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The Dare - part 3

The Lockmaster’s Solution

The next night Ryder drove Jax back to the warehouse, the slave hooded and chained in the backseat the entire way. When they arrived, the Lockmaster greeted them with that same calm, predatory smile.

They sat down in the dimly lit office while Jax knelt silently on the concrete floor between Ryder’s boots.

“I can’t make him disappear completely,” Ryder explained. “His parents, my parents—they’re all friends. People would notice. School’s starting. I need him to function in public… but still be mine. Like an off-and-on switch. He goes back to looking like normal Jax when we need him to, but the second we’re alone he drops back into full slave mode.”

The Lockmaster laughed, deep and amused. “A toggle. I like it. Let’s do this.”

They worked on Jax for the next twelve hours straight.

The mind fucking was even more intense than the first time. Jax was strapped into a heavy rubber isolation chair, hooded, earphones blasting hypnotic loops while the Lockmaster and Ryder took turns reinforcing new programming:

• The Switch: In public or around family/friends, Jax would act mostly normal—talk, laugh, go to class, see his parents. But the second Ryder said the trigger phrase (“Down, boy”), Jax would drop into full slave mode: silent, obedient, horny, and ready to serve. Another phrase (“Back up”) would bring him back to semi-normal functioning, though the programming ensured he’d never truly be free again.

• Identity Rewrite: The once-proud straight man was conditioned to accept his new reality. Deep in trance, Jax was forced to repeat for hours: “I am Ryder’s boyfriend in public. I am Ryder’s slave in private. My holes belong to him. I crave his cock and his piss.” Memories of his old straight life were twisted into shameful, arousing fantasies that only made him harder in his cage.

Permanent Body Modifications

To seal the ownership:

• A sleek, permanent titanium collar was locked around his neck. It looked like a stylish, thick necklace in public—something a gay guy might wear—but it was locked with a hidden mechanism only Ryder could open. A small ring at the front allowed a leash to be clipped discreetly.

• His nipples and cock were pierced with heavy rings. The cock ring integrated with a new, more secure steel chastity cage that could only be removed by Ryder’s key.

• A small, discreet tattoo was inked just above his cage: “Property of Ryder” in elegant script. Another, a small lock symbol, was placed on the back of his neck.

• His ass was permanently plugged with a training device that could vibrate on Ryder’s phone command.

By the end, Jax was a drooling, broken mess—mind thoroughly rewired, body marked forever.

When they were done, the Lockmaster stepped back. “He’s yours. The cover story is simple: you two figured out you’re a gay couple over the summer. It explains the closeness, the shared place, everything. You’ll both sell it to family and friends. And the second you’re behind closed doors… he’s your slave again.”

Ryder looked down at Jax—smooth head bowed, new collar gleaming, body trembling with conditioned need. He felt a surge of dark satisfaction. He’d never been into guys before this summer, but owning this one—his former best friend—had unlocked something primal in him. He loved fucking that tight, trained hole. He loved pissing down his throat while Jax looked up at him with total devotion. He loved the power.

“I’m good with it,” Ryder said, pulling Jax’s head against his crotch. “We’re boyfriends now. And you’re still my slave.”

Jax’s voice was soft, broken, and happy in his new role: “Yes, Master… I’m yours.”

The New Normal

They drove home as an official “couple.” When they walked into the apartment, Ryder locked the door and spoke the words:

“Down, boy.”

Jax dropped to his knees instantly, the switch flipping perfectly. The proud man from before the summer was gone. In his place was a perfectly trained slave who would live a double life—boyfriend by day, owned property by night—for as long as Ryder wanted.

The summer had ended.

The ownership had only just begun.

The Double Life

The new arrangement worked perfectly. To the outside world, Ryder and Jax were just another college couple who had finally admitted their feelings over the summer. Their parents were surprised but supportive—“We always thought you two were unusually close,” Jax’s mom had said with a warm laugh. Friends bought it too. The small lock tattoo was explained as Jax’s commitment to Ryder. They posted a few carefully staged couple photos and life went on.

But behind closed doors, the switch was everything.

Morning Routine

Ryder woke up to Jax’s warm mouth already working him under the covers. Ryder would murmur sleepily, and Jax stayed deep in slave mode—smooth head bobbing, throat relaxed, taking every inch like the well-trained slave he was. After Ryder came down his throat and followed it with a long, lazy piss, Jax crawled to the kitchen to make breakfast.

