Waiting for Ross: The Manor Chapter 4

Ross Returns

Ross stood in the dim, small observation room adjacent to the main training chamber, his broad chest rising and falling steadily beneath the tight black rubber catsuit and the heavy leather harness that framed his powerful pectorals and lats. The harness straps creaked softly with each breath, a sound he had come to associate with absolute control.

Through the one-way mirrored glass and the array of high-definition cameras feeding multiple monitors, he observed every subtle twitch of the leather-bound package suspended in the center of the room. Tim — his carefully cultivated object, his aspiring perfect rubber storage boy — hung vertically in the custom hoist system, encased in layers that represented months, even years, of deliberate conditioning.

Is this art? Ross thought, his mind analytical yet deeply aroused by the sight. Not mere bondage. This is psychological architecture. Every lace, every cable, every drop of recycled essence serves the greater design: turning a man into a self-sustaining, enduring vessel of service.The preparations had been ritualistic and unhurried.

After the intense three-hour fuck-bench session that left Tim’s hole sensitive and receptive, Ross had personally overseen the removal of the outer leather straitjacket and bondage suit. The sweat-soaked black rubber catsuit remained, clinging lovingly in places to Tim’s athletic frame, highlighting the definition in his quads, the taper of his waist, and the insistent bulge of his insatiable cock. The rubber warmed to body temperature was turned into a living, squeaking second skin that amplified every sensation.

Ross had chosen the electro plug with care: a heavy stainless-steel monster, heavily ribbed along its considerable length, with a dramatic coronal flare designed to lock behind the sphincter and press relentlessly against the prostate. He had driven it home slowly, watching Tim’s rubber-encased body tense and then yield. The plug seated easily with a wet, audible pop, its base flaring wide to stretch him continuously.

Conductive loops encircled the root of Tim’s cock and scrotum—snug enough to transmit every pulse without cutting circulation. Over his rubber hood was a secondary rubber hood, followed by a leather one, laced with methodical severity. The supple black leather creaked audibly as it molded Tim’s features into a smooth, anonymous mask, eye and mouth openings aligned with surgical precision. The heavy funnel gag followed, buckled deep, then reinforced with a restrictive muzzle.

The sleepsacks were the crowning layer. Ross and Jason worked in synchronized silence. The inner sleepsack slid over the rubber form like a second compression layer. Ross pulled the laces from toes to neck with slow, deliberate tugs — each pass producing those rich, erotic creaks as the cool leather compressed the sweat-slick rubber beneath into an ever-tighter cylinder. Internal sleeves and knee padding ensured even pressure without dangerous constriction. The larger outer sleepsack doubled the effect: thicker leather, D-rings, an even more profound muffling of the outside world.

Ross checked every alignment personally. This was not rushed play; it was engineered for long-term storage. The hoist system engaged. The heavy overhead gantry, anchored deep into reinforced concrete with vibration-dampening mounts, supported the motorized trolley and powerful electric hoist.

Carabiners snapped onto the sleepsack D-rings at shoulders, torso, hips, and legs—load perfectly distributed. The motor whirred. Slack vanished. Tim’s body and then feet left the floor. The ropes attached to the leather hood’s top buckle, along with the supporting rope work, would provide confident load distribution. The double leather package creaked as weight transferred fully into the rigging.

The motors pulled the leather cocoon 6 inches off the rubberized floor. It continued until he hung horizontally in the center of the chamber about 4 feet off the ground, a floating, helpless cylinder with a subtle, teasing sway. The electromagnetic brake locked with a decisive click. Redundant safety cables engaged. Micro-adjustments created that gentle pendulum motion designed to torment without exhausting.

A padded blindfold plunged Tim into total darkness. Wireless, noise-canceling, over-the-ear headphones over the layered hoods completed sensory deprivation.

Ross inserted the wide feeding tube into the funnel gag, then poured two dozen thick, opaque frozen cubes into the overhead reservoir. They landed with heavy, wet plops — cold, dense, anonymous cum loads collected for this exact purpose.

“Begin the electro program,” Ross commanded Jason quietly. The unit hummed to life: unpredictable patterns of low hums, sharp stinging spikes, and rolling prostate pressure calibrated to edge without mercy. Satisfied, Ross and Jason left Tim to enjoy his training and wait.

Now three hours later, Ross was alone with his thoughts. Ross had ordered Jason to monitor from the manor’s main above-ground control station. Ross exited the small observation room and entered the adjacent training room where Tim was stored.

Ross circled the suspended form. The leather sleepsacks creaked softly with Tim’s minute, futile struggles. Beneath them, rubber squeaked against trapped sweat. The feeding tube dripped melted cum at irregular intervals. Ross’s cock throbbed heavily inside his own rubber sheath, but he maintained iron control. This session was about Tim’s transformation.

He is fighting it even now, Ross observed, noting a particularly strong wiggle that made the entire rig sway. Through years of interaction, Ross had mapped Tim’s psyche with precision. Tim loved the gear—the way thick rubber gripped and compressed his cock into a leaking, denied rod; the way multiple rubber and leather layers turned his body into a rigid, creaking prison; the inescapable sensory overload of heat, pressure, and restriction. Yet he hated the degradation, especially the piss recycling. The reduction to an object. The loss of autonomy. That push-pull was the exquisite balance that Ross cultivated so carefully.

The cum recycling was a masterstroke of psychological conditioning. As the first cubes began melting, cold viscous drops trickled down the tube into Tim’s forced-open mouth. Ross watched the leather hood twitch, heard the audible, humiliated swallows. Whose is it this time, boy? Mine? Jason’s thick alpha load from watching you get machine-fucked? Or one of the anonymous donors whose contributions I collect specifically to erode your sense of self?

The anonymity amplified everything. In the darkness and silence, Tim’s mind would spiral: disgust warring with desperate arousal feeding submission.

Ross ran a leather gloved hand slowly down the front of the outer sleepsack, feeling the trapped heat radiating through the leather. The material creaked under his palm. Tim responded to the touch with a muffled moan. Tim understood that he wasn’t alone. Ross pressed lightly against the codpiece bulge — Tim’s cock was achingly hard, probably leaking steadily. A muffled nasal whimper escaped the hood.

Ross smiled and removed the headphones.“You feel that, don’t you?” he said, his deep voice transmitted clearly without the headphones. “Every drop you swallow is a reminder. You are no longer a man with choices. You are my rubber storage boy. My suspended cum processor. Your throat exists to recycle whatever I decide belongs inside you.” Ross heard a pathetic whine escaping the dual hoods and gag. More cubes melted. The drips became a slow, irregular flow. Tim swallowed reflexively, the sound wet and humiliating.

Inside the sleepsack, Tim’s fingers — trapped in the rubber gloves of the catsuit — twitched helplessly. Toes flexed inside the foot pouch. Glutes clenched around the massive electro plug, milking it involuntarily as current surged.

Ross continued his slow circuit, savoring every detail. The hoist held Tim in perfect horizontal suspension — weightless yet fully supported, creating that strange floating sensation that magnified helplessness. The sleepsacks compressed him into near-immobility; only micro-movements remained. Each tiny shift produced fresh leather creaks and rubber squeaks. Sweat continued, turning the interior into a humid, slick microclimate. The electro unit delivered its unpredictable symphony: a building hum against the prostate that made Tim’s cock throb visibly, followed by sharp stinging bursts that caused the entire suspended package to jerk and sway.

This is mindfulness in dominance, Ross reflected. He was not a brute. Every element was calculated. The gear was premium — thick, supple, designed for extended wear. The rigging prevented injury while maximizing restriction. Monitoring was constant: cameras, audio feeds, temperature control, air flow. Aftercare windows were built in.

This care made the degradation more potent. Tim could trust the process even as it broke him down. That trust was the foundation of true, deep ownership. Hours one through three passed in this manner. Ross occasionally adjusted parameters — lengthening a pleasurable hum, intensifying a spike, varying the melt rate of the cum reservoir through the powerful HVAC system and directional fans in the ceiling. He had spoken intermittently to himself from the adjacent observation room, reinforcing the narrative: “Swallow, pig. Process it. This is your new normal. Suspended. Encased. Fed. Edged. Owned.”

Back in the present, Tim’s responses grew more desperate as he realized he was not alone. The leather creaked louder as he wriggled. Muffled moans vibrated through the gag. Doubt and arousal warred visibly in the small movements—hesitant pauses followed by frantic clenching, as if his body betrayed his mind’s protests.

Ross recalled the early days: casual meets that escalated into rubber sessions, then longer storage, then Tim’s pulling away for years, giving up his rubber, to end with a sudden desire to reconnect. Finally leading to an invitation to the Manor.

Tim had always carried that internal conflict—“I shouldn’t want this... but fuck, the gear feels so good…I hate what you’re turning me into… stop… fuck… I still crave the rubber predicament…” followed by simpering, inquiring next day texts when Tim was returned home.

Ross returned the noise-cancelling headphones - plunging the pig back into silence to increase its isolation.

