Waiting for Ross: The Manor
Chapter 5
The horizontal suspension held Tim in perfect, weightless tension for what felt like hours that refused to resolve into anything resembling time.
The double leather sleepsacks creaked softly with every micro-shift of his body, the outer layer’s D-rings taking his full weight through the carefully tensioned ropes and the heavy stainless-steel spreader bar. The inner sleepsack compressed the sweat-slick rubber catsuit against every contour of his skin until the two materials fused into one continuous, living prison.
The only sounds left were the harsh rush of his own breathing and the heavy, inescapable thud of his own heartbeat echoing inside the sealed darkness.
“I hate this. I fucking hate every second of this. Why is my cock throbbing…”
The wide feeding tube delivered a measured, melting slurry on a timed cycle. Ross had prepared it carefully: frozen cubes of collected semen (from multiple men?), thawed just enough to form a thick, tangy, salty mixture that slid across Tim’s tongue in viscous gulps.
Each forced swallow coated his mouth with the distinctive, slightly metallic tang of mixed loads, the consistency halfway between raw egg whites and something more biological. Tim had no choice but to take it. The taste triggered another surge of internal conflict.
“You’re making me recycle other men’s cum. Thawed into this slurry and forced down my throat while I’m hanging here like a piece of meat. I hate this. I hate myself for letting it happen. Fuck… why is my cock so hard?”
His cock, trapped in the conductive loops and the compressive sheath of the catsuit, remained stubbornly, traitorously hard, already beginning to rebuild pressure. He had been allowed one unauthorized orgasm earlier when forced to watch old videos of himself as a rubber pig — enough to empty him temporarily, not enough to satisfy.
Now his balls ached again, heavy and swelling with a fresh load that Ross had already forbidden him from releasing. The thought made him clench around the plug; the electrodes answered with a low, buzzing pulse that rolled through his prostate and up the shaft in a wave of unwanted pleasure edged with the constant threat of sharper shocks.
“Fuck… why does that feel so good? Why am I getting harder?”
Time stretched into something elastic and cruel. The subtle hammock-like sway of the hoist became its own exquisite torment — enough motion to remind him he was hanging, suspended like property in the middle of the chamber, not enough to give any real relief or change of position. Sweat continued to pool between the layers.
The rubber squeaked wetly against the leather with every shallow, restricted breath forced by the crushing sleepsacks. His fingers, sealed inside the built-in gloves of the catsuit and further padded into near-uselessness by the internal sleepsack sleeves, twitched and flexed frantically, achieving nothing. Toes curled and uncurled against the integrated feet of the leather sacks and found only more unyielding restriction.
“I could have refused the six-hour reset. I could have banged on the blast door until someone came. I have a job. A life. Responsibilities waiting outside these walls. Two weeks off doesn’t mean I have to stay here and let him do this to me. Why do I keep choosing this? What the hell is wrong with me?”
The protest died as another coordinated pulse hit his prostate and cock simultaneously. Pre-cum welled and was trapped inside the rubber. Frustration and need warred in the absolute darkness. He hated the complete helplessness, the way Ross forced every bodily function into the master’s schedule — cum slurry recycled, hole trained on the machine earlier, a second orgasm permanently deferred, even his swallowing now timed and controlled.
And he craved exactly that enforcement with a depth that sickened him. The stricter the rules, the more complete the degradation, the deeper the surrender settled into his bones. Ross was both the caring architect of his restoration periods — hygiene, protein, workout, monitored rest — and the complete bastard who designed these predicaments with clinical precision, knowing exactly how to make Tim’s body betray every mental objection.
“Fuck…I’m so horny. I want to cum and then be released from all this gear.”
The electro unit shifted patterns without warning. A sharp, needle-like spike lanced through the plug, forcing his hole to spasm around the wide flare. Tim’s entire body jerked within the rigid cylinder of the sleepsacks; the ropes creaked in protest, the hoist swayed fractionally, and a fresh wave of sweat slicked the already humid interior.
The pain bloomed almost instantly into a prickly heat that made his denied cock throb harder against the loops, the new load in his balls tightening with frustrated urgency. He tried to buck, to find any purchase, any friction, but the multiple attachment points made it impossible. He was perfectly centered, perfectly helpless, perfectly on display for the cameras he knew were watching every twitch.
“Please… just let me cum. Just once more. I need it so badly it hurts… please…”
A soft pneumatic sound broke the isolation — the blast door opening and resealing with that familiar, final boom. Footsteps approached across the rubber flooring. Measured. Confident. Hard soled boots.
The headphones were suddenly pulled away. Pressure lessened from the outer leather hood. Ross’s presence filled the chamber without a word. The three layers of hoods still sealed Tim’s head completely, forcing him to hear only his own panicked breathing and the frantic hammering of his heartbeat.
