By FirefighterSIR

Part 1

Travis knew it was too late, but he was already inside the gate.

Sweat dripped down his pits into his tight grey tank top and stained the edge where it tucked into the tight Wranglers, cinched up with a brown belt and a big rodeo buckle won back in high school.  The wet tank revealed his smooth skin spread tightly over his wrestler’s build, still white despite the days of drinking out on the lake that summer.  His thick striated pecs were topped with large flat nips while his arms highlighted the thick triceps and veined bicep from years of wrestling training.  A light sheen of golden hair fuzzed his forearms to match the tight buzz cut on his sweaty head topped with a worn camo ball cap.

Travis looked once more at the card he had been given a few days before.  Just looking at it made his cock jump:

 

Unlock your true potential. Challenge yourself, dive deep, and become the man you want to be.  Wrestlers and Footballers preferred.  A Life changing experience.  DZ Ranch Land and Cattle Company

 

Followed by a handwritten password for the company website.

He had just left the big Bass Pro Shop down in Manteca when a dark uniformed man had approached with a smile.  The slick fast talk had not distracted Travis from looking over the muscled, bearded Daddy who proffered the card.  He said he was looking for models for a new hunting lifestyle magazine.  A lean, muscled biker with a drooping trucker mustache and dark glasses had accompanied the first man, constantly scanning the entrance for other prospects while the Daddy spoke.

Travis turned away from the gate, the armed and booted guard still staring back at him, and walked slowly toward the huge metal barn.

It was set at the base of a short gravel drive, hidden from the road by tall arching oaks set in acres of golden dry grass.  In the distance the Trinity Alps still showed some white snow on their blue summits even though the rolling oak studded foothills were shimmering in ripples of intense summer heat.

The barn had a large door, guarded by another armed man, clad totally in a deep blue SWAT style uniform, a semi automatic slung over his shoulder, his own thick muscles barely contained by the tight tee under the armored vest.  All around the barn were dusty pickup trucks, the sort seen on every back road around this dry, sun baked county.  But there seemed to be something different, something wrong.

Travis made it to the barn door, the noontime heat radiating off the hard packed dirt in waves.  The guard, his face obscured by a dark helmet shield, simply jerked open the heavy sliding door.

Travis stepped into the dark, cool interior of the barn.  Fans whirred, pumping chill air into the massive dim space.  A circle of men had their backs turned to him staring at something in the center of the barn.  The door rolled shut behind him.  Travis stood for a moment in the dark; no one seemed to have noticed him, when he heard the first sounds.  It was a deep, heavy panting followed by a grunting moan.  It was coming from the center of the circle of men.  As Travis moved forward, the men seemed familiar, like men you would see at the local cattlemen’s association meeting, clad in Wranglers, tee shirts, long sleeve plaid shirts, caps, and cowboy hats.  Some young, some older with beards and moustaches, many large, strong, and tough.

As he stepped up to the circle, one man, the biker from the day before, turned, and motioned him closer.  Travis took the time to take in his lean, muscled arms, and the thick veins in his hairy forearms, the brownish red mustache, and the intense green eyes.  The man was wearing a deep blue SWAT bdu’s like the guard outside and a tight tank top over his deep tanned body and firm abs.  Heavy, dirty brown boots scuffed the floor as he stepped aside and drew the blond muscle jock closer into the circle.

The center of the floor was lit from above by a powerful white spotlight, where a large bench press had been set up complete with a weight bar and many 45-pound plates loaded on.

Travis caught his breath and his skin prickled at what he saw.

Bound to the bench press was a muscled, 25-year-old former football player shining with sweat.  The boy’s massive smooth, tanned body was bound to the press, wrists shackled to the weight bar, ankles spread and locked to the feet of the press. A heavy Velcro strap was cinched down across his waist, just above the base of his cock, another right above his massive spread pecs at the nip line.  His shoulder length blond hair was matted with perspiration.  An O-ring gag was clenched in his mouth and drool dripped down into his pecs and down his stretched 8 pack towards his erect cock.

Travis stared but seemed unable to move even as the lean man gripped his shoulders with unusually strong hands.  The captive’s eyes seemed glazed and stared upward into the intense light.

Travis watched as the bound muscle boy before him flexed and grunted deeply again, more drool and sweat dripping off his spread eagled body as it strained against the metal shackles. Attached to the jock’s stiff cock was a vacuum tube that was quietly pumping at his tool.  The wires from an anal probe could be seen between the jock’s legs, where they exited his tight asshole.

“Uhhh ungghhh ah unh” he grunted and his head lolled from side to side on his shoulders.  His cock jerked and his thighs flexed as he began to futilely pump his crotch upwards into the vacuum milking machine.  The jock’s nipples swelled as his chest stretched against the heavy strap, more drool and sweat splattered to the floor.

The jock grunted even more loudly again and began to buck and tremble, his back arching and his head thrusting back as he moaned more and more, his thighs thrashing from side to side.

The men all around stirred, looking intently at the bound boy, many writing notes on tiny slips of paper gripped in their hands.

He tried to bellow but the gag prevented anything but a gargled moan as the tube filled with hot white cum.  The jock flexed and grunted more as the vacuum tube continued to work his sore member mercilessly.  A nearby guard reached forward and adjusted the tube down over the captive’s cock and the jock thrashed his head from side to side trying to beg for mercy. The guard stepped away and the tube began to pump more quickly as the jock sank back into the bonds as his dick was forced to erection again by its action.

The lean man came in close to Travis’ ear and spoke softly.

“You know him, don’t you?  He was the all-star line backer from Corning High.  He has been in training for about 3 months.  He is ready to move to his new assignment.”

Travis looked at the man with a mix of horror and excitement.

“Assignment?”

The lean man pulled Travis away from the scene as the group of men began to chat among themselves, closing in to look over the bound boy now flexing again as another load of cum was about to be forced out of his massive body.  The two walked over to a spot in one of the huge bays of the barn, lit by a smaller white spot light.

“Let me introduce myself, Travis.  I am Zach Starr, chief training manager here at DZ Ranch Land and Cattle Company.  I was there the day we recruited you and I will be guiding your through the entire process that will unlock your true male potential.”

Zach reached into his pocket and gripped something. He continued.

“If you decide to join our training program, you will eventually be just like your football friend there.  A true prime beef muscle man ready for the best life has to offer.  I know you want it, otherwise you would not be here. We have noted your repeated visits to the special URL we gave you on the card.”

Travis felt his face redden with embarrassment.  He had spent nearly every waking hour devouring the stories and descriptions of muscled men on the website while he drained his cock repeatedly into his hand.

Zach leaned in very close, his green eyes gleaming.  Travis felt hypnotized; his eyes were getting blurry and watery in the strong light.

“Those men you see back there are not just local ranchers, they are Masters who come here specifically to find prime muscle for use.  Muscle like you.  Once you have been trained, you will go through a similar experience and find your new owner.”

Zach looked back at the group and gripped the boy’s wide shoulders very tightly.

