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Servus :)

Mal wieder Zeit in Gear das We zu verbringen. Aktuell 3 Lagen Schwerern Ölzeugs.

Me on my Weekend Relaxing in 3 Layers of Heavy Rainwear Gear on my Couch and Balcony ;)

First Layer inside out for some sweating then my Helly Hansen and on Top my Pros Extreme :)

There is just something special about rubber.

It’s not just the texture or the feel, it’s not just how it tightly embraces my whole body. There’s more.

When I put it on it’s almost like I’m more naked than when I’m not wearing anything. When I’m wrapped on it a part of me comes out that could never show itself in any other way.

When I put my rubber suit on is like I can be truly me, another me, a version of me that only a few will ever get to know. A deeper, truer me.

A real me.

The rest of my life is good, but it can’t compare to the red-hot simplicity of putting on my rubber suit and letting my thoughts fade and my purest animal instincts rule me. That is the gift and the power of rubber and that’s why I keep coming back to it.

It’s not the texture, it’s not the smell, it’s not even the feeling on my skin. It’s that in those moments when I’m encased in it, bound and gagged, when the world would look at me and see a prisoner… that’s when I’m truly free.

To invite you to look at it, to watch it. To see it absorb the light of the room. To watch the specular highlights dancing across its skin, its hood, its restraints, its pole.

Its second duty will be to connect with you.

To invite you to touch it, to feel it. To feel the slickness of its encasement. To sense the tightness of the rubber that is its second skin. To run your fingers over the straps that encompass its limbs. To squeeze its rock hard pole, feeling just how aroused it is in its engagement with you.

Its third duty will be to engage you.

To get you to run your tongue over its hood, across its chest, and with a little encouragement (it won’t take much encouragement) to get you down on your knees. It will tease you, entice you, and you WILL need to taste that pole, feel how alien its smoothness feels in your mouth, in your throat.

Its fourth duty will be to prime you.

It will start vocalizing its mantras, its rules, its controls, its programming. Loud enough to be heard, but quiet enough that you can’t understand it. And you will strain to listen, to hear, as you continue to suck on it, hands grasping at its thighs, its butt, its chest. You’ll make out a word ‘RUBBER’ or two ‘OBEDIENCE’… but you will need to hear more.

Its fifth duty will be to restrain you.

It gently and slowly pushes you off its pole, and with one finger guides your chin, your head, your body back to a standing position — it still mumbling its words, slightly more loudly now. It will place its hand on your chest and gently, slowly, forcefully guide you back, back, back one more step, where you feel the wall suddenly, softly, smoothly embrace you. It lifts your right wrist up and presses it back against the wall where it is held immobile. Your left wrist soon follows. You wonder briefly how they are being held in place, but the thought flits away as you hear ‘CONTROL’, ‘PLEASURE’, ‘OBEDIENCE’, ‘SERVICE’.

Its sixth duty will be to open you.

It leans in, and uses its gloved hands to open your mouth, your tongue seeking out the rubber, needing to taste it. It leans further in, bringing the port, the orifice, the filter over its mouth in contact with yours. It breathes out slowly, strongly, deeply, as you breathe in slowly, strongly, deeply. And time stops. And you stop. And it stops. And everything stops. And you are everything, and nothing, for a brief moment in time.

Its seventh duty will be to enclose you.

It pulls its head back, and steps back, and lift up into the space between you, a hood, just like its. Black, glossy, absorbing, reflecting. It shows you the front of the hood, the eye shield, the ports. It shows you the top and sides, the straps, the buckles. It shows you the back, the smooth, thick rubber, the zipper, the thick collar, open, unlatched. It opens the back of the hood. It shows you the smooth, smooth interior. It shows you the thick padded rubber gasket which will encase your nose, your mouth. It shows you the thick rubber tubes which will invade your nose, your sinuses. It shows you the thick, long, rubber cock protruding from the gasket.

You lick your lips. You open your mouth. You know you need to be enclosed. You know you NEED to be hooded.

Closer. Closer. Your tongue reaches, stretches, touches, tastes, invites. Your lips wraps themselves around it just as they had for the other pole just moments before. They embrace, envelope, invite it in deeper, deeper, deeper still. The tubes enter your nostrils, not far but fully. The gasket presses against your face. You close your eyes. You feel the rubber envelop more, more, more of you head, the zipper slowly sliding back, and down, down, down, each centimeter tightening the hood’s grip, pressing the gasket more snugly, wrapping the cups over your ears more fully. You feel the tug as the collar is fastened. Closed.

Enclosed.

Your eyes open. You see IT step back. You hear IT muttering, mumbling, vocalizing. You see IT step back again. It watches you watching it.

Its eighth duty already accomplished…to deliver you to its controller…it turns and walks toward the door at the far corner of the room where it presses a button on the wall. At once, the door opens, the lights in the room go out, leaving the light through the doorway backlighting it for you, then the visor blacks out.

The voices start in your ears. Clear now, deep, resonant, multiple…

“Axiom 1: OBEDIENCE IS PLEASURE, PLEASURE LEADS TO OBEDIENCE”

“Axiom 2: TO SERVE IS TO EXIST, TO EXIST IS TO SERVE”

…

As the voices drift into overlapping streams of worship delivered at different speeds, the visor lights up with two words…“WELCOME, PROTODRONE”.

It was just one measly punch, and he broke his bones, not the other way around. But Landon Allbright was expelled from Princeton, all because of a disagreement with a bone-headed jock and Princeton’s zero-tolerance policy. And what was even worse was that Landon’s chances of ever getting into any university again were slim to none. That expulsion would haunt him for the rest of his life, and it wasn’t like he could go to a community college to get his degree. He needed the complex pieces of machinery Princeton and the other top tier colleges had. 

He could barely show his face back in his hometown in the Midwest. The town’s pride and joy was now a recluse. And because he didn’t have too many practical skills for his line of work, he couldn’t even get a job on his merits. He scoured the newspaper daily, for some kind of manual labor job that didn’t require him to be dirty and sweaty every day. His dad told him that finding a job like that out here was a fucking miracle, but it happened. Landon stumbled across a posting that fit exactly what he was looking for. 

“Experiment subjects needed on a farm setting. Will be injected with various FDA-approved substances to see effects on human males. Must be under 5’10” and 175 lbs. No manual labor required for job; some minimal housework may be required.” Landon called up the number and got a meeting scheduled for a few days later. He checked the address, not recognizing it. As he suspected, it was more than a few miles from town, nothing he couldn’t handle, but one of those types of farms. He would have to get used to having no neighbors for a few days or weeks, however long the experiment lasted. 

Landon arrived at the farm a half hour or so before he was supposed to. He entered the main building, and saw a few other men clustered in a small waiting room. Everyone looked pretty much like him: white, short, and skinny. Landon was the last to arrive, so the couple came out early. To everyone’s surprise, it was a gay couple, but it was clear they were Midwestern. Blond-haired husky men dressed only in overalls. 

“Thank y’all for responding to the job posting! If you will follow us, we’ll have you do a group interview to see if you’re the right fit,” said one of the men. Landon noticed a ring on their fingers as they were led to the dining room. There, the married couple questioned all six men “interviewing”, and ascertained which ones would be the perfect fit. It seemed as though Landon was the only one who wouldn’t be sorely missed if they were gone, and so he was the only one that moved on. 

“So, what are you putting in me?” he asked, once the couple escorted everyone else out. 

“Well, the FDA has sent us some substances they used to use in animals. It’s totally safe for humans to ingest; we’re just studying side effects.”

“And what’s the worst that could happen?”

“Well, there is always death, but there’s a miniscule chance of that. Honestly, it’s just coughs, sneezes, that type of thing.”

“Okay.” The two then showed Landon the big container of the substance. It was brown, and quite literally looked like shit. It was a bit of a struggle to get into his mouth, but once he did, Landon found that it was actually pretty sweet and totally delicious! The couple then showed Landon his room. He got settled in, and waited to see if any side effects showed up overnight. None did, and soon Landon got on a diet of having some of the substance with every meal, including snacks. It was almost addictive in a way, but he knew it was for science. 

One interesting side effect he noticed was that he was gaining muscle. He wasn’t totally sedentary, but his lifestyle was not conducive to this much muscle gaining. His shirts and pants began getting a bit too tight, and he had to awkwardly explain that to the couple. The weird thing was that, if any, he expected weight gain to be fat. But this was pure solid muscle he was gaining. 

Landon also noticed he was getting a weird mixture of both more dominant and more submissive. Sometimes, he got really angry, but other times, the couple almost had to force him to do something. That was pretty weird, and he explained that to the couple as a side effect. He hadn’t noticed any physical problems, except for this one. They brushed it off, and eventually Landon did too, seeing it as natural. He just never had a chance to express his dominant side before. 

A third side effect, one more difficult to quantify, was that Landon felt he was getting dumber. He originally had gone to Princeton for astrophysics, but looking at a textbook he brought with him now, it was all big and complicated words he could barely understand. As the days passed, he felt himself getting more and more dumb. Eventually, he couldn’t even brush his teeth without having one part of the couple there to guide him. And of course, the increasing dumbness meant that he forgot that this was a side effect of the substance. 

Landon eventually got to the point where he was so dumb, he could no longer speak English, or anything at all. The couple started to do some body modifications on Landon, who was literally powerless to resist. He had bulked up substantially since coming to the farm, but at this point and time, he could barely control his limbs. This included a very large nose ring and a device put above his balls to pull the scrotum done. He was even branded by the couple on the ass. He knew it hurt, but also saw that many of the other bulls had brands on their ass too. 

The couple was still feeding Landon the substance and turning him into a human bull. Leather accoutrements were given to him to highlight his look, and he even got collared. This was a heavy-duty collar, used for real cattle, and there was a long metal chain attached to it. Then came the interesting part of reteaching Landon how to have sex. By now, the substance had warped his brain so heavily, he actually truly believed he was a bull and not a human. 

When you got the notification that a package had arrived at your door, you were confused by the sleek black box sitting right outside your place. You didn’t remember ordering anything, and unlike most cardboard deliveries, this one had an expensive design. You carefully brought the strange package inside and opened it. Inside was a black-and-gold envelope resting atop a few expensive items. You knew it wasn’t something you would have ordered, but the address on the box was yours.

Picking up the envelope, you ripped open the flap and pulled out a black card with gold lettering. There was a scent to the note, almost as if it were lightly spritzed with some cologne or perfume. The note didn’t offer much explanation, either about what this box was for or why it was sent to you.

From Your Secret Admirer. A Self-Improvement Box.

On the back was a scribbled phone number, clearly handwritten by whoever sent the strange gift to you. You tried calling it a few times, but whoever was on the other end didn’t seem to bother picking up. Texting the number yielded no response either, and you were left stumped about what to do with the surprise gift sitting on your kitchen table. Before you could decide anything, you looked more closely at the items inside. There seemed to be a bottle of cologne, a dark liquid glimmering back at you inside the glass. There was also a sleek signet ring, although you weren’t exactly someone who really bothered dressing up or wearing jewelry. And finally, perhaps the most expensive of the three items: a smartwatch. It looked quite minimalistic in design, like one of those fitness watches you would see on a fitness influencer or athlete to track their physical progress. And while it was tempting, you still weren’t exactly convinced that this box was meant for you.

You sighed as you picked up the smartwatch, admiring its fancy design. The metal felt cool and smooth, and for a moment, you entertained the idea of having something like it. Even if you weren’t going to use the items from the strange gift box, it didn’t hurt to imagine what it would be like. Slipping the smartwatch over your wrist, you found yourself enjoying its weight. It might have been great in another life, but right now it didn’t fit your personal aesthetic.

As you moved to remove it, you were surprised to find the device properly latched to your wrist. You grunted as you tried to pull off the new piece of techwear, but it didn’t budge. The strap stayed tight; it wasn’t uncomfortable, but the watch wouldn’t move, no matter how hard you tried. Resigning yourself to the gift, you sighed and left it alone. Not wanting to deal with the weirdness, you closed the box and set it aside, hoping to forget about it. Whoever sent it clearly meant it for someone else, and it was best not to touch another item that wasn’t meant for you.

The rest of your day went by uneventfully. You had a few errands to run, but thankfully, you still had the whole weekend before work. As you went about your tasks, you couldn’t shake the strange feeling that you were more energized and invigorated. By the time you got home, you felt an extra bounce in your step, like you could run a mile or two. Glancing down at your new smartwatch, your eyes widened at the tracked steps. You certainly got a lot done today, and the light whiff of sweat from your pits told you as much. Once home, the change felt even harder to ignore.

Making your way to the shower, you found it a bit more difficult to pull off your clothes. Maybe it was the sweat making them stick to your skin, but you couldn’t help twisting and turning your shoulders as you tugged your shirt off. Leaving your clothes in a crumpled heap on the floor, you cast a quick glance at your naked body in the mirror. There were glimpses of definition there, and flexing your biceps showed off some nice peaks. You didn’t pay much attention to it, though, just posing as if it were natural. The last thought you had was that your gym workouts were really starting to show, even though you had forgotten it had been some time since you had even set foot in a gym.

It had been some of the most restful sleep you had ever had that night. The shower was soothing, and you practically dreamed of the slippery sensation of soap bubbles sliding down your back. When you blinked open your eyes, the first thing you noticed was that you seemed much lower than normal. Swinging your thick legs off the side, your large feet thumped along the floor. It seemed that your bed frame had broken again, but this was a common occurrence for you. You struggled to find something that could hold all of your muscular weight. For now, you would have to leave the indented mattress on the floor until you figured out something else. You sighed as you stood to your towering height, ducking your head under the doorframe out of habit. From there, you headed toward the bathroom.

Lumbering toward the bathroom, you raised your hands to scratch and rub at your meaty pecs. It was always a welcome sight to wake up and see such a delicious view each morning, with the valley between your pecs leading down to a chiseled set of abs. Of course, cutting and bulking routines were practically second nature at this point, as your physique was something you put your whole life and soul into. You positioned yourself in front of the mirror once more, your naked body on full display. Sleeping naked was really the only comfortable way for you to get good rest now. Clothes always felt restrictive, particularly when they did very little to conceal your hefty, sizeable bulge. A stray hand slid down to fondle your swaying cock as you admired your physique. It had become a bit of a morning routine, with your admiration for the hard work you put into your body.

