longer, the camera remained still, capturing the squirming slave’s humiliating attempts to wiggle free from the arched position and shift the weight of his body off his crotch. With the time devoted to the scene, it seemed apparent that the cameraman was enjoying this particular sequence. As the picture finally started to dissolve, the struggling slave had managed to lean partially to one side, where he remained still, apparently resting; with a whoosh of air audible on the video, he appeared to sigh as deeply as the restraints and breathing tube allowed, as though in a state of acceptance of his uncomfortable predicament.
Whacking himself furiously, riding the butt plug, on the verge of cumming, Tim thought the movie was over, but the picture came back into view: The camera fade-in revealed that the hogtied rubber mummy had been transferred intact to the inside of a horizontal wooden box. Pulling back to show a lateral view of the open container, the camera then zoomed in on attachment points where the slave was immobilized by tethers to the front, top, and bottom sides of the box, the floor space of which allowed just enough room for him to rest on his stomach, on which he was trapped rigidly in place in the hogtie position. The last scene showed an anonymous, gloved hand closing the box, with the hogtied mummy inside disappearing from view. The camera zoomed back slightly, showing the gloved hand inserting padlocks into latches, and then the camera backed away further, giving a wider view of Ross’s dungeon. The video ended with the box in the distance as the dungeon light was turned off.
His right hand busily pumping, on the brink of allowing the meat-pounding to pass the point of no return, Tim reacted with a startle response as the noise of the telephone on his desk interrupted his wild masturbation. The caller ID showed Ross’s cell phone number. Tim let go of his cock and pulled madly at the straps and gag to get it out in time to answer the phone. Choking on the pooled saliva and sputtering into the phone, Tim cleared his throat and said, “Hello… um, Sir.”
Ross responded: “Hi, pig. What’s all that choking and coughing? Are you sick?”
“No, Sir. Um… My mouth was full when the phone rang.”
Ross chuckled and said, “Well, coincidentally, just before I called I was thinking of your mouth, as I aimed my cock at the toilet and took a long, noisy piss.”
Remaining silent, Tim felt his face coloring with humiliation. Tim was embarrassed to hear Ross talk about him like he was a toilet, and yet he knew that his cock fed on the idea of the control it represented. He stroked it, smeared precum over its head and then sucked the rest off his thumb as he heard Ross’s authoritative voice continue in his ear.
“What were you drinking, pig – your own piss, since you are temporarily deprived of mine?”
Tim was getting annoyed. He took his thumb out of his mouth and spoke up: “No, Sir. Um… I wasn’t drinking anything.”
As though sensing and enjoying Tim’s discomfiture, Ross sounded amused and playful. “Well, if not piss, then what was your mouth full of, pig?”
Tim hesitated. He was embarrassed to admit that he had gagged himself, and yet he knew Ross had a way of interrogating him about details, penetrating his thoughts, and exerting control whenever Tim tried to hide something. Tim cleared his throat again, swallowed and sighed. “I had a big gag in my mouth, Sir. I was so horny I put it in myself.”
Tim heard Ross’s deep, masculine voice take on an encouraging tone. “Excellent. Glad to hear it. My pig should be gagged as often and long as possible. Is there any other gear in place on my cute pig’s humpy little slave body?”
Tim smiled. Ross rarely complimented him on anything. Hearing Ross say “my cute pig” and admit he regarded Tim as “humpy” instantly extinguished Tim’s irritation.
Tim answered freely, almost proudly: “A huge butt plug, a ball stretcher, and nipple clamps.”
Ross suddenly barked through the phone in an imposing voice, “Hands off your cock, pig!”
Startled by the change in tone, Tim quickly let go of his cock, but then laughed at himself. “I really miss you, Sir.”
“How many times have you jerked off so far this week?”
“I don’t know. A lot. I lost track.”
“Sounds like you’ve had far too much freedom, pig. I thought you needed time this week to ponder your place in my life, but now I see I underestimated your interest in being my pig. Maybe I’ll have to devise a way to keep you busy the next 2 days.”
Tim wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. “I was just looking at the pictures and thinking about you. That’s all.”