“Look, they have made their bids”

Travis was pushed back toward the group.  A muscled guard wearing a face shield came up from behind and gripped his left arm, Zach holding the right, one hand still in his pocket.

The men were dispersing from around the bound jock that lay slumped in the shackles, white cum dripping out of the vacuum tube, mingling with the puddle of sweat on the concrete floor.

One rancher, a massive bearish man with a thick beard, was writing out a check to another uniformed man.  As they shook hands, two guards stepped forward, unshackled the blond boy, and pulled him off the press, dragging him toward the barn door where a diesel pickup rumbled in the boiling afternoon heat.  The bearish man followed but not before pausing in front of Zach and Travis.

“Looks like the valley grows good strong boys. Let me know when this one is ready!”

“Enjoy your new meat!” said Zach.

Zach and the guard turned toward the third uniformed man.

“Dane, here is Travis, he finally made it!”

Dane stepped into the light.  He was older and larger than Zach with short dark hair flared with white at the sideburns and streaked into his short stiff beard jutting from his chin.  His look seemed to suggest Tom of Finland masculinity mixed with the classic calm of a Pharaoh, carved in stone in some Egyptian temple.  His dark blue uniform was pressed to his muscled bear physique and thick black bands of ink circled both his forearms.  His black boots shone in the light, barely scuffed by dust.

“Travis, good to meet you!” said Dane, extending a rough hand toward the boy.  Travis shook his hand as best he could with a firm grip still held by both men at his sides.

“We are looking forward to training you and have gotten a great deal of insight from your visits to our website. I am sure we will have a great time together.” He said it almost like Travis was being invited to a picnic instead of being conscripted into muscle bound slavery.

Dane turned toward the guard.

“We have another bidding group coming in about 30 minutes.  Make sure the displays are clean and ready.  We will be using the Mexican, #36 and the tall one, #49.  For #49, we will also need the “Endurance” module, so make sure it is charged. Take Travis to Processing with Mr. Starr.”

“Zach, make sure Travis is ready for inspection in two hours, we will want to work with him ourselves tonight.”

“Of course!” said Zach with an almost evil grin, gripping and shaking the muscled jock.  Travis cock leapt in his tight Wranglers even as the fear began to mount inside his head as the men gripped and tugged at his arms

As Zach lead Travis away into the darkness, he paused a moment.

“I got exited and nearly forgot!  You need to take your pill.”

The guard grabbed both of the blond boy’s strong muscled arms and pulled them back hard, Travis opened his mouth to yell but Zach was too fast.

He forced the pill into the boy’s mouth and gripped his throat to force him to swallow.  The guard yanked Travis’ arms more to pull him deeper into the barn.  As Travis began to pass out, he glimpsed the other bays of the barn, each one guarded by a barred gate.  Behind each one, a muscled slave stood, locked at hands, feet and neck by metal shackles.  Travis was about to find out the harsh lessons of training at DZ Ranch.

 

Part 2

 

His sore asshole gripped the electro probe, pulling it deep into his hole with each new pulse of power.  Sweat dripped down the probe’s wires extending out of his ass and onto the black waterproof case, then down to the broad wood floor below.

The crossed webbing straps barely supported Travis’ muscled body stretched out spread eagle horizontal to the floor by his wrists and ankles.  A chain attached to a hood supported his head while another chain stretched his swollen, tormented balls away from his cock.  A breathing tube extended from a thick leather gag and a padded blindfold and ear protection completed the bound jock’s isolation.

Travis had long stopped screaming with every new torment he had endured, now he just panted into the breathing tube and moaned with the cycle of electro pulses to his hole. Cold muscle jock cum pooled in the ripples of his white-skinned abs from the repeated loads that had been forced out of the new recruit since he had been dragged to the private rooms of Zach and Dane, owners of the DZ Ranch.

Zach was a lean muscled man about 30 with intense green eyes and a thick trucker mustache.  He was stripped down to a leather jock, boots, exposing his wiry muscled body, and sun burnt skin to the cool air pouring into the high ceiling room.  He fingered the remote control for the anal probe, delighting in the jerks and grunts from Travis.

Dane looked up from across the room.

“Let his hole rest for about an hour.  I want to take this one myself,” said the bearish Dane.  He was sitting at a heavy wood desk centered along a wall of glass windows.  He was totally naked except for heavy black boots and black leather gauntlets covering his thick hairy forearms.  A dark stiff beard jutted out from his otherwise clean-shaven face.  Two muscled guards, standing rigid, totally naked, flanked him.  One held a drink in his palm, the other a file of slave portfolios being considered. Both men sported impressive erections from watching the last few hours of brutal erotic torture Travis had endured.  Each guard had joined the tiny group of men at the ranch after they themselves had experienced a similar initiation and months of intense hard training.

The ranch hosted four guards, picked carefully from the scores of men who sought to be trained each year at the ranch.  They were strong, muscled, smart, trusted, and above all: obedient.

The ranch stretched out beyond the windows behind Dane.  Rolling acres of golden grass and twisted oaks disappearing into the background of dark mountains sharply outlined in the hot dusk of far Northern California.  A light moved across the hills close in where the crew of trainee slaves was returning from a work detail.  The slaves were herded back to the barn by the two other guards where they would be caged for the night.

“I want him to begin to imprint with me so that we can use him for our special missions in the local towns. Once he is trained we might find him to be a valuable tool here.”

Zach flicked the control once more from behind his back, and the jock growled loudly, flexing and thrashing hard before falling still.  Zach grinned and chuckled.

“Bad, veerry very bad!” said Dane with a smile.  “Come here, boy.”

Zach trotted over and Dane grabbed him tightly, holding him on his lap.  They kissed deeply.

As Zach looked into Dane’s dark eyes, Dane smiled back and said, “I have to admit something.  I have been planning a special treat for the crew and the trainees.  I want to use this new one in a different way then usual.  Come with Me.”

The two guards whose cocks jerked and dripped in anticipation did not miss Dane’s words.  They both knew what the “special treat” was and were eager to get started.  The guards stepped forward, releasing the massive blond jock’s limbs from the restraints.  His arms and legs dropped heavily and his full weight stretched the webbing sling.  The guards dropped the sling to the floor and gathered up the limp muscle boy.

A few minutes later the guards were in front of the huge barn, pulling open the door to reveal the dark interior.  The air was cool but ripe with the smell of men, sweat and cock juice.  Along one wall, four caged off bays held one muscled slave each.   Some had been at the ranch only a week or two, some months.  All were still dirt streaked and sweaty from the long hard day out on the ranch in the intense late summer heat.

