November 24, 2013
Stories Update

Further chapters coming soon!

January 19, 2013

dieselpup said: Your stories are absolutely amazing. Please keep up the good work. Does the story of the boxed boy continue after his storage? Does he get trained up as promised or does he get let go?

Thank you for your kind words, it is always a pleasure to hear from readers.

The boy in the box is likely very occupied right now but will probably return at some point in the future :-)

December 31, 2012
Struggle - Part 2

Immediately though, a noise. Not from the room, not from the corridor but somewhere beyond. Sounds of movement, scraping. Voices, muffled. Two voices. Two men moving somewhere nearby. 

Pushing, opening and moving, doors opening. The voices louder, less muted, more distinct. The voices talking to each other. Two men approaching. Doors closing, shoes scuffing the floor, door hinges sticking open, then closing with a dampened echo. 

Pushing or pulling something between them. Wheels, perhaps, but heavy. Two men moving, guiding something along. Talking as they go. 

Now, the sound of closer doors, something pushed into them, pushed open. No longer in the distance, no longer something approaching or its sound suppressed, something here. The sound live and crisp. The doors at this corridor’s far end, opening inwards, the sudden change in pressure pulling a small, cooling suck of air down the clinically stifling corridor.

It was a gurney, a wheeled stretcher that they pushed and guided between them: one man pushing from the back, the other holding the side bar rail to steer it. Both wore the same uniform in pure institutional, over-starched, over-pressed white with the creases sewn in. One man’s clothing was a little too wide at the shoulders; the other man’s trousers were a little too short but the effect was undiminished: these men were part of the background, they were unobtrusive, they were non-specific and each was one of a number. Their uniformity bleached every trace of personality from their demeanor - even their faces were blanched with the boredom of routine and their casual conversation a mere collection of banal exchanges. No mention in their chatter of a ballgame or a girlfriend even, just a background drone of bare pleasantries. 

But this was not without purpose.

The gurney that they guided so effortlessly between them was as clinical as its surroundings: a squeaking wheel would never be permitted here, nor a dented running rail or a crumpled pad atop it. The pad itself was hidden, covered by the palest of green sheets, folded over at the corners with a precision and neatness that, like the men themselves who pushed it down the corridor, failed to give a wandering eye anything out of the ordinary to fix upon. 

And in the midst of this oppressive blandness and calm, pressed tightly against the clean pale green sheet and pushed deep into the gurney’s pad being pushed at an even pace along this corridor was something else.

A man, perhaps. Certainly there was little of none of him that could actually be seen but the outer shape at least suggested as much.

Cinched tight to the rails either side of the trolley, were a number of wide leather straps. Brown leather, thick and smooth on the outside, rough and coarse on the underside. Each secured a different part of the body: at the waist, the chest, head and two further ones at the lower thighs and ankles.

But the straps themselves seemed superfluous given what else enclosed the man, for that was what was carried here. At his waist a separate but much wider belt encircled him, widening at the front. The straps that pinned it to the gurney were looped through two large steel rings set into the belt at the sides which shone variably as the trolley passed beneath the lights of the corridor. Each ring was fixed to the belt by a swatch of the same leather riveted into place at each corner and the straps through them were pulled taut so that, even to the casual observed, it was clear that they pulled the man who wore them down deep into the gurney’s padding.

Set behind these rings on each side were single cuffs, not of metal but of over-padded white leather themselves enclosed by a narrower strap of brown leather pulled tight around the man’s wrists and secured to the waist belt by what must be other similar rivets.

The overall effect being to keep the man’s hands by his side and clamped down into the bedding by the straps which pinned him firmly to the gurney.

Ordinarily this might be enough to ensure patient, gurney and attendants reached their destination together, but not so for this man. About his chest was a similar belt, wrapped around him in the middle of his ribs. It too had a similar pair of cuffs which likewise secured his arms tight up against him just above the elbows. Here the thickness of the occupant’s arms showed how tightly the restraints had been fastened as the cuffs clearly bit into him deeply. This treatment was obviously not meant for a long journey - the discomfort and effects on his circulation would have prohibited such stringency - but it was clear that wherever he was going he was being taken there in absolute security.

As with the waist, so with the chest: the straps which pinned him in place pulled him down such that the padding bore not only the weight of his restrained body but also the tension of the straps which held him there.

His head fared no better. Around his face and thickly below his jaw a collection of off white canvas straps cinched and held his head firmly in position looking straight up at the passing ceiling. Straps looped through rings in the canvas harness by his cheeks at at the top of his head meant he could look neither left, right nor up nor down. Assuredly, if he saw at all, he looked up and nowhere else.

But it was not possible to see if the man was seeing the ceiling tiles and lights as his gurney moved beneath them for even though the harness held him firm, it did not hold his head directly. His entire head, down to the collar about his neck, was covered by a leather hood, the same brown as the pinning straps. How it was fastened onto him it was not possible to say, but it was worn smooth in places where many such previous canvas harnesses had been applied with equal skill and security. At the eyes the hood leather sank in and, were we to see closer, we would be able to discern a peppering of tiny holes at the bottom of each such depression in the hide. Over the cheeks similarly, the hood had shaped and worn to the occupant’s contours: cheek bones could be made out, the form of the forehead and the slight indentations at the temples. A man clearly, but the hood gave him an almost stoically fixed expression. Presumably the mouth and lower jaw too were similarly cast but the straps of the head harness cupped and covered it. Only a slight darkening of the canvas where the man’s breath moistened the fabric, no doubt through a similar peppering of holes at the mouth, betrayed the existence of a life within.