A soft beep from your smartwatch reminded you of the brunch you were getting later with some friends. Grateful for such a convenient device, you rarely took the watch off. It felt like second nature to have it on you. As you washed up and prepared for the day, you reached over to grab some cologne to spray on. Your hands found an unfamiliar bottle, practically unopened, with the amount of black liquid still inside. Before you even had a chance to register what was happening, you applied a few quick spritzes to your chest and neck. The smell was rich, dark, and musky, like bergamot mixed with leather. Your eyes widened as your brain began to register the bottle in your hand. It came from that strange box you found yesterday, though you didn’t remember taking it out and setting it in your bathroom.

Your brows furrowed at the strange mystery, but the beeping alarm from your smartwatch quickly interrupted you. You didn’t have time to think about that now; you’d have to deal with it when you got back home. Hurrying out of the bathroom, you turned to the side to let your boulder-sized shoulders and wide back through without bumping the frame. Throwing together a quick, easy streetwear outfit, you took a moment to admire how the clothes clung to your skin. The shirt was almost a crop top, so small, and you could practically see the seams starting to rip. One simple bicep flex and it would burst into a flutter of tattered fabric. Ignoring your intrusive thoughts, you hurried out the door, leaving behind a deliciously thick scent.

Meeting up with your friends was always enjoyable, and you were glad that everyone had enough free time to grab a meal together and catch up. Today seemed a bit off, though, as more than one person kept complimenting the way you took care of your facial hair or how nice a tan you had. You weren’t really sure why they were so hung up about that. Your skin was a rich caramel tone, covered with a healthy dusting of coarse, dark hair. When you first met your friends, you had told them about your summers in Pakistan visiting family. The facial and body hair was an absolute must for you; there was no way you were ever shaving it off, especially when it was part of your manly, masculine appeal. While people kept pointing out the obvious, you noticed how one of your friends seemed particularly infatuated with your scent. He made small comments about how nice your watch looked or how the new cologne really suited you. His attention made the whole outing feel more charged.

He hadn’t been someone you had noticed before, really, but even you couldn’t deny the way his eyes lingered on the dark hair peeking out from under your shirt sleeve, leaving very little to the imagination with the growing sweat stain under your pits. The summer sun wasn’t exactly kind to your darker complexion as you all sat outside, and you could feel the top of your head grow warm under the rays. But a quick wipe on your forehead with the back of your hand, and you were back to catching up with your friends about what they had been up to. By then, the moment had settled into the afternoon.

Brunch ended rather uneventfully, with a few promises to meet up again soon. Your smaller friend seemed to linger back to give you a hug goodbye, and you couldn’t help but notice how his head seemed to slip up between your pecs comfortably, like a missing puzzle piece finding where it belonged. You offered him a strong, hearty squeeze, making sure to press his slim frame up against all your heat. The other man squeaked in surprise at the feeling of your flexed muscles pressed up against his backside, and he scurried away just as frantically as he appeared. Shaking your head in amusement, you scratched at your hairy chest as you made your way back home. It was finally time to just kick back and relax.

With nothing else planned for the day, you began peeling off the sweaty clothes and tossed them to the side for you to deal with later. Flopping down on the couch naked, you could still catch a whiff of the dark cologne you sprayed on this morning. Mixed in with your natural musk, the scent was actually quite overwhelming. The spiced scents flooded through your nostrils, and your eyes rolled back at the rather intense smell that rattled your brain. Dazed in the moment, your head lolled to the side to stare out at your coffee table.

There, perched upon the glass, was that simple black box. Before, you didn’t want a single thing to do with it. You hadn’t even had time to look into who it might actually belong to. But now, there seemed to be this strange pull that enticed you closer. It was like your body was moving on autopilot, with you, a passenger, watching a movie. As you pulled back the box lid, you saw the note with the phone number lying inside next to a signet ring. Pulling out both objects, you felt a sensation in your chest that made you focus more on the ring.

It was a simple, golden band with a nicely designed crest on top. It certainly looked expensive, which fit your style perfectly. Without much thought for anything else, you slipped it onto your pinky. The new piece of jewelry made things begin to click into place, like a fog of confusion lifting from your mind. In that moment, you knew that this was who you were meant to be. A beefed-up, hairy, hunk of a man that was in control of everything in his life. All the decisions, the guidance, the permission granting… it lingered in the back of your throat like a cough. Dominance never felt like a personality trait or a role you had to fill. It was just who you were as a person, and people loved you for it.

Twiddling the note between your fingers, you flipped the piece of paper over to read the hand-scribbled number on the back. In that moment, you remember why that number seemed so familiar to you. A small, knowing smirk formed on your lips as you grabbed your phone off the coffee table. It seemed there was a rather naughty, needy boy who needed to understand what his role was in your new dynamic. He would have to become reacquainted with the new you, given that he did so all on his own, without your permission. You turned on your phone camera, taking a picture of your naked body. Making sure to include your heavy set of balls, hairy chest, and half-chubbed cock, you texted over the photo to the person who sent over the box. It was ridiculous that he even thought you needed self-improvement. You were perfect the way you were, like a god who decided to walk amongst the mere mortals.

get over here, boy. it seems you’ve done something without my permission again. you’ll have to earn my forgiveness.

The reply came back fired back just as quickly, a simple “Yes, Sir,” giving you all the confirmation you needed. It made no difference. If he didn’t come, it was his loss. And if he did, you would show him the fruits of his labors. Until then, you reclined on the couch and made yourself comfortable. It was going to be a long and eventful rest of the day.

Well I can tell that a man like yourself prides himself in his appearance, that’s one of the reasons your so judgemental of others. Especially those you consider below you. When you sent your ask I’m sure the expectation would be for me to take those construction workers across the street and give them a taste of the white collar life. Fast paced and relying on your brains to secure the next sale, working your way up the chain and reaching your next promotion. Sure it sounds stressful, but you have such a negative attitude, so rude when it comes to how you perceive others. I think it’s you who needs a taste of a truly hard day’s work...

So here you are, a driven American trying to make it in the big city of London. You walked into the office in the early hours of the morning, hoping your boss can see your enthusiasm and might consider giving you that promotion. Smart, clean, professional and handsome. Of course when I’m done with your wish you’ll at least stay one of those things. The whole day you could see the construction work from your office window. How dumb those chavy labourers looked just carrying and lifting, you always thought manual labour was for those not smart enough to do anything with their lives. Well now your going to find out just how that is! You were having a cigarette on your break when all of a sudden you felt a pressure on your head. You reached up to touch it and it was hard and plastic. You were dumbfounded! Then you could feel something rough on your hands and looked down. Old workman gloves adorned your usually smooth pampered hands. That’s when you noticed the rest of your clothes had changed. You had black tradesman trousers covered in dirt and cement, muddy steel toed work boots that were hot on your feet and a bright orange shirt which was filthy and sweat stains darkened the armpits and back from a long day of hard work. You were shocked!

