Kink, Gear, Control

“The only thing that cannot be avoided is your eventual purpose. Your eventual kneeling, service and submission.

When Devon arrived at the park, the crowd was the first thing he noticed. Curiosity pulled him towards it. It was some sort of promotion for a new company or something. 

iObey...sounded like a weird new tech startup that wouldn't be around long but something about it pulled his attention more that it should. A nagging little voice in the back of his mind. Looked to be one of those freelance work on your own terms apps that have been popping up lately. Seemed like this ones model was recruiting people to work in any capacity their clients needed. Whether it was basic handyman help, a grocery run, something more intimate. Whatever the client wanted, this app delivered. On top of promising completion of any task requested. It offered complete discretion of its users by way of its proprietary control systems.

The display itself was a towering wall of glass and light, but in front of it stood a handful of men in identical black shirts. They lingered in a loose row, some staring ahead blankly, others stepping forward with empty smiles as they pressed glossy flyers into the hands of curious onlookers. Their mirrored glasses made them unreadable, and their voices echoed copy paste sales statements. Behind this staged scene lay the company’s control system: a hidden network linking every obedient body together, coordinating when they stand still, when to smile, and when to hand over a flyer. It wasn’t just advertising—this was control made visible, unnervingly seamless in its presentation.

The flyer explains that even the men in the presentation have signed up for this event and will have no recollection of it when their time expires. With nothing but a sense of satisfaction and a hefty check in exchange for their time.

As Devon lingered, one of the salespeople stepped forward with a perfectly polished smile. The man’s words rolled off his tongue like a rehearsed script—gentle, persuasive, and impossible to brush off without seeming rude. Devon nodded along, too polite to cut him short, and before he knew it, he was being guided through the sign‑up demonstration, the promise of a simple trial pitched as if it were nothing at all. He even handed Devon a free shirt as a promotional gift.

Being too polite to decline, Devon lifted the glossy black shirt from the kiosk, almost hypnotized by how it shimmered in the park light. His fingers tingled just from holding it, like the fabric itself was alive, its surface sleek and rubbery, almost liquid. The bold white letters across the front—iObey—stared back at him, almost demanding he put it on then and there.

The more his fingers brushed over it, the more he noticed that the material seemed to almost want to grip his skin, as if it were almost alive in a way. Cool yet oddly comforting, the texture seemed to draw him in with every second, filling him with a strange warmth centered over his groin and radiating outwards. As his mind clouded with a mixture of pleasure and curiosity, he finally tugged it down over his head.

The rubber slid across his shoulders with a weightless chill, clinging instantly as if it belonged there. Almost immediately an intense pleasure flickered existence. It started in his fingertips and toes the moment it the rubber settled around his body. Before he could do even process it his cock surged to full mast as the pleasure continued to spread up his body, surging up his arms and legs, increasing the orgasmic sensations ever higher as it did. As the pleasure grew,he could only shudder and come along for the ride, unaware that wherever it climbed and overtook shifted slightly. his arms rested at his side, his legs straightened. Not that he noticed but anywhere the pleasure spread was no longer his to control...it belonged to iObey.

The pleasure continued its relentless ascent, flowing up his thighs and finally into his cock. The sensations sharpened there—intense, almost unbearable. For a brief moment his world seemed to explode in raw pleasure, the pressure building so intensely that it felt like he was on the verge of blowing his load right then and there. Yet just as he reached the tipping point, the system intervened. Release was denied, clamped down as the system took control, his massive throbbing erection forced down. Still radiating need and pleasure, but unable to even get the slightest bit of an erection now. He shifted with what little control of his body he had left, but the shirt only tightened further as the pleasure advanced. It climbed higher, wrapping his chest, pulling his shoulders back until his posture was rigid, upright...perfect.

To his side he hears the salesman, "Welcome to iObey. We are sure you will enjoy your time working with us."

Unable to resist at all as he placed slid the glasses over his eyes. Immediately spirals bloomed across his vision, spinning faster and faster, drawing him in. The same burning pleasure that had captured his body now surged directly into his mind, dazzling, dizzying, stripping his thoughts bare.