Below the collared hood, we can see no skin. Instead a canvas shirt or vest crudely pinched and rucked around the pinion straps extends to the man’s waist and below that a similar extent of coarse material covers each leg and foot. Broad cuffs at the thighs and ankles pinned to the pad by other straps keep his knees and feet in check.

Strangely his feet offer the only sign of life, the only uncontrolled, unsanctioned movement of the whole scene. The skin, pink and vital, toes wriggling and his feet touching against each other frantically betray an inner panic visible nowhere else. This man is awake and he is frightened. 

December 21, 2012
Struggle - Part 1

The glow of the electric lighting reflected unevenly from the aging but clinically clean linoleum floor of the corridor. Sighting down the full length of the passageway, the likeness of each pale night light, spaced evenly at every doorway, shone back like a moon on water. For a moment, one flickered. It’s light falling away and then, with a faint hum of the wiring, relighting once more. Paler at first, less steady until, gradually, creeping back, it threw out the same thin light as the rest. 

There was no sense of the cool night air in here. Here it was warm, comfortable. Safe.  The calming, almost fragile light and the soft warm air induced an atmosphere of enduring stillness and inactivity. This was a place at rest, impassive and set apart from the world outside, quiet and secluded. No sound of the city street outside not a hundred yards away through the walls, penetrated here. The unnoticed sound of a single footfall would, were it heard in here, resound and echo, focus and deny the otherwise unbroken silence. No intruder, sight or sound or any other thing from without came within. 

Between the lights, the doors, each of them the same: broad and tall, windowless and paneled, painted an off-white the same as the walls with the floor only a tone darker. Two slats in each; one at eye-level the other at the waist and both of them lined with coated steel, latched and closed. Each door, each slat, latched with a catch in a uniform position and slid closed, the handle on each worn to a gleaming nub. Matching, ordered and collected points of light, in two rows the length of the corridor, three rooms to each side, two latches on each closed and shuttered. 

No scuffed keyholes or door handles. No marks on the walls, no smoothness to the paint worn matt through some habit of a shoulder leant against it. No patina on the doors where a hand might have pushed to bring it closed. No lasting, familiar sign of people passing here and yet, within the rooms, people. One in each and each identified by a small plaque bearing a name. Lastname followed by firstname. Patients. 

Passing from one door to the next and between them, listening at the slats, nothing but silence not even the slightest rhythm of breathing or stirring. Should a latch be drawn back and the interior viewed, the welcome respite of sleep from suffering of an occupant would no doubt be revealed. The ever watchful, impassive monitoring of the corridor’s cameras are a reminder that the silence and calm of this place are entirely imposed upon it. The depth and quality of the absence of stimulus have been created to absorb the temporary violence and anguish of its residents. Within a moment of any outrage or scream the torment would be retained within: dissipated and returned directly to the quiet and still.

But even so, this is a place of healing, a station on the route to recovery for its tenants. A natural and accredited phase of treatment for the ailing souls within. Make no mistake, these are real patients with real disturbances steadily progressing with their treatments; some of them just starting their recuperation, some almost ready to be moved elsewhere to complete their convalescence.

Except for one thing. At first glance it goes unnoticed, each door the same, each light and and seam and beam of the floor and ceiling identical and impersonal. But there is just one thing that, looking long enough, snags the attention. 

Looking from door to door. The same absence of a door handle, the same toughened hinges. The slats and latches all matched, metal worn bare from opening and closing, checking and rechecking. But there is something as yet unremarked, something out of place, something not quite right.

The second door on the left. Its name plate no different from those either side: a smooth white plastic coated board, named and affixed to the door, a small whiteboard bearing a patient’s name. The same size, the same card and named like all the rest. Named. Named in thick blue marker with a clear hand. The rest all blue, and all the same hand. Professional, a hand well used to being read by others, confident, open and legible. But the name. Not the name itself, but something. Something. 

Another door, a matching board, a name penned in marker, the same blue marker. The names of former guests rubbed away, wiped and smeared by hand, the new name on top. Clear and centred, the occupant’s name. On all of them. Back to the first door. The name, the pen, the name. Yes, but, a name. Just one name, one single name. That’s the difference! 

This card on this door, alone out of all the others, this one shows no sign of any previous note or label. Nothing removed or cleaned away. One occupant, no one before. Just and only him. Every other door, and for each room behind it, the name plate attached denotes a history of those previously enclosed and treated, presumably recovered and moved on. But this one door, the second on the left has, by all external signs, housed but one wretched soul throughout. One man whose struggle has assuredly taken a lengthier course. Three or four times, the doors either side of his have opened and closed to admit and dispense their charges. But all the while, his door, his room and his outlook have remained unchanged, isolated and alone.

Whatever the man, identified here as “Scott J.”, endures behind this door it is unlikely to be anything within the common experience of most. Whatever brought the thread of his life to such a place as this, cloistered from the world beyond, denied the acquaintance of others and the activity of his habits and environment, whatever it was, this plain door, plainly locked stands firm against the possibility of his lot improving.

Behind the latched slats in the door, but a few inches away and but for a moment’s effort to pull back and look inside his plight would be revealed. With a brief glance, some facet of his condition could be deduced, some sign of the violent tendencies that meant his incarceration here was wisest. Or perhaps some extended treatment still in progress would instantly explain his prolonged confinement. 

