442 The Stowage
Part 1 of 4
Clayton stood before the door of what looked like a loft building converted from a warehouse. It had a heavy, cold feel as it sat in a mix of other buildings, ranging from condos to old houses to storage facilities. Even though there were streetlights, the area was dark because they were dim and far apart, and it was a moonless night. It looked to Clayton like an area that was starting to be renovated and had a long way to go.
Clayton was there, in the area, to attend some business nearby. He had flown into Detroit to participate in a meeting for his company in Ann Arbor. He could have gone more directly to Ann Arbor, but he intentionally wanted this detour to come to this "house" to visit this fellow he had met on the internet that encouraged him to visit. He was a leather top, and Clayton was quite curious about it this never-before-tried fetish. He did have second thoughts about meeting the mysterious "Bossman," as he was called in the ad, but ... he was here now.
The only interesting thing he'd noticed about the place was the huge motorcycle parked outside, which he'd seen as soon as he'd turned the corner at the top of the road and started checking the house numbers. Clayton didn't know much about bikes, he didn't even have a license, but he found them exciting; some bikes just looked hot, and a cute guy in leathers and a pair of motocross boots sitting on a machine like that always got him hard. So he knew this must be the right house; this had to be the guy from the ad.
Still standing by the door, he looked at his watch. It was 2:56 PM. He'd said three o'clock. Clayton licked his lips. His mouth felt dry - he was nervous. Should he knock now or walk around the block and be exactly on time? This guy had sounded a bit harsh on the phone; maybe arriving early was being disobedient or something negative. He wasn't really into the master-slave scene, but he had been fantasizing about experiencing bondage. Clayton was so into the type of session the guy had described in his ad he just had to try it, at least once, by a pro. Weirdly he said, "Yes Sir!" at the end of the phone call, with a grin to himself; I mean, it sounded too contrived and artificial to call another guy "Sir." After all, "Sir" or "Bossman" was really his equal, a bondage enthusiast to play with. That's it. They were just going to do a play scene like on a stage, he thought to himself.
Clayton didn't want to screw up his one chance to connect with this guy by showing up early, so he stepped back from the door and continued down the road. By now, he wasn't sure whether to go or stay. Despite his nervousness, his dick was semi-hard as he thought about what they'd discussed on the phone. Some of what he'd said couldn't be real; it was just way too intense - you couldn't tie someone like that. It was more as if he was describing a full bondage scene that was horny but just not possible. Hell, maybe this guy was jerking off, wouldn't be in, or didn't even live there. No, he had to live there, the bike was parked outside, and he said he was a biker. And if what Bossman described was for real, he was in for it big time.
His cock responded to this and started rubbing on his jeans even more, which made things worse still. He was told to dress in whatever clothes made him feel the most excited, but no underwear or socks. "Fuck, it's 3 PM!" Clayton bounded back up the stairs, stood there, rechecked the address number, and knocked. He looked at his watch again. It was now 3.01 PM. He knocked again, looked around behind him across the road, and glanced at his watch again. His attention was back to the door, and he saw a buzzer and pressed it. Behind the mottled glass of the outer door, he saw some movement, then it opened.
Dry-mouthed again, he weakly forced out a "Hello." This guy was a good six, or at least seven inches taller than Clayton, with broader shoulders, about 30. Clayton was 24, but it wasn't this physical stature that was superior to Clayton's. It was what the man was wearing that captured his full attention. Clayton first thought it was all leather clothing, but upon closer inspection, it was not leather at all, but rather all rubber, tailored perfectly to fit snugly. He was only a couple of feet away and could smell the heat from the man's body and the heady smell of the rubber. Clayton's cock leaped, and Bossman looked down at it showing through his jeans.
Bossman hadn't said anything yet. He was looking at the young man on his doorstep. Clayton looked up again, almost thinking this must be the wrong place. The expression on the man's face was set, and he just looked down at him. "Hello... sir?" Clayton said, forcing the words out.
"Better, boy. Inside!"
Clayton went in and just stood in the hallway, not sure what to do or what to say, so he just looked ahead further into the house. The man closed the door behind him. He jumped and turned around to see the man grinning at him.
"So, you made it then, boy? But you're late!"
"I didn't mean to be... Sir," he said. It was still difficult to use such a term of superior respect to a guy his own age and, for all Clayton knew, his own - or even lesser - social status.
Then Bossman just came at him, grabbed him by the elbows, turned him around roughly, and pushed him against the wall. Grabbing his wrists, he forced them up behind his back painfully towards his neck. Clayton resisted as best he could. He hadn't been expecting this, but the man was more muscular than he was. Being held there, Clayton's shoulders were throbbing from the strain in his arms. He felt the man's face come close to his ear.
"You will learn to do as you are told, boy. Is that clear?" He wasn't sure what to say. He'd only been a minute late. What was the big deal? And why was he being called a "boy" when he was 24?
"I said, is that clear, cunt?" He said while yanking the boy's wrists further up his back.
"Yes, Sir!" he yelled as quickly as possible, clenching his eyes shut to keep out the pain.
Bossman let go, pushing him to the floor and pinning him under one knee. He unclipped rigid handcuffs from his belt and snapped them on the boy in a single fluid movement. He let them ratchet on tightly so they dug into his skin, eliciting another yelp. Then he rotated him onto his back, crushing his cuffed hands behind him. He looked into the boy's face. Clayton looked startled and a little apprehensive, but that was good. He reached up and ruffled the boy's hair. "That has to go!"
He grinned down at nicely proportioned Clayton, a clean-cut guy with preppy-looking neat-cropped hair and wearing his designer jeans. He felt his muscle-toned arms and his thighs, all with the "boy" watching him, puppy-eyed but silent. He assumed he worked out regularly, which fitted in with the cocky attitude he'd had on the phone, full of himself, probably a typical pushy bottom.
"Get up, boy," he barked at Clayton, who then struggled back onto his front, onto his knees, and finally, unsteadily, onto his feet. Clayton looked down and noticed his dick was still making a large bulge in his crotch. Suddenly embarrassed, he looked up at Bossman to see if he'd noticed. He had.
"That's good, boy," he said as he laughed at the boy's innocence, "Ready then, boy?"
Clayton just nodded and said, "Yes, Sir."
He took the boy by the collar of his jacket and pulled him along behind him through the house and out to the back door. He opened it and started to walk outside, dragging the boy behind him. At the step, the boy hesitated, unsure about being led around outside, but he was just pulled along with a sharp tug, so he followed.
Bossman led him into a small, separate brick building at the far end of the yard, pushed him into one corner, then turned to lock the door and switch on the lights. What Clayton saw when the room lit up made his jaw drop. Everything the man had told him on the phone had been true. A large black wooden box was on a raised platform at the far end of the room, no more than three feet along each side. It looked like a giant jack-in-the-box with the top hinged open, thickly padded, and lined with rubber.
Several straps, some long, some short, hung from the lid where they were riveted on and indented into the padding. The outside was very plain except for the glint from the tops of the bolts that held the sides together, heavy bolts. The wood must have been an inch thick.
Bossman watched the boy take it all in and stepped over behind him. "No going back from this point, boy."
"No, Sir," he said absentmindedly as he looked around the room. Chains hung from the ceiling almost everywhere; some had shackles attached to the ends; another had a massive metal helmet swinging from it. There was a sling just behind the box and a sturdy metal cage on the other side. Shelves, about two feet above the cage, had stacks of rubber sheeting or clothing, he couldn't tell which, and on the wall next to those were every conceivable restraint, each neatly on its own hook.
