boyryan

Just two minutes.. I promise

The crisp November air carried the scent of fallen leaves as we lounged in the backyard with our mate, Ryan. He was the classic straight guy in our crew—tall, broad-shouldered, always quick with a joke and a beer, the kind who ribbed us endlessly about our “weird kinks” but stuck around anyway. That afternoon, after a few rounds of drinks, we dared him into it. “Come on, mate, just the rubber suit for two minutes,” we teased. “It’ll be hilarious. We’ll snap a quick photo, and you’re out. No big deal.”

Ryan laughed it off at first, calling us pervs, but the challenge got under his skin. He stripped down in the shed, grumbling the whole time, and we helped him step into the thick, glossy black rubber. The suit was a full enclosure—hood, integrated mitts that trapped his hands uselessly up at his shoulders, heavy boots molded like paws, and a thick collar with jingling tags. His arms were locked inside the torso, forcing him to balance on his elbows and knees once it was sealed. The zipper locked with a final, ominous click, and the hood slipped over his head, muffling his voice into a grunt. He dropped awkwardly onto the grass, already unstable, the tail plug shifting inside him as he tried to adjust.

We took the photos, howling with laughter as he struggled on his elbows, the sunlight glinting off the sleek black surface. “Two minutes, yeah?” he barked through the gag, already trying to stand. But the suit was slick with sweat inside, the elbow pads and paw boots making any escape impossible without help. We “misplaced” the key. “Just a bit longer, pup. One more pic.” By nightfall, he’d given up fighting for the day and was rolling in the grass, legs kicking up helplessly. It was supposed to end there. It didn’t.

Ryan fought it hard at first. The next morning he was raging, thrashing on the lawn in the tight rubber, muffled shouts echoing from inside the hood as he demanded to be let out. “This isn’t funny anymore! Get this fucking thing off me!” His body bucked and twisted, elbows digging into the dirt, but the suit held firm—custom-fitted, reinforced, inescapable. We just laughed, patted his hooded head, and told him it was still part of the joke. Days turned into weeks. Every time we approached with food or water through the hood’s access ports, he’d growl and snap, refusing at first, only to break down and accept it out of sheer necessity. His old life—work, dates, freedom—slipped away as we kept the suit sealed tight. No releases. Not even for cleaning. The rubber became his prison and his world.

Eight months later, Ryan—now permanently Rover—is still in it. The glossy black suit clings to him like a second skin, worn smooth and shiny from endless days on the grass and in the yard. His hands remain trapped high at his shoulders, arms useless inside the torso, forcing him to move exclusively on elbows and knees. He’s adapted physically, his muscles toned from the constant low crawl, but the fight never fully left him until recently.

For the first few months, he was relentless. He’d lunge at our legs when we entered the yard, elbows scraping the ground as he tried to knock us down and force the zipper open. Muffled curses and desperate pleas poured out through the gag: “Let me out! I can’t live like this! I’m not your fucking dog!” Nights were the worst—he’d curl up in the large outdoor kennel we built, whimpering and kicking at the bars, only to exhaust himself and collapse in a sweaty, rubber-encased heap. We never budged. He was ours now. Our straight mate was gone; in his place was a rubber pup who existed for our amusement. Walks on the leash became training sessions where he’d resist every command, only to earn firm corrections until he complied. The tail plug, the constant compression, the way the suit turned every movement into a reminder of his helplessness—it all wore him down.

Over time, the rage softened into reluctant obedience. He’d still hesitate, elbows trembling as he fought the urge to rebel, but the needs of his trapped body won out. Rolling onto his back in the grass, legs splayed high and kicking uselessly, became one of his few outlets for energy. He’d whine for belly rubs, nuzzle against our boots despite himself, the shiny black form wriggling in the sunlight. The suit never came off. Not once. Showers were hosed down in the yard, feeding was through the hood, and his world narrowed to the yard, the kennel, and us—his owners.

Now, at the end of these eight months, Rover has finally accepted it. He trots out into the grass on his elbows without prompting, the rubber creaking softly with each deliberate movement. No more fights. No more desperate demands. Just eager whines and tail wags when we approach, his hooded head lowering submissively as he presents himself. He lives for the routine: crawling at heel, fetching with his mouth, sleeping curled in his kennel like the dog he’s become. The straight lad who once mocked us has vanished completely. In his place is our loyal rubber pup—trapped, owned, and content in his permanent role.

The gym was quiet that evening, the kind of late hour where only the dedicated lingered under the low hum of fluorescent lights. He was there on the treadmill, his powerful legs pumping steadily, sweat glistening across his broad shoulders and down the curve of his back as his tight athletic shirt clung to every ridge of muscle. His shorts rode up slightly with each stride, highlighting the firm, rounded swell of his ass and the thick power in his thighs. He ran with focused intensity, earbuds in, oblivious to the eyes watching him from the shadowed corner of the cardio area—eyes that had been tracking him for weeks.

