At present, I am perched on my blogging stool. Wrists are cuffed, arms are otherwise free. Legs are spread, knees bent, and ankles tied back at the rear. The relative freedom feels almost unnatural. About an hour ago, Ross stripped me entirely of all rubberpig gear in order to clean his pig inside and out, including a thorough shave from head to toe. Under my new rubberskin, applied following the cleansing, I feel the effects of the hair removal: the sheath-bondage sensation of tight latex encasing sensitized skin; the hood gripping my exposed scalp under it, never before shaved down completely as it is now. Of strategic location and size, openings in the latex – at the nipples, crotch, and ass – accommodate clamps that Ross applied to torture my freshly denuded tits, cock, and balls, the pain in which I’ve been ordered to ignore. (Ross, reading over my shoulder, reminds the pig to use proper terminology in referring to its body parts.) A vibrating dildo fixed to the stool impales my “hoghole” on a giant fucking plug, the ultimate pleasure of which I’ve been ordered to resist. Typing on the computer, I am straddling the stool, riding the pole buzzing inside me, flexing my “pig’s feet” in opposition to the ropes binding my ankles. Ross says to keep his pigometer (i.e., my cock) up and hard but DO NOT CUM. Free from the chastity device for the first time in days, Ross’s pigometer, with halo of excruciating clamps, bobs hugely erect and oozing precum between my spread legs. I am not allowed to touch it.
The overwhelming sense of euphoria that comes with surviving a challenging experience is influencing my thoughts as I type, along with an emotional bonding even deeper than before with the man who administered the challenge.
Ross says I am to create a thorough narrative, reconstructing details of the pig’s “silence training” since the last blog entry. Here is the story:
Actually, although I didn’t know it at the time, the torturous process had started even before I wrote the last blog entry. Over his pig’s two layers of rubber, Ross had added a third layer, encasing me neck to toe in a dry suit. He had also added a huge gag with muzzle and a thick posture collar over the pig’s rubber hood, plus a leg sack, binding me in leather from the waist down. As I finished writing the last blog, I was beginning to wish for some relief from the added encasement and the gag. I had been sealed in rubber all day (see my last hog blog), and my skin needed air. The heat level was rising fast under the multiple layers. The pressure created by the muzzle, clamping my jaw around the gag, was also noticeable. Without really thinking about it as I typed, an assumption had rooted in my mind. I presumed the regimen Ross had imposed to punish me for violating the rule of silence would not last longer than the duration of my blogging. After I had spent the day sweating in the new hogsack and box storage (again, see my last hog blog), I developed growing expectations, unarticulated though they were, that Ross would give his pig a relatively comfortable night when I finished my hog blog: perhaps one layer of rubber, maybe a cozy sleepsack, and storage horizontally under Ross’s new dungeon bed. In short, the pig, though excited and horny from writing his blog, was also uncomfortable, tired and wanted to sleep.
Unaware of my unspoken assumptions, Ross, who had been reading over my shoulder, informed me when my blogging time was up. I finished quickly and stopped typing. He removed the posture collar, disconnected rope tying my sack-enclosed ankles to the stool, and helped me to stand, unsteady on my legs because they were still inside the leg sack. Anticipating that removal of another piece of gear would come next, I was relieved when Ross started to work on the leg sack. With the layers underneath, the sack felt less than comfy, and I was looking forward to getting out of it. When I sensed that Ross’s adjustments, rather than loosening, were tightening the sack further, preventing me from bending my knees, I was caught off guard and almost tipped over. “Stand straight. Keep fucking still, pig.” It was at that point that I noticed Ross’s voice had taken on a more unsympathetic emphasis than usual, perhaps even an ominous-sounding tone. Already sweating under all the layers, I felt a wave of adrenaline course through me, creating a rush of nervous heat and added perspiration. Rather than removing it, Ross was cinching the leg sack to maximum tightness!
I gulped unintentionally. Swallowing nervously around my gag, I began to suspect that a matching fourth layer of heavy leather for my upper body was coming next, confirmed when Ross removed my handcuffs and the leather gear appeared in his hands. “Arms inside, pig.”
“Mmph!” I was on the verge of protest, but Ross acted quickly.
“No oinking unless I order it, pig!” The meaning in Ross’s voice was unmistakable. He was not in the mood to hear complaints, gagged and muffled though they would be. Before I could get up the nerve to grunt any further objections through the gag and muzzle, Ross was well on his way to packing his layered pig into the tight straitjacket, and I was doing my best to cooperate and remain standing. I started trying to convince myself, bondage pig that I am, that it wouldn’t be such a bad way to spend the night, even with the three layers of rubber underneath.