Stowage, meaning something to be stored, was the word Bossman had used in the ad as well as on the phone with him. Clayton would become Bossman's stowage. Clayton had looked around through the contact mags and website for ages, maybe even a year or more, for someone into real, aggressive, "long-term bondage," the ad said. To Clayton, "long-term" meant from five or six hours to as long as overnight. Clayton wanted good honest, unyielding, escape-proof bondage for about 12 hours. So when this guy said the word stowage, his cock wouldn't let him say no.
At this point, the boy turned his head to look at the man who'd roughly cuffed him just a few moments ago and wondered if it was a good idea to let himself become stored by Bossman or anyone else. We all have fantasies, but when it comes right down to it, many of us realize that the actual submission to those fantasies might be too difficult to go through within reality.
Bossman liked this kid's cockiness and the daringness that brought him here. "Lights out time!"
"Sir?" Clayton asked, looking suddenly confused, only to feel a firm hand grip the back of his head and another hand come up to his face and cover it with a rag.
In one swift movement, he kicked the boy's feet from under him and held the rag there until he went out. The boy struggled a bit, but only enough to realize his hands were still trapped and that the cuffs were cutting into him. A few aimless kicks, and he was out.
Cold and desperate, the boy Clayton jolted back to life. He heard his breath, coarse ragged breaths. Darkness. A cold and damp hard floor, his body aching from lying on it. His skin was cold. He propped himself up with his arms, his hands feeling a tiled floor. He turned his head from side to side to see … . nothing. He was panicky. Where was he? He'd been knocked out, but where was he now?
Why did he feel so cold? He moved one hand to his jeans pocket but just felt skin. He was naked. Cold and naked, lying on a hard tiled floor in complete darkness, his head still spinning and clouded from whatever had been on the rag.
He sat up, drew his knees to his chin, and pulled his feet in. Slowly he crept backward and inched towards something he could lean against. He found a wall and carefully propped himself against it, getting himself used to the glassy chill of it down his naked back. Gingerly, he pulled his feet in further and wrapped his arms around his knees, more for safety now than anything else.
Now blinded by a searing pain in his head as the lights came brightly on, he was overwhelmed by it. He tried to take in his surroundings, shielding his eyes now with one hand and gradually getting used to it from the previous pitch darkness. No longer preoccupied with the cold but just taking things in as best he could, he could see that the room was indeed tiled. White ceramic tiles covered the floor and walls like a bathroom. A door at the far end was painted white but with no handle or window - just hinges that showed it opened inwards. The lights, two fluorescent tubes, were hung from the ceiling, which was also tiled.
As his eyes got accustomed to the light, he began to notice more about the room; the floor was sloped down towards him, away from the door, and his butt was on a grate that ran along the length of the wall he'd backed into. Above him and to his left was a shower nozzle, but he didn't see anything that would allow him to turn it on or off, and to his right, a plain white stool with a black rectangular box on the top.
He sat there for a few moments, wondering what to do. His head was clearing fast now, and the only thing he could do was open the box. Standing up, he was a little unsteady on his feet and felt light-headed, and he needed to catch his balance. He held his hands up to his face to rub some life back into himself, wiped his eyes, and ran his hands back over his head.
"Fuck! Fuck!" he said out loud. He felt again all around his head, but it was true. His hair had gone, all of it. He looked down at his dick, and that was hairless too. Checking himself all over, he realized he'd been shaved everywhere. There wasn't anything left, not on his head, his balls, his ass, under his arms, even his eyebrows had gone. This was going way too far. Pushing the box off the stool, he sat down, held his now skinhead in his hands, and tried to imagine how he could get out of this.
For a moment, he sat there cursing himself, beating himself up for letting his dick get the better of him and landing him in this situation. It must have taken ages to shave him down like this. How long had he been there? Again, he looked at the box. He sneered to himself, angry that he'd fucked up.
Clayton looked around the tiled room and assumed he was trapped in there with no way out. But he got up and paced to the door to see if he could open it. He banged on it as hard as he could, then tried to push it with his shoulder. Try as he might, it didn't budge; it felt too solid for him to try to force it against its hinges. Now, rather than just trapped, he was trapped and sore.
Almost in anger, he was about to pick up the stool and throw it against the door when he noticed the box he'd pushed off had come open on the floor. Picking it up, its contents fell out around the stool. Casually discarding the box in the direction of the door, he bent down to pick up each of the things that had fallen out, his curiosity now held firmly by what he saw.
He saw several pieces of thin, plain black rubber clothing. Looking at each piece, he felt his dick begin to grow hard again. There was a pair of rubber "jeans" with a zip around the crotch, which fascinated him. Then there was a rubber T-shirt and gloves to match. He held each of them up to his naked body to see if they would fit and determine how they would look on him. He liked the feel of it all, the erotic feel.
He needed no further prompting to know what he had to do. Carefully, he pulled each item on. First, the T-shirt was pulled down over his head and down over his chest. He had to wriggle it down his back and straighten the arms so that it perfectly fit over him smoothly. He hated seeing rubber guys out at the bars, who had just thrown their outfits on sloppily. Clayton always took his time and removed all the creases before polishing it up and going out. Yes, he had gone to a few fetish bars in his few rubber pieces, but all this rubber was beyond his wildest fantasy. He loved to show off his gym-toned body in rubber or any other material, as long as it was tight fitting.
Next were the rubber pants. He thought these would be tough to wriggle into, but the fact that he was now hairless made it easy - at least more accessible than otherwise. The feeling of the tight rubber encasing his skin was terrific. So tight and snug. It was pretty cooling at first, but in only a few moments, it was beginning to warm him. Right then and there, he decided he'd always keep himself shaved. How could he have missed out on how great this felt for so long?
Pulling the pants up all the way, he was struck that there was a round hole in the crotch where his dick was. He had been going to shove his semi-hard dick down his pant leg and let it rest on his thigh. However, he thought the pants were too tight to squeeze it in. So he let his dick and balls hang free from the hole. It was only a one-inch diameter hole, so he had to squeeze them through it from the back so they would plop free out the front of his rubber pants. He was anxious to beat off, but not just yet. He needed to figure a few things out first. He wished there was a mirror in which he could look at himself. Lastly, the gloves, they were quite long and tight. He pulled the long gloves up his arms all the way up to where they met the sleeve of his rubber T-shirt. They made a good seal with the sleeves of the tee. Now he was all set. But all set for what. He sat down again and started to feel stupid that he'd just played around getting the rubber on when he should have been trying to get out.
All of a sudden, there came clicking sounds from the door, and it swung wide open. Clayton saw the man standing in the doorframe. It was Bossman, and he still had his rubber biker gear, and looked just as hot.
"Here, boy!" his host shouted. Instinctively, Clayotn ran over to him and stood before his Master. He felt the man's hand rest on his smooth head and rub it around.
"Doesn't that feel better now, boy? Bossman said as he took in the beautiful look and smell of all the rubber Clayton was wearing. The boy's dick looked as fine as any, sticking out of the groin hole."
"Yes, Sir," Clayton responded.
"This is how you will keep it from now on; slaves don't merit hair. And you are a slave, aren't you?" Clayton did not answer.
"Aren't you, boy?"
"Yes, Sir, I am, Sir."
"Say it, boy. Tell me what you are, boy," Bossman demanded.
"Sir...." he stammered, still unsure, but then he took a deep breath, let it out slowly - then, with his Master's hand still on his head, he continued, "I am a rubber slave boy, Sir; your dog boy, Sir."
He laughed a little, not in ridicule, but just at the pleasure of hearing the boy say it.
"You're a dog, are you, boy?"
