8:02 PM
He sidled back, to face the door, and then waddled forward cautiously. His tightly held arms and upper body, joined as one package, swayed as he moved. Mindful of the cumbersome spreader bar locked between his ankles and the pole connected to it, rising up to impale him on the large dildo, Tim advanced toward the door. When he moved, he felt that everything had to be in slow motion. The dildo, seeming to grow in size with each step, prodded him deep inside, keeping him on the edge of climax. His harnessed and stretched balls and cock throbbed in their restraints, and his erect cock quivered stiffly with each wobble. If he moved any faster, he thought he might cum. And, at that moment, it was the last thing he wanted. He knew that if he came he would feel even more uncomfortable afterward.
Positioning himself carefully, he pressed his upper body against the door of his apartment. Aware of the compression of his chest and arms, covered in rubber and bundled tightly in leather within the encasement of the straitjacket sleeves, he pushed one eye to the peep hole door viewer. Straining to achieve an angle that would allow him to see through the eye holes of the hoods, he felt the intense restriction of the straitjacket, the tension of the arm straps cinching his forearms together in front, and the resistance of the pinion straps pulling his elbows tightly back. He exhaled through the tube gag, to flatten his chest and relieve some of the pressure of the bindings, and peered through the peep hole. The hallway appeared to be empty. Tim inhaled deeply, feeling the constriction, and exhaled with a big, involuntary sigh as he leaned his head against the door. He stayed there and called quietly through the gag: “THIR? THIR? THIR?”
When no response came, Tim waited, losing track of time, with his eye pressed to the tiny peep hole. He felt sure that Ross was about to return at any moment, to reveal that the entire scenario was some kind of elaborate, sadistic trick. Laughing at Tim’s distress, Ross would come through the door, make Tim beg, and then release him.
But after a time Tim closed his eyes, leaned his firmly encased forehead against the door, and waited. His apartment was warm, and the rubber and leather, insulating him heavily, sealed in the heat and sweat that were building inside the layers encasing him. When the awkward stance, taking its toll on Tim’s legs and back, became taxing, he ignored the discomfort at first. The option that Ross himself had suggested, before he left, crossed Tim’s mind: Tim could open the door by leaning on the handle with his elbow, go out into the hallway, and find a neighbor on his floor to help release him. But none of Tim’s nearby neighbors, mostly straight, knew about his kinky activities. And his gay friends were on different floors of the building. Tim didn’t need to mull it over for long. He’d rather wait for Ross, even all night, than be revealed as a kinky freak to the people who lived in his building. Eventually, hesitant to give up his tenuous connection with the theory that Ross would soon return, Tim reluctantly backed away from the door. He shifted from one sweaty, rubber-encased foot to the other, his feet locked in position by ankle cuffs securing him to the rigid spreader bar. Still unaccustomed to the waddling gait that the exaggerated, bow-legged position required, Tim turned and padded forward to make his way into the kitchen. It seemed like an hour or more had passed, but the clock read
8:16 PM
indicating that it was less than 20 minutes.
Studying his options, Tim surveyed the kitchen. He stared at the closed drawer that contained his kitchen utensils, including knives and scissors. The drawer opened via a knob that was nothing more than a rounded protuberance on the surface, with a small notch on its underside to insert one or two fingers. It would be difficult or impossible to open, he thought, but maybe he should try. He contemplated the possibility, but then reconsidered. On second thought, if he succeeded, he had no idea how he would extract anything from the drawer or use it to cut himself free. The straitjacket was sturdy and secure, and his arms were totally useless. As he tried to picture it in his mind, the phone rang. Powerless to answer it, Tim’s arms wiggled in frustration within the straitjacket sleeves. The bindings were so damned tight! Tim felt stymied. “Mmph!” Tim stopped himself from squirming, stood still, and waited to hear if the caller would leave a message. His mother’s sing-song voice came through the speaker. Tim continued to stand there, motionless and straining to hear the words through the insulation of the hoods.
