Bound Jack

[bndjack]

The Replacement

I’d been driving through the countryside for hours when my car finally gave out on a quiet back road. No cell signal, of course. The only house in sight was a modest place tucked behind some trees. I figured I’d ask to borrow a phone and call for a tow.

The front door was unlocked. I pushed it open and stepped inside.

That’s when I saw him.

A figure completely encased in shiny black rubber sat strapped to a sturdy wooden chair in the middle of the living room. Thick belts pinned his arms, chest, waist, and legs to the frame. A heavy gas mask hood covered his head, the large lenses reflecting the room light, the breathing hose dangling. His hands were trapped in smooth, rounded rubber mitts that rendered his fingers useless. Even his boots were locked into place with more straps. He looked completely helpless.

“Oh my God,” I breathed, rushing forward. “Are you okay?”

He made muffled sounds behind the mask. I quickly worked at the buckles, loosening the restraints one by one until he could stand. He pulled the hood off slowly, revealing a sweaty, exhausted face.

“Thank you,” he gasped. “I’m Roy. His name is Master… he kidnapped me months ago. He keeps me like this almost every day — hooded, gagged, locked in rubber. He goes into town for hours and just leaves me here.”

He described it in a shaky voice: the constant bondage, the way the thick latex clung to every inch of skin, the way the hood and mask turned the world into a dark, muffled prison. He sounded broken. I felt terrible for him.

Once he seemed steadier, he asked if I could give him a minute to collect himself. I nodded and stepped back. He paced a little, rubbing his wrists, then turned to me with surprisingly calm eyes.

“You know… the rubber actually feels incredible once you get used to it,” he said softly. “The way it squeezes you, hugs every curve… it’s intense, but kind of addictive.”

I laughed nervously. “Yeah, I’ll take your word for it.”

But he kept talking — calm, persuasive, almost hypnotic. He showed me the suit, still warm from his body. Before I knew it, I was curiously touching the glossy material. He helped me peel off my clothes and slide into the rubber. The suit was thick, heavy, and incredibly tight. It took effort to pull it over my legs, my torso, my arms. The sensation was overwhelming — cool at first, then warming rapidly as it sealed around me like a second skin.

Roy smiled. “See? Feels good, right?”

It did feel… strange. Powerful. Intimate.

He picked up the heavy gas mask hood. “To really understand it, you have to be fully in it. The restraint is part of the experience. Trust me — just for a minute, so you can feel what I’ve been going through.”

I hesitated, but he seemed so sincere, so grateful. I sat down in the chair. He started buckling the straps — slowly, carefully. First my legs, then my waist, chest, and arms. The thick belts clicked into place with finality. He slid the heavy mitts over my hands, turning them into useless black rubber balls, then handcuffed them to the sides of the chair. Finally, he lifted the hood.

The world went dark and tight as the thick rubber settled over my head. The gas mask lenses pressed against my face. I felt the gag slide between my teeth just before he sealed everything. My muffled protest came out as nothing more than a quiet groan.

Roy stepped back and looked at me — exactly as I had first found him.

Then his expression changed. The exhaustion vanished. A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face.

“Thanks for the rescue, man,” he said, pulling on one of my old shirts. “I’ve been waiting for someone like you. Master will be back soon. He’ll think you’re me — Roy. The new Roy. I’m finally free.”

I thrashed wildly against the straps, but they held perfectly. The mitts made my hands completely useless. The gag turned every shout into a pathetic, muffled whimper behind the gas mask. The rubber suit gripped me tighter with every movement, hot and inescapable.

Roy picked up his bag and headed for the door. He paused for one last look.

“Enjoy your new life. The hood and mask stay on a long time… sometimes for days. Master loves that.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

I was alone in the quiet house, completely sealed in shiny black rubber, strapped helplessly to the chair exactly as I’d first seen him. Every breath echoed loudly inside the mask. The latex clung to me like it had been made for my body. And somewhere outside, a car engine started — taking my old life away.

I heard tires on gravel.

Master was coming home.

I pulled desperately against the thick leather straps, but they didn’t budge even an inch. The heavy rubber mitts turned my hands into useless, shiny black balls, and the handcuffs locked to the chair made sure I couldn’t even twist my wrists. Every frantic movement just made the thick latex suit grip me tighter, hot and slick against my skin. The gag deep in my mouth turned every curse into a pathetic, wet gurgle behind the gas mask. My breathing echoed loudly inside the hood, fogging the lenses slightly with each panicked exhale.

I was completely helpless.

Then I heard the front door open.

Heavy footsteps crossed the floor. A deep, calm voice filled the room.

“Hey there, Roy. Miss me?”

Master stepped into view — a tall, broad-shouldered man in his late 30s with a short beard and calm, possessive eyes. He was carrying several shopping bags. He looked me up and down, clearly pleased with what he saw: me, sealed head-to-toe in shiny black rubber, strapped tightly to the chair exactly where he’d left the real Roy.

“Sorry I was gone so long,” he said casually, setting the bags down. “Traffic was a bitch. But I picked up some nice new toys for you.” He pulled out a thick leather harness with heavy D-rings, then a set of heavy metal cuffs connected by a short chain. “These are going to keep you a lot tighter tonight. No more of that squirming you like to do.”

He reached out and ran a gloved hand over the top of my hooded head, stroking the smooth rubber like he was petting an obedient pet.

“You know… I still remember the day I caught you,” he continued, a fond smile on his face as he reminisced. “You were out for a run on that lonely country road, all sweaty in those little shorts. Thought you were so tough. One quick chokehold from behind and you dropped like a sack. Woke up already zipped into your first rubber suit, gagged and hooded, right here in this chair.”

He chuckled softly, stepping closer until I could smell his cologne mixed with the scent of the new leather he’d bought.

“Best decision I ever made. You’ve been such a good boy since then, Roy. Even when you fight the straps… you always settle down eventually. The rubber owns you now.”

I screamed into the gag, thrashing wildly, trying to shake my head. The gas mask lenses flashed with the reflection of the room lights as I struggled, but it was completely useless. The straps held firm. The mitts kept my hands useless. The hood and gag turned all my protests into nothing but muffled, desperate noises.

Master just laughed quietly, misreading my panic for the usual resistance he was used to.

“Aw, look at you. Already excited to be played with. Don’t worry, boy. I’m not letting you out anytime soon.”

He picked up the new heavy harness and started unbuckling one of the existing straps across my chest, preparing to add even more layers of restraint.

“Welcome home, Roy.”

I was trapped.

Sealed.

Completely his now.

And he had no idea I wasn’t the man he thought I was.

Hours passed.

I lost track of time completely inside the heavy gas mask. The thick rubber hood turned the world into a stifling, muffled prison. Sweat rolled down my face and neck, trapped inside the suit. My muscles ached from the constant strain against the unyielding straps. Every breath was a loud, labored rasp through the filter. The gag kept my jaw sore and forced me to drool helplessly down my chin.

I had no choice but to endure.

Finally, I heard Master’s footsteps return. He stood in front of me and unbuckled the heavy gas mask hood with practiced ease. Cool air hit my sweat-soaked face as he pulled it off. I gasped, blinking against the sudden light.

Master froze.

His eyes widened in genuine surprise as he stared at my face — a face he had never seen before.

“What the fuck…?” he muttered.

I immediately started talking, my voice hoarse and desperate.

“Please… listen. My name isn’t Roy. I’m just some guy whose car broke down. I came in looking for a phone and found him tied up like that. He said you kidnapped him. I freed him… and he tricked me. He convinced me to try on the suit, then strapped me in here. He left me as his replacement so he could escape. Please, you have to believe me. Go after him — he can’t have gotten far!”

I thought that would be it. That any sane person would realize this was insane and let me go.

I was wrong.

Master listened quietly, his expression shifting from surprise to something darker — amusement. A slow, predatory grin spread across his face as I finished my story.

He let out a low chuckle, then started laughing properly.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, shaking his head. “Roy finally did something smart. He gave me a fresh upgrade.” He reached out and roughly grabbed my chin, tilting my face up to examine me closer. “New face. New body. New toy. And you walked right into it like a dumb little hero.”

I stared at him in horror. “Wait… you’re not going to—”

“Go chase after him?” He laughed again. “Hell no. He did me a favor. You’re mine now, boy. And since you were stupid enough to fall for his trick, I’m going to make damn sure no other hero tries to ‘save’ you.”

He stepped back and looked me over with new interest, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction.

“You’re going to be kept much more secure from now on. More straps. More locks. Maybe a permanent hood. We’ll weld some of these restraints on if we have to.” He smirked. “Can’t have you pulling the same stunt Roy did.”

Then the mocking really began.

“Look at you,” he taunted, circling the chair slowly. “Big strong hero rushes in to rescue the poor victim… and ends up sealed in his rubber suit, strapped to his chair, drooling behind his gag. You really believed him, didn’t you? Sat down willingly and let him buckle you in. Pathetic.”

He leaned in close, his voice low and cruel.

“Welcome to your new life… Roy. You’re going to look so good once I add all the new gear I bought today. And don’t worry — the mask is going back on right after I feed you. You’ll be spending a lot more time sealed up from now on.”

He picked up a bottle of water and a protein shake, clearly enjoying every second of my despair.

I was no longer a stranger who stumbled in.

I was the new Roy.

And Master had no intention of ever letting me go.

[bndjack]

Oh Brother - Final Part

Declan lay at the foot of Finn’s bed, the dog mask still strapped tight to his face, blindfold blocking out the world. His heart hammered against his ribs—not with fear this time, but with something colder. Calculation. For ten years he had been broken, used, and reshaped. But tonight, after burying his cock down the detective’s throat and feeling that long-denied orgasm rip through him, something inside him had cracked open. Not acceptance. Rage.

He waited until Finn’s breathing grew slow and heavy. The house was silent except for the occasional muffled thump from the basement closet where Adam Singer lay bound and terrified.

Declan moved.

Years on all fours had given his shoulders and arms brutal strength, even if his legs were useless. He crawled up the bed like the dog they had made him, silent, deliberate. Finn slept on his back, one arm dangling off the edge. Declan straddled his brother’s chest, leather-mitted hands pressing down hard on Finn’s throat before the younger man could wake.

Finn’s eyes snapped open. He bucked wildly, but Declan’s weight and leverage pinned him. The mitts made gripping difficult, but Declan didn’t need finesse—he needed pressure. He slammed his forearm across Finn’s windpipe, cutting off air.

“Remember when you said I belonged on my knees, little brother?” Declan growled through the gag of the mask, voice hoarse from years of disuse. “Now you do.”

Finn clawed at Declan’s arms, eyes bulging. His legs kicked, but Declan simply shifted his weight and trapped one of Finn’s arms under his knee. The struggle lasted less than a minute. Finn went limp, unconscious but still breathing.

Declan wasted no time.

He tore the dog mask off his own head, gasping at the rush of cool air on his shaved face. The leather mitts took longer—he used his teeth and Finn’s own belt to work them loose until his hands were finally free. His fingers felt clumsy, weak from disuse, but they worked.

He dragged Finn downstairs by the ankles, Finn’s head bumping every step. In the basement he found the same supplies Finn had used on him for years: heavy leather restraints, chains, the shock collar, the ring gag, the chastity cages. Declan smiled for the first time in a decade.

By the time Finn woke up, he was naked, arms locked behind his back in a brutal reverse prayer position, legs folded and strapped to his thighs exactly the way Declan had been kept. A thick shock collar circled his throat. A small inverted chastity cage— the one Finn had planned for Declan—was already locked tight around his cock and balls, the urethral tube shoved deep. A ring gag kept his mouth wide open.

Declan stood over him, legs trembling but holding. He had found a pair of crutches in the corner. “Look at me, Finn.”

Finn’s eyes were wide with panic. He tried to scream. It came out as a wet, gurgling noise around the gag.

Declan crouched, still unsteady, and grabbed his brother’s hair. “You took ten years. You took my body. My future. My family. Now I’m taking everything back.”

He opened the utility closet.

Adam Singer lay there, still mummified in tape, eyes bloodshot and frantic. Declan ripped the tape from his mouth. The detective gasped for air.

“Please—O’Ryan—whatever he told you, I can help. I’m a cop. I can get you out—”

Declan backhanded him hard enough to split his lip. “You helped him make me disappear. You fucked me while I was blind and chained. You don’t get to talk.”

He dragged Adam out beside Finn. The two men now lay side by side on the cold basement floor—former masters, now pets.

Declan spent the next hour preparing them exactly as he had been prepared. Mitts on their hands. Legs folded and locked. Shock collars synced to the same remote. He even found the sensory deprivation hoods. Finn received the first one. Adam got the second.

Before sealing the hoods, Declan crouched between them.

“You’re both going to learn what it feels like,” he said quietly. “Every day. Every night. You’ll drink my piss. You’ll clean my cock after I fuck you. And when I get strong enough to walk again, I’ll take you outside on a leash and make you shit in the yard like the dogs you are.”

He leaned closer to Finn. “And you, little brother… I’m going to milk that tiny caged dick every month just like you did to me. Maybe in a few years it’ll shrink down to nothing, just like mine. Crimson is dead. You two are going to be my pups. I haven’t decided on names yet. Maybe ‘Worthless’ and ‘Traitor.’”

Finn sobbed behind the gag. Adam whimpered.

Declan stood slowly on the crutches, looking down at the two bound, naked men who had destroyed his life.

He pressed the button on the shock collar remote.

Both bodies jerked violently as electricity ripped through them.

Declan smiled.

“Welcome to your new life, boys. Bark if you understand.”

Two broken, muffled sounds came from the hoods.

Declan turned off the lights and climbed the basement stairs, each step painful but his own.

For the first time in ten years, the house belonged to him.

And the dogs in the basement would never see daylight again unless he allowed it.

[bndjack]

The woods outside Santa Fe were ancient and unforgiving, the kind of place where fog swallowed sound and secrets festered in the roots. Derek Reynolds had come here for solitude—his red New Mexico jersey still reeking of locker-room victory from the alumni game, number 07 stretched tight across his chest, the red bandana knotted low on his forehead like a crown he refused to surrender. He was thirty-two now, still built like the quarterback who once owned every stadium in the Southwest, but the woods didn’t care about stats or scholarships. They only cared about what was bleeding.

A branch snapped behind him.

Derek spun, flashlight beam slicing through the mist. Nothing. Then the figure stepped into the light.

He wore a black beanie pulled low over a hooded sweatshirt the color of midnight. But it was the face—or the absence of one—that punched the air from Derek’s lungs. A pale, rubbery mask clung to the skin like a second, melted layer, wrinkled and sagging with grotesque realism: deep creases around the eyes, a faint scar etched across one cheek, the mouth frozen in a slight, knowing smile that never reached the living brown eyes burning behind the sockets. A black ink serpent coiled up the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the mask’s edge like it was still trying to strangle him.

“You picked the wrong trail, 07,” the masked man said. His voice was low, raspy, distorted by whatever the mask did to his throat.

Derek laughed once, nervous. “Look, man, I don’t know what this is, but I’ve got cash in the truck. Just—”

The dart hit him in the neck before he finished the sentence. The world tilted, trees spinning like a broken carousel, and Derek dropped into the pine needles.