356 The Stowage
Part 2 of 4
"Yes, Sir," now feeling embarrassed that he'd maybe been a bit too enthusiastic in his tone, "I mean, if that is what you want, Sir? Yes Sir. I think, Sir."
"First, and for your safety, you must drink a quart of water. Wearing rubber can make you sweat a lot. So here you go, drink it down before we go any further." And the boy gulped it down quickly at first and then more slowly after the halfway point. Bossman patiently waited. It took 5 minutes for him to empty the quart bottle.
"That's all right, boy," he laughed again at the boy's quickening enthusiasm. This was going to be fun. He took his hand away, reached behind him, and brought forth a wide leather collar which he buckled around the boy's neck.
"Follow!" he commanded.
He pulled the boy from the small room back to the back part of the backyard with a brick building. Upon entering, they stood facing a metal cage on the floor. The cage was about four by three feet. It was almost a cube. 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. < br>
Bossman tied a length of rope around the boy's balls, tugging them firmly down with a couple of loops and tying it off, leaving a long length hanging loose. As he handled the slave's balls. Then he pushed Clayton, face down onto the top of the cage, using it as a table. "Stay!"
Bossman noticed the goosebumps on the back of the boy's neck as the cold from the bars crept through his new thin rubber skin. Pulling each gloved hand roughly forward and over the top of the cage to leather restraints attached to short chains embedded in the floor, Bossman buckled the slave's wrists onto the open leather restraints set there. He was not fully stretched yet, but he would be soon. The boy was bent over the cage with his hands now secured to it on the far side.
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. Bossman noticed that the boy's body was not taut. His hands were still six inches off the floor. So he unbuckled the wrist restraints and pulled the boy's gloved hands as far as they'd go over the cage, taking out the slack in the short chains and reattaching his wrist to cause the boy's body to be fully stretched over the cage.
Standing behind the boy, Bossman took hold of the zip on the rubber pants and slowly drew it down, all the way from the top of the back, down under his torso, to move the zipper forward and up a bit toward the front, letting his dick fall out and hang. As it fell between the top cage bars, it had long, clear ropes of precum connecting it back to the rubber. Clayton's dick was hard and hung there, pointing straight ahead toward the boy's neck. His balls were a good size and hung there, responding with slight bouncing movements as the boy's dick occasionally dipped and twitched.
Taking a length of rope, he wound it around Clayton's right leg just below the knee, securing it to the right side of the cage. Bossman was neat, as he made exactly four loops around that leg. Then he took a second rope and secured the left leg to the left side of the cage - again, with four loops of rope. Tying a good strong knot to prevent the loops from slipping, he tugged on each leg to pull the boy's knees wide apart and hold them rigidly to the cage. This left everything hanging freely and spread his butt cheeks as well.
He stood back and took in a long gaze of satisfaction. The rope loops, white against the glossy black of the rubber, looked hot. The small movements the boy was trying to make to ease the strain on his forced-apart legs were quite cute. Bossman always used the same type of all-cotton rope without any nylon core, which ensured the knots would never slip. Clayton let out some gentle whimpers, clearly very turned on by being restrained, and bead after bead of precum now flowed out of his cock to drip down into the cage to join the other old precum stains there. Some of it got on his hands, and when he put them under the boy's nose, Clayton started licking it off slowly, savoring every moment of it. The boy clearly wasn't confused about his role anymore!
"Good boy, good boy," Bossman whispered to him, to what was now becoming his stowage.
When he licked his Master's hand clean, he thanked his Master dutifully with the meekest voice he could conjure up. But the boy had to learn to take pain and pleasure, so what happened next probably came as a rude awakening. Bossman cupped his slave's tied-off balls in one large hand and 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 move. He was tied and stretched over the heavy metal cage. Clayton 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 jerked back and forth in tiny movements, as though trying to stand up. But he wasn't going anywhere; he started to howl, and then he started to plead.
"Aaah, let go!" he yelled, "Please let go of me!" Then in a more begging tone, "Aarghhh, please, Sir, please don't, Sir!"
Bossman let go, but not before squeezing a bit harder, making the boy jolt and yelp wonderfully. He sagged back onto the cage, no longer trying to get up, his cock still standing out proudly, but a rope of precum had dripped down, and there was now a pool of it just inside the cage on the mat. He pulled the length of rope he previously left hanging from the boy's tied-up balls and pulled it firmly back away from the boy's ass, making them stick out behind him, which caused Clayton's dick to point straight down into the top of the cage. He saw the boy's body tense, probably anticipating what was to come next. He tied the rope off to a metal ring anchored in the wall behind Clayton. The rope contained a metal swivel device that Bossman turned to shorten the rope, thus pulling the boy's balls more firmly behind him. When Bossman was satisfied with the tautness he created in the rope now holding Clayton's balls in that stretched position, he locked the device as it was.
Now, all pleased and smiling, Bossman stood alongside his slave's stretched-out body and ran his hands up and down the boy's back and over his shaven head. Then he stopped to watch his slave. The boy tried to turn his head to see his Master, wondering why nothing had happened. A few more minutes passed, and the slave began to wriggle, straining to relieve the pulling pressure on his balls, but he was secured to the cage, which was secured to the concrete floor. Nothing moved.
Out of the sight of his boy, Bossman reached up to the shelves above the cage and rooted around for something. The boy could now hear this much but could not turn to see what it was. His movements - as limited as they were - became more strained as he was determined to twist enough, by some means, in order to see what his Master was doing. But, frustratingly, he could not.
Bossman found what he was searching for and brought it down in front of the boy's face. 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 in the shape of a small black ball, about two inches in diameter. Barely small enough to be forced into an adult's stretched-open mouth. The boy quickly recognized that this was meant to fit snugly and completely within his mouth. Oddly, Bossman did not move quickly. He held the device in front of the boy's popping eyes and slowly turned it one way and the other, letting the boy react helplessly and frantically as he imagined how it would feel and making him even more aware of his helplessness. But it was not just the large ballgag that frightened the boy but the thick tube that ran through the ball. As Bossman held it steady to indicate without words how it would be placed in his mouth, the ball had one inch of the tube that would be placed to the opening of the throat, and about one foot of the tube would come out from the mouth and hang there.
Surely, Clayton thought, if that ball went into his mouth with that one-inch length of the tube pointing to the back of his throat, he'd have constant gag reflexes, and he could be in serious trouble. Plus… what was the tube for?! The boy was adamant that this gag was not going on him. But Bossman had expected this and stood alongside the boy and held it in front of Clayton's closed mouth with one hand as he brought the other hand to Clayton's tethered balls and squeezed them firmly. The boy released a primal scream, allowing the gag to be immediately shoved into the slave's wide-open mouth.
Realizing his position, the boy fought hard to figure out how to push the gag back out, but the sheer bulk of the two-inch rubber held his tongue firmly in the bottom of his mouth. His panic rose to a much higher level as he tried desperately to wiggle out of his bonds and kick himself away from the cage on which he was securely stretched. But he managed to pull only on his gloved arms, causing himself great pain. His dick remained pointing straight down and steadily leaking precum despite his fear.
Clayton was unable to think properly now. Scared of what was happening to him, he was fighting his previous desire to trust himself in the hands of this Master. His human, child-like instincts took over, and he tried to curl up and protect himself.
But Bossman was no beginner, even if the boy was. He soothingly spoke to him, calming him down and reassuring the boy. Still, his slave was gulping air in hard through the gag's breathing tube, choking, spluttering flecks of spit out with every exhalation. Gradually, Clayton succumbed to his Master's calming words and started to get used to the tube near his throat, resting there. The important thing was the tube was not touching his throat. It was positioned only close to it. He fought back the urge to vomit it out. He would have to cope; it was in there to stay now.
