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Part #2

In the months that follow, the rhythmic *thump-thump-thump* of the industrial-grade milking machine becomes the heartbeat of my mornings, afternoons, and evenings. Soon three sessions a day no longer seems like enough.

I'm already awake when Master finally enters the barn, about half an hour late for my 7am morning milking. My heavy, firm udders ache as I gingerly pick myself up off the warm bed of hay, leather creaking as my monoglove flails behind me for balance. The discomfort in my fused arms and shoulders and tight calves are dull aches compared to the intense throbbing need to relieve the pressure in my bobbing mammaries. If I could only reach my nipples myself... I'm certain that even a little manual milking would be better than this constant engorgement without reprieve or release. But heifers like me don't have the luxury of such dexterity, so I wait desperately for Master's touch.

I lean into him the moment he steps into my stall, rubbing my bulging udders against the side of his arm.

"Mooooo..." I plead in a low, plaintive whine of fervent need.

"Morning, Daisy," Master greets me warmly, stroking my hair at his shoulder. "Pup wanted to wake me with a nice cock-warming, this morning, so I indulged her for a short while. Did you miss me?"

I let out another moo in confirmation. It wasn't exactly an apology, but explaining the reason for his delay is more consideration than Master normally affords me, for which I'm grateful. Even if it irks me how "Pup" gets a consistent moniker when I never do.

He leads me over to the milking station at long last, and I eagerly bend down into the metal frame, an upgrade from the stocks we used to have. The new frame clamps my neck and shoulders in place without the need to undo my armbinder. A small price to pay for more immediate relief for my milk-laden udders.

As metal arms hold my upper body securely in place, I feel a slow, warm trickle from my nipples as they leak from the force of gravity weighing them down.

"Look at you, dripping already before the cups even touch you. Just like a proper dairy cow," he croons, cupping each dangling udder in turn as he attaches the suction cups.

I sigh as the machine whirs to life, its rhythmic tug finally beginning to relieve my aching orbs. The clear tubes fill with white fluid and the comforting sound of splashing milk echoes from the tank below. Relief is instantaneous, almost orgasmic. Perhaps thanks in part to the *other* part of our little morning milking routine.

"Mooooo..."

My collar still enforces the single 'word', if one can call it that, but I've learned to pour every ounce of my frustration, gratitude, and craving into it.

It's gratitude and humiliating arousal that colours my tone now as I feel Master's firm tip at my entrance, teasing my moist slit briefly before sliding in and stretching me satisfyingly full. It's difficult to tell whether he's still wet from Pup's services or if I'm just that horny while my udders release their milk.

I can already hear the tank sloshing as Master bottoms out inside me, his balls slapping against my slit with a satisfying smack.

"Good girl," Master praises, stroking and squeezing my ass cheeks as they jiggle around him. "Yesterday morning's let-down was almost a full litre. We might hit three litres today if you keep this up. Customers are going to be very happy."

I shudder at the reminder. If I'd thought those "milk orders" were a joke at first, I know now they're very real. I've seen the promo materials Master has put together. Advertising me as his premium human heifer – naturally sweet, hormonally-enhanced, high-volume output. The thought should horrify me, but instead it sends another warm gush of milk flowing into the foaming tank below at the same time that my pussy clenches hard around his cock.

Master chuckles, reading my body as perceptibly as always. "Still pretending you don't love being my productive little cow?"

His fingers reach down to dance around my clit, insistently enough to tease but not quite enough to send me over the edge. Never that. In Master's words, a horny heifer is a productive one, so he keeps me teetering on that edge for as long and often as possible. And I can't exactly argue, the way the tubes remain flush with the milk drawn from my gently-deflating udders. The machine is relentless, pulling more milk from me than it seems physically possible to contain, yet somehow come the next session they've always swollen back to a near-painful bulging fullness.

"Mm–moooo! Moooo..." I babble helplessly, barely cognisant enough to adhere to the humiliating vocal restriction. It sounds pathetic, even to my own ears. It sounds obscene. It sounds exactly like the desperate dairy slut I've been turned into. You dress for the position you want, after all. And I'm dressed in skin-tight cow-print latex with my udders dangling free.