Only the metal latch, hand-worn and smooth, stands in the way of resolved curiosity. Pull back the latch and peer inside.


I wrote this story almost exactly two years ago but this is the first time it has been published. I hope you enjoy it and come back for more!

December 21, 2012
Next up…

The next story is more of a slow burner. Let me know what you think of it and how it goes.

Look out for the first part later today.

December 15, 2012
The Box - Chapter 9

The box itself now stood open on two sides, the front, where the captive had been loaded in and the top side. Each was hinged open and stood ready for closing up. He brought the front side up first, padded as the rest were, and closed it snug against the edges of the rest of the box. Clasps on the outside fastened over the edges, and once done up he turned his attention to the top. The top was a little different, still padded and designed to fit flush with the others, but in the center a number of different gauge tubes and pipes came through from the outside. Depending on the predicament of the victim he used these for various attachments to the restraints, but with this boy he used only one - a medium sized corrugated clear plastic pipe which he connected up to the breathing tube on the boy’s gag.

He held the free end of the pipe, outside the box, to his cheek for a few moments, checking to feel his boy’s breath was coming through properly. It was sweet and warm and in short, eager gasps.

Happy with this he brought the lid down and let it drop the last few inches.

Inside all the boy heard was a low thud, and then a distant sound of metal on metal, the padlocks being slipped into their anchor points, locked and let fall against the exterior of the box. The exterior. Outside, not inside here where he was. He had felt his encasement progress, but had no real idea anymore of what he looked like, he felt disoriented - was he still in the same room with the box, or elsewhere in some other device? Was he now to be left alone? Could he cum? He was desperate to cum, his dick was aching and straining for just one slight touch and he was sure he’d shoot.

He tried to struggle and pull against what held him, he fought and tried to beat it; he felt himself try and yell out as he put all his effort into not escaping, that seemed a remote fucking possibility, but just to get some movement over the end of his dick. Nothing he did brought any relief. The heat now was tremendous, the more he tugged at the rubber that held him firm, the more twisted and tight he wrung onto him.

With one desperate spasm of effort he tried to tense every sinue of muscle he had, and actually managed to force out a heavy scream from the excertion. But it was no use, he was no freer now that he had been before, just dizzy with the effort and swimming in his own sweat.

Defeated he sobbed at his own horniness, his hormones that had led him and his dick, no, he thought, these hormones that his dick had used to lead him here had now fucked him up completely. He was more worked up than he’d ever been, his dick hurt from the need to cum, his balls were numb and at that ecstatic point just before they churn and shoot and yet he had not one fucking single fucking way to fucking get off!

He much as his restraints enabled him to, he wept. He couldn’t help it, he was that frustrated.

In the moments between the sobs he felt the plug get heavier and seem to pull downwards out of his butt. His insides, he reckoned, had had enough of it and were forcing it out.

But then he was pulled straight out of his sobbing as he distinctly felt the plug lurch back up into it, almost making him jump - if that were possible still. And then nothing. Another sob escaped him, the tears adding to the sweat bathing his motionless head. Then it happened again. Slowly the plug felt heavier and started to pull out of him, ever so gradually, then snap back.

This happened over and over, he couldn’t keep track of how many times, he started to become lost in the feeling it gave him, rubbing gently, slightly, but definitely over his prostate.

Then it all stopped. He had been on the wave of anticipation of it pulling down again but it didn’t. He wanted it to start again, he wanted it to keep doing it, keep moving. In sympathy he tried to suck in his stomach and release it over and over to try and mimic the movement, but it wasn’t the same.

It started again, but more definite. This time instead of snapping back in, it rose as gradually as it fell, as though it were really fucking him. He knew his mind must be playing tricks on him, but it really felt like he was being slowly fucked by the massive thing.

When it started to get faster and deeper, he knew it wasn’t just his testosterone picked brain that was making it up - the plug was actually moving. Fuck that, it wasn’t moving it was fucking him, fast. Ramming into him hard, then pulling back slowly this time, stretching against the rubber straps of his strait-jacket and forcibly fucking him.

What he hadn’t known was that the plug shoved into him earlier had a steel core, not big enough to feel, but solid enough to snag a good enough magnet if brought close enough. Aside from the strict bondage of keeping the boy’s back and body entirely motionless, the point of getting his butt into the corner was to position the plug over a large electromagnet beneath the base of the box. By varing the strength and frequency of this he was able to control the movement of the plug inside the captive’s butt. The rubber bondage itself prevented the captive from pushing the plug out, but the pull on the steel core was enough to pull against it, only to be forced back inside as soon as the power was cut.

In this way he could make it fuck whoever had been stored inside the box any way he chose; from a gentle, barely noticable pulse in and out, to a full-on rough fucking that would grab every ounce of the captive’s attention in their need to get more of it.

He set it on moderate fuck and, after rechecking the breathing tube and feeling the stored boy’s breath fast and desparate, he sat down to listen to the suffering. The sounds, the gasps, the strangled howls - he loved them all.

The fucking didn’t stop now, it was hard but the shape of the plug hit his prostate head-on every time in shot back in and jolted his dick almost to the point of orgam again and again. It was relentless, it never changed its tempo, it never tired of course, the fucking thing, it just kept on going, hard and fast and totally without feeling for his dick.

He didn’t want to hold out, he wanted to cum, and when after fuck knows how long of being pounded it tipped him over the edge he felt his dick just explode, his balls pulled right up, tight and churning, load after load, he couldn’t breath, he couldn’t breath. He pulled and pulled on the gag to try and draw air in, but nothing. Fuck, fuck fuck.

