Waiting for Ross...The Manor
Chapter 1: The Weight of Steel
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 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 billions 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 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 shameful 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 is sick, 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.
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 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 billions 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 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 shameful 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 is sick, 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.
Chapter 2: The Architecture of Containment
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.
"Lay flat on your back for now, Jason," Ross’s voice cut in, overriding the assistant's usual routine. "We need the pig accessible from the front for the modifications."
Jason smoothly flipped Tim over, his large hands guiding Tim's handcuffed, pinned arms into the recessed channel of the examination table so he wouldn't crush his own wrists.
"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 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. 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 straightjackets, 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.
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 sick, 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 anal plug with a wide, flared base, 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.
"Be still, pig," Ross said, his voice firm, forceful, and strict. "You came back to be trained. You will endure the preparation like a man, 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. 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.
"The loops are secure, Master," Jason noted, his voice low and submissive.
"Excellent. Run the lead wires down his leg," Ross said. "Now, for layer one. The catsuit."
Chapter 3: The Three Layers of the Pet
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 raw, vulcanized rubber. It was cut for absolute total coverage, designed to run from the neck all the way down to the toes, ending in integrated rubber socks.
"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 and the flared base of the steel plug 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, completely enclosing his skin in an airtight embrace. Ross pulled the front zipper up, starting from the crotch, running past 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.
"Now the second layer," Ross said, lifting a heavy, stiff bridle-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 rigid cowhide 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.
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.
"A long ride requires proper hydration," Ross said, standing directly over Tim, holding the massive glass vessel aloft. 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."
Ross gestured with his free hand to the towering steel cabinets behind him. "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."
Ross nodded to his assistant. "Pour it slow, Jason. Ensure the pig understands his place with every drop."
Jason took the heavy bottle and tipped it into the plastic maw. Tim's eyes went wide behind the glass lenses as the thick, warm stream of pungent, salty liquid rushed 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 to prevent himself from choking: he had to swallow.
Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.
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. Yet, Jason maintained a steady, unyielding pour, and 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. When the final drops drained down the plastic tube, Tim was panting heavily through his nose, his stomach full, heavy, and sloshing with the revolting liquid.
Ross leaned over him, the dark brim of his Muir cap shadowing his stern features, completely unimpressed by Tim's heavy panting or the tears of disgust leaking behind the lenses. "Good. You endured it. But the real training begins now. Fetch the heavy leather sleepsack, Jason. We are going to enclose this pig completely."
Jason brought over a massive, thick cowhide sleepsack lined with heavy canvas. Together, Ross and Jason lifted Tim’s slick, rubber-clad form and slid him deep into the heavy leather sack. Ross closed the heavy industrial zipper from the front, running it all the way up to his collarbone, 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 hemp rope. Let’s cinch the envelope."
Jason retrieved a length of thick, rough-textured hemp 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 hemp that bound his legs together side-by-side and crushed his pinned arms ruthlessly against his spine. 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 sleepsack into a rigid, breathless vice. Tim's ribs were completely immobilized; the overlapping layers of rubber, cowhide, 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.
"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.
Directly in front of Tim's face, suspended from an overhead articulated steel arm, hung a massive forty-inch high-definition monitor. Ross walked over to a control console on the wall, flipping a bank of switches.
"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. The other end of the tube ran up to a second, identical two-liter glass jug of amber urine suspended from a laboratory-style IV drip stand directly above the table. Ross adjusted a small roller clamp on the tube, calibration verified. "This second liter 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."
Ross turned his attention to the advanced digital E-stim console, connecting the lead wires extending from the base of the sleepsack.
"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."
Ross tapped a final button on the control panel. "As for your cock, I've set that channel to a completely randomized algorithmic loop. It will cycle between low, aching hums, sharp bites, and absolute silence 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, weeping 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 first warm drop of the second liter detached from the IV line and splashed 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. You’re pathetic. You’re completely trapped, filled with your master's waste, 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 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...
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