When he woke, the air smelled of chemicals and old blood. He was upright, wrists and ankles locked to a heavy metal frame in the center of what looked like an abandoned taxidermy workshop—shelves of jars, half-finished molds, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The masked man stood ten feet away, adjusting a thick black hose connected to a massive stainless-steel vat. The vat hummed, warm and alive.

Derek’s mouth was dry. “Who the hell are you?”

The man turned slowly. The mask’s fixed smile never changed, but the eyes did—cold, patient, ancient with hate. “You really don’t recognize me, Derek? Ten years ago. University of New Mexico victory party. You and your linebackers thought it’d be hilarious to drop a gallon of concentrated lab acid into the hot tub while the ‘loser water boy’ was soaking his sore back. Said it would ‘toughen me up.’ I still remember the way you laughed when my skin started sliding off like wet paper.”

The memory slammed into Derek like a blindside hit. Elias Voss. Skinny kid who never made the roster. The prank that had made the local news for exactly one day before the university buried it.

“Elias… Jesus Christ. I was drunk. We all were. It was a stupid joke—”

“Joke?” Elias stepped closer. The serpent tattoo flexed as he moved. “I spent six months in burn units. Lost my scholarship. Lost my face. Lost everything that made me human. Doctors told me the grafts would never take right. So I made this.” He tapped the mask with one gloved finger. “Custom. Lifelike. So every time I look in the mirror I remember exactly who owes me.”

Derek’s heart hammered against his ribs. “I’m sorry, man. I’ll make it right. I’ve got money now—endorsements, coaching gigs. Name your price. Please.”

Elias said nothing. He simply opened the valve.

A thick, crystal-clear resin began to pour from the hose—slow, deliberate, the consistency of warm honey mixed with liquid glass. It pooled around Derek’s cleats first, cold and heavy, then crept up his ankles like living cement. The smell was sharp, almost sweet, the way fresh pine sap turns chemical when it hardens.

“No—no, wait!” Derek bucked against the restraints, chains rattling. “Stop! Elias, come on! This is insane! You can’t do this!”

The resin climbed his calves, sealing his socks to his skin, locking his feet in place. It was heavier than it looked, pressing inward with a slow, inexorable squeeze. Tiny air bubbles rose and popped against his shins.

“I’m begging you!” Derek’s voice cracked, high and desperate. “I have a wife. Two kids. They’re waiting for me back at the hotel. Please, man, turn it off! I’ll go to the cops myself, tell them it was me, I’ll confess everything—”

Elias adjusted the flow, letting the resin rise faster now, past Derek’s knees, swallowing the red-and-white stripes on his uniform pants. “You still think this is about confession,” he said quietly. “It’s not. It’s about preservation. I’m an artist now, Derek. I collect the things that broke me. Insects. Roadkill. And soon… you. Perfectly preserved. Forever smiling in that stupid jersey like the hero you pretended to be.”

The resin reached Derek’s thighs, thick and unyielding. His legs were completely immobile now, the material already beginning to warm and stiffen as the curing agents kicked in. He could feel it hardening around his muscles, turning flesh into sculpture. Panic clawed up his throat.

“STOP! PLEASE GOD STOP!” He thrashed his upper body, tears cutting clean tracks down his cheeks. “I was an asshole! I know that! I was eighteen and stupid and I ruined your life— I admit it! Just let me go and I’ll spend the rest of mine making it right! I’ll fund your surgeries, your therapy, whatever you want! I’LL TELL EVERYONE WHAT I DID!”

Elias watched, head tilted, the mask’s wrinkled expression almost serene. He reached out and gently wiped a tear from Derek’s cheek with a gloved thumb before the resin could claim it. “Too late for words, 07. You had ten years of them. Now you get eternity of silence.”

The resin surged upward, engulfing Derek’s hips, his waist, pinning his arms to his sides as it climbed his chest. It pressed against his lungs, making every breath shallower, wetter. The number 07 on his jersey distorted slightly as the clear liquid flowed over the fabric, sealing it forever in place. Derek’s screams turned raw.

“I’M BEGGING YOU! ELIAS! LOOK AT ME! I’M SORRY! I WAS WRONG! DON’T DO THIS—PLEASE DON’T—”

The resin crested his shoulders, lapped at his neck, and poured into the hollow of his collarbone. Derek’s head whipped side to side, eyes wild, mouth open in a final, wordless howl as the viscous flood rose over his chin, sealed his lips, and climbed his cheeks. The last thing the world saw of Derek Reynolds was his terrified gaze—wide, bloodshot, pleading—frozen behind a perfect, crystal-clear shell as the resin hardened around his skull.

Elias shut off the valve. The workshop fell silent except for the soft ticking of the curing process. He walked a slow circle around his creation, admiring the way the overhead lights refracted through the resin, turning the former quarterback into a living, breathing statue trapped mid-scream. The red jersey, the bandana, the number 07—every detail preserved in flawless clarity.

He leaned in until the mask’s nose almost touched the resin’s surface.

“Revenge,” he whispered, voice soft as the woods outside, “is the only trophy worth keeping.”

Then he killed the lights, leaving Derek Reynolds exactly where he belonged: perfectly preserved, forever begging, forever ignored.

[bndjack]

Drunken mistake

The night started like any other for Eli. The 32-year-old personal trainer had just crushed a heavy leg day at the gym, snapped that confident mirror selfie in his red quarter-zip and skin-tight black leather pants, and headed out to unwind at the underground leather bar downtown. He looked every bit the alpha: broad shoulders straining the athletic fabric, thick arms veined from years of iron, and that cocky half-smile he flashed in the reflection.

A few too many whiskeys later, the room was spinning. That’s when he spotted the man in the corner booth — tall, sharp-jawed, dressed head-to-toe in gleaming black leather. Police-style cap tilted low, heavy boots crossed, a glass of dark liqueur in one gloved hand. His name was Kelvin. Eli didn’t know that yet. All he knew was the guy looked like he owned the world.

They started talking. Or rather, Eli started talking — slurring, laughing too loud, the alcohol stripping away every filter. He told Kalvin things he’d never admitted to anyone. How he jerked off for years to videos of rubber gimps — full-body latex suits, locked in permanent hoods, reduced to nothing but holes and furniture. How he fantasized about being taken, broken, made deaf so he couldn’t hear the insults, mute so he couldn’t beg, turned into a silent, mindless sex toy that existed only to be used. “I want it permanent,” Derrick confessed, eyes glassy. “No escape. Just… rubber. On my hands and knees forever. Boots on my back. Cock locked. Ass open. A human punching bag and cum dump.” He laughed like it was a joke. Kalvin didn’t laugh. He just smiled, slow and cold, and bought him one last drink.

Eli woke up strapped to a metal table in a soundproof basement. His head throbbed. His voice was already gone — a quick, professional procedure while he was out cold had severed his vocal cords. Ear implants followed the next day. Total silence. Total darkness when the thick rubber hood slid over his face. Kelvin worked methodically, like an artist finishing his masterpiece.

The transformation took weeks. First came the permanent latex catsuit — thick, shiny, locking at every seam. Built-in sheath for his cock, now caged and useless. Rear zipper that only Kelvin controlled. Heavy steel cuffs around wrists and ankles, connected by short chains that forced him into a permanent all-fours crawl. The hood was the final touch: glossy black, no eye holes, only a small breathing tube and a wide-open mouth gag that could be swapped for whatever Kelvin wanted to fuck.

Eli — or what was left of him — no longer had a name. He was Gimp. Mute. Deaf. Property.

Tonight, the scene in Kelvin’s living room is exactly as Eli once dreamed it and foolishly described. Kelvin lounges back in the leather armchair, cap tilted back, glass of whiskey in one hand, cigar in the other. His heavy black boots rest squarely on Gimp’s back, heels digging into the thick latex between the shoulder blades. The rubber slave is locked in perfect position on hands and knees, back arched, ass up, chrome chain leash clipped from the heavy collar to Kelvin’s belt. Every breath is a muffled rasp through the hood. No sound escapes. No protest. No safe word.

Kelvin takes a long drag, then grinds his boot heel harder, making the rubber creak. “Still think it was just drunk talk, boy?” he murmurs, knowing the gimp can’t hear him. He doesn’t need to. The way Gimp’s caged cock twitches helplessly inside the latex says everything.

Kelvin stands, unzips his leather pants, and yanks the gag out of the mouth opening. He doesn’t ask. He simply uses. Deep, rough, face-fucking the silent rubber hole while his boots stay planted on that once-proud back. When he finishes, he zips up, sits back down, and props his feet up again like Gimp is nothing more than a living footrest.

The former alpha in the red PSG shirt is gone forever.

Now there’s only the shiny black rubber gimp — mute, deaf, broken, and exactly where he drunkenly begged to be.

A sex toy.

A permanent piece of furniture.

And Kelvin has all the time in the world to enjoy his new toy.

[mrhexumtfs]

I wish to have the fruit cake

Who are you? My name is Jack. I’m a 40yo divorced man with two kids. I am bisexual and now living with a man. I live in upstate NY where I have most of my life experience except when I was in the Navy

What kind of life you have? I lead a generally quiet life. I am a case worker in a jail and have done human services my whole life. I am just truly finding out who I am with my new partner.

And what defines you, in terms of body and soul? My body is broken and worn down from years of neglect. I am trying to fight my way back from that. I am trying to find the excitement in my life again. My kids have been a big help but I often feel I put too much into them and not enough into me.

Looking at the mirror, you were confronted by your tired gaze. At forty you weren't necessarily old, but it was hard not to feel ancient sometimes. The world had changed quite significantly since your childhood. In some ways for the better, and in some others for the worse.

Life hadn't been easy. Not that you complained much. You had witnessed harder lifes than your own, thanks to your job. At the same, your occupation had given you some level of hope. If this people had been able to be reintroduced into society, and maybe even thrive, then you also would be able to attain happiness some day.

After all, you had spent four decades over the surface of this planet, but you still didn't know who you really were. Certainly, you knew the empirical facts: forty year old divorced father named Jack. Case worker, bisexual, and currently in a relationship.

But that didn't really mean anything. That wasn't the essence of who you were. That wasn't the transcendental truth that acted as the foundation of your soul. You had given yourself to others for so long, you had become a stranger even to yourself.

"Is something the matter?" your partner asked, embracing you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder. "You look so sad."

"It's nothing. Stuff I gotta work on my own, darling," you replied, turning around and stealing a kiss from him. "Don't worry about it. Unless..."

Your partner raised his eyebrow. Expression playful.

"Unless...?"

"Unless," you repeated, lightly biting his earlobe. Your voice raspy as you continued with a whisper: "you try to cheer me up."

Subtext was so clear, neither of you had to say another word to clarify.

He got on his knees, awaiting for your orders. You patted his cheek, and traced his lower lip with your thumb. He looked up, but didn't say a word. He was a good boy. Only allowed to speak when you asked him something first. Pups such as horse partner could whine, could moan and whimper. Could even bark. But he couldn't speak unless you wanted him to.

Which wouldn't be in a while, tonight.

You put the gag on his mouth. The lock resting on the back of his head, making it difficult for him to remove. Not that he would dare to try. Your boyfriend offered his hands, and you tied them tightly with rope. He couldn't do anything with his hands. Nothing at all. He was completely dependent on your will.

After helping him get in bed, you also aided him to get his tied hands over his head. Making sure to pinch his nipples once you finished. He squirmed, whimpers barely stopped by the gag. His cock was locked, although clear trying to harden and free itself. A cock that was too big for his own good. You had little choice but to cage his dick, keeping the key away from him.

A pup with a huge cock needed that type of discipline.

"Listen now, pup," your said, holding his face, talking to his ear. Your free hand caressing his hair. "I'm gonna fuck you good. If you behave, I may give you a reward. But... It'll be a surprise. Would you like that? If I rewarded you for doing a good job?"

Your partner nodded. Eager. You chuckled.

His head was pressed on the mattress. His ass up, as an offer to you. Legs spread apart. You had tied his ankles now, to the corners of the bed. Your partner was barely able to move. A willing prisoner to you and your horny machinations.

Exactly how you liked it.

Fucking him, although a routine already, never got old. It was different from your former married life. Understandably so. But you didn't need to think about that now. Instead, you cared about proving your partner how much you truly owned him. How much he truly was under your control.

Holding his hips, once his hole was lubed up well, you teased him with the tip of your cock. The gag made his moans and whimpers almost silent.

Slowly, you got your cock inside him. Until it was buried to the hilt. You stayed there for a moment. Not moving neither in or out. Taking the feeling of his hole tightening around your dick. His body trembling under yours.

"Be patient," you warned, quietly. You didn't need to be loud to be heard. "I'm the one setting the pace. You wouldn't want to miss on your reward, would you?"

He won't dare fail me. I know he won't... He's a good boy desperate for my cock... You thought, looking at his ass and back beneath you.

Your thrusts were slow, accelerating to such a pace that the increase of speed wasn't really noticeable. But you knew. You always knew. Your control was so perfect... Your parter was only able to realize things had shifted after a while, once your thrusts were so fast, so wild, it would have been baffling not to notice.

His bewilderment had never decreased. No matter how many times you had fucked him in this exact same manner. Every single time he was shocked by it. Never able to understand your trick.

Coming inside him was one of the pleasures that told you this was a life worth living. You patted his left ass cheek, then grabbed it fondly. Your touch was almost rough, even if it was profoundly loving.

"Time for your reward, pup. You were so good for me..." you said, voice low. "And I never break my promises..."

Taking the key from your necklace, you unlocked his cock. It sprang up, hard and leaking almost the instant it was freed. You laughed, delighted. Then, with an expert hand you began stroking him.

It wasn't long until he came.

---

Next morning he was still asleep when you woke up. Unbound now. Probably sore all over.

It was a free day. Neither you nor your partner had to work. And your children didn't stay with you today either. The house was empty except for your boyfriend and yourself.

Preparing breakfast, you noticed a pink box on the kitchen counter. Mr. Hexum's pastry shop it read. Fancy white letters over the pink cardboard.

"I don't remember receiving this," you said, although you did recall the order. Had your boyfriend received it? You had no idea.

It didn't matter, anyhow.

Opening it, you found the boiled fruit cake. It smelled wonderful. Next to it, a note:

Best not to eat it alone. Take care!

What a curious note! Still, you decided to follow the suggestion, cutting some slices for you and your boyfriend as you prepared breakfast. To eat together in bed.

You were allowed a lazy morning with your partner, after all.

The tray stood in between the both of you. Eating, conversing, laughing from mutual, private jokes. Overall, a nice shared moment of intimacy.

At last, the boiled fruit cake. You each took one of the slices you cut. It smelled wonderful. Looking at each other's eyes, you both took a bite at the same time.

And, in a blink, things changed irreparably.

You weren't in Upstate New York anymore. That was clear. The sun that entered through the window was too intense, too warm to be the same one from so up north.

And the room itself had changed. It was now luxurious yet understated. Not entirely mid century, as some of the furniture was too sophisticated despite its simplicity, but there was this air of modernity to it all that was overall greatly pleasant.

"What the...?" you asked, looking all around you.

This made no sense. Everything in this room, while tasteful, looked way too expensive for you and your boyfriend to afford. But it wasn't like the expense was the biggest issue at present. Not really.

"Jack, where are we?" your partner asked, frightened.

Both of you, still naked, left the bed to inspect where your new surroundings. Looking around for any sort of clue. After all, you didn't have any answers this time. Some rather unusual for your relationship.

