Tim’s arms and legs attempted to extend themselves spontaneously, instinctually trying to stretch, and Tim felt the constriction around them, reminding him of the gear that enclosed them and the rest of his body. His cock was aching with stiffness, angled upward and compressed against his lower abdomen but otherwise free under the tightfitting rubber encasement. Squirming and twitching, aware of the intense warmth and sweat, he drew his circumscribed limbs closer to his body and made no attempt to change position. Fighting the urge to struggle against the overpowering, almost smothering sensation of thick, binding rubber completely enveloping him, he willed himself into staying calm and still.
He didn’t think he had dozed off. “Sleep would be impossible in this gear,” he thought to himself. Yet, he did remember being so exhausted that he had felt like a robot, following orders and instructions almost without thinking or knowing what he was doing, in the hope that he would soon have some rest. Had he really fallen asleep, or was he just coming out of a semiconscious state, perhaps hypnotized by his focus on breathing? The repetitive sound of air passing in and out of his body through the narrow tube was hypnotic. He inhaled, held his breath, and waited, but there was nothing but deathly quiet and darkness. When he exhaled, he felt the saliva, built up at the back of this throat, and he struggled to clear it away, working the muscles until finally achieving a swallow. As the black stillness continued, Tim realized that a long stretch of uninterrupted time had passed. He suddenly felt totally alone, lost, and disoriented. Had they left him, without any signal to let him know? He needed to get a sense of where he was. Keeping his knees and arms close to his chest, fetus-like, he rolled slowly from his side to his back, and he felt his knees graze a surface above him. He lay still, tried to breathe more softly, and waited for several minutes – more nothing. He wondered if they were really gone or whether they were just neglecting him, to play head games. He tried to relax, but it was difficult to settle back and feel any measure of comfort. The sense that much time had passed remained with him.
Continuous, unbroken seconds extended into minutes, perhaps into an hour, perhaps more. The solitude persisted, and a feeling of abandonment came over Tim. New thoughts entered his mind, of Brad, begging off from further bondage and then disappearing, and Tim’s own mixed feelings when he realized Brad was gone. Tim wondered how long ago that had been.
More time passed, with no indication that anyone was near. Tim became increasingly uncomfortable. He maneuvered himself onto his side again, this time with his knees slightly forward, where he felt them brush against something solid. He tried to remember the sequence of things, what Ross and the others had done to him last. He had no memory of being shut up or locked away. Instead, what stood out in his mind was the sense of relief he experienced when he realized he was able to inhale and exhale at will. He remembered one of Ross’s friends leading him around on the leash, yanking him roughly when he went blindly in the wrong direction, shouting loudly at him, to penetrate the hood: “Heel, Fido.” He remembered being so, so tired.
Tim’s thoughts returned to his current predicament. Maybe he had fallen asleep, after all, and he should signal somehow that he was awake. He tried to call for Ross. “Sir” was in his mind, but the sounds he made were throaty and gagged, with no distinguishable meaning.
“AHH!”
“AHH!”
“AHH!”
He waited until he thought several minutes had passed and tried again, but there was no response. Tim felt heat rising up his body and blood pounding in his face, and he realized he was getting angry. He tried to calm himself, but it was difficult to breathe easy. The urge to figure out somehow, by feel, exactly where he was in Ross’s dungeon was taking over, but he hesitated. Unable to open, Tim’s eyelids fluttered reflexively against the impenetrable rubber, as if his eyes were trying to overcome the pressure and darkness to see his whereabouts, but the restricted twitching movements only reinforced the reality of his plight. The hood produced such a tight seal that his head felt as though it were vacuum packed in rubber, impermeable to air and light, and most sound. Tim knew from experience that, in fact, the hood was airtight, with no holes at all except for the gag, where two narrow channels contained a small tube through which he could breathe (when permitted, as he was now) and a second tube that ended in an inflatable bulb. The gag was now substantially inflated, left fixed at an enlarged size that made Tim acutely aware of the pressure in his mouth and the internal sound, within the hood, of his own air whistling through the small tube as he inhaled and exhaled. Lodged securely behind his teeth, the gag filled his mouth restrictively, and yet he knew he was safe, as Ross had trained him, through careful repetition and gradually prolonged periods, to deal with being gagged most of the time. Tim reminded himself that the gag’s current size, though very intrusive, was still a relief compared to what had been imposed on him earlier.