“Hi, honey. Your Dad and I miss you. Why haven’t we heard from you? Everything’s fine here. Call us when you can. We love you.”
Hearing his mother’s words brought home to Tim the reality of the situation. He pictured his parents, reading or watching TV, cozy together in the house where he grew up. He tried to imagine how he would say it if he could leave a message on their answering machine to tell his mother the truth: “Well, Mom, you haven’t heard from me because I’ve become a rubber bondage slave. I haven’t called you lately because I just spent 4 days tied up in a guy’s basement -- my Master’s dungeon.”
Tim was starting to enjoy the ludicrous yet very real explanation he was formulating in his head, and he continued: “Right now, I can’t talk because there’s a wide, uncomfortable tube, called a piss gag, stuck in my mouth and buckled to my head. It holds my mouth open so that my Master can piss into it whenever he wants. But he’s not here right now, and I can’t remove the gag or answer the phone, because he left me tied up in a thick, leather straitjacket. I’m alone in my apartment, all wrapped up and buckled tightly, and I can’t get out of the restraints. My head is covered by two hoods, a rubber one inside and a leather one outside, which keep the gag rammed into my mouth, and I can barely see or hear. Just about all I can do is waddle around, because my ankles are locked in a rigid steel bar that keeps my legs spread apart. Oh, and by the way, there’s a huge dildo shoved way up my ass and locked in place. I’m all rigged up and impaled on it, connected to the leg bar, so that it fucks the shit out of me when I walk.”
Tim focused on the last, almost forgotten details, like he was writing a postscript: “Wait, I almost forgot - I have a rubber catsuit on too, under the straitjacket, which is making me sweat my ass off, with my private parts hanging out the crotch, on display, shaved and hard, all tied up and ready to shoot, bound in a special harness that’s connected to the bar locked on my feet.” Tim thought about how he would end the message: “So, Mom, that’s why I haven’t called you!”
Tim’s fantasy of speaking the explanation aloud to his mother seemed ridiculous, and yet Tim knew everything he imagined saying was the truth! He asked himself, “How did I every reach this point in my life?” Surprisingly, nevertheless, Tim found that trying to put his situation into words, if only inside his head, was making him feel better. Ross’s audacity had caught him off guard, but, after all, it was a fucking horny predicament! Ross was such a bastard! Tim felt his cock rising in appreciation, and a resentful acknowledgment crept into his consciousness. And yet, he still couldn’t believe what Ross had said was true. He was convinced that Ross was fucking with his mind. Ross would stay away long enough to make Tim anxious, maybe an hour or two, and then he’d return. Tim checked the clock.
8:31 PM
Barely a half hour had passed. What if Ross wasn’t kidding? Ross had said he would return ‘tomorrow morning,’ to release Tim for work. Tim wondered what time that would be. Even if Ross came as early as 6:00 AM, that was more than nine hours from now!
Giving up on the idea of somehow cutting himself out of the straitjacket, Tim decided that hanging out in the kitchen, watching the clock for nine hours, was not the best approach to dealing with his situation. He moved slowly into his livingroom. His rectum, reacting to the motion of the huge invader, contracted in a reflexive spasm around the wide base of the dildo, and his cock pulsated. He paused to allow them to relax. The leather and fastenings creaked as he inhaled deeply and squirmed in the straitjacket. His mouth, forced tightly around the tube gag by the tension of the outer hood, was starting to ache, and he worked his jaw under the hoods to relieve the discomfort. After reaching his destination, he positioned himself next to the wall near his television. He looked down at floor level. Ross had been telling the truth: the plugs had been disconnected from power strips, making it impossible for Tim to watch TV or even listen to music on his CD player, assuming he could somehow turn them on. Ross was such a thorough bastard!
Tim suddenly had an idea. Convinced that Ross had overlooked something, he turned around as fast as possible, ignoring the discomfort caused by the quick motion. He waddled into the bedroom to check his night stand: his clock radio was still plugged in!