After searching for a while, you finally found something. Some bills, of which the most had been already paid. The most recent one was received the last week of April of 1952, and as all the others it belonged to the state of California. This one in particular was still unpaid, which suggested it had to be May. Well, assuming this was truly a recent bill. The paper looked new, so it couldn't be something that had survived for decades.

Of course, ssuming everything here was authentic may be a foolish thing to do. But denying the possibility seemed even more foolish in your eyes. After all, you had magically appeared here. Why assume you were merely transported to a house that reproduced an authentic home from the 1950s, instead of actually transporting you to the past?

Logically, the latter scenario made a lot more sense than the former.

Your boyfriend had found the TV, in the meanwhile. A wooden box, with the screen protected by two small doors. It's an RCA Model 21T227, you thought, as if you had been the one to buy it. You felt like you had bought it.

Not a good feeling. It made you distrust your own mind.

"Please tell me we are not back in the fifties. We can't be, right? It's impossible, Jack. We can't be in the past, right?" your partner asked, hugging you, seeking reassurance.

You couldn't lie to him. So far, everything showed you were truly back in time. It should have been impossible, but what other explanation could be there?

This was only the beginning, however.

As you stood in the middle of the living room, suddenly you were invaded by a powerful heat. It started on the soles of your feet. And quickly went up. Looking at your partner, and his half-terrified half-curious expression, he had to be feeling something similar.

Surprisingly, it wasn't a bad feeling. It didn't feel like you were burning alive. Rather, it was the same sensation you would have gotten from drinking hot cocoa. Just beginning on your feet and rising up, instead of originating from your stomach and then extending to the rest of your body.

Both you and your boyfriend separated, not knowing what this new development would bring. You didn't have to wait much for an answer. Looking down at your feet and calves, they had changed. Younger, well maintained, with the aesthetic pleasing look one associates with the male romantic leads from old movies. Slim, but powerful. Taken care of, but not so much to evade a rugged charm.

Thighs soon followed. And then your butts. They weren't the most prominent, but they were an overall improvement over what you had. Shaped nicely, nice to grab and spread apart. Wonderful to look at in the new 1950s wardrobe you and your partner probably owned now.

The first real difference came then. Your cocks had hardened at the same time, but the heat was working differently in the two of you. The magic felt like it was stroking both of your dicks at the same time. And you couldn't help but think there was some sort of transferring occurring in front of your eyes.

Your partner's cock was shrinking. Steadily, undeniably. It had always been too big in your opinion. In fact, it had been bigger than yours. Were it not for the cage you usually made him wear—one that still should be at your nightstand, after the events of last night—, such a cock would be certain to produce a disaster. It may had let your boyfriend believe he should have been in control, which was unacceptable. Now you couldn't help but smile as you saw his dick shrivel. Far below average. Until it was just shy of three inches. Perhaps only two inches and a half.

Yours, on the other hand? It took all the size your boyfriend had lost. Your average dick grew longer and thicker. From five inches to six. Then to seven. Soon to eight. To finally end almost double your starting size, as you were a few hairs away from ten inches.

His balls had also shrunk. Now they were tight and small under his cute cocklet. While yours had grown larger and heavier. The balls of a proper man. The balls of a man who was in charge, and would not accept any other dynamic ever.

Was the world rectifying what had gotten initially wrong? At least that's what you thought. Your boyfriend had no business being hung. And so, this was the best thing that could have ever happened.

"Jack... You're huge!" your partner said, his mouth slack open and his dripping cock throbbing. "It looks so good..."

"Silence, pup," you replied, voice low. Quiet enough to force him to lean in. "Now get on your knees and show me how much you like my new cock. Actions speak louder than words, you know? Especially for a cute pup such as you."

He didn't need to be told twice.

Despite the continuing changes your bodies were experiencing, your boyfriend dropped to his knees. His needy mouth seeking your cock like a lost explorer sought water in the desert. Always looking up at you with a devoted and pleading expression. His hands almost shy in their reverence as he stroked your massive schlong.

All the confusion and terror of this situation had evaporated. Replaced entirely by an overwhelming lust. As your bodies changed into healthy, young Old Hollywood stars looking men. But was it Old Hollywood now? After all, it was only 1952.

Nothing could surpass the feeling of seeing your boyfriend's face morphing as he blew your cock. Turning younger, and much more handsome. With perfectly styled hair, and a bit of unshaved stubble. You held his head in place. Not letting him get away.

Not that he would ever wish to.

Once you finally let yourself release, as cum traveled from your erection to his stomach, the changes came to an end. Now, you weren't the same men at all. But handsome, young, fashionable men from the past. Men that could easily become Hollywood next heartthrobs, if you tried so.

For the world, you weren't a couple. Just very close roommates. Living together in the same house. Technically having two rooms, even though you always slept in the same bed. Love living in the shadows, yet not necessarily a secret.

Only the people who needed to know, knew the truth. That you were confirmed bachelors. Who only had girlfriends for the public's benefit. Because you had each other, and that was more than enough.

"Good boy," you said, patting his cheek. "Seems we got a brand new life to explore, huh?"

He barely nodded, as the was sprawled over the expensive rug. A satisfied smile on his face and a string of cum dropping out from his mouth...

---

It had been a few days since the change. Although it had been a hot experience, worrying afterwards was inevitable.

Thankfully everything seemed to work itself out. Your children had also time traveled, apparently. Although they now lived with your ex wife most of the time—a new version of her, who was quite supportive of your new lifestyle—, and they were significantly younger too. You were free to visit them anytime you wanted.

Your name was still Jack. Your boyfriend was now named Henry. And the both of you were indeed actors. Not so successful at the moment, as you had only just begun your respective careers, but with a steadily raising fame. Which was quite exciting on its own, or so you believed.

Overall, you two were adapting quite well to living in the past. It never stopped being surprising, but it was true. It almost felt you were meant to live during these times all along.

"Gotta work on the car, sweetheart," you said with a smile that could sell sand in the desert. "Wanna do it with me? I'll show ya a good time after."

Soon you two were outside, together washing your new convertible. Both barefoot, mostly wearing jeans and nothing else. You bought the car at the end of last year, or so you remembered.

Your boyfriend, Henry, was cleaning the engine, while you were polishing the surface of the car. All while smoking a cigarette. A bad habit your new self had. And you quite liked it, even though you tried to do it with some moderation. Despite it all, you knew the risks it brought.

"Let's take it for a spin" you whispered in his ear, after making sure no one was around to see you.

Both of you may be confirmed bachelors, but one thing was for people to know about it. Another was for people to see it.

Now you weren't cleaning the car just because. Instead, you were planning for a trip soon. You were going to tie your boyfriend up, on a distant place where no one would be able to bother you.

A place where he would do what he does the best: obey your every command. Not even time traveling had changed that. Nor it ever would.

You smiled, thinking about the chastity cage. It was the one thing that proved you used to exist in a different time, in 2026. Even though the cage had been transformed too. Adapted so it now fitted Henry's significantly smaller cock.

In fact, he was wearing it now. He always did.

As you drove your convertible, Henry sat on the copilot seat, you knew you were happy. You may have become someone else entirely, but you knew this Jack would be way easier to get to know than your former self.

And you couldn't wait to prove yourself right.

[bndjack]

Stitched and Inked

The fluorescent lights buzzed like dying insects overhead, casting harsh shadows across the concrete walls of the underground chamber. His name had been Oliver Kane—twenty-six, a street artist from the city who painted murals by night and dreamed of something bigger than the grind. That life ended three nights ago on a deserted loading dock behind his favorite hangout spot.

They came out of nowhere: three masked men in black tactical gear. A black van. A rag soaked in something sweet and chemical clamped over his mouth. He’d fought—elbows, knees, fingernails—but the world folded in on itself before he could scream. When he woke, he was here. Naked, wrists zip-tied behind a steel chair bolted to the floor, the air thick with the smell of blood, sweat, and fresh ink.

The first cut was the worst.

A bald man with tattooed knuckles and a surgical needle the size of a fishhook leaned in close, breath sour with cigarettes. “Boss wants you quiet,” he said, smiling like they were old friends. Oliver thrashed until the chains bit into his neck. The needle pierced the corner of his lip. In and out, in and out—ten, fifteen, twenty times—black surgical thread pulling his mouth shut in a grotesque, puckered line. Each stitch tugged skin and muscle together until his lips were sealed like a leather wallet. Blood trickled down his chin and mixed with the tears already streaming from his wide, bloodshot eyes. He tried to scream anyway. The sound came out as a wet, animal whimper trapped behind the stitches.

They left him like that for an hour, drooling and shaking, while the boss—a lean woman in a tailored black suit who never raised her voice—entered and explained the new rules.

“You’re property now, Oliver . No name. No voice. Just ink and obedience.”

Then the tattooing began.

Two men worked him at once, their machines humming like angry hornets. One started at his collarbones, driving deep black lines into his skin—thick, tribal bands that wrapped around his throat like a second, permanent collar. The other worked lower, across his pectorals and shoulders, etching intricate geometric patterns that looked almost beautiful if you ignored the blood welling up in every needle track. They didn’t bother with numbing cream. Pain was the point. Every time he jerked or sobbed, the woman would step closer and press a gloved finger against his sewn mouth, whispering, “Good boys stay still.”

Hours blurred. The needle buzzed over his ribs, his biceps, the hollow of his throat. They rotated him in the chair like a canvas on a stand, adding more chains when he grew too weak to fight. A heavy iron slave collar—cold, two inches wide, with a thick ring at the front—was locked around his neck with a heavy click. A chain dangled from it, long enough to let him move but short enough to remind him he belonged to the floor. Sweat poured down his face, stinging the fresh ink and the raw puncture wounds of his lips. Tears carved clean tracks through the grime on his cheeks.

By the time the artists stepped back, his torso was a living map of ownership: black bands circling his neck and chest, jagged lines snaking down his arms, symbols of submission etched over his heart. The woman inspected him slowly, running a fingernail along one of the fresh tattoos until he shuddered.

“Almost done,” she said. She snapped her fingers. One of the men brought over a small mirror and held it up.

Oliver stared at the stranger looking back. Wide, terrified eyes. Black stitches holding his mouth in a permanent, silent scream. Sweat and tears and blood streaking his face. The heavy collar glinting under the lights. The chain resting against his inked chest like a leash waiting to be pulled.

He tried to beg. The only sound that escaped was a broken, muffled keen.

The woman smiled, satisfied. “Welcome to the family, slave.”

The fluorescent lights in the chamber flickered once, then died as the men dragged oliver’s limp, sweat-slick body down a narrow concrete corridor. His bare feet scraped along the floor, leaving faint red streaks from the fresh needle work. The heavy iron collar dug into his throat with every ragged breath he managed through his nose; the chain clinked softly against his inked chest like a reminder of ownership. They stopped at a steel door, swung it open, and shoved him inside.

The cell was barely six feet square—bare concrete, a single drain in the floor, a thin mat in the corner that smelled of old piss and fear. No window. No light except the red glow of a camera mounted high in the corner. They cut the zip ties from his wrists only long enough to chain his hands to a ring bolted into the wall above his head, forcing him to stand. The woman gave the lead on his collar one last tug, forcing his head up.

“Sleep, slave,” she said softly. “Tomorrow we finish what we started.”

The door slammed. The bolt shot home with a sound like a gunshot. Oliver sagged against the chains, tears mixing with the dried blood on his stitched lips. Every inch of his torso burned—black tribal bands circling his neck and shoulders, jagged lines snaking down his ribs and arms, symbols of submission burned into his skin forever. He tried to scream again. Nothing came out but a wet, strangled whimper trapped behind the black thread. Exhaustion finally dragged him under, head lolling against the cold metal collar.

Morning came with the screech of the door.

The woman stepped in first, still in her tailored black suit, heels clicking like judgment. Behind her walked a man Oliver had never seen—tall, broad-shouldered, salt-and-pepper hair cropped close, dressed in a crisp black shirt open at the collar. A thick gold wedding band glinted on his left hand. He carried a riding crop idly in one fist, tapping it against his thigh as he looked Elias over like livestock at auction.

“Morning, pet,” the woman purred. She clipped the leather lead back onto the ring of his collar and gave it a sharp yank, forcing him to stumble forward out of the cell. “Meet my husband. He’s been very eager to see our new acquisition.”

The husband circled him slowly, eyes tracing every fresh tattoo. He reached out and ran a rough thumb across the black band at Oliver’s throat, pressing just hard enough to make the stitches on his lips twitch.

“Beautiful work,” the man said, voice low and approving. “You were right, love. He’s going to look exquisite once he’s fully marked. How does it feel, boy? Knowing every inch of you now belongs to us?”

Oliver’s eyes widened in terror. He tried to pull back, but the chain on his collar held him fast. A muffled, desperate sound vibrated behind the sewn-shut mouth—half sob, half plea.

The husband chuckled. “Still fighting. Good. I like when they break slow.” He turned to his wife. “We should talk about the rest of the mods while they finish him. The cock and balls need full coverage—thick black bands around the base, maybe some script down the shaft. Something that says ‘property of’ right above the head. And the ass… I want the cheeks done in the same tribal pattern as his back, but the hole itself gets the special design. A small, tight little ring of thorns and our initials intertwined. Permanent. So every time he’s used, he remembers exactly who owns that tight little slave cunt.”

The woman smiled, eyes gleaming. “I was thinking the same. Full-body coverage today. No skin left unmarked. Then we can move on to the piercings—nipples, septum, maybe a Prince Albert to lock him to his cage when he’s not being fucked.”

Two of the tattoo artists were already waiting in the main chamber, machines humming, fresh ink pots lined up like ammunition. They chained Oliver to the steel chair again, this time spreading his legs wide and locking his ankles to the base so he couldn’t close them. The lead on his collar was shortened until his head was forced back against the chair, exposing every inch of his body.

The needles started.

They worked his back first—long, sweeping lines that wrapped around his spine and shoulders, connecting the front tattoos into one unbroken map of ownership. Then lower. The artists didn’t hesitate. One took his cock in a gloved hand, stretching the soft skin taut while the other drove the needle in. Black ink bloomed across the shaft in thick, possessive bands. Oliver’s entire body jerked, eyes rolling back, tears pouring freely down his cheeks as the pain flared white-hot. They worked the balls next—careful, deliberate shading that turned the smooth skin into textured black patterns. Every twitch of the needle made his muffled cries vibrate uselessly behind the stitches.

When they flipped him over and bent him across the chair, ass up, the husband stepped closer to watch. “Make the design tight,” he ordered. “Right around the hole. I want it pretty when I spread him open.”

The needle buzzed mercilessly across Oliver’s ass cheeks, then inward. The special design took shape: a delicate, cruel ring of thorns and interlocking letters—his new owners’ initials—encircling his asshole like a brand of eternal submission. The pain was blinding. Oliver’s vision swam. Sweat poured off him in sheets, dripping onto the concrete as the last untouched patches of skin disappeared under layers of black ink.

Hours later, they stepped back.

Oliver hung in the chair, every visible inch of his body now covered—neck to toes, cock to balls, ass to the most intimate place of all. The black ink gleamed wet and angry under the lights, a living canvas of slavery. The heavy collar still locked around his throat, chain dangling. His mouth remained sewn shut, lips swollen and raw around the black thread.

The woman clipped the lead again and tugged him upright. Her husband ran a hand possessively down Oliver’s inked chest, stopping to squeeze his newly marked cock.