Master grips my hips and fucks me in earnest, now, using my body in time with the machine's rhythmic *thump-thump-thump*.

"That's it, let it all out for me. Gush for your owner."

In different circumstances, those words would have a very different meaning, one that leaves me blushing with pleasure instead of humiliation. But here they're more a statement of fact than long-sought permission.

Master reaches underneath me to squeeze one aching udder firmly, milking me manually in time with the machine. The dual sensation makes fresh milk explode into the tubes and my pussy flutter around his cock, achingly close to a real orgasmic release. But he knows I've never been able to climax without clitoral stimulation, and he uses this to his advantage as he pounds through my fluttering walls, dragging out my edge until I'm shaking and mooing incoherently.

When he finally groans and fills me with his own hot release, I feel another let-down hit as my body responds to his climax like the well-trained heifer I am. Milk sprays so forcefully that a few droplets escape the seal of the cups and splatter onto the hay-strewn floor below.

Master remains buried inside me for a long moment, catching his breath while gently stroking my flanks. "We're going to have to add a fourth milking soon, my leaky little slut. Maybe even a fifth. Can't have these pretty udders getting too full and uncomfortable, can we?"

I let out a ragged "Moooo...," unable to protest and point out the obvious delight he derives from exactly that. Instead I can only hang limp in the restraints, panting, milk still flowing steadily into the sloshing tank as my mind swims in mushy, blissful submission.

gentlemaxe

Playful.

owner-of-pet-chrissy

weekly discussions xox

cgarmbinder

bndjack

Betrayed & Rubberized

Officer Liam Brooks had trusted Tyler Grant with everything.

They’d been together for almost three years. Tyler knew about the nightmares after bad calls, the way Liam carried the job home in his shoulders, the quiet fear that one day he wouldn’t come back. Tyler had always been the steady one—the personal trainer with the calm voice and strong hands who rubbed Liam’s back after double shifts and told him, “You don’t have to be the hero all the time, babe. Let someone take care of you.”

Liam never suspected that “taking care of him” meant this.

The last thing Liam remembered clearly was coming home after a brutal twelve-hour shift, kicking off his boots, and accepting the cold beer Tyler handed him with a kiss. The beer tasted… off. Sweet. Wrong. He’d barely had time to frown before Tyler’s arms wrapped around him from behind—loving, familiar—and the sweet chemical smell of the rag clamped over his face finished the job.

He woke up naked, wrists and ankles cuffed to the sturdy frame of their basement playroom bed. The cuffs were the same ones they’d used for fun before. The ones Liam had bought because he trusted Tyler with control.

Tyler was sitting on the edge of the bed in black joggers and a tight tank top, watching him with that same calm, affectionate smile.

“Hey, pup,” he said softly. “Welcome back.”

Liam’s mouth was dry. His heart slammed against his ribs. “Tyler… what the fuck is this?”

Tyler reached out and stroked Liam’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “I’ve been planning this for a long time. You work too hard. You come home carrying too much. I kept thinking… what if I could take it all away? What if I could give you something better than being a cop?”

He stood and walked to the large black storage chest against the wall—the one Liam had always assumed held extra gear and toys. When Tyler opened it, Liam saw the suit.

It was already laid out like a second skin waiting to be filled. Thick, glossy rubber in a warm tan color with black piping and accents. The hood was separate—matte black, with tall pointed ears, a blunt snout, and a thick locking collar already attached. A curled tail lay beside it. The suit’s legs and arm sleeves were specially designed—shortened and reinforced to force the wearer into a strict quadrupedal position.

Liam started pulling against the cuffs. “No. Tyler, no. Whatever this is—whatever kink you’re into—we can talk about it. You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Tyler said, almost gently. “Because you’d never agree if I asked. And I need you like this. I’ve needed it since the first time I saw you in uniform.”

He began unlocking the cuffs one by one, moving with calm efficiency. Liam fought—hard—but Tyler had the advantage and months of planning. Within minutes Liam was face-down on the padded bench, arms wrenched behind his back in a tight armbinder Tyler had clearly prepared in advance.

“Tyler, please,” Liam gasped, voice cracking. “I trusted you.”

“I know,” Tyler whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “That’s why it had to be me.”

The first piece was the tail plug.