Ross’s voice became even deeper, taking on an intensely sexual emphasis. “Yes, so it seems. I just read your latest email. I am glad to hear you’re looking forward to being under my control this weekend, but I wish I had known before I left town that you wanted to stay in my dungeon while I’m gone. It could have definitely been arranged. You’d be bound, sealed in gear, plugged, tubed and under control right now, waiting for me for days, all locked up and alone, well on your way to becoming the 24/7 encasement pig I want full time for my dungeon. A week sealed, bound, and all alone in my dungeon with me out of town would have been excellent training for you.”
Afraid it would explode on its own, Tim stared at his cock and stifled a moan. Yet, intruding on his horniness, a nagging doubt entered his mind. “Sir, would that be realistic? Safe?”
Ross gave an amused snort. “Absolutely. I have very effective methods of monitoring you, and friends who would be glad to ‘baby sit’ without you even knowing about it until they alter your restraints, feed you, or piss into your mouth at my instruction. And remote systems are in place, monitoring and surveillance, alarm and sprinkler systems, other setups and arrangements. You’d be very secure and protected, with everything under my control, even when I’m miles away. And if anything did go wrong, you’d be rescued. I take very good care of my possessions, especially my rubber toys, and that’s what you’d be.”
Ross’s voice and words sounded so assuring. Tim wanted to jerk off badly. Tim asked, “But is it reasonable to be tied up all the time?”
Ross explained. “Not without close supervision. Right now, you’re still in a training phase, requiring some form of bondage and encasement in rubber 99.9 percent of the time, but that doesn’t mean you won’t exercise and be kept healthy and clean. Later on, the conditions of your captivity may change somewhat. You’ll have chores and duties to attend to as my slave. No one can live tied up 100% of the time forever, even a bondage pig like you. While I’m still breaking you in, though, the solitude and bondage will be extreme at times, very challenging physically and emotionally, but you already know that and keep coming back for more, bondage pig that you are. It’s not bondage until you want out. And I’ll give you plenty of wanting out!”
Tim could no longer resist. He grabbed his cock and pumped. Practically groaning as he said it, Tim blurted out, “Sir, I want to be your pig, and I’m gonna cum!”
“If you cum, I’ll hang up!”
Tim stopped himself just in time. Trying to catch his breath, he attempted to remedy the situation. He panted into the phone and said breathlessly, “Okay. I stopped. Sorry. I promise not to unless you say I can. I do want to be your pig, though.”
Ross taunted Tim: “Then why are you expressing doubts? And why are you being disrespectful, talking on the phone to me without being encased in rubber?”
Dying of horniness but disconcerted by Ross’s comment, Tim squeezed his cock. “Sir?”
Adopting a serious tone, Ross started giving orders. “Put down the phone, strap the gag back in place, take off the nipple clamps, then pick up the phone, and grunt once.”
Tim complied quickly, trying to ignore the fire ignited in his pecs and hastily inserting the huge gag and pulling the straps tight. He picked up the phone and put the receiver against the gag. “Mmph.”
“Outstanding, pig. Oink once for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no.’ Understand?”
“Mmph.”
“We’ve had a nice little chat tonight, but you’ll find that such opportunities will be rare in the future. I prefer to hear you communicate in pig mode only, with oinks, and only then when I give permission. Is your digital camera operational, pig?”
Tim had to think about it for a few seconds before responding positively. “Mmph.”
“Good. I want lots of pictures of you while I’m away. Listen carefully. After I hang up, set up the tripod and use the camera’s timer, the self-portrait feature to take a photo of yourself as you are now. Then, leave the gag, stretcher, and plug in place, and get yourself all situated in your catsuit, the one from London with the hood and gloves attached. When you are finished suiting up, take another photo showing yourself in rubber, and then send both photos to me by 10:30. I’ll call you after I get the pix. You should remain encased, waiting by the phone for me. I expect you to pick up on the first ring and give me an oink. Don’t disappoint me, pig.”
Tim grunted into the phone, but Ross did not respond; he had disconnected.
Twenty-three minutes later, Tim sat at his desk, trying to focus on the computer keyboard through the pinhole eyes of the catsuit’s hood. With the combination of the lube he had used to get the catsuit on quickly and the sweat that had already started to accumulate under it, Tim’s slimy, gloved fingers, glistening with slickness, kept hitting the wrong keys. He fumbled madly, cursing himself for taking Ross so seriously. Yet, he met the deadline, sending the email with its attachments at 10:29. The phone rang soon after.
“Mmph.”