Dane pressed a button on the small remote in his pocket and a strong spotlight flicked on in the middle of the barn floor.  In the strong white light, a bench and some restraints could be seen.  Travis was dragged to the light and held up while one guard grabbed his arms and locked them in to shackles hanging down in the darkness.  The other guard waited at his feet until Dane used the remote to draw the nearly unconscious hooded jock meat up until the chains stretched him.  His massive body was now in a hanging spread eagle position.  Then his legs were spread apart and locked to shackles attached to the floor.  Then a modified sawhorse turned into a fuck bench was dragged forward, just within reach of the moaning, spread-bound jock’s cock.  Dane stepped around the boy’s body, the strong light shining off his large dark nips and the soft fuzz of golden hair running down from the center of the thick stretched pecs to the base of his cock.  More golden hair gleamed on the top of each round, full, ass cheek.  As Dane stroked the boy’s lower back, his cock jumped to life in response to his new Master’s firm touch.

Dane turned to Zach after glancing down the line of cages, “Each slave is ready for the special treat.  I added stimulants to the water they drank when they were brought back from training.  It should be in effect by now.”

Zach and Dane motioned the guards to the third cage down the row.  One of their favorite trainee slaves, a short lean pup with inked sleeves on his wiry forearms.  Number 51 was totally shaved from head to balls, but his smooth light skin was darkly stained with lash marks from the hard training he had received for the last few months.

The guards pulled 51 to the bench and strapped him down, butt pointing up toward Travis’s erect rod.  They knew which O-ring gag to use that would accommodate their cocks and roughly fitted the lean slave’s mouth with it.  Both slaves were ready.

Dane stepped up to the ass of the hanging jock.

“You are mine now, boy,” he breathed as he sank his slicked massive rod into the jock’s golden asshole.  The jock stiffened and moaned.  Dane pushed the boy forward and gripped his rod until it pressed against the tight dark hole of 51.

The slave’s hole resisted but Dane forced the rod deep into its hole as the slave tried to grunt around Zach’s meaty cock now raping it through the O-ring.  Dane began to pound Travis’s hole hard, gripping the jocks stretched abs and pawing at the huge nips.  The Master’s dark fur quickly matted with sweat and he showed no mercy for the strung up boy.

Zach took equal pleasure in choking 51’s throat and the guards drew in close, one using a switch to beat the lean slave’s back, the other reaching underneath to attach a milking tube to 51’s rigid rod.  51 grunted and drooled; bucking with the triple fucking it was receiving.  Travis moaned and panted inside the tight hood, his hungry virgin hole taking every inch of Dane’s cock.

Dane grunted suddenly and stiffened, pulling Travis away from 51 and grabbing the jock’s cock with his left hand, his right pounding the boy’s stretched abs just above the base of his cock.  Dane grunted and pumped hard three times then bellowed like a bull sire, pumping his load deep into the boy’s tight asshole.

Travis screamed with erotic pain and stiffened, his own load splattering his body and the slave below him as Dane forced it out of his rod.

Zach also pumped away with gusto, grabbing the switch from the guard and laying hard welts on 51’s back and shoulders as both men shot their cum in unison.  51’s load was sucked down the milking tube for use later, Zach’s white cum dripping out of the gagged slave’s mouth.

Both Masters pulled away from the slaves, taking white towels each guard offered.  Together, they slumped on a couch brought into the barn just for this moment.  The guards waited for the two men to sit back before assuming the positions Dane and Zach had vacated.  Travis grunted and tried to thrash but his sore stretched arms had lost all of their strength.  He hung limply under the white light as the two guards first raped him, and then brought the other three slaves’ out of their cages to do the same.  All under the watchful eye of Dane and Zach resting on the couch.

But Travis was nowhere near done with his first hard night at DZ Ranch.

 

Part 3 The Guard

 

Almost 30,000 years ago Mount Tehama woke from a prehistoric slumber, destroying its tall volcanic cone in a massive blast that sent red-hot lava rocks raining down over the fields and foothills. The violent pyroclastic flow left behind hundreds of acres of grassy pasture littered with black volcanic rocks under the gaze of the snowy, broken bones of Tehama.  Its remains, now called Lassen, are near the place where the DZ Ranch Land and Cattle Company headquarters now slumber under the tall blue oaks in the late summer heat.

In one pasture, three men were sweating and gulping water in the sparse shade of an oak. Piles of black rocks that had been gleaned from the field surrounded the men, ready to be picked up by the ranch truck later that day.  One man was wearing dark blue SWAT pants, heavy black boots, plus a SWAT vest with a semi-automatic firearm slung over his back.  He was dark skinned, with no shirt under the vest, allowing the other two men to admire his large arms and heavy pecs thickly furred with black hair.   He was a guard.

Aaron had come to the ranch early on, back before there was an organized slave-training program.  Back then he was an unemployed construction worker in Las Vegas, spending the day at the gym, trying to find meaning and purpose in that sweltering city of fake glamour and broken promises of prosperity.  Rent was long past due along with the truck payment and the cell phone bill.  Scanning the profiles online, he had sent a message to a Master who seemed to promise the unbelievable: a new purpose driven life on a private ranch.  No worries, no expenses; just come, serve, and grow.  Two weeks later he was bound and hooded in the sleeper cab of a semi-truck barreling up Interstate 5 on a winter’s day.  Suddenly, Aaron had a new identity as #5, stripped of his troubled past and his clothes.

He had been subjected to a training routine similar to that of the two slaves he was currently guarding on a work detail out on the ranch.   The two Masters, Dane and Zach, had used him hard for their own twisted sexual gratification constantly.  Kept naked and booted, Aaron had been kept close at hand at all times, forced to do everything the two men desired.  He had spent hours bound to the bench press in the unfinished metal barn, huge iron plates loaded on for set after set, until he grew to unimagined proportions.  Forced workouts and cum control had forged Aaron into a super slave, strong, muscled and focused.

Aaron had spent days on the road with Zach, bound in the sleeper cab.  Dragged out at each truck stop to be used as a muscle fuck toy by the lean muscled driver and his buds, gathered via the CB radio at distant stops.  He remembered a hot windy night in Winnemucca, the dust blowing hard across the parking lot as trucks rumbled and moved under the lot lights.  Despite the wind, a crowd of men had gathered at the back of the 18-wheeler to take turns on the trainee guard strung up by his wrists inside the box trailer.  His legs were pulled apart, nuts tied off and stretched to a latch in the floor, neck yanked up by the leather collar around his neck.  His cock forced into painful erection, his ass exposed to the dirty sweaty cocks of the men gathered.  They had pumped him full of hot cum again and again, their paw like hands groping his dark furred pecs and ass cheeks.

Now Aaron watched the new slave, Travis, or # 62 as he was now referred to, panting through the tight rubber hood locked over his head.  His blue eyes watered in the dry air and sweat slicked his white skin turned red by the sun.  Already his pumped, gym muscles were being transformed into lean striated slabs of red meat and he kept his gaze to the dirt, broken but determined.  Aaron looked down at the jock’s cock that was painfully stuffed into the clear plastic chastity device.  Travis’s shaved balls, full of two weeks worth of cum, bulged around the ring.  The guard’s muscled ass twitched, remembering many a night of rape by the Masters of DZ Ranch.