Ross had nurtured Tim patiently, using sensory overload, denial, and targeted degradation to rewire associations. Helplessness became erotic. Objectification became intimacy. The suspension was the next evolution: total float, total compression, total recycling.

As the fourth hour began, Ross increased the estim intensity. The electro patterns synchronized with the cum flow — pleasure waves during swallows, stinging denial during pauses. The sleepsack became a living, creaking entity, swaying gently. Tim’s breathing turned ragged through the hood.

Ross stepped close again, pressing his own rubber-clad body against the suspended form. The contact made leather and rubber squeak together. “Feel me here, boy. I own every inch of you. The man who decides when — or if — you ever touch the ground again. You love the waiting. You hate the waiting. And that makes you perfect.”

The session continued. More cum denial. More electro. More creaks. More psychological erosion. Ross monitored with unwavering focus, his own arousal a steady throb held in check by discipline. This was an investment. This was creation. Tim was becoming exactly what Ross desired: the ideal, enduring, rubber-leather storage boy, suspended between worlds, processing his owner’s will one humiliating drop at a time — with no choice but to wait.

Waiting For Ross...The Manor Chapter 5

 Chapter 5 Ross' Reward

Coming September 27, 2026, to everyone!   However, Chapter 5 is scheduled to be published on www.rubberzone.com August 28, 2026, if you cannot wait.   We are supporting RZ with our patronage.   Thanks to everyone for the support.

Waiting for Ross...The Manor Chapter 4

Happy to announce Chapter 4 will be published September 7, 2026.

For those that need to read WFR today and learn how Tim's misery and euphoria continue, Chapter 4 is available now at www.rubberzone.com.   I want to help support Squirm and his site costs by allowing www.rubberzone.com to have an exclusive 30 day window for all new chapters, and I receive nothing as this is just helping the community.

Waiting for Ross...The Manor Part 3

 

Tim woke slowly in the stark reset chamber, his body still humming with residual echoes of the previous night’s total immobilization. The digital clock on the wall glowed precisely 06:00. Six hours. Ross’s meticulously allotted window for “restoration.” The room was minimalist yet perfectly calibrated: matte black rubber flooring that yielded slightly underfoot, a surprisingly luxurious bed with a thick mattress and comforter, full length mirror, porcelain sink and shower stall stocked with unscented soap, shampoo, lotion, shaving and enema kits, a toilet and sink, a mini-fridge containing high quality protein shakes and sports hydration drinks, and a compact gym corner with dumbbells, resistance bands, a pull-up bar, weight bench, and mats. A plain white tank top and gray athletic shorts—cut exactly to his size, no underwear—lay folded on the bed beside a single card in Ross’s crisp, authoritative handwriting: “Six hours. Restore the slave body. Protein shakes and hydration drinks only. Full workout. Thorough all body hygiene inside and out. Don the catsuit. Sleep. Every second is monitored. No cumming allowed.” Tim sat up, rubbing his wrists where his hands still felt stiff from his hours of bondage. Six hours of something almost like freedom, he thought, a sharp spike of hesitancy cutting through the fog. I could refuse. Bang on the blast door until someone comes. Demand to be released. I have a job, a life, responsibilities waiting outside these walls. His cock twitched traitorously at the mere thought of what would follow obedience. The doubt felt real—almost urgent—but the deeper, well-conditioned craving for total encapsulation quickly swallowed it. Ross had trained him too effectively. Tim knew he would obey. Besides he asked for 2 weeks off of work. He began the routine with clinical thoroughness: starting with body shave to maintain the smooth slave aesthetic Ross demanded, meticulous enema and hygiene of every intimate area, and then a long, hot decadent shower. The water felt like decadent luxury against skin that had been sealed for so long. Two thick, surprisingly tasty chocolate protein shakes followed. Then the workout—push-ups, pull-ups, squats, planks, resistance work, then full weights with presses, raises, and more squats —pushing his muscles until they burned. He caught his reflection in the polished wall and felt a flush of submissive pride. Tim had an amazing muscular body - lithe, well developed chiseled chest, back, legs and arms. All those hours at the gym do pay off. Another hot luxurious shower. And shake. Finally, the garment bag.The new catsuit was a masterpiece of black rubber—thick yet supple, designed for complete head-to-toe coverage. It featured an attached hood with reinforced eye, nose, and mouth openings, integrated feet, an anal zipper, and button-up codpiece and nipple flaps. Tim worked it on with ritualistic care. The rubber started cool and slick with talc against his warm skin, clinging immediately to his calves, thighs, and ass as he rolled it upward. It gripped his cock and balls in a tight, compressive sheath that made him half-hard. Torso, arms, the long zip of the back zipper. The attached hood slid over his head; he aligned the openings carefully. As the rubber warmed rapidly to body temperature it became a living second skin—squeaking softly with every movement, sealing him in its glossy, restrictive embrace. He buttoned the codpiece, tested the anal zipper, and lay back on the cot. Tim’s cock twitched in interest.  Tim remembered his orders to not cum. The rubber creaked when he dimmed the lights using the wall control. He settled into the bed and pulled the comforter to his chest. Exhaustion claimed him quickly. He slept sealed in latex, already anticipating what Ross had planned next.

Jason returned exactly six hours later. The imposing man filled the doorway in his own reinforced black rubber catsuit complete with shiny leather lace-up military style boots, thin rubber gloves and a very tight, leather executioner’s hood, exuding quiet dominance. “Circuit time, pig. Hole training begins now.”  He led Tim into the adjacent blast-door training chamber. “So this is what is behind the second blast-door…there are more doors that I haven’t seen yet". Tim noticed 3 more doors down a dark hallway. The air smelled of rubber, leather, and lube. Multiple cameras covered every angle. A large digital clock on the wall glowed 12:00.  

“Time to start your circuit training, pig.  Master Ross demands encapsulation with multiple layers to ensure proper mental stimulation, and I am going to enjoy watching your ordeal.   Frustration is mandatory.”  Jason looked at Tim and flashed a devious and surprisingly charming smile and Tim felt his legs get weak. Jason's strong chin and perfect teeth gleamed in the dungeon lighting.

Jason started with the leather bondage suit. Smooth, supple black leather slid over Tim’s rubber-encased form. Legs first—the cool supple leather warmed quickly as Jason laced the thighs and calves with firm, even pulls. Each lace produced rich, erotic creaks. The leather compressed the underlying rubber, creating layers of restriction that made Tim’s breathing deepen. "It’s getting so tight...fuck, it feels amazing..." Torso and then forward-positioned sleeves followed. Jason laced the chest panels and arms methodically; the smooth leather hugged and creaked constantly, molding Tim into a stiff, creaking prison. Horniness built. Leather fist mitts enclosed his hands next—thickly padded, laced and buckled so his rubber covered fingers vanished into complete helplessness. Leather booties went over the feet, laced snugly with more creaks. The Mr. S Leather hood was laced tightly over the rubber hood; the supple leather creaked as it compressed his features, eye and mouth holes aligned.Then a heavy leather straitjacket went over the bondage suit. Jason slid Tim’s arms into the long sleeves, crossed them tightly across his chest in the self-hug position, and tightened every buckle and lace. The leather creaked loudly, compressing his already suited torso into near-total immobility. “Fuck... it’s hugging me so hard. I’m so restricted...but haven't I endured enough bondage....Fuck....It does feel soooo good....”

Jason positioned him face-down on the fuck bench. Wide padded leather belts secured his leathered ankles, knees, thighs, waist, and torso with loud creaks. Tim’s ass remained perfectly elevated on the thickly padded bench. Jason unzipped the anal access zippers across the leather and rubber suits, applied generous thick lube, and slowly inserted the heavy training plug. Its thick veined silicone dildo featured realistic ridged textures and a wide coronal flare.  Each ridge popped past Tim’s ring, stretching him progressively wider; the final dramatic flare locked it deep with insistent pressure against his prostate. The silicone warmed rapidly from body heat, spreading a deep, training warmth through his core. "It’s starting... opening me up..." The fucking machine was aligned with clinical precision and then attached to the silicone invader. The auto-lube system stood ready with its reservoir and peristaltic pump. Jason switched on the fucking machine and then the three-hour clock. The attached dildo pressed forward with a steady rhythm. Tim’s eyes watered instantly as the flared head stretched his ring wide, followed by the ridged shaft. The first strokes were intense—bordering on painful. The machine thrust deep and steady, ribs and flare grinding his prostate while the auto-lube squirted wetly on every withdrawal. Leather creaked rhythmically with every impact. Rubber squeaked beneath. Sweat built between the layers. Tim tried to buck a bit but Jason's bondage was inescapable. ”Ok, gimp. See you in 3 hours give or take.   If the fucking gets too intense, get up and turn it off.” chuckled Jason as he checked the straps keeping Tim secure on the bench and then exited.   The blast door closed with a resounding and final boom. 

