Waiting for Ross...The Manor Chapter 7

Ross had been gone three full days.

The European matter had required his direct presence — contracts, negotiations, the kind of high-stakes precision that could not be delegated. Jason had received only brief, encrypted updates. Tim had received nothing.

Tim occupied the downstairs bedroom instead of the dungeon cell that had been assigned for extended recovery. It was comfortable by design: wide bed with clean linens, private bathroom, soft lighting, a small sitting area, a window that looked onto a quiet internal courtyard. The door locked from the outside. Cameras covered every angle. The room was still part of the architecture of ownership.

The chastity cage had never come off. Tim assumed that Ross (or maybe Jason) had the only keys. Over the cage, Tim wore his rubber catsuit with its built in booties underneath his formal tailored Italian suits.

A sleek stainless tube and ring held his cock downward in permanent denial. Additional electrodes had been added on the first morning of Ross’s absence: a substantial plug seated deep in his ass, its contacts resting firmly against his prostate, and a second set of conductive pads wrapped snugly around his balls. A small, thin micro-electronic hub was placed in the catsuit’s integrated pocket that was flush against Tim’s left front abdominal area. Both ran on a low, continuous program that Jason had set before leaving him — unpredictable micro-pulses, occasional longer hums, sudden sharp spikes that made him jump.

Any attempt at erection inside the cage became immediately painful. The steel had no give. Blood tried to fill the shaft and met unyielding metal. The resulting pressure was constant, deep, and exquisite in its frustration. The electro in his ass and balls amplified every throb. By the end of the first day Tim was already restless. By the middle of the second he was in a state of near-constant, low-grade agony that never quite tipped into actual relief. At least during the night, Tim got a break while the hub was set in its charger.

He followed the recovery protocol because there was nothing else to do. He ate the meals that appeared. He showered. He performed the light mobility work that kept his muscles from stiffening. He napped in broken stretches, waking repeatedly to the dull ache in his locked cock and the persistent buzz in his hole and balls.

The memories came unbidden.

The seven-hour horizontal suspension. The double leather sleepsacks creaking with every micro-movement. The thick, anonymous slurry sliding down the feeding tube. Ross’s heavy load flooding his mouth, followed by the sudden, undeserved hot torrent of piss. The way his own struggles had been converted into strokes for Ross’s cock. The formal Italian suit over latex, the ground-floor tour, Jason’s calm revelations about wealth and partnership and the specific role Tim was being shaped to fill.

He missed it.

The realization arrived on the afternoon of the second day and settled deeper on the third. He missed the total compression. He missed the sensory deprivation. He missed the clear, absolute hierarchy of the training chambers. The comfortable bedroom, the real mattress, the ability to move his limbs whenever he wanted to — these things felt incomplete. His body had been trained to expect more.

And underneath the craving came the quieter epiphany.

Ross was also waiting.

The thought surfaced while Tim lay on his back in his polished rubber catsuit, cage aching, electro humming low in his ass, staring at the ceiling. Tim was feeling contemplative and enjoying the compressing and hugging feel of the rubber. Ross was on another continent dealing with obligations that could not be postponed. Ross wanted what waited for him at the Manor — Jason, the private spaces, the storage pig he was methodically creating — and still he had to wait. Business imposed its own schedule. Even the Master was subject to time.

The insight did not reduce Ross. It enlarged the structure. Waiting was not only something done to Tim. It was part of the same system that Ross himself inhabited when necessary. The realization settled into Tim’s chest with unexpected weight. His cock throbbed painfully against the steel in response, as if the understanding itself was another form of stimulation.

By the evening of the third day the denied arousal had become almost unbearable. Every shift of his hips sent fresh spikes through the prostate electrode. His balls felt heavy and over-sensitive. The cage bit whenever his cock tried to swell. He was clean, rubbered, rested, properly fed — and in a state of continuous, exquisite sexual frustration that made the earlier sessions feel like preparation rather than peak.

The bedroom door opened at 8:40 p.m.

Ross stood in the doorway.

He still wore travel clothes — dark trousers, a fine charcoal shirt open at the throat, the faint residual scent of long-haul flight and expensive cologne. Fatigue sat lightly around his eyes, but the underlying intensity was undimmed. Jason was a half-step behind him, quiet, present, already watching Tim with the calm assessment of someone who had kept the system running in Ross’s absence.

Ross’s gaze moved over Tim in a single, thorough pass: the polished rubber, the bulge over the locked cage, the visible tension in his eyes, the way he sat slightly forward to accommodate the plug.

“Three days,” Ross said. His voice was low, controlled, carrying the particular resonance of a man who had been required to wait and was now done waiting. “Show me.”

