He calls me “pig.” My name is Tim, but I’ve never heard Ross use it.
I see the Internet URL above, but I don’t know who has access and whether anyone except Ross will read this. (Still at my shoulder, Ross says to assume his rubberpig's hog blog will be read by kinky Rubbermen like him and horny rubber bondage pigs like me.)
Okay. I get your drift. I still don’t want to do this. (Wack! “YOU have no choice!”)
Ross just walked away. I don’t know what to write, except for things about him. Now he’s off across the dungeon. Looks like he’s unpacking something from a box. He told me keep your eyes on the computer, keep typing pig. I think he is unwrapping a new piece of gear. He has a passion for buying new rubber/bondage toys to try them out – on me. (I share the passion :-))
I have blogged before but never about Ross. So, if this new blog is for Rubbermen to read, they would probably want to know that Ross is the hottest Rubberman I have ever seen. He gets off on his own butch attitude and male ego but in spite of his self-assurance is not oppressive with his conceit – just realistic: He knows that he is an incredible package. Chiseled face, hairy muscles, big cock, athletic pecs and masculine hair patterns that make you want to bury your face in parts of his powerful body. He looks amazing in rubber – strapping as all get out, latex beefcake, a total rubber stud, but no one has or will ever see him in bondage. Strictly a Top (the rubber bondage type), his big thing is control, if possible through prolonged ‘encasement’ (a term he uses a lot) combined with heavy long-term restraint. That’s where I come in. He gives me a lot of both and is uncompromising about enforcing the rules and making me follow through, sweating it out to the end. (Thinking about his lack of sympathy for the problems of bondage bottoms makes my dick twitch!) He knows that I need such regimens even when I am ready to cop out (like I am now).
Ross and my cock are partners, conspiring together to convince me that increasing encasement and restraint are my lot. I think they are never happier than when I'm Ross’s rubber captive: totally rubber-encapsulated, tightly sealed in black, shiny latex, plugged, tubed, gagged, wrapped, strapped, sacked, zipped, bagged, tied, fastened, laced, hooded, muzzled... and left... waiting... with no choice but to wait... for Ross to find me, hours later, exactly the way he left me. Usually after I am well encased and tightly bound, he puts me away somewhere in his dungeon, in some kind of locked cell or container – ‘storage,’ often isolated and out of sight.
I should probably explain that Ross said I will do my blogging during breaks. Ross says that on routine days I will get a break after each 8-12 hour block of ‘storage’ time. It’s impossible to write everything he said (he is extremely verbal when it comes to describing how I will be encased and bound), but the gist of it is that he said routine breaks will ‘last no longer than 25 minutes.’ He gave me the exact break schedule per minute, but, hearing the details put me off a bit, and I don’t remember it. Around half of the break time is for blogging, to write my impressions here. The remaining break time is for bodily functions, hygiene, food/water intake, maybe some exercise. (Knowing Ross, he will keep everything scheduled within the 25 minutes, clocked to the exact second! Though I do think he said something about separate exercise breaks now and then.) In any case, 25 minutes seems a little stingy to me, but I’m sure Ross chose it carefully: less than a half hour, it can be counted only in minutes and seconds. For the next week or more, except for the breaks, Ross says I will spend my days and nights ‘bound, sealed in gear, plugged, tubed, under control, and stored.’
I guess I should also explain that all of this depends on my behavior: I have to follow the rules. One of them is I am not allowed to talk. Even when I am not gagged, use of my voice is not permitted. In addition to the control factor, maybe this is Ross’s way of encouraging me to write in this blog.
If I don’t follow the rules, Ross says my ‘break privileges’ will be ‘revoked,’ and I’ll be left in storage ‘indefinitely’ until I learn to conduct myself properly. Ross says he has other ways too of enforcing the rules. Only trouble is he hasn’t told me all of the rules. I think he makes them up and adds additional rules whenever he wants. (He’d wack me for that if he weren’t busy doing whatever it is he’s doing that I’m not allowed to look at.)