Tim endured exquisite mechanical fucking - the plug going in and out. In and out. In and out. Pressing on his prostate with each thrust - invading and teasing. Tim felt full and violated. However, Tim's cock was painfully stiff and leaking. Tim was desperately horny, eyes watering from the relentless intensity, but never permitted release.
“I’m so close...let me cum... I need it…it hurts.  Fuck."   The fucking machine continued training Tim’s hole with its methodically movement, silently ignoring Tim's mental pleas.

Hesitancy, desperation, and aching need warred inside him as the visible clock ticked down with cruel slowness. Tim squirmed but Jason did a secure job to keep Tim bound and secured in his rubber and leather compression.   Tim continued to squirm and soon attempted to fuck the bench but his cock couldn’t get any purchase on the bench’s padding because at his crotch, the bench was simply a hole to offer easy access if Tim’s cock was needed.   Once again, Tim could feel the heat and stiffness of his cock throb, and once again, his cock led him to inescapable bondage and sexual frustration. A hard cock never lies.

By the end of exactly three hours, his hole felt thoroughly stretched—abused, wet, open, and still clenching hungrily.   There was a pool of lube underneath the fucking machine.   The blast door opened.  Jason returned, looking fresh and dominant.   Jason’s assessment was measured: “Mild disappointment, pig. It took the session well enough, but we expected more stretch by now. But don’t fret, we have plenty of time ahead to achieve the maximum dilation.”

Then Ross entered the chamber. He observed the trussed figure in silence.  Ross was wearing a matching rubber outfit including the leather boots that Jason wore.  However, Ross was not wearing a hood - his freshly shaven face showed off his devastating looks, and Ross had his leather chest harness over the rubber that showed off his powerful pecs and lats.   No words were spoken to Tim.  Tim felt a shiver of fear.

Internally, Ross calculated the next layers of conditioning with clinical detachment.The final preparations unfolded with deliberate, ritualistic precision. The outer leather layers were removed carefully, leaving only the sweat-drenched, black rubber catsuit clinging to Tim’s body like a second skin. A new bulbous electro plug—flaring prominently at the base—was slowly but firmly driven deep into Tim’s well-stretched, still-warm hole. It locked in place with insistent, unrelenting pressure while the wiring promised future torment. Conductive loops were wrapped snugly around his cock and balls. A second, tighter rubber hood slid over the first, further sealing his senses. A Mr. S leather tight hood was re-laced even more severely; the supple leather creaked audibly as it compressed his features into a smooth, anonymous mask, eye and mouth holes precisely aligned. A heavy funnel gag was buckled firmly into place, followed by the restrictive muzzle strapped tightly over everything.Two tight, smooth supple black leather sleepsacks followed. The inner one was worked over Tim’s rubber-encased form and laced from toes to neck with slow, methodical pulls. Each pass of the laces produced rich, intimate creaks as the cool hide compressed the sweat-slick rubber beneath into an ever-tighter, rigid cylinder. The larger outer sleepsack with D-rings was then applied, doubling the inescapable leather embrace and further muffling the world.

The custom hoist system engaged with engineered perfection and mounted neatly into the room's ceiling. A heavy overhead steel gantry spanned the chamber, anchored deeply into the reinforced concrete ceiling and walls with vibration-dampening mounts. A motorized trolley glided silently along sealed linear bearings. From it descended a powerful electric hoist featuring a high-torque motor, electromagnetic brake, and redundant safety cables. A braided steel cable—nylon-coated for silence and durability—connected to a heavy stainless-steel spreader bar fitted with multiple quick-release carabiners and attachment points. Jason and Ross methodically attached heavy-duty ropes and carabiners to the sleepsack D-rings at the shoulders, torso, hips, and legs, ensuring even load distribution to prevent any dangerous pressure points. Jason then added more ropes to the top of the hood. The hoist motor whirred softly as the system activated in controlled stages:

• Initial tension: The cable took up slack with a gentle pull.

• Slow ascent: Tim’s feet left the floor first. Weight gradually shifted fully into the ropes and leather. The sleepsacks creaked as they settled under the new load.

• Full horizontal suspension: The hoist continued until Tim hung perfectly centered and horizontal in the middle of the frame with the ropes perfectly supporting Tim's prone body facing toward the ceiling. Jason then connected Tim's hood via the carabiners and supporting ropes to keep Tim's neck relaxed.  

• Lockdown: The electromagnetic brake engaged with a solid, final click. Redundant safety cables automatically secured.

• Micro-adjustments: The trolley and individual winch lines fine-tuned the position, creating a subtle but constant teasing hammock-like sway while maintaining absolute stability.

A padded blindfold was then fitted over the hooded eyes, plunging Tim into absolute, velvety darkness.  Tim felt cushioned headphones slipped over his hoods further cutting out any sounds. Sensory deprivation took hold immediately and completely. With vision and hearing gone, the world narrowed to touch and taste, and the relentless internal sensations. Hearing was heavily muffled by the layered hoods, and Tim could hear his heartbeat inside his head. Touch was reduced to the constant, all-encompassing compression of the double leather sleepsacks and the underlying rubber. The hoist held him in perfect horizontal suspension—weightless yet fully supported—creating a strange floating sensation that made every tiny movement feel amplified. The sleepsacks creaked softly and continuously with even the smallest shift of his body. The rubber beneath had warmed fully to his skin temperature, becoming slick with trapped sweat and squeaking quietly against the leather with each breath or involuntary twitch. The wide feeding tube was snaked into the funnel gag and secured to the funnel with two clamps.

Two dozen thick, opaque frozen milky cubes were poured into a reservoir above. They landed with soft, heavy plops—cold, dense, and utterly anonymous. Jason connected the reservoir to the suspended feeding tube. Tim hung there, suspended in darkness. At first there was only the cold weight in the reservoir and the profound quiet of deprivation. Then the slow melt began, and with it the psychological storm. The first cold, viscous drops of semen trickled down the tube and into his mouth. Tim swallowed on pure reflex. The thick, musky, slightly bitter-salty taste of cum coated his tongue and slid down his throat.

"Whose is this?" The question detonated in the void of his mind. "Jason’s? Thick and heavy from the way he watched me get machine-fucked for three hours? Ross’s own superior, calculated load—saved specifically to mark me as property? Or strangers? Anonymous donors Ross collected or ordered just for this purpose—men whose faces and names I’ll never know, whose cum I’m now forced to process like a living receptacle?" thought Tim.

The sensory deprivation magnified the humiliation tenfold. With no visual anchors, no external sounds to distract him, and his body compressed into near-immobility, Tim’s mind had nowhere to hide. Every detail of the taste, texture, and temperature became overwhelming. The coldness of the early drops warmed quickly in his mouth, becoming body-temperature slime that coated his throat. He swallowed again and again as more cubes melted unevenly—sometimes long pauses that left him waiting with mouth open around the gag, other times sudden small rushes that flooded his throat and forced rapid, humiliating gulps.This is what I am now. The thought looped relentlessly. Not a man. Not even a proper slave with limits. Just a rubber-leather urinal hanging in the dark, drinking unknown loads while my cock strains uselessly. Doubt burned through him like fire, hot and all-consuming. Yet it fed directly into a desperate, exquisite arousal. His cock—already painfully stiff inside the tight rubber sheath—throbbed harder, leaking steadily. He wriggled helplessly in the hoist. The sleepsacks creaked loudly in protest. The motors added motion and caused Tim to gently sway. Fresh waves of electro stimulation surged through the plug and loops—teasing hums, sharp stinging bursts, rolling prostate pressure. Tim's sexual needs returned with urgency.

"I need to cum so badly it hurts... I’m right on the edge... just a little more...but nothing...Ross controls it. I don’t get to decide. Fuck...how much does he want from me?"

Time lost all meaning. In the deprivation, minutes stretched into eternities. The hoist’s subtle sway became a torment—every gentle movement reminded him of his complete helplessness. The leather sleepsacks continued their constant soft creaking. The rubber underneath grew slicker with trapped sweat, squeaking quietly against the hide. The electro unit delivered completely unpredictable patterns, keeping his prostate constantly stimulated while denying any release. His cock remained achingly hard, throbbing in time with his heartbeat, leaking but never allowed to spill.The cubes melted slowly over the long hours, creating a marathon of psychological erosion. Each swallow was a deliberate, conscious submission. Tim couldn't even tell if Ross and Jason left the room or remained watching him in his perverted glory.