Awkwardly repositioning his body, Tim shifted his weight onto his elbows and knees to rise to a crawling position. Immediately, he felt the limitation of his containment. The top of his rubber-insulated head thumped against a hard surface. Through the thick rubber covering them, he felt his rear end and his toes (sticking up over his butt) touch the surface too. He paused, took a series of deep, if restricted, breaths, and tried to stay calm. He thought he knew where he was now, but he had to test his theory. Crouched low, all that the space allowed, on his knees and elbows, he moved blindly, inching backward and forward and around, bumping the sides to get a sense of the dimensions of the enclosure, until he was certain: He was in Ross’s “wall box.” Probably bolted in and already left for some time, he thought. “Fuck this shit,” he said to himself, silently, wordlessly, and yet his cock surged with the understanding of how thoroughly fucked he really was, by Ross’s relentless need to keep him in bondage, and by his own need to let it happen.
A despairing sigh, protracted as it passed through the small tube in the gag, escaped from the depths of his rubber-encased chest. His mind was ruminating, torturing him with doubts and images, and he couldn’t get it to stop. Shut away and locked in a box, below ground in a basement, alone, isolated, sealed sadistically in rubber, Tim was feeling the effects of the rubber dog suit: His limbs were stuck in the perverse bondage created by the special sleeves, which converted his arms and legs to drumstick-like appendages. Each was bent completely at the elbow or knee and doubled up on itself, encased tightly in a folded position and trapped that way within the squeezing confinement of the individual sleeves, each truncated and sealed off at the elbows and knees by design of the suit. His mouth, packed full and wide but pressed closed, lined on the inside and sealed on the outside with rubber, was rendered totally useless except to exchange air with the outside world, such as it existed for him, through the small tube in the inflated gag. The contrasting thoughts and images of Ross and his friends, what they might be doing and where they might be, were also tormenting Tim. “Did they all go out to the bar together? Did Ross’s friends leave a long time ago? Is Ross upstairs in bed, sleeping soundly?” Whatever possibilities Tim considered, the conclusion remained the same: Ross had a habit of using the wall box for extended confinement. To Tim, the fact that he was in the box, and had been, apparently for sometime, meant one thing: He wouldn’t be getting out until morning... or even later if Ross slept in. He could deal with it okay, he thought, if he wasn’t in the dog suit.“Fuck,” he thought. “It’s probably Sunday already by now, who knows when he’ll decide to get up.” And Tim knew that Ross knew full well that Tim had a vacation day on Monday, per Ross’s instructions. “Fucking bastard! He knows I hate this suit!”
With the full realization of his situation setting in, Tim felt his muscles tighten involuntarily as he fought the urge to struggle against the stricture of the rubber that trapped his arms and legs in such an uncomfortable and useless state. His erection diminished as he leaned his head against one side of the box and felt his eyes burning with tears. He began to repeat the words, “I can do this, I can do this,” over and over in his mind, like a bondage mantra. He bent his neck as much as the thick collar encircling it allowed and lowered his head to try to stop the movement of the bulb dangling from his gag. The sensation of the bulb, swinging at the end of the tube, and his inability to control it, made him nervous. He felt a sharp cramp in one of his feet and tried to wiggle his toes, which were flattened against his butt, where his feet, sweaty and squirmy, impossible to make comfortable, were secured to his rear end at an awkward angle by the rubber encasement. Tim flexed his fingers, trying to stretch them within the rubber fist mitts under the dog suit. His hands, compressed at each side against his pectorals, were held in place by the thick tightness of the suit and the strong outer straps encircling the union of upper to lower arm. He let down his hind quarters, his legs under him, each one folded up on itself and sealed that way, reinforced with straps, and he tried to slacken his muscles as much as the constraint would allow. The cramp in his foot was becoming very painful. He had to simmer down, collect himself, and somehow make the best of things, but he didn’t know if he could. “I wanted this, I craved this, I can do this, I can do this, I can do this.” The phrases repeated in his head as low, gagged moans reverberated in his throat. “Fuck, I CANNOT do this! I did not want to be left in this suit!”
“AHH!”
“AHH!”
“AHH!”
His pathetic, gagged noises seemed to go unnoticed. Black, blank, empty time passed, and Tim kneeled lower, descending into a fetal position, with his head resting on the floor of the box. He tried to examine his feelings, to understand what was going on in his mind. He guessed that Brad’s presence had thrown him off. That, combined with the company of Ross’s friends, had created an expectation of... what? He didn’t now for sure.
Tim’s mind switched to replay mode, and the events that took place with Ross and his friends started to become clearer. He thought about the players first: There was the blond guy, so fucking handsome and hot, tall and full of authority in his rubber uniform and boots, and extremely sadistic -- at least at a level with Ross, but different somehow, colder, distant, maybe even more unyielding than Ross. Then there was the other friend, shorter, big-muscled but less commanding, who seemed to take his cues from the blond guy or from Ross. And there was Brad, fucking hot Brad, looking wiped out, hanging back, and watching. Tim had been glad to see that Ross released him from the isolation chamber.
