You don’t know the owner of the huge house that you find yourself partying in, but it doesn’t matter - you get the impression that no-one else does either.
You’d arrived with your mate and a suave dude that had told you about this house party on the edge of town, reassured you that it would be a lot more fun than the tired clubs of the city centre.
Suave guy has long since vanished, and your mate had gone home unwell, leaving you alone amid multitudinous attractive men and women.
The house is huge, the kind that speaks of old money. The wood-panelled walls simultaneously contrasts with and compliment the loud outfits worn by the numerous attendees. Whoever the host is, he’s done a good job; there’s a bar in the main ballroom, and the music pounds its sleazy bass in every corridor and room. The paintings of old owners look judgmentally at the depravity - or is it jealousy? They never had the opportunities we have.
Your head’s not in the game, you realise. A few older guys make some passes at you, but you’re not feeling it, especially without your wingman. The alcohol, or maybe the fact that you don’t know anyone, makes you feel detached.
You decide to take a moment and head upstairs in search of a bathroom.
The house is labyrinthine. Presently, you realise that the music has faded into a muted, underwater memory of itself, and you are quite alone. You trace your hand along the wall as you find yourself drawn inexorably into the heart of the old mansion.
You push open a door. It’s clearly not a bathroom, but you enter anyway.
Despite the oddity of what you see, you are not surprised. A man, clearly well toned despite the skin-tight black suit covering his whole body, is stood at the end of a grand four poster bed. His body is the silhouette of an ‘X,’ his wrists and ankles locked in leather cuffs that are padlocked to the wooden frame of the four poster. A leather belt is chained to the foot of the bed, giving the man little purchase.
A gas mask obscures the man’s face, and you can hear muffled indignation from beneath. The hose connected to the mouth splits and reaches back round to what looks like a backpack. You are reminded of those dorky hats with straws connected to beer cans.
Every so often, the man convulses, and you’re aware of your growing semi. This fifty shades stuff isn’t really your scene, but seeing the guy struggle is undeniably hot. No-one seems to be around, and you touch the rubber-clad man.
The frustrated sounds become pleas, and something in the man’s tone makes it clear that he is not enjoying himself.
Nervously, you reach behind the man’s head and unbuckle the gasmask from him. It hangs loosely on his chest.
He’s cute, you realise, a little older than you. His short hair is wet with sweat, and you remove the fabric blindfold and pecker gag that obscure his features. Earphones fall away as you pull the blindfold away.
The cute lad blinks as if suffering the glare of the summer sun, though the room is dimly lit.
“Who are you?” he asks warily, and you tell him your name.
“Where’s the dude that did this to you?” you ask him.
The guy shrugs as best he can in such tight bondage. “Not sure.”
You feel suddenly very exposed and glance back at the door. “Are you…did you…is this all ok? Are you into this kind of thing?”
The guy grins ruefully. “In small doses, yeah. This -“ he rattles his padlocked wrists - “is a bit much for me.” He tips his chin at the dresser opposite. A small collection of keys are bunched together on the side. “Help me out? I need a piss!” He laughs, then suddenly winces.
“You ok pal?” you ask, concerned.
He nods through what appears to be pain, eyes closed, then recovers. “The fucker’s put an electric butt plug up there. Sort me out man.”
You fetch the keys and after much fumbling, begin to remove the padlocks. You learn the lad’s name - Jake - and he sighs with relief as he rubs his freed wrists.
He isn’t shy as he peels off the rubber suit, and you can’t help but crotch-check. To your surprise, you see a chastity cage round his junk. “I’ve always wondered what they’re like to wear,” you say aloud as Jake tries key after key until the cage is disassembled. His cock swells the moment the cage is off, and he makes a sound of unbridled relief.
“Be my guest,” he jokes, and you resist the temptation to pick up and inspect the chastity cage while he extracts the butt plug.
Jake steps into the ensuite bathroom and noisily pisses. You pick up the rubber suit that had so snugly fitted him. “Try it on,” he suggests when he reappears. There’s an eagerness that you mistake for latent horniness.
Despite feeling slightly grossed out at using Jake’s sweat as a kind of lube to squeeze into the rubber, you can’t help but appreciate the sexy suit.
“Is your Mister Grey gonna be pissed that you’re not where he left you?” you joke.
“Probably,” Jake says, and you don’t resist as he buckles the leather cuffs to your wrists.
