By Dalton Ott
Note from Metal: This is a re-post of a true bondage story that was originally posted under Anonymous. The author, Dalton Ott, who has been featured prominently on Serious Male Bondage, has subsequently revised his story, added to it, and has agreed to have it appear again, and under his name this time.
At a local sauna two men engaging in friendly conversation somehow stumbled on to the topic of bondage, not your usual sauna conversation. It was awkward at first but soon they discovered they shared a common secret. They were both secretly into heavy sensory deprivation bondage.
The excitement grew into a three-hour, intense conversation at a local coffee shop. They shared stories about their experiences and bondage equipment, what they owned and what they fantasized about.
They eventually talked about their unfulfilled bondage fantasies and discovered they both enjoyed extreme bondage without the need for sex. All they wanted to experience were long sensory deprivation sessions in heavy rubber or leather. They both had an unquenched passion to explore the depths of extreme subspace.
Try as I might, all I could possibly see outside was mown grass. One by one, the doors to the cells opened. The guys in green pushed a gentleman’s head down. They kept us from hitting our heads as we shuffled, hunched, out of the cage. Thank you. The familiar face left. I wouldn’t see it again for hours. But my sense of time was gone. I had no watch. I had no phone. They were in my luggage, which was labeled “Lukas” on blue painters tape, in a clear plastic bag labeled “Lukas” on blue painters tape. Every rule I had seen, every request thus far, I had followed to the letter. I didn’t want to be a target. I needed to be good.
I think I’m at the right spot. None of us have ever been here before. The guy that was supposed to drive cancelled three days ago. I volunteered because I get motion sickness in the back seat, but being the young guy I feel I have to take the worst seat. I like the power and control that driving gives me. But it also means when something goes wrong, it’s my fault. One of the two others in the car is telling me to follow the GPS. I’m trying to match the red circle on a screenshot to Google Maps. He tells me to turn right. I don’t. I block out everything he’s saying, trying to focus on what instinctually feels right. I keep driving and then find a parking lot with a dozen cars, and an old white school bus with paint over whatever label it used to have.