56 Hours

By PFC Pflege

I knew when the fifty-six hours were up, roughly, by meal and toilet time. Those were the only times I was partially released, but still hooded over my eyes, and chained. I was fed from a bowl like an animal, and after toilet time, was hosed out with a garden hose. There’s nothing sexy about a naked man, handcuffed and hooded, having his ass washed out with a garden hose. Then I was returned to my cage, hog-chained, gagged, and hooded. Or chained to that damn chair I hated so much. I learned later that I had been hog-chained to that chair in several sessions, totaling just over twenty-four hours of the fifty-six.

Somehow I knew it was Sunday morning, and my ordeal was over. I couldn’t see anything through the hood, but your body has a sense of rhythm or time or both, and it seemed right. It was. I heard the thick door of the dungeon open, and soon I was released from the cage and the chains. I was dirty, unshaven and naked, but I was free at last. I was filled with exultation, which overcame my physical exhaustion. I was happy. I had achieved an amazing goal, that of being chained, gagged and hooded in total blackness for 56 hours.

“Kneel over the ring in the floor, in front of the throne,” ordered Master Jack. “There are a couple of things we need to take care of.”

Obediently I knelt, assuming this was some kind of end-of-scene ritual. Using a pair of handcuffs and steel wrist restraints, Master Jack quickly and expertly locked my wrists to my ankles, behind my back. Using a second pair of handcuffs, he locked one end to the base of my cock, above the balls, and the other end to the ring in the floor. I was securely locked on my knees, stark naked, filthy — and caught. My wrists were chained to my ankles behind my back, and I was facing Master Jack on his throne.

“You did well during the 56 hours,” he said, conversationally. “You fought that chair in five separate sessions for a total of just over 24 hours. Except for meals, you were hooded and gagged, and in total blackness for the 56 hours. Black Solitude, I call it.”

I nodded, but said nothing. I still couldn’t understand why I was chained up again. All I wanted now was a hot shower, a shave and a nap before my car and driver came to pick me up and take me to the San Francisco airport.

“You’ve done very well, but you haven’t learned the fundamental peasant virtues of submission and obedience.”

“What are you talking about?” I exclaimed, my voice rising a little.

“I am talking about you remaining on your knees while you consider the peasant virtues of submission and obedience.”

“But my car and driver, my plane flight!” My voice was now in its upper register.

“Postponed, sine die.”

“You can’t do this!!! I kept my side of the agreement!!! Now let me go!!!!”

“You’re a lawyer, Dan. You should have read the agreement more carefully. The last paragraph states very clearly that Master Jack, and only Master Jack, decides when the session has ended. The paragraph also states that my decision is unappealable. Right beneath that paragraph is the signature line, on which you signed your name, while Terry and I watched. You’re finished, Dan. I have waited 56 hours patiently to see you on your knees, your wrists and ankles locked behind your back, and your cock and balls chained to the floor.”

I lost it. My mouth widened, and, like a sewer, poured forth a sewage stream of foul language. My voice was high and cracked, with fear, with panic, and with the knowledge that I was caught like a rat in a cage. My sewer mouth spewed more foul words, as Master Jack stood up, walked to the work bench, where he picked up a pail. Before I knew what was happening, he forced a sponge into my mouth, not a dainty ladies’ kitchen sponge, but a heavy-duty industrial sponge. It was dripping with urine as he forced it into my oral hole, and then quickly taped my mouth shut, using lengths of duct tape round and round my head. He then dumped the contents on the pail on my head. It ran down my body, drenching, and into my crotch.

“Sewer mouth guys deserve a piss gag. Your mouth is cloaca maxima, the great sewer of Rome, but now, thankfully, you’ve been shut up. You’re caught, and there’s no escape. You’re at the end of the corridor, and there’s only one door left, the door to submission, and, through submission, obedience. Your money is useless here, and your mouth is gagged so you can’t even beg. Let me tell you what Terry and I are thinking. We wish you to have hours of misery and suffering, to mill the arrogance out of you, the way the highway department mills a road for repaving. Then, when we are satisfied, you will submit to me first, and to Terry later. You cannot fake submission, Dan. Try to, and you’ll be returned to the kneeling position, in order to reconsider the peasant virtues.”

