Waiting for Ross #9

"ONE THOUSAND TWO HUNDRED SIXTY....” Suddenly afraid he had lost track, Tim hesitated for a second, and then continued, “SEVEN! THIS PIG WILL NOT CUM WITHOUT PERMISSION SIR!"

Tim swallowed and inhaled, feeling the accumulated sweat entering his nostrils and tasting it as it trickled into his mouth under the rubber hood. "ONE THOUSAND TWO HUNDRED SIXTY EIGHT!” Distracted by a momentary spasm in his upper right leg, Tim faltered and unintentionally allowed himself to interrupt the robotic recitation. A few silent, dark seconds in the cramped, box-like hole passed, until Tim realized he had stopped, and then his voice exploded out of him, projecting an urgency and fear that caused him to rock back against the rear wall as he shouted, “THIS PIG WILL NOT CUM WITHOUT PERMISSION SIR!" Owing to the sadistic way Ross had restrained him, the minor change in position caused Tim’s butt to slip down and his weight to rest fully on his hands, joined together tightly under him in the mitt-like enclosure of the arm binder. The displacement quickly produced more pain in Tim’s arms and legs, and it drove the butt plug further inside. He tried to shift himself forward as he wailed, “ONE THOUSAND... TWO HUNDRED S-I-X-T-Y... 
N-I-N-E! ...THIS PIG WILL NOT CUM WITHOUT PERMISSION SIR!" 

Tim continued to sound off. He tried to ignore the discomfort and concentrate on his task, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. The pleading tenor of his own voice, breaking pathetically as he called out the numbers, seemed to add to his growing torment. Tim knew that if he focused on his discomfort, he would lose track and have to start over, and he was determined not to let that happen. "ONE THOUSAND THREE HUNDRED! THIS PIG WILL NOT CUM WITHOUT PERMISSION SIR!"

Over his skintight head to toe rubber suit, Tim’s arms were encased in a single-sleeve rubber arm binder laced tightly behind his back. One end of a chain was locked to the D ring at the finger tip of the sleeve. The chain extended over his ass crack, from where it threaded through two steel rings, each in the center of the ankle and thigh restraints that fastened Tim’s legs together. The chain continued to his neck through a D ring at the front of a heavy posture collar, where the links were doubled over and padlocked through shoulder straps that secured the arm binder. Tim’s arms were pinioned, anchored together elbow to elbow and wrist to wrist, forming one rubber-encased unit. His bent legs were restrained against each other firmly and held against his body: ankles to butt, thighs to chest, and knees to collared chin.

"ONE THOUSAND THREE HUNDRED FIFTY-ONE! THIS PIG WILL NOT CUM WITHOUT PERMISSION SIR!"

Continuing his efforts to project his voice upward through the floor board covering the pit, in his mind Tim fought against the desperation that was threatening to take hold of his thoughts and disrupt his counting. He wanted to deny the uncompromising effects of being sealed in rubber, tightly restrained in a hogtie-like fetal position, imprisoned and left – bound up, encased, and enclosed in a dark, confining pit. He wanted to suppress the angry, self-blaming thoughts forming in his mind, and he wanted to ignore his poker-stiff cock, growing larger and painfully stiffer between his bound legs, as though the severe restriction and humiliation of the situation were feeding it. Squirming awkwardly, sweating in rubber, suffering in the tight balled-up position that the bindings reinforced, locked in a hole in the ground, reciting words and numbers like a parrot, Tim felt like a total slave trapped in bondage punishment hell, and his cock was loving it. "God, please don't let me cum," he thought, as he shouted yet another declaration: "ONE THOUSAND FOUR HUNDRED! THIS PIG WILL NOT CUM WITHOUT PERMISSION SIR!"