“That’s much better, pig. I want you in total rubber encasement, with no skin showing, whenever you read my email or take a phone call from me while I’m away this week. While you were suiting up, I’ve been composing some messages for you. I will send the first one shortly after I hang up. Each will have a unique subject line indicating exactly what time you are to open it, which I expect you to do at the appointed hour and minute, no earlier and no later. You will be required to follow all instructions in each message in order to earn the privilege of being under my control this coming weekend. If you screw up, the weekend plans are off. Now let me hear an oink indicating you heard me before I hang up.”
Tim had heard, but he wasn’t sure he completely understood. “Mmph.”
“Night, pig.”
Tim felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. Part of him wanted the sound of Ross’s voice in his ear to continue. On the other hand, though, the conversation and the hurried efforts to get the catsuit on, photograph himself and send the pictures, all had exhausted him, and he was looking forward to taking everything off, especially the plug and gag, so that he could jerk off and go to bed.
As he started to unzip the catsuit, Tim tried to remember what Ross had said: “… want you in total rubber encasement… whenever you read my email or take a phone call from me…” Ross had said there would an email soon after he hung up.
Tim groaned into the gag. Silently, he said to himself, “Okay, I’ll wait until I read the email.” Feeling silly, Tim re-closed the zipper, signed on to his email quickly and checked his inbox. There was one message from Ross, and the subject line read, “10:50.”
Impatient and feeling foolish, Tim waited for 5 minutes until the exact time of 10:50, and then opened the message.
---------------------------------------
pig,
I’ve designed a nice little series of exercises to keep u busy tonight, and perhaps tomorrow night too.
To reiterate the ground rules, u must open each message exactly at the assigned time – our use of the same email service provider allows me to track this. If u fail, plans for the weekend are off. Each message u receive from me will include a specific instruction to photograph urself while performing or after following a certain directive.
The catsuit u are wearing now is ur base layer; it will stay in place all night, with ur ass plugged and mouth gagged as they should still be now. When a message instructs u to add more rubber, the additional piece should stay in place in successive photos unless I tell u otherwise. I envision encasing u in at least two or three more suits, a larger catsuit plus wet and dry suits, building the layers of latex as the night goes on. u might be instructed to add ur posture collar, a second or third hood, ur rubber muzzle, rubber body harness, thick latex gloves, rubber waist cincher – hell, u could end up with all ur gear in place by morning! I might have u photograph urself while u assume a particular position, open crotch/ass zippers to show the plug is still in place, or some other task suitable for a rubber pig.
For each task, unless I specify a different time frame in the message, u must respond within 5 minutes with the required photo proving u have followed orders.
As I said, this exercise is designed to keep u busy tonight, under my control while I’m away, like u said u wanted. u should count on staying alert, signed on to your computer and on the lookout all night for new messages while u are between photo sessions. I used the automatic send feature to schedule the times when my messages will be sent by the system, so that the computer is programmed to transmit them all by itself while I relax comfortably or sleep in bed.
I will check ur responses carefully tonight and tomorrow morning, to ensure u have followed each instruction promptly, filling my inbox with photos of ur rubber adventures right through the night.
Time for u to get started, pig. Strap ur rubber head harness on over ur hood and gag; then do a full frontal shot and send it to my inbox by 11:00.
---------------------------------------
Tim groaned loudly through the gag. “Fucking bastard,” he thought. Tim checked the time; he had less than 5 minutes to look for the harness, strap in on, and then complete the task of taking and sending the picture. Nervous and sweaty, about to enter into personality disorder mode, Tim felt ambivalent about what to do next. One of his multiple personalities wanted to lead him away from Ross, putting an end to the entire Ross scenario, present and future. This part of Tim reasoned that, while it had been fun for a few months to dissociate and spend all his “free” time tied up and encased in a hot rubberman’s basement, he should now return to the real world, a ‘normal’ life of work, family, friends, and relationships where he was an equal. He should turn off his computer, divest himself of the fetish apparel, and go to sleep like a ‘regular’ person who has to wake up early for work the next day.
The other part of Tim’s dual identity, the inherent rubberpig inhabiting his mind and connecting his psyche directly to his surging cock, wanted to lead him further into Ross, past the point of no return, where Ross’s desire for 100% control would be fully realized.