Just outside the shade of the wide oak lay a huge fallen tree trunk, over 3ft in diameter.  The guard hatched a plan.  He grabbed the jock slave by his leash and pulled him over to the log.  In one swift movement, Aaron threw the chain leash through a gap under the trunk and pulled the slave down on his back to its rough surface.  Then he slid the chain over the slave’s shackled feet and pulled hard so that the boy’s body was arched backward over the log and the chain clicked into place at the ring in the steel collar.  Now the jock’s incredible body was completely exposed to the guard’s groping hands.  As the trusted guard, he had a master key to any lock anywhere on the ranch, including the plastic cage of the jock’s eager dick.    The jock moaned as Aaron undid the brass lock, the massive cock meat literally forcing the device apart as it swelled with pent-up lust.   The other slave looked on, transfixed, as Aaron began to stroke the bound prisoner’s meat to draw more of the dripping, slick dick juice out as he stepped out of his BDU’s and slicked up his own muscled ass hole.

Aaron climbed up on the huge fallen log and straddled the boy’s massive muscled physique, slowly dropping down on top of the slave’s erect swollen rod.  The slave groaned and pumped his thighs into the muscled guard’s tight asshole even as he rose up and down on the massive tool.  Aaron had not felt such meat in his hole for some time, not like this, his desire for the blond jock slave fulfilled by the huge hot meat deep inside him.  Travis shifted his hips and pumped with more fury, desperate to get off after so long without cumming.   His cock was sore from the long days inside the device and spikes of pain came with each thrust but his animal instinct could not be overcome.  Musky sweat dripped down from the guard’s black furred muscles and trickled down Travis’s torso.  The guard pumped his own meat as Travis tried to watch him through the tiny eyeholes of the hot rubber mask clinging to his face.  The cum was boiling in his rod but he tried to hold back to match the climax of the guard, but he could not contain his lust.  He bellowed and his cum shot deep into the guard’s tight hole with each deep thrust.   The guard bucked like a bull rider atop the muscle stud and shot his own load, splattering Travis’s hood and open mouth with the hot white ropes of jizz.

Travis bellowed again as the guard continued to pump the jock’s stiff cock and the boy was rocked with intense electric pulses of orgasm. His muscled, sweating back was ground into the rough tree bark as Aaron continued to ride his rod, working his own dark cock up to another load that began to rise up inside.   Aaron’s sweat now drenched both men, his armored vest in stark contrast to his naked, booted legs shining in the intense afternoon light.   In the background, the other slave moaned in frustration as his own caged cock dripped a puddle of juice into the dry dirt.   Aaron yelled, pumping his cum out of his rod as his left fist pounded on the stretched abs of the bound slave.   Travis dropped his head back in total exhaustion, his own cum now leaking out of the guard’s hole onto his crotch.   The guard stumbled off the log and into the shade, grabbing the water jug off an ATV parked next to the tree.  He held the jug over his head and gulped the water greedily as more splashed down his own incredible sweat drenched body.   He climbed up onto the seat of the ATV and laid back on the rack, panting heavily, his hole sore and twitching from the deep plunging it had just experienced.  He laid back and closed his eyes, intending to rest a moment.

A fly buzzed Aaron’s nose, waking him from his sex-induced slumber.  He sat up and rubbed his eyes.  Looking around, he realized that it was much later than he thought!  The sun was dipping down behind the massive bulk of Inskip Hill and long shadows stretched across the meadow.   He was due back at headquarters!  Travis was still bent backwards and bound over the huge log, his naked body limp and streaked with dirt, the other slave was curled up in the grass nearby, sleeping.   Aaron pulled on his BDU’s and boots, and then turned the key to bring the quad roaring to life.  He had to get this crew back by sundown, or he would face the punishment of the Masters of DZ Ranch.  A punishment that Aaron did not want to face again.

To be continued …

The Masters of DZ Ranch will interview potential slaves via email at bigsurleather@yahoo.com or on Recon at FirefighterSIR

 

 

 

 

Written by an anonymous friend of Metalbond

Part 4

“When you’re not being neurotic, imbuing the experience with so much seriousness it seems like a life choice, what’s your favorite type of bondage situation?”

Tim laughed nervously in response to the preface of Jason’s question. He hesitated. “Um … Not sure, I guess.” Tim felt shy talking about the mechanics of bondage in a semi-public setting.

Jason said, “Well, you must have at least one recurring fantasy about gear that you use to jerk off sometimes.”

Tim looked around, hesitating, contemplating whether to reveal that romanticizing his memories of Ross produced his strongest sexual fantasies. “Um … I do love sleepsacks. Being trapped in one overnight, maybe cumming in it early on, then wanting out but knowing I am stuck until the morning. Left to stew in my sweaty prison, then that knowledge would soon get me started again, hard-dicked and struggling, and the pattern would repeat, maybe three or four times, until I either fall asleep or morning comes, and then Ross … err, someone let’s me out. I think that would top the list for me.”

Seated across the table from Tim, Jason spread his legs, repositioning a gym bag sitting next to him as he shifted his crotch forward. “You’re talking straight to my cock, and it’s responding. I like that. Give more details – rubber, leather, what’s on you under that sack, and where in your fantasy do you ‘sleep’ overnight in it?”

Tim felt his face flush. I am talking to GearDom, after all, Tim thought. As he considered how to articulate the reply forming in his mind, Tim studied Jason. The blend of characteristics was breathtaking: inked male muscle, prominent physical size and sexual presence, animalistic purity and a powerful athleticism, hyper-masculine features exaggerated by dark, carefully cropped head and facial hair. Crowned by a paradoxical innocence of smile and vulnerability of expression, on such a handsome face, the combination devastated Tim. The torment of his chastity device transformed into pleasurable pain as Tim stared at Jason’s brown eyes.

Jason said, “Hey, you look like you’re in a daze.”

Tim looked around to see if nearby customers could hear him. When Jason had met Tim on arrival in California, Jason had taken Tim here, to a secluded booth in an airport restaurant. Tim assumed Jason sensed his disappointment (where is Ross?) and uncertainty (I don’t really know you) and had chosen this as a place where they could talk. A half hour later, after food for Jason, some juice for Tim, and some light conversation, Tim definitely was more relaxed.

Tim continued, talking quietly. “I’m inside a thick rubber sleepsack, zipped and strapped, naked underneath except for a plug locked in place. It’s extremely tight and restrictive. Internal sleeves immobilize both arms at my sides. Strict external straps reinforce the tightness and escape-proof seal. I have a tight rubber hood with eyeholes. Though in real life it’s not safe to be left gagged overnight, in my fantasy there is a large, uncomfortable ball gag pushed deep into my mouth by a head harness under the hood. There are multiple chains fastened to D-rings on the outside of the sack, which give me a limited range to squirm on top of a rubber sheet, covering the mattress of a narrow bondage bed. I see through the hood that the empty room is dark and sense I have been alone, struggling in place to cum again, for hours. Unable to call for help, I wiggle, squeeze, pulse my cock, gasp, sweat, and endure my predicament.” Tim smiled. “Is that enough?”