“You’d better remember which key does what,” you half joke as Jake shakily padlocks the cuffs into place.
Your first indication that something isn’t quite right comes when Jake, tight-lipped, shrugs. Then, with no warning, he clips the cuffs together behind your back. You tug hard, only to realise that the cuffs are connected by chain to the foot of the bed.
“I’m not feeling this man,” you say, affecting a casual air. “Let me out, yeah?”
Jake isn’t smiling any more. “I’m sorry,” he says, and clearly means it. “Trust me when I tell you that I know how you feel right now.”
You can feel your heart beating faster. “You’re freaking me out pal,” you say, and hearing the panic in your own voice makes you worse. The chain holds fast as you jerk it hard. “Let me out, and I’ll not say a word of this, to anyone.”
Jake is shaking his head, and is about to say something - but the door is opening, and a man advances into the room. You hate that your first thought is how attractive the older man is, with his short hair, wide shoulders and clearly muscled body.
Indignation battles amusement on the man’s face. “What’s happening lad?” he rumbles.
Jake has his hands up as though trying to charm a charging bull. “Sir, hear me out, please. I want out. It’s been…interesting, but I never wanted this - you know I didn’t.”
‘Sir’ expels air through his nostrils and touches his stubbled chin thoughtfully. He turns his attention to you and looks you up and down. You are reminded of when your father appraised a new car at a showroom.
“Look, I don’t want to get caught up in this-“ you begin to say, but Sir catches your eye and you decide that it might be better to keep silent, for now.
“You made this trade before,” Jake is saying, and there’s a pleading note in his voice. “Just…take him. He’s your type. I’ve done my time, please, let me leave.”
Sir thinks for a moment. He looks between you and Jake. Then, with a sigh, he nods, and Jake gushes his thanks.
“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” you begin to say as Jake half runs out of the room - and then Sir is in front of you, and has you by the hair. You squirm and open your mouth to protest, only for Sir to forcefully shove the still-wet pecker gag between your lips, buckling it in place.
“You will speak when given permission,” Sir rumbles, and strikes you across the face. You strain agains the leather cuffs behind your back, and this earns you another slap, harder.
You catch Sir’s eye. The fucker’s mad, you realise - then he’s roughly tying fabric around your head, and you’re blind to everything. Thick fingers slip between your blindfold and your ears - the hiss of white noise fills your senses.
The gravity of the situation hits you - this isn’t a game. You put every ounce of your being into resistance, to try and free yourself, only to receive three sharp slaps that sets stars in the darkness of your blindness.
Your hands are suddenly free of the chain, but still locked behind your back. There’s a moment of weightlessness, of vertigo - and then you’re on your stomach, with soft bedding beneath you. You scrabble up the bed, only to feel strong hands on your ankles, dragging you back.
Sir’s full weight is on you now, and you feel pressure around your nose and mouth, and then a tightening around your whole head - the gasmask is affixed and you throw your head this way and that, but you can’t dislodge it. You can feel how strangely mechanical the mask has made your breathing, how drawing air is a conscious effort now.
Your ankles are spread and locked in place. You try to speak around the gag, to explain that a mistake is being made - and then a chemically sweet scent touches your nose.
Chloroform, you think, and hold your breath. It’s a waste of effort. Eventually, you breathe out and gasp in the sweet scent. The white noise thumps to match your heart beat. An almost loving thumb strokes your head as your mind spins on an unknown axis. Are there whispers in the white noise now?
Another dose, and you strain against the bondage and you moan. The pecker gag feels like a dick against your tongue. I’m being kidnapped, your dulling mind tells you, but all thought falls away as you take a third breath, and you become aware of the thick object being pushed against your hole.
It slides in, and to your slowed self, you observe how free of discomfort it was. Every breath is changing you - you shudder and test the limits of your unyielding restraints and become keenly aware of how rock hard you are. All the while, that thumb strokes your head reassuringly as you breathe in dose after dose. Is the white noise telling you how good you’re being?
“This is you now, drone.” You don’t hear the voice of Sir so much as feel the vibration of his words against your ears, his chest on your back, the firmness of his cock on your ass. The electric butt plug begins to pulse rhythmically inside you. “You belong to me. Training begins now.”
Riffing off the other stories of forced bdsm servitude. Goals, haha
gummygunk
dailybridgerton
theartofmadeline
turnnoffyourmind
jacobvanloon
