His name had been Marcus. Once. A long time ago.
He’d had a decent job in the city, a small circle of friends who dragged him out for beers on weekends, and a quiet apartment where he could pretend he was in control of his own life. But the ache had always been there—the deep, gnawing need to disappear. To hand over every last shred of autonomy to someone stronger. Someone who would never give it back.
Now he knelt on the cool gray carpet, sealed head to toe in glistening black latex so tight it felt like a second, merciless skin. The heavy rubber hood molded to his face, turning the world into muffled darkness pierced only by the faint light filtering through the built-in lenses. A thick collar circled his neck, chained to the heavy leather harness that criss-crossed his chest and locked behind his back. His wrists were cuffed tightly together in front of him, connected by a short length of chain that kept his gloved hands uselessly close to his knees. He couldn’t straighten up. He couldn’t spread his legs. He could barely breathe without feeling the latex stretch and cling.
Between his thighs, the steel chastity cage was a constant, cruel reminder. Cold. Unyielding. Utterly inescapable. The tube that ran from it to the catheter inside him ensured he had no control even over that. His cock hadn’t been free in months. He hadn’t cum in longer than he could remember. The frustration never left him—it just burned hotter, deeper, twisting into something he both hated and craved.
You used to have a name. You used to have a job. You had a circle of friends. You gave up all of it for this.
The words echoed in his mind, the same ones his Owner liked to repeat while circling him, crop in hand. Marcus felt them like physical blows. Every time they surfaced, a wave of panic crashed through him—What the fuck did I do? This is forever. I can’t go back. His heart hammered against the tight latex. His breath came in short, desperate gasps inside the hood. The chains rattled softly as his bound body trembled.
He still struggled. Every single day.
He missed the sun on his skin. He missed choosing what he ate, when he slept, even when he spoke. He hadn’t heard his own voice in weeks—Owner kept him gagged or hooded most of the time. The few moments he was allowed to speak were only to beg, to thank, or to affirm his place. “I am nothing but your locked slave, Sir.”
But beneath the panic, beneath the aching loss of everything he once was, there was something else. A bone-deep, shameful relief.
This was what he had always wanted. No control. No voice. No way to touch himself. Locked in bondage for days, sometimes weeks at a time. Fed, watered, cleaned, and used only when Owner decided. His entire existence reduced to one purpose: to obey, to serve, and to please.
He felt the heavy chastity device tug as his trapped cock tried—and failed—to harden inside its prison. The latex creaked with every tiny shift of his body. The chains between his ankles and wrists kept him folded, helpless, perfectly displayed. He knew he looked obscene like this: a shiny black rubber object, muscles straining, head bowed in permanent submission.
Owner’s voice drifted from somewhere behind him, calm and satisfied.
“You’re doing so well today, boy. Still fighting it in that head of yours, but your body knows exactly what it is now.”
Marcus felt fresh tears sting his eyes inside the hood. He wanted to scream. He wanted to beg for mercy. Instead, he slowly lowered his hooded head until the smooth rubber rested against the carpet in total supplication.
He had given up his freedom.
And even as part of him still mourned the man he used to be, the deeper, truer part of him—the part that had begged for this life—knew he would never choose to go back.