While they ate (Ryder at the table, Jax kneeling on the floor beside him), Ryder liked to reminisce.

“You remember when you used to be straight? Always bragging about chasing girls, talking shit about how no one could break you?” Ryder chuckled, forking eggs into his mouth. “Look at you now. Bald, collared, swallowing my piss every morning like it’s your favorite protein shake.”

Jax whimpered, cheeks burning with shame and arousal. The cage strained painfully around his pierced cock. He kept his eyes down. “Yes, Master… I remember.”

“Good boy. Now thank me for reminding you who you really are.”

“Thank you, Master.”

Public Days

On campus, they played the part. They walked together, Ryder’s arm slung casually around Jax’s shoulders. The titanium collar looked enough like edgy jewelry that no one questioned it. Jax attended classes, laughed with friends, and even joined study groups. But Ryder kept the remote to the vibrating plug in his pocket. He’d buzz it during lectures just to watch Jax squirm and bite his lip.

One afternoon they ran into some old gym buddies. While Jax made small talk, Ryder leaned in and whispered, “Down, boy,” under his breath. Jax’s posture changed instantly—subtler in public, but Ryder could see it: the slight glaze in his eyes, the way his voice got softer.

Later in the car, Ryder laughed. “You used to be such a cocky asshole. Always trying to out-lift me, out-drink me. Now you’re my quiet little cock warmer. Does that make you hard, slave?”

Jax whimpered, nodding. “Yes, Master.”

Nights of Ownership

Evenings were when Ryder really indulged. The second the apartment door closed, it was “Down, boy” and Jax dropped. Some nights Ryder chained him to the wall frame and fucked him slow and deep for hours, reminding him between thrusts:

“You used to have your own bed. Your own clothes. Your own life. Now you sleep on the floor like a dog and wear what I allow. You’re never going back, are you?”

Jax would moan and whimper around the gag or Ryder’s cock, tears of overwhelming submission in his eyes, but his body always responded—pushing back, begging for more.

Weekends were intense. Ryder would keep Jax in full rubber bondage for hours, hooded and plugged, while he played games or watched TV with his feet resting on his slave’s back. He’d take the hood off only to piss in Jax’s mouth or make him recite his old proud memories before forcing him to thank Ryder for destroying them.

Deep into the Semester

Ryder never got tired of it. The contrast thrilled him—watching Jax act mostly normal in public, knowing that with two words he could turn his former best friend into a whimpering, obedient slave. He loved the power. He loved the sex. He loved owning someone who used to be his equal.

One quiet evening, after a long day of classes, Ryder had Jax kneeling naked between his spread legs. He stroked the smooth shaved head almost tenderly.

“You know you’re never getting rid of that collar, right? Even when we graduate. Even when we’re old. You’re mine forever now.”

Jax whimpered softly, pressing his forehead against Ryder’s thigh in total surrender.

“Yes, Master… I’m yours.”

The Biker’s Permanent Drain

The motorcycle rider, a ruggedly handsome man in his late twenties with a neatly trimmed beard and tousled dark hair, had no idea the night would end like this. He’d been cruising back from a long ride, his black leather jacket still speckled with road dust and grime, the heavy armored pants hugging his muscular thighs. The selfie he’d snapped in the hallway mirror—helmet tucked under one arm, phone in the other—had been meant for his buddies, a quick flex in the gear he loved. Now that same jacket hung open, his white graphic tee pushed up, as thick leather cuffs locked his wrists high above his head to a cold metal frame in the dimly lit basement.

He’d been grabbed in the parking garage—two masked figures, efficient and silent. A rag over his face, a sting in his neck, and everything went black. When he woke, he was stripped of his boots and gloves, his leather pants yanked down just enough to expose his groin, but the rest of the riding gear left on like some twisted trophy. His heart hammered against the armored chest plate of the jacket.

“Wakey wakey, road dog,” a calm voice said from the shadows. A figure in medical scrubs and blue gloves stepped into the light, holding a long, thin catheter tube attached to a drainage bag. “You’re not going anywhere. And after tonight, you won’t even piss without permission.”

The rider thrashed, cursing, but the restraints held firm. Strong hands gripped his hips, tilting him forward slightly. One gloved hand cupped his heavy balls, rolling them gently at first, then more firmly, while the other steadied his thick, flaccid cock. The cold, lubed tip of the catheter pressed against his slit.

“Relax… or don’t. It goes in either way.”