He had heard the slave begin to climax and at just the right moment had stoppered the breathing tube. If the boy’s orgasm wasn’t going to be powerful enough, this would ensure it would be totally unforgetable.

As his dick kept shooting, but he still couldn’t breath. He fought hard, harder than he had before, his life depended on it. But the fucking kept going and he was still on the crest of his orgasm.

Feeling he’d denied him long enough, and stopping short of making the slave faint, he opened up the pipe and felt the rush of air being dragged into it. He smiled to himself, and left the boy in the box, stored and packed away to enjoy the agony of the severity of his bondage post-orgasm. By this time tomorrow he’d be ready enough to do it over again and he wouldn’t have moved an inch!

December 8, 2012
The Box - Chapter 8

The next piece of restraint for his slave was a strait-jacket…

His Master brought the strait-jacket back from the far end of the playroom where it had been stored with some of the other larger pieces of restraint he often used; his boy laid out on the table was still trying to keep still but had taken to gently and ever so slightly pushing his butt down into the padding and thereby gaining some little leverage with the plug. He let him do this for a moment or two until the slave started to moan and then firmly slapped the slave’s dick through the restraints. This elicited what would have been a yelp and a well caught instinctive attempt to move his hands to his dick’s protection. He would have been disappointed if the boy hadn’t caught this reflex and he smiled to himself that already the boy was learning.

Getting the jacket on was not as difficult as it sometimes was when he’d gotten slaves to this point of the storage process; occasionally they had already decided they wanted out and wrestling the strait-jacket onto them took time and considerable effort. In fact the last time that had happened had made him rethink just how much of the impending captivity he let the slaves see before beginning the encasement. Certainly the desperate struggling and fight for freedom had its plus points and he still wasn’t sure if should hood a victim early on since this deprived them of a view of the box up-close, and deprived him of seeing their reaction to it.

He had swung the boy around on the table so that his bound legs hung over the side and he was otherwise sitting up - with this particularly sensative boy the pressure this put on the rubber inside his ass probably kept him from resisting too much. Easing the thick, cold rubber of the jacket up the boy’s arms he noticed him pull back slightly, almost a hesitant jesture, as he came to realise what was being put on him. He held the jacket in both hands by either side of the collar and pulled it up firmly onto the boy’s shoulders, it felt icy cold even to him and he could see the boy shivering. Ignoring this he deftly turned the slave over again back up onto the table but now face down, restrained legs out stretched behind him. Sometimes they panicked at this point with their faces pushed down into the leather padding of the table, feeling their breath, hot and damp off its surface whilst the last hope of their freedom was strapped away. But this one didn’t - perhaps it was better to hood them early.

The jacket was extensive and secure - the back strapped up and padlocked over each buckle, as with the leg-sack he fastened each first then returned to yank the final bit of slack from each before securing them. The 2” high collar of it, now flush with the rest of the boy’s rubbered body fastened shut with two smaller straps - smaller but no less secure. The crotch straps of a regular jacket were, on this jacket, used instead to secure it to the leg-sack; the anchor points on the legs were reinforced to take the strain and set at angles to ensure the best possible alignment with the jacket. This made it possible to  pull the jacket tighter down onto the slave whilst pulling the restraints on the legs up and more secure at the same time - they had been made to work together and held the victim well.

The arms he pulled thru loops in the sides of the jacket and behind the boy’s back. Here they were attached and padlocked. A final strap was fastened at the front over the boy’s wrists - padlocking this with a satisfying click he left off the pinion straps above the elbows as it would only get in the way later on.

The boy was now his; encased in rubber, restrained without any hope of escape, each part of him controlled, every opening plugged and each limb rendered useless. But not yet entirely dehumanized.

He felt his slave trembling, despite the thickness of the rubber, as he carried him to the box - some mixture of fear and anticipation, it no longer mattered which. Sitting the boy into the box he pushed his back flat against the rear side, and nudged his butt into the edge. The first retaining belt came across the boy’s waist immediately below his folded and restrained arms. The strap, broad, thick leather buckled tightly squeezing the boy back into the heavy padding of the box. The boy squirmed a little. The next strap across the chest was difficult to get on as he get to bring the ends between the captive’s arms and pecs, but once threaded through, this also was pulled firm and buckled. Not happy with the tension, he unbuckled it and, placing his boot on the boy’s chest, yanked hard and closed it up again. This had the effect of winding the captive but still it was necessary to ensure he became as well fastened into his prison as possible.

Two smaller straps at the same height retained the boy’s upper arms to the back of the box, effectively cutting off any previously possible upper body motion. This was the point where he usually hooded them, that way they’d see how cramped the box actually was on the inside with all the padding and besides, the wide-eyed look of panic on their faces as the rubber hood came down over them could be quite special. But with this boy, he didn’t sound to have that much experience, and he’d wanted to make sure that if he did freak out, it wasn’t until he was safely locked away and couldn’t harm himself in the struggle.

This now was the hardest part, for him, as well as the captive. Taking hold of his bound up ankles in both hands and crouching in front of the boy he slowly pushed allowing the knees to bend upwards and steadily forcing the boy’s feet back towards his butt. It was hard because of the tightness and thickness of the restraints already around the slave’s legs, but by pushing back slowly it was possible to get the feet to almost touch the ass. The added benefit of his strain in the rubber was that the straps holding the jacket to the leg-sack at the back crossed over the plug so that when the boy bent at the knees these tightened and raped the boy’s hole relentlessly pushing the plug right into him.