“Perfect,” the husband murmured. “Our silent little fucktoy. All ours.”

Oliver’s eyes—wide, bloodshot, broken—stared back at them. No words. No scream. Only the endless, muffled sound of a man who no longer existed… and the new slave who now wore his skin.

[bndjack]

Good morning little brother, I have decided to change our living arrangement. You have been living here, rent free as you try to find yourself… What? Now stop!! don’t try to speak, that gag sits perfectly in your mouth holding your tongue down. It also has a feeding tube, so it never has to be removed..a nice little benefit don’t you think. You will never speak again…. now where was I.. oh yeah, our living arrangement. I am sick of you not contributing to the household, but your entitled ass thinks you can parade in here with all sorts of women and fuck them all night long. Well that stops now. After some long thinking and planning I have decided that you will be the more useful as a rubber bondage sex slave. You will forever be covered in restrictive rubber and in some sort of bondage at all times. Now Stop struggling! It will do you no good. You might want to get use to this sleep sack. You will be in it for a while. Well At least until I can trust you with more movement and of course whenever I want to just store you away…. now I don’t want you to get bored in there so I took the liberty in inserting a nice 8” vibrating electric plug in your ass. As your ass is assaulted in multiple ways you will find the cage on your cock prohibits any full erections or pleasure. In fact it will most likely be quite painful. You need to learn to suffer for me and without any release, horniness will build and your mind will bend to my will quicker…. I know what your thinking… mom will coming looking for you. Well, I forwarded her the letter you left for me saying you were heading to Mexico to work and I called her to tell you took everything with you including some of my shit. She is not happy with you. Now I am going to leave you for a while to accept this is your life now. Don’t worry I will be replacing that plug with my fat cock later and we do some brotherly bonding..”

[bndjack]

The Scent Pig Awakening

In the cozy living room of their East Syracuse apartment, Brock Harlan lounged on the gray sectional—black leather shirt stretched tight across his massive chest, the top buttons open to reveal a thick mat of dark hair glistening with a day’s sweat. His black cap sat low over his piercing eyes, and his powerful legs were spread wide in those glossy black leather pants, the heavy silver belt buckle catching the lamplight. He held his blue iPhone up like he was taking the ultimate selfie, but the smirk on his bearded face said he had something far more devious in mind.

His roommate, Kyle Simmons, straight acting to the core, athletic and carried that cocky easy confidence, shuffled in from his shift at the warehouse, still in his work boots and jeans, looking beat but still hot “Dude, you look like you’re about to film an OnlyFans ad, where did you get those clothes from? ” Kyle joked, dropping his keys on the coffee table. “I thought we talked about the boots and the smell man?” He motioned to the pile of dirty boots by the door

Brock chuckled, low and commanding. “Just something I found and I wanted to try on. Come here, for a second I want to show you something.” He patted the cushion right next to him. “Found this deep-relaxation script online and figure it might help you out since you work so much.”

Kyle rolled his eyes but plopped down anyway, too tired to argue. “Is this more hypnosis shit? You know it won’t work.. I got thing to do and Kayla is waiting for me.”

Brock was insistent and kept patting the couch and said “come one man this will help I promise”

Kyle finally relented… “Whatever, man… Make it quick and just don’t make me cluck like a chicken okay..” He said mockingly.

Brock turned the phone screen toward Kyle’s face. A slow, swirling spiral glowed on it—something he’d downloaded earlier. His deep, steady voice filled the room. “Just watch the screen and listen to me. Breathe in… breathe out… Let your eyes follow the swirl. Good. Your body’s getting heavy. Arms, legs, eyelids… all sinking deeper with every breath.”

Kyle’s shoulders slumped almost immediately. His eyes glazed over, fixed on the hypnotic pattern. Brock smirked as he finally had the little prick right where he wanted him. After months of the walking around shirtless with his masculine swagger and living the perfect life with his perfect job and girlfriend he was finally going to put him in his place. He didn’t hate Kyle..no he just wanted him and the final straw had been him bitching about the smell of his boots and how he blew Brock off when he flirted, saying “I not interested,” in that cocky tone.

“That’s it,” Brock murmured, his leather shirt creaking as he leaned in closer. The rich, warm scent of worn leather and masculine musk already filled the space between them. “You’re going deep now, Kyle. Deeper than you’ve ever been. And when you’re this deep, my words become your truth. You obey me completely.”

Kyle nodded slowly, lips parted, completely under.

Brock’s voice dropped even lower, smooth as the leather hugging his thighs. “From this moment on, you are my scent pig slave, Kyle. Nothing makes you happier or hornier than sniffing my scent. You crave it. The smell of my dirty, nasty feet after I’ve been in these boots all day—sweaty, rank, cheesy—that thick, sharp stink makes your cock throb and your mouth water.”

He let that sink in, watching Kyle’s breathing quicken.

“My balls… heavy, sweaty, musky after a long day of working out and being in these tight leather pants. That nasty, salty, man-stink is your favorite drug. You’ll press your nose right against them and sniff like a pig in heat. And my ass—especially after I’ve been sitting in this leather all day—that deep, earthy, raunchy scent? You’ll worship it. You’ll beg to bury your face between my cheeks and breathe it in until you’re dizzy.”

Brock’s hand rested on his own thick leather-clad thigh, the material shining under the lamp. “But most of all, Kyle… the smell of my leather. This shirt, these pants, the boots—every inch of it soaked with my sweat, my body heat, my natural musk mixed with that rich, leather aroma. That scent owns you. It turns you into a desperate, snorting scent pig slave who lives to huff every inch of my gear. You get hard the second you smell it. You can’t think straight until you’ve pressed your face into it like the pathetic little pig you are.”

He snapped his fingers once, sharp and loud.

Kyle blinked, coming out of the trance with a soft, confused smile. “Whoa… that was weird. I feel… kinda fuzzy.”

Brock grinned and kicked one heavy black boot up onto the coffee table, right in front of Kyle. The leather creaked. Kyle’s eyes widened. His nostrils flared. Without thinking, he slid off the couch onto his knees, leaned forward, and shoved his face right against the warm, worn leather of Brock’s boot. He inhaled deeply—long, greedy snorts—and a low, needy moan escaped him.

“Fuck… Brock… your boots smell so fucking good I can’t stop smelling them,” he mumbled, voice already thick with lust. He nuzzled harder, tongue flicking out to taste the leather.

Brock laughed softly, reaching down to pat Kyle’s head like a good pet. “That’s right. You’re my scent pig now. You always said you hated it when I would come home stinking up the place.. now you can’t get enough of it”

He spread his legs wider, the leather pants stretching obscenely over his bulge. Kyle’s eyes flicked upward, already glassy with need, drawn to the warm, musky heat radiating from Brock’s crotch.

Brock watched with a satisfied grin as Kyle nuzzled deeper into the warm, worn leather of his boot, snorting like a pig in heat. The scent pig’s eyes were half-lidded, cheeks flushed, a visible bulge already straining in his jeans.

“Good boy,” Brock rumbled, his voice thick with arousal. He pressed his boot a little firmer against Kyle’s eager face. “But sniffing’s just the start. You love the taste too, pig. That salty, musky flavor straight from my skin and leather. It’s even better than the smell. You crave it on your tongue. Lick.” Brock Commanded

Kyle moaned loudly as the new command sank straight into his hypnotized mind. He didn’t hesitate. His tongue slid out, dragging slow and hungry across the shiny black leather, tasting the days of sweat, dust, and that deep, earthy leather aroma mixed with Brock’s natural musk. “Mmmph… fuck, it tastes so good,” he gasped between long, sloppy licks, eyes rolling back. “Your boots… so salty… so nasty… I need more.”

Brock chuckled darkly and pulled his foot back, kicking both heavy boots off with a thud. His socked feet—damp, warm, and rank from being trapped in leather all day—were presented next. The thick, cheesy odor hit Kyle like a drug. “Go on. Taste them properly.”

Kyle dove in immediately, burying his face between Brock’s big, sweaty feet, licking the soles through the damp socks first, then yanking the socks off with his teeth when Brock allowed it. He lapped greedily at the bare skin—tongue swirling between toes, sucking on them like a cock, savoring the sharp, vinegary tang of dirty foot sweat. “Tastes so fucking good… your nasty feet, man… I’m your pig sir…”

Brock’s cock was rock-hard inside the tight leather pants. He stood up, towering over his roommate, the leather shirt creaking as he peeled it open further. “Keep going pig. You love the taste of all of me.”

Kyle crawled forward on his knees, nose and tongue tracing up Brock’s leather-thighs until his face was pressed right into the bulging crotch. The heavy, masculine scent was overwhelming—sweat-soaked leather mixed with the ripe aroma of Brock’s balls. Brock unzipped slowly, letting his thick, heavy cock and low-hanging balls spill out. They were sweaty, musky, and slightly sticky from the long day encased in leather.

Kyle whimpered like he’d found heaven. He buried his face underneath, licking and sucking on Brock’s balls with desperate hunger, tongue bathing every inch, tasting the salty sweat and that deep, funky ball-musk. “So good… your balls taste amazing… nasty and perfect…” He sucked one into his mouth, then the other, moaning around them.

Brock groaned, gripping Kyle’s hair. “That’s my good little scent pig slave. Taste my ass next.”

He turned around, shoved his leather pants down just enough to expose his firm, hairy ass, still warm and sweaty from sitting in the tight leather. Kyle didn’t need another command—he dove right in, face buried between the cheeks, tongue lapping eagerly at the musky, tangy hole. He licked deep, tasting every bit of Brock’s natural flavor, snorting and moaning like the total addict he now was.

Brock reached back and held Kyle’s head in place. “Yeah… eat it. You live for this now. The smell and the taste of my dirty feet, balls, ass, and every inch of my leather. You’re mine.”

Kyle could only mumble in agreement, lost in his new purpose—licking, sucking, and worshipping every sweaty, leathery inch while his own cock leaked helplessly in his pants. Kyle was a complete mess on his knees—face flushed, eyes glassy with pure addiction, tongue hanging out as he panted like a dog in heat.

“You’re mine now, pig,” Brock growled, gripping Kyle’s hair tight. “Totally owned. Say it.”

“I’m your scent pig, Brock,” Kyle moaned immediately, voice hoarse. “I belong to you… I live for your smell and taste.”

Brock smirked and shoved Kyle’s face back into his ass, smothering him completely. Kyle dove in with desperate hunger, licking deep between the cheeks, tongue swirling around the sweaty, musky hole while he snorted loudly. The taste—salty, earthy, raw—drove him wild. He couldn’t get enough, burying himself deeper, moaning and whimpering as Brock ground back against his face.

After several long minutes of rimming, Brock pulled away and turned around, slapping his heavy, spit-slick cock across Kyle’s cheeks. “Open up.”

Kyle obeyed instantly, mouth wide. Brock fed him his cock in one go, sliding deep until Kyle’s nose was pressed into his pubes. The thick, sweaty musk filled Kyle’s lungs as he sucked greedily, tongue working every inch, savoring the salty precum.

“That’s it… choke on your owner’s cock,” Brock groaned, fucking Kyle’s throat with slow, powerful strokes. Kyle’s eyes watered but he never pulled back—he pushed forward instead, gagging happily, drooling all over Brock’s leather pants and balls. Every breath was pure Brock: leather, sweat, musk, and dominance.

Brock eventually pulled out, strings of spit connecting Kyle’s lips to his cock. He sat back down on the couch—legs spread wide, leather creaking—and pointed at his boots.

“Clean them, pig. With your tongue. Then you’re getting fucked.”

Kyle crawled forward like an animal in heat, licking every inch of the discarded boots inside and out, moaning at the intense foot sweat and leather taste. When he finished, Brock yanked him up onto the couch, bent him over the armrest, and shoved his thick cock straight into Kyle’s ass in one rough thrust.

Kyle cried out in pleasure, pushing back. “Yes, own me… use your pig!”

Brock pounded him hard, the sound of leather slapping skin filling the room. One hand gripped Kyle’s hair, the other reached around to shove sweaty fingers into Kyle’s mouth. Kyle sucked them clean, lost in total submission—every thrust, every breath, every drop of sweat reinforcing that he was now Brock’s personal scent pig, owned completely, body and mind.

Brock stayed buried deep inside Kyle for a long moment, letting his cum drip down the younger man’s thighs. He finally pulled out, slapped Kyle’s ass hard, and sat back on the couch like a king—leather shirt open, pants around his ankles, thick cock still half-hard and glistening.

“Stay on your knees, pig,” he ordered.

Brock leaned forward, his deep voice taking on that same calm, commanding hypnosis tone from earlier. “Listen carefully, slave. These rules are burned into your mind. They’re permanent. You will obey them without question.”

Rule One: You are my total slave now. My property. My personal scent pig. Your only purpose is to serve me—my feet, my balls, my ass, my cock, my leather, my every need. You will call Kayla and dump her.

Rule Two: Every morning you will wake up in this apartment feeling completely normal. You’ll remember nothing about any of this. You’ll shower, get dressed, go to your warehouse job like a regular guy, and act completely normal all day. No one will suspect a thing.

Rule Three: The second you walk through that front door after work you become my desperate, eager scent pig again. You’ll drop to your knees, strip, and start sniffing and tasting wherever I tell you—my dirty boots, my sweaty balls, my ass, my leather gear. No hesitation. No limits.

Rule Four: Nights and weekends belong to me completely. You serve nonstop—cleaning my leather with your tongue, burying your face in my crotch or ass, taking my cock whenever and wherever I want. You eat when I allow it, usually off the floor or from my hand.

Rule Five: Everything you own is now mine. Your paycheck, your savings, your truck, your clothes, your video games— all of it. You’ll hand it over the second I tell you. You get nothing except what I decide to give you.

Rule Six: You sleep in a cage, faced buried in my ass or balls or on the floor at the foot of my bed like the animal you are. No blankets unless I’m feeling generous. Your pillow is my dirty socks or underwear.

Brock snapped his fingers twice. Kyle blinked, the suggestions locking deep into his subconscious.

“Repeat the rules back to me, slave.”

Kyle’s voice came out husky and obedient. “I’m your total slave… your scent pig. I will break up with Kayla…I go to work normal and forget everything… but the second I get home I serve you. Nights and weekends, I’m yours completely. Everything I have is yours. I sleep where you tell me…”

“Good pig.” Brock smiled and shoved his bare, sweaty foot into Kyle’s face again. Kyle immediately started licking and sucking between the toes, moaning with fresh hunger.

“Tomorrow you’ll wake up like nothing happened,” Brock continued casually while Kyle worshipped. “But tonight? You’re sleeping with your nose pressed against my balls. And in the morning, before you leave for work, you’re going to sign over your next paycheck to me.”

Kyle whimpered in agreement, tongue working eagerly, already lost in the taste and smell of his new owner.

Brock leaned back, perfectly content. His roommate was now fully broken in—his secret, eager, 24/7 scent slave—and the best part was, Kyle would never remember enough to fight it or tell anyone.

He owned him completely.

Epilogue:

Life in the apartment had settled into a perfect, filthy routine.

Every morning Kyle Simmons woke up, always naked, with his face buried in stink . He’d blink, feel strangely satisfied, shower, put on his work clothes, and head to the warehouse like any other guy. He even joked with his coworkers and wondered why his bank account kept dropping—but he never questioned it. Brock owned everything now: Kyle’s truck, his savings, his paycheck were deposited straight into Brock’s account.

The second Kyle stepped through the front door after work, the switch flipped. He’d drop his lunchbox, strip naked, and crawl straight to wherever Brock was sitting—usually in a black leather outfit. Within seconds his face would be buried in Brock’s sweaty boots, licking and sniffing like a desperate animal while Brock relaxed and had all his needs met.

Nights were for total service: long, sloppy foot worship, ball cleaning, deep rimming, and getting fucked raw on the couch, the floor, or bent over the coffee table. Weekends were even better—Kyle spent hours locked in the small metal cage Brock had bought, only let out to serve as a human urinal, boot polisher, or living fuck toy. He slept every night either curled up in the cage, chained on the floor or with his face pressed between Brock’s cheeks or against his heavy, musky balls.

Brock had never been happier. His perfect, brainwashed scent pig roommate was completely broken in—paying all the bills, keeping the leather gear spotless with his tongue, and living only to inhale and taste his owner.

And Kyle? Well he had never been happier… exactly where he belonged: on his knees, owned.

[bndjack]

The Inheritance Trap

Ronan Kelly and Brendan Kelly grew up in a working-class Irish family in South Boston. Their father, Seamus Kelly, was a hard-drinking, self-made contractor who built a small empire in real estate and construction. Seamus always favored his eldest son Brendan — the responsible, level-headed one who followed him into the family business. Ronan, the wild younger son by sixteen years, was the family disappointment: a hot-tempered fighter and party animal who never lived up to expectations. Seamus made it brutally clear that Brendan was the golden boy who would one day run everything.

When Seamus died suddenly, the will split the $14 million estate equally —it gave control over the company to Brendon with Ronan only get half of the $14 million sitting in the bank. However there was a critical clause: if one brother was declared unable to claim his half, the other would gain full control and be responsible for the other.

Ronan saw his path. For months he planned meticulously. He used his share of the initial inheritance to bribe administrators and doctors at St. Luke’s Psychiatric Hospital, a fully operational, high-security private facility known for treating wealthy patients with “discretion.”

It was a rainy Tuesday in late October. Brendan was driving home, windshield wipers slapping steadily, when bright headlights suddenly filled his rearview mirror. A large SUV rammed his Audi hard from behind, forcing it off the road and into a shallow ditch.

Before Brendan could fully recover from the impact or reach for his phone, Ronan was at the driver’s side door. Dressed all in black he yanked the door open.

“Ronan…? What the fu—”

A chloroform-soaked rag clamped over Brendan’s mouth and nose. Ronan’s powerful arm locked around his brother’s head like a vice. Brendan struggled hard — kicking, clawing at Ronan’s arm — but the younger man was far stronger and had the element of surprise. Within 30 seconds, Brendan’s body went limp.

Ronan worked quickly. He zip-tied Brendan’s wrists and ankles, hooded him, and dragged him into the back of the SUV. He left the damaged Audi behind with the keys still in it and a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the passenger seat — staging the scene to look like Brendan had been drinking and crashed.

Ronan drove straight to St. Luke’s . The admissions team was already expecting “an emergency involuntary commitment.” When they arrived, Brendan was still unconscious from the chloroform.

Dr. Hayes met them at a discreet side entrance.

“Mr. Kelly,” she said smoothly, “your brother had another severe episode tonight. He is a danger to himself and others. You did the right thing bringing him in.”

Ronan handed over the forged documents: a detailed “history” of Brendan’s supposed mental decline, witness statements (paid actors), and a signed request for full guardianship and no-visitor status “for his own safety.” The hospital’s private ambulance had already been dispatched earlier to “recover” Brendan from the crash scene, so the official story lined up perfectly.

By the time Brendan woke up the next morning, he was in a padded isolation room in the secure wing:

• Heavy leather restraints on his wrists and ankles, bolted to the bed.

• A thick leather muzzle gag already strapped over his mouth.

• His clothes removed and replaced with a hospital gown.

• A sign on the door reading: High Risk Patient – No Visitors – Guardian: Ronan Kelly

When Brendan started struggling and shouting behind the gag, a nurse simply injected him with a sedative while noting in the chart: Patient exhibiting acute agitation and delusions consistent with prior records.

Ronan stood outside the observation window, watching coldly as the final paperwork was signed. With one signature, Brendan Kelly was legally erased from the outside world.

To everyone else, Brendan had suffered a complete psychotic break and voluntarily committed himself under his loving younger brother’s care.

Inside the room, Ronan finally stepped in, pulled the chair close to the bed, and leaned down so his brother could see his face.

“Welcome to the rest of your life, big brother,” he whispered. “You always thought you were better than me,” Ronan said softly, peeling off his tank top to reveal his powerful, hairy chest. “Dad’s perfect son. Now look at you — gagged, chained, and completely mine. Don’t worry the orders say to keep you permanently gagged, so will never be able to tell anyone the truth.” He then climbed onto the bed, straddling his helpless older brother. “The money’s going to be mine. All of it. And every night I’m going to come here and take what I’ve wanted since we were kids.”

From now that night on Ronan visited almost every night after hours, using his brother without mercy. He would strip down, climb onto the bed, and fuck Brendan slow and deep while the older man thrashed uselessly in his bonds. Sometimes Ronan would stroke him to the edge, laughing when Brendan’s body betrayed him and came against his will. Other times he simply used Brendan’s mouth or kept him plugged and desperate for hours.

The money continued to flow into Ronan’s accounts as the paperwork processed.

Months passed. Once the final transfer cleared and Ronan had full legal and financial control of the entire Kelly fortune, he decided it was time for a change.

That night, Ronan entered the room in his usual black tank top and gold chain, looking more powerful and arrogant than ever. He unbuckled the leather muzzle gag and pulled it away from Brendan’s face for the first time in months. Brendan gasped, working his sore jaw, his voice hoarse and broken.

“…You fucking monster,” Brendan rasped, eyes blazing with hatred and exhaustion. “I’ll kill you when I get out of here.”

Ronan smiled darkly, sitting on the edge of the bed and stroking his brother’s bald head almost tenderly.

“You’re not getting out, Brendan. Ever. The doctors here all believe you’re a permanent resident — dangerously delusional, violent, and in need of lifelong care. And by paperwork “you” signed you are in my care.. I own you.” He leaned in closer, voice dropping to a possessive whisper. “I’ve got all of Dad’s money now. Every last cent. And I’m done hiding what I really want.”

Brendan’s eyes widened as Ronan stood up and began stripping slowly.

“I’m keeping you here indefinitely,” Ronan continued. “But things are going to get different . Much different . I’ve already spoken to the head physician about some… experimental treatments. Permanent chastity. Hormonal adjustments. Maybe even a little surgery to make you even more compliant. You’re going to be my personal live-in toy — broken, obedient, and completely dependent on me for the rest of your life.”

Ronan climbed onto the bed, pinning his older brother down. He kissed Brendan’s mouth hard for the first time since the abduction, then moved lower, claiming him again with deep, possessive thrusts.

“You’ll still be muzzled and gagged Most of the way time,” Ronan growled between strokes, “but when we are alone and I want to hear you beg, you’ll speak. You’ll thank me for every load I give you. You’ll call me ‘Sir’ while I fuck what used to be my big brother.”

You Ronan muzzled him again and now zipped his pants releases his already dripping cock. Brendan’s muffled curses quickly turned into unwilling moans as Ronan used him relentlessly in the quiet hospital room. The staff outside continued their rounds, completely unaware — or uncaring — about what was happening behind the locked door.

Ronan Kelly had won everything: the money, the power, and his older brother’s body and future. And now that the inheritance was secure, he could fully claim the one thing he thought he would never have… his big bro.

[bndjack]

Sean was working out at this new gym. It had only been a week since he started at this gym. He loved working out and this was his new haunt. He would walk around and flex his muscles in the mirrors, taking selfies and showing off for the ladies. He had only been there for a week and he had hooked up with 4 different gym bunnies, always leaving them wanting more when he slipped out after getting what he wanted. The down side was all the fags that he caught staring. He figured it came with the territory of being built like a Greek god. However, He did have to threaten one specific fag named Colton who he caught watching him change in the locker room. He was pretty sure he stole his missing jock.

Tonight was a late night for him and he was hitting the weights pretty hard just hoping a hottie would walk it. “Guess i will be bateing alone tonight” he thought to himself as he heard the lone gym rat, Dominic, pushing out a set on the bench. Dom as everyone called him had been in here every night working out and would normally stay until closing. Sean would walk out to his car with Dom at the end of the night and brag about all the vag he would be getting later. Dom would warn him that all that messing around is going to bite him in the ass one day.

Sean was about to call it a night when she walked in He had never seen her here before and His cock stirred as she signed in and “Andi Karicic” popped up on the screen just within Sean’s view. Her mocha brown skin beckoning Sean to reach out and touch.

Sean greeted her and told her if she needed any help to just ask. Andi smiled back and walked over to weight area.

Sean waited a bit to not seem eager. After all she would begging to go home with him soon enough. Sean walked by Dom and smiled as he approached Andi from behind. She was at the squat rack. Sean was getting a hard on just watching her bend down and stick her ass out. Sean barked as he approached her. She came back up with her squat and Sean got close and stood directly behind her and squated with her, aiding her movement. She shot back up fast and racked the bar. As he was yelling “what the fuck” Sean was grabbed from behind. He fought hard but Dom had a good grip on him. “What the fuck do you think you were doing with my wife you stupid fuck” Dom yelled in his ear. Sean tried to apologize, claiming he didn’t know she was his wife. “I told you your behavior was going to get you in trouble. You want to act like a dog, I will help with that.” Was the last thing Sean heard as Dom tightened his grip around his neck and everything went dark.

Sean woke up not able to move. He could feel cool air on his face. He opened his eyes to find his head inside some sort of box. His face was sticking out of the front of the box. He tried with all his might but he could not pull his head back inside the box. He saw a mirror above him and to his horror he found the rest of his body strapped down to a table. Looking closer he could see that there were metal straps screwed into the wood holding him in place. No matter how much he pulled they had no give. He started to panic and started yelling for help. He stops when he hears foot steps. “Please.. Please let me go. I won’t tell anyone anything.” Sean pleads.

Dom walks up to the table. Sean moves his eyes and can barely see him as his head is held firmly in place. Dom reaches out and grabs ahold of Sean’s nuts and yanks them forcefully away from his body. Sean screams as he feels that his nuts are being ripped off. Dom leans in and smiles. “Sean I hope you enjoy your new home. Your never leaving here.” Dom states coldly. Sean goes to say something and Dom squeezes his nut harder, “Shut up or I will crush these worthless things” He commands.

Sean stays quiet. “You are in the basement of a friend of mine. He really likes arrogant fucks like you that feel they are god gift to women. Well you won’t ever have to worry about that again. You have been permanently installed as his personal fuck toy.” Dom explains. Just then Sean heard someone else approach. It was that fag from the gym, Colton. He walked up and smiled at Dom. “I couldn’t believe my luck when Dom called and stated what happened.I was more that happy to take you off his hands. Don’t worry it looks like you just left work early and took off. I am sure they will find your car at the train station and assume you left town.” Colton thanked Dom and invited him over to play anytime. Dom finally let go of Sean’s now throbbing nuts and punched him in the gut taking all the wind out of home. He shook Colons’ hand and left.

Colton reached behind him and pulled out something black. Sean recognized it immediately. It was his jock that disappeared from his locker. “I knew you fucking took my jock you queer. Now let me out of here and I wont kick your ass.” Sean stated with new aggression now that Dom left.

“Oh my dear Sean or should I call you fucktoy. You are not going any wear. I am going to use you for my pleasure and torture the fuck out of you.” With that he shoved Sean’s rank jock in his face. “Sniff fucktoy, Smell the stink from both your and my balls and ass.” Sean suddenly wished he washed his jocks more often. He had worn this one for a couple weeks before it vanished and this fuck had been wearing it since then“ Sean could not move his face so he was forced to smell the combination of sweat and want he was sure was Colton’s cum.

Sean went from threats to begging Colton to let him go. Colton left the jock on his face and moved down and started playing with his balls. “I am going to teach you to get aroused by the smell and taste of your master” He gloated as he brought Sean to a full hard on. Sean was fighting but his body would not cooperate and was bending to the will of this bastard.

Suddenly everything stopped. Sean laid there panicking, not knowing what was coming next. Suddenly the underwear was ripped off his face and to his horror Coltons dirty ass was inches from his face. “Please no.. Please don’t do this..” Sean begged as Colton lower down on his face. The pungent sweaty ass odor hit him hard and almost made him vomit.

“Lick Slave.. Clean my ass fucktoy” Colon ordered. When Sean refused to lick he felt a sharp pain shoot through his nuts as Colton used a small whip on his exposed nuts. It only took two more hits for Sean to stick out his tongue and start licking. Colton monad as his new fucktoy was learning his place

It has been months since Sean’s car was found at the train station and everyone thought he skipped town. The conditioning of his fucktoy worked great. Sean has been reduced to nothing more than Colton’s plaything. Colton uses Sean daily to clean his ass and Sean gets fully erect without any other Manuel stimulation as he completes the task. Every once in a while Dom comes over. Dom like to take his stress out on Sean. Often leaving numerous raised marks all over Sean’s body. Dom leaves the basement out of breath from the effort he puts behind the swings. Sean is still secured to the table that he woke up on. His only view is his bond body or his master’s ass. Colton is thinking about locking up his cock. Sean has not orgasmed since being captured and Colton doesn’t want to give the slave any false hope

[bndjack]

Stored

Nothing…That is all I can see or hear. It is all I can ever see and the only sounds I can hear are his heavy boots coming down the stairs as he approaches and the opening and closing of the door I am locked behind. I don’t know how long I have been down here. I have lost track of the days. I can only guess I’m in a small room in a basement stored away from the world as I can feel the cold concrete walls of my cell through the unforgiving hold of the leather sleep sack in am kept in.

Not too long ago I had a life, a family and a promising career. I was on track to be promoted in my law firm. Life was good. I had just called my wife and told her that I was flying out to California to meet with the head of the firm to discuss my promotion. My plane was leaving in 2 hours. They wanted me out there right away. I promised to come straight home after the meeting so we could celebrate.

I hailed a cab and asked the man to take me to the airport. Looking back I should have been suspicious as he kept his head down and only responded with low grunts to affirm my request. I was preoccupied messaging my colleagues and finishing up a last minute case and I didnt notice we were not heading to the airport. I pounded on the window and yelled at him that I was going to miss my flight. I demanded that he head to the airport right now. When he didn’t answer I pounded harder and told him let me out right now. He slammed on the breaks. I prepared to get out and possibly run. The doors locked and I couldnt get out. I watched him reach up to his dash and push a black button. I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my ass. I yelled, jumped and tried to see what had stabbed me. There was a small needle sticking out of the seat. I asked what the fuck that was as I became dizzy, lost my strength and slumped back in the seat unable to move. I watched him exit the car and open the back door. I saw his hand move in front of my face and that was the last thing I saw.

The would be the last thing I ever saw. I woke up in a leather sleep sack. I tried to yell but the excessive gag kept all my attempts muffled. I laid there trying to explore my surroundings. I could smell the leather of sack and the hood that was over my head and face. Everything was black and I could feel the blindfold pressing on my eyes. My arms had some movement but were useless as they are inside the built in sleeves. I tried to move around and rolled over and hit the wall next to me. That is when I heard a door open. I tried to call out to whoever it was but they made no noise. I moved around as much as possible trying to get my arms free. I was kicked in the side suddenly and it took my breath away. I tried to talk again and was hit again. I got the message that talking got me hit after several attempts to talk. He reached down and took the gag out of my mouth and forgot the lesson and I started to plead to be let go and was stopped with a sudden hit to the head. I laid there breathing and sobbed quietly. I felt something at my lips. I opened up and he poured some bland mixture in my mouth and I swallowed as fast as I could hoping I was not being poisoned. The gag was forced back into my mouth and I instinctively tried to yell for him to stop. Only to be hit so hard I saw stars.

The man knelt next to me and flipped me over. I heard a zipper as he undid part of the sack to expose my ass He spit on my ass and started fingering my hole. I shook my head no as much as possible and I started to cry as I felt him lay on top of me and start to fuck my ass. He pounded me hard. I felt like my ass was on fire as I could feel his heavy balls slapping against my ass. He let out a low moan, the only sound I ever hear him make, as he unloaded his seed in my ass. I laid there whimpering as he shoved a butt plug in sealing in his load to be absorbed by my body. He zipped the bag back up and rolled me over. He undid the front pouch and exposed my cock. My breaths got shallow as I feared what would happen. I could feel something and it was cold. I he pulled my balls away from my body. I moaned as he attached a metal ball stretcher to my balls. He let my balls drop and sealed the pouch again.

He then proceeded to use leather straps to further limit my movements. When he was done my ankle, and knees were held tightly together. My arms and hands were held tightly to my side cutting off the little movement I had. He then finished with a tight collar around my neck taking away my head movements.

I laid there wanting answers as to why this was happening. When suddenly his leather glove was over my mouth and nose cutting off my air. I struggled but it was no use as slipped into the darkness.

This has been an ongoing occurrence since my arrival. The only difference is the increased size of my butt plug.

I lay here in what I can only classify as storage waiting to be used and wishing to hear the steps as it is the only thing that breaks up my day. Tonight after my feeding there was something different.. He didn’t roll me over. I waited in silence, remembering the constant beatings if I dare make a sound. I then felt something on my lips I opened my mouth and felt him push his cock fully into my mouth. I choked as he pushed until his balls were on my chin and his cock head made my throat bulge. His cock exploded and flooded my throat. As his cock softened in my mouth I heard a click.

Suddenly a news report comes on “Tonight the search for Luke Annas has been called off. State police officials have confirmed the remains found off Highway 23 were Luke. The family now has closure after an exhaustive 2 year search.”

He clamps his strong leather glove over my mouth and nose cutting off my air. He whispers “you are mine forever.. no one is looking for you..” I struggle with all I have which means nothing as my arms and hands are tightly strapped to my side rendering them useless. Things slowly fade as I loose consciousness only to wake up again to nothing, only blackness and silence, locked in this leather sack with no hope of escape from being stored away forever.

[bndjack]

Rival team bitch

Carter had just finished a brutal away game against their hated rivals, the Philadelphia Eagles. Still in his full Giants uniform—pads, jersey, tight white game pants, and cleats—he was walking alone through the dimly lit players’ tunnel toward the team bus when everything went dark.

A black hood slammed over his head. Strong hands grabbed him from all sides. He fought hard, his powerful 6’4” frame thrashing, but there were too many of them. Tape wrapped his wrists behind his back, then his ankles. A heavy chloroform rag pressed against his face through the hood. His world faded.

He woke up hours later in a private basement room beneath an Eagles training facility—soundproofed, dimly lit, and equipped like a dungeon. His helmet, shoulder pads, jersey, and pants had already been cut and stripped from his sweat-glistening body. He was down to just a jockstrap and socks, wrists chained high to a ceiling hook, forcing him onto his toes. Four Eagles players stood around him, smirking.

“Welcome, Carter,” growled their star linebacker, Marcus. “You Giants pretty boys always strut around like you’re untouchable. Tonight we’re breaking that.”

They didn’t ask permission. Scissors sliced away his jockstrap, leaving him completely naked and exposed. Carter cursed and struggled, muscles flexing, but the chains held firm. The men worked together, sliding the thick, gleaming royal-blue latex catsuit up his legs first. The shiny material was incredibly tight—designed to squeeze every inch of his muscular physique. They worked it slowly over his thick thighs, his ass, his already-hard cock, then up his torso and arms. The latex sealed around him with wet, obscene squeaks, vacuuming tight to his skin until every cut of his abs, pecs, and biceps shone like polished metal.

They zipped it up the back, locking the zipper with a small padlock. The built-in collar snapped shut around his thick neck. Number 32 was already printed in bold white across his chest, along with the Giants logo and the 100 Seasons patch—mockery from the rival team. They forced the matching blue latex cleats onto his feet and laced them tight. Finally, the black “NY” headband went around his forehead.

Carter looked like a perfect, humiliated Giants toy—completely encased in shiny blue latex.

But they weren’t done.

Marcus stepped forward with heavy black bondage gear. Thick leather cuffs locked his wrists together behind his back, then pulled upward into a brutal strappado, forcing him to bend at the waist. More leather straps wrapped his chest in a tight harness, biting deep into the latex and making his pecs bulge obscenely. Rope followed—thick, rough hemp—cinching his arms, thighs, and calves together in a merciless hogtie variation while he was still standing, then lowered him to his knees.

A large red ball gag was forced between his teeth and buckled tight, drool already starting to leak down the shiny blue chin of the suit. They finished with a thick leather blindfold and earplugs, plunging him into darkness and silence.

Marcus crouched beside the helplessly bound, latex-encased football stud, running a hand over the glossy, straining material. “You’re ours now, Carter. No one’s coming for you until we’ve had our fun. That pretty blue suit is staying on… and the ropes are only getting tighter.”

The rival players laughed as Carter moaned into the gag, his massive body flexing and squirming uselessly inside the shiny prison, completely at their mercy for the long night ahead.

The room echoed with muffled laughter as Carter knelt helplessly in the center of the dungeon, his powerful body now a gleaming blue latex slave. The tight catsuit clung mercilessly to every muscle, the shiny material stretched drum-tight over his chest, abs, and the thick bulge of his cock, which throbbed visibly against the glossy front.

Marcus yanked the blindfold off first, forcing Carter’s eyes to adjust to the harsh lights. “Eyes open, superstar. We want you to watch what we do to you.”

Jase the Eagles star wide receiver stepped forward, carrying additional gear. They released the ceiling chain just enough to drop Carter forward onto his stomach, then went to work intensifying the bondage. Thick leather belts were wrapped around his upper arms and cinched brutally to his sides, fusing his arms tighter behind him. More rope encircled his thighs just above the knees, pulled back and tied off to his already-bound ankles in a crushing hogtie. His cleated feet were arched painfully, toes pointed, the latex squeaking with every futile flex of his quads and calves.

A heavy leather cock ring with attached straps was forced over the latex-covered bulge, snapping tight at the base of his shaft and balls, trapping the blood flow and making his erection strain even harder against the shiny blue prison. They added a thick butt plug—lubed but mercilessly large—pushing it deep through a hidden zipper at the rear of the suit until it locked in place with a click, filling him completely.

“Fuuu—mmph!” Carter groaned into the red ball gag, drool now pouring down his chin and onto the floor.

Marcus stripped off his own shirt, revealing his ripped torso, and knelt in front of Carter’s face. He unzipped the front of the latex suit just enough to pull Carter’s aching cock free, the fat, veiny shaft springing out, already leaking. “Look at that. Giants bitch is loving his new uniform.”

Without warning, Marcus grabbed Carter’s headband removed the gag and forced his cock past Carter’s lips and into the bound stud’s mouth, fucking his face in slow, deep strokes. At the same time, Jase the another Eagles player positioned himself behind Carter, yanked the rear zipper open wider, and pulled out the plug only to replace it with his own thick cock. He slammed in hard, stretching the latex-suited hole around him.

Carter’s muffled screams vibrated around Marcus’s shaft as the two rivals spit-roasted him mercilessly. The ropes and leather bit deeper into his muscles with every thrust, the latex creaking and shining with fresh sweat. His own cock bounced untouched beneath him, denied by the cock ring, dripping pre-cum onto the floor.

They took turns for the next hour—rotating positions, using his mouth, his ass, and even sliding their cocks between his latex-squeezed pecs while another fucked him from behind. More bondage was added: nipple clamps with heavy weights clipped onto his pecs through the suit, a second leather collar locked above the first, connected by a short chain to the floor bolt so he couldn’t lift his head. His balls were tied off tight with thin cord, pulled backward between his legs and anchored to his toes, forcing constant painful tension.

By the third round, Carter was a broken, quivering mess of shiny blue latex and rope. Cum leaked from the corners of his stretched lips and ran down the back of his thighs inside the suit. Marcus finally pulled out of his mouth, stroking himself furiously until he painted Carter’s mustache and face with hot ropes of cum.

“Keep him like this overnight,” Marcus ordered the others as they zipped the suit back up, sealing the mess inside the shiny prison. “Tighten every rope. Add the full hood. We’ve got all week before anyone even notices he’s missing.”

Carter could only moan weakly, eyes glassy with overwhelming pleasure and humiliation, his latex-encased body twitching in the merciless bondage as the Eagles players laughed and left him there—bound, used, and completely theirs.

The next morning Carter’s mind was a raging battlefield under the sweat-drenched latex.

These bastards… I’m Carter Hale. Starting linebacker. Team captain. I’ve sacked quarterbacks twice my size. And now I’m tied up like a fucking toy in this shiny blue prison they forced on me.

Rage boiled in his chest with every strained breath. I should be fighting harder. I will get out of this. I’ll make them pay. But goddamn… this latex is squeezing me everywhere. The ropes are cutting so deep I can barely move, and that plug… No. Fuck that. I’m not breaking. I’m not giving them the satisfaction.

The hood was unzipped and pulled away. Carter blinked against the light, jaw clenched as Marcus unbuckled the red ball gag and yanked it out. Drool spilled down his chin onto the glossy blue chest.

“Speak, bitch,” Jace ordered, still gripping his chin.

Carter’s voice came out raw and furious. “Get your fucking hands off me,” he snarled, chest heaving against the tight harness. “You pieces of shit. Kidnapping me? Stuffing me in this perverted Giants costume and tying me up like some sex slave? When I get loose — and I will get loose — I’m going to kill both of you. Slowly.”

Marcus laughed low and dark, tracing a finger along the white “32” on Carter’s chest. “Big words for a man who can’t even move his arms. But keep that fire, Carter. It’s cute.”

Jace stood up, smirking as he walked around the helplessly frog-tied player. “You know… I’ve been thinking. This blue suit looks good on him, but it’s still Giants colors. We should change that. Strip him out of this fake NY shit and put him in a proper Eagles latex suit. Midnight green, silver wings on the shoulders, number 32 still across the chest so he never forgets who owns him now. Make it even tighter. Maybe with built-in sleeves so we can keep his arms locked behind him 24/7.”

Marcus nodded, eyes gleaming. “Hell yeah. Full Eagles branding. We’ll have the gear ready by tomorrow. This Giants pretender is getting rebranded permanently.”

Carter’s eyes flashed with pure defiance. “You touch me and I swear to God I’ll end both of you the second I’m free. My team will come looking. The league will investigate. You’re both finished.”

Marcus crouched down close, gripping Carter’s jaw hard enough to make the latex creak. His voice dropped to a cold, menacing whisper.

“Well… maybe you’ll never get loose then, Carter.”

The words hung heavy in the basement air. Carter’s heart hammered against the rope harness as the two Eagles players stared down at him with possessive hunger.

Jace reached for the rear zipper of the suit. “Keep talking that tough shit. It just makes me want to fuck the defiance out of you even harder.”

The next day they dragged Carter back into hazy consciousness. His body was a wreck—every muscle screamed from the night-long hogtie, the inflated plug still buried deep inside him, and layers of dried sweat and cum sealed beneath the tattered blue latex. The basement lights flicked on, and Jace and Marcus entered with a large black garment bag.

“Rise and shine, Giants reject,” Jace announced cheerfully. “Time for your makeover.”

They cut the old blue suit off him with heavy shears, peeling the sticky material away from his sweat-slicked skin. Carter groaned as the cool air hit his naked, aching body, but he immediately started struggling against the ropes still holding him.

“Get the fuck off me,” he snarled, voice hoarse.

Marcus just laughed. “Not a chance.”

They hosed him down quickly with cold water, making him gasp and curse, then dried him roughly. The new suit was unfurled like a trophy: a gleaming, midnight-green latex catsuit, thicker and even more restrictive than the last. Shiny silver Eagles wings adorned the shoulders, the NFL shield sat proudly on the chest, and a massive white “32” with silver trim dominated the front. The material looked thicker, shinier, and far less forgiving.

They started at his feet, working the slick green latex up his calves and powerful thighs. It took real effort — the suit was deliberately two sizes too small. They oiled his skin to help it slide, but the latex still gripped like a vice, compressing every muscle and highlighting every ridge of his abs, quads, and calves. They pulled it over his thick cock and ass, zipping the rear seam slowly up his back.

The special feature came next.

The suit had built-in rear sleeves — a single, reinforced latex armbinder sleeve fused to the back of the catsuit. Jace and Marcus forced Carter’s arms straight behind him, sliding them deep into the tight, padded green tube. The material stretched obscenely over his thick biceps and forearms as they worked it up to his shoulders. Once fully encased, they zipped the heavy-duty rear zipper from his lower back all the way up to his neck, sealing his arms completely inside the single sleeve. His shoulders strained, chest thrust forward, pecs bulging dramatically under the glossy green latex.

They finished by snapping a thick matching green leather collar around his throat, padlocking it shut, and lacing shiny green latex cleats onto his feet.

Carter now stood — or rather, was held upright by the ropes — as a perfect Eagles latex prisoner. The green suit gleamed under the lights like polished emerald, every muscle perfectly outlined and compressed. His arms were utterly trapped behind him, shoulders pulled back hard, making his chest and abs pop even more obscenely.

“Fuck… this thing is tighter than the last one,” Carter growled through gritted teeth, testing the arm sleeve and immediately realizing he had zero chance of freeing himself. “You think this changes anything? I’m still gonna end both of you the second I get out.”

Marcus stepped in close, running both hands over the shiny green chest, thumbs brushing the raised “32.” “You’re never getting out. This is your new skin now.”

Jace moved behind him and yanked the rear zipper open just enough to remove the plug. Before Carter could even sigh in relief, Jace replaced it with his cock, slamming in deep while gripping the green latex hips.

“Goddamn, this new suit feels even better to fuck,” Jace groaned, pounding him with long, powerful strokes. The latex squeaked loudly with every thrust, the built-in arm sleeve forcing Carter’s massive chest forward as he was railed.

Marcus unzipped the front just enough to free Carter’s cock, stroking it roughly while Jace fucked him senseless. “Look at you, all rebranded. Eagles green suits you way better than that pathetic blue. Say it, Carter. Say you belong to the Eagles now.”

“Fuck… you…” Carter gasped between brutal thrusts, still defiant even as his body betrayed him, cock leaking in Marcus’s fist. “I’m… not… yours…”

The two Eagles players just laughed and doubled down, using their shiny green captive mercilessly in the center of the basement. The new suit, especially the cruel built-in arm sleeves, made Carter even more helpless than before — a perfect, gleaming, defiant Eagles fucktoy for the rest of the long day ahead.