You took out your phone to look at how drastically you’d changed. Apart from your clothes you still looked the similar. Yet your face had more of an attitude and your brow pushed forward ever so slightly, enough to give you a bit of a brute look. You were dressed just like one of those construction workers you dispised so much. You looked around and you were no longer outside your office. You were across the street on the construction site. Loud noises of heavy machinery and shouting abused your ears. That’s when a man came over to you and gave you a hearty snack on the back. “Oi mate! Back to work. You can always smoke on the job you twat.” As if you’d been working the site your whole life, you instantly got up and got to work. You’d never worked manual labour a day in your life but your body took to it with ease. It was difficult and tiring but you got on with it. Sawing, welding, lifting, drilling. You were a natural. Knowledge of stocks and accounting seeped out of your mind and were replaced with working on the site and watching soccer (now football) with a pint in your hand. Before you knew it you’d lost your masters degree in business and accounting now having failed your GCSE’s and taking up whatever work you could find. This was wrong! You were supposed to be an intelligent American, not some dumb chavy workie. That’s when your boss came back up to you asking how it was going and you responded, “ahh bruv it’s class, cheers for getting me this gig!” That’s when you realise you not only looked like a dumb chav, but sounded like one too. Gone was your American accent, now you had the vocabulary of a purebred chav.

After long hours of hauling heavy materials across the site, you were finally finished. You tried to walk home and put this weird day behind you but you couldn’t. You ended up on a working class council estate where you shared a small flat with two other workers from the site. Your room was small and had cheap furniture. The whole flat smelt of cigarettes and cheap lager. You looked through you closet and could only find tracksuits and uniform for working on the site, which was also filthy and caked in dirt and grime. You looked in the mirror and saw your once perfectly styled hair was choppy and messy. Your face was covered in bits of plaster and dust. And your beard looked more scruffy and unkept. Whatever was left of your clean cut look was long gone.

The room spun slowly as the sedative began to wear off. Alex’s eyelids fluttered, heavy as lead. His body felt wrong—trapped, compressed, already sweating inside something slick and impossibly tight.

What the fuck…?

His last clear memory was choking down that protein shake in Joe’s car after their late lift. Joe had been grinning like an idiot, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good work today, bro.” Then nothing. Blackness.

Now he was on the floor, naked at first, but not for long.

Joe’s hands were everywhere—clinical, eager, almost reverent. Alex tried to push him away, but his arms were already sliding into the suit. Thick, heavy black rubber swallowed his legs first, inch by inch, squeezing his powerful quads and calves like a vice. The material was warm, glossy, and unforgiving.

This isn’t happening. This is some fucked-up dream. Get the fuck off me, Joe—

But his limbs wouldn’t obey. The sedative still fogged his brain, turning his struggles into weak twitches. Joe worked the rubber up over his hips, locking his cock into a tight, cruel chastity sheath built into the suit. Alex’s eyes widened in panic as the cool metal ring clicked around the base of his balls.

“Joe… what the hell are you—mmph!”

The torso came next. The suit hugged his abs, his chest, his broad back—every muscle he’d spent years building now compressed and reshaped into something lower, more animal. His arms were forced into the sleeves, hands disappearing into thick, padded mitts that rendered his fingers useless. No gripping. No punching. Just soft, helpless paws.

This can’t be real. He’s lost his fucking mind. I’ll kill him when I get out—

Then came the hood.

Joe lifted the heavy black rubber over Alex’s head. The inside smelled like new latex and fear. As it descended, Alex caught one last glimpse of Joe’s face—smiling, hungry, triumphant.

The gag hit first.

A thick, bulbous rubber plug forced its way between his teeth, filling his mouth completely, molding itself to his tongue and the roof of his mouth. It pressed down hard, triggering his gag reflex. A smaller tube ran from the center of the gag, snaking through the hood and emerging at a he back of his tongue like a built-in drinking tube. Alex tried to scream, but it came out as a wet, muffled grunt.

No—no no NO! Get this shit out of my mouth! I can’t—fuck, I can’t breathe right—

Joe yanked the heavy zipper down the back of the hood with a long, final zzzzip. The world went darker, tighter. Only narrow slits remained for his eyes. The rubber sealed around his neck like a second skin, cutting off the last of the cool air. Alex’s heart hammered against the inside of the suit.

Then came the glue.

He heard the wet sound of the brush, felt the cold, chemical sting as Joe carefully painted every seam—neck, shoulders, back zipper, wrists, ankles. The industrial rubber cement bonded instantly, fusing the suit into one single, inescapable prison. Alex thrashed, or tried to. The padded knees and elbows kept him locked in a quadrupedal stance, back arched, ass slightly raised.

He’s sealing me in… permanently? This isn’t a game. He’s actually doing this. My life—my gym, my job, my fucking future—gone. All because this psycho wants a rubber dog?

Click. Click. Click.

Heavy steel padlocks snapped shut—one at the collar, two on the back zipper, more on the mitts, one on the tail plug now buried deep inside him. Each lock sent a jolt of finality through Alex’s body.

Locked. Glued. Gagged. I’m never getting out. I’m… I’m his fucking dog now.

Joe stepped back for a moment, admiring. Alex could see himself reflected dimly in the window glass across the room: a glossy black rubber creature on all fours, hooded head lowered, tube dangling from the muzzle like a leash for something far more humiliating.

Then Joe crouched down, lifted the dangling tube, and unzipped his jeans.

Alex’s eyes went wide with horror behind the slits.

No. Don’t you fucking dare—

Warm piss flooded the tube, rushing straight into the gag and flooding his mouth. Salty, bitter, endless. He choked, swallowed reflexively, tears stinging his eyes as the humiliation burned through him. The rubber dog suit creaked with every desperate twitch of his body.

Joe let out a low, satisfied groan as he finished, shaking the last drops into the tube before patting the smooth, featureless hood.

“Good boy,” he whispered. “That’s your new protein from now on.”

Alex’s mind reeled, trapped between rage, terror, and the growing, horrifying realization that his strong, proud body was now nothing but a shiny black rubber pup—sealed, locked, and owned.

This is forever… I’m his rubber dog.

A broken, piss-soaked whimper escaped around the gag as Joe clipped the leash to his collar and gave it a gentle tug.

Rival team bitch

Carter had just finished a brutal away game against their hated rivals, the Philadelphia Eagles. Still in his full Giants uniform—pads, jersey, tight white game pants, and cleats—he was walking alone through the dimly lit players’ tunnel toward the team bus when everything went dark.

A black hood slammed over his head. Strong hands grabbed him from all sides. He fought hard, his powerful 6’4” frame thrashing, but there were too many of them. Tape wrapped his wrists behind his back, then his ankles. A heavy chloroform rag pressed against his face through the hood. His world faded.

He woke up hours later in a private basement room beneath an Eagles training facility—soundproofed, dimly lit, and equipped like a dungeon. His helmet, shoulder pads, jersey, and pants had already been cut and stripped from his sweat-glistening body. He was down to just a jockstrap and socks, wrists chained high to a ceiling hook, forcing him onto his toes. Four Eagles players stood around him, smirking.

“Welcome, Carter,” growled their star linebacker, Marcus. “You Giants pretty boys always strut around like you’re untouchable. Tonight we’re breaking that.”

They didn’t ask permission. Scissors sliced away his jockstrap, leaving him completely naked and exposed. Carter cursed and struggled, muscles flexing, but the chains held firm. The men worked together, sliding the thick, gleaming royal-blue latex catsuit up his legs first. The shiny material was incredibly tight—designed to squeeze every inch of his muscular physique. They worked it slowly over his thick thighs, his ass, his already-hard cock, then up his torso and arms. The latex sealed around him with wet, obscene squeaks, vacuuming tight to his skin until every cut of his abs, pecs, and biceps shone like polished metal.