He felt the slow, relentless push. The tube slid past the initial resistance, stretching his urethra as it advanced deeper, inch by inch. A sharp, invasive burn bloomed inside him. The gloved fingers kept stroking the shaft lightly, keeping him semi-hard despite the discomfort, until the catheter seated fully in his bladder. A small balloon inflated inside with a faint click, locking it in place. Clear urine began to flow immediately into the bag—his body no longer under his control.

“Perfect,” the captor murmured, taping the tube securely to his thigh and zipping the leather pants back up just enough to trap everything in place. The bulge of the tubing was visible under the tight material. “No more voluntary pissing for you. That little bag is your new best friend. And if you ever get hard enough to cum… well, you’ll see.”

Hours blurred. The rider hung there in his dusty leathers, the catheter a constant, humiliating pressure. He tried to hold back, but eventually the need became too great and warm piss trickled helplessly down the tube. Shame burned hotter than the invasion itself.

Then the real torment began.

The captor returned with a syringe of clear fluid and a vibrating wand. “Time to test the new wiring.” He lubed the head of the rider’s cock around the catheter and began slow, expert strokes—firm, teasing, building him relentlessly. Despite the fear and the foreign object buried inside him, the rider’s body betrayed him. His cock swelled, straining around the tube, the pressure turning from uncomfortable to agonizingly intense.

He was edged for what felt like an eternity—brought right to the brink again and again—until finally the captor allowed release.

The orgasm hit like fire. Instead of pleasure, white-hot pain exploded through his cock and balls as his muscles clenched uselessly around the locked catheter. Cum tried to force its way out but could only dribble weakly around the tube in burning spurts, each pulse feeling like his urethra was being torn apart. He screamed into the gag they’d shoved between his teeth, body convulsing in the leather restraints, tears streaming down his face.

The captor smiled, gently patting the full drainage bag. “See? Pleasure is pain now. Every time you get close to blowing your load, it’ll feel like your dick is being ripped open from the inside. And you’ll stay like this… until I decide you’ve earned the privilege of begging to piss normally again.”

The rider sagged in his bonds, the leather jacket creaking, his once-proud riding gear now a prison. The catheter tube tugged with every shallow breath, a permanent reminder that his body no longer belonged to him. And somewhere in the haze of pain and helpless arousal, he knew the next forced orgasm would be even worse.

**Feel Free To Distribute With Credit**

Brandon, a 28 year old banker and self professed straight acting gym bunny, stepped into the restaurant and looked around for the gorgeous face he had seen on the dating app just a few hours earlier.  From across the room, he saw a square jawed 20-something wave.  He ventured over and introduced himself.  Jared, the guy he had met online about 4 hours before, was muscular, very muscular.  Brandon didn’t think he was a slouch but this guy was like a brick shithouse!  Brandon’s look must have gave him away and Jared explained.

What? You want the stats… 6’1”, 225, 45”, 34”, 8.5” cut.

Brandon laughed and apologized.

He sat down at the table and they each ordered a beer and an appetizer to share.  Dinner was going exceptionally well and Brandon discovered that not only was Jared a total jock and gym junkie but they shared some similar fetishes as well.  Towards the end of dinner, Brandon offered up a nightcap at his place just a few blocks away.  Jared agreed and jokingly warned him that he didn’t have a safe word. Brandon laughed and thought to himself, yeah, everyone says that…

The two boys walked out the door of the hole in the wall establishment and began walking towards Brandon’s apartment.  Free of the prying ears of the restaurants, Jared inquired.

So, what kind of kink are you into?

Brandon laughed a little.

If it’s kinky I’m pretty into it. There isn’t much I won’t do except brown and yellow.

Jared laughed loudly.

Yeah I don’t get that at all.  I’m very open minded, like I said, no safe words here.

Oh really? Brandon replied.

I’m no pussy, I’m all about getting my limits pushed.  Especially by a fucking stud like you.

We will see about that, Brandon said.

So you’re going to suck my dick tonight. Jared inquired with a laugh.

Brandon just laughed and looked slyly at the massive man in front of him.

As they walked into Brandon’s apartment, he offered Jared a beer and he quickly accepted.  Both boys were about 5 or 6 bottles in at this point and hormones were just starting to bubble over the top.

Jared sucked the beer down as Brandon walked out of the bathroom after breaking the seal.  Jared pulled his shirt off and unbuttoned his pants, dropping them to his ankles.  Brandon could see that Jared’s well chiseled thighs had a nice covering of dark hair and that his cock and balls were obviously well manicured.  Jared was wearing the tiniest of Jockey black briefs.  His dick was already starting to strain against the fabric.