8:32 PM
Tim studied the switch for the radio: It was on one side and recessed, and he realized that fingers were needed to push it to the ON position. Oh well, he thought. It doesn’t matter whether I outsmarted Ross or not; I can’t turn it on. Tim knew it was stupid, that listening to the radio wasn’t that important, but somehow he was disappointed. At that moment, the silence of Tim’s apartment seemed overwhelming to him, and he resisted the cloud of depression, hovering in the back of his mind, threatening to envelope him.
8:39 PM
Dazed by his feelings, still staring at the clock next to his bed, Tim was startled when the silence was interrupted by the phone, ringing again. The caller ID was visible, and it indicated Brad’s cell phone number! Seeing Brad's number felt like a form of reprieve, and Tim reacted with excitement. Unthinking, in a reflex state, Tim pulled at the straitjacket sleeves, his arms unintentionally struggling to extend in a maddening attempt to answer the phone extension in the bedroom. Frustrated by the situation, in a delayed reaction he decided to act quickly to see if a message was being left. He waddled at full blast out of the bedroom and shuffled hastily, fucking himself royally, as he rushed into the kitchen. Brad’s clear, sexy voice was in mid-sentence:
“... your favorite Italian restaurant, like I said... waiting here for Ross. Um... he’s running late, stuck in traffic he says, so I thought I’d... um... check in, but I guess...um... you’re not there. Oh, I see Ross’s truck pulling into the parking lot right now! Catch you later...”
Tim heard the sound of Brad disconnecting, and the cloud of depression settled heavily on him. Tim realized that with Ross being across town, at Tim’s favorite restaurant with Brad, he was definitely not coming back soon. "Fuck, maybe Ross had been serious about not returning until morning!" Tim stared at the redial button. He knew he could hit it with his gag to ring Ross’s cell phone, but that prospect seemed even more unlikely than going outside and calling for help. Ross had warned him he’d be sorry if he used the redial for anything other than a crisis, and Tim took the warning seriously. Fucking bastard Ross!
In his mind, Tim pictured Ross and Brad, both of them so hot-looking in totally opposite ways, sitting comfortably at the restaurant, enjoying a drink before dinner. And then Tim pictured himself, encased, bound and imprisoned in his own apartment, alone, in silence, sentenced to spend an entire night of heavy, cumbersome restraint and awkward discomfort. The contrasting pictures seemed to reinforce Tim’s role in Ross’s life. Tim felt angry, depressed, and hard. Humiliated and abandoned, with no way to express his feelings to anyone, Tim knew that his only realistic choice was to endure his sentence. While at that moment the prospect seemed unbearable, his cock, reacting to the knowledge, felt like it was about to explode.
8:45 PM
Still less than an hour since Ross left, and Tim felt extremely sweaty and hot inside the catsuit, straitjacket, and hoods. He was also thirsty. He stared at the present Ross had left for him on the kitchen counter. Tim hadn’t noticed before that on one side of the plastic container, Ross had written the words “PIG JUICE” with a black marker. Tim had no intention of sipping from the piss jug. It was a gallon container, and Ross had filled it to the very top with piss. The bright blue straw, fixed into the lid and extending inside to the bottom, had a drop of piss on its end, left over from the little test that Ross had made Tim conduct earlier. Tim still had the vile taste of it in his mouth.
Tim shuffled over to the sink. He shifted slightly to one side, to prevent his stiff cock from hitting the counter head on, and pressed himself against it. Bending at his waist as he strained forward, he disregarded the pressure over his back and under his crotch from the encasement and straps of the straitjacket. The dildo, deep inside, poked his prostate intensely. Precum leaked from his cock onto the floor. By leaning painfully over the sink, he was barely able to reach the faucet lever handle. Sweating and straining, using the part of the tube gag the protruded outside the hoods, he succeeded in turning on the water and getting some into his mouth. Feeling reassured and satisfied as he succeeded in turning the flow of water off, Tim straightened up with relief and moved away from the sink.