Liam bucked and snarled when Tyler pressed the thick, lubed bulb against him, but there was nowhere to go. Tyler worked it in slowly, relentlessly, one hand stroking Liam’s lower back while the other pushed. Liam felt the stretch, the burn, the humiliating pop as it seated inside him. The curled tail that emerged from between his cheeks was heavy and moved with every twitch of his body.

“Beautiful,” Tyler murmured.

Next came the legs of the suit. Tyler forced Liam’s knees to bend sharply and slid each foot deep into the shortened hind-leg sleeves. The rubber was heavy and unyielding, compressing his calves up against his thighs so that his weight would rest entirely on his knees. There was no way to straighten his legs. The thick padding inside the knee sections would make every movement on the ground feel deliberate and degrading.

The arms were even more restrictive. Tyler first pushed Liam’s hands into tight, padded rubber mitts—completely enclosing his fingers, turning his hands into useless blunt paws. Then he folded each arm at the elbow, forcing the mittened hands up along Liam’s sides and deep into the front leg sleeves of the suit. The mitts were trapped high up near where the dog’s “shoulders” would be. Liam’s elbows now became the new weight-bearing joints. His arms were rendered completely useless—folded and sealed inside the suit, unable to reach anything, unable to straighten, unable to help him escape.

Tyler worked the rest of the suit up over Liam’s torso, the glossy rubber sealing around his folded limbs like a second, merciless skin. The material gripped him everywhere, hot and tight and inescapable. He could feel every seam, every reinforced panel pressing against his skin, the constant pressure reminding him that his arms and legs were no longer his own.

The back zipper rose from the base of his spine all the way to the nape of his neck with a loud, final sound.

Tyler picked up the hood.

“No—no, please—” Liam begged, twisting his head as much as the suit would allow,

Tyler didn’t answer with words. He simply pulled the black rubber hood over Liam’s head, working the snout into place, guiding the eye holes until Liam’s vision narrowed to two small circles of the basement. The inside of the hood smelled strongly of new rubber. There was a small opening at the front of the snout—enough for breathing, enough for his tongue to be forced through if Tyler wanted—and a ring gag settled deep behind his teeth. Stopping any attempts at clear speech. Liam’s protests came out as muffled, wet sounds.

Tyler buckled the thick collar around his neck and clicked a heavy padlock shut at the back. Then he took a small key and locked the zipper pull of the suit itself to a reinforced loop on the collar. Another padlock.

He was sealed in.

Tyler stepped back to admire his work.

“Look at you,” he said, voice thick with satisfaction. “My perfect rubber dog. Arms folded tight, hands trapped up by your shoulders, elbows doing all the work. Knees bearing your weight. No way to stand. No way to fight. Just a helpless pup on all fours.”

He helped Liam off the bench. The first movements were agonizingly awkward—forced to crawl on knees and elbows, the folded limbs making every shift of weight a humiliating reminder of his new body. The tail plug shifted with every motion. The mitts trapped high inside the front legs made his arms completely useless for anything except supporting his weight. Sweat was already building inside the thick rubber.

Tyler clipped a leash to the collar ring and led him upstairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door into the fenced yard.

The grass was cool and damp under his padded knees and elbows. Sunlight hit the glossy tan-and-black suit and made it shine obscenely. Liam’s heart hammered as Tyler led him to the center of the yard, near the large metal kennel crate.

“Down,” Tyler ordered.

Liam hesitated, trying to push up onto knees that could no longer straighten. Tyler gave a short, sharp tug on the leash and pressed a button on a small remote. A low vibration pulsed through the tail plug. Liam dropped heavily onto elbows and knees with a muffled grunt.

“Good boy.”

Tyler posed him, adjusting Liam’s folded limbs into the perfect positions. The sun warmed the rubber on Liam’s shoulders while Tyler circled him with his phone, taking photo after photo.

“Head down. Lower. There. Perfect. Look at how helpless those folded arms look. Such a good, trapped pup.”

Then the final humiliation—Tyler guided him toward the open door of the big wire kennel. Liam resisted, knees and elbows scrabbling uselessly in the grass, but Tyler was stronger and the suit made fighting impossible. With a firm push between the shoulder blades, Liam was forced inside the crate. The door clanged shut. The lock clicked.