Tim thrashed.
He threw every ounce of remaining strength into the sleepsack, twisting his torso, kicking uselessly inside the foot pouches, rolling his shoulders against the unyielding leather. The ropes creaked louder; the hoist swayed; sweat squelched between the layers. The effort achieved nothing except to grind the electro plug deeper and tighten the conductive loops around his aching cock and balls.
Desperate, earnest, muffled pleas poured out of him — variable, unintelligible, thick with panic and need.
“MMMMPPHHH…EEEEZZZZZ”
“NNNGGHHH-UUUNNN… PPPHHHMMM-GGGKKK… AAAAGGGHHH-MMM… OOOUUUGGHH… PPPHHH-NNNGG…”
“EEEZZZZZ”
He was begging. Begging for release. Begging for the electro to stop. Begging for the suspension to end. Begging Ross to let him down, to let him cum, to let him out. The sounds were frantic, broken, completely unintelligible through the triple hoods and funnel gag, yet unmistakably pleading.
Ross ignored them completely.
The headphones clicked back into place. Ross’s voice, smooth and deep and utterly devoid of doubt, filled the sealed darkness of Tim’s head once more.
“Still hard, pig. Good. The feeds show consistent arousal throughout the suspension. Your body understands its place even when your mind pretends to struggle. That fresh load in your balls is already building again. You will not be allowed to spill it. In fact, pig will be swallowing mine next.”
Anger flared hot and useless.
“You arrogant bastard. You complete fucking sadist. I hate how much power you have over me. I’d like to see you try this.”
Tim felt the trolley adjust above him. The spreader bar shifted a few degrees, changing the angle of the plug so its electrodes pressed even more insistently against his swollen prostate. Then gloved hands — Ross’s — worked at the funnel assembly. The feeding tube was carefully withdrawn.
Ross had opened the front of his own rubber outfit. Tim could not see it, but he could hear the soft mechanical clicks and the quiet whir of a custom assembly being positioned.
A tall, articulated stand — modeled deliberately after a music stand — locked into place at Ross’s groin height. Mounted on it was a custom silicone milking sleeve, soft and ribbed on the inside, fitted with an automatic lube mechanism that began dispensing a steady, slick sheen the moment Ross’s cock slid into it. At the end of the sleeve was a negative pressure collection reservoir with tubing that led to a pooling area emptying directly over Tim’s funnel.
From the rear of the sleeve mechanism beyond the reservoir, extended a firm, padded arm that Ross wrapped securely around Tim’s leather-sleepsacked torso, locking the suspended body into a direct mechanical link with the device.
Ross adjusted the outer harness straps, deliberately loosening selected tension points so the sleepsacks were allowed a controlled range of movement — just enough sway and twist for Tim’s body to become the engine. Ross pressed a remote in his gloved hand. Then the electro unit answered.
Painful, sharp shocks cracked through the plug and the conductive loops. Tim jerked hard inside the leather, the sudden wiggle transmitting through the connecting arm. The silicone sleeve stroked Ross in a slow, forced glide, automatic lube keeping every movement wet and seamless.
When Tim’s thrashing slowed and the swaying of the hoist diminished, the shocks intensified — hotter, more insistent, driving him to wiggle again. The moment he fought and squirmed, the electro program shifted into rolling, pleasurable pulses that rewarded the motion, encouraging deeper, more rhythmic movements. Every twist of Tim’s sealed body, every desperate micro-buck against the ropes, pulled and pushed the sleeve along Ross’s shaft. The master stood motionless above the open funnel, letting the slave’s electro-forced struggles milk him.
The master was using the suspended, sealed, electro-tormented body of his slave as a mandatory, living stroking mechanism — and as the receptacle that would receive the result.
Nervous heat flooded Tim’s chest. Ross’s cum. He admittedly half-enjoyed the distinctive taste of his master — richer, more personal than the mixed slurry of anonymous men — and felt a shameful flicker of gratitude that, at least for this moment, it was not piss. The mixed semen cubes had been tangy and clinical; Ross would be different. Warmer. More intimate. More owned.
“Fuck. I’m actually looking forward to the taste of him. After all this, why am I wanting to satisfy that bastard?”
“You’ve been such a good object today,” Ross murmured, voice low and almost affectionate in its coldness. “Hole trained. Suspended. Recycling the collected loads as ordered. I enjoy watching you like this more than you will ever understand. The way you fight it. The way you need it. The way your cock stays hard and your balls refill no matter how much you hate the taste.”
Tim’s mind raced with conflicted anticipation. He imagined his body transforming Ross’ essence into his own thick load.
“I’m thankful it’s not the piss right now. Don’t make me hate this more than I already do.”
