Hereâs your place faggot. Weâll come and take you out when we need you for something. Otherwise you stay in here. Always.
It was way out in the fields, away from the house, away from the roads, you could scream as loud as you could, no one would hear you. Heâd built it not long after he took over the house, and turning you and your wife into his slaves. You had been playing in the kink scene for a long time, but had never met someone like him before. Probably because he was locked up in prison for over twenty years. But your wife adored him, his height, his hair still thick and dark even at age 50, his muscular physique, good looks, and easygoing, gregarious personality. She was the one who demanded that you hire him on the farm, and let him live in the guesthouse.
Even after his dark side became apparent, and things began to change for the worst, and you began to fear his violent rages, she still worshiped him. Literally worshiped him. You were shocked to see her licking his filthy workboots, caked with mud and filth from the fields and barn. Then taking off the boots and smelling and licking his disgusting boot socks, that you could smell from across the room. You were horrified. He saw that, and the next night, you were the one who was forced to lick his filthy boots and socked feet. He held a gun to your head to make you do it, and when that didnât work, he held the gun to her head. You swore you would never do it again, but itâs been a daily requirement for years now. It ruined your tongue, itâs raw and scarred now, and you have almost no taste sensation left in it.
The punishments began to ramp up, the beatings became more brutal. There was almost always blood spilled now. You didnât know how much longer you were going to be able to hang on to life. He didnât care, he wanted you dead anyway, and he wanted to be the one to end you. Thatâs when he built it. Heâd made you dig the hole for it, you were afraid you were digging your own grave, but that would have been better almost. At least you wouldnât have been able to feel the pain and isolation and terror of this torture.
It wasnât a punishment for anything, heâd just decide out of the blue to put you into it, and sometimes it was only for minutes. Mostly it was hours, and a few times days. It was random, and the uncertainty of it was torture in itself.
Sometimes heâd just knock you into it, half assing all the locks and restraints. Other times, it was almost ceremonial how he would position you and ensure everything was tight before closing the lid. This was one of those times, and heâd brought your wife along to witness your entombment. After all the body clamps were in place and you could not move, he jumped down on you a few times, landing with both boots on your chest and stomach, laughing at how your reflexes to double up were foiled by the clamps and locks. The head restraints were multiple, he didnât always use all of them, but he did this time, which was a bad sign that it might be a longer stay.
First was the helmet frame with the pointed little cones that plugged into your ears that kept you from turning your head. Before locking on the eyeblocks and the nose cage and the steel gag, he pulled off his boots. The stink of his three days worn black boot socks was overpowering, even outdoors. He stepped on your face, then brought up his other foot to stand on your face with both feet. Then he made her suck him off while he crushed your face under his full bodyweight. You and your wife were both totally silent throughout this, you had learned years ago that begging and pleading only made things worse, far, FAR worse. He did all the talking, taunting and mocking you.
You skull felt like it was going to collapse, the sharp edges of the helmet from were cutting into you as your head and the frame compressed under his feet. You felt his body shiver as he climaxed, then was relieved as he finally stepped off you. âFeed himâ you heard time tell your wife, and you opened you mouth as you know what this meant. She spit his semen into your mouth, there was a large volume of it, and you held it in your mouth, knowing not to swallow until he ordered you to. But he never gave the order, and you still had it in your mouth as he forced the steel gag in your mouth and locked the clamps in place. As a last âfuck youâ he peeled off one of his boot socks and stuffed it into the nose cage, before clamping it in place. This made it very hard to inhale air, and clean air was no longer an option. His socks stunk like heâd walked through ammonia and gasoline in them, but you knew it was just his regular foot odor. Then the lid came down, and you heard them leaving, and heard his last insults.
The worst part was the dark. And the bugs. You felt them crawling on you, but at least the ear spikes, eyeblocks, gag and nose cage kept them out of your orifices. It was worse when he didnât use those. He would come back every so often, as he usually did, to take a leak in the vent hole. It went all over your face, soaking into the sock and making it that much harder to inhale, and leaking in around the edges of the gag, mercifully moistening it and the thick glue of his semen still in your mouth.
You heard his boot stomping the wood inches from your face, âYo! Shithead!! You still alive in there?â This was the only time it was permissible to make a sound, so you managed a faint cry of distress. He laughed, âFuck yeah!! Suffer you little freak, Iâm about to go beat the fuck out of your wife and then tear that pussy up!!â
You tried not to cry, but tears still leaked out from under the eyeblocks. That was bad, it attracted the bugs.
I picture his socks looking something like this:
