Owned slave - not looking for a Master - sharing pics only

[feelingknottycda-deactivated201]

Gosh, there are a lot of straps on this sleepsack! Complete, restrictive, cocoon-level bondage takes time and patience. But to make sure that the rubbered-up @areallytallboy is completely immobilized and secure, I have oodles of patience. Of course, he’ll have to stay in there for significantly longer than it takes for me to get all of the ropes in place! That should give his programming a lot of time to take hold.

[quietsubger]

[mastersfucktool]

For Master @neckmate

[medicineballguy]

[but-the-scene-is-grey]

[hairyfurbear]

[maskedcop10]

AI created by CBRTALOS

Paul was Neil’s tender—always there to assist him whenever he geared up for a dive. Just like today, the two of them stood in the large locker room of the dive center, surrounded by the hum of equipment and the faint scent of neoprene and oil. Neil, a powerful and imposing figure, was intensely devoted to his gear. A self-confessed rubber enthusiast, he wore rubber whenever possible—not just for work, but often by choice. Today, he was suiting up for a technical dive with four other divers, and his preparation was precise, methodical, and deeply personal. Paul had already helped Neil into the extra gear he wore under the suit—gear that was critical for long, deep dives. This included a heavy-duty rubber catheter, securely fitted, and a discreet waste bag positioned inside his left thigh for extended underwater missions. Every component had a purpose, and Neil insisted on getting it right every time. The suit itself was a custom-made black Viking drysuit, tailored specifically for Neil’s build. The thick rubber hugged his frame closely, reinforced at the joints and equipped with additional mounting points for tools and accessories. Embossed with his initials and custom valve systems, the suit was a fusion of utility and fetish-grade craftsmanship—both professional and deeply personal. Paul moved methodically around Neil, checking each system. He adjusted the hoses of Neil’s rebreather, confirmed the flow of gases, tested the emergency oxygen feed, and inspected the chest-mounted control box. The hiss of pressurized air, the click of seals locking in, and the occasional nod between them spoke of a shared routine built on trust and repetition.“You’re solid,” Paul finally said, giving a firm pat to Neil’s shoulder. Neil nodded once, the weight of the gear seeming to energize him rather than slow him down.

Paul moved with practiced precision, retrieving the final piece of Neil’s equipment: the custom hood. It was a special model—thick, jet-black rubber, molded to fit snugly over Neil’s head like a second skin. As Paul pulled it down slowly, the smooth material sealed tightly around Neil’s neck and jaw, muting the outside world. The lenses were opaque black from the outside, giving Neil an anonymous, almost imposing appearance—one that Paul privately admired. Once the hood was in place, Paul reached for the mask. This wasn’t a standard issue. It was Neil’s own custom-built full-face dive mask, fitted with a one-way mirrored faceplate. From the outside, it reflected the room around them—cold, impersonal—while on the inside, Neil could see clearly. It gave him a kind of dominance in the water, as if he were observing everything while revealing nothing. Paul pressed the mask firmly against Neil’s face and began locking it into place. The thick rubber seal compressed around the hood, merging the two into one seamless unit. The final component was the regulator: a heavy, twin-hose system that connected to Neil’s rebreather. The hoses curled over each shoulder like armored serpents and locked into the sides of the mask with an audible click. This was no ordinary regulator—it was designed to be non-removable once fixed. The bite mouthpiece was integrated deep into the mask interior, locking Neil into a controlled breathing rhythm. Once secured, the system was airtight and couldn’t be detached without help. It wasn’t just functional—it was controlling, immersive, and irreversible by design. Paul stood back and looked at his work. Neil was now completely sealed inside. Only the rhythmic sound of his breathing through the double hoses could be heard, a soft hiss-thump that echoed slightly in the tiled locker room. Paul gave a light tap on Neil’s chest. “You're locked in. Just the way you like it.” Neil didn’t respond—he couldn’t. But the subtle shift in his posture, the way his gloved hand flexed, told Paul everything he needed to know.

Paul’s hand moved slowly over the gleaming black surface of Neil’s suit, the thick rubber warm from his body heat and tension. The custom Viking drysuit clung to Neil like armor—every curve and muscle was exaggerated by the polished material, and Paul could feel the power beneath it. His gloved fingers traced along the heavy chest valves, the rebreather rig tight against Neil’s body, and then down to his abdomen.

It was unmistakable. Beneath all the layers—under the catheter system, the support harness, the reinforced midsection—Neil was hard. Very hard. Paul paused for a second, then let his hand rest lightly over the area. He wasn’t surprised. Neil had told him before how deeply the sensations affected him. The pressure of the rubber, the restriction of the mask, and especially the gases—custom-mixed for this particular dive—were known to alter consciousness slightly. A blend of oxygen, helium, and another subtle agent that sharpened focus, relaxed inhibition, and in Neil’s case, triggered something primal. His breathing had changed. Paul could hear it through the double hoses—deeper, slower, more charged. The sound was intimate, erotic even, filtered through the rebreather’s dampened acoustics. With the mirrored mask in place, Neil’s face was completely hidden. There was no eye contact, no words—just the sound of breath and the steady rising and falling of his chest under the thick suit. Paul leaned in, his voice low against the side of Neil’s mask. “You’re fully sealed now. Breathing exactly what you need. You feel it, don’t you?” Neil didn’t respond—he couldn’t—but Paul knew. He could feel the way Neil’s body subtly trembled beneath his gloved hand, the way his fingers flexed at his sides as if trying to ground himself. The arousal wasn’t just physical—it was psychological. Total control. Total immersion. Trapped inside the gear, breathing gas he couldn’t control, dependent entirely on his systems—and on Paul.

Paul slowly drew his hand back, brushing over the front of the suit one last time, deliberately. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. “You’re mine in there.” The moment lingered—thick with pressure, rubber, and heat—before the calm professionalism returned. Paul checked Neil’s gauges one final time, tapped the air tank for reassurance, and gave the signal. It was time.

[mieberocdrone]

The zipper was already drawn shut, teeth meshing in a smooth black line down his back. Layers of latex pressed in close, sealing every inch of him in a glossy second skin. What little movement he had came with a faint squeak of rubber against rubber, the sound amplified by the silence of the room.

His face was gone, swallowed behind the dark, expressionless visor of an S10 mask. Twin round filters and blank lenses gave no clue to thought or hesitation. Breaths rasped through the mask in metered rhythm, each inhale heavy, each exhale dampened by the valves. It was a sound without humanity, more mechanical than personal, as if the suit itself breathed on his behalf.

At his throat, the collar closed with an audible snap. Cold, black metal, weighted and deliberate. It pressed down at the base of the hood, locking the mask and suit into a single system. There would be no reaching under the seal, no loosening of straps, no hopeful tug at the zipper. The band wasn’t decoration; it was command made solid.

His master turned his head, gloved hand firm against the side of the hood. The rigid collar allowed only a measured degree of movement before stopping him dead. “That,” the master said, voice low and satisfied, “will ensure that you only unsuit with my permission.”

The words carried an inescapable truth. He was trapped in the suit, the mask, the collar — every layer reinforcing the others. The air he breathed was dictated by the mask. The heat building under the latex was unavoidable. The collar was the lock.

He tried to lift his chin, to test the edges of control. The band held fast, unyielding. Even the smallest gesture was denied unless allowed. The master’s hand left the collar, and for a fleeting moment he was utterly still, waiting, bound not by ropes or straps but by engineered inevitability.

The master circled him, boots sounding deliberate on the floor, inspecting the shine of the suit, the angle of the mask, the exact position of the collar. It was ritual, a visual confirmation of control. The suited figure could do nothing but stand, breathing through his filters, body already damp inside the rubber, senses narrowed by the mask’s fixed field of view.

The band ensured more than a lock. It was a sentence — that the suit would not come off until the master chose. The man inside was irrelevant now, reduced to a form in glossy black, faceless and compliant.

The master paused in front of him again, gloved fingers brushing once more over the cold circle of metal at his throat. “This is how you will remain,” he said simply, “until I decide otherwise.”

There was no reply. Only the filtered hiss of air, and the slow acceptance of a predicament that had no exit.

[chastefagg]

[sub4dominant]

it gags every time Master pulls the reins, its signal to pull harder, run faster. 

[lngislplayhard]

such a f-ing kewl piece… where can I get one…?

[inm851]

I am swingin' so swingin' in the barn....

sleep suit for the few

[latex-rubber-world]

[localmiguy]

Wait for it...

[sparkypuppy1931-deactivated2018]

[malebndg]

This gimp is very much at the mercy of their master. I'd have them wired for some horny electro and exploit that breath play hood in safe ways.

[rubngum]

Chair adventure with heavyrubbeeslave https://www.instagram.com/p/BwyuVbhljx2/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1002fcfwat7tm

[submit-obey-serve]

Waiting is service to SIR

"Storing the fag away during periods when SIR does not have need of it, with fag contently waiting with no requirement of entertainment or engagement".

This.... is considered service to SIR.

[sparkypuppy1931-deactivated2018]

[thecorruptisland]

Tyler was curious to try bondage gear, but shy. He finally got the courage to find someone who was willing to help him try out bondage for the first time. He was suprised to find a guy close to his age with a large variety of gear close by. He was nervous but arranged to meet Friday night and spend the weekend trying things out.

When Tyler arrived the guy introduced himself and brought him inside, the house was small and clean, and the young man clean cut as well. They chatted and got comfortable and before long, the guy brought out some gear. Tyler slowly tried on some pieces and was eventually convinced to try a straight jacket. Thats when things turned… the padlock clicked, then Tyler was wrestled to the bed and securely fastened to several points, his feet, legs, waist, shoulders… completely unable to move. The simple hood was then covered with a heavy deprivation hood and locked in place. Tyler was completely immobile. The yound dom spoke “congratulations boy, you’re exactly what i was looking for, a young, shy stud to become my new toy and slave.” He left Tyler secured all weekend.. a start to his training into becoming a toy for his new…master.

[gaybareleatherfistbear]

Le BDSM me manque trop !

[165xustoor]

die Position, die meiner Veranlagung entspricht

[punishmentlads-deactivated20181]