"My mouth hole belongs to Ross. My throat exists to process whatever he decides to feed me." He imagined the donors in vivid, humiliating detail: muscular leather men stroking into collection cups, Jason’s thick cock pulsing, Ross watching with that cold, aristocratic satisfaction. The anonymity made it worse—and hotter. I’m forced to drink strangers’ loads while blind and suspended... and it’s making me leak like a desperate pig. Hesitancy still surfaced in weak waves—This is too degrading... I used to have dignity... what have I become?—but each time it was crushed under the weight of overwhelming submissive arousal and the physical reality of the suspension.Deeper layers emerged as the hours passed. Gratitude twisted perversely with the doubt. Ross planned every single cube. He chose this exact degradation because he knows it will rewire me. Identity dissolved further with every swallow. I’m not Tim anymore. ..am I? The sensory deprivation stripped away everything else, leaving only the creak of leather, the squeak of rubber, the trickle of cum, the throb of his denied cock, and the endless internal monologue of frustration, doubt and ecstasy. The cubes melted into a slow, lingering diluted flow, Tim floated in a profound, almost trance-like headspace. The hoist held him perfectly. The electro continued its dance. Cum trickled. Darkness, compression, and taste filled his universe. He wriggled one final, slow time—deliberate, almost reverent—clenching around the plug and savoring the aching stiffness of his cock. Desperate. Horny. Tim waited—alone, suspended, fed, edged, and perfectly owned—in the long, exquisite darkness, always waiting for Ross.

Waiting for Ross…The Manor Part 2

Waiting for Ross...The Manor
Manor Part 2: The Loop of Ownership

Please include constructive comments, suggestions, ideas on what you would like to see next for tim, Jason, and Ross. Here's the next installment...Enjoy!

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The heavy pneumatic doors of the elevator had sealed with that final, resonant *thunk* what felt like an eternity ago, plunging Tim into a profound, climate-controlled isolation deep beneath Ross’s Manor. The thick leather sleepsack enveloped him completely, an unrelenting second skin that was multi-layered, heavily reinforced with padding, laced down tightly with rope and cinched down with leather straps. Every inch of his body was compressed into a rigid, inclined cylinder mounted on the heavy steel bondage frame. His arms rested simply inside the sleepsack’s internal sleeves, positioned straight down at his sides with just enough room to allow limited finger movement within the catsuit's build-in rubber gloves. He could wiggle his fingers helplessly inside the tight, padded confines—curling them, flexing them, pressing them against the slick rubber gloves—but that was the only real movement permitted anywhere in his body. The rest of him was utterly immobilized. Elbows, wrists, and shoulders were held fast by the compression, offering no leverage, no shifting, nothing beyond those tiny, pathetic finger twitches that achieved absolutely nothing.
Heavy leather belts—wide, unyielding, and reinforced with steel buckles—encircled his chest just below the pecs, crushing his ribcage and forcing every breath into shallow, labored sips. Another belt cinched his waist so tightly that it felt like a vice compressing his organs. Upper thighs, knees, and ankles were similarly locked, cinching his legs to keep the thick stainless-steel electro plug seated deep and immovable. The incline of the frame tilted him at a steep angle, head elevated precisely so his vision remained locked forward on the large monitor that dominated his field of view. He could not turn away. He could not close his eyes for long without risking further punishment from the hidden sensors Ross had undoubtedly installed.
The leather hood laced and buckled over his head was merciless in its tightness. The thick black leather compressed the underlying rubber hood molding it to every contour of his face, pressing into his cheeks, forehead, and chin with suffocating intimacy. Over the leather and rubber hoods, Tim wore a funnel hood with narrow glass lenses allowing vision, already fogging at the edges with each hot, humid breath.  The specialized rubber funnel hood with piss gag was the worst torment of the moment. A slow, steady drip of warm piss trickled continuously into the funnel from a reservoir tube above—Ross’s recycled contribution, metered out with sadistic patience. 

"A total bondage object does not produce waste; it filters it, retains it, and processes it according to the master's schedule. This fluid belongs to the room. It belongs to me."
Tim had no choice but to swallow. The acrid, salty liquid pooled against his tongue, bitter and musky with a sharp ammonia tang that made his throat constrict in revulsion.   Suddenly, Tim grew angry.

"Fuck you, Ross!" he screamed internally, the words echoing loudly in the prison of his mind. "I’m not into piss at all. You know that. You’ve always known it, you sadistic bastard. This is pure mindfuckery!" Each involuntary gulp burned down his throat, leaving a lingering aftertaste that coated his mouth and made his stomach churn with disgust and humiliation. He was nothing more than a submissive gimp thing now—a living urinal sealed in leather and rubber, forced to recycle his owner’s waste while bound and electro-tortured. The frustration boiled inside him, hot and impotent, feeding a deep sense of degradation that only seemed to amplify every other sensation. 

Between his legs, the intimate torture was relentless and deeply invasive. The thick stainless-steel electro plug stretched his hole obscenely wide, its flared base locked firmly against his ring and secured by the sleepsack. The cold metal had warmed to body temperature long ago, but it still felt foreign and huge, pressing relentlessly against his prostate. Conductive loops and adhesive tape wrapped his cock and balls in a web of tingling metal, the wires disappearing into the layered rubber and leather and poking out the sleepsack's zipper near the crotch. The digital e-stim unit, programmed by Ross with expert precision, delivered unpredictable, training patterns that kept Tim’s mind and body in a state of constant, helpless anticipation. 

Sweat had already begun to pool in earnest. Beneath the tight rubber catsuit and the crushing leather sleepsack, Tim’s skin was drenched in a slick, salty sheen. Beads of perspiration formed, ran in tickling rivulets down his spine, collected under his armpits, and gathered heavily in the creases of his groin and ass. The unyielding layers trapped every drop, turning the interior into a humid, slippery microclimate. The rubber clung to him like a living membrane, amplifying every tiny shift and making the leather outer layer feel even more constricting as the sweat lubricated the friction points. Inside the arm sleeves, his fingers wiggled frantically—curling, spreading, pressing uselessly against the padded rubber—as if trying to find some nonexistent escape or relief. His toes flexed inside the sleepsack's foot pouch, sliding uselessly against the sweat-slick rubber. 

Tim’s eyes, watery from the constant piss swallowing and the intensity of the sensations, remained glued to the monitor as ordered. The video feed began its endless loop with the older footage from years ago. On screen, a younger Tim—already showing the early cracks of submission—stood at attention in a skintight black rubber catsuit. The camera lingered lovingly on every detail: the spreader bar locked between his ankles, the harsh leather harness pinning his arms high behind his back, the rubber hood with its single breathing tube. Tim watched as the chastity cage came off, his cock springing free only to be forced into the spiked pouch. Close-ups captured the way his erection strained against the inward-pointing spikes, the painful compression, the straps cinched brutally through his ass crack over the plugged hole. Past Tim moaned loudly in his complete rubber encasement.
The footage continued: the heavy black latex sleepsack zipped and strapped over the first layer, the punishing hogtie that arched his body severely, knees bent back toward the head harness, every muscle straining. Tim remembered the burn, the ache, the eventual exhausted sighs as he surrendered to the wooden storage box. The lid closing. The darkness. The long wait. The sexual frustration was relentless. 

"He’s been conditioning me for years," Tim thought, mind racing even as another sharp electro spike lanced through his prostate. Ross’s psychological techniques were brilliant and terrifying in their subtlety. It wasn’t just physical restraint. Ross paired long periods of total immobilization with carefully timed electro patterns that mixed pain and pleasure until the slave’s brain could no longer separate the two. Tim recalled previous sessions with audio suggestions whispered through earpieces during vulnerable moments—post-orgasm fog or extended edging—planted seeds that grew during storage. “You need this. You crave being stored. Your body exists for my control.” Repeated exposure rewired associations: helplessness became arousal, denial became devotion, disgust became conflicted craving. Ross was patient. He let the mind break itself slowly, turning resistance into eager compliance over months and years. 

"You clever fucking bastard," Tim cursed silently as another drop of piss slid down his throat, bitter and warm. "You’ve turned me into this. Made me need it." The realization sent conflicting waves through him—anger, reluctant admiration, and a deepening submissive heat.
His gaze drifted during brief lulls in the stimulation to the dungeon around him. The far walls held towering seamless steel cabinets with heavy digital keypads and biometric locks. What horrors and delights waited inside? Rows of heavier electro devices? Custom-fitted steel chastity belts with integrated catheters and plugs?  Vacuum beds or latex encapsulation systems capable of total sensory deprivation for days on end? His imagination ran wild. And then there were the reinforced steel blast doors with their massive pressure wheels and warning labels—soundproofed portals leading to even deeper sub-levels. Isolation chambers where a slave could be forgotten for weeks? Permanent storage vaults with monitoring systems? Training rooms designed to systematically erase identity and rebuild it according to Ross’s desires? The unknown loomed large, filling Tim with a potent mix of dread and dark fascination. What new layers of conditioning awaited him here? 

The video feed transitioned smoothly to raw, high-definition footage from this very session at the Manor. Tim’s eyes widened behind the foggy lenses. Multiple camera angles captured his arrival in excruciating detail: being carried from the van, laid on the examination table, the removal of the heavy leather hood, his nervous expressions, the stripping of his clothes, the careful fitting of the rubber catsuit, the slow, twisting insertion of the thick electro plug and catheter, and finally the methodical layering into this very sleepsack. The audio was mercilessly clear—his own muffled whimpers, Ross’s calm, authoritative commands, the wet squelch of lube, the ratcheting clicks of each strap being tightened. 