Tim waddled further into the kitchen, to his refrigerator, which was set back in an alcove. The door opened from the right, and the handle was next to a wall. Tim backed up awkwardly against the wall and tried to open the door with his elbow. He leaned toward the handle, but the angle was difficult and the space too limited to get his elbow between the wall and the handle. He could touch the handle with his elbow, but he could not open the refrigerator door.
9:01 PM
The microwave clock showed that barely an hour had passed since Ross left, but to Tim it seemed already like an entire evening. He moved slowly away from the refrigerator and waddled out of the kitchen toward his bedroom. He was getting tired, and his erection, though still leaking, was starting to subside. The dildo was becoming less stimulating, and more annoying and uncomfortable. His legs needed a change in position, though none was possible. Maybe he would try lying down.
8:57 PM
As Tim entered the bedroom, he noticed for the first time that the clock on his night stand, which he knew to have the correct time, showed that it was a few minutes earlier than the clock in the kitchen. It wasn’t even 9:00 yet! Tim tottered around his bedroom, intending to position himself on the bed as Ross had taught him, but an unexpectedly horny thought penetrated his depression.
Instead of dropping back onto his bed, he waddled into the bathroom, successfully hit the light switch with the tube of his piss gag, and positioned himself in view in the full length mirror. In spite of the reality of dealing with the restraints, Tim liked what he saw in the mirror through the eye holes of his hoods. The form of restraint looked extreme, intimidating, and absolutely inescapable. The leather straitjacket (one that Ross himself had bought specifically for Tim) was modeled after authentic asylum restraints, with a thick, sturdy construction, reinforced with extra belts to make it exceptionally secure. Tim remembered that Ross had been especially boastful of the increased width of some of the straps and the heavy padding of the hand and elbow areas, to keep Tim’s hands from trying to work at any buckles. Looking at himself in the mirror, it was obvious to Tim that Ross had buckled, tightened and probably re-tightened the straps and belts, to secure the fastenings and adjust the jacket for particularly close confinement, as if to anticipate that Tim, left to his own devices, would try to get loose. Tim didn’t often get to observe himself real time in bondage, and he studied his reflection as he flexed and struggled against the unforgivingly tight restraints. He examined the thick strap collar around his neck, to which the matching hood was fastened, the belts at his forearms and underarms, the pinion straps around each of his upper arms just above his elbows, pulling his tightly-held arms in and back, and the binding crotch straps. Part of his back was visible in the reflection of a second bathroom mirror over his medicine cabinet, and the numbers and interconnections of buckles and straps were impressive. Ross had certainly used every means available on the straitjacket to ensure the tightest possible application and encasement. The matching hood, with its zippers, laces, and straps, also looked threatening, and Tim could verify how tight it felt on his head.
Reveling in the eroticism of his inescapable encasement, Tim twisted and pulled at the heavy bindings and moaned at the image of himself. As Tim surveyed his lower half, to study the additional restraints and the rubber encasing his legs and feet, he realized that he had passed the point of no return. His cock, bigger than he had ever seen it, visibly dangling a huge glob of precum, was contracting and bobbing in front of him, and his excitement was uncontrollable. He struggled involuntarily inside the straitjacket. His knees wobbled and his pelvis thrust forward, to maximize his impalement, and he squeezed and rode the large dildo in frenzied fucking motions. His erection surged upward, in resistance to the harness that pulled it down. Tim watched and heard himself lose control as a tortured-sounding series of gag-obstructed moans and groans accompanied the arcs of cum that burst out of him. “Ommmph! Ah! Oooh! Oh! Oh! OOOHHHH! Uck! Uck! Oh uck! O-O-O-O-O-O-O!” He writhed as the excruciating orgasm, unstoppably protracted, continued to fuel his cock, shooting jets of semen that splattered the mirror.