They zipped it up the back, locking the zipper with a small padlock. The built-in collar snapped shut around his thick neck. Number 32 was already printed in bold white across his chest, along with the Giants logo and the 100 Seasons patch—mockery from the rival team. They forced the matching blue latex cleats onto his feet and laced them tight. Finally, the black “NY” headband went around his forehead.

Carter looked like a perfect, humiliated Giants toy—completely encased in shiny blue latex.

But they weren’t done.

Marcus stepped forward with heavy black bondage gear. Thick leather cuffs locked his wrists together behind his back, then pulled upward into a brutal strappado, forcing him to bend at the waist. More leather straps wrapped his chest in a tight harness, biting deep into the latex and making his pecs bulge obscenely. Rope followed—thick, rough hemp—cinching his arms, thighs, and calves together in a merciless hogtie variation while he was still standing, then lowered him to his knees.

A large red ball gag was forced between his teeth and buckled tight, drool already starting to leak down the shiny blue chin of the suit. They finished with a thick leather blindfold and earplugs, plunging him into darkness and silence.

Marcus crouched beside the helplessly bound, latex-encased football stud, running a hand over the glossy, straining material. “You’re ours now, Carter. No one’s coming for you until we’ve had our fun. That pretty blue suit is staying on… and the ropes are only getting tighter.”

The rival players laughed as Carter moaned into the gag, his massive body flexing and squirming uselessly inside the shiny prison, completely at their mercy for the long night ahead.

The room echoed with muffled laughter as Carter knelt helplessly in the center of the dungeon, his powerful body now a gleaming blue latex slave. The tight catsuit clung mercilessly to every muscle, the shiny material stretched drum-tight over his chest, abs, and the thick bulge of his cock, which throbbed visibly against the glossy front.

Marcus yanked the blindfold off first, forcing Carter’s eyes to adjust to the harsh lights. “Eyes open, superstar. We want you to watch what we do to you.”

Jase the Eagles star wide receiver stepped forward, carrying additional gear. They released the ceiling chain just enough to drop Carter forward onto his stomach, then went to work intensifying the bondage. Thick leather belts were wrapped around his upper arms and cinched brutally to his sides, fusing his arms tighter behind him. More rope encircled his thighs just above the knees, pulled back and tied off to his already-bound ankles in a crushing hogtie. His cleated feet were arched painfully, toes pointed, the latex squeaking with every futile flex of his quads and calves.

A heavy leather cock ring with attached straps was forced over the latex-covered bulge, snapping tight at the base of his shaft and balls, trapping the blood flow and making his erection strain even harder against the shiny blue prison. They added a thick butt plug—lubed but mercilessly large—pushing it deep through a hidden zipper at the rear of the suit until it locked in place with a click, filling him completely.

“Fuuu—mmph!” Carter groaned into the red ball gag, drool now pouring down his chin and onto the floor.

Marcus stripped off his own shirt, revealing his ripped torso, and knelt in front of Carter’s face. He unzipped the front of the latex suit just enough to pull Carter’s aching cock free, the fat, veiny shaft springing out, already leaking. “Look at that. Giants bitch is loving his new uniform.”

Without warning, Marcus grabbed Carter’s headband removed the gag and forced his cock past Carter’s lips and into the bound stud’s mouth, fucking his face in slow, deep strokes. At the same time, Jase the another Eagles player positioned himself behind Carter, yanked the rear zipper open wider, and pulled out the plug only to replace it with his own thick cock. He slammed in hard, stretching the latex-suited hole around him.

Carter’s muffled screams vibrated around Marcus’s shaft as the two rivals spit-roasted him mercilessly. The ropes and leather bit deeper into his muscles with every thrust, the latex creaking and shining with fresh sweat. His own cock bounced untouched beneath him, denied by the cock ring, dripping pre-cum onto the floor.

They took turns for the next hour—rotating positions, using his mouth, his ass, and even sliding their cocks between his latex-squeezed pecs while another fucked him from behind. More bondage was added: nipple clamps with heavy weights clipped onto his pecs through the suit, a second leather collar locked above the first, connected by a short chain to the floor bolt so he couldn’t lift his head. His balls were tied off tight with thin cord, pulled backward between his legs and anchored to his toes, forcing constant painful tension.

By the third round, Carter was a broken, quivering mess of shiny blue latex and rope. Cum leaked from the corners of his stretched lips and ran down the back of his thighs inside the suit. Marcus finally pulled out of his mouth, stroking himself furiously until he painted Carter’s mustache and face with hot ropes of cum.

“Keep him like this overnight,” Marcus ordered the others as they zipped the suit back up, sealing the mess inside the shiny prison. “Tighten every rope. Add the full hood. We’ve got all week before anyone even notices he’s missing.”

Carter could only moan weakly, eyes glassy with overwhelming pleasure and humiliation, his latex-encased body twitching in the merciless bondage as the Eagles players laughed and left him there—bound, used, and completely theirs.

The next morning Carter’s mind was a raging battlefield under the sweat-drenched latex.

These bastards… I’m Carter Hale. Starting linebacker. Team captain. I’ve sacked quarterbacks twice my size. And now I’m tied up like a fucking toy in this shiny blue prison they forced on me.

Rage boiled in his chest with every strained breath. I should be fighting harder. I will get out of this. I’ll make them pay. But goddamn… this latex is squeezing me everywhere. The ropes are cutting so deep I can barely move, and that plug… No. Fuck that. I’m not breaking. I’m not giving them the satisfaction.

The hood was unzipped and pulled away. Carter blinked against the light, jaw clenched as Marcus unbuckled the red ball gag and yanked it out. Drool spilled down his chin onto the glossy blue chest.

“Speak, bitch,” Jace ordered, still gripping his chin.

Carter’s voice came out raw and furious. “Get your fucking hands off me,” he snarled, chest heaving against the tight harness. “You pieces of shit. Kidnapping me? Stuffing me in this perverted Giants costume and tying me up like some sex slave? When I get loose — and I will get loose — I’m going to kill both of you. Slowly.”

Marcus laughed low and dark, tracing a finger along the white “32” on Carter’s chest. “Big words for a man who can’t even move his arms. But keep that fire, Carter. It’s cute.”

Jace stood up, smirking as he walked around the helplessly frog-tied player. “You know… I’ve been thinking. This blue suit looks good on him, but it’s still Giants colors. We should change that. Strip him out of this fake NY shit and put him in a proper Eagles latex suit. Midnight green, silver wings on the shoulders, number 32 still across the chest so he never forgets who owns him now. Make it even tighter. Maybe with built-in sleeves so we can keep his arms locked behind him 24/7.”

Marcus nodded, eyes gleaming. “Hell yeah. Full Eagles branding. We’ll have the gear ready by tomorrow. This Giants pretender is getting rebranded permanently.”

Carter’s eyes flashed with pure defiance. “You touch me and I swear to God I’ll end both of you the second I’m free. My team will come looking. The league will investigate. You’re both finished.”