"They’ve been filming everything", Tim realized with a jolt. Every moment of vulnerability, every tear, every involuntary moan was recorded in perfect clarity. The realization brought a strange wave of reassurance amid the humiliation. This wasn’t reckless play. Ross maintained professional oversight. Cameras meant constant monitoring. Monitoring meant boundaries, even in total control. It made Tim appreciate the depth of Ross’s dominance—he planned for everything, documented everything, owned everything completely. The thought settled something deep inside him even as the hated piss continued its slow, humiliating drip.
The new footage showed Ross and Jason meticulously sealing him away. Ross’s gloved hand delivered a proprietary pat to the bulging leather over Tim’s crotch. “Twelve hours minimum, pig. Let the training begin.” The frame tilted into position, the monitor activated, and the loop began. 

The combination of old conditioning footage, fresh Manor processing, the constant bitter taste of piss flooding his mouth, and the building electro sensations finally pushed Tim past his limits. A powerful surge of raw, horny sexual energy exploded through his immobilized body. Three full weeks of total denial and mental doubt had left his balls heavy, swollen, and aching, his prostate hypersensitive and bloated with unreleased need. No orgasms. No leaks. Just constant, building pressure. 

He tried to squirm. The sleepsack allowed almost nothing—only those tiny, frantic wiggles of his fingers inside the internal sleeves and minute rolls of his hips and clenches of his glutes. Each effort ground the thick steel plug deeper into his ass, pressing its electrodes more firmly against his prostate. “Mmmphhh! Nnngghhh!” Audible moans vibrated around the piss gag, wet and desperate, escaping as nasal whines through the breathing tube. He attempted to beg, the garbled sounds barely intelligible: “Mmmhh... uhh...ggaaaa... mmmphhh!” More piss trickled in as he tried, forcing him to swallow mid-attempt and intensifying his frustration.
The e-stim unit escalated. A sudden sharp spike—like white-hot needles—jabbed deep into his prostate, making his hole clamp violently around the unyielding metal. His entire body jerked within the sack, leather creaking, fingers wiggling wildly inside the sleeves. “NNNGHHH!” The pain was immediate and fierce, yet it bled seamlessly into a rolling wave of buzzing warmth that traveled up his wired cock. The conductive loops pulsed along his shaft, teasing the underside of the head before delivering a rapid series of stinging taps to his balls. Sweat squelched audibly in the lower pouch as he wiggled his hips in tiny desperate circles, fingers curling and uncurling frantically in their padded prison. 

Every rubberized sensation was magnified. The tight latex gripped his cock like a wet fist, the electro pads transmitting current directly into the most sensitive nerves. His ass felt impossibly full, the plug vibrating and shocking in coordinated rhythms with past Tim that made his ring flutter and squeeze.  On the monitor, past Tim was being inserted into a sleepsack while straitjacketed.  Tim saw his past self; he clenched deliberately now, milking the plug with slutty, rhythmic contractions that forced louder moans from his gagged throat. “Ahhh... mmmph... nnnngghhh...” The sounds were animalistic, broken. More piss dripped in, bitter and warm, making him gag slightly before swallowing. The taste fueled his inner curses—"You fucking prick, Ross, making me drink this shit while you shock my guts"—but the degradation only heightened the perverse arousal. 

The patterns grew more complex. A low, building hum resonated through his prostate, pleasurable and exciting, making his denied cock throb painfully against the loops. Then, without warning, it spiked into a sharp, cramping burst that made him thrash as much as the sack allowed—tiny, frantic hip wiggles and desperate finger spasms inside the sleeves that sloshed the pooled sweat around his lower back and ass. The rubber and leather felt alive, squeezing, compressing, sliding against his sweat-drenched body with every micro-movement. His nipples hardened against the inner catsuit lining. His toes curled tightly. Drool and piss mixed at the corners of his funnel gag, causing Tim to swallow urgently.
 
Tim’s inner monologue fractured under the assault. "It hurts... God, it hurts so good. Why does it feel like this? Ross knows exactly how to program it—pain that makes me harder, pleasure that terrifies me because I know the next shock is coming." He watched the screen intently as the older video showed his past self sighing in the sleepsack and straitjacket combo, then cut to the new Manor footage of the plug being inserted. The synchronization was diabolical. A maximum-intensity cycle hit at the exact moment both versions of him submitted. 

“RRRGGHHH! Mmmphhh!” Tim moaned loudly, the sound wet and desperate around the gag. His fingers wiggled and clawed inside the tight sleeves as he made tiny desperate circles with his hips, ass clenching greedily around the plug. The electro danced between agony and ecstasy: sharp stabs that made him flinch and fear the next, buzzing warmth that made him moan with unexpected enjoyment, rolling waves that excited every nerve. His heavy balls drew up tighter, the three-week load feeling immense and thick inside him. Sweat poured. Rubber slid. Leather bit deeper. Piss continued its hated drip. 

The horniness built relentlessly to a fever pitch. He clenched harder, fucking himself on the plug while the current stimulated, excited, and punished him in perfect balance. Audible begging attempts continued in broken, garbled form—“Mmmhh... eeezzzz... eeeezzzzz... uumming... mmmphhh!”—only to be drowned in more piss and turned into pathetic, nasal whines. The rubberized sensations overwhelmed him: every inch of skin hypersensitive, every electrode connection a direct line to his overwhelmed nervous system, every futile wiggle of his fingers emphasizing his total helplessness. 

"EEEEZZZZZ.....uuuuhhhh......uuhhhhh.....UUUHHHHHH"

Finally, the orgasm could no longer be denied. 

Tim’s body went completely rigid inside the crushing sleepsack. It began with a massive, convulsive contraction around the steel plug—his hole spasming wildly, fluttering and squeezing as if trying to pull the metal deeper. Then the first powerful spurt erupted. After three full weeks of total denial, the load was extraordinarily thick, heavy, and voluminous. The surge felt like a deep volcanic eruption from within his core—hot, creamy cum jetting out in long, forceful, ropey streams that flooded the rubber codpiece enveloping his cock. He could feel the incredible thickness of each spurt, the sheer volume pulsing out in heavy waves that seemed endless. Pulse after pulse pumped forth, far more than any normal orgasm, the pent-up pressure of twenty-one days releasing in satisfying, messy surges. The rubber codpiece bulged noticeably, squelching loudly as cum mixed with pooled sweat and began to overflow slightly around the edges of the codpiece buttons. 

The electro intensified the experience into something excruciatingly exquisite. Painful spikes sharpened the pleasure into near-agony with every contraction. Pleasurable waves drew out each spurt, milking him thoroughly. Stimulating bursts kept the orgasm rolling long past normal limits. Feared cycles made him both dread and crave the next powerful surge. His toes curled hard inside the foot pouch. His abs clenched violently against the waist belt, fighting the compression. A long, guttural, animalistic moan vibrated around the piss gag—“NNNGGAAAAHHH! ...uumming... eeeeeezzzzzz......mmmphhh!”—escaping as a prolonged, wet whine through the breathing tube while yet another gulp of piss slid down his throat. His fingers wiggled and clenched desperately inside the arm sleeves throughout the entire eruption. 

Wave after wave crashed through him. The sheer volume left him trembling; thick, heavy ropes continued surging for what felt like minutes, coating his shaft, balls, and the inside of the catsuit in a warm, sticky, overflowing mess. Smaller flutters and aftershocks continued even as the peak slowly faded, each one sending fresh twitches through his spent, hypersensitive cock and milking out the last heavy drops. Sweat dripped and pooled heavily around him. The rubber and leather continued their tight, possessive embrace. The piss gag maintained its slow, humiliating drip. His fingers finally stilled inside the sleeves, exhausted.
Tim floated afterward in a profound haze of post-orgasmic bliss and deep submission. His body felt utterly spent, every muscle twitching with exhaustion, his cock and ass still buzzing from the low maintaining electro pulse. The rubber catsuit clung wetly to his drained form. The leather sleepsack held him securely, almost comfortingly now in his vulnerability. He was doubtful—still deeply uncertain about how far Ross would ultimately take this training or what permanent changes might await in the Manor’s hidden depths—but the experience left him wondering with a complex mix of apprehension, lingering arousal, and intrigue about what further torments and transformations lay in store while he waited for Ross to return. The steel cabinets and blast doors loomed silently in his limited vision, full of unknown promises and torments. He remained trapped, dripping with sweat and cum, swallowing the bitter reminder of his place, enduring... and waiting.

Waiting for Ross...The Manor Chapter 1

 

Waiting for Ross...The Manor Chapter 1 

The rhythmic thump-thump of the van’s rear tires over the expansion joints of the highway was a dull, hypnotic vibration that traveled directly up through the floorboards, through the thin foam mattress, and straight into Tim’s spine. He couldn’t see the highway. He couldn’t see the sky. He couldn’t even see his own knees.

Instead, his world had been reduced to the absolute, unyielding blackness of a heavy leather hood.