Carter’s massive chest heaved inside the gleaming midnight-green latex as Jace and Marcus finally released the worst of the ropes. The rough hemp fell away in coils, but the built-in armbinder sleeve kept his arms fused helplessly behind him shoulders strained back, pecs thrust forward like an offering.

“Time to upgrade the hardware,” Marcus said, wheeling over a heavy metal cart loaded with thick black leather and glossy rubber restraints. “We’re done playing with rope. This is permanent shit now.”

They worked fast and efficiently. Thick padded leather cuffs locked around his ankles, then his thighs just above the knees. Heavy rubber straps — wide, reinforced, and smelling of fresh latex — were wrapped around his upper arms and torso, cinching the green suit even tighter and fusing his already-trapped arms even more securely to his spine. They forced him down onto his back on a padded bondage table that had been bolted to the floor, then ratcheted his legs wide apart and locked the ankle cuffs to the table corners. More rubber straps crossed his chest and hips, pinning him completely immobile except for the helpless flexing of his abs and the futile twitch of his fingers inside the sleeve.

Carter growled through clenched teeth. “You think this changes anything? I’m still getting out. I’m still ending you both.”

Jace smirked and reached into a large black case. He pulled out the final piece: a matching midnight-green latex hood, sleek and featureless except for the built-in gag. The inside of the mouth section was molded into a thick, inflatable rubber cock gag. Silver Eagles wing logos were embossed on the forehead and cheeks, and a heavy zipper ran from the crown down the back.

“Open wide, superstar,” Jace ordered.

Carter tried to turn his head, but Marcus gripped his jaw and pried it open. The thick rubber cock gag slid deep into his mouth, filling it completely. Jace buckled the hood’s collar section over the leather collar already around Carter’s neck, then zipped the hood shut with a long, slow rasp. The latex sealed tight over his face, molding perfectly to his features — nose, cheeks, the outline of his mustache visible beneath the shiny green skin. Jace gave the bulb on the gag three firm pumps, inflating it until Carter’s eyes watered and his cheeks bulged.

The world went muffled and dark except for the two small nostril holes.

Marcus leaned over the helplessly strapped-down form, running a hand possessively over the glossy green chest.

“Here’s the new plan, Carter — and you’re gonna listen whether you like it or not,” he said calmly. “We can’t let you go. Not ever. You just reappear and the league, the cops, your agent — they’ll tear us apart. Our careers would be over. So we’re not risking that. You’re staying right here. This basement is being converted into a permanent cell. The suit stays on. The hood stays on most of the time. The armbinder is permanent. We’ll rotate shifts keeping you fed, watered, fucked, and broken in. Your team thinks you went AWOL after the game. By the time anyone figures it out, you’ll already be too far gone — just secret Eagles property.”

Jace rested a hand on the hood’s forehead, thumb stroking the silver wing logo.

“Every time we win, you get used. Every time we lose, you get punished harder. And if you ever think about fighting us… well, we’ve got years to train that defiance out of you. Welcome to the rest of your life, number 32.”

Carter screamed into the inflated gag — a muffled, furious roar that barely made it past the thick rubber filling his mouth. His powerful body strained against the leather and rubber straps, the glossy green latex creaking loudly, but he didn’t move an inch.

The two Eagles players just laughed softly as they dimmed the lights, leaving their new permanent captive strapped down tight, hooded, gagged, and utterly helpless in his rival team’s colors

[bndjack]

The room spun slowly as the sedative began to wear off. Alex’s eyelids fluttered, heavy as lead. His body felt wrong—trapped, compressed, already sweating inside something slick and impossibly tight.

What the fuck…?

His last clear memory was choking down that protein shake in Joe’s car after their late lift. Joe had been grinning like an idiot, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good work today, bro.” Then nothing. Blackness.

Now he was on the floor, naked at first, but not for long.

Joe’s hands were everywhere—clinical, eager, almost reverent. Alex tried to push him away, but his arms were already sliding into the suit. Thick, heavy black rubber swallowed his legs first, inch by inch, squeezing his powerful quads and calves like a vice. The material was warm, glossy, and unforgiving.

This isn’t happening. This is some fucked-up dream. Get the fuck off me, Joe—

But his limbs wouldn’t obey. The sedative still fogged his brain, turning his struggles into weak twitches. Joe worked the rubber up over his hips, locking his cock into a tight, cruel chastity sheath built into the suit. Alex’s eyes widened in panic as the cool metal ring clicked around the base of his balls.

“Joe… what the hell are you—mmph!”

The torso came next. The suit hugged his abs, his chest, his broad back—every muscle he’d spent years building now compressed and reshaped into something lower, more animal. His arms were forced into the sleeves, hands disappearing into thick, padded mitts that rendered his fingers useless. No gripping. No punching. Just soft, helpless paws.

This can’t be real. He’s lost his fucking mind. I’ll kill him when I get out—

Then came the hood.

Joe lifted the heavy black rubber over Alex’s head. The inside smelled like new latex and fear. As it descended, Alex caught one last glimpse of Joe’s face—smiling, hungry, triumphant.

The gag hit first.

A thick, bulbous rubber plug forced its way between his teeth, filling his mouth completely, molding itself to his tongue and the roof of his mouth. It pressed down hard, triggering his gag reflex. A smaller tube ran from the center of the gag, snaking through the hood and emerging at a he back of his tongue like a built-in drinking tube. Alex tried to scream, but it came out as a wet, muffled grunt.

No—no no NO! Get this shit out of my mouth! I can’t—fuck, I can’t breathe right—

Joe yanked the heavy zipper down the back of the hood with a long, final zzzzip. The world went darker, tighter. Only narrow slits remained for his eyes. The rubber sealed around his neck like a second skin, cutting off the last of the cool air. Alex’s heart hammered against the inside of the suit.

Then came the glue.

He heard the wet sound of the brush, felt the cold, chemical sting as Joe carefully painted every seam—neck, shoulders, back zipper, wrists, ankles. The industrial rubber cement bonded instantly, fusing the suit into one single, inescapable prison. Alex thrashed, or tried to. The padded knees and elbows kept him locked in a quadrupedal stance, back arched, ass slightly raised.

He’s sealing me in… permanently? This isn’t a game. He’s actually doing this. My life—my gym, my job, my fucking future—gone. All because this psycho wants a rubber dog?

Click. Click. Click.

Heavy steel padlocks snapped shut—one at the collar, two on the back zipper, more on the mitts, one on the tail plug now buried deep inside him. Each lock sent a jolt of finality through Alex’s body.

Locked. Glued. Gagged. I’m never getting out. I’m… I’m his fucking dog now.

Joe stepped back for a moment, admiring. Alex could see himself reflected dimly in the window glass across the room: a glossy black rubber creature on all fours, hooded head lowered, tube dangling from the muzzle like a leash for something far more humiliating.

Then Joe crouched down, lifted the dangling tube, and unzipped his jeans.

Alex’s eyes went wide with horror behind the slits.

No. Don’t you fucking dare—

Warm piss flooded the tube, rushing straight into the gag and flooding his mouth. Salty, bitter, endless. He choked, swallowed reflexively, tears stinging his eyes as the humiliation burned through him. The rubber dog suit creaked with every desperate twitch of his body.

Joe let out a low, satisfied groan as he finished, shaking the last drops into the tube before patting the smooth, featureless hood.

“Good boy,” he whispered. “That’s your new protein from now on.”

Alex’s mind reeled, trapped between rage, terror, and the growing, horrifying realization that his strong, proud body was now nothing but a shiny black rubber pup—sealed, locked, and owned.

This is forever… I’m his rubber dog.

A broken, piss-soaked whimper escaped around the gag as Joe clipped the leash to his collar and gave it a gentle tug.

The glossy black figure on the carpet lowered its hooded head in defeat and crawled.

[bndjack]

Undefeated Champion

In the dim glow of the underground fight club’s back room, where the air hung thick with sweat and the metallic tang of ambition, Victor Kane ruled unchallenged.

He stood outside the reinforced steel cage like a king surveying his domain—broad shoulders filling out his tight royal-blue compression shirt, thick arms crossed casually over the top bar, a smug, dimpled grin splitting his chiseled face. At 6’3” and 265 pounds of competition-ready muscle, Victor didn’t just look the part; he was the part. The reigning underground bodybuilding champion. The man who broke egos for fun.

Inside the cage knelt Jax “The Beast” Harlan, once Victor’s biggest rival.

Jax’s massive, sweat-drenched torso glistened under the harsh spotlight. Every striation of his chest and delts stood out like carved marble, veins pulsing across his biceps as he strained against the heavy leather collar locked around his thick neck. A bright red ball gag stretched his jaw wide, forcing muffled growls through clenched teeth. Heavy black cuffs bit into his wrists and ankles, chaining him in a humiliating all-fours position. His powerful thighs trembled—not from weakness, but from pure, barely-contained fury.

Three months ago, Jax had talked shit in the locker room. Loudly. Publicly. He’d challenged Victor to a “real” fight, claiming the title was rigged. Victor had smiled the same easy smile he wore now… and accepted.

The wager? Loser becomes the winner’s personal cage bitch for a full year.

Jax had fought like a demon. But Victor had fought smarter—using every dirty trick the underground allowed. Now the once-proud Beast was reduced to this: collared, leashed, and displayed like a trophy in the middle of Victor’s private training dungeon.

“Still mad, huh?” Victor chuckled, his deep voice echoing off the brick walls. He reached through the bars and raked his fingers through Jax’s wet hair, tugging just hard enough to tilt the big man’s head up. Their eyes locked—Jax’s burning with humiliated rage, Victor’s sparkling with arrogant satisfaction.

“Mmmph—fuck you,” Jax tried to snarl around the gag. It came out wet and broken.

Victor laughed, low and rich. “That’s the spirit. Keep that fire. Makes breaking you again so much sweeter.” He leaned closer, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “You’re mine now, Beast. Every rep you do in that cage, every drop of sweat, every frustrated growl… it all belongs to me.”

Jax’s massive shoulders flexed as he pulled uselessly at the chains. The metal rattled. His cock—barely contained by the thin black jock—twitched traitorously against his thigh.

Victor noticed. Of course he did.

He straightened up, still gripping the cage bars, and slowly rolled his powerful shoulders, making the fabric of his shirt strain across his pecs. “Good boy. Get angry. Get hard. You’ve got two more hours in there before I let you out to worship these muscles you used to think you could beat.”

He gave the cage a possessive slap, the sound ringing out like a starting bell.

“Welcome to the rest of your life, champ.”

In the mirrored wall behind them, Jax could see his own degraded reflection—collared, caged, and utterly owned—while Victor loomed above him like a god who had already won the war.

And deep down, in the part of Jax that burned hottest, he knew the worst part…

He wasn’t sure he wanted it to end.

Victor’s smirk widened as he unlocked the heavy cage door with a theatrical click. The chains rattled as Jax crawled forward on all fours, the thick leather collar still locked tight around his bull neck, the leash dangling between his massive pecs like a badge of ownership. His wrists and ankles remained cuffed, forcing him to move like the obedient animal Victor had turned him into.

“Out, Beast,” Victor commanded, voice low and commanding. He planted one massive sneaker on the concrete just outside the bars, the laces still damp from his earlier workout. “Time to start earning your keep. Start at the bottom—like the bitch you are.”

Jax’s eyes burned with humiliated fury, but his rock-hard cock betrayed him, throbbing visibly against the thin black jockstrap. Victor removed the ball gag finally and tossed it aside. Jax leaned in, tongue sliding out. The first taste was salty, earthy—Victor’s sneaker sole, still warm and grimy from hours of dominating the gym. Jax licked slowly at first, then harder, dragging his tongue along the tread, cleaning every speck of dust and sweat.

“Good boy,” Victor purred, flexing his quads so the denim of his jeans stretched obscenely over his tree-trunk thighs. “Deeper. Get in between the laces.” He watched with dark satisfaction as Jax’s tongue worked obediently, the once-proud rival reduced to polishing his owner’s shoes like a desperate slave.

After a few humiliating minutes, Victor kicked the sneaker off, revealing his bare foot—huge, veined, still glistening with fresh sweat. “Now the real thing. Suck my toes clean.”

Jax hesitated half a second. Victor’s hand shot down, gripping the back of his collar and yanking his face forward. “Don’t make me repeat myself.” Jax’s tongue pressed against the salty arch, then slid between Victor’s thick toes, sucking and lapping like it was the only thing keeping him alive. The musky, masculine flavor flooded his mouth. His own cock leaked steadily now, a wet spot growing on the jock.

Victor groaned in pleasure, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “Fuck yeah… look at you. Big bad Beast reduced to foot bitch.” He finally pulled his foot away, turned around, and dropped his jeans in one smooth motion. His powerful glutes—two granite globes of muscle—flexed right in Jax’s face. “Ass next. Spread me open and eat it like you mean it.”

Jax’s breath hitched. He crawled closer, hands cuffed but still able to grip Victor’s cheeks. He buried his face between them, tongue flat and eager now, circling the tight, musky hole. Victor pushed back, smothering him, grinding that perfect ass against Jax’s tongue while his own massive cock hung heavy and half-hard between his legs.

“Deeper, slave. Tongue-fuck it.” Victor’s voice was thick with lust. Jax obeyed, plunging his tongue inside, tasting pure Victor—sweat, power, dominance. The bigger man moaned, reaching back to hold Jax’s head in place, using his face like a toy.

Minutes blurred. Jax’s world narrowed to the heat and musk of Victor’s body. When Victor finally stepped away, his cock was fully hard now, thick and veined, balls hanging low and heavy.

“Balls,” Victor ordered simply, spreading his stance. Jax dropped lower, sucking one heavy orb into his mouth, then the other, tongue bathing them reverently while Victor stroked his own shaft lazily above him.

“Pathetic,” Victor laughed softly. “Look how hard you are just from worshipping your superior.” He reached down and roughly yanked Jax’s jockstrap down, exposing the slave’s aching, dripping cock. “But that ends tonight.”

From a nearby bench, Victor grabbed a heavy steel chastity cage—cold, unforgiving, custom-fitted for a man of Jax’s size. He knelt, snapped the ring behind Jax’s balls, then forced the thick shaft into the tight tube despite the desperate throbbing. The lock clicked shut with finality.

Jax whimpered, hips bucking uselessly.

Victor stood up, dangling the tiny key in front of Jax’s face before tucking it into his own pocket. “This stays on until I say otherwise. And if you don’t behave—if you so much as look at me wrong, or hesitate for even one second when I tell you to lick something—I’ll weld this fucking thing shut. Permanently. You’ll spend the rest of your life as my locked-up, denied, desperate little cage bitch, cock trapped forever while you worship every inch of me.”

He grabbed Jax’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “Understand, slave?”

Jax’s voice was hoarse, broken, but the fire in his eyes mixed with raw, helpless need. “…Yes… Sir.”

Victor’s grin returned, dark and victorious. He gave the chastity cage a possessive tap, making Jax flinch.

“Good. Now get back in the cage. You’ve got all night to think about how much you’re going to enjoy tomorrow’s worship session… and how badly that locked cock is going to hurt when it tries to get hard again.”