Marcus crouched down close, gripping Carter’s jaw hard enough to make the latex creak. His voice dropped to a cold, menacing whisper.

“Well… maybe you’ll never get loose then, Carter.”

The words hung heavy in the basement air. Carter’s heart hammered against the rope harness as the two Eagles players stared down at him with possessive hunger.

Jace reached for the rear zipper of the suit. “Keep talking that tough shit. It just makes me want to fuck the defiance out of you even harder.”

The next day they dragged Carter back into hazy consciousness. His body was a wreck—every muscle screamed from the night-long hogtie, the inflated plug still buried deep inside him, and layers of dried sweat and cum sealed beneath the tattered blue latex. The basement lights flicked on, and Jace and Marcus entered with a large black garment bag.

“Rise and shine, Giants reject,” Jace announced cheerfully. “Time for your makeover.”

They cut the old blue suit off him with heavy shears, peeling the sticky material away from his sweat-slicked skin. Carter groaned as the cool air hit his naked, aching body, but he immediately started struggling against the ropes still holding him.

“Get the fuck off me,” he snarled, voice hoarse.

Marcus just laughed. “Not a chance.”

They hosed him down quickly with cold water, making him gasp and curse, then dried him roughly. The new suit was unfurled like a trophy: a gleaming, midnight-green latex catsuit, thicker and even more restrictive than the last. Shiny silver Eagles wings adorned the shoulders, the NFL shield sat proudly on the chest, and a massive white “32” with silver trim dominated the front. The material looked thicker, shinier, and far less forgiving.

They started at his feet, working the slick green latex up his calves and powerful thighs. It took real effort — the suit was deliberately two sizes too small. They oiled his skin to help it slide, but the latex still gripped like a vice, compressing every muscle and highlighting every ridge of his abs, quads, and calves. They pulled it over his thick cock and ass, zipping the rear seam slowly up his back.

The special feature came next.

The suit had built-in rear sleeves — a single, reinforced latex armbinder sleeve fused to the back of the catsuit. Jace and Marcus forced Carter’s arms straight behind him, sliding them deep into the tight, padded green tube. The material stretched obscenely over his thick biceps and forearms as they worked it up to his shoulders. Once fully encased, they zipped the heavy-duty rear zipper from his lower back all the way up to his neck, sealing his arms completely inside the single sleeve. His shoulders strained, chest thrust forward, pecs bulging dramatically under the glossy green latex.

They finished by snapping a thick matching green leather collar around his throat, padlocking it shut, and lacing shiny green latex cleats onto his feet.

Carter now stood — or rather, was held upright by the ropes — as a perfect Eagles latex prisoner. The green suit gleamed under the lights like polished emerald, every muscle perfectly outlined and compressed. His arms were utterly trapped behind him, shoulders pulled back hard, making his chest and abs pop even more obscenely.

“Fuck… this thing is tighter than the last one,” Carter growled through gritted teeth, testing the arm sleeve and immediately realizing he had zero chance of freeing himself. “You think this changes anything? I’m still gonna end both of you the second I get out.”

Marcus stepped in close, running both hands over the shiny green chest, thumbs brushing the raised “32.” “You’re never getting out. This is your new skin now.”

Jace moved behind him and yanked the rear zipper open just enough to remove the plug. Before Carter could even sigh in relief, Jace replaced it with his cock, slamming in deep while gripping the green latex hips.

“Goddamn, this new suit feels even better to fuck,” Jace groaned, pounding him with long, powerful strokes. The latex squeaked loudly with every thrust, the built-in arm sleeve forcing Carter’s massive chest forward as he was railed.

Marcus unzipped the front just enough to free Carter’s cock, stroking it roughly while Jace fucked him senseless. “Look at you, all rebranded. Eagles green suits you way better than that pathetic blue. Say it, Carter. Say you belong to the Eagles now.”

“Fuck… you…” Carter gasped between brutal thrusts, still defiant even as his body betrayed him, cock leaking in Marcus’s fist. “I’m… not… yours…”

The two Eagles players just laughed and doubled down, using their shiny green captive mercilessly in the center of the basement. The new suit, especially the cruel built-in arm sleeves, made Carter even more helpless than before — a perfect, gleaming, defiant Eagles fucktoy for the rest of the long day ahead.

Carter’s massive chest heaved inside the gleaming midnight-green latex as Jace and Marcus finally released the worst of the ropes. The rough hemp fell away in coils, but the built-in armbinder sleeve kept his arms fused helplessly behind him shoulders strained back, pecs thrust forward like an offering.

“Time to upgrade the hardware,” Marcus said, wheeling over a heavy metal cart loaded with thick black leather and glossy rubber restraints. “We’re done playing with rope. This is permanent shit now.”

They worked fast and efficiently. Thick padded leather cuffs locked around his ankles, then his thighs just above the knees. Heavy rubber straps — wide, reinforced, and smelling of fresh latex — were wrapped around his upper arms and torso, cinching the green suit even tighter and fusing his already-trapped arms even more securely to his spine. They forced him down onto his back on a padded bondage table that had been bolted to the floor, then ratcheted his legs wide apart and locked the ankle cuffs to the table corners. More rubber straps crossed his chest and hips, pinning him completely immobile except for the helpless flexing of his abs and the futile twitch of his fingers inside the sleeve.

Carter growled through clenched teeth. “You think this changes anything? I’m still getting out. I’m still ending you both.”

Jace smirked and reached into a large black case. He pulled out the final piece: a matching midnight-green latex hood, sleek and featureless except for the built-in gag. The inside of the mouth section was molded into a thick, inflatable rubber cock gag. Silver Eagles wing logos were embossed on the forehead and cheeks, and a heavy zipper ran from the crown down the back.

“Open wide, superstar,” Jace ordered.

Carter tried to turn his head, but Marcus gripped his jaw and pried it open. The thick rubber cock gag slid deep into his mouth, filling it completely. Jace buckled the hood’s collar section over the leather collar already around Carter’s neck, then zipped the hood shut with a long, slow rasp. The latex sealed tight over his face, molding perfectly to his features — nose, cheeks, the outline of his mustache visible beneath the shiny green skin. Jace gave the bulb on the gag three firm pumps, inflating it until Carter’s eyes watered and his cheeks bulged.

The world went muffled and dark except for the two small nostril holes.

Marcus leaned over the helplessly strapped-down form, running a hand possessively over the glossy green chest.

“Here’s the new plan, Carter — and you’re gonna listen whether you like it or not,” he said calmly. “We can’t let you go. Not ever. You just reappear and the league, the cops, your agent — they’ll tear us apart. Our careers would be over. So we’re not risking that. You’re staying right here. This basement is being converted into a permanent cell. The suit stays on. The hood stays on most of the time. The armbinder is permanent. We’ll rotate shifts keeping you fed, watered, fucked, and broken in. Your team thinks you went AWOL after the game. By the time anyone figures it out, you’ll already be too far gone — just secret Eagles property.”

Jace rested a hand on the hood’s forehead, thumb stroking the silver wing logo.

“Every time we win, you get used. Every time we lose, you get punished harder. And if you ever think about fighting us… well, we’ve got years to train that defiance out of you. Welcome to the rest of your life, number 32.”