Brandon stripped his shirt off and unbuttoned his cargo shorts.  Jared seized the opportunity and grabbed the shorts and thrust them down Brandon’s nice muscular legs.

I’m a little sweaty, I hope you don’t mind. Brandon said.

Mind, fuck no, that just makes you that much hotter.  Jared huffed.

Brandon threw Jared down on the bed behind him and began grinding his own still fabric encapsulated cock into Jared’s.  As the two boys thrust together, Jared began grunting and moaning.

You don’t get off that easy. Brandon whispered.

I’m all your’s. Said Jared.

Take your shorts off and lay down on the bed, I’ll be right back. Said Brandon with a smirk.

Jared did as told and Brandon grabbed a footlocker from under the nearby nightstand.  He grabbed a few items out of the footlocker and laid them out on the dresser.

Brandon walked back over to the bed and laid down on top of Jared who was now lightly thrusting into the navy bedsheets from sheer horniness.  Brandon grinded his cock deep into Jared’s ass crack as he put his hand over Jared’s mouth and wrenched his neck back.

So, no safe word huh? I find that hard to believe. Brandon uttered.

Push me, push me hard.  Whatever you want, I’m down. I’m just so fucking horny. Jared managed to get out through Brandon’s fingers still covering his mouth.

Well get your ass up and sit down over here in this chair. Brandon directed.

Jared got up from the bed and made his way to the arm chair near the bed.  Brandon planted his mouth on Jared’s once he had sat down and grasped his cock and balls in his hand and squeezed.

Well we are going to push your limits tonight for sure.

Brandon grabbed a roll of saran wrap from the dresser and wrapped Jared’s veiny arms to the arms of the chair.  He did the same thing with the jock’s legs, securing him to the chair fully.

You think this is going to hold me? Jared asked quizzically.

No. Brandon quickly retorted as he reached and grabbed the roll of black duct tape from the dresser.

Brandon began wrapping Jared’s arms to the chair arms tightly and repeating the actions with his legs.

That should hold you.  Brandon stated.

Jared strained against his restraints but made no headway.

So fucking hot, now what, suck my cock? Jerk me off? Jared asked.

Something like that.

Brandon poured some lube in his hand and began to work Jared’s extremely hard cock.  He rubbed the lube over Jared’s gigantic ballsack and licked the inside of the man jock’s legs.  He could smell the musk of the day’s sweat emanating from Jared’s junk.

Oh God, make me cum. Jared uttered.

Oh no, we are just getting started. Brandon stated matter of factly.

Oh yeah? Jared asked.

Brandon reached over to the dresser and grabbed a clear plastic bag and a large rubber band.  As he started to open the bag, Jared got a nervous look on his face.

Wh-what’s that for? Jared asked.

This is going to go on your head and this rubber band is going to hold it in place while I jerk your cock and suck on your balls.  The goal is to be able to concentrate on cumming enough that you can get off before you run out of air.  Brandon offered up.

I’ve never done anything like that but I’m game, let’s do it. It’s just a bag, I’ll bite through it before I suffocate. Jared said with a chuckle.

Bite through the bag and you won’t like the consequence. Brandon smirked.

Jared had a nervous look again as the bag slid down over his head and Brandon placed the rubber band around his neck.  Brandon could see the hot as fuck jock inside the bag looking around trying to understand his situation.  His hard cock still pointing upward was now gripped in Brandon’s head and Jared was making soft moans as he started to breathe his limited air.  The bag had a fair amount of air in it but Jared’s inexperience with breath play was causing him to use it up quite fast.  The sweat that was gathering on his face was pulling the plastic closer and nearly gluing the plastic to his face.

Brandon continued working Jared’s cock as Jared began shaking his head and asking to have the bag taken off.

OK, please take the bag off Brandon.  I can’t breathe. I mean I really can’t breathe. Jared managed to get out.

Nope, you need to cum if you want that bag off of your head. Otherwise it stays put. Brandon said with a bit of a menace.

Man, come on! Jared said while clenching his brow and shaking his head trying to get the plastic unfastened from his nose.

Realizing that Brandon was not going to comply, Jared immediately began trying to suck the bag into his mouth so he could bite a hole and get some air.

Don’t do it. Brandon said.

Jared ignored Brandon’s warning and began grinding his teeth on the bag until he felt the fresh air rush in as he sucked hard.

