By ThomasBXL

Welcome

You already knew, the moment he laid the straps out on the table, that this would not be a light evening.

You had flown in that afternoon. One week. No hotel. Your clothes, phone, wallet and papers locked away on a timer the moment you arrived — the arrangement you had both agreed to. There would be a festival at the end of the week. Until then, periodic checks, and the rest of the time his. You had said yes to that. You had said yes to exploring the edges you had only ever talked about.

He had let you watch while he prepared everything. The heavy leather cuffs. The wide torso straps. The hood with the front-buckle pecker gag. The headphones. The nipple clamps. The electrodes. No rush. No more explanation. You had already talked. You had told him you wanted the feeling of not being able to get out, of your mind eventually stopping its attempts to steer. He had only nodded.

Now you are already on the bondage bench. Not secured. Not yet. He walks around you, checks the tension of a strap, runs his fingers along the inside of a cuff. The silence is heavier than words. Your heart rate is already climbing from the waiting alone.

First your wrists. The leather cuffs close with a clear click. Firm, no play. Then your ankles. He draws your legs a little farther apart before locking them down. You test it on instinct — a small pull — and feel at once that nothing moves. He says nothing. He continues.

The torso straps go on next. One across your chest, one around your waist, one just above your hips. Each one is pulled tighter than the last. Your breathing becomes slightly more restricted — not dangerous, but present. He checks with two fingers. Almost no room left.

Then the hood.

The leather slides over your head. Darkness. The smell of leather and your own breath. He tightens the laces until the hood sits firmly against your face. The pecker gag is pushed between your teeth and buckled. Your tongue has less space at once. Swallowing feels different. Speech is impossible. He settles the headphones over your ears. For a moment there is still silence, then the white noise begins. Constant. Flat. Everything outside is gone.

You lie in the dark with only the sound of your own breathing — strange through the gag — and that endless hiss. You feel his hands on your body a little longer while he checks the last straps. Then they are gone.

For a while nothing happens.

You simply lie there. Secure. Blind. Deaf to everything except the noise. You notice that one shoulder blade is sitting slightly wrong. A small discomfort. You try to shift it. Nothing moves. The discomfort stays. You breathe deeper, try to focus on something else. It only half works.

Then you feel the cold metal cups on your nipples. He leaves them there a moment so you know what is coming. The clamps close. First one, then the other. The pressure is sharp, exact enough to pull your entire attention to it. You groan against the gag. He waits. You feel the pain pulse in time with your heartbeat. He tightens them another fraction. Your body tenses, but the straps hold everything in place.

Then the electrodes.

One on your cock, fastened firmly. One higher, at the base. And then the anal electrode — cool lube, steady pressure, until it sits exactly where it is meant to. Your breathing quickens. You know what is coming. He still says nothing. Or perhaps he speaks, but the white noise swallows everything.

The first pulse is low. A deep, heavy sensation that moves through you. Not painful. Not yet. He leaves it like that for a while. You try to anticipate the next increase. You lie waiting, completely fixed, the clamps still biting, the electrodes ready to climb at any moment.

Then he raises it.

The pulse becomes sharper. Your hips try to move. Nothing. The straps keep you exactly where you are. You groan harder against the gag. The pain in your nipples mixes with the electro. It becomes one continuous field of sensation with nowhere to go.

He keeps raising it. Slowly. Methodically. Each step a little further than you thought he would go. You notice yourself starting to calculate — how many steps left, how long this has already lasted, whether you can still take it. Those thoughts grow shorter. More panicked.

At some point you try to say something against the gag. A plea, a curse, anything. Only a wet, muffled sound comes out. No one answers. The white noise continues. The pain continues. Your body pulls tight, but there is no space anywhere.

And then, somewhere in that accumulation of being held, unable to see, unable to hear, unable to speak, the clamps, the electro that now truly hurts, and the knowledge that he decides when this stops — the thinking begins to fail.

Not dramatically. Not in a single blow. It is more as if the last attempts of your mind to keep control simply run out of energy. The analysis drops away. The calculations drop away. There is only the now: the pressure of the straps, the sharp pain, the impossibility of changing anything, and the total, naked dependence.

You lie there. Fixed. Open. Powerless.

And for a moment there is nothing else.

He is not finished.

You feel new straps. First across your upper arms, pulled tight against your body so your elbows cannot move even a millimetre. Then over your forearms. He draws them so tight that your muscles already protest lightly. Then your hips: a wide strap that goes straight across your pelvis, tighter than the previous ones, so your lower body is completely locked to the bench. You cannot lift your hips, cannot twist, nothing.