A gasp was all he could muster as his mind was filled with the same intense pleasure, the same unstoppable wave, until even his frantic lust filled and sexually frustrated desires faltered. His struggles scattered, his focus melted, his thoughts dissolved into a haze of pleasure and obedience. Empty of everything except a simple directive...iObey.

Devon's hands dropped still, his chest slowed, his mind emptied. He stood tall and unmoving, empty eyes hidden behind the mirrored lenses, the word iObey gleaming across his chest and echoing in his mind.

By the time the next passerby stopped at the display. Devon was lined up among the others, just another mindless employee of iObey.

The heavy steel door slammed shut behind me with a finality that echoed through the dim concrete room. My heart hammered against the tight, glossy black rubber that encased every inch of my body like a second skin—squeezing, suffocating, unyielding. The hood sealed over my head, thick latex pressing into my face, the built-in gag forcing my mouth wide open around its fat intruder. I could barely breathe, the air hot and stale, tasting of rubber and my own fear-sweat.

I was Jack. The bald, muscular guy who’d walked into that bar for a drink after a long shift. Now I was this. A “FUCK HOLE,” just like the massive white letters stretched across my upper back on the harness. My arms were wrenched cruelly behind me, locked into the rigid armbinder, wrists and elbows fused together with thick straps and chains that bit deep into the shiny latex. My shoulders burned. My legs trembled in the skintight catsuit, the built-in boots with their heavy rings clinking every time I shifted.

“You thought you were tough, didn’t you?” The voice was low, gravelly, full of cruel amusement. A gloved hand—thick leather—slapped hard across my rubber-covered ass, the sound sharp and wet. I jerked forward, but the chains from my collar to the ceiling kept me upright, on display. “Bald muscle meat like you? Perfect for breaking.”

He circled me slowly, his boots thudding on the wooden floor. I caught glimpses through the tiny eyeholes in the hood—his massive frame, leather jacket straining over broad shoulders, a sadistic grin under his own trimmed beard. He grabbed the back of my hood and yanked my head back violently, forcing me to arch.

“Look at you. All sealed up. No escape. That rubber’s glued on now—special formula. You’ll sweat in it for weeks before I even think about peeling it off. And that gag? It’s staying. You’re just a hole.”

His other hand dropped lower, squeezing my trapped cock through the latex crotch until I groaned into the gag—a muffled, pathetic sound. He laughed and shoved two thick fingers against the rear zipper, pressing the rubber deep between my cheeks.

“This is what you are now, Jack. My personal fuck hole. Kidnapped. Owned. Every night I’m gonna chain you like this, bend you over, and use you until you’re shaking and leaking. You’ll learn to crave the smell of your own trapped sweat and my cum soaking into that suit.”

He stepped back and kicked my legs wider apart with his boot, the chains on my ankles rattling. Another hard slap landed on my ass, then another, turning the glossy black surface red under the impacts even through the thick material. The pain bloomed hot and deep.

“Struggle all you want. No one’s coming for you. That pretty boyfriend of yours? He’ll get a nice video of you like this—hooded, helpless, ass up—begging through your gag for more. Maybe I’ll send one to your crew at the firehouse too. Show them what their firefighter coworker really is underneath that tough-guy act.”

He pressed his body against my back, the heat of his leather and hard cock grinding against me. The “FUCK HOLE” letters on my back rubbed against his chest as he reached around and twisted my nipples through the rubber, pinching viciously.

“You’re gonna live in this suit until you forget what it feels like to be anything else. Days in the cage. Nights getting railed until your legs give out. And when you’re broken in nice and deep… that’s when the real training starts. Permanent collar. Brands under the latex. Maybe even a nice rubber dog hood to replace this one.”

I thrashed in the bonds, muscles straining, sweat pouring down my back under the glossy prison—but it only made him harder. He laughed darkly and unzipped the rear of the suit with a slow, deliberate pull.

“Time to use my new hole.”

The first brutal thrust made my vision white out. There was nothing left but the tight, shiny rubber, the chains, the pain, and the relentless aggression of my new owner turning me into exactly what the words on my back promised.

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.