Across the dungeon, another cock persisted in staying erect, despite the sensations of pain it produced. Shut up in the narrow vertical space of the isolation chamber, bound rigidly by the tight leather boots, straitjacket, hood, and posture collar, under all of which multiple layers of rubber enveloped him, Brad’s focus at the moment was on his stinging, throbbing cock. The size of his cock and its continuing insistence on hardening within the tight leather chastity jock resulted in a kind of torture that Brad found himself hating. The sharp, pinprick quills lining the jock dug into the most sensitive areas of his cock no matter what he did. Each time his ass twitched around the huge butt plug, the burning stabs at the tip of his cock renewed their assault. Solitary and locked away, ear-plugged, double-hooded, gagged and butt-plugged to the max, insulated and deprived of sound and sight, Brad’s consciousness centered on the incredible restriction that, with Tim’s help, he had engineered for himself. Would it be over soon? He was surprised Tim had left him this long!

The diabolically tight outer hood, of thick, padded leather, kept his mouth clamped fast around the large gag. The hood and its fastenings were so extreme that he couldn’t even move his jaws. Brad felt the blood circulating under the rubber in his head and asshole: blood coursing through his temples, where vessels were compressed by the hoods; blood pulsating in his asshole, where stretched muscles alternately relaxed and contracted around the huge butt plug. His head pounded as his asshole throbbed and his cock burned. Making any noise beyond a pitiful, muffled groan was impossible. He had already tried to call for Tim repeatedly, with no effect. Brad’s senses were full of the internal sounds of his own heart beating and his own breath passing through the small channel of the gag. The sweat and heat in the cramped chamber seemed to build with each inhaled breath as his chest expanded against the rubber and leather. He couldn’t seem to adjust to the intensity of his circumstances: the severity of the layered encasements and bindings, the constriction of the tightly applied straitjacket, hood, and collar, and the close confinement that forced him to remain standing, as if he were imprisoned in an upright casket. The space was so narrow that he barely had enough room to lean to one side. Each movement accentuated the extent of his predicament, to which his cock reacted by burrowing further into the thorny pouch that enclosed it. With the words, “Tim, where are you?” in his mind, Brad groaned as loudly as possible through his gagged, hooded mouth. Bound and trapped in the tight space, feeling a mixture of claustrophobic panic and bondage horniness, Brad gave in to the sensations of total restraint and imprisonment. He twisted and moaned in ecstatic despair as he allowed himself to struggle. Grinding the front of his body against one narrow wall of the chamber, he used the pain in his cock to fuel his horniness as he thrust forward in an effort to hump the flat surface.

Almost exactly above Brad, one level up, Ross’s cock surged at the sounds he heard coming from the dungeon monitor. The begging quality that Tim’s voice had taken on was stimulating. Ross heard the subjugation and fear of error in Tim’s voice and it pleased him. Ross had noticed no mistakes thus far, which amused him. On the other hand, if Tim fucked up, Ross planned to go down to the dungeon immediately, open the pit and empty his bladder into it, and then make Tim start over, maybe with a tube gag in place to make it more challenging.

"ONE THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED THREE! THIS PIG WILL NOT CUM WITHOUT PERMISSION SIR!"

In addition, Ross was entertained by Brad’s periodic moaning, audible over the monitor but also emanating through the ventilation pipe rising up from the isolation chamber. Brad’s gagged, plaintive groans were becoming more insistent, but, in Ross’s judgment, had not reached a level of panic that required intervention. There was still time for dessert.

Ross was in an excellent mood. The dinner had turned out well. Ross and his guests, Matt and John, were comfortably full of good food and conversation. Matt and John were intrigued to find out more about the situation going on below them, just as Ross was intrigued to find out more about the new slave that Matt and John were training. The new slave was Matt’s former partner, Eric. A rubber bondage novice before reconnecting with Matt, Eric was adapting well to the demanding requirements that Matt and John insisted on before accepting Eric as their full time slave. As the next step in his training, Eric had agreed to live in a box in Matt and John’s dungeon for 5 days, encased in head to toe rubber the entire time.

Ross asked, “What about breaks?”

Matt swallowed the cake he had been chewing, cleared his throat, and replied. “Supervised breaks, twice a day, 15 minutes each time, for bathroom, food, and drink. Otherwise he stays in the box, 23 and a half hours a day. And the head to toe rubber suit stays on at all times. No exceptions. If he acts up, he loses his next break. He’s been told that once he begins his sentence, he will complete it, by force if necessary. We want to make sure he feels he has no choice once he’s bolted into the box.”