Then your neck.

A wide leather collar slides around your throat. Not so tight that breathing is truly endangered, but firm enough that every swallow is felt. He secures the collar to the bench with short straps so your head can barely turn. Extra bands across your forehead and under your chin. Your head is now as fixed as the rest of your body. You can only still blink behind the hood — and even that feels useless in the dark.

Last, your fingers.

He draws soft but firm finger cuffs on, one by one, and secures them to small rings on the arm straps. Your hands are now completely open and useless. No fist possible. No scratching. No movement at all.

You lie there.

Completely.

He touches you. Not hard. Not painfully. Simply… present. A flat hand across your chest, between the clamps. Fingers that slide slowly along your side. Then, without warning, short, light tickling movements just under your arms and along your ribs.

You hate it.

Your body immediately tries to twist away, but there is nowhere to go. The straps hold you exactly where you are. The tickling is brief — but just long enough to make you feel how absurdly powerless you are. You groan in frustration against the gag. He stops. Strokes the place once more, calmly, as if nothing happened.

Then you feel his fingers at the buckles of the gag.

The pecker is pulled from your mouth. Cold air. Saliva. Your jaw feels stiff. Before you can say anything or even breathe properly, his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is long. Deep. Slow.

In this state it feels overwhelming. You cannot turn your head away. You cannot decide how deep or how long. His tongue simply takes the space he wants. You taste him, feel the warmth, the intimacy, while the rest of your body is still completely locked, the clamps still biting, the electrodes still waiting. The contrast is almost too much. For a moment there is something soft and human in the middle of all that powerlessness, and precisely because of that the powerlessness feels larger. You try to answer the kiss, but even that only half succeeds. He sets the pace until the end.

When he finally pulls back, a wet trail remains on your lips. You breathe heavily. He says nothing yet. The gag goes back.

Deeper this time.

He pushes it further than before. Your gag reflex protests at once. Tears spring into your eyes behind the hood. He buckles it firmly. Too deep. Just enough to be constantly present, to remind you that even this is no longer yours.

Then he removes the headphones from one side.

Suddenly there is sound. His voice, close to your ear, low and calm.

“You have the whole week,” he says quietly. “I’m not going to release you because it’s hard. I’m not going to release you because you cry. I’m not going to release you because you think you can’t take any more.”

He lets a silence fall. You feel his breath against your ear.

“You can panic tonight if you need to. That’s allowed. But you stay where you are. Tomorrow morning you’ll still be here. Maybe with different clamps. Maybe with more current. Maybe I’ll leave you for hours with an itch you can’t scratch. Or with the electro set just a little too high. And there is nothing you can do about it.”

He strokes one finger along your jaw, just under the edge of the hood.

“This is exactly what you asked for. Remember that when later all you want is for it to stop.”

The headphones go back. The white noise swallows everything again.

For a moment there is nothing.

Then you feel the electro once more. Low at first. Then higher. The clamps feel tighter now that your full attention is on them again. Your body tries to respond, but no movement is possible any longer. Not even your fingers. Not even your head.

You lie there.

And somewhere in the combination of the too-deep gag, the voice that still echoes in your head, the knowledge that this is a whole week, and the pain that is slowly building again… the thinking begins to waver once more.

Not gone. Not completely.

But it is having a harder time.

He has all the time in the world.

 

The night

He does not come back with his cock.

Somewhere you had expected it after the kiss. That he would open your mouth again, remove the gag and simply use you. That he would carry the intimacy further into something more direct. It does not happen. Instead you only hear him move something in the room, the click of a light switch, then his footsteps fading. After that, silence.

Real silence, except for the white noise that keeps going.

You are alone.

The electro is now on a low, constant level. No peaks. Only a heavy, continuous presence through your cock and deeper, made heavier by the steel ring he has added. The clamps still bite, but the pain has changed. Less sharp. More a deep, aching pressure that pulses with your heartbeat. The too-deep gag is still exactly where he left it. Every swallow is a reminder. Every breath costs a little more effort than is comfortable.

And the night begins.

The first stretch is the hardest in an active way. Your mind is still alert enough to fight. You try to count. You try to estimate the time. You try to decide whether he is really asleep or only pretending. You test the straps again even though you already know they will not move. You notice the itch on your side, the cramp starting behind one knee, the place on your shoulder blade that sits wrong. Everything feels intrusive. Everything demands attention.