Tim stood. The cage shifted. Jason had not removed the electro hub yet that evening for its nightly charging session. The electro gave a short, sharp pulse that made his breath catch. Ross stepped closer, took Tim’s rubbered and caged bulge in one hand, and he pressed two fingers behind the balls, felt the conductive pads, then reached back and adjusted the base of the plug a fraction deeper. Tim’s hips jerked.

“Painful?” Ross asked.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. It will get worse before it gets better.” Ross released him. “Bedroom. Now.”

The three moved through the private corridors in silence. The elevator required Ross’s retina scan this time. The doors opened onto the upper residential floor. Tim has never been on the upper floors. The decor matched the ground floor with dark woods, thick rugs, framed art, and an air of masculine luxury. Jason led the way into the primary bedroom. Tim followed behind quietly and entered the room with his hands behind his back automatically assuming a subservient posture.

Jason pointed quietly to a small padded rubber mat by the room’s lit and glowing fireplace on the adjacent wall between two large leather armchairs. Tim obediently knelt down on the mat, eyes downward and silent, cock straining and eager.

The room was large, elegantly restrained, dominated by a wide, low bed with a substantial box-spring and mattress. A large flat-screen television was mounted on the opposite wall, currently dark. The lighting was soft. The air carried the faint mixed scent of both men and fire. On the far side of the room a discreet panel in the floor had already been opened, revealing the custom storage coffin built directly beneath the bed frame — ventilated, camera-equipped, lined in smooth black material, fitted with attachment points and the terminal ends of several tubes and cables.

Ross and Jason did not begin with Tim.

Instead they turned to a large cabinet and began dressing in front of him.

Both men stripped out of their remaining clothes with unhurried efficiency. Their bodies were in prime condition — lean, hard, and powerfully defined. Ross’s frame was broader through the shoulders, dense pectorals and a tight, muscled waist tapering into long, strong thighs. Jason was slightly more compact but equally cut, every muscle group sharply delineated under smooth skin.

From the cabinet they each took a simple, well-worn leather chest harness. They buckled the thick black straps into place so the leather framed their pectorals and crossed between the shoulder blades, settling snug against bare skin. Next came the tight leather policemen’s wrist gloves — short, precise, stopping cleanly at the wrist. They pulled the gloves on slowly, flexing their fingers until the smooth black leather sealed over their hands.

Then the final pieces: military-style black socks pulled high and smooth, followed by polished black military boots. The boots were laced tightly and tied off with practiced precision. When they straightened, the outfit was complete — leather chest harnesses, policemen’s wrist gloves, military socks and boots. Nothing else. The simple gear emphasized the hard lines of their fit bodies and the clear hierarchy in the room.

Tim watched every movement, caged cock aching, electro humming low in his ass and balls. The sight of both men deliberately dressing in front of him — harnesses buckling, gloves settling, boots being laced — sent a fresh, painful throb through the steel.

Only then did they turn their attention to him. Jason motioned for Tim to stand and approach.

Jason and Ross worked together without needing to speak much.

A thin black latex hood with eye and mouth holes went on first and tucked inside Tim’s catsuit. Jason disconnected the micro-electro hub and pulled it out of the abdominal pocket. Then the suit’s codpiece was opened so the cage remained accessible. A heavier rubber over-suit followed, laced and sealed. The wires for the plug and electro pads were threaded through a small opening near the belt area of the bondage suit.

Leather followed after that: a tailored bondage suit that compressed the rubber layers into a single rigid sheath, then a heavy sleepsack that enclosed everything from the neck to toe. The dual buttons of the sleepsack’s collar were neatly snapped together sealing Tim into a tight leather sarcophagus. The leather was taut across the layers of rubber and leather.

During the application process, the electro wires were carefully threaded and pulled through the leather bondage suit’s laces and then subsequently through the three way zippers of the sleepsack.

The open mouth hoods with no eye holes came last — rubber, then leather — laced tight until Tim’s features disappeared into a smooth, anonymous mask. The funnel gag was buckled deep and connected to the waiting delivery tube.
Sensory restriction was nearly total: vision gone, hearing reduced to the muffled internal sounds of his own body and the one-way speaker that would later carry Ross’s voice.

They lowered him into the coffin. Tim wiggled tentatively and felt how restricting and wonderful the layers of bondage felt. His cock ached.
The electro leads were checked and confirmed live. The plug and electro pad’s wires were connected to the leads emitted from the storage coffin box. Tim’s cage remained locked beneath the layers; any swelling would still meet steel. Unbeknownst to Tim, the plug in his ass and the pads on his balls were now part of a responsive circuit linked to pressure sensors in the mattress above.