Tim considered what that would mean tonight: Staying awake all night, sealing himself under layer after layer of rubber, and documenting the process with photos – all while Ross slept comfortably. Tim thought, “I’d have to be crazy with horniness to go along with that.”
An image flashed into Tim’s mind: Tim pictured himself as had been months ago, before Ross – he was Brad’s partner, surrounded by friends and family who doted on them, building his career and their network of friends and interests, enjoying the essence of open gay life. As that image faded, a second one came into focus: Tim pictured himself as he had been last week, a rubber prisoner in a basement – he was Ross’s pig, the gagged, plugged, jock-spiked, latex-sealed rubber mummy in the video, sleepsacked and hogtied, boxed and abandoned, left to squirm in the dark discomfort of rubber isolation and immobility, a human rubberworm.
Tim realized the contrast of the two images symbolized his impending choice, and his indecision. He squeezed his latex-gloved right hand over his rubber-encased crotch. He pressed down hard, squashing his enlarging cock with his palm. Trapped at an awkward angle and compressed uncomfortably inside the tight latex of the rubber catsuit, Tim’s cock stiffened further, in apparent enjoyment of Tim’s torment. The root of his being, the cause of all his rubber troubles and source of all his rubber passion, it pulsed against Tim’s palm with each heart beat, reminding him that seconds were passing, and time was running out...
Waiting Ross #26
A surreal moment caught Ross off guard; for a split second, the certainty typical of his consciousness, that feeling of total control over his environment, seemed altered. There was the sensation of his cock, swollen to hardness within the rubber jock under his tight leather jeans. The sudden increase in his erection, combined with the resurrection of the long-ago familiar stroke of the palm and fingers of the rough, masculine touch of Jack’s large, strong hand, roughly grazing the buzzed hair on Ross’s head, confused Ross’s senses.
With no intention of letting Jack be the source of the stimulation, Ross causally pushed Jack’s hand away from his head. Complying seemingly without notice, Jack moved his hand down to his side but continued to stand close behind Ross, seated at a desk in front of his computer in the guest room of Jack’s house. Acting on Ross’s advice, Jack ignored a new series of grunts, barely audible from within the storage compartment under the window seat in the corner of the room. Jack stared over Ross’s shoulder at the images on Ross’s computer screen.
Pointing to a particular photo, Jack asked, “Is that the guy you told me about? Have you finally found your mythic slave? Is he the bondage pig you’ve been searching for all these years?”
Knowing Jack was trying to get a rise out of him, Ross ignored the judgments inherent in the words Jack used to form his questions. “Yep, he may be the one,” Ross explained. “Though he gets a bit moody, running hot and cold, confused at times. But there’s no doubt he’s a bondage pig – my best pig yet.”
“Hard to tell what he looks like from those,” Jack said.
“These are all from the last few hours. Self photos he sent to prove he stayed awake all night, following my orders to encase himself in layer over layer of hot rubber right through the night.” Ross checked his watch, noting the three-hour time difference. “It’s still early back east. He has one or two more duties, little rubber assignments, with a few pictures to take this morning before he’s allowed to remove all that gear and go to work.”
Folding his arms and reinforcing his wide-legged stance behind Ross, Jack tried to sound serious: “Poor guy. I’d feel sorry for him if he’s your slave. He’ll be sealed airtight and tied up all the time, never to see the light of day again!”
Ross snorted. “I always let him out… eventually!”
As they both laughed, the increased noise of exaggerated, elongated pleas coming from the storage space was notable. “Mmmmmmmm! Mmmmmmm! Mmmph!”
Jack replied, “Sounds like Mark hears us talking. Are you sure he’s all right?”
Ross responded, “It’s his problem if he’s not. He knew what he was getting into.”
Jack explained, “I thought he’d be perfect for you. That’s why I hooked you two up while you were here.” Jack continued, “Thought you’d hit it off. He’s a good bottom, and says he’s looking for the kind of fulltime thing you always talk about.”
Ross responded, “He told me he had been looking forward to my visit, anxious to serve a real Master for a change.”
Jack laughed. “Fuck you.”
Ross responded, “I don’t think so!”
Jack moved forward, leaning his arms heavily on Ross’s shoulder, and smiled. “I’m just teasing you, Ross. You know I can’t resist. Do whatever you’d like with him, as long as he survives, healthy and intact. I don’t play with him much anymore, but this is my house!”