The hood smelled intensely of saddle soap, old sweat, and the cold, mineral tang of the nickel-plated locking buckle tightly cinched against the dip at the base of his skull. Every time he inhaled, the soft lambskin inner lining pressed against his nostrils, filtering the air through a thick, claustrophobic layer of cowhide. There were no eye holes. The mouth opening was firmly blocked by a dense, hard-rubber gag shaped to fill his oral cavity perfectly, forcing his jaw wide and pinning his tongue flat. A thick leather strap ran from the sides of the gag, buckling behind his neck just above the hood’s collar, anchoring it so securely that even swallowing required a conscious, heavy effort.

"Where is he taking me?" Tim’s mind spun in a tight, anxious circle. Jason said it would be a couple of hours. We’ve been driving for at least three. Or has it been four?

Without his eyes, time dilated. It stretched out like warm plastic, turning minutes into agonizingly long expanses of sensory isolation.

Jason was a careful driver. He didn't speed, he didn't take sharp turns, and he hadn't spoken a single word since they had pulled out of the garage. Tim knew Jason was a beast of a man—an alpha's alpha, radiating a raw, hyper-masculine physical competence that made most people back down without a word. Yet, despite Jason's imposing dominance, he was utterly subservient to Ross. That spoke volumes about Ross's staggering wealth and absolute psychological power. Ross wasn't just a master; he was a multi-millionaire elite, a man whose vast resources allowed him to construct a private, flawless empire where even the most dominant alphas willingly bowed to his paycheck and his sheer, commanding presence. The total surrender of control was a luxury only Ross's millions could orchestrate. But knowing it was coming didn't stop the cold spikes of adrenaline from shooting through Tim's chest every time the van slowed down or tilted slightly to one side.

Tim shifted his weight, trying to relieve the mounting pressure on his shoulders, but the movement only brought a sharp reminder of his absolute helplessness. His arms were pinned behind his back in a position that left zero room for compromise. Jason had used a pair of heavy, high-security Peerless handcuffs, ratcheted down tight just above the wrist bones. Tim’s wrists were positioned palm-to-palm, but the restraint didn't stop there. A wide, stiff leather posture collar encircled his neck, and from the rear D-ring of that collar, a thick steel chain dropped straight down his spine, threading through the chain link of the handcuffs before snapping onto a heavy leather waist belt.

Every time Tim tried to slump or relax his shoulders, the chain pulled upward on his wrists and downward on his neck, forcing his spine into an arch. It was a masterpiece of mechanical leverage. The steel was cold against his bare skin—Jason had stripped him down to a pair of tight nylon briefs before the hood went on—and that coldness seemed to seep into his bones, a constant, chilling reminder that his body was no longer his own property.

"What the hell am I doing?" The question flickered like a dying match in the damp corners of his mind, carrying a sudden, sickening wave of regret. I have a life. I have a job starting again in two weeks on Monday. If anyone saw me like this—trussed up like a piece of livestock in the back of a cargo van—I’d lose everything. I must be out of my mind. I could just scream, fight, force Jason to pull over. I could end this right now.

But even as the panic blooms, his cock twitches violently within the tight nylon of his briefs. The sheer perversity of his own desires swallows the doubt whole. The regret doesn't cure the arousal; it feeds it. He wants to be an object. He wants to be the perverted secret locked away in the dark, completely stripped of his adulthood, reduced to a helpless, drooling pet for Ross’s clinical amusement. The thought of Ross looking down at him, calculating his limits with that cold, aristocratic detachment, makes a thick drop of pre-cum leak into his underwear. He craves the submission, he knows it, and that realization only makes him harder.

The van pitched forward slightly as the brakes were applied. The tires grumbled against a different road surface—no longer the smooth asphalt of the interstate. Tim felt the vehicle begin a steady, winding ascent. The sharp, rapid turns suggested a private, gated driveway snaking up through a secluded estate. The ambient noise of highway traffic died completely, replaced by the quiet rustle of manicured trees scraping against the upper frame of the van. They were deep in the ritzy suburbs now, entering the sprawling grounds of Ross’s private manor.

The van made a slow, deliberate ninety-degree turn to the right, the suspension creaking as it navigated a deep dip. Then, the engine note changed, echoing loudly off what sounded like close, solid stone walls. A massive carriage house garage. The metallic rattle of a heavy overhead door closing behind them confirmed his suspicion. The echo cut off abruptly, replaced by the low, muffled idle of the van's engine in an enclosed space.

The engine died. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the ticking of the cooling manifold.

Tim held his breath, straining to hear through the thick leather over his ears. Up front, a door creaked open. The heavy thud of Jason’s boots hitting the concrete floor reverberated through the frame of the van. But before Jason could move to the back, another sound echoed through the garage—the sharp, measured click of heavy, pristine leather-soled boots on polished concrete.

The driver’s side door clicked shut, and Tim heard Jason’s deep voice drop into a lower, instinctively respectful register.

"He's inside, Master Ross. Quiet the whole ride. Didn't give me a lick of trouble.  A good gimp so far at least."

"Excellent, Jason," a voice cut through the damp air of the garage like a razor blade through silk. It was a smooth, deep, commanding rumble that made Tim's entire body freeze. It had been years since he had heard that voice, but the absolute authority in it was unmistakable. It was Ross. Stern, strict, and entirely devoid of doubt. "Let's see how well my pig has settled into his preliminary gear. Bring him down."

Click. Clack. The external latches of the van's back doors turned, and they were flung wide.

A wave of cool, climate-controlled air rushed into the back of the van. Tim felt a large, gloved hand lay flat against his bare, goosebump-ridden thigh. The touch made him jump, a muffled, nasal gasp escaping past the rubber blocking his mouth.

"Easy," Jason’s voice was a low, calm rumble, but his touch was firm as he grabbed Tim's ankles. "Don't try to stand. Just let me slide you out."

Jason pulled him backward, shifting his weight effortlessly. Jason scooped one arm under Tim’s knees and the other behind his braced shoulders, lifting him cleanly out of the vehicle.

"Bring him this way," Ross commanded, his tone sharp, transactional, and entirely authoritative. "The elevator is already keyed to the sub-level."

The sensation of suspended animation was terrifying. Without sight, Tim felt like he was falling through space until Jason’s boots took heavy, measured steps across the concrete floor. He heard the distinct ping of a heavy elevator door sliding open. Jason stepped inside, the floor shifting slightly under their combined weight. The door slid shut with a heavy, pneumatic seal, and a low, stomach-dropping descent began. They were heading deep beneath the manor, into a world entirely cut off from the sun.

When the elevator doors finally opened, the air changed drastically. It smelled heavily of vulcanized rubber, high-grade industrial leather, and the sweet, chemical scent of talcum powder and silicone lubricants.

Jason carried him out into the space, his heavy boots making dull, deadened thuds rather than sharp echoes. As Tim was moved, he realized the entire floor of the vast dungeon was lined with thick, seamless, matte-black industrial rubber. It absorbed all impact, deadened sound, and felt oddly clinical beneath the weight of anyone walking over it.

Jason lowered him onto a cold, flat, unyielding surface. A heavy leather-padded examination table that smelled strongly of disinfectant.  Jason first unlocked Tim's cuffs and removed it, the posture collar and leather waist belt.   Tim felt strangely vulnerable.  Jason then smoothly flipped Tim over onto the examination table.  

"Lay flat on your back for now, pig," Ross’s voice cut in, overriding the assistant's usual routine. "We need the pig accessible from the front for the modifications."

"Unstrap the preliminary hood, Jason. Let’s look at him," Ross commanded.

The buckle behind Tim's head clicked open, and the heavy leather hood was pulled off. The sudden contact of the cool basement air on his sweaty face made him blink rapidly, his eyes adjusting to the brilliant, sterile overhead surgical lights of the dungeon.

As his vision cleared, Tim’s breath caught sharply in his throat. Standing at the foot of the table was Ross, and the sight of him after so many years was utterly overwhelming.

Ross was completely transformed, dressed in an immaculate, imposing leather rubber god outfit that radiated absolute, strict dominance. His tall frame was heavily muscled, his broad shoulders filling out a crisp, black military rubber shirt, perfectly pressed and fastened with a matching matte-black rubber tie. His hands were covered with lambskin leather gloves that ended at his wrists.  Over the shirt, he wore an open, heavy black leather police jacket that added to his formidable silhouette. His lower half was encased in tight, perfectly tailored black rubber jodhpurs that flared slightly at the thighs before tapering down into high, mirror-shined black leather riding boots that reached his knees. Crowning his stern, chiseled face was a black leather Muir cap, tilted precisely over his piercing, unyielding eyes. His expression was completely stoic and severe; he was a master who accepted no disrespect, commanding the room by his sheer presence alone.