Carter screamed into the inflated gag — a muffled, furious roar that barely made it past the thick rubber filling his mouth. His powerful body strained against the leather and rubber straps, the glossy green latex creaking loudly, but he didn’t move an inch.

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.

The Replacement

I’d been driving through the countryside for hours when my car finally gave out on a quiet back road. No cell signal, of course. The only house in sight was a modest place tucked behind some trees. I figured I’d ask to borrow a phone and call for a tow.

The front door was unlocked. I pushed it open and stepped inside.

That’s when I saw him.

A figure completely encased in shiny black rubber sat strapped to a sturdy wooden chair in the middle of the living room. Thick belts pinned his arms, chest, waist, and legs to the frame. A heavy gas mask hood covered his head, the large lenses reflecting the room light, the breathing hose dangling. His hands were trapped in smooth, rounded rubber mitts that rendered his fingers useless. Even his boots were locked into place with more straps. He looked completely helpless.

“Oh my God,” I breathed, rushing forward. “Are you okay?”

He made muffled sounds behind the mask. I quickly worked at the buckles, loosening the restraints one by one until he could stand. He pulled the hood off slowly, revealing a sweaty, exhausted face.

“Thank you,” he gasped. “I’m Roy. His name is Master… he kidnapped me months ago. He keeps me like this almost every day — hooded, gagged, locked in rubber. He goes into town for hours and just leaves me here.”

He described it in a shaky voice: the constant bondage, the way the thick latex clung to every inch of skin, the way the hood and mask turned the world into a dark, muffled prison. He sounded broken. I felt terrible for him.

Once he seemed steadier, he asked if I could give him a minute to collect himself. I nodded and stepped back. He paced a little, rubbing his wrists, then turned to me with surprisingly calm eyes.

“You know… the rubber actually feels incredible once you get used to it,” he said softly. “The way it squeezes you, hugs every curve… it’s intense, but kind of addictive.”

I laughed nervously. “Yeah, I’ll take your word for it.”

But he kept talking — calm, persuasive, almost hypnotic. He showed me the suit, still warm from his body. Before I knew it, I was curiously touching the glossy material. He helped me peel off my clothes and slide into the rubber. The suit was thick, heavy, and incredibly tight. It took effort to pull it over my legs, my torso, my arms. The sensation was overwhelming — cool at first, then warming rapidly as it sealed around me like a second skin.

Roy smiled. “See? Feels good, right?”

It did feel… strange. Powerful. Intimate.

He picked up the heavy gas mask hood. “To really understand it, you have to be fully in it. The restraint is part of the experience. Trust me — just for a minute, so you can feel what I’ve been going through.”

I hesitated, but he seemed so sincere, so grateful. I sat down in the chair. He started buckling the straps — slowly, carefully. First my legs, then my waist, chest, and arms. The thick belts clicked into place with finality. He slid the heavy mitts over my hands, turning them into useless black rubber balls, then handcuffed them to the sides of the chair. Finally, he lifted the hood.

The world went dark and tight as the thick rubber settled over my head. The gas mask lenses pressed against my face. I felt the gag slide between my teeth just before he sealed everything. My muffled protest came out as nothing more than a quiet groan.

Roy stepped back and looked at me — exactly as I had first found him.

Then his expression changed. The exhaustion vanished. A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face.

“Thanks for the rescue, man,” he said, pulling on one of my old shirts. “I’ve been waiting for someone like you. Master will be back soon. He’ll think you’re me — Roy. The new Roy. I’m finally free.”

I thrashed wildly against the straps, but they held perfectly. The mitts made my hands completely useless. The gag turned every shout into a pathetic, muffled whimper behind the gas mask. The rubber suit gripped me tighter with every movement, hot and inescapable.

Roy picked up his bag and headed for the door. He paused for one last look.

“Enjoy your new life. The hood and mask stay on a long time… sometimes for days. Master loves that.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

I was alone in the quiet house, completely sealed in shiny black rubber, strapped helplessly to the chair exactly as I’d first seen him. Every breath echoed loudly inside the mask. The latex clung to me like it had been made for my body. And somewhere outside, a car engine started — taking my old life away.

I heard tires on gravel.

Master was coming home.

I pulled desperately against the thick leather straps, but they didn’t budge even an inch. The heavy rubber mitts turned my hands into useless, shiny black balls, and the handcuffs locked to the chair made sure I couldn’t even twist my wrists. Every frantic movement just made the thick latex suit grip me tighter, hot and slick against my skin. The gag deep in my mouth turned every curse into a pathetic, wet gurgle behind the gas mask. My breathing echoed loudly inside the hood, fogging the lenses slightly with each panicked exhale.

I was completely helpless.

Then I heard the front door open.

Heavy footsteps crossed the floor. A deep, calm voice filled the room.

“Hey there, Roy. Miss me?”

Master stepped into view — a tall, broad-shouldered man in his late 30s with a short beard and calm, possessive eyes. He was carrying several shopping bags. He looked me up and down, clearly pleased with what he saw: me, sealed head-to-toe in shiny black rubber, strapped tightly to the chair exactly where he’d left the real Roy.

“Sorry I was gone so long,” he said casually, setting the bags down. “Traffic was a bitch. But I picked up some nice new toys for you.” He pulled out a thick leather harness with heavy D-rings, then a set of heavy metal cuffs connected by a short chain. “These are going to keep you a lot tighter tonight. No more of that squirming you like to do.”

He reached out and ran a gloved hand over the top of my hooded head, stroking the smooth rubber like he was petting an obedient pet.

“You know… I still remember the day I caught you,” he continued, a fond smile on his face as he reminisced. “You were out for a run on that lonely country road, all sweaty in those little shorts. Thought you were so tough. One quick chokehold from behind and you dropped like a sack. Woke up already zipped into your first rubber suit, gagged and hooded, right here in this chair.”

He chuckled softly, stepping closer until I could smell his cologne mixed with the scent of the new leather he’d bought.

“Best decision I ever made. You’ve been such a good boy since then, Roy. Even when you fight the straps… you always settle down eventually. The rubber owns you now.”

I screamed into the gag, thrashing wildly, trying to shake my head. The gas mask lenses flashed with the reflection of the room lights as I struggled, but it was completely useless. The straps held firm. The mitts kept my hands useless. The hood and gag turned all my protests into nothing but muffled, desperate noises.

Master just laughed quietly, misreading my panic for the usual resistance he was used to.

“Aw, look at you. Already excited to be played with. Don’t worry, boy. I’m not letting you out anytime soon.”

He picked up the new heavy harness and started unbuckling one of the existing straps across my chest, preparing to add even more layers of restraint.

“Welcome home, Roy.”

I was trapped.

Sealed.

Completely his now.

And he had no idea I wasn’t the man he thought I was.

Hours passed.

I lost track of time completely inside the heavy gas mask. The thick rubber hood turned the world into a stifling, muffled prison. Sweat rolled down my face and neck, trapped inside the suit. My muscles ached from the constant strain against the unyielding straps. Every breath was a loud, labored rasp through the filter. The gag kept my jaw sore and forced me to drool helplessly down my chin.

I had no choice but to endure.

Finally, I heard Master’s footsteps return. He stood in front of me and unbuckled the heavy gas mask hood with practiced ease. Cool air hit my sweat-soaked face as he pulled it off. I gasped, blinking against the sudden light.