Ross knew Jack was right. The competitiveness between them, the struggle to exert power over each other, dormant while they lived on opposite coasts, was threatening to rise to the surface during Ross’s visit to Jack’s west coast home. Ross wondered if the rubber prison to which he had subjected Mark was a manifestation of their old rivalry, the struggle to prove that one could top better than the other.
Putting thoughts of Mark out of his mind for the moment, Ross positioned his mouse pointer over one of the pictures of Tim. “This one lives for it, a born bondage pig, meant to be sealed 24/7. He’d know better than to whine.”
Jack asked, “Is he ready to move in with you?”
Ross responded. “I thing he’s on the verge, and I can be patient. Anyway, if he doesn’t work out, I can find another pig with a click of my mouse.”
Jack leaned further down, with his mouth at Ross’s ear, and talked in a mock whisper, though it was nothing more than an excuse to get closer. “They’re plentiful in this city. But even here, you might have to search quite a while for someone willing to stay tied up in rubber gear, locked away alone in your basement for days, weeks, hell, if it’s left to you - months at a time!”
Ross turned and pushed Jack’s face away. Turning back to the computer display, Ross said, “Well, I have invested a lot of time in him, not to mention the customized gear. You know my addiction to tight gear. There’s nothing better than the sight of a tightly encased rubber pig ready for service.”
“Does the pig have a name?”
Ross actually had to think about it for a moment before responding, “Tim.”
Jack said, “That reminds me. The custom made item you ordered should be ready today. We can go to the shop and pick it up after breakfast. I assume it’s for Tim.” Ross nodded yes. Leaning closer again, Jack scanned the photos. “Still can’t tell what he looks like.”
Indulging Jack’s curiosity, Ross began clicking through the portfolio of Tim that happened to be on his laptop. There were more photos than he would have guessed, easily hundreds. Ross browsed quickly though them, trying to locate one that revealed something of Tim’s identity and cuteness. The images flashed across the computer screen. Photo after photo of Tim showed a rubber-hooded male figure, small and slim but well-proportioned; bound, sealed in gear, plugged, tubed and under control; imprisoned in rubber and leather straitjackets and sleepsacks; squeezed into armless pod suits and bound tight in sacks and bags; totally encapsulated and mummified, sometimes in contorted, uncomfortable-looking positions; sealed in a rubber dog suit; encircled by collars and restraints of rubber and leather and steel; tied with ropes; suspended in closed areas, locked in boxes and a lowered into a pit; encased in head to toe rubber, doubled up and bowed back in a tightly hogtied mass of rubber and straps and tubes.
The photos gave the impression of a slave essentially into no limits s/m, a genuine 24/7 encasement pig, totally dominated by its Master. Ross’s enjoyment of controlling the rubber-encased slave with extreme bondage was evident in the images displayed on his computer and in the bulge displayed in his crotch as he searched through the photos.
Jack resisted the urge to grab Ross’s crotch. Instead, he chuckled and said mockingly, “I can see he’s very cute.”
Ross laughed also. “Well, you know I don’t like my slaves to show much skin!” Ross continued clicking and searching, until he finally found the photos he remembered. “Here are some.”
Jack leaned in for a closer look as Ross zoomed in successively on a half dozen photos of different views showing the same situation: a tightly muscled, totally naked and hairless male was trapped in a triple rigid restraint system, a metal stock enclosing wrists and ankles, each held separately and locked tightly in a rigid line at floor level in the combination ankle/wrist component, which was bisected by a short iron bar connecting it to a wide steel collar encircling the subject’s neck. Trapped in the severe device, Tim had been forced to pose in different squatting and kneeling positions, seriously restricted by the difficult posture required by the unyielding metal restraint. Ross explained, “I wanted to photograph him rubberless the first time he was totally shaved, head to toe.” In addition to documenting Tim’s hairless state, the variety of positions and photographic angles showed his ass cheeks pushed apart by the mammoth black base of a huge butt plug; his mouth stretched wide and jammed full around a large ball gag tightly strapped to his newly shaved, shiny, bald head; his cock penetrated by a catheter tube, its end closed off by a small cork; and his ballsack encircled by a thick leather stretcher tied to the center of the rigid bar at his ankles and wrists. A frontal close-up shot, with Tim sitting uncomfortably hunched forward, revealed clamps on his nipples. A rear view showed Tim in an ass-up, face-down position: his ankles, knees, shoulders, and head were against the floor, allowing the camera to focus between his legs on spikes lining the inside of the ball stretcher.