“I’m aroused. You explain things well. Just like Ross.” Jason smirked. “So, you are in some room by yourself, chained to a bed, left to squirm around in a tight rubber sleepsack all night, hooded and gagged, fucking your ass on a butt plug, cumming over and over, knowing that you won’t get out until morning?”

Tim felt embarrassed. “I might get some sleep too, but you’re right, that’s the gist of it.”

Jason asked, “How would Ross change the details of your overnight fantasy to suit Ross?”

Tim replied, “It would be more difficult and intense and less enjoyable, or even totally unenjoyable, especially as time passed.”

Jason said, “Remember, I like to hear details.”

Tim obliged quickly this time. “Ross would insist on several layers. A rubber suit first, maybe even two, a rubber sleepsack, plus a leather sleepsack. He likes leather as the outer layer because rubber is more fragile and can fail, while tight containment in a locked leather sleepsack is pretty inescapable. Ross used to enjoy … I’m not sure of the exact word … the ‘totality’ or ‘comprehensiveness’ of sleepsack bondage, watching the cocooned form and knowing that the slave is in there and can’t do anything to get out of it.” Shifting on his seat, Tim grimaced in pain, but then quickly continued. “The hood would be sightless, and Ross likes uncomfortable posture collars. He always keeps my ass plugged. Most likely I would be catheterized or in chastity or both and unable to cum. I might have to recycle piss all night. I could not count on getting out first thing in the morning. And I would probably be alone, though monitored somehow, with no vision and little hearing, isolated, locked away in a cage somewhere in a basement.”

“Very good,” said Jason. “Now which of those stories made your dick harder?”

Tim felt his face redden self-consciously. “The spikes hurt more during Ross’s version,” Tim admitted.

“So why all the soul searching and doubts about being here?”

Tim paused, considering how to express his complicated thoughts in one or two sentences. “I was going through a long period of trying to take charge instead of trying to be controlled, I guess. You probably know Ross is a control freak. And we shared a perspective that bondage isn’t really bondage until you want out and discover that’s not going to happen on your own timetable.” Tim paused for a few seconds. “I thought that part of my life, giving up control, was in the past. That’s all, I guess.”

“How long have you known Mike?” Jason asked.

Uncertain where Jason was taking the conversation, Tim responded, “Not long. Weeks or a couple months at most.”

Jason asked, “Why didn’t you take charge of him, instead of letting him have the upper hand, topping you, having you keep on a chastity device, dominating you, all with Ross’s long distance help?”

Aware of the head of his cock pulsing against the chastity spikes, Tim stayed silent for a few seconds. With some maneuvering and pulling, he might have been able to slip the silicone device off, and yet he hadn’t tried. “It felt natural, I guess. I know where you’re headed – that all of this is my own doing.” Jason said nothing. Tim asked, “Do I get to ask you questions?”

Jason said, “One or two, and then you need to make a choice. Either I leave you at the airport to find a flight back east, or I take charge and reunite Ross with his pig as planned. It’s totally your decision, but once you decide, it’s final. There will be no opportunity for backtracking and expression of second thoughts.”

Tim asked, “What is your relationship with Ross like? Are you his pig too?”

“We love each other as partners. We have many strong interests that are mutual but not complementary. We enjoy being Doms together. I have experimented being a sub but those days are over. So, I’m not his pig, I’m his partner.”

Tim pressed for more information. “What’s one of your favorite bondage situations?”

Jason responded. “I think you have a good idea of the broad range of fetish activities I like. My online profile tracks other users’ number of visits. We could see you viewed GearDom hundreds of times.”

Tim remained silent. He was hoping for more information, but hesitant to ask. As though reading his thoughts, Jason continued. “In person you seem like a perfect candidate for what I like – long periods of captivity in which you are kept gear-bound at all times. Extended time spent in sleepsacks or in other gear long-term, similar to your fantasies and Ross’s realities. The extended periods would be punctuated by interim trials, more challenging situations. Difficult, sometimes painful, predicament-bondage, to help you appreciate conditions you are expected to tolerate long term. I like very thorough restraint, head to toe. Of course, the human body was not meant to be kept bound and gagged and sealed in rubber all the time. Skin needs to breathe too. You need nourishment, hygiene and exercise to stay fit and healthy, but much of that can be accomplished in rubber and chains.”

Tim tried more questions. “Why isn’t Ross here now? How would I fit in to your partnership?”

“We want a live-in sub for a Dom/sub arrangement. It will help strengthen our bond. We like to play with friends, visitors, and it’s fun, but can also be time consuming and sometimes tricky. A cute muscle sub who loves bondage in heavy gear and long periods of confinement 24/7 would fit the bill. Ross uses the ‘slave’ word when he talks about you, like you’re the embodiment of the mythic bondage slave he always wanted, the pig that got away. He says you were born for it.  And to answer your other question, he’s not here on purpose, for a couple reasons. I think one is that he wanted to give me a chance to assess you on my own.”

Tim blurted out, “I want to stay here for the visit as planned. I’m sure. Final answer. Unless you don’t like what you see.”

Jason laughed. “Okay then, babe.” Assuming a business-like tone, Jason immediately handed the small gym bag to Tim and issued instructions. “Go to one of the restrooms here. There are multiples. Each is private and can be locked. This may be your only chance for a potty break for several hours. Strip off your street clothes. Use the enema kit first. You’ll find lubricant and a nice butt plug attached to a harness. Next, there are rubber socks, gloves, and a catsuit that should fit like a glove. You can cover the suit with your outer clothes if you’d like. There are also motorcycle gloves to conceal your hands. Or, you can walk to my car with the rubber suit showing if you prefer.”

Jason described the airport garage location, color and model of an SUV. “Meet me at my car. It’s at the farthest point possible. The exercise will be good for you. Be efficient and quick.” Jason checked the time on his phone. “I’m leaving the garage in a half hour, with or without you.”

 

* * *

 

Suppressing his panic more than 30 minutes later, Tim walked quickly through the garage. The process Jason described so easily had been a trial to complete in the small restroom, with patrons knocking on the door as Tim rushed. The butt plug had been difficult to insert, requiring Tim to accommodate rippled knobs of graduated size on a long shaft and thick base. Now, the chastity spikes and plug tortured him mercilessly as he hurried. Inside his shoes, latex socks with individual toes squeezed his perspiring feet.

Tim felt a moment of dread. He had taken too long and screwed up somehow. Jason’s car wasn’t where Tim thought it should be. Maybe Jason already left. The garage elevator was slow in coming. Tim found the stairs. A minute or two later, nervous, overheated, and sweating, he jog-waddled the length of one level until he noticed an SUV with tinted glass windows, alone at the corner of a far end, which matched Jason’s description. As Tim studied it, the rear door opened and Jason emerged from the side. Tim walked over as Jason directed him to climb into the back of the car, where he found himself in a cargo area with a metal dog crate. Jason closed Tim inside the car and immediately appeared in the driver seat. He turned around and began issuing instructions.

