355 Stowage

The Stowage
Part 1 of 4

Clayton stood in front of the door of what looked like a loft building converted from a warehouse. It had a heavy cold feel to it as it sat in a mix of other buildings, ranging from condos to old houses to storage facilities and the like. 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 just 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 attend 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 meet “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, 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 hard on the phone; maybe he'd think 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 just sounds 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 this point, he now wasn't sure whether to go or stay. Despite his nervousness, his dick was semi-hard as he thought over what they'd talked about on the phone. Some of what he'd said couldn't be for real; I mean 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 just jerking off and wasn't going to 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 just as he did, in jeans, old army boots, a plain t-shirt and his favorite jacket - nothing else, no socks, and no jock. "Fuck, its 3 PM!" Clayton bounded back up the stairs and stood there, checked the address number again and knocked. He looked at his watch again. It was now 3.01 PM. He knocked again and looked around behind him across the road, 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 seven inches taller than Clayton, with broader shoulders, about 30. Clayton was 24, but it wasn't this physical stature which was clearly 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 he could smell it, 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 just looking at the young man on his doorstep. Clayton looked up again, almost thinking that 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 stronger 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 whilst yanking the boy's wrists further up his back.

"Yes Sir!" he yelled as quickly as he could and clenching his eyes shut to keep out the pain.

Bossman let go, pushing him to the floor and pinning him there under one knee, he unclipped a pair of rigid handcuffs from the back of 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 over onto his back, crushing the 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 then 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. On a raised platform at the far end of the room was a large black wooden box, no more than 3 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, serious 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 stout metal cage on the other side of it. Shelves, about two foot 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!”

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 just real, aggressive bondage, “long-term bondage,” the ad said. To Clayton, “long-term” meant from five or six hours, to as long as overnight. What Clayton wanted was good honest, unyielding, escape-proof bondage for about a 12-hour period. 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 really wondered if it was a good idea to let himself become stored by Bossman, or by 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 with in reality.

Bossman liked this kid's cockiness and his daringness that brought him here. "Lights out time!"

"Sir?" Clayton asked looking suddenly confused only to feel a strong 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 with a desperate panic 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 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 inching 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 through his head as the lights came brightly on, he was overwhelmed by it. Shielding his eyes now with one hand and gradually getting used to it from the previous pitch darkness, he tried to take in his surroundings. 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. There was a door at the far end 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 that it seemed possible for him to do was open the box. Standing up, he found he was a little unsteady on his feet, and felt light headed, that 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 and just held his now skinhead in his hands and tried to imagine how he could get out of this.

For a few moments, 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 all around the tiled room and assumed that he was trapped in there with no way out. But he got up and paced over to the door to see if he could get it open. He banged as hard as he could on it, 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 that the box he'd pushed off it 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 long sleeved rubber t-shirt and gloves to match. He held each of them up to his naked body as 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 top “t-shirt” was pulled down over his head and down over his chest. He had to wriggle it down his back and then set about straightening the arms so that it fitted over him perfectly smoothly. He hated it when he saw rubber guys out at the bars, who had just thrown their outfit on sloppily. Clayton always took his time and got rid of all the creases before polishing it up and going out. Yes, he had gone to a few fetish bars in the few pieces of rubber he had, 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, easier that it would otherwise be. The feeling of the tight rubber encasing his skin was amazing. So tight and snug. It was quite 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 then 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 he might want to beat it off soon, so he decided to 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 meet 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 on his rubber biker gear, and still looked just as hot.

"Here, boy!" his host shouted. Instinctively, he got up, ran over to him, and stood there in front of 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 his took in the beautiful look and smell of all the rubber Clayton was wearing. The boy's dick look 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?"

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 half-way point. Bossman patiently waited. It took 10 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 it back with 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 main part of this backyard brick building and stood him there, briefly, facing a metal cage on the floor. The cage was about four feet tall, and about three feet square. It was almost a cube, but a little taller than it was from front to back, or side to side. 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 with his waist just level with the top lid, and then forced him to bend forwards across the cold iron bars. “Stay!”

Bossman noticed the goosebumps on the back of the boy's neck as the cold from the bars crept through his new rubber skin. Pulling each gloved arm roughly forward and over the top of the cage to leather restraints, which were attached to short chains embedded in the floor, Bossman buckled the slave's wrists onto the open leather restraints waiting there. He was not fully stretched yet, but he would be soon. The boy was bent over the cage with his hand 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 arms 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.

Clayton's head was now positioned, “resting,” looking down into the top of the cage between his outstretched arms. 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. Clayton's cock twitched.

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 forward and up a bit toward the front, letting his dick fall out and hang. As it fell down 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 towards 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. In tying a good strong knot to prevent the loops slipping, he tugged on each leg to pull the boy's knees wide apart and effectively 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 loops of the rope, 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 rope, all-cotton rope without any nylon core, which ensured the knots would never slip. He tied a further length of rope around the boy's balls, tugging them firmly down with a couple of loops of smaller white cotton rope, and tying it off leaving a long length hanging loose. As he handled the slave's balls, the 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 to drip down into the cage to join the other 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 as well as 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 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 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.