But his cock pulsed harder in its conductive prison, the new load aching, and a fresh bead of pre-cum leaked. The electro unit, locked into its responsive program, delivered waves of pain or pleasure timed exactly to the quality of Tim’s struggles, each forced wiggle producing another wet stroke of the silicone sleeve around the master’s cock.
Low, muffled moans of pure arousal vibrated around the funnel gag as the sensations built.
“MMMMMMMMM… OOOOHHHHHHH…”
The sounds were thick and helpless, shaped by the gag and the triple layers of rubber and leather, rising with every desperate movement of Tim’s body and every answering pulse of current through the plug.
“God, I’m so fucking hard.”
Ross’s own orgasm built slowly and powerfully, driven entirely by the involuntary labor of the hanging gimp. He stood directly in front of the suspended form, cock buried in the self-lubricating sleeve, the connecting arm translating every twitch and sway into firm, rhythmic strokes.
The head of his cock swelled. His heavy balls drew up tight. The sight of Tim’s perfect, minute suffering — the way the shocks forced more movement the instant the swaying slowed, the way pleasure rewarded renewed squirming — combined with the years of conditioning and the knowledge of the long hours ahead, pushed him over the edge.
With a deep, guttural groan of pure dominance, Ross erupted.
The orgasm was exceptionally strong — powerful, rhythmic contractions that wracked his muscular frame. Thick, heavy ropes of cum shot out in strong, voluminous pulses — far larger in volume than usual after such prolonged mental edging.
Spurt after heavy spurt of creamy, potent seed filled the special collection funnel. The automatic sleeve continued to milk him through the aftershocks as Tim’s body kept reacting to the electro program, squeezing and stroking out every last drop to ensure the harvest was complete and abundant.
The load was notably large, thick, and warm. The negative pressure sucked the fresh semen beautifully up to the pooling area and then dripped quickly into the funnel.
The first thick, creamy pulse hit the back of Tim’s tongue. Hot. Salty. Distinctly Ross — richer and more intense than the mixed slurry. A second, heavier rope followed, then a third and more, flooding the funnel until Tim had no choice but to swallow or choke on it. He swallowed.
The thick load slid down his throat, coating everything, marking him from the inside with pure ownership. A shameful part of him savored it. More muffled moans of pure arousal escaped him.
“MMMMMMMMM… OOOOHHHHHHH…”
“It tastes so good… I shouldn’t like this… I do like this…”
Ross remained still until the last aftershock had been milked away by Tim’s continuing, electro-driven movements, ensuring every drop entered the funnel so that Tim was forced to take it all. Then the master’s voice cooled into pure sadism.
“And now the reminder of what you truly are.”
Without warning the funnel received a sudden, powerful torrent of hot, fresh piss.
Ross emptied his bladder in a strong, continuous stream, the acrid flood mixing with the residual cum and pouring straight into Tim’s mouth.
At the same instant the electro unit surged to painful intensity — sharp, cramping shocks lancing through the plug and the conductive loops around cock and balls, designed to force immediate obedience.
Tim’s muffled pleas erupted instantly, desperate and varied around the funnel and the sudden flood.
“UUUNNNHHH… GGGKKKHHH… MMMMPPHHH… AAAAGGGHHH!!!”
He tried to beg for the current to lessen, the sounds thick with panic and forced swallowing as the hot piss kept coming. The dual assault of burning urine and white-hot electrical pain drove him to gulp frantically.
“NNNGGHHH… PPPHHHMMM… OOOUUUGGGGGHH!!!”
He swallowed in rapid, desperate surges, the salty-bitter mix of Ross’s cum and piss forced down his throat while the shocks punished every second of delay. The new load in his balls tightened painfully under the current; he could not cum, only endure and obey.
“Swallow. Every drop. No hesitation.”
When the last of the piss was gone, Ross calmly reattached the feeding tube and reset the flows back to the melting semen slurry. He disconnected the padded arm, folded the music-stand assembly aside, and sealed his own outfit once more.
“There,” Ross said, almost gently. “Fresh ownership, followed by proper discipline."
"You will process every drop. The electro returns to training levels. The suspension continues. That second load stays locked in your balls. No release. Pig knows the rules.”
The headphones went quiet again. Footsteps retreated. The blast door was sealed.
Tim floated in the dark, sealed in rubber and double leather, hole full of the electro plug, cock aching as it rebuilt pressure he was forbidden to spill, mouth and throat still thick with the mixed tastes of Ross’s abundant cum and the sudden, sadistic flood of piss.
The three hoods continued to crush his head, forcing him to listen only to his own ragged breathing and the hammering of his heart.
The mental war raged hotter than before — hatred of the predicament, desperate begging that had been ignored, hot useless anger, crushing self-loathing, and the relentless, shameful horniness that refused to die.
He waited, exactly as required, already anticipating whatever Ross would demand next.