When it was finished, Tim felt like he was going to topple over. His knees were weak and his legs shaking. He stood still, trying to recover, but almost immediately, the heat, sweat, impossibly tight restraint, and deeply penetrating impalement seemed unbearable. That which had caused such agonizing pleasure now seemed to threaten him with agonizing discomfort. In misery, Tim shuffled into his bedroom and collapsed on his bed.
11:06 PM
Dreaming that he was struggling against some form of unbearably tight restraint, Tim woke to find that it was true. On top of his bed, lying on his back, Tim was heaving in turmoil, cursing, and moaning. He opened his eyes and knew he was home, but why was he tied up? What the fuck? Through the creak of restraints, Tim thought he recognized the sound of his phone. Within seconds, he remembered why he was bound so tightly: Ross. That fucking bastard! Tim felt his cock (erect again) and his asshole (squeezing the dildo) contracting strongly in unison. He stopped himself from struggling. Overwhelmed by heat and sweat, desperate for unfettered movement and freedom from encasement, Tim laid back, resisted the urge so struggle, and made himself still inside his world of encasement and heat. His phone rang one more time and then stopped. Tim twisted his head, to try to read the clock, but also had to turn his upper body to see it. Fuck, it’s after 11:00 and still no Ross: He really isn’t coming back tonight. Fucker.
Fuck, if I’m stuck this way I wished I slept longer.
Tim’s jaw was aching, his back was sore from lying on the buckles of the straitjacket, and his arms felt tingly. He squirmed and wiggled his arms inside the straitjacket sleeves to get the circulation going. His head felt uncomfortably compressed. His legs, unable to bend and stuck in the spread position, were stiff and achy. Awkwardly shifting himself around, he managed to rise from the bed as Ross had trained him to earlier.
On his way to the kitchen, Tim noticed the bathroom light, still on as he had left it. He went in. The dried cum splattered across the mirror looked like just that, and his reflection had the same stimulating effect on him as it did before. His cock throbbed and rose higher. Studying his erection and the hot-looking way his cock and balls were restrained, Tim realized he needed to piss, but he didn’t want to try while his cock was poking up, out into space. He turned around and hit the light switch with his mouth tube. Shuffling slowly, Tim left the bathroom and proceeded to the kitchen. The dildo, moving inside him with each waddling step, felt good again. He resisted the urge to stand in place and fuck himself on it. He hated to admit it, but his mind and body were adjusting to the situation. He knew he could spend the night rigged up as Ross had left him and be fine, if uncomfortable, but he still thought Ross was a bastard!
11:11 PM
In the kitchen, Tim froze when he saw a long, handwritten note next to the piss jug. He leaned over the counter until he achieved the angle needed to read the note through the eye holes of the hoods:
Tim,
Had a great dinner with Ross. He told me what’s going on here. I was worried, so he said to check on you on my way home to my place. When I got here, you were sleeping soundly, like a baby – a kinky bound one! (Very hot!) Didn’t want to wake you. From the look of things in the bathroom, seems like you’re having fun, so I called Ross to tell him he was right about you. (He kept saying not to worry because you’re a total bondage pig!) Anyway, since you’re ok, he “ordered me” to leave. Bye.
- Brad
P.S. When I called Ross, he asked about the piss container. Good luck! (Pig juice? YUCK!)
Had a great dinner with Ross. He told me what’s going on here. I was worried, so he said to check on you on my way home to my place. When I got here, you were sleeping soundly, like a baby – a kinky bound one! (Very hot!) Didn’t want to wake you. From the look of things in the bathroom, seems like you’re having fun, so I called Ross to tell him he was right about you. (He kept saying not to worry because you’re a total bondage pig!) Anyway, since you’re ok, he “ordered me” to leave. Bye.
- Brad
P.S. When I called Ross, he asked about the piss container. Good luck! (Pig juice? YUCK!)
Tim was disappointed, then angry. Maybe Brad would have stayed over. Shit! Brad might have released me if I hadn’t been asleep! Fuck!