Tyler crouched in front of the crate so Liam could see his face through the wire.

“You’re not getting out,” he said quietly. “The suit doesn’t come off. The collar and hood don’t come off. Your arms are locked in those sleeves, hands trapped up by your shoulders. Your legs are folded the same way. I had it made that way. Custom locks. No key you can reach—even if you somehow had hands. The only person who can open you is me.”

Liam pressed his snout against the wire, making desperate, muffled sounds. His tongue pushed through the small opening in the hood, pink and wet against the metal.

Tyler reached through the bars and stroked the top of the black hood, then down the glossy tan shoulder.

“I know you’re scared. I know you’re angry. That’s okay. You’ll have plenty of time to feel all of it. But you’re safe now. No more bullets. No more nights wondering if you’ll come home. No more decisions. Just this.” He tapped the locked collar. “My rubber pup. My good boy. Forever.”

He stood up, brushed grass off his knees, and looked down at the caged, sealed figure inside the suit.

“I’m going to leave you out here for a while so you can get used to moving on those knees and elbows. The sun feels nice on the rubber, doesn’t it? When I come back, we’ll do more training. Maybe I’ll let you stretch and pose again so I can take more pictures. You looked so pretty.”

Liam watched him walk back toward the house. The tail plug shifted when he tried to turn around in the crate. The rubber was already slick with sweat inside. His cock was trapped, half-hard from the combination of fear, betrayal, and the relentless pressure of the suit.

He was fully aware.

He could see the grass. He could feel the sun. He could hear birds and the distant traffic. He could smell rubber and his own fear-sweat.

And he could not get out.

The padlocks were real. The folded limbs were real. Tyler’s calm, loving voice explaining that this was permanent was real.

Liam lowered his black rubber head until the snout rested on his elbows (the useless mitts trapped high inside the sleeves), tail curled against the back of the crate, and waited for his master to return.

He had trusted the wrong person.

And now that person owned him completely—shiny, sealed, folded, and locked in the exact suit from the pictures.

His new life as Tyler’s helpless rubber dog had already begun.

ropepup

Oh hey first stolen picture in a while! I'm the pup on the right, and that's my photo!

ropepup

#enrichment

ropepup

ph/m: @ropepup

ropepup

so many things to reblog but this is still so good

ropepup

Wiggly sunset reflections!

ph/m: @ropepup

ropepup

Studies in quadrupedal motion ph/m: @ropepup

ropepup

all i'm saying is if you wanna imagine yourself, or a character you're drawing or writing, getting mounted and knotted by something dog-shaped that's not quite human, i'm right here

jupes-lover

malebndg

I've wanted to get some shorts like these. I can imagine it getting rather sweaty and musky in there!

smileybrisbane

I have shorts like those, they're the BEST

thepsychosj

Only at C4S - Store #405135 - PSJ-2025-RA-07 Straitjacket And Transport Jacket For Rachel Adams

thesoftestler

Facedown tickles - a long and flustering read

I haven't posted much about facedown tickles, because with them, I can't see my lee's pretty smile. I can't see your eyes widen as my fingers get close to a tickle spot. I can't make you look at me as I praise you and watch your cheeks flush red.

But what I can do instead is equally good... I can straddle your back and lean right down over you, blowing in your ears and whispering teases as my fingers glide down your arms. Aww, do you feel all vulnerable, darling? You can't see where my tickly fingers are going, can you? That's okay, you don't have to see it to feel it... you can just enjoy the surprise.

I can hook my fingers into those pretty armpits... I can't hear what you're saying lovely, you're giggling right into that pillow, I whisper right in your ear. I can torment those poor pits for as long as I see fit, sliding my nails all around the sensitive skin in there. And I can tickle tickle up to these ears and this neck too. Your head isn't as mobile you see, with your face hidden in that pillow... makes it harder to squirm.

Then I can spider all down this vulnerable back. For some, that would usually be relaxing, but I promise you, when you feel so vulnerable and can sense the impending tickles, it'll feel ticklish regardless of how sensitive you are. Up and down, really getting those nerves firing. So giggly, aren't you, sweetheart? I can hear those pretty giggles even with a pillow in the way. So good for me.