Bossman could now continue to create his stowage. More bondage was needed, but he knew all that. It was a methodical process, and he was a very patient man. He knew that Clayton would be able to get the gag out sooner or later if he just left it as it was, so he reached for a hood. It was made of thick rubber, molded to snugly fit the contours of a man's head and face like the fingers of a tight glove. He began to peel it down over the slave's head. At first, the boy thrashed around anew, but a couple of similar, sharp slaps to his balls brought him back into line quickly. Within seconds, Bossman could insert the air tube from the ball gag through the tiny hole in the front hood at the mouth, then continue pulling the hood down over the back of the boy's shaved head. With a snap, the hood found its home and fitted around Clayton's head perfectly. The boy felt his chin slip into a molded dip made to fit it exactly. The only holes in the hood were the tiny hole in front of the ball-gagged mouth now filled by the air tube and a pair of small grommeted holes at the nostrils through which he could breathe. The hood lined up with the high collar of his rubber T-shirt.
The hood effectively secured the boy's jaw closed around the ball, tightly compressing it into the gag inside his mouth. In an erotic art form, the rubber facial skin is molded tightly over the circular outer part of the gag underneath. This particular hood was sold with that matching gag. It looked like Clayton had a cylinder in his mouth. Now the boy only made gasping breathing sounds as his back rose and fell in rhythm as his chest expanded to suck in air. He patted the boy's head through the rubber and was pleased to hear a couple of pleasant-sounding puppy moans distorted into a muffled tone as they came through the tube's passageway.
Clayton was in his own world now or - at least - on his way there. He would become Bossman's stowage; hopefully, he would find it comforting. But since this was all new to him, he could not know what to expect. Again, he had no control over what was happening to him anyway. At the moment, he was relishing the feeling of the rapidly warming rubber now encasing his full body as well as his head and isolating him from the sights and sounds of the "outside" world of Bossman's playroom.
He was instantly brought back to reality as he felt ice-cold lube being rubbed against his exposed, vulnerable asshole, as the rubber suit had been unzipped earlier. His Master's finger was expertly pushed into his asshole and then slipped out. He rubbed the lube repeatedly, then added more, pushing his finger in a little further at each entry. The boy's mouth felt dry, and he was still sensing the tip of the tube in his mouth. How could he concentrate on everything going on? How could he cope with the gag? His now aching legs and arms and his tightly pulled-back balls? Only his feet, his ass, and his dick and balls were free of rubber. He felt his feet cold on the concrete floor. All these sensations! Fuck!
His Master's touch had gone, and he had no feeling. Nothing touched him except the steel of the cage and the ropes that bound him to it. Unused to the thickness of the hood and its ability to fully block out sight and sound, 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, but nothing.
Then Bossman pushed firmly at his asshole, and he felt the tip of a plug. Trying to relax and push back as he could, he wanted to get it in him. At least someone was touching him. He needed that. Bossman knew exactly what he was doing to get the boy to need his touch. In any way the Master would deliver it, the slave would desire it. At this point in his manipulated mind, the boy was mentally "begging" to be touched.< br>
Bossman 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 wider portions to enter the slave. Unknown, of course, to the hood-blinded slave, the shape of the plug was eight inches long and made in three increasing bulging widths. The first width was one inch in diameter, and the boy's ass sucked that portion in, probably thinking that was the entire plug as the ass lips semi-closed on the narrowing neck. Clayton had never experienced a butt plug before. But the force continued. And the ass lips had to open wider to swallow the middle bulge, which was one and a half inches in diameter. Again, after a struggle to accept that rubber bulb shape and the ass lips semi-closing again, he thought he had it all in him.
Bossman waited, letting the boy relax for a minute. Then, once again, he applied pressure on the dildo - this time, a lot more pressure. Clayton's ass lips stretched wider and wider under pressure. The boy tried to buck. His exhausted angry groans sounded through the air tube. He could make no movements or resistance. The pressure increased continually as Bossman twisted the dildo as if screwing it into him. As the widest circumference of the three-bulbed plug, two inches in diameter, was pushed into the boy's anal cavity, it was shoved home sharply, and the boy's ass muscles clamped quickly around the narrow neck of the plug – cruelly, making his body keep it in by itself. This created a moment of near-total panic in the boy's limited movements, but it got the worst of that ordeal over for him quickly - a luxury he would have less of when he moved to the "storage box."
While the boy was trying to recover from the pain of the intrusion into his ass, Bossman busied himself untying the tether rope holding the boy's balls and untying the balls themselves. Clayton let out a sudden scream of delight to have his balls unstretched. Then Bossman worked the boy's still hard dick out of the cage, painfully bending it, and packed his cock and balls away within the rubber suit, positioning the boy's dick to run down one leg and this balls down the other leg. Bossman promptly closed the zipper, zipping it all the way from his groin to back, trapping the plug inside him with no way out. The slave's now painfully swollen dick was awkwardly pushed and held down one leg, adding its own lubricant to the sweat already building up everywhere inside the rubber suit.
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 storage box, to be his own private stowage item. Well, he was 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. The main heavier rubber suit was the key to holding the boy in storage had to go on next.
He now had him physically controlled by the restraints, holding him over the cage, 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. Still, for now, at least, he wanted the boy reasonably relaxed, if only to add another dip to the emotional roller coaster of his captivity. The boy was now breathing regularly, and his only movements were to settle himself more comfortably over the cage.
With Clayton's legs still secured, spread-eagled, to the bottom of the cage, Bossman now untied his glove-clad wrists one by one, and, as soon as they were freed from the cage, he quickly cuffed them together. Then he attached the short ink between the cuffs to a five-foot chain attached to the nearest wall. There was a lot of slack in the tethering chain, but he was not concerned about that just now. At least his wrists were cuffed together. Next, he untied Clayton's legs from the cage, lifted him in his strong arms off the cage, and gently set the boy on his back on the concrete floor, a few feet to the side of the cage. He pulled the boy's feet firmly, dragging his body toward the center of the room so all the slack in the chain connected to his cuffs was gone. His arms were taut and level, a few inches from the floor and pointing to where the chain was anchored in the wall. It was a temporary position to have the boy stretch out on the floor, face-up, and maintain his hands tightly away from his body.
It was clear the boy was uncomfortable from the kicking of his freed feet, obviously trying to raise his hips and then drop them again so the dildo end would be jolted more into his ass. Or, at least, he would feel the bumping and movement of it in his ass. He was pitifully trying to fuck himself by pounding his ass against the concrete as he made wailing sounds through his air-tube gag. Bossman had not planned to be entertained in this way, but he was enjoying the boy, all stretched out and using his unbound feet to push his ass up and letting it fall, vibrating the dildo. The boy didn't stop his moaning and whimpering, but the nature of it changed.
357 The Stowage
Part 3 of 4
He now had him physically controlled by the restraints and mentally subdued by the boy's 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. Still, for now, at least, he wanted the boy reasonably relaxed, if only to add another dip to the emotional roller coaster of his captivity. The boy was now breathing regularly, and his only movements were simply to settle himself more comfortably over the cage.
The boy didn't stop his moaning and whimpering, but the nature of it changed.