Tim looked at his answering machine: three messages. He leaned over carefully and hit the Play Messages button successfully with his mouth tube. The earlier message from his mother played, followed by the one from Brad. The third, left a few minutes ago, was Ross:
“Hey, pig. I hear through the grapevine that the pig is enjoying his night alone. Interesting.... I guess it’s true I didn’t explicitly forbid the pig to cum. Well, since you like being treated this way so much, we’ll have to arrange more of the same, maybe tomorrow night if I have time.” Ross chuckled and snorted, and Tim felt his cock pulsing as he continued listening to the tone of Ross’s deep voice, masculine, authoritative, dominant, and clearly reflecting his sadistic enjoyment of Tim’s predicament: “By the way, that jug had better be empty when I get there in the morning, or you’ll find yourself having to use another vacation day instead of going to work tomorrow. And don’t waste a drop, pig!” The answering machine beeped, indicating the end of Ross's message, and then announced there were no more new messages.
Deep inside Tim’s ass, where the dildo rubbed his prostate, Tim felt the stimulation and sensed that the juices were beginning to build again. He squirmed in the straitjacket and fucked himself gently on the dildo. His asshole and cock contracted as he stared at the plastic container for a minute or two. Suddenly, he had a strong urge to please Ross. The masterful sound of Ross’s commanding voice inspired him, and he wanted to obey. “Fuck,” Tim thought, “he’s an amazing man. I do want to be his pig!” Without warning, Tim felt overwhelmed by feelings of love for Ross. He pictured Ross in his mind as he sucked the straw through the tube gag, working his mouth and tongue around the tube to help draw into his mouth the piss that had come from his Master’s cock.
11:21 PM
But the tube gag made for slow going: It caused difficulty with sucking piss through the straw. It made it impossible for Tim to fill his mouth while leaning forward without spilling, and tough to swallow. Tim had to work hard to consume the harsh-tasting yellow liquid, and he made dismal progress. Ross’s stale piss, now at room temperature, tasted even more rank than it had before, when it was cold. After several swallows, the sour taste completely overpowered Tim’s senses, and the romance of taking Ross’s piss was replaced by the bitter reality of trying to stomach its nasty taste. To Tim, it seemed that the entire exercise was designed to maximize the time he was required to endure the taste of Ross’s piss in his mouth. “Ross IS a bastard!” And yet the revulsion Tim experienced with each sip was belied by his continued erection. Tim sucked down the piss, sip after sip, in an attempt to get it over with, as his cock bobbed in front of him. But after one particularly putrid swill, he had to stop. It was too disgusting to continue, and the jug was still more than three-quarters full. He needed to take a break from this humiliating task. He considered trying to overturn the plastic container into the sink, to empty it, but quickly convinced himself that the plan would somehow go awry. Tim lumbered into the bathroom and turned on the light to study his reflection. He needed more inspiration before he could continue, and he suspected that when he saw himself in the mirror his horniness would return in full force.
2:12 AM
Lying in bed, Tim checked the clock again. He couldn’t sleep, and staying awake meant no escape from the torments of his encasement and restraint. Periodically, his legs, begging for a change in position, fought against the bars forcing them to remain spread and extended, and his asshole and prostate suffered the punishment of his legs’ attempts to move. Though he had cum a second time since Ross left, his cock, constantly energized by the circumstances of his restraint and impalement, was still stiff. His stretched, sensitized asshole, tender insides, and depleted cock felt sore and overstimulated. Lying on his back, the only recumbent position he could maintain, increased the straitjacket’s constriction and made his arms ache and tingle. His head pounded inside the tight layers of enclosure, and his jaw ached from the constraint of the hoods and gag. He still tasted Ross’s piss, though he had finished draining the container more than an hour ago.
2:32 AM
Having failed to hit the toilet earlier, Tim stood in his bathroom next to the tub and aimed his semi-erect cock into it. Relaxing his sphincter muscles to piss, he felt the unrelenting presence of the dildo. The impalement was becoming a form of torture.