Snug under “normal” circumstances, the straitjacket that went with the leg sack did not close up easily over the layers created by the two catsuits and drysuit. As it tightened around me, I felt the slimy sweatiness within. Underneath, I was slick and wet with the new, nervous perspiration, on top of the old, thickened sweat that had been basting me all day. Through the eyeholes in my rubber hood, I could see that Ross looked handsome and freshly showered, and I felt embarrassed by the contrast: the beefcake stud and the sweaty rubber pig. Despite my efforts to talk myself into accepting the tight leather encasement, with no relief from head to toe rubber and sweat under it, my anxiety was building.
I heard Ross’s voice. “One oink for ‘yes’ and two oinks for ‘no.’ You hear me in there, pig?”
“Uh.”
“Having fun yet, pig?”
Fuck you. “Uh, uh.”
“No? Well, don’t worry. We’re not finished yet!”
SHIT! That wasn’t the right answer!
I watched Ross grab the posture collar and then stoop down. I felt a shove against my waist, an arm wrapping around me, and a loss of control as I was lifted off my feet.
“Lean forward, pig.”
I tilted forward, rigid inside the leather gear, and felt Ross lift me further off the floor. A quick trip across the dungeon deposited me in a standing position, with my tightly bound feet in the center of a pile of leather directly in front of the isolation chamber, inviting entrance with open door waiting. Around my eyes, the only part of my body exposed, I felt cool air coming from the chamber and seeping through the eyeholes of my rubber hood.
Fuck! The isolation chamber! Now I was getting angry.
“One more layer, pig.”
I looked down. Visible through my rubber eye holes, I saw that the pile of leather under and around my feet was a sleepsack. “Uh, uh.”
Ross chuckled. “That was not a question. Your job is to stand still, straight as an arrow, sucking in your stomach and chest when told. And no oinking unless I ask a question. I don’t think that’s too much to ask of a pig while its Master is doing all of this hard work. Understand?”
I gave a single, reluctant oink, but my heart was pounding in protest in my chest. I felt desperate to avoid being trapped in a standing position all night in the isolation chamber, sweating to death inside layers of rubber and leather, in addition to whatever else Ross had in mind. If only he would remove the muzzle and gag to let me explain!
Ross proceeded to pull the thick leather sleepsack up my encased body and into place over my shoulders. Obviously he thought it was easier for him to put the sleepsack on while I was in a standing position, rather than let me lie on the floor, but the work required on my part to wiggle around at his command and simultaneously maintain my balance felt humiliating. I didn’t want what was happening, yet he was making me help him do it. I wobbled with my efforts to keep from tipping over, a fate that Ross prevented on a few occasions. Struggling with the physical balance, I also struggled to keep my emotions in check. Forced to cooperate with what I didn’t want in the first place, I was on the verge of losing my temper!
After Ross manipulated the open sack (and pig within) into position, he ordered me to draw in my stomach and chest. I felt the sack come together as Ross worked the heavy zipper, with ease up my already tightly bound legs, but with difficulty over the bulge of my arms, held crossed in front within straps binding the straitjacket sleeves. Exasperated and on the verge of resisting, if I had not been muzzled and gagged so tightly I would have tried to tell him it would never work. The sleepsack was not meant to enclose a straitjacketed torso.
“One more time, pig. Exhale and suck in.”
Pulling my shoulders together, I exhaled at Ross’s command and felt something give. The leather converged, compressing my upper body as one of the zippers slid over bound forearms and up the chest to the target, where the sack fused at my neck to complete the total enclosure.
“Excellent!” Ross sounded elated. He circled around me, tugging at the outer leather casement here and there and testing the zippers, as if to be certain the fit was acceptable. Trying to resist the urge to panic, I concentrated on my posture and breathing, of which the added, binding constriction made me acutely aware. Feeling the compression over my body, I inhaled slowly through the narrow tube leading from mouth, through gag and muzzle, to outside air.
Through my hood, I saw a mocking expression on Ross’s face as he surveyed the result of his efforts.
“Very stylish. And so you! Straitjacketed and sleepsacked simultaneously. The height of bondage pig fashion!”
I wanted to say, fuck you, I’d like to see you try it. Instead, I exhaled, still attempting to regulate my breathing, as Ross, chatting as he worked, thoroughly tied the laces and fastened the straps of the leather sack. Attempting to stand straight as instructed, demeaned by my own compliance and Ross’s sarcastic comments, and reacting to the increasing pressure as Ross jerked and pulled at the straps, I was all too aware of Ross’s words (which I reconstruct here to the best of my memory).