I was still as still could be. If my mouth hadn’t been taped by lengths of tape all around my head, the hairs on the back of my neck would have risen. I had often fantasized about a scene like this, but that was fantasy. This reality made the 56 hours look like a Sunday school picnic.

Master Jack left, locking the heavy door behind him. A single light was lit, over the throne, which I faced. My unshaven face chafed under the tape that gagged me. My body was aching in a slow agony, and I could not move because my balls and cock were locked to the ring in the floor. I became aware that the room was warming up. Master Jack must have turned off the a/c when he left, and in July’s heat of California, this room would soon be an oven. Old sweat reawakened, and warmed up the piss I had been drenched in, and reawakened old sweat. My jaw muscles ached from being distended to take the piss-sponge, the piss of which, acrid and foul, still trickled down my throat.

The situation was hopeless. I hadn’t the faintest idea of how I was supposed to “consider peasant virtues,” or what submission and obedience meant to Master Jack. A long time passed, during which my panic subsided, and I became slowly used to the uncomfortable kneeling position, and my aching balls from being handcuffed to the floor.

More time went by. I was no longer fighting, for what was the point? Muscles can’t fight hard steel. I looked at the throne, bathed in the single light. It was a heavy wooden throne, positioned on a dais, also of wood. In front were two footrests, one set higher than the other. With a celerity that had no place in time, I realized that the lower foot rests were so the kneeling captive could lick Master Jack’s boots, and that the higher foot rests permitted the captive to lick the soles and heels of the boots. I gazed on those two sets of foot rests, as my exhausted body and mind thought of why they had been made and set where they were.

I was also keenly aware that my cock was massively hard. I wanted to jerk off so bad, but of course that was impossible, with my hands locked to my wrists behind my back. However, I was able, by thrusting my body a little, to achieve some friction on my balls and cock from the handcuff locked onto my manhood.

I knew now with a clarity of thought I would not have thought possible, what peasant submission and what peasant obedience were. I knew now why Master Jack had patiently softened me up over 56 hours, to bring me to this point, to the point where the door to submission, the final door in the corridor, stood wide open, and I was ready to crawl in, on my knees. My cock now was savagely hard, and I yearned to submit. I now heaved in the steel, my exhausted body, soaked in piss and sweat, straining uselessly but pleasurably.

“You’re ready,” said a voice behind me. I had not even heard the door open. I quickly nodded my head.

“Good.”

He released my cock and balls, and I crawled on my knees to the throne. With a pocket knife, he cut off the duct tape from my mouth, and ordered me to spit out the sponge, which I did, thankfully.

“Drink this.”

It was a bowl of fresh urine. I drank it greedily. The room was very hot, and I was sweating like a pig.

Without being told, and without any previous experience (I had licked boots before, but never when someone was wearing them), I licked Master Jack’s boots. He was wearing black leather, highly polished boots, almost knee length. As my tongue caressed the leather up to his knee, my erection and my balls slapped into the sole and heel of the boot. I whored into the boots, my sexual excitement heightened by the realization that, when Master Jack shifted his boots to the higher foot rest, I would be licking the soles and heels.

I thought I had learned submission when I licked Master Jack’s boots. It was only the start. When, after three hours, he shifted his feet to the higher level foot rests, and I saw the soles and heels, my cock jumped in excitement. While my tongue and lips were caked with black boot polish, the soles and heels were caked with mud, dirt, grass clippings, and a host of other things. Master Jack held a bottle to my lips for me to drink, and break up some of the caked boot polish on my tongue. It was more urine. I had been drinking Master Jack’s urine, off and on, for hours.

With renewed desire to submit, and still kneeling, naked, my hands locked to my wrists behind my back, I lusted into Mater Jack’s soles and heels. My tongue eagerly sought out each crevice to clean and polish the heavy leather soles and heels. I ate dirt and mud, and my cock was hard as a board.

I had submitted, and obeyed.

 

COPYRIGHT 2013 PFC PFLEGE & BBH LTD. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 

This story was sent by Master Jack. It was originally posted to the Bondagezine site, and it is used here with permission.

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