"Aaah, let go!" he yelled, "Please let go of me!" Then in a more begging tone, "Aarghhh, please Sir, please don't Sir!"

Bossman lets 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 rope of precum had come off and there was now a pool of it just inside the cage on the mat. He pulled the length of rope which 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 and pointing Clayton's dick 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 metal loop device was turned several times, which shortened the rope, thus pulling the boy's balls more firmly behind him. When Bossman was satisfied with the “mild” 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, and the cage 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. 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 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, it seemed, 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; it was 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 down 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 in him. But Bossman had expected this and stood alongside the boy with it held in front of his 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 which allowed 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 his tongue was held down firmly in the bottom of his mouth by the sheer bulk of the two-inch rubber. Now 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 over which he was securely stretched. But he managed to pull only on his gloved arms causing himself great pain. He slapped his dick against the cold bars in the process and it was still pointing straight down and steadily leaking precum despite his fear.

He 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, reassuring the boy. Still, his slave was gulping air in hard through the gag's breathing tube, almost choking it back out again, 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 at the back of his throat, resting there. 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 sooner or later he would be able to get the gag out if just left as it was, so he reached for a hood. It was made of thick rubber, molded fairly rigidly, which he began to peel down over the slave's head. At first, the boy thrashed around anew from this, but a couple of similar, sharp slaps to his balls brought him back into line quickly. Within seconds, he was able to continue pulling the hood down over the boy's shaved head. With a snap, the hood found its home and fitted around his head perfectly. Although made from thick rubber, it was shaped and molded at the front so that the boy felt his chin slip into a dip which might almost have been made to fit it exactly. The only holes in the hood were the one his head had been pushed, which now lined up with the high collar of the rubber tee-top he already wore, and a pair of small grommeted holes at the nostrils through which his breathing tube was threaded.

The hood effectively fastened the boy's jaw closed, tightly compressing it into the gag inside his mouth, the result is that not only was the boy's head covered in rubber, but it was virtually completely filled with it as well wherever possible. In an erotic artistical form, the rubber facial skin molded tightly over the circular outer part of the gag underneath. 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, which were 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 was going to become Bossman's stowage, and hopefully, he would find it comforting. But since this was all new to him, he could not know what to expect. There again, he no longer had any control of 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.

In an instant, he was brought back to reality as he felt ice-cold lube being rubbed against his exposed, and vulnerable asshole. His Master's finger was expertly pushed in then slipped out. He rubbed the lube around and in and over, 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 tickling 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 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!

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 its ability to fully block out 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.

Then he knew. 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.

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. 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 the pressure. The boy tried to buck. His exhausted angry groans sounded through the air tube. He could make little movement of resistance. The pressure increased continually as Bossman twisted the dildo as if screwing it into him. As the widest girth 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 worse of that ordeal over for him quickly - a luxury he would have less of when he would be 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. Clayton let out a sudden scream of delight to have his balls unstretched. Then Bossman packed the boy's cock and balls away within the rubber pants, positioning the boy’s dick to run down one leg. If the slave had the opportunity to compose himself quickly enough, he would try to force the plug back out to of his ass. Though that was unlikely to happen, he might at least try. But Bossman had other plans. He promptly zipped the zipper closed, 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 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 roller coaster of his captivity. The boy was now breathing regularly and the only movements he made were simply 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 and immediately lifted him in his arms, off the cage and 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 maintaining 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. The Stowage
Part 3 of 4

His legs stopped tensing and flexing and fell instead flatly on the floor. His head slowly moved as much as it could, back and sideways, 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 one more time, 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 and no 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 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 more and more angry and frustrated.

He knew his dick, running down his right thigh, was throbbing, begging to cum. 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. 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 pain; what energy he had left after his long and intense struggles probably had left him dazed 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 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 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 to allow him to see, and decreased his ability to hear clearly, the boy kept as still as “told.” He was totally unsure now of his surroundings and completely out of touch with which way he was facing or, where in the playroom, he now was.

So, there was muscled-toned, 24-year-old Clayton, 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 do a bondage session with a guy who called himself “Bossman.” Since Clayton was on a business trip, this stopover in Detroit was planned to be only an over-night stay, at most. The boy had been dressed, this far, by his host in 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, in as much as it forced his tongue to the bottom of his mouth. He could only grunt, moan or make a kind of inarticulate yelling sound. One purpose of the hood was 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 now 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 very narrow to the closed-end, foot area, and was much wider at the top of the legs. It looked sort of like a back 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 around to the top and be buckled there.