This was obviously driving the boy mad, as the sounds escaping from the gag were low and guttural, sick with the need to cum. Just how he should be.

He fastened a leather cuff around the boy’s ankles and secured it by two chains to the far back corners - this held the tension perfectly and preventing the slave shuffling his legs at all in any effort to get comfortable. Two additional chains clipped to the leg-sack straps at the knees and the side walls of the box, thereby preventing even any side to side movement of any part of his legs. Some captives had been able to swing their knees from side to side and thereby rub their dicks along the inside of the rubber - this in turn had allowed them to cum. Certainly he wanted them to cum, but on his terms, not theirs.

The last and final attachments were around the captive’s head - a broad strap over the forehead, secured and locked, and a chin strap going diagonally up the sides of his head and attaching to the back of the box. With the snap of this padlock the boy was rendered motionless.

Looking at the boy held there, sucken into the padding, he saw him flex and heave at his bonds, but there was no real give anywhere and yet, from the stabbing grunts coming from the boy, each flex and each pull against the restraints was taking considerable effort.

December 3, 2012
The Box - Chapter 7

The boy’s visual record of his ordeal had ended as the hood had been fitted over his head; its thickness virtually unyielding to even the smallest attempted movement of his jaw. The shock of the massive plug had made him try and scream, but he’d not even been able to do this properly, rather instead sending a shock of pain through his jaw and neck as he involuntarily tried to throw open his mouth.


This, in turn had caused him problems with the gag, again almost choking him as it threatened to trigger his, as yet untamed, gag reflex. Now, for a few moments he was left alone, panting hard and testing the restraints occasionally with agitated struggles: but, of course, he was still held firm. Through the thickness of the hood he could just about make out the sounds of his snorting breathing from the end of the thick mouth tube, that and the slight vibration it made across the rubber of his face.


His master watched this for a few minutes, the sporadic struggling that gradually got less and less frantic as the boy accepted his predicament; the coughing flecks of spit that came out of the gag and the way the boy trying to adjust his feet, still not yet covered in rubber, as his legs no doubt began to ache more and more from their almost rigid bondage, inner thighs pulled taut to the sides of the cage.


Eventually he detected the boy sigh deeply and let his head fall gently to the bars of the top of the cage, finally admitting that there was no way he could free himself and that whatever his master wanted to do to him was going to happen whether he liked it or not. This was what he had been waiting for; the last voluntary submission the boy could make, or would make for quite some time.  He now had him physically controlled by the restraints and mentally subdued by the boy’s own admission that he was trapped.


He knew the boy would fight and struggle and perhaps even panic later on as the reality of his storage set in, but for now at least he wanted the boy reasonably relaxed if only to add another dip to the emotional rollercoaster of his captivity.


With the boy now breathing regularly, and the only movements being made were simply those to settle himself more comfortably over the cage, he set about untying the boy’s legs. As each knot came free he held the slave’s flesh firmly where it had been held and rubbed it deeply, working his circulation back to normal. With one limb now entirely free of the bars of the cage he deliberately straightened it and placed the boy’s foot back on the floor, ensuring that the slave knew that this was the position his master wanted him to keep it in whilst he freed the other.


Having unfastened both legs the boy had his feet together and slightly away from the cage to which the rest of him was still firmly secured. The pressure this placed on the plug pushing up inside him make the boy squirm and moan gently, either through pleasure because of the attention his prostate was now getting or discomfort because of the overwhelming size of it - he wasn’t sure which. Either way, the sounds his slave was making were welcome and the sight of his butt moving slowly around the plug, the base of which could clearly be seen through the tight rubber, made his own dick swell. He allowed the boy to continue subtly adjusting himself to the size and shape of it, no doubt trying to settle it to some more comfortable or more pleasurable position, whilst he got out the next item of restraint the boy would have to endure.


Made from thick but well moulded rubber it was the size and shape of a small sleeping-bag and tapered towards the closed end. The heavy-duty zip that ran the length of it was supplemented by a set of wide straps that wrapped the whole way around it at regular intervals, held in place by loops riveted into the rubber.


Unzipping it and moving the free ends of the straps to either side he placed it on the floor beneath the boy’s legs, lifting his feet momentarily to place them back just inside the narrow end of the opened sack.


Inside, the boy felt the difference in surface texture beneath his feet and began to wonder what was happening next, he had heard nothing much for a while now except occasional vibrations transmitted up through the cage and his body. But he couldn’t really tell what these meant or what was going on; the disorientation welled up inside him causing him almost to panic. No sound at all, rather than this surreal bass from time to time, would have been easier to take he thought.


As one peak of anxiety began to subside he was able to think more clearly was aware of his feet being slipped into something cold but soft. The texture under his bare feet was now slick and smooth, cool but not as cold as the concrete floor had been - he knew this to be more rubber.  This change in sensation caught him off-guard as he’d been pre-occupied with his near panic from the floating disorientation. Instinctively he tensed and tried to bring his legs in under him, but in doing so he found out exactly what had changed.


The tightening sensation he felt along the back of his thighs confirmed his fears; his master pulled the zip up along the rubber leg-sack slowly and deliberately from his slave’s feet to the top of his legs. As the zip closed it pulled in the thick rubber behind it, binding his legs tightly together as it went. To the boy this felt cold at first as though this new rubber was in contact with his skin directly; and tight, tight as though it held the muscles of his calves and thighs firm, almost solid.