This whole arrangement of the upcoming days of storage and breaks came about very early this morning, when Ross came to my rescue at my apartment. I am making it sound romantic, and I suppose it could have been, but mostly it was just uncomfortable and dumb on my part. I got myself into a stupid horny predicament tying myself up to impress him. Alone in my apartment, already locked into 'rubber underwear' and a chastity device/butt plug earlier in the day by Ross, I rubberized head to toe, gagged, and bound myself into a tight little ball, restraining myself really well, no escape possible, just to wait for him, but then found out too late from a note under my door that he wasn’t coming, because he thought I was sick. Sealed in rubber, gagged, and locked in restraints – joined wrists to neck, elbows to knees, ankle to ankle and heels to buttocks – I spent a good part of last night squirming around my apartment trying to figure out how to get loose. Perspiring and sick to my stomach with nervousness, at first I struggled against the restraints holding me in the tight position and failed to get free, then rested to calm myself down, and even fell asleep a couple times while trying to think of an escape plan. Finally around 6 AM I got hold of my phone when I blindly pushed one of the receivers onto the floor by shoving a broom up on top of the kitchen counter. The phone came flying down, and I rolled around trying to pick it up and then fumbled with my rubber-mittened fingers enough to push the right keys to connect to Ross’s cell. Trying to listen for his voice, barely able to hold and operate the phone because of the way I had restrained myself, unable to speak because of the way I ball-gagged myself, I did frantic grunts for help into the phone, using redial to try to call him repeatedly, until eventually he arrived at my place, coming to see what was up. He laughed endlessly when he figured out the situation, and then made me stay that way while he lectured me on my incompetence and dictated the conditions of my release. (My leg and arm muscles are aching today from being trapped in such a cramped position all night, but I know I have no one to blame but myself. I was so horny and sore I would have agreed to anything to get of that predicament!)
Ross said that after my self-bondage fiasco I can no longer be trusted on my own, that someone as obsessed with bondage and rubber as I am needs to be kept in a supervised setting: ‘A 24/7 encasement pig, bound and incarcerated’ is one way he likes to describe it. Threatening to leave me the way he had found me, Ross prescribed the terms of my ‘incarceration’ while I was still helplessly bound and gagged. Grunting my consent around the ball gag, I would have agreed to anything he said I was so desperate to get free. When he released me, he had me call out sick from work with flu for today and tomorrow (Thursday and Friday). Since I had already requested time off next week, this clears my calendar for a week or more, to be spent ‘on probation,’under Ross’s control, for a trial phase that could lead to becoming the no-limits, permanent 24/7 encasement pig that Ross says he wants. After releasing me this morning at my apartment, he took me to the gym and supervised my workout and then brought me back to his house, where I am now, in his basement dungeon.
All through the morning, while he told me the rules as we exercised and ate breakfast and I got prepared for the day, Ross has been describing the forthcoming periods of ‘storage’ with a sadistic smile on his face and a nasty gleam in his eye, using vocabulary like ‘incarceration’ and ‘solitary confinement’ and ‘isolation’ to refer to how I will serve out my ‘sentence,’ endure my ‘captivity’ in silence and “tough out’ my ‘sequestration.’ He says that at all times without exception I will be sealed in head to toe rubber (which I am now, concentrating on trying to hit the right keys with the encased fingers of my gloved hands) and in bondage (which I am now, my wrists in cuffs that allow typing, my legs separated wide, ankles pulled back and up, tied securely to a crossbar of the stool). Ross said that when I am ‘sequestered,’ while the degree and severity of the bondage and ‘storage’ will vary, I should expect the norm to be ‘heavy encasement’ and ‘total isolation.’ (I admit that it felt like my heart missed a few beats when I heard Ross talk in those terms.)
Earlier, Ross had me call my family to tell them I’d be away. Then he took my cell phone and said he’ll take care of messages. I gave him the password for my voice mail. Ross knows my boss, my friends, my family. He can return their calls if needed. It feels like he’s in control of every aspect of my life, even now as I write.