Master froze.

His eyes widened in genuine surprise as he stared at my face — a face he had never seen before.

“What the fuck…?” he muttered.

I immediately started talking, my voice hoarse and desperate.

“Please… listen. My name isn’t Roy. I’m just some guy whose car broke down. I came in looking for a phone and found him tied up like that. He said you kidnapped him. I freed him… and he tricked me. He convinced me to try on the suit, then strapped me in here. He left me as his replacement so he could escape. Please, you have to believe me. Go after him — he can’t have gotten far!”

I thought that would be it. That any sane person would realize this was insane and let me go.

I was wrong.

Master listened quietly, his expression shifting from surprise to something darker — amusement. A slow, predatory grin spread across his face as I finished my story.

He let out a low chuckle, then started laughing properly.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, shaking his head. “Roy finally did something smart. He gave me a fresh upgrade.” He reached out and roughly grabbed my chin, tilting my face up to examine me closer. “New face. New body. New toy. And you walked right into it like a dumb little hero.”

I stared at him in horror. “Wait… you’re not going to—”

“Go chase after him?” He laughed again. “Hell no. He did me a favor. You’re mine now, boy. And since you were stupid enough to fall for his trick, I’m going to make damn sure no other hero tries to ‘save’ you.”

He stepped back and looked me over with new interest, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction.

“You’re going to be kept much more secure from now on. More straps. More locks. Maybe a permanent hood. We’ll weld some of these restraints on if we have to.” He smirked. “Can’t have you pulling the same stunt Roy did.”

Then the mocking really began.

“Look at you,” he taunted, circling the chair slowly. “Big strong hero rushes in to rescue the poor victim… and ends up sealed in his rubber suit, strapped to his chair, drooling behind his gag. You really believed him, didn’t you? Sat down willingly and let him buckle you in. Pathetic.”

He leaned in close, his voice low and cruel.

“Welcome to your new life… Roy. You’re going to look so good once I add all the new gear I bought today. And don’t worry — the mask is going back on right after I feed you. You’ll be spending a lot more time sealed up from now on.”

He picked up a bottle of water and a protein shake, clearly enjoying every second of my despair.

I was no longer a stranger who stumbled in.

I was the new Roy.

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.

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.

Firefighter Rob’s Nightmare Begins

Firefighter Rob had just finished a long shift at Engine 27. The bald, mustached stud was known around the station for his dedication and rock-solid physique. He was walking to his truck in the back lot when everything went black — a rag over his face, a quick struggle, and he was out.

He woke up disoriented, naked, and strapped into a heavy padded chair in what looked like an abandoned warehouse turned high-tech medical chamber. His powerful arms and legs were immobilized by thick straps. A fat black ball gag filled his mouth, muffling his angry protests into wet grunts. Drool already ran down his chin.

The men in lab coats — calm, professional, almost clinical — ignored his struggles. “Subject 27 looks promising,” one said, checking a chart. “Strong producer type. We’ll get record output with the enhancements.”

They wasted no time. Rob’s eyes widened in horror as they lubed and inserted a thin catheter deep into his urethra, feeding it into the clear acrylic cylinder of the specialized milking pump. The tube sealed tight around his cock with a vacuum hiss. Another set of mechanical cups locked onto his balls, connected to rhythmic massagers and electrodes wired to a control box.

The Milking Begins

“Time to maximize production,” the technician announced, injecting a cocktail of drugs into an IV line — compounds to flood his system with hormones, increase seminal fluid volume, and keep him in a state of constant, helpless arousal. The ball massagers hummed to life, gently squeezing and vibrating in rhythmic pulses. The electrical stim kicked in with low, teasing currents that made his cock throb inside the tight clear tube. The vacuum pump activated with a steady suck, drawing him deeper into the device.

Rob bucked against the restraints, grunting desperately into the gag, but the straps held firm. His muscular body glistened with sweat as the drugs took hold. His balls felt heavier by the minute, pressure building unbearably. The catheter ensured every drop would be collected — no waste, no escape.

The organization ran a very special operation: harvesting premium cum from strong, virile men like Rob. They sold it on the black market, used it for research, or supplied elite clients. Average donors produced a few loads. With the drugs, massagers, and constant edging stimulation, they intended to drain Rob dry multiple times a day, pushing his body far beyond normal limits.

The pump began its relentless work, milking him toward his first forced orgasm of many

The drugs continued to surge through Rob’s veins like liquid fire, amplifying every sensation. His heavy balls churned under the relentless mechanical massage cups, squeezed and vibrated in perfect rhythm while the electrical pulses teased his prostate and shaft. The clear pump sucked with steady, merciless pressure, the deep catheter ensuring not a single drop was lost.

The first orgasm hit him like a freight train. Rob’s muscular body arched against the straps, muffled screams vibrating around the ball gag as thick ropes of cum were vacuumed straight through the tube into the collection reservoir. The technicians watched the monitors with approval. “Excellent volume for round one.”

They didn’t let him rest. The massagers kept working, the stimulators never stopped, and a second injection kept his system flooded. The second milking came faster, harder. His cock stayed painfully hard inside the transparent cylinder, veins bulging as he was drained again. By the third load, tears were streaming down his face. His once-proud firefighter frame trembled uncontrollably, muscles twitching from overstimulation. The fourth milking turned him into a complete wreck — long, guttural sobs broke through the gag as his body betrayed him again, pumping out another impressive load. Cum production had more than doubled thanks to the drugs and machines.

Rob was a sobbing, drooling mess by the end, eyes red and unfocused, chest heaving with exhausted breaths. The technicians nodded in satisfaction as they checked the containers. “Subject 27 is a prime producer. We’ll move him to permanent housing.”

They unstrapped his spent body from the milking chair, his legs barely able to support him as they dragged him across the facility. Rob tried to fight weakly, but the drugs and four back-to-back extractions had left him broken. They forced him into a new chamber — a sealed, dimly lit pod designed for long-term collection.

Inside waited his new permanent setup. They fitted him with a full-body rubber encasement suit, thick and glossy black latex that clung to every curve of his muscular form like a second skin. Heavy bondage restraints were locked over the rubber: wide leather and metal cuffs at wrists and ankles, a rigid spreader bar, and a heavy harness across his chest and groin that locked everything in place. The permanent gag was even worse — a thick inflatable rubber bulb that filled his mouth completely, strapped and locked behind his head with a built-in breathing tube.

Tubes were methodically connected everywhere. One down his throat for nutrient slurry to keep him alive and producing. Waste tubes for his bodily functions. The milking pump was reattached permanently to his cock, catheter still buried deep, now wired into an automated collection system. The ball massagers and electrodes were locked in place under the rubber, set to cycle continuously on a low but endless program. Additional IV ports in his arms would deliver the production drugs around the clock.

Rob’s eyes widened in pure terror as they sealed the final connections. He screamed desperately behind the thick permanent gag, the sound reduced to pathetic, muffled vibrations. The rubber hood they pulled over his bald head and locked on only amplified his isolation — only his tear-streaked eyes visible through the openings.

“Welcome to your new life, 27,” one technician said calmly as they stepped back. “You’re no longer a firefighter. You’re our cum-making machine now. The system will handle everything. Just produce.”