Continuing: His legs stopped tensing and flexing, and he fell flatly on the floor. His head slowly moved back and sideways as much as it could, clearly overwhelmed by the pleasure the plug was giving him. Bossman had not expected simple bouncing pressure on the plug to make the boy forget the aching pain throughout his body caused, so far, by the bondage. Though the boy became still in his feeble attempts to fuck himself, Bossman wanted to push him more. With Clayton flat on his back, he grabbed his hips and lifted his ass a few inches, then let it drop onto the concrete, and he repeated that over and over again. To the vibrations of the large dildo in his ass, the boy's response was immediate. The slave instantly fought frantically, thrashing from side to side and howling fiercely into the gag. But this struggle was not some concerted effort to get free, nor was it from pain. It was a primal wave of sexual frustration caused by his Master's handling of him.
The stimulation going on in 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 his struggle to want this plug to make him climax. Master could see that the boy's hard dick, clearly outlined in the rubber pants, was expanding a bit longer, and even a twitching moment could be seen. Oh yeah, this boy was on his way to a wonderful, long-desired climax, and his Master, bouncing his dildo-stuffed ass on the concrete, could see he was fast reaching the point of no return.
"Enough of this," Bossman said more to himself. He certainly was not about to let the boy cum. He lifted the boy's hips again, but this time, he just held the slave's ass in the air a few inches. Not letting his ass or the dildo it contained have any further simulation. There was no longer any pressure on the plug or movement against the boy's prostate. The struggles from this were almost as violent; the boy now fought by wiggling his hips to cause his ass to fall to the floor. But Bossman was too strong and held his boy up. The rubber slave was howling in anger through his air tube - not because he had become aware of any pain, but because he didn't want his Master to stop playing with his plug. The boy tried to kick aggressively, getting increasingly angry and frustrated.
At this point, Bossman unzipped the front fly of the rubber suit and gently pulled out Clayton's dick and balls. FINALLY, they were free. The whimpering and pleading moans changed in nature again; no longer those of a horny worked-up boy, but those of a hungry, desperate slave captive who was being denied climax, as his big stiff dick jutted out, pleading in its own way for attention. The boy's obedience and willingness to submit had momentarily left him as his body argued with his Master for more attention. Watching the struggle, his Master knew it must be causing the boy pain; what energy he had left after his long and intense struggles probably had left him dizzy and light-headed. But this was exactly where Bossman 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 he could hear 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 favor for a resumption of the plug fucking, but as a sign of trust and submission.
With the boy still sobbing, he gently set him fully on his back. Bossman scooted the boy back to the center of the room so the chain from the wall to his handcuffs was again taut. He held his hand firmly down on the boy's chest to ensure he got the message not to move. Encased in rubber, including his full molded head hood, which had no holes that would allow him to hear or see, the boy kept as still as "told." He was totally unsure now of his surroundings and entirely out of touch with which way he was facing or where in the playroom he now was.
So, muscled-toned, 24-year-old Clayton was laid out on the concrete floor of Bossman's secluded playroom in a detached brick building in the far end of his backyard. He was in Detroit to accept an invitation to a bondage session with a guy called himself "Bossman." Since Clayton was on a business trip, this stopover in Detroit was planned to be only an overnight stay at most. This far, the boy had been dressed by his host in a black rubber T-shirt and pants. A full rubber hood, with no eye or earholes, was forced over his head after a large ballgag was shoved into his mouth. The ball of the gag had a one-inch air tube sticking out the back of it (pointing down the boy's throat), which extended through the ball and came out the front of his mouth about one foot. That tube was fitted through a small hole in the mouth area of the hood and was the only access to air the boy had. The large ball in his mouth also prevented him from speaking, as much as it forced his tongue to the bottom. He could only grunt, moan or make a kind of inarticulate yelling sound. The hood aimed to secure the gag and prevent the boy from rejecting it. The other purpose, of course, was to remove the boy's ability to see or speak. He could hear only when Bossman spoke to him loudly. His hands were still outstretched and cuffed to the wall. Of course, he had that huge butt plug up his ass, and his cock was all tied up and shoved down the left pant leg, squished all nice and hard and throbbing against his left thigh.
After feasting his eyes on the helpless boy and smiling gleefully, it was time for Bossman to continue. He got out the next item of restraint the boy would have to endure. Made from thick, conforming black rubber, it was the size and shape of the lower half of a man's body. It was form-made but adjustable, so it could be snug against the wearer's legs. It tapered narrowly to the closed-end foot area and was much wider at the top of the legs. It looked sort of like a huge black cone. There was a heavy-duty zipper that ran nearly the full length. It started down at the ankles and ran up to the top. The full length of it was supplemented by sets of wide straps riveted into the rubber at regular intervals. These straps would later be pulled to the top and buckled there.
Right now, Bossman was unzipping the full zipper of the new, additional leg restraints and moved the free ends of the straps to either side as he laid it on the floor, fully opened, and set it at the boy's feet. Lifting Clayton's rubber-encased legs, he pulled the heavier rubber cone restraint over the boy's feet, ensuring they were both snugly slipped into the forming bottom foot compartment. He tugged the cone firmly up his thighs and immediately worked the zipper up to the knees. Even at just this stage, the boy's feet and lower legs were now tightly bound together - not as tight as they would soon be – but, just the same, Clayton started to panic, not knowing what was going on. He was lying on the floor with his hands secured by a chain to one wall, and now his feet and legs were bound together and completely immobile. He was still disoriented from all the struggling and his unresolved erection stimulation just minutes ago.
Now Clayton's legs felt warmer and somehow heavier. This change in sensation caught him off-guard as he'd been preoccupied with his exposed throbbing dick. Instinctively he tensed and tried to bring his legs up to his chest, but, in trying this, he found out exactly what had changed. He was being sealed up somehow. In his attempts to jerk and twist free, he lifted his butt off the floor a bit, which allowed Bossman to pull the rubber cone legs restraint full up to just below his butt. His Master pulled the zipper up along the rubber leg sack slowly and deliberately from his slave's feet to the top of his legs. As the zipper closed, it pulled the rubber tightly around the boy's legs.
To the boy, without any ability to see, it felt like he was being mummified.
The tightness of the rubber encasing him held the muscles of his calves and thighs firmly and stiff, almost solid, as if they were one limb rather than two. Running his hands over this new stretched-out surface, Bossman expertly sought out any ridges or creases in the rubber where it had become stuck to the thinner first layer 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 boy began getting accustomed to the restrictiveness of his ability to move.
Master pulled firmly up on the zipper to ensure it was all the way home, and then, with a small padlock, he secured it to a retaining ring fixed at the top of the leg restraint to ensure it could not unzip in any struggle. He now concentrated on doing up the five straps down the length of it. They wrapped around it at the ankles, just below the knees and immediately above them, another at the mid-thigh, and a final one around the top, just below the boy's butt. This carefully designed leg restraint only came up as high as the bottom of his butt, not to his waist. This also allowed the dick to be unzipped and exposed. After all pairs of straps were fastened up tightly, he unbuckled one at a time and re-buckled each one to pull it harder and tighter. When he was satisfied with this and sweating from his exertion, he stood back and drank in the boy's situation with full satisfaction.
The next piece of restraint for his slave was a straitjacket which matched the leg restraint. These were two parts of the same encasement. Bossman had bought this two-piece, full-body restraint system while traveling to the Orient. He loved using it; it was adjustable to fit almost any size man. As he retrieved the straitjacket 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 floor - was still trying to keep still but had taken to gently, and ever so slightly, pushing his butt down into the padding. He was trying to gain some leverage to get the plug to wriggle inside his ass. Bossman 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 layers of rubber. This elicited what would have been a yelp without his gag. He would have been disappointed if the boy hadn't caught his own reflex, and he smiled to himself, knowing the boy was learning.