Behind Ross, the scale and meticulous organization of his private sanctuary stretched out over the seamless rubber floor. The walls were lined with custom-built, floor-to-ceiling modular racks, organized with the terrifying precision of a military armory. To the left, rows of heavy leather and gleaming latex hoods hung from individual mannequin heads, their eyeless faces staring blankly into the room. Next to them were stacked heavy-duty leather sleepsacks, reinforced canvas straitjackets, and full-body rubber cocoons, all fitted with heavy nickel locking buckles and reinforced D-rings. A dedicated section held a terrifying array of vintage and modern military gas masks, modified with intake tubes and breathing bags.  "God damn it, Ross' collection of bondage gear and equipment had only grown through the years." thought Tim.

The floor space was dominated by heavy, industrial-grade bondage furniture anchored deep through the rubber floor. In the center stood a massive timber St. Andrew's cross, anchored directly into the concrete foundation with heavy iron bolts. Nearby, a custom steel 'fuck bench' sat angled toward a wall lined with mirror panels. Further back, a specialized workstation held advanced digital E-stim power boxes, automated milking machines with medical-grade silicone suction cups, ball humblers and acrylic cases displaying an extensive collection of surgical-steel butt plugs, weighted dildos, and anal dilators. In the far corner stood a row of floor-to-ceiling iron gimp cages, and next to them, the absolute, solid silhouettes of soundproofed steel isolation boxes.

But what truly chilled Tim’s blood were the elements he couldn't immediately categorize. Along the far, dark perimeter of the cavernous room stood several towering, seamless steel cabinets, completely devoid of labels, locked tight with heavy digital keypads. Beyond them, built directly into the reinforced foundation walls, were two reinforced, windowless steel blast doors with heavy mechanical pressure wheels. No sound came from behind them, and no labels indicated their purpose. They sat there like silent, imposing monoliths, hinting at deeper levels of containment or even more extreme specialized chambers hidden further beneath the estate.

Ross stepped forward, his leather boots creaking loudly against the dense rubber floor. He looked down at Tim, his jaw set in a hard, uncompromising line.

"Look at me, pig," Ross commanded, his voice a low, heavy weight. Tim’s eyes darted away instinctively out of nerves, but Ross’s gloved hand snapped out, firmly gripping Tim’s jaw in an unyielding hold. "I said, look at me. You have been gone a long time, but you will remember your manners immediately in this room. Disrespect or hesitation will not be tolerated. Do you understand?"

Tim gave a frantic, trembling nod against Ross's iron grip, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"Jason, strip those briefs off him," Ross ordered, releasing his jaw. "Let’s prepare the foundation."

Jason reached down and sliced the nylon briefs away with a pair of shears, leaving Tim completely naked on the padded table, fully exposed under the harsh lights and Ross's strict, evaluating gaze.
 

"I shouldn't have come back", Tim’s mind screamed as Ross's severe gaze locked onto him, his eyes darting toward the mysterious steel cabinets and those locked, silent blast doors. "What is behind those doors? What does he keep in those cabinets? This place is so much larger, so much more clinical than before. If he locks me away behind one of those reinforced wheels, I'll disappear entirely. I’m giving up my humanity."

But as his eyes trace the pristine lines of Ross's gleaming rubber shirt and the imposing flare of his jodhpurs, a wave of profound, submissive heat floods his belly. The absolute authority Ross exudes is a drug, amplified by the impenetrable mysteries of the dungeon walls. The terror is inextricably linked to a perverted, desperate need to be completely mastered by this strict, muscular god. He wants the walls of this room to close in on him. He wants to be a helpless ornament in Ross's collection, a pet whose only purpose is to endure whatever hardships his master deems necessary. The sight of the massive steel plugs and the e-stim equipment doesn't make him want to run; it makes his mouth water with a horny, unholy craving to be broken.

"Before the rubber goes on, he needs to be properly calibrated," Ross murmured, reaching into a stainless steel tray. He brought out a large, heavy, highly polished stainless steel electrified anal plug with a wide, flared base and an innocently menacing looking wire attached, alongside two thick, adjustable conductive rubber loops wired to a digital e-stim power box.

"Hold his thighs open, Jason," Ross commanded.

Jason stepped up, his massive hands locking around Tim’s knees and pinning them wide apart. Tim whimpered, his hips twitching in a futile effort to pull away.

"Quiet, pig.  Be still." Ross said, his voice firm, forceful, and strict. "You came back to be trained. You will endure the preparation like a pig, or I will have Jason secure you to the cross before we even begin. Hold still."

The sheer force of Ross’s tone anchored Tim instantly. He stopped wriggling, his muscles shaking as Ross poured a liberal amount of thick, chilled silicone lubricant over his groin and anus. Ross drove the bulbous steel shape home with a single, steady, unyielding push and organized the electro plug's wire out of the way. Tim’s eyes went wide, a muffled cry tearing from his throat as his sphincter stretched and then tightly sealed around the narrow neck of the plug.

Without a pause, Ross took the conductive electro loops. He smeared them with conductive gel, then wrapped the first loop tightly around the base of Tim's cock, pulling it snug until it bit into the flesh. The second loop was wrapped firmly around his scrotum, creating a complete electrical circuit.  Jason then donned a pair of sterile rubber gloves and inserted a catheter and secured it to Tim's inner thigh with medical tape.  The capped tip of the catheter hung obscenely from Tim's growing erection.

"The loops are secure.   The catheter is in place, Master," Jason noted, his voice low and submissive.

"Excellent. Run the lead wires down his leg," Ross said. "Now, for layer one. pig needs its true skin...the catsuit."

Ross pulled a stunning, seamless black rubber catsuit from a sealed cabinet. It was a masterpiece of premium, 0.5mm molded latex, gleaming under the lights and smelling intensely of gleaming, vulcanized rubber. It was cut for absolute total coverage, designed to run from the neck all the way down to the hands and  toes, ending in integrated rubber gloves and socks.  The rubber crotch had a buttoned codpiece to allow for easy access when permitted.

"Liberally lubricate the interior, Jason," Ross ordered.  Jason poured a steady stream of liquid silicone into the neck of the suit, shaking it until the inside was a slick, friction-free paradise.  

"Lift his hips," Ross commanded.

Together, Ross and Jason began the meticulous process of threading Tim into the rubber. Jason worked the integrated socks over Tim's feet, pulling the tight, unyielding latex up over his calves and knees. Ross guided the suit up over Tim's hips, carefully feeding the E-stim wires, catheter through the rubber catsuit's removable codpiece flap and the flared base of the steel plug's wires through a small, reinforced slit at the perineum.

"Arms in, pig. Don't fight it," Ross murmured.

Jason hoisted Tim's upper torso, sliding his shoulders into the sleek black rubber sleeves. The latex stretched precariously before snapping tight against his bicep and wrists and hands, completely enclosing his skin in an airtight embrace. Ross pulled the front zipper up, starting from the top of his navel, and ending in a tight, constricting band right at his trachea.

"Now, let’s layer the head. We’ll build his prison piece by piece," Ross said, picking up a matching, ultra-tight black rubber hood with circular, reinforced eye holes and a wide mouth hole.

"Pull it on, Jason," Ross ordered.

Jason stretched the base of the rubber hood wide and pulled it down over Tim's head. The latex snapped tightly against his face, molding to his nose and cheeks.  The hood was neatly tucked into the catsuit to cover every inch of exposed skin.  Jason added a few drops of lube to shine the hood's outer layer.

"Now the second layer," Ross said, lifting a heavy, well-worn leather hood from the table. It, too, had precise cutouts for the eyes and mouth, designed to structuralize his head and restrict any jaw movement.

Ross slid the heavy leather hood directly over the rubber one. As he threaded the thick leather laces up the back, Tim felt the cool leather  compress the underlying rubber against his skull. Ross cinched the laces with an unyielding, forceful tug, tying them off and locking the heavy nickel buckle at the throat collar.

"Now, the final crowning piece," Ross murmured, lifting the third layer. It was a specialized, heavy-duty black rubber funnel hood. It possessed two clear, sealed glass lenses that locked perfectly over the eye holes of the lower hoods, featuring a wide, rigid plastic funnel molded permanently around the oral cavity, extending outward and upward with a heavy, reinforced intake tube.

"Get it over the leather, Jason," Ross commanded.

Jason braced Tim's shoulders and pulled the heavy funnel hood down, securing the industrial straps around the back of the skull until the internal mouthpiece sat directly against Tim's lips, locking his jaw into an unyielding, open posture beneath the funnel.  Tim swallowed - half out of nervousness, half to confirm that he could indeed swallow easily.

Jason brought over a massive, thick leather sleepsack lined inside with soft glove leather. Together, Ross and Jason lifted Tim’s slick, rubber-clad form and slid him deep into the heavy leather sack. Ross closed the heavy 3-way industrial zipper from the front, running it all the way up to his collarbone, but leaving two of the zippers strategically above Tim's cock, before snapping a high-security padlock through the zipper tab at the collar. Click. Tim was now a completely solid, unyielding cylinder of leather and rubber.

"The sleepsack is too loose around his frame," Ross observed, his eyes scanning the contours of the heavy leather. "He has too much slack to shift inside. Jason, grab the coiled nylon rope. Let’s cinch the envelope."