His name was Alex, a fit, clean-cut guy in his mid-20s who treated the gym like a ritual. But tonight, that ritual would be his last taste of freedom.

As he finished his cooldown and headed toward the locker room, a firm hand clamped over his mouth from behind, the sharp sting of a soaked cloth pressing against his face. Chloroform. His eyes widened in panic, strong arms flailing for a second before his muscular body went limp. The stranger—tall, tattooed, built like a tank—easily hoisted him over one shoulder, slipping out through a service exit into the waiting van. No one noticed. No alarms. Just another night at the gym.

Alex woke up slowly, head throbbing, his body aching in a way that had nothing to do with his workout. He was naked, stripped completely, his wrists locked behind his back in heavy steel cuffs connected by a short chain. Thick leather collars encircled his neck, ankles, and thighs, all bolted to a heavy metal frame that kept him bent forward on his knees, ass presented high and vulnerable. A thick rubber bit gag filled his mouth, straps buckled tight around his head, drool already starting to leak down his chin. His cock—impressively thick even soft—hung exposed between his spread legs, a metal chastity cage already locked in place, its key dangling mockingly from the captor’s neck.

The room was a dimly lit basement dungeon: black padded walls, hooks and chains everywhere, the air thick with the scent of leather and rubber. The man from the gym shadows stepped into view, now shirtless, his own muscular torso covered in intricate tattoos. He smirked, running a hand over Alex’s sweat-damp hair.

“Been watching you run that treadmill for weeks, boy. That tight ass bouncing, those powerful legs pushing… I knew you’d make the perfect slave. No more free runs. No more choices. You’re mine now.”

Alex grunted and struggled, the chains rattling, his impressive physique flexing uselessly against the restraints. The captor just laughed, circling him slowly. He attached heavy weights to the slave’s nipple clamps, then lubed a thick plug and worked it deep into Alex’s ass, twisting it until it locked in with a click. The vibrations started low—a constant, teasing hum that made Alex’s caged cock twitch helplessly.

“First lesson: endurance,” the man growled, picking up a leather flogger. He brought it down across Alex’s exposed ass and back in steady, stinging strokes, turning the runner’s skin a deep, heated red. “You ran for miles tonight. Now you’ll learn to take pain for hours.”

Over the next days, Alex’s transformation into a full slave began in earnest. Mornings started with him hogtied on the floor, a rubber hood zipped over his head, only a small breathing tube allowing air while his new Master used his mouth and ass without mercy. Afternoons were spent in full rubber encasement—a tight, shiny black catsuit that sealed him from neck to toes, the built-in sheath milking his denied cock while he was locked in a small cage. Evenings meant public training: leashed on all fours, the collar tugging as he crawled, learning to present his holes on command, his once-proud runner’s body now oiled and displayed like property.

The gag rarely came out. Instead, it was replaced with a fat dildo gag during “feeding time,” forcing him to suck and swallow while his Master praised him. “Good slave. Look at you—those gym legs trembling, that ass trained to take anything. You’ll never run free again.”

Weeks blurred into a haze of bondage and submission. Alex was broken down, rebuilt as the perfect rubber gimp slave: hooded, collared, plugged, and constantly edged. His muscular frame, once built for the treadmill, now existed only for his Master’s pleasure—displayed in leather harnesses, chained to the wall for hours, or taken out in the dead of night for outdoor “runs” where he was chased, recaptured, and fucked into the dirt.

The New Neighbor part 2

Victor stroked Ryder’s cheek, savoring the blank, eager look in his eyes. “Stand up, boy. It’s time you dressed properly for your new role.”

Ryder rose fluidly, already shirtless, his body responding before his mind even processed the command. Victor led him to the bedroom closet and pulled out a sleek black garment bag. Inside was the uniform: tight, shiny black rubber shorts that would hug every curve, a matching rubber harness that framed the chest and left the back exposed for easy access, and a thick leather collar with a heavy steel ring at the front. At the bottom of the bag was a thick panel gag—black rubber ball with straps that buckled tightly behind the head.

“Arms up,” Victor ordered. Ryder obeyed instantly, his cock twitching visibly as the cool rubber slid up his legs. The shorts were mercilessly tight, compressing his erection into an obscene bulge while the harness buckled snugly across his chest, accentuating his lean muscles. Victor fastened the collar last, tugging it just tight enough to be a constant reminder.

“Perfect,” Victor murmured, running his tattooed hands over the glossy rubber. He stepped back to admire his work. “Look at yourself.”

Ryder turned toward the full-length mirror. The man staring back was no longer the independent guy who’d moved in yesterday. He was a rubber-clad houseboy—collared, harnessed, and visibly aroused. A soft, happy whimper escaped him.

Victor picked up the gag. “Open.” Ryder’s mouth opened obediently. The fat rubber ball filled him completely, stretching his jaw as Victor buckled the straps behind his head with practiced efficiency. Drool immediately began to pool at the corners of his mouth.

“Mmmph,” Ryder moaned around the gag, eyes glazing over with pleasure. Every restriction made the hypnotic programming sing inside his head—Obey. Serve. This feels right.