Then I'd lean down again, back to whispering in the ears as my fingers sneak round to those ribs. Awww, you can barely squirm with my laying on you like this, can you? I can see how hard you're trying. My nails dance between those ribs, lingering at the spot that connects the ribs and armpits, that always makes pretty lees squeal. Does it tickle, sweetheart? Aww I think it might, I can just see those ears turning red. You're so good for me, blushing even though I can't see you... you're doing so well!

Then my nails crawl down to those sides. I'm still there, right in your ear, my warm breath tickling as I tease you about how squirmy you are under my ticklish touch. Such sensitive skin... awww poor baby, you're shaking because you've just got nowhere to go. All that tickly energy and nowhere to squirm to. My fingers tease every inch of those ticklish sides before sneaking down to the hips.

These ones are fun, you can hook the nails around into those little hip pockets from behind. And the backs of the hips are surprisingly sensitive to spidery nails. I can hear those feet kicking against the bed as much as they can... which isn't much. I'll put a stop to that soon. But for now you look so pretty squealing into that pillow and wriggling against the mattress as I get these hips.

Then I sit up and glide down to the backs of those thighs. Always super soft, always sensitive. See, the backs of the legs are rarely touched in day to day life... they're certainly gonna get their fair share now. I sit on the backs of those calves, keeping the thighs in place in my fingers spider up and down. They tickle every inch of skin, which one tickles more, hmm? The outside or the inside of these pretty thighs? I wonder... I can feel every muscle tensing under me, darling. It must tickle so much, hmm? You're doing so well my darling, so good for me.

Then down a bit further, to the backs of these knees, making sure to slide those nails around the sides so you don't get too used to the same sensation. What's that, sweetheart? Those are pretty giggles for me, aren't they. I love hearing you laugh, so I'll just tickle tickle over these knees a little more... that's it, let those giggles out for me. So tickly, aren't we?

Then I stand, and hear your breath hitch in anticipation. I slowly crawl my nails down those calves. Begging already? Can you tell what's coming next, sweetheart? Yes, I'm tickling down, down, down, to those ticklish feet. I spider around the ankles for a while, letting the anticipation really build as I sit back down on those calves, stopping the kicking. That laughter is so lovely darling. You're just ticklish everywhere, aren't you? These ankles must be so sensitive to have you fighting like this... or maybe

Its those feet. Facedown foot tickles feel so vulnerable don't they? You can't see me, but you can feel my nails raking all over those helpless soles. I seem like a world away, don't I darling, but I'm right here. I've got you, you're so safe under my fingers, and so beautifully ticklish for me. I hold one foot still as I worm my fingers under those toes, listening to your muffled squeals, watching how your other foot reacts to my touch. The free foot gives it all away, you see. Does it shake? Do the toes scrunch? Does it flail helplessly as it's pair is wrecked by tickles? It doesn't know its betraying it's pair. And it doesn't know it's sealing itself the same tickly fate.

I take the other foot and repeat the process. Aww I know, darling, it tickles so badly, doesn't it? You're taking it so well for me. Almost there, you can do it. I watch that poor foot succumb to the tickles, and hear your muffled squeals and pleads before I finally stand up.

You can't see me. You can't hear me. Maybe... I should toy with you. Just a little bit more. You feel a flutter on your side. Some nails dancing in the opposite armpit. You feel some spiders against your hip, at the back of your knee, against your ear, one right after the other, no way to predict what's coming next, no way to prepare for the tickles as they touch down on your helpless skin. You squeak, and squirm, and writhe, and beg.

That's it, darling. You did so well. I praise you gently as I carefully run my hands up and down your sides. Not enough to tickle, but enough to make you tense up, drawing in a breath. I gently untie the restraints and you curl up into a ball, all blushy and tickled out. I lay beside you and pull you into me, stroking your hair. You did so well for me, darling. I've got you. Come and have some cuddles, hmm? I rub your back and gently ease all of that tickly tension, soothing the muscles from that squirming as I sit you up and hand you some water. I wrap you in a blanket and lay with you, comfy and safe in my arms 😘

whowhatwearlook

smileybrisbane

Why aren't leather shorts more popular and common than they are?!?!?!

the-indomitable-suit

Latexdress

raider-loco

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