The interior was a precise fit. Attachment points secured the sleepsack so that any movement was further restricted. The delivery tube from the bedside collection urinal was connected to the funnel. Ventilation whispered. The cooling effect was evident to prevent overheating.

Cameras activated with tiny red LEDs that Tim could not see. The lid closed. Latches engaged. Tim felt horizontal movement as the coffin was slid directly under the bed’s platform. The panel in the floor was replaced and the box-spring settled back into position. If anyone came into the primary bedroom, they would never realize that a rubberized gimp was hidden under the bed - silent and suffering.

Tim floated in absolute darkness and near-silence, caged, electrified, sealed in rubber and leather directly beneath the marriage bed.

Above him, Ross turned on the large flat-screen television with a remote. The feed from the coffin cameras filled the display in crisp, multi-angle detail: Tim’s sealed form, the subtle twitches already beginning, the way the sleepsack creaked under the first low electro pulses. How Tim was starting to moan in frustrated ecstasy.

Ross took his time.

He had been on another continent for three days. He had handled complex, high-stakes work. He had waited. He would not be rushed now.

He drew Jason onto the bed with deliberate care. The leather harnesses creaked softly as their chests met. The military boots shifted against the sheets. Ross kissed him slowly at first, tasting the familiar warmth of Jason’s mouth, the faint residual mint and the deeper, personal flavor that belonged only to him.

The kiss deepened. Ross’s tongue pushed in, exploring, claiming, lingering on the roof of Jason’s mouth and along the sensitive underside of his tongue. He sucked lightly on Jason’s lower lip, then kissed him harder, more open, drinking in the soft sounds Jason made. One gloved hand cupped the back of Jason’s neck; the other slid down the leather straps of the harness, feeling the heat of the skin beneath.

Their cocks brushed. Ross’s shaft was fully hard now, the head slick with early pre-cum. Jason’s thicker, heavily veined six-and-a-half-inch cock throbbed against it, the prominent veins standing out under the stretched skin. Ross reached down with a leather-gloved hand and stroked them together for a moment — his own longer cock sliding against Jason’s thicker, ridged shaft — before guiding Jason onto his back.

Ross then laid atop Jason. The harness straps framed both of their chests. The polished military boots braced against the mattress. Ross leaned down again and kissed him once more, slower this time, tasting deeply, letting the kiss linger until Jason’s breath was unsteady. Then he reached for the lube, slicked himself with unhurried thoroughness, and kissed Jason again.

Jason instinctively rolled onto his stomach and upraised his ass in anticipation. Ross pressed the head of his cock against Jason’s entrance. Ross took his time to tease and press himself against Jason’s hole and eager hole. The abundant amount of lube on his cock wetting the puckering musculature.

When he finally pushed inside it was with controlled, deliberate force — one long, steady thrust that seated all seven inches fully and then held there. Jason’s exhale was low and grateful. The thick stretch was familiar and still intense. Ross stayed buried to the root, gloved hands resting on Jason’s hips, feeling the heat and the tight clutch of muscle around him.

He began to move.

He set a pace that was almost leisurely at first: deep strokes, full withdrawal until only the head remained, then slow re-entry that let Jason feel every inch. The kind of fucking that prioritized sensation and possession over urgency.

Every shift of his weight, every roll of his hips, every compression of the mattress fed the sensors below. Inside the coffin the electro unit responded. Current surged through the plug in Tim’s ass and the pads around his balls in direct proportion to the movement above. The cage bit harder as his cock tried, uselessly, to harden in response to the stimulation. Tim’s moans of pleasure transformed into yelps of torment and groans of desperation.

The large television remained on, the live feed of the storage pig occupying the screen. Ross’s eyes moved between Jason’s face and the clear, continuous image of Tim’s sealed, twitching form. The leather wrist gloves flexed as he gripped Jason’s hips, adjusted the angle, slowed or deepened the stroke according to his own deliberate rhythm. The military boots shifted and braced with each thrust.
Tim could hear almost nothing — only the muffled rhythm of the bed, the occasional low sound from Jason, the internal rush of his own blood. The cameras gave Ross and Jason a perfect view of every reaction.

Ross fucked Jason with the particular focus of a man who had earned the right to take his time. He varied the angle, the depth, the tempo — sometimes long and grinding so that his cock dragged heavily across Jason’s prostate, sometimes shorter and more insistent.

The chest harnesses creaked softly with every movement. Midway through a particularly deep stroke Ross reached up with one gloved hand and closed it around the central strap of Jason’s harness, pulling him into each thrust with affectionate, unmistakable domination. The leather creaked under the grip. Jason’s thick, veiny cock slapped against his own stomach with every impact, the heavy veins standing out sharply, the head glistening and leaking.