Ross said that sometimes he’ll change the regular routine to allow for ‘storage time’ longer than the typical stretches. He said to ‘expect to be ignored most of the time.’ Last weekend I spent something like 36 hours straight suited up in rubber and suspended in a sleepsack in a storage closet of his dungeon, so I already know what he is proposing can be done, but the total duration makes me nervous: a week (or more?) is like a bondage marathon! What is happening to my life? Even so, the idea of a week of submitting to Ross’s plans to habituate me to constant rubber encasement, bondage, and imprisonment, makes me horny and excited – and also frustrated: My cock is in a tight lock-down, still trapped in a chastity device Ross put on me yesterday. He offers no hints about how long it will be in place. So, here I am, on a Thursday, normally a workday for me, but I’m in Ross’s dungeon instead of being at my job. It’s around mid-morning. Sitting low, tied onto a small stool in front of his computer, I’m locked in the chastity device, with a butt plug, which I squeeze with my ass as I type. I’m wearing what Ross calls my rubber underwear (a.k.a. ‘rubberskin,’ ‘bodyrubber’ – terms he uses), plus a separate rubber hood gripping my head, and have another layer over top: my stretchy, one-piece, footed, gloved and hooded face-entry suit from London.
I just stopped typing for a few seconds, to turn around and look at what Ross is doing, and got a reprimand. Here are the direct quotes: “Don’t make me say it again, pig. Eyes on the computer! Keep typing. I’ll tell you when to stop!”
I don’t know what else to write but he said keep typing. He was standing near the wall box. Not sure if he has to go to the office or will work at home today. The wall box is okay, though it’s definitely not for claustrophobic types. I thought it was fun months ago the first few times after Ross started letting me come to his dungeon, but I’ve been in the wall box a lot since then so there is no longer any novelty. It’s too small to extend my legs all the way straight out and gets hot but is comfortable otherwise. I can easily do it for the day. I know Ross is careful about monitoring me and has ways of keeping tabs on my suffering by using friends and even remote devices.
Running out of ideas on what to write. The primary hood makes my head feel squeezed, my cheeks and the bridge of my nose compressed. I know from experience I will adjust. The totality of the skintight encapsulation will become more comfortable with time; the sweat will lubricate and my body will adapt. Except for Ross’s deep authoritative voice, raised to a level to penetrate my rubber hoods (“Eyes on the computer KEEP TYPING PIG!”), I already feel insulated from the sounds of the outside world. The effort required to type with the rubber gloves – to concentrate on hitting the right keys, and to backspace frequently to correct when I don’t – is giving rise to more sweat than usual.
The sweat makes my perch on the stool feel slippery, so that every few seconds I shift my butt around, driving the anal plug up against my prostate, which feels like the plug is milking it; locked up and inaccessible under the layers of rubber, I think I can feel my dick leaking precum. My nose always gets accustomed to the scent of rubber, its odor mixed with sweat becoming unnoticeable, but right now my sinuses are full of latex aroma, which triggers thoughts of dark encasement and inescapable rubber captivity. Freshly shined, the outer rubber suit and gloves glisten as I type. A few drops of sweat leaking from an invisible fault in the seal of my encapsulation fall to the floor. The layers of latex creak as I slide and shift impatiently on the stool, waiting for Ross.
Fuck, being sealed in rubber this way and plugged and locked in chastity and cuffed and tied to the stool, all of it is working on me. I feel like a fucking frustrated horny rubber pervert. Am seriously getting into this – being a fucking horny rubber slave ready to serve Ross, every second of every day! FUCK!
With the quick look at Ross I just managed, I saw him arranging gear near the box. Being in the box all day will be more interesting if the bondage is challenging. Thinking that way, I can feel my heart pounding more quickly, and my dick is trying to expand, pushing itself down deeper into the chastity device. FUCK!
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