“Pay attention to what I’m telling you, pig.”
“Pay attention to what I’m telling you, pig.”
I gave a single, resentful oink.
“This dungeon is thoroughly monitored. Today, despite my explicit instructions, you grunted for help, violating the order of silence six times while you were hogsacked and boxed. Why didn’t you follow the rules? Did you think you were in danger?”
At this point, exhausted, overheated, and uncomfortable inside the tight leather packing, I almost didn’t care what answer Ross wanted. Reluctantly, I oinked twice, indicating a “no” answer. “Uh, uh.”
“Okay. I didn’t think you were in danger either. And it seems you survived quite well, doesn’t it? From what I read over your shoulder in your hog blog, you were in hog heaven today. Don’t you think it’s a bit peculiar, seeing as how you were enjoying yourself so much, that you oinked for help in spite of my warnings? ”
Fighting the urge to seek relief from the binding tightness, I stood still. A few seconds of silence passed until, “Uh,” I finally oinked once, unwillingly agreeing.
I heard Ross’s voice take on an unmistakably contemptuous tone. “So, in other words, you are the pig that cried wolf. How can I trust you to indicate real trouble if you whimper at the slightest discomfort?”
Through the eye holes of the rubber hood, I saw Ross, at last finished with the sleepsack. His gaze seemed to penetrate my eyes as he stared sardonically into his pig’s hooded, gagged, and muzzled face. The addition of the sleepsack felt unbearable at that moment, but, embarrassed by Ross’s words, I was oinkless. I saw Ross bend over to pick up a piece of leather gear and recognized it was a heavy sensory-deprivation hood.
“I told you this morning at the beginning of this that if you didn’t follow the rules, you could lose your break privileges, but I can see now that you need more specific training around the rule of silence. I trust you agree?”
My anger replaced by fear, I oinked once, trying to redeem myself, responding to the authoritative, no nonsense manner in the tone of my Master’s voice. Around this time, Ross launched into a lengthy discourse, impossible to remember verbatim, of the pig’s silence training. Here is my recollection, as close to Ross’s words as possible.
“What’s happening here is this: You have lost your break privileges for 24 hours, maybe longer, which you will spend standing in the isolation chamber and contemplating the value of suffering in silence. I will add this padded hood and the posture collar and then lock you in. You will be closely monitored. After eight hours are up, I’ll open the cell door and temporarily remove enough of your head gear to give you fluids. If you have been quiet, with no oinking for those eight hours, I will reward you by leaving the leather hood and collar off after I give you something nourishing to drink. If you have not been quiet, you will be given piss to drink instead; you will be regagged, head sealed, and left that way again.
“Understand so far, pig?”
The mortified pig did not respond.
“The next consecutive eight hours will be similar. Quiet is rewarded, oinking is not. It is a simple concept. If you are quiet twice, 16 hours in a row, in addition to the hood staying off, the sleepsack comes off, and you get something pleasant to drink. If not quiet, you get no additional freedom and only piss to drink. If you behave by being consistently quiet, the hood comes off first, the sleepsack second, the leg sack third, and then you get out of the straitjacket and cell at the end of 24 hours. If you misbehave and cry wolf, you get yourself eight hours more of the same you had for each session when you didn’t stay quiet. It’s up to you. Stay quiet, get progressive relief, and you’re out in 24 hours. Cry wolf, get no relief, and you could be in there for days, until I decide you’re not the pig for me and send you home. Understand all this, pig?”
Now I was totally pissed. The pig understood and did not like what it heard. It oinked twice, loudly. “Uh, uh!”
“Well, if not now you will soon. I should hear absolutely nothing from the audio in that cell except the sound of breathing and the creak of leather. Understand that, pig?”
Defiantly, I shook my head no and oinked twice, as if to say, fuck you. “Uh, uh.”
I tried to twist my head away when I saw Ross’s hands holding the hood as it approached my face; I felt the firm grip of Ross’s hand forcing my head into position; and, quickly, there was complete darkness. I felt leather against rubber as Ross lined up the small grommet hole, the only opening in the padded leather hood, with my mouth tube. With no vision to distract from physical sensations of tight enclosure, I began feeling overpowered by the intensity of it all. The hood was reinforced with extra thickness in special places, and I could feel Ross sealing my rubber-encased head in the heavy leather, which he zipped, laced, and strapped to the max. I imagined the expression on his face, relishing the forced encasement. I panted through my breathing tube as I felt the posture collar close around my neck to complete the leather mummification. Aware of my own helplessness inside my rigid leather pod, I felt Ross’s hands under my elbows. I was lifted and set back down quickly on my tightly packed feet.