Running his hands over this new surface his Master searched expertly for any ridges or creases in the rubber, places where it had become stuck to the thinner first layer of rubber underneath. Where he found one he carefully eased it out and smoothed it away. He felt the tension in the slave’s body, the flexing of his muscles under his hands as the he began the process of getting accustomed to this further restriction of his movement. For now his legs were at least still mobile, albeit as a single unit.


His master pulled firmly up on the zip to ensure it was all the way home, and then with a small padlock, secured it to a retaining ring fixed at the top of the sleeve to ensure it could not slip down. He now concentrated on doing up the five straps down the length of it, they wrapped around it snuggly at the ankles, just below the knee and immediately above it, another at the mid-thigh and a final one around the top just below the boy’s butt.


With each fastened up to an initial tension, he rebuckled each again, pulling more firmly to make the package tighter and more confining. Each belt was wide enough, and the underlying rubber thick enough, that the edges of the belts would not result in any pressure sores, but the boy would definitely feel the squeeze all over!

When he was satisfied with this, and sweating from the exertion of it he stood back and took in the boy’s situation. It was clear the boy was uncomfortable from the kicking of his bound legs, obviously trying to buck the leg-sack off, and the pitiable wailing coming through the gag. He stood behind his slave, his legs either side of his captive as though about to fuck him. Using one hand, he gently applied pressure to the base of the plug and kept it there. The boy didn’t stop his moaning and whimpering, but the nature of it changed: his legs stopped tensing and flexing and fell instead to the floor. His head slowly moved as much as it could, back and sideways clearly overwhelmed by the pleasure the plug was giving him.


He had not expected simple pressure on the plug to make the boy forget the aching bondage in his legs so easily, he put the boy’s eager acceptance of sexual pleasure down to his inexperience. But that didn’t stop him going further.  Now, instead of just pushing against the plug he held his fist against it and pushed it and ground it around. 

The response this got was immediate. 

The slave instantly fought frantically, trashing from side to side and howling fiercely into the gag. But this struggle was not some concerted effort to get free, this was totally different. It was a primal show of desperation, the tidal wave of sexual frustration caused by this attack on his ass was more than the boy could handle; this struggle was an instinctual need to get fucked by the plug buried inside him, it was a struggle his own body created to make the plug make him cum.


Enough of that; he certainly was not about to let the boy cum. He brought his fist away quickly, leaving no pressure on the plug and no movement against the boy’s prostate. The struggles from this were almost as violent; the boy now fought against his restraints, not because he had become aware of his aching legs, but because he didn’t want his master to stop playing with his plug. The boy kicked aggressively, progressively getting more angry and frustrated. The whimpering and pleading moans changing again; no longer those of a horny worked up slaveboy, but those of a hungry desperate and denied captive. The boy’s obedience and willingness to submit had momentarily left him as his body argued with his Master for more attention.


Watching the struggling, his Master knew it must be causing the boy a great deal of pain; what movement he had left in his upper body would only have meant that the twisting and fighting would leave him sore, and the way he thrashed his head around would probably have left him dazed in different circumstances.  But this is exactly where he wanted the boy; aware of his dick, aware of his need to cum, aware of his own captivity, but equally aware that he could do nothing about any of them.


The fight subsided and the boy slumped, the whimpering had stopped and now all he could hear was the sound of the boy sobbing. He touched his broken boy’s shoulders, holding them firmly in his hands. This sudden feeling of his Master touching him caused the boy to raise his head and try to rub it gently against his owner’s forearms. Not in any attempt to gain favour for a resumption of the plug fucking, but as a sign of trust and submission.


With the boy still sobbing he quickly released the rest of the restraints holding him to the cage and lifted him up from it. Even without the leg-sack he doubted the boy would have been able to walk either because of the plug or the exhaustion his struggling had caused. 

He laid him out on a padded bondage table just across from the cage and let him lay there resting for a moment. He held his hand firmly down on the boy’s chest to ensure he got the message not to move.


The boy kept as still as he could, totally unsure now of his surroundings and completely out of touch to which way he was facing or where in the playroom he was.  

Satisfied that his slave was compliant, his Master took out the next item of restraint.

December 1, 2012
The Box - Chapter 6

He was unable to think properly now. Scared of what was happening to him. Fighting with the desire to trust himself in this man’s hands, and the will to curl up and protect himself. 

Knowing what the boy was going through, the man spoke soothingly to him, calming him down, reassuring the boy. Still though, the slave was gulping air in hard through the gag’s breathing pipe, almost choking it back out again. Flecks of spit spluttered out with every exhale, but gradually, slowly, ever so slowly, getting used to its bulk in his mouth and towards his throat. But he would have to cope, it was in there to stay now.

But the man wasn’t finished with the boy yet either. Sooner or later he would be able to settle down with the gag, and perhaps even find some comfort despite it, so he reached for a hood. It was a thick rubber, almost rigid in fact which he began to peel down over the slave’s head. 

At first the boy struggled anew with this, but a couple of similar, sharp slaps to his balls brought him back into line quickly. Within a few moments, as the boy willed himself to be calm, he was able to continue pulling the hood down over the boy’s naked head, with only the sound of his breathing, now hard and febrile, and the ragged rise and fall of his back as his chest pulled the air in and stuttered it out again.