Brandon looking half amused and half annoyed, reached up and pulled the rubber band off from around Jared’s neck.  He then lifted the sweaty bag off of Jared’s head.  Jared heaving from his lack of oxygen and extremely worked up cock looked up at Brandon.

Please, please just let me cum.  I am so fucking hard! Jared exclaimed.

Oh, I plan on letting you cum but you didn’t listen to my warning. Brandon said slyly.

Anything just please let me cum. Jared said with a light bit of exhaustion in his voice.

Brandon went back over to the dresser and grabbed another plastic bag and the duct tape that he had used to secure Jared to the chair.

He turned around and Jared immediately saw what he had.

Again?  Wait, what’s the tape for? Jared quizzed.

Well here’s what’s going to happen.  I am going to take this tape and I’m going to wrap it around your head, taping your fucking mouth shut, so that you can’t chew through any more bags.  Then, I’m going to put a plastic bag on your head and I’m going to take the duct tape and tape it around your neck tightly.  You will have the air to breathe in the bag and that’s it.  I am going to continue to work on your cock some more and attempt to make you cum that big fucking load you are hiding.  The challenge is going to be whether you pass out from lack of oxygen or cum first. Got it?

I don’t know about that… I mean… what if… Jared looked concerned but before he could protest any further, Brandon was wrapping Jared’s lower jaw and mouth in saran wrap.

Please, please, just finish jerking me off, I’ve had enough… Jared said through a few layers of plastic.

I’m sorry bro, you said no safe word, so I’m gonna stick with that. Brandon returned as he began wrapping the black duct tape around Jared’s now plastic wrapped lower head.  When he was finished everything from Jared’s upper lip to neck line was covered in plastic and duct tape.  Jared couldn’t make a sound if he tried.

Jared had an extreme look of panic on his face but his cock was still hard, partially from hormones and partially from adrenaline.  Brandon grabbed the plastic bag and slid it over Jared’s head ceremoniously showing the tape to Jared before he sealed him in his predicament.  He wrapped the tape securely around the boy’s neck and ripped it off the roll with his teeth. Jared, now fully encased in plastic and tape had very little air and a fully hard cock.  This was going to be interesting.

Brandon put his lips down around Jared’s cock and began licking the tip, massaging the boy’s balls to work the cum up and out.  Up top, Jared was attempting to protest through his tape gag and bag but all that was heard was muffled sounds of either pleasure or pain, Brandon wasn’t sure which one.  Brandon gripped Jared’s cock firmly and began pumping the cock hard hoping to work the boy right to the edge.  The bag by this time was nearly depleted of air and was no clinging to Jared’s forehead and starting to cling to his nose.  Full on panic was setting in as he struggled against the tape on his arms and shook his head to attempt to get the plastic off of his nose.  The more he struggled the more sweat he built up and the more the plastic stuck to him.  Just as he felt hopeless and thought the end was near, he felt the cum building up in his sack and the orgasm building in his shaft.  He could surely hold on for a few more seconds and then Brandon would take the bag off.  As he began to cum and spurt his load into Brandon’s mouth, the sense of panic returned four fold and he wanted out of the bag BAD.

Brandon having done his duty and now with a fully engorged cock of his own stood up, watching the writhing sexy beast of a boy tied in the chair, bagged and taped.

I’m gonna cum on your chest and face now, so try not to pass out until I’m done ok… Brandon said, pumping his 8” cock.

Jared tried to make out a scream but nothing could escape his plastic head prison.  He could see flashes and lights in his vision and knew he was ready to pass out.

Brandon watched as the bag sucked tight to Jared’s face and he though what the hell, I might as well help him get to the finish.  Brandon took his hand and pressed it up over Jared’s taped mouth and nose and whispered.

I’m not taking it off, so just let go.  If you’re lucky, I’ll take it off after you pass out.

At that moment Jared’s head bobbed several times and the bag stopped moving.  Brandon sprayed his load all over the boy’s chest and reached up and ripped the bag open so his newfound toy didn’t die.  A moment later, Jared came around to find Brandon wiping his cum off of Jared’s chest and cutting the restraints from Jared’s arms and legs.  The bag and tape which had encased his face, now gone, revealing a sweaty red faced square jawed jock again.

Whoa, bro, that was fun.  Holy shit, where did you learn to do that? Jared asked.

Practice makes perfect but you were pretty fun, naïve and all.  No safe words right? Brandon smiled.

Yeah, no safe words… Jared said.