Getting the jacket on was not as difficult as it sometimes was when he'd gotten slaves to this point in the storage process. Occasionally, they had already decided they wanted out, and wrestling the straitjacket onto them took time and considerable effort. In fact, the last time that had happened made him rethink how much of the impending captivity he let the slaves see before beginning the encasement. Certainly, the desperate struggle and fight for freedom had its plus points. Bossman still wasn't sure if he 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.
At this point, he unlocked the chain connecting Clayton's cuffs to the wall. Then he lifted him onto a table to continue working on him. He sat him on it in a position that would "normally" have a slave dangle his feet down off the edge of the table. But the leg encasement was so rigid and tight that the legs simply projected straight and did not bend at the knees. He was otherwise sitting up. Sitting on his butt plug was a pleasant distraction for this particularly sensitive boy. Easing the thick, cold rubber straitjacket onto him required a bit of a trick. Bossman placed his mouth near Clayton's hood-cover ear and spoke loudly.
"Ok, boy, I need you to stretch out your arms and work the kinks out of your shoulders. So I am going to uncuff you so you can stretch." The boy's head nodded. Bossman immediately unlocked the metal cuffs, and the first thing the boy did was rub his wrist. "Go ahead, stretch your arm straight out in front of you to relax your shoulders."
As soon as he did that, Bossman was ready with the opened straitjacket, which he held in front of the boy just out of his reach. As the boy stretched his gloved hands and arms forward, Bossman quickly slid the jacket sleeves over the boy's outstretched arms and pulled it to the boy's body. The boy was stunned as he suddenly realized what had been pulled over his arms. But it was too late, as the jacket was now pulled up firmly onto the boy's shoulders. The sleeve ends were a foot beyond the boy's gloved fingertips, so there was nothing he could do to grab the rubber sleeve material to pull it off. Ignoring his new anxiety, Bossman turned his slave over so he was now face down and flat on the table with his restrained legs outstretched behind him. His arms were crossed over his chest, leaving the excessively long sleeves flopped on the tabletop. Sometimes, a stowage boy would panic at this point, with their faces pushed down into the leather padding of the table, sucking in gasping breaths through their air tube while the last hope of their freedom was strapped away. But Clayton's resistance was less. Perhaps it was better to hood them early so they could see less, as in this boy's case.
The jacket, being made of black rubber, made it easy to tightly conform to any man's body. Bossman pulled the jacket's sides fully back, tugging each side as he pulled to stretch it tightly around the boy's back to close it. It closed with five straps, one at the upper shoulders, the middle of the back, the small of the back, and finally, around just under the hip bones. Once all buckles were fastened, he undid each one, pulled each tighter, and re-buckled them. This straitjacket had a two-inch high collar that buckled over the neck of the hood. This buckle was different; it was a light, stretchy material to avoid choking. It was not tight; nor did it need to be.
Now that the back of the jacket was as tight as possible, it was time to secure the wrap-around arms in their overlong sleeves. The boy's arms were pulled through loops on the sides of the jacket and then as far as they could be wrapped around the back. There the extra sleeve rubber of the right sleeve was fed through another loop on the left side of the back, and the left sleeve material was fed through a loop at the right side of the back. The two sleeve ends were then clipped together. Even Harry Houdini couldn't get out of this type of straitjacket. Tied off, they were attached and padlocked.
Unlike a traditional straitjacket that has two crotch straps that go under the crotch from back to front, this one was different. These straps were very short, and there were six of them. Each attached to the cone-shaped leg restraint, three at the front and three at the back. The back ones actually cress-crossed, making it possible to pull the jacket tighter down onto the slave while pulling the restraint on the legs up and more secure at the same time. But the exposed dick and balls remained unobstructed and hanging free. They had been made to work together and hold the victim well. It is more like one complex restraint system.
The boy was now his; encased in rubber and leather, restrained without any hope of escape, each part of his body, save his dick and balls, covered and controlled, every opening plugged and each limb rendered useless. But… he was not yet entirely… dehumanized. He was still a "boy," not an "it," not an item for Bossman to store ... not his stowage… yet.
Bossman touched the tip of the exposed dick. It was just a light touch, just one time. Clayton's body jerked, trembled, and shook. There was not much movement since his body was so completely secured, but it was 100 percent; all the reaction he could possibly muster was in his dick doing that begging dance. His encased body stopped, but his dick started to bounce, dance, and bow to its new Master. Then Bossman bent down and touched his new property's dick with his tongue. Not being able to resist any longer, Bossman devoured that dick, but he did it slowly and fully. He didn't really suck it, he placed his mouth over it, so the dick could twitch back and forth in its loosely placed mouth cave. The dick bobbed to tap the roof of his mouth and then twitched back to tap Bossman's tongue. It did this dance without Bossman even sucking. This was his method to erotically torture the boy. And he had many other techniques to use as time went on. Bossman felt his slave trembling and heard his loud muffled screams of erotic torture as the slave cock never stopped. But Bossman had to stop for a moment so the boy would not climax. After a pause, he continued his preparation for the boy's storage. The dick moved like a metronome, back and forth.
Bossman savored all he saw, for it would be quite a while before he would enjoy the sight of this property again. The boy's screams turned into a hum coming from under the boy's hood. Was it due to fear, anticipation, erotic sensations, or a mixture of them all? At this point, it didn't really matter. He lifted his bound-up slave and carried him over to a large, rubber-padded box. It was about three feet square and just over four feet tall. He had already opened the lid and one side. This made it easier to load in any stowage he wanted.
Sitting the boy into the box, he pushed his back flat against the rear side and nudged his butt into the bottom edge. Most masters would then close up the box and lock it, and be done. But this was Bossman, and he knew exactly how to create his items for storage. Closing and locking the box was just not going to do. After all, although the boy was as bound up as he could possibly be ... he was not bound to the inside of the box itself.
So, the first retaining belt came around the boy's waist immediately below his folded and restrained arms. The thick, broad leather strap was like a car seat belt. It was attached to the back corners of the box and buckled at his belly. But, unlike a car seat belt, this one was designed to tightly squeeze the boy's back and butt into the heavily padded back panel of the box. The boy squirmed a little. The next strap across the chest was difficult to get on as he had to thread these ends between the captive's arms and chest, but once threaded through, this also was pulled firm and buckled to the back of the box. Not happy with the tension, he unbuckled it and, placing his booted foot on the boy's chest, pulled hard and steadily to tighten it as much as possible before buckling it again. This had the effect of exhausting all the air out of the boy's lungs, and, indeed, he heard the air forced out through the ball gag air tube, almost like a raspy whistle. But this chest squeezing was necessary to ensure his slave was well fastened into his storage as possible. As any good bondage master, Bossman halted his activities, stood still and quiet, and listened intently. Clayton was back to a regular breathing pattern, though now only taking shortened breaths since his lungs could not expand as normal. Bossman knew he could now continue.
A smaller strap attached to the middle of the back, right corner, was threaded between Clayton's upper right arm and his chest and looped back to a hasp on the right side. The same type of strap secured his left upper arm to the left side of the box. Both were locked in place, "CLICK, CLICK." These arm straps forced the boy's upper arms to press against the back corners of the box.
This was where, with other boys, he usually left them unhooded so they'd see how cramped the box was on the inside with all the padding. Their wide-eyed look on their panicky faces as the rubber hood only came down over their heads could be quite exquisite. But Clayton had no previous experience, and Bossman wanted to ensure that if he did freak out, it wasn't until he was safely locked away and couldn't harm himself in the struggle. So he hooded Clayton before he saw the "box."