The cage door slammed shut once more.

But this time, the Beast inside wasn’t just angry.

He was owned.

Completely.

[bndjack]

The crate arrived unmarked at midnight, delivered by silent hands that vanished into the darkness. Inside, he waited—perfectly still, perfectly bound.

His name had been Marcus once. Now he was simply “the package.”

Thick, glossy black latex hugged every inch of his body like a second skin, shining under the faint overhead bulb. A heavy posture collar locked his head high, forcing him to stare straight ahead through the narrow eye slits of the restrictive hood. The built-in gag pressed deep, turning every breath into a soft, muffled whimper.

Heavy leather straps encircled his chest and arms, cinched brutally tight and connected by thick steel chains that ran to heavy padlocks. His wrists were cuffed behind him, pulled high into a strict reverse prayer position. Matching cuffs locked his ankles together, with just enough slack in the short chain to force him into this humiliating squat inside the wooden crate.

A black leather corset crushed his waist dramatically, accentuating the shiny curves of his hips and ass. The position they’d forced him into—knees spread wide, back straight, shoulders pulled back—made every muscle burn deliciously. He couldn’t straighten his legs. He couldn’t close them. He could barely even shift his weight without the chains rattling softly against the wood.

A long chain ran from the ring at the front of his collar, down between his legs, and up again to the heavy padlock at his chest harness, creating a constant, teasing pressure with every shallow breath he took.

He had no idea how long he’d been in the crate. Hours? Days? Time had dissolved into the constant, intimate embrace of the latex and the unrelenting bite of the restraints. Sweat beaded inside the suit, making the rubber cling even tighter. His heart hammered with a mix of fear and dark, shameful arousal.

Then came the sound of footsteps outside the crate.

The lid creaked open further. A calm, low voice spoke from the shadows:

“Welcome home, package. I hope you’re comfortable. You’re going to be staying in there a very, very long time.”

Marcus’s only reply was a soft, helpless moan into the gag as the crate lid began to close again.

The crate lid swung open with a heavy creak, flooding the dim room with harsh fluorescent light. Two pairs of polished black boots stepped into view.

“Well, well… look what the night shift dragged in,” growled a deep, amused voice.

Marcus blinked against the sudden brightness, his latex-encased body still locked in that humiliating squat. The two officers loomed over him—both tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing the dark uniforms of the city’s notoriously corrupt vice squad. Their badges glinted, but their eyes held nothing but raw, predatory hunger.

Officer Reyes, the taller one with a thick beard, grabbed the chain attached to Marcus’s collar and gave it a sharp yank. “Out you come, toy.”

Marcus groaned into the gag as strong hands hauled him forward. His chained ankles and the strict corset made movement agonizing; he could only shuffle and stumble on his knees until they dragged him fully out of the crate and dumped him face-down onto the cold concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse they used as their private playroom.

“Fuck, he’s even better in person,” muttered Officer Kane, the younger, more muscular cop. He circled Marcus slowly, boots clicking, then crouched down and ran a gloved hand over the glossy black latex covering his ass. “Look at this setup. Someone really gift-wrapped him for us.”

They didn’t bother asking questions. They never did with the “packages” that occasionally arrived for them.

Reyes unlocked the short chain between Marcus’s ankle cuffs, then roughly spread his legs wide, re-securing each cuff to heavy rings bolted into the floor. The position left him on all fours, back arched by the corset, ass presented high and vulnerable. The thick chain running from his collar down between his legs tightened painfully, pressing the built-in plug deeper inside him with every shift.

Kane produced a large pair of shears and carefully cut a neat hole in the latex right over Marcus’s hole, exposing him completely while leaving the rest of the shiny suit intact. “There we go. Access granted.”

Marcus whimpered, trembling as Reyes unzipped his uniform pants and pulled out his thick, already-hard cock. Without warning, he removed the plug, the cop gripped the back of the latex hood and slammed into him in one brutal thrust. The sudden stretch tore a muffled scream from Marcus’s gagged mouth, his body jerking against the chains.

“Shit, he’s tight,” Reyes grunted, setting a savage rhythm, hips slapping loudly against the glossy latex-covered ass. Each thrust drove the cock in deeper, sending waves of forced pleasure-pain through Marcus’s helpless body.

Kane wasn’t idle. He knelt in front of Marcus’s hooded face, unzipped, and yanked the front panel of the hood open just enough to pull the gag out. Before Marcus could even gasp for air, Kane shoved his own heavy cock down his throat, choking him instantly.

“That’s it, slave,” Kane growled, gripping the sides of the hood like handles. “You’re our new station bitch now. Every night shift, every time we need to blow off steam after dealing with scum on the streets… this is where you’ll be.”

They used him mercilessly, alternating and sometimes taking him at both ends at once. Reyes’s powerful thrusts rocked Marcus’s entire bound body forward onto Kane’s cock, the chains rattling in a steady, degrading rhythm. Sweat poured inside the latex, making it gleam even brighter under the lights. The corset squeezed his waist so tightly he could barely breathe between the two thick cocks filling him.

When Reyes finally came deep inside him with a guttural groan, he stayed buried, plugging his load in place while Kane face-fucked him to completion, flooding his throat until cum dripped from the corners of his stretched lips.

They didn’t let him rest.

Kane took his turn next, switching positions while Reyes lit a cigarette and watched, lazily stroking himself back to hardness. They rotated for what felt like hours—fucking his ass, his mouth, sometimes both at once again—using the chains and straps to manhandle him into whatever degrading position they wanted: bent over a sawhorse, suspended slightly by his wrist and ankle cuffs, or forced back into a deep squat while they took turns using his mouth.

By the time the sky outside began to lighten, Marcus was a wrecked, cum-leaking mess still locked in shiny black latex, chains dangling, body trembling with exhaustion and unwanted orgasms they’d forced from him.

Reyes crouched down, tilting the hooded head up by the collar. “Good boy. You’re officially our property now. We’ll hose you down, lock you back in the crate during the day… and every night you’ll be right here, serving your horny, corrupt masters.”

Kane smirked, already zipping up. “Welcome to the force, slave.”

Marcus could only moan weakly into the re-inserted gag as they dragged his spent body back toward the open crate, the heavy chains clinking with every exhausted movement.

[bndjack]

Inmate Part 3

Ireland’s thick, hairy ass descended toward my face before I could even process what was happening. The leather muzzle kept my mouth forced open just enough that I couldn’t clamp my jaw shut. The dirty sock still packed deep in my mouth made every breath a struggle, and now I was about to get even less air.

“Since you enjoyed France’s so much, I figured I’d give you a double helping tonight,” Ireland laughed as he planted his sweaty cheeks directly over my nose and mouth. Unlike France, Ireland clearly hadn’t showered after his shift. The smell was thicker, muskier, with a sharp tang that burned my nostrils. I tried to turn my head, but the heavy leather harness and the way I was strapped to the bed made any real movement impossible.

He ground down hard, smothering me completely. My lungs screamed for oxygen. I bucked and thrashed as much as the restraints allowed, which only seemed to amuse him more.

“Yeah, that’s it. Fight it. Makes my dick hard when you squirm like a little bitch,” he growled.

Just when black spots started dancing in my vision, he lifted up enough for me to suck in a desperate, wheezing breath through my nose. The air was still thick with the stench of his ass, but it was air.

“Listen up, Kinard… or should I say Vinny?” Ireland’s voice dropped, suddenly serious. “You’re not getting out of this. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. France has it all locked down. Your resignation went through. Your apartment is already being cleared out by some ‘friends’ of his. By the time anyone even thinks to look for Calum Kinard, Vincent Natale will already be on a bus to federal lockup.”

I screamed into the gag, the sound coming out as nothing more than a pathetic, muffled whimper.

Ireland just chuckled and lowered himself again, this time rubbing his heavy balls across my face, dragging them back and forth over the leather muzzle. The fabric grew damp from his sweat.

“France wants you broken in nice and slow before the real fun starts,” he continued while face-sitting me. “Tomorrow morning they’re bringing in the prison barber. Full shave. Head, face, everything. Then we start the tattoos. Nothing too crazy at first… just enough to make you look like you’ve been inside for years. A couple teardrops, some prison bullshit on your neck. By the time we’re done, even your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”

He lifted again. I gasped and coughed, the dirty sock shifting deeper in my mouth and making me retch.

“Please…” I tried to beg through the muzzle. It came out as wet, garbled nonsense.

Ireland stood up, pulled his pants back up, and looked down at me with a cruel smile. “Save your strength, Vinny. You’re gonna need it.”

He walked to the cell door and banged on it twice. A moment later the slot opened and France’s face appeared.

“Everything good in there?” France asked.

“Perfect. Little bitch is already learning how to breathe through his nose,” Ireland replied. “You still want me to stay on night watch?”

“Yeah. Rotate every two hours with Ramirez and Cortez. I want eyes on him at all times until we get the first round of mods done tomorrow. No one else comes near this cell unless I clear it.”

“Copy that.”

France slid a small tray through the food slot. On it was a single bottle of water and what looked like two small white pills.

“Make him take those,” France ordered. “They’ll keep him calm and loose for the night. We don’t need him screaming his head off when the night shift changes.”

Ireland grabbed the tray, popped the pills out, and walked back over. He yanked the leather muzzle down just far enough to expose my mouth, then pinched my nose shut.

“Open up, princess.”

I kept my mouth clamped. He responded by driving a hard knee into my thigh. The pain made me gasp, and he immediately shoved the two pills deep into my mouth, followed by a splash of water. He clamped his gloved hand over my lips until I had no choice but to swallow.

“Good boy.”

He pulled the muzzle back up tight, buckling it even stricter than before. Then he leaned down close to my ear.

“By this time tomorrow you’re gonna look like a completely different person. And in a week… you’re gonna start acting like one too. Welcome to the rest of your life, Inmate 322.”

Ireland gave my crotch a rough squeeze through the orange pants, laughed, and left the cell, slamming the heavy door behind him.

The lights dimmed to night mode, leaving me in near darkness. The pills were already starting to make my head feel fuzzy and heavy. My body grew warm and strangely relaxed even as panic still raged in my mind.

I lay there strapped down, leather mitts useless at my sides, the taste of France’s sock and Ireland’s ass still coating my tongue. Every breath I took reminded me exactly where I was and what I had become in less than twenty-four hours.

A single tear slipped from the corner of my eye as the drugs pulled me under.

Tomorrow they would start turning Calum Kinard into Vincent Natale for real.

And from the way France and the others were talking… this was only the beginning.

[bndjack]

Barkeep Part 2

The night air hits your exposed skin like ice as Colin yanks the leash, forcing you to stumble along behind him. Your black rubber catsuit clings to every inch of your body, the thick, glossy material creaking with each forced step. The built-in sheath keeps your cock trapped and aching, while the heavy collar around your neck chokes you slightly with every tug. The gag is back in place — that fat black ball stretching your jaw — and the blindfold has been swapped for a thin leather hood that leaves only your nose free, muffling the world around you.

You recognize the route even through the disorientation. The same cracked sidewalk. The same stretch of road where everything went dark months ago.

Colin’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Keep up, bitch. You’re mine now. Paid good money for a broken-in rubber toy.”

He laughs under his breath, the sound low and cruel. “That old fuck Vanquish really did a number on you. Months of training, huh? I saw the videos he sent. The way you beg now… pathetic.”

Your mind races. Videos? He showed people? The humiliation burns hotter than the ache in your stretched hole or the constant pressure on your locked balls.

Colin stops suddenly in front of a nondescript brick building — one of the old warehouses on the edge of town that got converted into lofts. He punches in a code and the heavy door buzzes open. Inside, the air is warmer, thicker with the scent of rubber, sweat, and something metallic.

He drags you down a dimly lit hallway and into a large open space that looks like it was designed for exactly this. Chains hang from steel beams. A padded bench sits in the center under bright spotlights. Mirrors everywhere , reflecting your shiny black form back at you from every angle.

Colin finally pulls off the hood and removes the gag. Your jaw aches as you gasp for air.

“On your knees,” he orders.

You hesitate half a second too long.

He backhands you across the face — not hard enough to bruise, but sharp enough to sting through the rubber hood’s edge.

“I said on your fucking knees, slave.”

You drop instantly, the rubber suit squeaking against the concrete floor.

Colin circles you slowly, admiring his new purchase. He’s younger than Vanquish — maybe 22 or 23 — tall, lean muscle, cocky smirk that never quite leaves his face. The same guy you protected that night when Vanquish was harassing freshmen. Now he owns you.

“Strip the suit down to your waist,” he says. “I want to see what I bought.”

Your hands tremble as you obey, peeling the tight rubber down your arms and torso until it bunches at your hips. Your chest, still toned from whatever exercises Vanquish forced on you, gleams with sweat under the lights.

Colin reaches down and grabs your balls again — just like Vanquish did that first night — and squeezes until your vision blurs.

“These are mine now. Your hole is mine. Your mouth is mine. Every fucking inch of this rubber bitch body belongs to me. Say it.”

You swallow hard, voice hoarse. “Everything… belongs to you, Sir.”

“Louder.”

“Everything belongs to you, Sir!”

He releases your balls and pats your cheek almost gently. “Good boy. You learn fast. Vanquish said you were stubborn at first. Took him weeks to break that mouth of yours.”

He unzips his jeans and pulls out his cock — already hard, thick, and veined. Without warning he slaps it across your face a few times, leaving wet streaks on your skin.

“Open.”

You open your mouth.

He doesn’t shove in right away. Instead he rests the head on your tongue and just holds it there.

“Look at yourself,” he says, nodding toward the mirrors.

You turn your head slightly. The sight is degrading: a naked, collared man on his knees in half-peeled rubber, mouth obediently open with a younger guy’s cock resting on his tongue.

“You used to serve drinks to guys like me,” Colin says softly. “Now you serve cock. How’s that feel, bartender?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He grabs the back of your head and starts fucking your throat in slow, deep strokes — claiming every bit of the hole Vanquish had already trained so well.

After a few minutes he pulls out, strings of spit connecting your lips to his cock.

“Beg me to fuck your ass,” he says. “Tell me how much your worthless hole needs its new owner.”

You hesitate again, shame flooding you.

Colin’s hand tightens in your hair. “Beg. Or I’ll call Vanquish right now and tell him to come pick up his defective merchandise. I’m sure he has worse plans for returns.”

Your voice cracks as the words spill out:

“Please, Sir… please fuck my ass. My hole needs you. I need you to use me.”

Colin smiles wide.

“That’s better.”

He yanks the rubber suit the rest of the way down your legs, leaving you completely naked except for the collar, cuffs, and the shiny black chastity cage Vanquish had locked you in weeks ago.

Then he pushes you face-down over the padded bench, kicks your legs apart, and lines himself up.

“No lube tonight,” he says casually. “I want to feel how tight you still are after all that training.”

You bite your lip hard as he starts pushing in — slow, relentless, stretching you open while you groan into the bench.

Halfway in he leans down, mouth close to your ear.

“Welcome to the rest of your life, bitch boy. You’re never going back behind that bar. You’re never going back to college. You’re never going back to anything but rubber, chains, and cock.”

He bottoms out with a satisfied grunt.

“And the best part? I’m just getting started with you.”

He starts thrusting — hard, deep, possessive — while your reflection in the mirror shows exactly what you’ve become:

A shiny, broken, obedient rubber slave.

And the night is still young.