Why don’t you go jump in the shower and I’ll join you, I have a pair of cuffs in the bathroom and to be honest, I could use a blowjob now. Brandon said with a sly demeanor.

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.

Blogging

This is Bram. He woke up strapped down hard to my heavy oak table in the basement, wrists and ankles locked in thick leather cuffs bolted to the wood. His mouth was stretched wide around a fat ball gag, drool already spilling down his chin. Completely naked from the waist down, his thick cock and heavy balls hung exposed and vulnerable between his spread thighs—mine to play with however I wanted. The bright overhead lights glared down on his sweat-slicked skin. His eyes were wide with panic, darting around the room as the reality crashed over him.

He started making desperate, garbled noises through the gag—pleading, apologizing, the same bully who once laughed while shoving my head into a toilet now reduced to pathetic whimpers. It was getting on my nerves. I stepped closer, grabbed his balls in my fist, and squeezed hard, yanking them brutally downward, stretching the tender sac away from his body until the skin went taut and white. Bram’s scream exploded around the gag, raw and animalistic, his whole body bucking against the restraints. Before he could draw another breath, I cracked my open palm across his face with a sharp SMACK. The shock snapped his head to the side and cut the scream off instantly. His cheek bloomed red.

“Take it like a man, Bram,” I hissed, leaning in close enough for him to smell the satisfaction on me. “You’re not in charge anymore.”

You see, Bram and I go way back. He was the fucking king of my high school nightmare—four long years of pure hell. Daily insults that cut deep, surprise wedgies that left me humiliated in front of everyone, brutal shoves and punches in the hallways, being taped naked to the toilet while the whole team laughed, or slammed into my locker until I couldn’t breathe. He made my life a living torture chamber. But something twisted inside me during those years. Every time he hurt me, a dark heat grew. I discovered that pain turned me on—especially when I was the one dealing it out.

It took years of planning, saving, and waiting for the perfect moment. But I finally got him. As he stumbled out of the local bar last night, drunk and cocky as ever, four hired professionals I paid very well jumped him. Despite still being bigger and stronger, Bram didn’t stand a chance against four hired thugs. They zip-tied him, hooded him, and delivered him straight to my door like the package he now was. I watched from the shadows as they finished securing him to the table—legs forced wide, upper body pinned flat, every inch of him helpless.

The moment the hood came off and he saw my face, his eyes filled with rage. He started thrashing and shouting muffled threats: how he was going to kill me the second he got free. I just smiled, stroking his exposed balls lightly with my fingertips, feeling them twitch.

“What makes you think you’re ever getting out of this, Bram?” I asked calmly. “You’re my slave now. Forever. Let me explain exactly what’s going to happen to you.”

This is his turn to suffer—just like he made me suffer. But I’ve added a delicious twist.

I run a small, private blog. Only about a thousand followers right now, but the community is loyal… and delightfully sadistic. The game is brutally simple: every single like, reblog, comment, or share on this post—and especially on the photos and videos I’ll be uploading of Bram’s torment—earns him immediate punishment on those fat, sensitive balls. Hard slaps. Kicks. Vicious squeezes. Alligator clips biting deep. Scalding hot wax dripped slowly onto the skin. Ice, then heat, then more pain. Needles. Weights. Electrodes. Nothing is off limits. I know many of you will reblog him multiple times just to watch him break. I’m also crowdsourcing new ideas—send your most creative, cruel suggestions in the comments. The more likes he racks up, the longer and harder he suffers.

Bram’s eyes were locked on the laptop screen I’d positioned right in front of his face, showing the blog post live. The counter was already ticking upward as early notifications rolled in. His muffled begging grew frantic, tears starting to form at the corners of his eyes. He shook his head desperately, as if that could stop the inevitable.

Too bad, slave. You don’t get a say. Your pain, your fear, your broken pride—that’s my entertainment now. And it’s only just beginning.

I picked up a thick wooden paddle from the table, letting him see it. The counter hit twenty likes. I grinned.

“Looks like the boys are already excited to see you cry.”

THWACK.

The paddle connected hard with his dangling balls. Bram’s body convulsed violently, a strangled howl ripping through the gag as his eyes rolled back. I gave him just enough time to suck in a ragged breath before the next wave of notifications came in.

This is going to be a long night, Bram.

And an even longer life.

