Kink, Gear, Control

I need to be locked down.

I need to be locked in.

I need to be locked up.

I need to be locked.

The morning after, the day the retreat was meant to end, we find the boy again holding position 3, full rubber catsuit, still locked, still plugged, metal manacles on his wrists and ankles, muttering to himself "only zero more days. this is day 0. only zero more days. this is day 0."

Into the room enters his boss, his director, his vice president, all the leadership above him, each fully geared, each exuding the power and control their position, role, and most fundamentally, their very nature conveys upon them. One by one, the step up to the wayward worker drone, legs firmly spread wide, crotch almost but not quite touching the boy's head. He doesn't look up. He knows better. "Thank us for allowing you to participate in the management training exercise, boy." To each he responds, still staring at the floor, "thank you for the opportunity to participate in this management training exercise, Sir. I hope to serve you and the company well and long into the future."

After the President completes his interaction, he turns to his Vice President. "Remand the manager to remedial training and demotion. This drone still understands the concept of I. Remand the worker to secondary management training. Perhaps the two of them will serve better in each others' boots."

Hearing the verdict and direction, the Vice President snapped to "Sir, Yes, Sir. Director, make it so," at which the Director snapped to "Sir, Yes, Sir. Security take the Manager and this worker to recycling."

At the command two leather uniformed guards stepped close "Sir, Yes, Sir," and the Manager, perhaps perversely, thought of the demotion processing. And suddenly he was aching in his own chastity device, craving to be of better, deeper, lower service to his company, and his Superiors. And as the guard placed the control collar around his neck, he thought back to when he was previously promoted, and found himself aching to hope for another opportunity to be re-trained.

The boy, however, continued kneeling there, awaiting direction, awaiting command, awaiting the direct manipulation and micromanagement that had kept him in line, kept him productive, kept him useful. "Position 1, worker." And he rose, and stood, hands behind his back, and allowed himself to be collared, and marched out of the room to a very different destiny than he had been expecting from the Management Training Retreat. He'd expected to wash out and be seen as a good, simple worker. But it was evident to all, that he was actually a good, simple manager waiting to be activated.

Now he would be theirs to Command and Control. And he would very much enjoy executing their orders and fulfilling their direction.

Blake is a good boy and loves when his husband rubbers up as well so that he feels his rubber-clad hands all over him 😈

This sweet boy melts completely when his husband steps into the room wearing that tight shiny rubber gear. He loves the way those strong rubber-clad hands glide over his body, claiming him with every touch. Pure comfort, pure connection, pure bliss in rubber 💦🖤

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