Savoring the chocolate taste in his mouth, Ross considered the scenario and felt his cock harden further. “Sounds hot. I’d almost like to be in on it somehow!”

John spoke next. “Actually, we were going to ask if we could borrow your rubber sleepsack, the one you had made, with the attached hood and built in gag. We think it will be perfect on Eric, real tight, and want to put him in it at night when he’s in the box.”

Ross agreed. “Sure, no problem. Could be pretty intense. Head to toe rubber suit, then the sleepsack, with its tube gag as the only opening, locked in that box – what is it, about three feet high, four feet long?”

John chuckled, “About that.”

“When do the five days begin?”

Matt: “Next weekend, starting Friday night. He is working right now so he can have vacation the following week. If he’s in good shape after five days in the box, we’re going to keep him in it longer, but he doesn’t know that.” Matt smiled and sipped his coffee.

Ross laughed. “Sounds like my way of thinking! Do I remember correctly? Wasn’t Eric the dark, hairy guy I used to see you with in town a couple years ago? Real humpy, masculine, muscular build, very attractive, a take charge type? Wasn’t he the one where you ended it because he wasn’t into kink?”

Matt explained. “That’s him. We reconnected over the web. Claimed he wanted to be my slave, and now he’s well on his way – shaved head to toe, and his huge dick is locked up tight in one of our nasty little metal chastity devices. Keeps him horny and ready to serve. His conversion from vanilla top to rubber bondage bottom has been fun for us. He had trouble with the bondage at first, especially long scenes when we left him restrained and caged, alone in the dungeon. But, he’s getting better.”

John said, “Any guy who stays in bondage as much as you want is crazy!”

Matt laughed, leaned over from his seat next to John, and planted a big smacking kiss on his lips. “Just because you couldn’t take it doesn’t mean it’s not possible!”

John put his arm around Matt and kissed him back.

Ross considered the request for the sleepsack, smiled, and rubbed his crotch. “If Eric is the same size as I remember, he’s pretty big for that sack. Could be a very tight fit. It will definitely be interesting to find out just how tight.” All three of them exchanged smiles as Matt agreed with Ross: “Then come to our house Friday night. Our turn to provide dinner.”

With a natural break in the conversation as they finished dessert and sipped coffee, they became more aware of the voice on the monitor. It sounded tired and hoarse. They listened for several minutes until it paused for a few seconds and then continued: "ONE THOUSAND NINE HUNDRED NINETY NINE! THIS PIG WILL NOT CUM WITHOUT PERMISSION SIR!"

"TWO THOUSAND! THIS PIG WILL NOT CUM WITHOUT PERMISSION SIR!"

A longer pause ensued. Ross and his friends listened quietly.

“SIR? I’M FINISHED COUNTING.... SIR?

A minute or two passed, and they continued listening.

“SIR! PLEASE LET ME OUT SIR. THIS PIG WILL NOT CUM WITHOUT PERMISSION SIR!”

Matt said, “Sounds like he’s learned his lesson.”

Ross sat back comfortably, relaxed in his chair, took a swig of coffee, and rubbed his crotch. “I’m toying with the idea of making him to another thousand, just to make sure.”

Matt and John laughed out loud.

“PLEASE LET ME OUT SIR! PLEASE SIR! PLEASE SIR! PLEASE SIR! HELP ME SIR. NEED TO GET OUT SIR!”

Matt said, “Listening to him is working my cock! Fuck, I’m horny as shit now.”

They all laughed together, and exchanged horny glances, but then became silent as another sound, almost inhuman, became more apparent: a series of loud but muffled screeching grunts, obviously uncontrollable and indicative of either pain or ecstasy, or maybe some mixture of the two. They slowly subsided and were soon replaced by rapid, whistle-like panting. Ross sipped his coffee and smirked. “Not to worry. It’s Brad, being a bondage pig. Sounds like he came again. Must be the tenth time in less than 24 hours.”

Matt took a mouth full of coffee and swallowed quickly. “Greedy bottom!”

Ross motioned with his hand. “No need to gulp down your coffee. They can stew in their juices a little longer.” Ross rose from his chair and entered the kitchen to refill the coffee maker, as Matt turned to John and commented, “I bet Tim is used to waiting for Ross.”