“Strip down to your rubber and put your clothes in the bag.” As Tim complied, he noticed that Jason selected leather straps from a collection of items on the front passenger seat.

“Good. Now get between me and the crate, face toward the rear, kneel back to me, and put your hands behind your back, palms together and fingers intertwined.”

Tim felt leather straps buckled around his palms, wrists, forearms, elbows and biceps, drawing his arms uncomfortably close. As he wiggled his arms a bit, testing the restraints, he felt Jason make readjustments, tightening straps and fastening padlocks in place. Stimulated by the restriction and the notion of Jason as the Top administering restraints, Tim struggled and turned his head, but quickly withdrew as a slap and Jason’s clipped tone commanded him to be silent. “Stop wiggling and keep quiet! Now face backward, stay still, and cooperate. That’s good, babe.”

Tim liked the sound of Jason addressing him as “babe.” Staring at the dog crate, Tim heard behind him the sounds of leather and metal being arranged. Tim noted that the crate appeared formed of solid aluminum sheets and sturdy metal hinges. The top and front were both open. Ventilation holes were apparent, and the front door included a small window with bars. As Tim contemplated the crate and his fate, he felt Jason pull material over his rubber-gloved hands and pull it up his bound arms, enclosing them. Through his rubber catsuit and on top of the leather straps, Tim noticed the tightness and thickness as Jason worked the device upward to complete the enclosure. While Jason finished knotting laces, Tim squirmed involuntarily, riding his butt plug in reluctant excitement as Jason forced his hands and arms closer together. A nasty smack on Tim’s ass from Jason reminded him to keep still.

Next Tim felt Jason zipping a flap closed over the laces of the armbinder, completely covering them, followed by a padlock on the zipper at the top. Additional straps around Tim’s arms extended through loops on the outside of the single sleeve binder. Straps in a harness arrangement circled around the top, crossed over his shoulders, secured around his chest, bound Tim’s enclosed hands to his waist, and extended though his crotch. A wrist strap over the binder seemed to isolate Tim’s hands, clenched together within the small pouch of the single mitt. When Tim thought Jason had finally finished, Jason pushed Tim forward for access to the finishing touch on the armbinder, lacing a connection between a crotch strap and Tim’s bound wrists.

Tim heard Jason comment, “Very nice, babe. You’re pretty flexible, a good thing or this might be even more uncomfortable, given your athletic physique and big biceps.  Straighten your back now, head up.”

Tim grunted. Though dying to emote over the sexual thrill of the tight armbinder, Tim obediently sat up, remaining still and quiet at Jason’s command. Tim blinked, closing his eyes temporarily to shield them as a rubber hood descended. Using one hand to press the outer surface over Tim’s face and the other to push Tim’s head forward, Jason guided the hood into place and forced an open gag through Tim’s lips. With his arms restrained so tightly behind him, Tim felt helpless to resist Jason’s use of strength, tugging and pulling roughly at the hood while Tim strained to stay in balance. The squeezing sensation and tightening seal took Tim’s breath away as Jason achieved closure using what felt like a very sturdy zipper.

Gasping air through his mouth, Tim noticed that there were also nose holes for breathing. An uncomfortable internal gag held Tim’s mouth in an open position. Through clear plastic eyes sealed into the hood, Tim viewed a black rubber rim below his nose. He realized that he was locked in a latex urinal hood.

Though the hood diminished his hearing, Tim heard Jason say, “That would have been easier for me if your head were completely shaved.” Instinctively raising his chin to accommodate Jason, Tim felt Jason secure a wide collar that encircled Tim’s neck, further sealing the hood and hindering movement of his head. A tugging sensation and application of pressure confirmed closure of a padlock on the buckle of the thick collar.

Tim felt Jason nudge him, pushing him forward. “Crawl on your knees over to your portable prison and turn around. Chop chop!” Awkward inches and a difficult minute later, Tim had achieved the goal. “Move your body to one side, angle your legs and knees, that’s right, and transfer your weight to your butt. Perfect! You should be able to scooch backward on your butt, carefully, yes, your shoulders touch the back of the crate. There you go.”

Seconds later, clutching more gear, Jason maneuvered between the passenger and driver’s seat to join Tim in the cargo area. Still excited and willing though noticeably uncomfortable, Tim helpfully strained and postured, allowing Jason to resume Tim’s restraint. With Tim in a sitting position, knees bent and arms tightly bound behind, thick straps were tightened at multiple points, joining Tim’s muscular, rubber-encased legs together securely at mid-hip, above and below the knees, and at his calves. An ankle restraint included an attached harness to bind Tim’s rubber-socked feet, facilitated by the individual toes of Tim’s latex socks. The foot harness fastened with multiple straps. One at arch level united Tim’s feet tightly at mid-foot, where it was intersected by a connecting strap for another that encircled Tim’s big toes, joining them together. The toe strap connected to still another strap, extending under Tim’s feet and threading through the arch and ankle straps, all of which Jason firmly buckled.

Taut nylon rope anchored Tim to the floor of the front of the crate through D rings in the ankle restraint. More rope threaded under Tim to create tension between feet and wrists. Additional pieces secured Tim between head and knees and at the top rear of the crate via large D rings on the front and back of his posture collar. Through ventilation holes on opposite sides of the crate, Jason inserted a thin metal rod under Tim’s knees.

Hanging from one side of the crate, a hinged metal plate was lifted and lowered by Jason, to close off the top. Next Jason maneuvered the front panel, closed Tim in, and snapped metal latches. The roof grazed Tim’s head, his shoulders butted up against the sides and back, and his pointed toes touched the front. Tim was immediately impressed with the confinement aspects of his imprisonment; the impact of solid metal containment and the feeling of impending claustrophobia were powerful. Tim reflexively jerked his head, finding it immovable, as he saw a tube appear from a hole above. It descended directly in front of the plastic covers shielding his eyes until the end of the tube reached its destination – the rubber trough attached to his hood. Tim imagined a funnel above. Aware of his inability to move away from or dislodge the tube, the threat of forced urinal service loomed. Seconds later, Tim felt liquid enter his mouth. He heard Jason’s teasing tone of voice. “I hope you’re not the type to get car sick!”

Engrossed in evaluating his plight, Tim heard a car door open and close and the sound of car doors locking. Through the solid plastic eyes of his hood, he looked for Jason. The sight of ventilation holes and a small barred window reinforced the prison-like effect of the metal box containing him. After realizing that Jason was no longer in the car, Tim experienced a sense of time elapsing. The interior of Jason’s SUV darkened. The air turned stagnant and hot. Inside his hood, Tim grimaced and swallowed as the shallow stream of piss continued. The crate seemed to close in on him, and Tim perspired heavily under the latex catsuit. He tested the restraints, feeling the full extent of his head to toe immobility. Sweat trickled into his ass crack, where his anus squeezed the base of the butt plug. The pain in his cock felt numbing.