There was real affection in it, real hunger, the specific intimacy of two men who had built a life together and still wanted each other without reservation. Ross leaned down at intervals to kiss the back of Jason’s neck again — open, tasting kisses that lingered, that claimed, that reminded Jason exactly who he belonged to even in the middle of being thoroughly taken.

The electro in the coffin tracked every change. When Ross drove deeper, the current in Tim’s prostate intensified. When he slowed, the pulses became longer, more teasing. Tim’s locked cock throbbed in painful, continuous protest. Sweat built inside the layered rubber and leather. The sleepsack creaked faintly with each involuntary twitch. Tim had no choice but to endure the shocks, the unrelenting compression, and inability to move in any substantial way. He was just a fuck toy.

Ross’s breathing gradually deepened. The unhurried pace had never been lack of urgency; it had been the deliberate refusal to be hurried. Now the pressure was building in him — three days of restraint, the familiar tight heat of Jason’s body around his cock, the creak of the leather harnesses, the tight grip of the policemen’s gloves on the harness strap, the solid brace of the military boots, the live image on the large screen of the storage pig sealed directly beneath them, and the audio of Tim’s suffering with every thrust.

He leaned closer to the discreet microphone set into the headboard, still buried deep, still holding Jason’s harness in that firm, affectionate grip.

His voice reached Tim through the one-way speaker, low and absolute in the sealed darkness:

“Next time, pig, we might let you watch.”

The words detonated inside Tim’s head with perfect clarity.

Ross’s hips snapped forward one final time and Ross growled loudly. The orgasm that followed was forceful and prolonged — thick, heavy pulses that flooded Jason in strong, rhythmic surges. Ross stayed buried to the root through every contraction, gloved hand locked on the harness strap, eyes half-lidded on the large television that showed Tim’s sealed, convulsing form. The knowledge of the exquisite suffering beneath the bed had been the final accelerant. He came harder because of it, his cock jerking and pulsing deep inside his husband.

Jason followed moments later. Ross, still hard and still inside him, reached around with one leather-gloved hand, took Jason’s thick, heavily veined cock in a firm, knowing grip, and stroked him with deliberate precision while speaking against his ear.

“That’s our perfect rubber bondage storage pig under this bed. The one you can’t be. The one I needed.”

Jason’s climax hit him in long, shuddering waves. His thicker cock throbbed hard in Ross’s gloved fist, the prominent veins standing out as he came across his own stomach and Ross’s leather-covered hand, the words and the dual reality — Ross’s cock still buried in him, Tim sealed and denied beneath them — pushing him over into the explosive void.

They stayed joined for a long minute afterward, breathing, the mattress still transmitting small aftershocks into the electro circuit below. The leather harnesses rose and fell with their chests. The military boots shifted slightly against the sheets. Ross finally released the harness strap and withdrew slowly, his cock emerging slick and still half-hard. Jason reached for the discrete collection unit built into the bedside — a low-profile urinal that fed directly into the tubing system. Ross pushed off and stood at the edge of the bed.

Ross went first. He emptied his bladder in a strong, continuous stream. The warm piss traveled the short distance through the tubing and poured into Tim’s funnel gag in a sudden, heavy flood. Tim had no choice but to swallow. The taste was pure Ross — familiar, proprietary, the final claim of the night.

Jason followed. His stream joined the residual volume still moving through the line, adding a second, distinct load that Tim was forced to take in the same helpless gulps.

When both had finished, Ross sealed the system. He and Jason cleaned up with the quiet efficiency of long practice, the leather gloves still on, the chest harnesses still framing their lean, powerful bodies, the military socks and boots still in place. Then they settled into the large bed. Ross drew Jason against him, one gloved arm proprietary across his chest. Jason fitted himself to the familiar shape of his husband’s body. The large television remained on for a few minutes longer, the feed of the sealed storage pig still visible, before Ross finally switched it off with the remote.

Within minutes their breathing had slowed into the even rhythm of sleep.
Beneath them, in the sealed coffin, Tim remained exactly as they had left him.
Caged. Electrified. Layers of rubber and leather fused to his skin by heat and sweat. Mouth and throat still thick with the combined taste of their piss.

The electro unit continued to register the small, settling movements of the two men above — occasional shifts, the slow adjustment of limbs, the final stillness of deep sleep — and translated each one into fresh pulses through his ass and balls.

His cock strained uselessly against the steel, the pressure painful and constant.

The epiphany from the long wait was still present: Ross waited too. The structure was larger than one man’s denial.

And right now the structure had placed him here — under their marriage bed, the living foundation of their night, sealed in exquisite rubber training, denied the seed that had gone to Jason, filled instead with the final warm evidence of their completed claim.

He endured.

Because that was what the training required.

And because, in the deep, complicated core of himself, it was what he had come to need.