Jason retrieved a length of thick, smooth-textured nylon rope from a nearby peg. Starting at Tim's ankles, Jason began wrapping the rope tightly around the exterior of the leather sleepsack. With each pass, Jason dug his boot against the edge of the table, pulling the rope with a brutal, crushing leverage that forced the thick cowhide to buckle inward, compressing the smooth rubber catsuit underneath. He worked his way up Tim's body, creating a spiral corset of tight nylon that bound his legs together side-by-side and crushed his pinned rubberized arms ruthlessly against his sides. Tim let out a strained, muffled groan through the intake tube as the rope spirals restricted his torso.

"Good. Now lock that compression permanently," Ross commanded, gesturing to a rack of thick, multi-buckled leather posture belts. "Add the secondary bondage belts over the top of the rope."

Jason pulled five wide, semi-rigid leather bondage belts from the rack. Each belt was three inches wide, made of thick bridle leather with heavy roller buckles. Jason wrapped the first belt tightly around Tim's ankles, ratcheting the strap down to the absolute last notch. The second and third belts were cinched directly around his knees and upper thighs, obliterating any micro-space left by the ropes. The fourth belt went around his waist, and the final, heaviest belt was buckled directly across his upper chest and shoulder blades.

The dual combination of the tightly cinched ropes and the unyielding leather belts compressed the leather sleepsack into a rigid, breathless vice. Tim's ribs were completely immobilized; the overlapping layers of rubber, leather, rope, and secondary leather belts squeezed his lungs so severely that his breathing was reduced to microscopic, mechanical gasps. He was no longer a body; he was a densely compressed package of pure restriction - a bondage worm.

"Bring him to the inclined table," Ross ordered.

Jason hoisted the heavy, tightly bound bundle effortlessly and carried him toward the center of the room, where a massive, custom-built steel bondage table stood tilted back at a steep sixty-degree angle. They laid Tim against the padded surface, his feet resting on a solid metal base plate.

Jason worked quickly, pulling four wide, thick leather cargo straps across Tim's chest, waist, thighs, and ankles, buckling them tightly to the steel frame of the table. The straps compressed the already cinched leather sleepsack, pinning him so securely to the incline that he couldn't move a fraction of an inch.

"Now for the overnight automation," Ross said, his voice cold and precise. He reached up and attached a long, thin, flexible medical-grade tube to the intake valve of Tim's funnel hood. Ross walked over to a small counter and picked up a massive, amber-colored two-liter glass jug filled to the brim with warm, freshly collected urine. Ross connected the large, liquid filled jug to a laboratory-style IV drip stand directly above the table. Ross adjusted a small roller clamp on the tube, calibration verified. "This hydration recycling system is set to a slow, methodical drip. One drop every ten seconds, directly onto your tongue, all night long. You will remain perfectly hydrated, pig.

 

"A long ride requires proper hydration," Ross said, standing directly over Tim. His voice took on a slow, lecturing tone, dripping with cold, clinical superiority. "You need to understand the structural theory of your containment, pig. Piss recycling is not merely a punishment; it is a physiological necessity for the transformation we are executing tonight.  When your body is encased in heavy latex and leather for twelve hours, you sweat rapidly. Your organs compress. By forcing you to consume this waste, we are breaking the human illusion of choice. A total bondage object does not produce waste; it filters it, retains it, and processes it according to the master's schedule. This fluid belongs to the room. It belongs to me. Drinking it forces your mind to accept that everything entering or leaving this flesh is entirely under my administration. You are being closed-looped, pig. Stripped of your baseline human dignity so only the submissive object remains."    

 

To re-enforce his point, Ross proceeded to turn the clamp so a torrent of the amber liquid quickly flowed down the tubing and exited directly into Tim's funnel.  He then turned the clamp again to slow the flow to a steady drip.
 

Tim's eyes went wide behind the glass lenses as the taste of thick, warm amounts of pungent, salty liquid entered down the funnel, pooling instantly against his lips. The sharp, bitter sting of ammonia hit his tongue, suffocating and vile. Because the hood held his jaw open, he had only one choice.

Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.  "Oh god" thought Tim as he tried to squirm but to no avail.

The taste was utterly sickening, a warm, heavy fluid thick with urea and old minerals that made his stomach violently contract in rebellion. It was disgusting, demeaning, and completely foul. The sheer humiliation of being forced to drink another man's waste while pinned like a clinical specimen burned through his chest.  Ross watched his throat with that same flat, evaluating stare. Tim's throat worked frantically, his chest heaving inside the tight rubber catsuit as he consumed the full volume.  As Tim was swallowing, he felt the 3-way sleepsack zipper open at his crotch.   Jason opened the leather a bit, and unbuttoned the rubber cod piece and fished out the catheter.   Jason quickly attached tubing to the catheter and organized the tube to end inside a sterile collection jug that was on the floor next to the incline table. Tim felt his cock manipulated again. Suddenly, his cod piece was buttoned, his cock securely pressed back inside the sleepsack, and the zipper closed.  The brief freedom was gone as soon as it appeared.

Ross turned his attention to the advanced digital e-stim console, connecting the lead wires extending from the base of the sleepsack.  Jason reached up and pulled down something downwards, toward Tim's hooded face.  

 
Directly in front of Tim's face, suspended from an overhead articulated steel arm, hung a massive forty-inch high-definition monitor. 
"I've overhauled the programming since your last visit," Ross continued, a grim, strict smile playing on his lips. "The audio system of this monitor is now hardwired directly to the anal channels of your electro box. Every time your past self cries out, whimpers, or begs on that archival footage, the frequency of the sound waves will convert into a direct, synchronized electrical pulse inside your rectum. Your own past groans will dictate the contractions of your prostate.  You will regret making those noises during our past training sessions even when explicitly told to remain absolutely quiet."

Ross tapped a final button on the control panel. "As for your cock, I've set that channel to a strictly algorithmic loop that includes some randomization. It will cycle between low, aching hums, sharp bites, and absolute silence, sometimes at entirely unpredictable intervals. You will have no rhythm to adapt to, and no pattern to comfort you."

The monitor flared to life, casting a bright, cold blue glow over Tim's glass eye lenses. The video shifted, showing a clip of Tim from years prior, bound in an identical fashion, whimpering, grunting, trying to speak through his gag, and submissive under Ross’s strict guidance. The instant his past voice whimpered through the high-end speakers, a sharp, violent surge of synchronized electricity shot through the steel plug deep inside his core, forcing an involuntary, muffled gasp from his throat. Simultaneously, the cock loops delivered a sudden, blinding spike of random voltage that vanished as quickly as it came, leaving him trembling in the quiet aftermath.

Above him, the warm drops detached from the IV line continued their journey, traveling heavily down the funnel, landing squarely on his pinned tongue.

"Twelve hours, pig," Ross said, standing rigid on the dense rubber floor at the foot of the incline, his leather jacket creaking as he crossed his arms. "I expect absolute obedience when I return. Keep your eyes on the screen."

The heavy elevator doors slid shut behind Ross and Jason, and the pneumatic hum signaled their departure. Left alone on the steep incline, completely immobilized within the heavy leather sack, his stomach heavy with the warm, revolting hydration, and his groin throbbing to the unpredictable, synchronized bite of the current, Tim could only stare straight ahead through the glass lenses, watching his own past submission play out in an endless, glowing loop.

Look at yourself, Tim thought, his mind fixating on the glowing monitor as his past self wept on screen, each audio cue hammering an electrical shock directly into his rectum. Tim's mind started a soliloquy.  "You’re exactly where you want, but you're still wanting to be anywhere else. Why do you crave this complete and dehumanizing bondage?  You’re completely trapped, filled with Ross' waste...well, you hope it's Ross'... wired like an electrical appliance, and forced to watch your own degradation. It is so deeply humiliating... drinking that vile, disgusting fluid, tasting his ownership over you drop by drop. The ropes, the secondary belts... he has crushed the very air from your lungs. And those cabinets... those heavy blast doors in the rubber walls... what else is he building down here? What deeper hells has he prepared for you once this training cycle is over?"

A deep, shuddering pulse of pure, unadulterated ecstasy ripples through his groin as the cock loop randomly surges with maximum power before dropping into a low, agonizing hum. Despite the absolute disgust and the visceral demeaning horror of the fluid pooling in his throat, a dark, twisted pleasure blooms within the humiliation. The synchronization of his past voice with his present anal torment is a masterpiece of perversity. He hates the degradation, yet he loves the severe weight of the steel plug stretching him open, responding to his own recorded cries; he loves the burning, suffocating heat of the rubber catsuit trapping his sweat under the layer of leather, crushing weight of the bondage belts while the slow, steady drip of urine hits his tongue. Ross is going to push him to his absolute physical limits, and the sheer force of that promise makes him throb with a perverted, desperate joy. As the video plays on loop, showing his own historical breaking, Tim surrenders entirely to the strict, beautiful logic of Ross’s design. He was his property again with no choice but waiting for Ross...