The Dare real

Jax and Ryder had been best friends since elementary school—now two cocky, athletic twenty-one-year-olds who pushed each other harder than anyone else. Jax was the taller one, broad-shouldered with a thick dark mustache that he’d started rocking after High school. Ryder had wavy brown hair, a trimmed beard, and the kind of easy grin that made people underestimate how competitive he really was. They were at the gym again that humid July afternoon, sweat pouring off them as they finished a brutal chest session.

“Yo, you hear about that guy they call the Lockmaster?” Ryder said, wiping his face with his tank top. “Supposedly some twisted fuck who takes dudes off the street and breaks them into total slaves in like twelve hours. Mind, body, the works.”

Jax barked a laugh, racking the bar. “Bullshit. Nobody’s breaking me in twelve hours. I’d wreck that dude.”

“Same,” Ryder grinned. “Guy couldn’t touch us.”

They both laughed… until the dare slipped out.

Neither of them could resist a dare. It was their thing.

“I dare you to go find him,” Jax said, eyes gleaming.

Ryder shot back instantly, “I dare you.”

Jax’s stomach tightened, but he played it cool. “Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll find him. Then when you lose the coin toss it will be three months of you being my slave for the rest of the summer if he actually pulls it off. But he won’t.”

They found the guy through a shady contact they had that weekend. The Lockmaster lived in an old warehouse on the edge of town. When they showed up, the man who answered the door was bigger than both of them—calm, muscular, shaved head, intense eyes. He listened to their stupid bet without blinking.

“Interesting,” he said. “One of you stays. The other leaves. If I break him, he belongs to the other for the summer. Full ownership. No limits.”

They agreed.

“How doe wee decide who stays” Ryder asked.

The man pulled out a coin and had then stand facing each other.

He yelled call it pointing to Jax.

“Heads” Jax yelled instinctively

The man flipped the coin and showed it to the tow men..Tails.

Jax was chosen.

Ryder clapped him on the back, trying to hide his excitement. “See you in twelve hours, slave boy. Don’t let him break you too bad.”

The Lockmaster shut the heavy door behind Ryder. Then he turned to Jax with a small, knowing smile.

“Strip.”

The breaking began immediately.

Jax was cuffed, hooded, and dragged into a soundproofed room lined with every kind of restraint imaginable. The Lockmaster didn’t waste time on conversation. Within the first hour Jax was strapped to a bondage bench, muscles straining, while the man methodically shaved his head completely smooth with a straight razor, then his face until only the thick mustache remained—it felt like a mark of ownership.

“You thought you were unbreakable,” the Lockmaster murmured as he locked a heavy steel collar around Jax’s neck. “By morning you’ll be begging to serve your friend like a good dog.”

The next hours blurred into a relentless cycle of sensory overload and mind games. Jax was edged for hours in tight rubber bondage, a thick gag stretching his jaw while electro pads tortured his cock and balls. Every time he got close, the stimulation stopped. The Lockmaster played “life-ending” fear games—tight vacuum bags, breath control hoods, near-blackout suspension—bringing Jax right to the edge of panic before pulling him back and forcing him to thank his new Master.

Hypnotic audio looped in his ears while he was plugged and fucked with progressively larger toys. By hour ten, Jax was broken and sobbing into the gag, repeating mantras the Lockmaster fed him: I am a slave. My body belongs to Ryder. My holes exist for use.

The final hours were pure psychological demolition. Jax was sealed inside a heavy rubber sleep-sack, completely immobilized, while the Lockmaster whispered future plans—how Ryder would use him, fuck him, own him. When the twelve hours ended, Jax was a shivering, dripping, mind-fucked mess. His head was freshly shaved smooth, his body marked with rope burns and ligature marks, and his eyes had that distant, obedient glaze.

Ryder’s Drive Home

Ryder drove home in silence, heart pounding. At first, he told himself it would just be funny—making Jax do all the housework, cook, clean, maybe some embarrassing chores in nothing but an apron. But the more he thought about it, the darker his mind went.

True Domination.

By the time he pulled into their shared apartment his mind was racing with ideas. Ryder unscrewed Jax’s bed frame from the floor. He dragged the mattress out and bolted the metal frame directly to the wall like a permanent bondage rack—chains and attachment points ready. He’d ordered rush-delivery bondage gear online while waiting: heavy leather cuffs, a thick rubber hood, chastity cages, a fucking machine, and several bottles of lube. The packages were shipped, same day delivery.

Ryder was straight. He’d never wanted a guy before. But the thought of his best friend—now his slave—on his knees, head bobbing on his cock, throat bulging… it made him rock hard. He kept imagining pissing down Jax’s throat while the broken man looked up at him with total submission.