Next came the most interesting part of the bondage inside the box for him and his captive. First, the boy's dick was jutting upwards, not fully hard, but quite nicely prominent. It was now time to insert a catheter-like device onto Clayton's dick. Unlike a true catheter, this thick, stretchy condom-like tube went over the entire dick and not into the urethra. The reason is that a catheter would pass urine but prevent the flow of cum or even precum. Bossman wanted all fluids to be allowed to squirt forth. It was well-lubed and carefully worked over the boy's dick, engulfing it all the way to his pubic hair. The dick tube was very long, over ten feet, in fact. The free end of it would later be fished through a small hole in the side of the box. But for now, it was clamped shut and just left hanging over the side of the box, out of the way. Because it was not an actual catheter, Bossman could not truly control his boy's ability to piss, but he could direct the flow of any fluids coming from his dick. And Bossman's setup would allow him to watch and monitor what the boy was doing.
Now, to continue with the bondage to the box - taking hold of Clayton's bound-up ankles in both hands and crouching in front of him, he slowly pushed his feet back toward the boy's ass. Since his dick was pointed up, it would not interfere with Bossman slowly shoving Clayton's heels back as close to his ass as possible. This caused his knees to bend upwards as he steadily forced the boy's feet back as far as physically possible. It's generally very difficult to have a boy's heels pushed back enough to have them kiss his own upper highs when he has been encased in 2 layers of rubber. But it can work by forcing them back slowly, little by little, and letting the boy's body heat - in time - slightly stretch the rubber. It was possible to get the feet to almost touch the ass. He made sure the dick tube remained free and unkinked between his upward-jutting knees and the chest. 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 was bent at the knees, these straps tightened and applied all manner of pressure to the butt plug, giving the boy something additional to think about.
This was obviously driving the boy mad, as the sounds escaping from the gag were low and guttural, reflecting his erotic anxiety as he sat there in his desperate need to cum. Just how a boy should sit and wait… forever?
358 The Stowage
Part 4 of 4
Once the boy's feet were where Bossman wanted them, he fastened a leather cuff around his ankles and secured the ends to two very short chains attached to the back corners. This held the tension perfectly and prevented the slave from shuffling his legs to get more comfortable. In recent years, Bossman learned that more straps were needed in order to avoid a boy's ability to climax. He had previously experienced a less bound boy, who managed to work his legs from side-to-side and back and forth to cause enough friction against his firm dick to enable him to climax. He had been surprised that that small amount of friction was sufficient to do that, at least for that boy. And… he was determined that that was NEVER going to happen again.
So, from that point in time, he added additional straps to prevent the knees from moving from side to side or front to back. One narrower strap went under each of Clayton's knees and buckled. Then short chains were attached to 5his one buckle. One pulled both knees to the right, and the other pulled both knees to the left. Now the knees could not privet or swivel from side to side, and forward and back were not possible either. Perfect! And the boy's dick was stiffly pointing up, not touching a rubber surface. Anytime Clayton got tired or sleepy, his dick would deflate, relax, and rub against the rubber surfaces around it. Most likely, his dick would then wake up and begin to stiffen. As it stiffened, it would point up again and no longer have anything to rub against with which to create erotic friction.
The last and final attachments were around the captive's head. A broad strap passed over the forehead and was secured and locked to the backside of the box. Then a chin strap was attached and ran diagonally up the sides of his head before attaching to the back of the box. With the snap of more small padlocks, the boy was rendered motionless.
Looking at the boy held snugly into the box padding, he saw him attempt to flex his muscles to test his bonds, but there was no real give anywhere. Every stabbing grunt coming from the boy's attempt to move and each pull against the restraints took considerable effort. The only real movement was that his dick twitched once with each attempted nudge. The other way the dick would do its dance is when Clayton mentally thought about anything erotic. Let the dance begin! That put a smile on Bossman's face.
At this point, the box had the top open and the front side down for easy loading of the stowage. Each box panel was hinged open and was now ready for closing up. Bossman first brought the padded front side up and held it there, so he could close the hasps on each side and secure them with padlocks. Once done up, he turned his attention to the top. The top was a little different, also padded, and was designed to overlap the side by about an inch; it also had several small holes. Depending on the "designed" predicament of the victim he would place in the box and how long-term he would be locked in there, different tubes might be attached to the body and exit from the box.
He picked up the free end of the dick tube, fished it through one of the holes in the top lid, and then fished the air tube through another. Bossman held the free end of the air tube 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. Being very careful that neither tube was kinked, he slowly brought the lid down and let it drop the last few inches.
Inside the box, his new home, the boy must have heard the low thud of the top closing and the distant sound of metal on metal as Bossman secured two more padlocks through hasps on the top front corners. Clayton had felt every stage of his complex encasement process but had no real idea of what he looked like. He had been completely disoriented. Was he still in the same room with the box or elsewhere in another 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 that would allow him to shoot. Bossman could hear him moan through his air tube. And he envisioned his boy all secured and with his stiff, twitching dick pointing freely up, with nothing touching it and no hope of any friction to cause his climax.
Clayton tried to struggle and pull against what held him. He fought and tried to push his dick to touch something, anything. He felt himself cry and even mumble out yells as he put all his effort into escaping. Well, not really escaping - not yet - but in his attempts to get himself to climax. That was the thing. That seemed like a fucking remote possibility. Nothing he did brought any relief. Trying to lean in different directions brought nothing in contact with his twitching hard-on. The warmth and sweating were more than obvious, but not as much as one would think. His Master was a pro and had adjusted the room to a cool 60 degrees Fahrenheit so he would not get dehydrated too soon. As stated earlier, the boy had been given a full quart of water to drink. So Bossman was very aware of safety issues. Under these conditions, Clayton could safely last three days in that box. He had water and air, and soon he'd have his piss … or precum flowing through the dick tube.
With one desperate spasm of effort, he tried to tense every fiber of muscle, and, in the process, he succeeded in forcing out a heavy scream from the exertion. But it was useless; he was no freer now than before, just a bit dizzy. Clayton knew he was trapped in some storage box. He was now the stowage he had been told he would be. He knew he had to conserve his energy so as not to overheat. He needed to accept his Master's plan for him and just relax. But could every part of him "just relax"? He was still horny. He hoped to fall into a deep sleep and for his dick to soften.
Defeated, he sobbed. His own erotic fantasy and youthful hormones had led him here, and he was completely fucked. He was more worked up than ever; his tied-up, stiff boner hurt from the need to cum. His dick bobbed and was at that ecstatic point just before he could trigger an ejaculation. His balls were pulled up, ready to fire, yet, he had not one single fucking way to fucking get off! He wept. He couldn't help it; he was that frustrated. Bossman was so pleased, and his boner was leaking now.
But Clayton was… not… quite… ready for storage yet. Not quite. Bossman pushed a button. A grinding sound was heard as four chains were lowered from the ceiling. Then he connected the ends of four chains, one to each of the four corners of the top of the sturdy box, and pressed the button again. This time, the grinding sound could be heard and felt by Clayton. Then the winch lifted the box to a level about four feet off the floor. As gentle as it was, the movement caused Clayton to scream through his air tube. He knew he was being moved but could not tell if it was upward or being moved out of the room altogether. Where was he being taken? He panicked. Was he being loaded onto a truck or placed in a hole, and buried alive? Was he being carried outside to the trash area? He screamed again, and it came out of his air tube, all muffled due to his ball gag. At that moment, the movement stopped. Clayton was sobbing.
But Bossman knew his boy needed some familiar comfort, or rather, familiar discomfort. Right then, Clayton felt the huge ass plug, which was still tightly lodged up his ass, get heavier. It seemed to be pulling downwards, as though out of his asshole. But the boy knew that was impossible since he was sure he was fully locked up in a box … of some kind. And he was alone. So, was he imagining this sensation? As his thoughts and sensations ran rampant, and his imagination took over, he reckoned the plug had somehow got loose and that he could use his ass muscle to push it out. Of course, that was impossible, but he was unsure if this or anything else existed. So he attempted to expel it.