Victor’s own cock was rock-hard in his jeans. He unzipped, freeing a thick, veined shaft, and pushed Ryder down to his knees. “Good boys use their mouths even when gagged. Show me how grateful you are.”

Ryder nuzzled forward eagerly, rubbing his gagged face against Victor’s cock. Victor eventually unbuckled one strap just enough to pull the ball aside, then fucked Ryder’s mouth with long, dominant strokes, one hand gripping the collar. Ryder took it all, eyes watering, moaning in pure submissive bliss as Victor used him.

When Victor finally came down his throat, Ryder swallowed every drop, then gently kissed the head of his Master’s cock in thanks before the gag was refastened.

Over the next weeks, the new routine settled in easily. Ryder was new to the city—no close friends, no family nearby, just a remote customer service job he could do from anywhere. He still technically had his own apartment across the hall, but the boxes remained untouched. He slept there only when Victor explicitly ordered it (rarely). Most nights he was at Victor’s, curled on a mat at the foot of the bed in his rubber uniform, collared and gagged.

During the day he’d slip back into “normal” clothes for work calls, but the moment he stepped back into Victor’s apartment, the uniform went on. The gag went in. And the service began.

Victor loved pushing him. He’d bind Ryder’s arms behind his back with thick leather straps while he cleaned, forcing him to work with his face pressed close to the floor. He’d hogtie him on the leather couch during “breaks,” teasing his bulging rubber-covered cock for hours without release. Sometimes he’d leave Ryder plugged and gagged in the corner, a living piece of furniture, while he watched sports or read.

One evening, Victor came home carrying a large box. Ryder was waiting on his knees by the door in full uniform, gag already in place, drool shining on his chin.

Victor opened the box with a wicked smile. Inside was a sturdy steel cage—compact, with a padded floor and bars just wide enough for a man to curl up inside. A heavy lock hung from the door.

“This is your new home when I’m not using you, boy,” Victor said, stroking Ryder’s head. “We’re making this permanent. You’ll quit that pointless job soon. Sell the apartment. Everything you own will be mine. You don’t need a life outside this anymore.”

Ryder moaned loudly around the gag, hips rolling helplessly as the hypnotic pleasure of total surrender flooded him. He crawled forward and pressed his forehead to Victor’s boot in complete acceptance.

Victor laughed softly, already hardening again. He dragged Ryder to the bedroom, locked him inside the cage for a few hours while he prepared dinner, then pulled him out, still gagged and desperate, for a long, rough session. Ryder was fucked face-down on the bed, arms bound tightly, rubber shorts pulled aside just enough, while Victor growled commands and praise into his ear.

“You’re mine now, houseboy. Mind, body, and life. And you’re going to stay this way… forever.”

Ryder came hands-free from the sheer bliss of it, shuddering in his bonds as another layer of his old self dissolved completely.

WTF! 

The crackling image appeared suddenly on his screen and Colin instantly recognised the tattoos….it was his boyfriend Eric, missing for 2 months. 

He watched transfixed as a pair of big hobnail boots appeared and were held to the waiting mouth. The hooded slave dived on them in a frenzy, licking, lapping furiously. 

Then the tail was ripped from the hole and another masked figure crouched onto it and with no preliminaries, with the biggest cock he had ever seen, plunged in and fucked brutally, Erics screams rang in his ears, begging…’ARRRGGGHHHH! i’ve been good, please, please, stop please…’ 

In response the Man in the boots stood on Eric’s head and then piss started to rain down on his back. 

It was 15 minutes later, after the both Men had cum, after, Eric had been forced to lick the angry cocks clean, lick the puddles of piss off the floor, after the two Men had started barking orders that had Eric, begging, fetching, barking, rolling over and over, that Colin realised he was rubbing his cock, that he was getting close, that this was the most turned on he had ever been. 

As Eric was fed a handful of what looked like dog food, Colin screamed and shot a huge load. Instantly, as quickly as it had appeared, the screen went black leaving Colin looking around, were they watching? 

He reached for his phone, he should tell the police. But then a message appeared on the screen. 

SAME TIME TOMORROW. 

DON’T TELL A SOUL OR ELSE THAT WAS THE LAST TIME YOU’LL EVER SEE IT.

WE’VE JUST SHOWN IT THE FOOTAGE WE TOOK OF YOU WANKING TO ITS PAIN AND DEGRADATION. YOU’VE JUST HELPED US TO BREAK IT OF ANY LAST RESOLVE AND RESISTANCE. IT NOW UNDERSTANDS…YOU DON”T CARE, IT BELONGS TO US…PERMANENTLY. 

AS A THANK YOU WE ARE PLEASED TO OFFER YOU A DISCOUNTED MEMBERSHIP TO THE WEBSITE. FOR JUST £13.99 A MONTH YOU’LL BE ABLE TO ENJOY DAILY UPDATES OF ‘SHITHOLES’ TRAINING. ENJOY!