Tim remembered.... the humiliation of having to beg over and over to be released from the pit while he heard laughter from above; and then the embarrassment of finding a whole audience, including Brad, there to witness it. He remembered Ross fiddling with his feet, pulling him to an upright position out of the pit, but then gagging him, almost immediately, with a tube gag, and leaving the arm binder on. He remembered the piss, Ross forcing him to take it through the gag, and the humiliation as the others watched him, bound and kneeling as Ross used him for a urinal.
Tim remembered...the blond guy, looking through Ross’s gear and being fascinated by the dog suit... asking questions about it... wanting to put Brad in the suit and being disappointed to hear it was made for Tim... Brad pleading tiredness and after that being gone... and Tim ending up in the suit, crawling around, forever it seemed, at the end of a leash... someone inflating the gag intermittently, making him hold his breath longer and longer... yelling commands at him... being posed in different positions, having to hold still... more orders...
“Looks like a penguin! Why doesn’t it quack?”
“Heel, Fido!”
“Flipper!”
“Roll over, Sparky!”
“Time to hold your breath and play dead, Spot!”
Tim remembered... the sting of the belt against his butt and feet, to punish him if he didn’t respond to their commands, even when it was because he couldn’t hear through the hood.
And, lastly, Tim remembered... through it all, the total exhaustion, the wish that he would be left alone, to rest. Well, apparently he had gotten what he wanted, but he still couldn’t remember how that came to be. “Fuck!” Tim cursed the blond guy, whose name he couldn’t remember or hadn’t been told. The reason he was in this dog suit was because of that cocky fuckhead! Wiggling in frustration and discomfort, Tim flopped heavily to one side and flapped his bound appendages against the side of the box. His arms and legs were cramping. He moaned into the gag, “This is impossible!” His misery continued, for hours (or so it seemed to Tim), until he noticed that his cock had belied his desperation. His thoughts and struggles had somehow fully restored it to its painfully stiff, maximum erect state. Under the thick rubber encasement, it was throbbing. The overpowering sensation, which earlier had seemed so oppressive -- of thick, binding rubber completely enveloping him – was transforming itself into a sensation that seemed to be satisfying an essential need. Tim moaned and wiggled, the difficult movements now producing erotic pleasure rather than anxiety, as he maneuvered himself awkwardly within the confined space. Stomach down, he straightened out his bound body as much as the box let him, until he was wedged lengthwise in it, at a diagonal, his knees crammed against one end and his head pushed into a corner at the other. Breathing rapidly through the tube with the effort, reveling in the all-encompassing constriction of the rubber suit, experimenting with repetitive grinding movements, he thrust his pelvis up and down repetitively and rubbed his crotch against the floor of the box. His ass muscles squeezed the butt plug that he almost forgot had been shoved up his ass so long ago.
Two stories above Tim, Brad pulled his head back quickly without releasing the suction created by his lips. Ross’s wide, fat, engorged cock unintentionally popped out of his mouth with an audible smacking sound, and Brad drooled onto it. Brad exclaimed, “Sorry, Sir!” He took a breath and continued speaking. “But do you hear that? Think he’s all right? Um... should I go down there?”
Brad, kneeling between Ross’s legs, turned his head, and Ross, stretched out on his bed, lay still. They both watched the video monitor and listened. While the night vision feature produced a visible image, the angle of the camera and small dimensions of the box made it difficult to get a full view of what Tim was doing. Yet, the sounds were unmistakable to Ross.
Ross explained: “That pig is cumming... without permission, I might add!”
Brad smiled with relief. “Guess he’s okay then!”
Ross laughed. “A bondage pig’s cock always gives him away.”
Brad laughed also. He looked at the clock on Ross’s night stand. “It’s past noon. He’s been in there for quite a while.”
Ross pushed Brad’s head down, back onto his cock. “He’s fine. If he’s still able to cum in there, he’s doing okay. I’m sure he’ll keep for a couple more hours. We need to hydrate him, give him some food, but not right now. It can wait. Anyway, if he cums in bondage without permission, he stays put. That’s a rule he knows very well. After several months of training, he’s used to such treatment. It’s what he wants, remember?”
Slurping upward off Ross’s cock to keep all the saliva in his mouth, Brad interrupted his sucking. He swallowed. “Right, how could I forget? That’s why he ended things with me, so he could be your slave. I guess I agree with you. He can wait for QUITE a while longer.”
“He has no choice!” They laughed together. Ross pushed Brad down again and continued talking. “I can’t think of a better scenario – having a rubber sealed pig down in my dungeon, bound 24/7, and you up here in my bed. Life couldn’t be more perfect.” With his face impaled on Ross’s cock, Brad nodded his head in agreement.
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