With Ross’s steadying hands immediately withdrawn, I teetered backward, and then forward to compensate. I felt my shoulders and elbows brush against solid walls. Shifting my bound feet, pushing and scraping my outer leather cocoon against each of the four walls, my bondage pig self twisted around in distress, testing to see if the cell door had really been closed and locked.
Writing about my silence training now, I look down at my crotch. I feel and see Ross’s pigometer rising and pulsing against the biting clamps that Ross applied to its shaft and head. The dildo is vibrating in my ass, and my clamped nipples are on fire. I feel on the verge of cumming. I am too horny to continue…
... but Ross has not given me the signal to stop.
Back to the story...
Locked in the narrow chamber, initially I was hyperaware that all of the layers of rubber and leather combined had turned me into a rigid mummy. I tensed my muscles, deliberately testing the boundaries of the multiple encasements and tightly applied restraints. The only part of my body capable of movement, very limited at that, was my feet. With my ankles bound together tightly, I twisted around by wiggling my toes and shifting my weight on the balls and heels of my feet. Aimlessly bumping the walls, I had nowhere to go in the cramped vertical cell. The rigid cocoon and narrow chamber kept me in a standing position. I soon figured out that the padded hood and layers of encasement that imprisoned me also insulated me from any harm. Within the limited cell space, I was barely able to lean against one cell wall or the other. Relief from standing was not in the cards. Rest would be impossible. My production of sweat was increasing. I quickly understood that the only way I could hurt myself was by squirming around too much and overheating. Sealed in my own sweat, I would be sealed in piss too if I needed to urinate inside my tight cocoon.
I was cooked, and I knew it. I had consented to be under Ross’s total control for the coming week or more, and Ross was not likely to renege on the agreement. Ross meant what he said, and said what he meant. I realized that I would need to learn the lesson of silence that he was determined to teach me. In my dark, insulated world of tight encasement, heavy bondage, inescapable confinement, and total sensory deprivation, I contemplated my state of existence as Ross’s pig. Barely able to grunt even if I weren’t afraid to try, knowing that I would be penalized for any infraction, I felt overwhelmed by the realization that I had no choice except to endure yet another level of Ross’s control. That realization, coupled with the acute physical sensations of my predicament, set off horny sensors in my entire body, suddenly in pursuit of bondage pleasure from head to toe.
Squirming uncontrollably in response, I struggled against the heavy restraints and close confinement of the narrow chamber. Unable to harden inside the chastity device, my reawakening cock compensated for its inactivity and imprisonment by turning my entire body into a giant, sheathed erection. Reveling in being plugged at both ends, I used my neck muscles to strain forward and maximize the penetration of the huge gag stuffing my mouth; I clenched my ass muscles to squeeze and thrust forward the thick dildo filling my ass. My entire being felt transformed, taken over by a rush of bottled-up sexual energy. The self-admission that I was Ross’s pig had turned me into a man-sized human cock, rubber-encased and packed tight inside an oversized leather condom, and determined to cum at all costs. Involuntarily, the blood filled my muscles as they flexed and contracted against the tight bindings. My entire bound form struggled and convulsed as the heightening climax finally erupted from far down within me. There was no escape from the heavy restraint or the surges of painful pleasure, and I was helpless to resist when the intensity of my orgasmic struggles gave rise to blasts of seal-like sounds, oinking “ork” noises from deep inside my bound and hooded form. Oink-orking uncontrollably through my gagged, muzzled, and hooded mouth, I was gripped by a succession of volcanic ejaculations, compelling my body to writhe ecstatically inside the tight cocoon and cramped cell. With no outlet for erection and eruption, the surging of my cock pumped through my entire body, convulsing it in series of consecutive orgasms more agonizingly intense and prolonged than I had ever experienced.
Oinking in agony and pleasure, alternately sucking and blowing air through the tiny mouth tube, sweating my plugged ass off inside the confines of the tight cocoon, the greedy, squirming, rubber bondage pig in me struggled to cum, over and over, again and again, as many times as my rubber-encased, leather-mummified, imprisoned body would endure it.
Writing about it now, my pigometer is bursting with appreciation of Ross. It feels ready to explode with each word I come up with to describe the agony he put me through. I know I must continue writing, to describe the endless misery that engulfed me after I finally stopped cumming, but it’s difficult to focus on blogging, I keep rereading the text above, my tits are aching, the dildo feels like it just went into overdrive, and my dick feels
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POSTSCRIPT from Ross: The pig failed to complete this entry, interrupted when, without my permission, he shot pig glop all over the computer before his time was up. Trust me, Rubbermen, he is already regretting it!
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