Tim consciously inhaled and exhaled, swallowing obediently, taking deep breaths, and forcing calmness as the passing minutes threatened to produce panic and struggle. His heart told him Jason was not far away and would return soon. His mind feared otherwise. I don’t really know Jason, he thought. Can he be trusted? Hadn’t Jason said he needed to leave the airport soon? Why the change in plans, now that I am in trapped in such a kinky situation?

Remembering Jason’s horny reference to predicament bondage, Tim knew his condition must be a good example of it. Encased in rubber, deprived of the possibility of any movement, locked in a metal box in the cargo area of an abandoned car, Tim reminded himself that he had cooperated in achieving this result. With each breath, Tim was aware of rubber, leather, rope, and metal. The sadistic head to toe combination of restraints, perverted urinal bondage, cumbersome butt plug, and metal imprisonment concocted by Jason were taking Tim to a new level of restraint. Tim felt overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness and dependence that he had not encountered since Ross moved away.

Tim strained to hear any noise that might indicate Jason’s return. Horny and nervous, wiggling reflexively in enjoyment of his severe restrictions, Tim tortured himself with questions. How long will I be in here, waiting, all alone? Would anyone hear me, through this hood, through the gag, through the metal box, outside the car, if I manage to scream? Of course, I don’t need to scream. Jason will return. But when? Will Ross be with him? Am I waiting for Ross? Tim’s cock reacted strongly to that thought. Tormenting Tim by nestling into the chastity spikes, the head of Tim’s cock seemed to be speaking to him, taunting him, as if to say, “You asked for this. Now suck it up and enjoy it!” Powerless to do otherwise, Tim squirmed, waited, and waited, and continued to anticipate his fate.

 

Metal is most grateful to the author of Waiting For Ross (who wishes to remain anonymous) for sending this latest chapter and for allowing it to be presented here on Metalbond.

NOTE: The chapters of Waiting for Ross that came BEFORE the End Game series were written long before Metalbond was in existence, and they are posted to other sites, including Eckie and Rubberzone . If you haven’t read those, I encourage you look up WFR on those other sites.

 

 

A story that has been re-imagined by Kiggle

Part 4 – Continued

He next took the crotch strap and pulled it, carefully through my legs, and fastened it to the buckle at the back.  It felt comfortable at first.  Then a firm but not sharp tug made it considerably tighter.  At first I thought it might be unbearable, but after a second or two the feeling it engendered was one of security and firmness, not pain.  Odd, I thought, but done with such care and attention to detail that I began to think that Brig had used part of the week at least, to practice on someone else.

Having satisfied himself that all was secure in that region, he turned his attention to the back straps.  Apparently he had done them up only sufficiently tightly to hold everything fairly firmly in place.   Now that the complete circle of tension on the jacket had been completed by fastening the crotch strap, the fabric of the main part of the body had moved slightly downwards and the fastenings had been slightly distorted or misplaced on my body.

With his normal attention to detail, he started again at the top strap on the back trying the tension, and in one or two cases managed to tighten the strap by another notch.  Now the jacket was close around my body.  I tried to wriggle inside it, but this was not possible and only caused Brig to tell me to stop trying to do silly things and just concentrate on the task of having the jacket properly applied.

I suppose he had a point.  ‘What next?’ I wondered.  I need not have done!  Brig told me to hold out my arms in front of me, and then to cross them.  I was persuaded to try two alternative ways of doing this, either the right arm under the left elbow or vice versa.

According to Brig, there was a way for everyone that felt was more natural for them: and there was.  Right arm under the left elbow suited me better.  Having ascertained which was the better way for me, I was instructed to push my left fist (and sleeve) through the loop on the heavy front strap and then to push the right fist and sleeve through, in the opposite direction.  The presence of the loop was very discouraging to any ideas of escape.

Then of course, being thorough, Brig pulled the sleeves on either side through the leather under-arms loops.  This only served to emphasise the fact that no way were my arms going to go up or down!

By this juncture I was beginning to abandon any thoughts of escape, and my mind began to concentrate on the technical details that I read about during my research. I surprised myself that I could turn my mind away from the threatening nature of the device and begin to be fascinated by the actual procedures for applying it.

Brig then proved to be the thinking and punctilious person he was.  He guided the strap on one sleeve end through the buckle on the other sleeve and pulled the sleeves together firmly but not tightly with his right hand.  Fine, I thought, that is not too horrible.  However, next move was for him to stand near my left side, close to me and facing me, then to grasp my body with his left arm and suddenly jerk on the strap that secured the sleeves together with his right hand.   That was totally unexpected by me, and the strap was fairly tight, my having no chance to have tried to gain any slack.  That was a totally different feel.  He tried again and without jerking managed to pull the sleeves together by a further notch on the strap.  I was now firmly hugging myself and was totally unable to move any limb on my upper body by more than a fraction.

I was overwhelmed by a feeling of complete helplessness and dependence, and I was close to panic.  I said so to Brig, who in his normal calm and logical way said that if one was minded to panic then the safest place to do it was in a straitjacket!  I tugged and I pulled and I strained, but to no avail.  All I could do was to wriggle my elbows and upper arms by an inch or so.  This attracted Brig’s immediate attention, and he explained that for the jacket to be completely effective it should secure the complete upper body so that it virtually impossible for any movement to be had.  Accordingly he placed two straps, one round each bicep, and joined them by a third at my back.  He then drew the two bicep straps firmly together and this stopped altogether any movement of my upper arms.   The upper part of my body was now completely immobilised, and I felt myself to be completely under the control of Brig.

However, I still trusted him and composed myself gradually.  The jacket was not uncomfortable but was very restrictive, and I was beginning to get distinctly warm.  I struggled a bit and got hotter, so struggling was soon abandoned.  Struggling achieved nothing and the price for doing it was to get heated.  This straitjacket device was devilish.  I thought, however, that I was going to be able to survive the two and a half hours of the movie.

 

Part 5

 

Brig set the movie up and placed me in a comfortable chair.  I was using all my self-control to persuade myself that I could endure my situation.  Then Brig announced that the better way of securing a person in a straitjacket was also to secure the legs.  He stopped the movie and strapped my legs firmly together, ankle to ankle, knee to knee, and thigh to thigh.  If I stood up I would be unable to move a step and was very likely to tumble over.  That thought alone was very troubling, but Brig was there and in an emergency would no doubt calmly help.  Nevertheless I began to realise that I was under his control completely and that he could, if he wished, do almost anything with me.  This unsettled me a little and I had to struggle to gain control of my thoughts.

And so we resumed the movie.  I was trying to concentrate on it as best I could and keep my mind off the effects of the straitjacket.   I suddenly realised that I had not thought of masturbating at all whilst all these interesting new procedures were being followed.   That was when I first thought that I wanted out.  But I said nothing.  I tried the jacket again.  Totally unyielding!  I tried to apply pressure here and there and only succeeded in making my elbows go numb.   This did not go unnoticed by Brig, who refrained from comment.