With a snap the hood found it home and fitted around the boy’s head perfectly. Although made from thick rubber, it was shaped and moulded at the front so that the boy felt his chip slip into a dip which might almost have been made to measure. The only holes in the hood were those through which his head had been pushed, and which now lined up with the high collar of the rubber top he already wore, and a round grommeted hole in the front through which his breathing pipe was threaded.

The hood effectively fastened the boy’s jaw closed, tightly compressing it into the gag inside his mouth, the result being that not only was the boy’s head covered in rubber, but it was virtually completely filled with it as well wherever possible. He patted the boy’s head through the rubber and was pleased to hear a couple of pleasant sounding puppy moans come from within. From their passage through the gag and tubing these pitiable sounds had an almost industrial quality to them now.

If the boy had had a moment for rational thought, he might have known what to expect next. But as it was he was busy coping with the feeling of the rapidly warming rubber now encasing his head and which isolated him to a large extent from the sights and sounds of the outside world, the world within his Master’s playroom. 

Often with rubber hoods, the boy found that he could still make out shapes and bright lights as the rubber was stretched tightly over his face, but not with this one. It was just darkness. No shadows of the bars, or sparkles from the overhead lights reflected off the metal and rubber around the room which had filled his field of vision only a minute ago.

In an instant he was brought back to reality as he felt ice cold lube being rubbed against his exposed, and vulnerable butt, his Master’s fingering expertly pushing in then letting them slip out, rubbing the lube around and in, and over and then adding more, pushing it in a little further with each probing. The boy’s mouth fell dry and he caught himself only just in time before retching on the tip of the gag’s tube as it attempting to tickle the back of his throat. How could he concentrate on everything going on, how could he cope with the gag, his now aching legs and tightly rubbered body. Only his dick, his balls and his deeply lubed ass were free of rubber, save for his feet now getting colder by the second as they rested on the harsh concrete floor.

Then nothing. His Master’s touch had gone, no feeling. Nothing was touching him, except the steel of the cage and the ropes that bound him to it. Unused to the thickness of the hood and the effect it had on his ability to listen, he brought his head up and cocked it slightly to one side, intent to listen for any clue of what had happened to his Master.

And then he knew. Pushed firmly at his ass he felt the tip of a plug. Trying to relax and push back as he could, he wanted to get it in him. Just begging if he could, to be touched.

He turned the plug slowly, rotating it, pushing against his boy’s eager hole, watching him greedily trying to get onto it. Then pushing hard, allowed the first of the plug proper to enter the slave. The shape of the plug made it possible to get it inside in stages: three bulbs each larger than the next making the whole about 8” long and 2” at its widest. As the first slipped in, the boy - clearly enjoying it - froze, lifted his head a little and then softly whimpered in pleasure, perhaps thinking that this was the extent of the plug.

He turned it again, then turned it the other way, enjoying the sounds this produced from the excited slave boy. But now pushing again further in, which caused the boy to draw in air quickly through the tube and suddenly to throw open his outstretched, tethered hands, pushing his own head down into the bars, a picture of concentration.

Smearing more lube around the part of the plug still outside, he turned it faster now, but kept up the pressure inwards. The second bulb had not yet gone it, but he felt that only a little more pressure separated that moment from now. Keeping the boy at this point, wanting more, being stretched, eager and greedy to get it in. He let the moment linger, turning the plug the other way, keeping the force just short of ramming the second bulb in. And then he pressed through it, shoving it in, and pushing the second of the three bulbs in. He hardened from the yelp that the boy tried earnestly to let out.

But he wasn’t through; without letting the pressure up he slammed the third and final bulb into the boys now well stretched hole without giving him a chance to get his breath from the shock of the size of the second. As soon as it was shoved home the boy’s muscles clamped quickly around the narrow neck of the plug, cruelly forcing his body retain it. This created a moment on near total panic in the boy’s limited movements, but it got the worse of that ordeal over for him quickly - a luxury he would have less of when he would be moved to the box.

Whilst the boy was trying to recover from the pain of the intrusion into his ass, his Master busied himself untying the boy’s balls and stuffing them back away again in the rubber jeans. If the boy composed himself quickly enough he would try and force the plug back out to a more comfortable point; this wasn’t going to happen! Deftly he pulled the zip closed, trapping the plug inside him with no way out, and piping his painfully swollen dick awkwardly down one leg, adding its own lubricant to the sweat already building up there.

He looked at his rubbered slave boy, admiring now how much he was already transformed from the preppy sub that had knocked at the door, to a whimpering, aching, cum-hungry dog boy ready for the box. Well almost ready, he had his first skin of rubber on; but this was too thin and delicate to have any straps or restraints placed directly over it for any serious length of time. The main rubber suit, key to holding the boy in storage had to go on next.

November 30, 2012
The Box - Chapter 5

He pulled the boy from the room, on two legs, but he’d learn eventually, and back in the main part of the out-house with the box. As he led him around it, he felt the boy pulling slightly towards it, clearly wanting to get a better look at it. He’d get a much closer look soon enough, he thought as he smiled to himself and brought the boy to the far end of the

room by the cage.

The cage had four heavy duty rings welded to the top side that he usually used to suspend it from the ceiling, but with the cage down on the concrete floor they served equally well as anchor points for boys being prepared. He pushed the boy against it, his waist just level with the top, then forced him to bend forwards across the cold iron bars.