Jack studied the set of photos. The physical posturing enforced by the rigid array of connected metal looked contorted and sadistic. The plug, tube, gag, and ball spikes appeared cruel. The facial expressions, distorted by the huge ball filling the mouth, looked stretched and agonized. Yet, in spite of the obvious discomfort the slave was in, or perhaps because of it, he had a raging hardon in all of the pictures. His erect cock stuck up and out, straight and very stiff, with the yellow catheter tube protruding. Taking in the well-proportioned muscles and body, cute, masculine feet and handsome (though distorted) features, Jack ascertained that Ross’s ‘pig’ would be a good-looking young man under normal circumstances.
Jack commented, “I guess he is pretty cute. Do you always keep him cath’d?”
“I like my pigs totally plugged and tubed at all times, all holes under my control...”
Interrupted by loud, rhythmic groans, Ross stopped in mid-sentence.
“Mmmm mmmm mmmmm mmmm. Mmmm. M-M-M-M-M!"
Ross said, “Speaking of pigs, sounds like your friend Mark is oinking.”
The agonized groaning continued for 20 seconds or so, followed by low moans and the faint sound of gasps of heavy breathing, and then silence. Soon after, however, muffled little yelps were audible.
“L-P!” “L-P!” “L-P!”
Jack said, “Sounds like ‘UNCLE’ to me. He probably wants out.”
Ross checked the time. “Not yet. He has 6 more hours to go. He committed to 16 hours in there.”
“L-P!” “L-P!” “L-P!”
Jack began walking to the corner. “I’m gonna check on him. I’m curious anyway to see what you’ve done with him.”
Ross clicked COMPUTER OFF and stood as his system began shutting down. He turned to Jack. “I just checked on him before you came in, and he was fine. I’d leave him be. Let’s go to breakfast. He’ll calm down when he realizes we’re gone.”
But Jack had already bent down to unlatch the cabinet on the front of the window seat, only to find it was padlocked.
Jack asked, “Where’s the key?”
Unwilling to give up control, Ross hesitated. His second thoughts about staying with Jack during this trip, and playing with Jack’s friend, were rising to the surface and filling his mind with doubt. Ross weighed his basic need to have 100% control against his friendship with Jack. Slowly, Ross reached into a pocket and handed the key to Jack. Soon thereafter, the door under the window seat swung open. Inside the dark space, in the small compartment originally intended for storage, the first visible sign of Mark was a tightly hooded, rubber-encased head, completely sealed, with a tube protruding at the mouth.
“Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh…”
As the door opened completely, Jack felt as though one of Ross’s photos had leaped out of Ross’s computer to become a real event. The situation was ‘pure Ross’: Jack’s friend Mark had been transformed into a rubber life form of unrecognizable species. Although its eyes were covered by the latex of the hood, the tightly bound rubber creature tried to turn its head to the side, aware that its container had been opened and trying to see. Struggling uselessly against the bindings keeping it in place, it squirmed and snorted, redoubling its efforts to groan loudly for attention.
“Uht, uht, uht, uht, uht, uht, uht…”
“He’s saying ‘out, out.’” Jack looked at Ross with a quizzical expression.
Ross said, “Last night after you were gone Mark went wild over a picture he saw on my computer of my pig all bound up and boxed. He asked me a million questions about it, begging for it, licking my boots and sucking my cock, all the while pleading for me to do the same to him, so I gave him what he asked for.”
Jack squatted down to study the vulcanized form as it wiggled and squealed. “So why isn’t it time to let him out?”
Ross gestured with both hands. “As you said, this is your house. Go ahead. Let him out if you want. He told me he wanted the same as my pig, 16 hours overnight that way. I warned him that my pig is well trained in advanced bondage, but Mark assured me he could take it.”
“UHT!” “UHT!”
Jack inhaled, taking in the scent of rubber emanating from the storage space. He observed the squirming movements, which suddenly seemed to be fueled by anger, and listened to the pleas for help, which suddenly sounded pitiful, almost annoyingly so. Jack issued a loud, sharp command for Mark to shut up and keep still.