Having failed to hit the toilet earlier, Tim stood in his bathroom next to the tub and aimed his semi-erect cock into it. Relaxing his sphincter muscles to piss, he felt the unrelenting presence of the dildo. The impalement was becoming a form of torture.
3:30 AM
In misery, Tim roamed his apartment. Randomly shuffling from room to room as he fucked himself with each step, unable to achieve a state of comfort, he sweated and moaned as he watched the clocks, with excruciating slowness, display the minute by minute progress of the never-ending night.
4:33 AM
Positioned so that he could watch the clock, Tim reclined on his back in bed, groaning and wiggling as he stared at the display and counted the seconds, starting over with each change in digit.
6:02 AM
Tim stood still, riveted in place, watching the door to his apartment. On normal workdays, Ross was an early riser, and Tim, his expectations superseding his discomfort, waited hopefully.
6:45 AM
Trying to keep from crying inside his hoods, Tim waddled aimlessly, clumsy and miserable, through his apartment.
7:14 AM
Tim walked repeatedly between his front door, where he watched for Ross, and his bathroom, where he studied himself in the mirror and chanted, “Please, please, please get me out of this shit!”
8:00 AM
His eyes riveted desperately on the door, Tim waited for Ross. If he arrived now, Tim would barely have enough time to make it to work without being late. “Twelve hours is enough. I have to got out of this shit and go to work. Please, please, please!” Inside his hoods, Tim prayed silently to his Master as his ankles pulled against the cuffs, his sweaty, rubberized feet struggled against the spreader bar, and he shifted his weight from side to side. Unable to stop himself, he twisted his arms and fought against the straitjacket. Several minutes passed before he was able to settle down.
8:12 AM
Tim still stood before the door and tried to recover from his fit of desperation. Hardly able to believe it was true, a wave of relief flooded through Tim as he watched the latch turn, the handle swing, the door open, and Ross’s bright, smiling face appear.
“Morning, pig! Good to see you waiting at the door for me, all bound up just like I left you last night.”
Tim was jubilant. “Ethir!”
Freshly showered, impeccably attired in a suit and tie, Ross looked stern and forbiddingly handsome, with a sneering grin on his face. He looked toward the kitchen and turned to Tim. “Was the pig juice tasty?”
Tim lied. “Ethir, anku thir.” As if to support him in his lie, Tim’s cock surged upward and bobbed embarrassingly.
“Good, pig. Obviously this is the life you were meant for! Maybe I should leave you like this all day.” Ross put his hand on the door handle, as if readying for a quick exit.
Panicky, Tim raised and lowered himself on his toes, ignoring the fucking sensation of the dildo, and responded in anxious, squealing tones: “OUTHIR, OUTHIR, OUTHIR! PEETHIR!”
Ross chuckled. “Okay, I get the message. Let’s get you out of that getup.” Ross released the door handle and approached Tim. Gratefully submissive, Tim turned around at Ross’s instruction and held still while the cuffs of the spreader bar were unlocked and the multiple belts and fastenings of the straitjacket were unbuckled and loosened. Ross did the minimum, releasing Tim to the point where he could take over and get himself out of the restraints.
“I’m running late, pig. You can finish up here. Have a good day at work. Call me at lunchtime on my cell.”
Still gagged, Tim responded, “Ethir.” And Ross was gone.
Hours later, Tim was having the worst hangover he had ever experienced. It was the kind of non-alcohol hangover that was produced by a sleepless night. Enveloped in a dazed, otherworldly aura, he somehow had made it through the morning without his coworkers noticing anything peculiar. But now, sitting in his cubicle at work after lunch, he was finding it impossible to concentrate. Too fatigued to work, the only thing he could think about was Ross's audacity, and it was making Tim's dick hard. Tim's attempt a half hour earlier to call Ross had been unsuccessful. He grabbed his cell phone, got up from his desk, and went outside his office to the garden to try to call Ross again. A little apprehensive and in awe of Ross's professional reputation, Tim was always reluctant to call Ross at work, even on his cell phone. After a short but successful career as a tough prosecuting attorney, Ross now had his own small but prospering law firm, which he ran with super-competence, success and absolute authority.