As he moved around to the far side away from the boy, he could see the goosebumps come up along the back on his neck down to the rubber as the cold from the bars crept through his new skin. Pulling each arm roughly he buckled the slave’s wrists into restraints already waiting at the ends of two chains from the rings furthest away from where the boy was bent over the cage, he’d shorten those later, but for now he just needed to get him

fixed into position.

Down by the slave’s bare feet were two similar restraints, he held the boy’s feet firmly as he attached the leather straps tightly, feeling the boy gently shivering. With this done, he then unclipped the wrist restraints and dragged the boy’s arms as far as they’d go and re-attached them to the chains thereby stretched the boy taut over the cage.

The boy had his head looking down into the cage between his out stretched arms, resting on the bars. He looked at the leather covered mat lining the inside of the cage and wondered who had last been in there and what had happened to them. He could make out smudges of lube on the leather from where a slave had sat with something up his butt. His cock twitched.

Standing behind the boy he took hold of the zip on the jeans and slowly drew it open, first down along the boy’s ass then all the way forwards letting his dick hang out. As it fell out, long clear ropes of precum connected it back to rubber, and it hung there pointing straight ahead through the cage towards the boy’s chest, his balls were a good size and hung there responding with slight movements as the boy’s dick occasionally dipped and twitched.

Taking two lengths of rope he would each round the slave’s legs just below the knee, making 4 turns on each. Tying a good strong knot to prevent the loops slipping he then tied off each piece of rope to the side of the cage, pulling the boy’s knees wide apart and effectively holding them rigidly to the cage. This left everything hanging freely and spread his butt cheeks well.

He stood back, a kodak moment perhaps? The turns of the rope, white against the glossy black of the rubber looked hot, and the small movements the boy was trying to make to ease the strain on his legs forced out into that position were quite cute. 

Not quite ready yet though. 

He always used the same rope, magicians rope which was all cotton without any nylon core, which ensured the knots never slipped.  A further length of it he tied around the boy’s balls, tugging them firmly with a couple of turns of the cord, and tying it off with a short length just loose. As he handled the slave’s balls, he boy let out some gentle whimpers, clearly very turned on by being restrained, and bead after bead of precum now flowed out of his cock down the rope of older precum that had been attached to the rubber. 

Some of it got on his hands, and when he put them under the boy’s nose he started licking it off slowly but completely, savouring every moment of it. The boy clearly wasn’t confused about his role any more!

"Good boy, good boy", he said softly

When he’d licked it all off he thanked his Master dutifully with the meekest voice he’d ever heard. But the boy had to take pain as well as pleasure, so what happened next probably came as a rude awakening. He cupped his tied off balls in one hand, the other still being licked even though it was already more than clean, and then mid-lick, squeezed hard. Instantly, the boy tried to double up from the pain as it built up in the pit of his stomach, but he couldn’t and simply slammed his head into the bars. It’s good when a boy’s instincts cause him more discomfort.

He was obviously trying to get up off the cage as his feet were working back and forth as though trying to stand up. But he wasn’t going anywhere; he started to howl and then he started to plead.

"Aahh, let go!"

"Let go of me!"

"Aarghhh, please Sir, please SIR!"

He let go, but not before squeezing just a bit harder which made the boy jolt and yelp wonderfully. He sagged back onto the cage, no longer trying to get off, his cock still standing out proudly, but the cords of precum had come off and there was now a pool of it just inside the cage on the mat. He pulled on the rope round the slave’s balls, making them stick out behind him and pointing his dick straight down. He saw his body tense, anticipating what was to come next. He tied the rope off to a hook on the wall, fixing his slave’s genitals in that position and then stood alongside his stretched out body, running his hands up and down the boy’s back and then his head. Just watching his slave. 

Watching as in a few moments the boy turned his head to look at his Master, wondering why nothing had happened. Then a few more minutes passing, the slave getting daring, and starting to push back and pull forwards as much as he can to try and get some leverage on his cock.

Out of the sight of his boy, he reached up to the shelves above the cage and rooted around for something. This much the boy could now hear, but could not turn to see what it was. His movements, as limited as they were, became more inquisitive and adventurous as he determined to twist enough by some means in order to see what his Master was doing.

Then he found it and brought it down in front of the boy’s face, but just out of reach. The boy saw it and immediately clamped his mouth shut, whimpering and trying to pull his head as far away from it as possible. The gag was the size and shape of a small fist and made out of solid black rubber. The shape was a little strange, but the boy quickly recognized that this was meant to fit snuggly within his mouth and fill it completely.

But the degree to which it would obviously have filled and stretched his jaw wasn’t the bit that frightened the boy; it was the thick tube that ran through the gag, going an inch further inside its victim, and hanging out about a foot on the outside. Surely if that went in him he’d spend the whole time concentrating on keeping his gag reflex in check, or he’d be in serious trouble.

The boy was adamant that this gag was not going in him, but his Master had expected this and from where he was standing alongside the boy, with the gag held in front of his face with one hand, he brought the other down firmly on the boy’s tethered balls, illiciting an immediate and pitiful scream. But it was short lived of course, no sooner was his head thrown back in pain, and his mouth opened to scream than the gag was deftly shoved in.

Realising his position the boy fought hard to push the gag back out, but his tongue was held down firmly in the bottom of his mouth by the sheer bulk and shape of it. Now he really did start to panic, trying desparately to writhe out of his bonds and kick himself away from the cage over which he was securely stretched, but he managed only to pull on his arms painfully and slap his dick against the cold bars of the door of the cage between which it was still pointing straight down and steadily leaking despite his fear.