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! -------------------------------------------------- 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 internal boning and padding, and cinched down with industrial-grade straps and buckles. 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. He could wiggle his fingers helplessly inside the tight, padded confines—curling them, flexing them, pressing them against the slick rubber interior—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 rubber belts—thick, unyielding, and reinforced with steel cables—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, spreading his legs just enough 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 dominating the opposite wall. 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 heavy rubber hood laced and buckled over his head was merciless in its tightness. The thick black rubber molded to every contour of his face, pressing into his cheeks, forehead, and chin with suffocating intimacy. Only narrow glass lenses allowed vision, already fogging at the edges with each hot, humid breath. A thick posture collar fused seamlessly to the hood kept his head completely immobile, chin slightly tucked, neck rigid. The specialized piss gag was the worst torment of the moment: a wide, funnel-shaped rubber reservoir sealed tightly around his mouth and lower face, connected to a thick mouthpiece tube that forced his jaw painfully wide open and pinned his tongue flat against the floor of his mouth. 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. *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 forcibly spread 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 by the sleepsack’s brutal crotch straps. 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 pads wrapped his cock and balls in a web of tingling metal, the wires disappearing into the layered rubber and leather. The digital E-stim unit, programmed by Ross with expert precision, delivered completely unpredictable 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 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. 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? Surgical instruments for permanent modifications? 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 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 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 unpredictable rhythms that made his ring flutter and squeeze. 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, leaking in warm trails down his neck inside the hood. 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 hogtie, 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... uhh... nee... 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. 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 sheath surrounding 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 sheath bulged noticeably, squelching loudly as cum mixed with pooled sweat and began to overflow slightly around the edges of the tight crotch straps. 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... 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 sheath 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.