There were three rings, and then Ross's voice: "Hi, pig."
"Um... hi, Sir, calling as instructed. Tried before at lunchtime, Sir."
"Sorry, pig, I was in a meeting. Good to hear from you. Doing okay?"
Under Ross's spell, Tim felt his cock grow at the sound of his voice. "A little tired today, Sir."
"You'll get a full night's sleep sooner or later, one way or another." Ross paused, while Tim wondered what he meant by that – another night of bondage? That would be six nights in a row!
Ross asked, "No other after effects, I trust?"
Tim responded slowly: "Well... nothing... um... major, Sir, just my asshole is a bit... sore."
Ross replied in a matter of fact manner: "The impaler comes with two dildos. I used the smaller one last night. Obviously next time you'll need the larger one, to relieve the tightness and prevent soreness in the future."
Tim felt his cock getting harder. He didn't know what to say. Ross was such a fucker! "Sir, I didn't mean... um... that it needed stretching, or anything. Um... it's fine. It's not that sore, Sir."
Ignoring Tim's response, Ross asked, "What time will you leave work today, pig?"
"I was a little late this morning, Sir, so not until around 6:00."
Ross continued: "My schedule here today is off track, meaning I won't have time to stop by your place later. And besides, I think I'll be in the mood to have a rubber pig totally sealed in gear, plugged, tubed, encased, all bound up tightly in my dungeon overnight."
Tim gasped unintentionally. Ross’s use of language never failed to stimulate him, and the words he had just heard took his breath away. Tim felt his heart beating as he looked around, to see if anyone was watching. He wanted to grab his cock, but the garden outside his office was very public, and a coworker, puffing on a cigarette, was nearby. Speechless for an instant, he swallowed hard into the phone, tried to collect his thoughts, and then stuttered: "Sss...Sir? Uh... during the week?"
Ross responded: "I think it's time to extend your training to include time between weekends. You know that eventually I want a 24/7 dungeon slave, a full-time encasement pig like you."
Mute with shock and horniness, Tim cleared his throat and gulped saliva.
"So, pig, here's what I want you to do: When you leave your office tonight, go directly to the gym and exercise for an hour. Work your butt and pecs particularly hard. Shower afterward at the gym, showing off your shaved, trim little slave body and cute, fuckable ass to all those hairy studs at MANSWEAT. Are you listening, pig?"
"Sir, um... yes, but..."
Ross interrupted: "Eat a good meal afterward at the snack bar there. If they have the turkey burger, choose that, with a salad. From there, after you eat, go to my house. Be there by 8:15. The dungeon floor needs to be vacuumed and mopped, and then I want all my boots polished. I should be home by 9:30 or 10:00, and I expect to find you naked, hard, and licking boot. AND NO JERKING OFF TODAY! You have permission to play with yourself to stay hard during your dungeon slave chores, but if I find evidence that you've cum you'll be sorry."
Tim was nonplused. When had he agreed Ross could take control of his entire life? Tim looked down at his crotch. A small spot of precum, beginning to stain his pants, was showing.
"Sir, I'm not sure... um..."
"Gotta go, pig. See you later."
Dumbfounded, with his cock poking up inside his pants, Tim merely replied, "Okay. Bye, Sir." Embarrassed and self-conscious, Tim was relieved that the smoking coworker had finished his cigarette and was going inside. Tim tried to reconstruct Ross's words in his mind: "... in the mood for a rubber pig sealed in gear, tightly bound overnight in my dungeon... eventually a 24/7 encasement pig like you..."
Tim headed for the men's room, where he hid in a stall until his erection slowly subsided. He wanted to jerk off, but Ross's admonition was too fresh in his mind to be ignored.
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