Eventually I said that I was less than comfortable in this jacket.  That I knew it was only a leather and canvas jacket but I felt strongly its devilish construction and was beginning to imagine being left in it for a lengthy period.  Brig’s only response was that I had chosen a two and a half hour movie and that was that.  I tried again.  He said that I was now getting to that point, which he read about in his research, where I saw the device as more than just a restrictive jacket, and was regarding it as an instrument of punishment or torture.  Nevertheless I was going to stay there, at least for a bit!  I tried again saying that I did now realise that the straitjacket was a torment and that no matter how I tried I had to accept that I was stuck, imprisoned and that I hated the jacket.  I wanted out.  I said so.  Mistake!

Brig produced a gag, which he efficiently applied so that all I could do was grunt.  And my mind could no longer concentrate on the movie, which had half an hour to run still.  I still wanted to masturbate despite the jacket, and I was not sure that the jacket did not, of itself, make that feeling stronger.  I struggled and grunted and pulled and wriggled as much as I could.  Brig saw that I was getting distressed and asked if I really and truly wanted out.  I nodded and bit by bit and slowly he loosened all the straps and let me out, as he had promised to.

I was nearly in tears with frustration and thankful to be let out. At that point I never ever wanted to be put in a straitjacket again.  Brig turned the movie off.

As I began to relax with a beer we discussed my feelings and I told him that I had experienced an intense desire to masturbate, so perhaps his idea was not helping me mentally.   All it was doing apparently was physically preventing me from masturbating.  He accepted this and said that overnight we both should consider the next step.  He went off home and I went to bed, where I slept very soundly, until the morning, when I awoke in that blissful state of being all comfortable, drowsy but able to think thoughts and make plans.  I had no immediate feeling that I should masturbate.  Odd.

As I was laying there, my mind sort of wandered.  I began to realise that whilst I hated the straitjacket at first and had wanted out, it still held a fascination for me.  Firstly there was the procedure of being put in it, then the unusual feeling of being helpless.  But what started to appeal to me was the thought that once in, I was there till someone like Brig came to my rescue.  It was a sense of dependency that I had never before experienced.  And it more and more appealed to me.  The jacket was still in my room, so I got up and got it.  I looked at its construction closely and began to get hard in the process.  I slipped my arms in the sleeves and tried to shrug it on over my shoulders.   I got a comforting feeling despite my earlier reaction to the jacket.

I phoned Brig earlier than it was his custom to get up on a Saturday, and I explained to him my thinking.   He was his usual calm, logical self and said that he would come over that day in the late afternoon and discuss things thoroughly.  I was so happy with the thought.

 

Part 6

 

Saturday crept slowly by, and eventually Brig appeared.  At first he seemed disinclined to listen and took things very casually.  I had made a light meal, because I had half-hoped he would suggest that we continue with the use of the jacket whilst we watched a movie.

We had that meal and only then was he prepared to continue discussions on the straitjacket therapy approach.   By the time I had brought him completely up to date with my thoughts in detail he was obviously beginning to formulate a plan.  In short, it was that I should agree to be put in the jacket, perhaps without my legs being bound, and stay there until I or he decided otherwise.  I did feel that was almost a way of cheating, because the option of just coming out whenever I wished would be rather pointless.   It would be against the whole concept of being in a straitjacket and against what had seemed to me to be its main attraction that morning.  But this logical thinking rather frightened me.  I nevertheless told him what I was feeling.  Brig developed this line of approach and said if I followed it to its ultimate conclusion then I would need to submit to being put in it and left until he and he alone saw fit to release me.  Eventually he saw that I had been thoroughly logical in my approach and embraced that thought.  I was trapped by my own logic and had to go along with it.

So once again I was securely strapped into the jacket.  I was a little frightened as it was all being done up tightly and the feeling of helplessness developed.  Brig was slowly and deliberately going about his work and making no comments.  Then he produced a heavy leather hood, which he said he was about to apply.  That had not been part of the plan at all, and I was not happy.   Nevertheless he did apply it very effectively.  How could I prevent him? It had holes to breathe through and at first I had almost to plan my breathing, then it settled into a normal reflex rhythm.  I could see nothing.

No movie had been selected and Brig decided we should not have one.  After we had sat for about an hour during which I tried the jacket to see if I could in any way obtain a little slack or even begin to devise a way to get out, he said that he had a plan.  He was going to follow it through whatever happened.

The plan was that I should remain in the jacket for at least twelve hours and more if possible.   That frightened me terribly and I struggled in the jacket – quite without avail of course.  Brig then pointed out to me the senselessness of even trying.  I got my mind around that thought and was appalled at the prospect of just being in the jacket for twelve hours – and this was only my second time in it!!

However as time went on my mind turned from one thing to another – just ordinary day to day things.  Then of course it reverted to my current situation, which I explored thoroughly.  The more I did this, the more I was fascinated with the effect of the jacket.  Eventually I reached the thought that I was becoming obsessed with it.   This could not be happening to me, could it?

I was laid on my bed to spend the night in the jacket.   Brig would stay in the flat.  Time passed slowly and I did eventually fall asleep.  When I awoke I frightened myself by finding myself restrained.  Frightening but quite delicious.  I had in fact slept pretty well all night.

The peculiar thing was that my mind had been so occupied by the jacket and its effect that no thoughts of masturbation had occurred to me.

Brig heard me moving and came into the room, asking me how I had slept.  He then asked if I would like to be let out.   And to my own surprise I answered ‘Not yet, please.   Just a little longer’.   I knew Brig would leave me for ‘just a little’ longer, and that the time in the jacket was MINE.  I savoured it and when the time to be released came it was almost with regret that I returned to the real world.

After breakfast we had a post mortem on the night.  I explained the thinking that had occurred in the night and that although it had been a bit of an endurance test I was now much more comfortable with being put in a straitjacket.  In fact I was looking forward to when I could try it again.

It was at this point that Brig smiled and said that he had hoped for that outcome.  Then he told me the truth.   He had suspected that I was unusually active in masturbating and saw that as a way to get me into the straitjacket originally intended for Joseph.  He very much enjoyed controlling people and had regretted that his brother had so narrowly avoided being his first straitjacket ‘victim’.  He had built the whole scenario with the one purpose of getting me into the jacket and he strongly suspected that I would become addicted to it.

He was right, of course, and from time to time now he enjoys strapping me into it (and applying varying other devices, too) and I enjoy my sessions in the jacket.  He is so careful, deliberate and methodical in all he does that I have never once got anywhere near escaping.   Whilst I still enjoy that challenge, I don’t expect I ever shall escape.   And of course that keeps my mind from wandering into the avenue of masturbating more often than is really good for me.

 The End

NOTE: This was a story that Mark had found on another site, originally called Jacketed, and he had reinvented it for a gay audience. After the re-imagined story was posted here on Metalbond, yet another blog reader — a guy named Kiggle — took the initiative to further embellish this story. He has written a continuation of part Four, plus he has added a Part Five and a Part Six!

If you missed Mark’s version, click here

Metal would like to thank both Mark for re-imagining this story and Kiggle for continuing it.