Right now, Bossman was unzipping the full zipper of the 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 his legs, he pulled the rubber cone restraint over the boy's feet making sure they were both snugly slipped into the bottom, narrow foot compartment. He tugged the cone firmly up to 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, he 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 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 throbbing dick. Instinctively he tensed and tried to bring his legs up to his chest, but, in doing so, 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, 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, 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 boy began the process of 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. After all pairs straps were fastened up tightly, he then unbuckled then, one at a time, and re-buckled each one to pull it harder and tighter. When he was satisfied with this, and sweating from the exertion from it, 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. There 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 and 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’d wanted out and wrestling the straitjacket 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. 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 had unlocked the chain that connected Clayton’s cuffs to the wall. Then he lifted him onto a table to continue working on him. He sat him on it and let his knees bend over the edge with his feet, still all bound together in the leg restraint, hanging down. He was otherwise sitting up. For this particularly sensitive boy, sitting on his butt plug was a pleasant distraction. 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 with the blinding hood, but just out of his reach. As the boy stretched his gloved hands and arms forward, Bossman quickly slid the sleeves of the jacket 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 sides fully back, tugging each side as he pulled to stretch it tightly around the boy's back to close it. It closed with a series of five straps, one at the upper shoulders, the middle of the back, the small of the back and finally around just under the hipbones. Once all buckles were fastened, he undid each one and pulled each tighter, and re-buckled them. This straitjacket had a two-inch high collar that buckled over the neck of the hood. This particular 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 it could be, 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. It was impossible for even Harry Houdini to 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, 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. There was not much movement in his jerk, but it was 100 percent; all the reaction he could possibly muster. 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 places his mouth over it, so the dick could twitch back and forth in it's 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 under the two layers of black shiny rubber as his cock never stopped. But Bossman had to stop and continue 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. There was a hum coming from under the boy’s hood. Was it due to fear, or anticipation, or 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 open 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 be able 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. Not happy with the tension, he unbuckled it and, placing his booted foot on the boy's chest, pulled hard and steady 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 was 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.”

This was the point where, with other boys, he usually left them unhooded so they'd see how cramped the box actually was on the inside with all the padding. Their wide-eyed look on their panicky faces as the rubber hood only then came down over their heads could be quite exquisite. But with this boy, he didn't 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. So he hooded Clayton before he saw the “box.”

Next came the most interesting part of the bondage inside the box, for both 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 being 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 top 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 it allowed 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 slowly back, towards the boy's ass. Since his dick was pointed up, it was not going to 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 balls. This is because of the tightness and thickness of the TWO layers of rubber the boys are encased with. But by forcing them back slowly 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?

The Stowage
Part 4 of 4

Once the boy's feet were where Bossman wanted them, he fastened a leather cuff around the boy's ankles and secured the ends to two 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 to prevent a boy's ability to climax. He had previously experienced a boy who was less bound, 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 his knees and buckled on top. Then a chain was attached to each side of the strap, one pulled his knees to the right, and connected to the right side of the box; the other pulled his knees to the left, attached to the left side. Now the knees could not move forward or back, as well as not from side to side. Perfect! And the boy's dick was basically stiffly pointing up, not touching a rubber surface at all. Anytime Clayton would get tired or even sleepy, his dick would then deflate and 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 were taking considerable effort. The only real movement was that his dick twitched once with each attempted nudge. That put a smile on Bossman's face.

The box itself had the top open and the front side down, which was for easy loading of the stowage. Each box panel was hinged open and was now ready for closing up. He brought the padded front side up first 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 and 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 anymore of what he looked like. He had been completely 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 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, he had 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 no use; he was no freer now that he had been 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. His hope was to fall into a deep sleep and for his dick to soften.

Defeated, he sobbed. His own erotic fantasy and his youthful hormones had led him here and he was completely fucked. He was more worked up than he'd ever been; 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. There was a grinding sound 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 box was lifted by the winch to a level about four feet off the floor. The movement, as gentle as it was, caused Clayton to scream through his air tube. He knew he was being moved, but could not tell if it was upward, or if he was being moved out of the room altogether. Where was he being taken? He panicked. Was he being loaded onto a truck? - Being placed in a hole and buried? Was he being carried outside to the trash area? He screamed again and it came out of his air tube, all muffled. 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, that 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 riot, 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 not sure if this, or anything else. 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 not possible either, 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, ever so 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, but 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 to get faster and deeper, he knew it wasn't just his testosterone pickled brain that was making it up; the plug was actually moving faster. Fuck! It was ramming into him hard, and then it 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.

[break_free] What he did not know (how could he?) was that the plug shoved up his ass was very special. 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 was able to 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 polarity of the magnet, 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 just turn off the magnet for a short while - or even for a long while - but his absolutely most frequent choice was to let it run, but very, very, and 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. At times, he 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. The precum was being pumped 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 full and complete pity, but he would allow the boy to climax. However, it was only going to 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 he had 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 and 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, however, 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 layer of black rubber encasement would be removed. He would be given a blackish-brown thick goo of super nutrients, and all the water he could possibly drink in a two-hour period, and lastly, 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, of course, take his new possession out of his box home every once in a while, but that was never more than once a week, usually, less frequently. There will not no regularity for this new possession.

The boy would not know the time of day, or what the day was, or 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 a 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.

The End

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