The bound rubber form became motionless and silent, quietly breathing in and out through its rubber tube. In addition to the latex aroma, Jack felt rubber heat radiating from Mark’s encased and bound body. A line of escaping perspiration squeezed out from under the bondage collar around his neck, but otherwise Mark appeared to be a perfectly sealed rubber pig, salt-curing in its own sweat, concealed under the layers of tight rubber.
Jack wanted to free Mark’s mouth, but only its tube was accessible, protruding through a hole in the muzzle harnessed to Mark’s head. Intertwined with tethers connected to anchors at the top and sides of the enclosure to prevent movement, the muzzle and bondage collar, fastened tightly over the rubber hood, were strapped firmly in place and secured with padlocks.
Jack asked, “He’s been that way all night?”
Ross responded, “He wanted it, assured me he’d be okay, and I’ve been checking on him periodically. He panicked two or three times, and I had to talk him through it, telling him to remember he got what he asked for, quite an intense predicament, all sealed up, sacked, strapped, with his legs bent back like that.”
Mark started whining anew, and Jack ignored him as he studied Ross’s work. Mark was on his stomach, with limited ability to shift his weight from side to side as he wiggled and squirmed as much as the anchoring ropes allowed. In addition to the cocoon effect produced by the rubber sleepsack Ross had used to mummify Mark, a collection of rubber belts encircled Mark’s encased body. His knees were bent, and his legs were doubled up, held in position by belts encircling lower to upper legs and ankles to thighs.
Just as Jack stood up, Mark began to moan and struggle again in earnest. The decibel level of Mark’s objections increased as the bound rubber cocoon bucked and jerked inside the small space. Stepping aside, Jack said, “Okay, Ross, let me see you talk him through this.”
Ross quickly walked over to the window and squatted beside the storage compartment. He reached inside and clamped his left hand over Mark’s muzzled chin, collapsing the tube of Mark’s gag with his fingers. Calmly studying his watch, Ross felt his own cock surge as he observed the struggles of the rubber mummy while it kicked, squirmed, and sucked rubber at mouth and nostrils, helpless in its efforts to breathe within or escape from its tightly sealed cocoon. At the 30-second mark, Ross released the tube. Mark gasped and moaned loudly, panting and wheezing through the tube in relief. A few deep breaths followed, until Ross clamped the tube again promptly. Ross spoke loudly. “I decide when you breathe. Remember, pig?” Mark responded quickly with two muffled grunts, in an obvious attempt to say, “Yes, Sir!”
“And I decide when you get out! Copy that, pig?”
Mark seemed to grunt in agreement, but Ross kept the tube clamped anyway, for 40 seconds this time, to emphasize his point. Standing behind Ross, Jack observed the action in silence. Ross’s no-nonsense approach with Mark was having an effect on Jack’s cock. His earlier concern for Mark was giving way to horniness as he watched the bound rubber cocoon squirm, helpless to do anything about its breathless state until Ross released the tube.
While Mark caught his breath for the second time, Ross put his mouth next to Mark’s rubber-sealed head and talked loudly. “If I were to treat you like my pig at home, which is what you said you wanted, here is what I’d say to him: You had six more hours to go until your temper tantrum, which gets you a two hour penalty. Looks like you’re staying put, sweating it out, just the way you are, for eight more hours, after which you will have the privilege of taking the contents of my full bladder through your mouth tube before I let you out of this.”
Ross quickly stood up and closed the door of the storage compartment, but within seconds a muffled braying sound penetrated its walls and filled the room. Ross looked at Jack, giving him a smirk, and reached into his pockets to fish out the keys to the padlocks on Mark’s muzzle and collar.
Within a few minutes, Ross had extracted Mark from the storage compartment, unfastened the bindings, and released him from the sleepsack. Standing before them in his catsuit, which glistened with rubber-sweat, Mark peeled off the rubber hood. A red, wet face greeted Ross with an apologetic look.
Mark coughed a few times, clearing his throat. In a quiet voice, he said, “Guess I’m not at the same level as your pig back home.”
Ross had a sudden onslaught of tender thoughts, full of Tim, missing Tim and his acceptance of control, and Ross was annoyed at himself for the sentimentality of it. He replied bluntly, “That’s right. You’re not in his league. Now go get cleaned up and we’ll take you to breakfast.”