Twelve hours later the doorbell rang. Ryder opened the door. The Lockmaster dropped Jax off exactly on time. Lockmaster gave some instructions to keep Jax compliant and left. The once-cocky jock was naked except for the steel collar, a locked chastity cage, and a thick rubber plug stretching his ass. His head gleamed under the apartment lights, freshly shaved. His eyes were downcast, cheeks flushed with shame and lingering arousal.

“Welcome home, slave,” Ryder said, voice low and thick with new authority. He clipped the leash to the collar and gave it a firm tug, pulling Jax inside. “On your knees.”

Jax dropped instantly, the fight completely gone. The twelve-hour breaking had worked.

“Do you know who owns you boy?”

Jax looked up at his best mate. The training and torture slamming into him. “You do, Master Ryder, Sir.”

Ryder’s hand rested on his best friend’s smooth head. “Good slaveboy. Housework can wait.. I have other plans. First… you’re going to show me how well that mouth works. Then I’m going to fuck you on that wall rack I built. And when I’m done, you’re going to drink every drop of piss I give you.”

Jax’s voice was hoarse but obedient. “Yes, Sir.”

The Final Surrender

His name had been Marcus. Once. A long time ago.

He’d had a decent job in the city, a small circle of friends who dragged him out for beers on weekends, and a quiet apartment where he could pretend he was in control of his own life. But the ache had always been there—the deep, gnawing need to disappear. To hand over every last shred of autonomy to someone stronger. Someone who would never give it back.

He had begged for this.

Now he knelt on the cool gray carpet, sealed head to toe in glistening black latex so tight it felt like a second, merciless skin. The heavy rubber hood molded to his face, turning the world into muffled darkness pierced only by the faint light filtering through the built-in lenses. A thick collar circled his neck, chained to the heavy leather harness that criss-crossed his chest and locked behind his back. His wrists were cuffed tightly together in front of him, connected by a short length of chain that kept his gloved hands uselessly close to his knees. He couldn’t straighten up. He couldn’t spread his legs. He could barely breathe without feeling the latex stretch and cling.

Between his thighs, the steel chastity cage was a constant, cruel reminder. Cold. Unyielding. Utterly inescapable. The tube that ran from it to the catheter inside him ensured he had no control even over that. His cock hadn’t been free in months. He hadn’t cum in longer than he could remember. The frustration never left him—it just burned hotter, deeper, twisting into something he both hated and craved.

You used to have a name. You used to have a job. You had a circle of friends. You gave up all of it for this.

The words echoed in his mind, the same ones his Owner liked to repeat while circling him, crop in hand. Marcus felt them like physical blows. Every time they surfaced, a wave of panic crashed through him—What the fuck did I do? This is forever. I can’t go back. His heart hammered against the tight latex. His breath came in short, desperate gasps inside the hood. The chains rattled softly as his bound body trembled.

He still struggled. Every single day.

He missed the sun on his skin. He missed choosing what he ate, when he slept, even when he spoke. He hadn’t heard his own voice in weeks—Owner kept him gagged or hooded most of the time. The few moments he was allowed to speak were only to beg, to thank, or to affirm his place. “I am nothing but your locked slave, Sir.”

But beneath the panic, beneath the aching loss of everything he once was, there was something else. A bone-deep, shameful relief.

This was what he had always wanted. No control. No voice. No way to touch himself. Locked in bondage for days, sometimes weeks at a time. Fed, watered, cleaned, and used only when Owner decided. His entire existence reduced to one purpose: to obey, to serve, and to please.

24/7/365.

He felt the heavy chastity device tug as his trapped cock tried—and failed—to harden inside its prison. The latex creaked with every tiny shift of his body. The chains between his ankles and wrists kept him folded, helpless, perfectly displayed. He knew he looked obscene like this: a shiny black rubber object, muscles straining, head bowed in permanent submission.

Owner’s voice drifted from somewhere behind him, calm and satisfied.

“You’re doing so well today, boy. Still fighting it in that head of yours, but your body knows exactly what it is now.”

Marcus felt fresh tears sting his eyes inside the hood. He wanted to scream. He wanted to beg for mercy. Instead, he slowly lowered his hooded head until the smooth rubber rested against the carpet in total supplication.

He had given up his freedom.

And even as part of him still mourned the man he used to be, the deeper, truer part of him—the part that had begged for this life—knew he would never choose to go back.

This was home now.

Sealed. Locked. Owned.

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.