Just as he began his exertion, it changed. He distinctly felt the plug lurch back up into his ass. "What the fuck!" he tried to say as he "jumped" in reaction. Of course, jumping or jerking was impossible, but he tried. 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 gradually. Then it snapped back.
This happened over and over; he couldn't keep track of how many times. He soon became lost in the sensation it gave him, rubbing gently, lightly, but definitely, over his prostate. His dick was at full attention once again. Then it all stopped. He had been on the wave of anticipation of it pulling down again, as it had been doing, but it didn't. He wanted it to start again. He wanted it to keep doing it, to keep moving. He knew he could climax if it continued. In frustration, he tried to suck in his stomach and release it over and over to try and mimic the movement. Still, his bonds included his stomach being pulled in tight already, so not much movement was possible there either.
Bossman had placed a large bucket under the box and fed the end of the dick tube into it. He released the clamp to allow Clayton's piss to flow freely into the bucket as needed. Then he dangled his air tube over the end of the box and just let it lie there. His boy could now take in all the air he needed and pee all he needed. He had had a quart of water not long ago, and with the room temperature on the cool side, he was not going to sweat too much, especially if he just relaxed.
Then the butt plug started moving again, but this time in a more definite manner. Instead of snapping back in, it rose as gradually as it fell, as though it were gently fucking him. Clayton 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 getting faster and deeper, he knew it wasn't just his testosterone-pickled brain making it up; the plug was actually moving faster. Fuck! It rammed into him hard, then pulled back slowly this time. He felt it pushing against the rubber straps of his straitjacket that crisscrossed over the end of the plug. It was now forcibly fucking him.
What he did not know (how could he?) was that the butt plug had a magnetic piston inside with a rubber end that could lengthen and shorten. One reason why Bossman had kept the boy's back and body entirely motionless AND had made sure that his ass was as tight in the corner of the box as possible was to position his plugged ass over a large electromagnet beneath the base of the box. By varying the strength and frequency of this strong magnet, he could control the movement of the plug inside the captive's butt. He could make it piston up and down quickly or slowly or stop it moving altogether just by turning off the magnet. 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.
By changing the magnet's polarity, he could push the dildo deeper inside the boy and even pulsate it. In this way, he could make it fuck whoever had been stored inside the box any way he chose, from a gentle, barely noticeable in and out pulsing, to full-on rough fucking that would grab every ounce of the captive's attention in his need to get more of it. He set it on moderate fuck, and, after rechecking the breathing tube and feeling the stored boy breathe fast and desperate, he sat down to listen to the suffering. The sounds, the gasps, the strangled howls - he loved them all. Any time the boy steadily quickened his breaths in an increasing rhythm, Bossman knew the boy was close to climax.
Sometimes, he would turn off the magnet for a short while - or even a long while - but his most frequent choice was to let it run, but very, very, agonizingly, slowly. The victim in the box always tried to make it go faster, deeper, harder, and never, ever, could do so. The stored boy would try to shake the box, jerk his body, wiggle his ass, and the only result would be that the box, hanging on chains from the ceiling, began to sway. Since the boy was so tightly bound, that sway could be barely noticed, except for a pro like Bossman.
At some point, the captive would just give up trying, and, with no fucking going on, he would remain completely still. The slight sway of the hanging box would take ten minutes to stop. Then Bossman could leave it off, or, if he chose, he could turn the electromagnet on again. Sometimes he did not want the fucking to stop. He'd make it deliver slow long strokes, almost gentle so that the plug would hit his prostate head-on every time and tease his dick to near the point of climax. Not once, but over and over again. This magnet "machine," as controlled by Bossman, was relentless. He sometimes loved to set it, so it never changed its tempo. The pistoning dildo would gently fuck to tease the prostate, it just kept on going, and the box would begin to sway again. As he did this for a longer time, the clear plastic dick tube usually showed that Clayton was now starting to pump out small amounts of precum rather than urine. The sound from the air tube was filled with throaty moans, and the box was swaying continuously. Clayton pumped the precum through the dick tube by Clayton, which caused the fluid to eventually drip into the bucket.
With this boy, Clayton, being in the box for over six hours and hard and on edge almost continuously, Bossman took pity on him. Not complete pity, but he would allow the boy to climax. However, it would only happen on his terms or not at all. Now, one would think that Bossman would simply turn the machine up fully and fuck the boy hard and that he would climax. Yes? Well, that is one way, but the Bossman was not that kind. Instead, he left the machine on a steady fuck rhythm but increased the length of time the dildo was actually thrusting. The boy began again to jerk and twist. The box was swaying a bit more. The boy's ass was deeply massaged to a heightened erotic state. His balls were churning. His dick was twitching, reaching for its exposition. He was almost there.
Then Bossman placed his index finger over the end of the air tube. The box began to sway more, and the sound of attempted angry gasps could be heard as the boy tried to suck in air. He could not breathe. In his own way, he struggled and fought to take in air, but Master blocked the airway. He fought hard, harder than before; his life depended on it. He tried to force his bound-up body to break free, to twist and spasm as his balls pulled all the way up to his groin. His dick began to explode, and volley after mighty volley, like a volcano spewing its hot mass from deep within - load after load, the boy shot for what seemed like forever, not even realizing he was once again breathing, taking in air. But air was secondary; his complete gut-wrenching climax was in primary; it was the only thing that mattered. The box swayed like a pendulum, only a few inches in each direction, but this was huge for a tightly bound boy. Fuck, fuck fuck! Clayton, at some point, came down from his frantic climax, completely exhausted. Truly drained, drained of cum, and drained of all his energy and his emotions, his desires. He soon passed into calm and resting breaths.
Bossman smiled to himself and left the boy in the box, which was still swaying, now more as a cradle, lulling his stowage to sleep. Safely packed away. He noticed a stream of piss was flowing through the dick tube and into the bucket. He was sure the boy was unaware he was peeing, as the boy was learning to … just let go … just surrender. He certainly had no control over anything. Not even his ability to move a limb a fraction of an inch. And that was what Bossman wanted. All stored away, Clayton was to enjoy the agony and the bliss of his bondage, post-orgasm. By this time tomorrow, the boy would be ready to do it all over again, and he wouldn't have moved in any way.
After three days, Clayton would be removed from the box. Except for the gag, none of his double-layered black rubber encasement would be removed. He would be given a blackish-brown thick goo of super nutrients, all the water he could possibly drink in two hours, and an enema. With those basic biological necessities attended to, it would be back in the box for him, tightly secured, just as before. That was Bossman's plan for any of his stowage. So how long would Bossman maintain this boy in storage? For how many three-day periods? Bossman finds it unnecessary to explain this to any of us and certainly not to his stowage. That would be absolutely absurd to explain his program to Clayton.
Bossman would take his new possession out of his box home occasionally, but that was never more than once a week, usually less frequently. There will be no regularity for this new possession.
The boy would not know the time of day, what the day was, who was present, or if he would be fed again. And during those times that Bossman left him alone, like during his evening sleep or when he went to work, would the boxed-up boy wonder how long he'd been left unattended, or would he conclude that he would never see his owner - or the light of day … ever again. A better question might be, would any of this even be of concern to this boy? Bossman was experienced in storing a boy away like this. He knew this boy would develop one overriding, primal obsession, and only one - when, if ever, would he "be" climaxed again. That was soon to be the totality of the former Clayton's world.
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