Then it begins to shift.

Not all at once. More like water slowly changing direction. The active panic drains away because there is nowhere left to flee to. No release is coming. No voice. No change. Only the constant electro, the weight, the clamps, the gag, and the knowledge that he has said he will not return until morning.

You notice your body growing heavier.

Not relaxed. More exhausted from the trying. The muscles that have been ready to fight for hours begin to tremble with fatigue. Small, uncontrollable tremors in your thighs, your arms, your belly. You cannot stop them. You cannot hide them. They simply happen while you lie fixed.

Mentally it is worse.

There is no climax to work toward. No moment when you know the hardest part is over. There is only endurance. And endurance without an endpoint feels different from pain that is going somewhere. It eats at something deeper. At your sense of time. At the feeling that you still have any influence. Thoughts still rise — I want out, this is too long, I need to piss, my shoulder — but they have nothing to hold on to. They drift for a moment and dissolve again into the white noise.

Somewhere in the night you almost slide into something that resembles sleep. Not real sleep. More a kind of dozing in which the sensations seem farther away. Then a sharper pulse from the electro pulls you back, or the itch suddenly becomes unbearable, or your gag reflex protests against the gag. You startle awake in the same body, the same position, the same darkness. The disappointment of that is almost worse than the pain.

Deep in the night you understand that he did not use your mouth precisely because this is heavier.

A cock in your mouth would have given focus. Something to do. Something to endure with a beginning and an end. This has neither. This is only lying. For hours. With everything that remains. With the knowledge that he is sleeping while you lie here. That he rests while you cannot move, cannot speak, cannot scratch, cannot escape the slow, grinding accumulation of discomfort and pain and powerlessness.

It feels lonelier than you expected.

And precisely because of that, more submissive.

Not the hot, intense submission of an active scene. A slower, heavier version in which your mind gradually stops trying to understand when this will end. Because the answer stays the same: not now. Not soon. Only when he decides it is enough.

You lie there.

In the dark.

With the ring that keeps pulling.

With the electro that does not stop.

With the clamps that have been in the same place for hours.

With a mouth that is too full.

And a night that is not yet over.

Somewhere underneath everything, the last remnant of “I have to get through this” sinks into something quieter.

Only: I am lying here.

And he decides when that stops.

It happens deep in the night.

It starts small. A cramp in your calf that will not ease. The itch on your side that suddenly becomes unbearable. The too-deep gag that sits wrong on a swallow. And then, without clear reason, something tips.

Your breathing speeds up. Hard. Uncontrollable. You try to breathe deeper but the gag is too far and you cannot get the air the way your mind now demands. Panic shoots upward, sharp and sudden. Your body pulls against the straps with everything it still has. Arms, legs, hips, head — everything tries to move at once. Nothing does. The steel ring yanks hard on your cock from the sudden tension. The clamps bite deeper. You scream against the gag. A wet, desperate sound that goes nowhere. Tears are already running down your face under the hood. You sob. Really. Hard. Your nose runs. You cannot even blow it. Everything is fixed.

You are fighting something that does not move.

And then he is there.

You did not hear him approach through the white noise. Suddenly there are hands on your chest. Firm. Not comforting. Controlling. He presses you harder against the bench while you are still pulling and sobbing. He removes one side of the headphones.

“Breathe,” he says calmly. Not softly. Calmly.

You cannot. You keep hyperventilating against the gag. He does not wait long. His hand goes to the buckles. He pulls the gag out. Cold air. Saliva and snot. You gulp air as if drowning. He holds your head with both hands, firmly, so you cannot turn away.

“Look at me,” he says, though you can barely see through the hood. “You are breathing. Now.”

He forces the rhythm. Slow in. Slow out. His hands stay hard on your head. Not tender. Present. When you keep sobbing he tightens his grip a fraction.

“This is panic,” he says. “Not danger. You are getting air. You stay where you are.”

He waits until your breathing is a little less chaotic. Then he pushes the gag back. Deeper than before. You protest at once, a desperate sound, but he buckles it tight. The headphones go back. White noise.

He leaves his hand on your chest a little longer while you keep trembling. Then he stands and leaves again.

The panic does not disappear completely. It leaves a trembling, exhausted layer underneath everything.

 

The morning

Morning arrives without warning.

You only notice when he turns off the white noise and loosens the hood. Light stabs your eyes. You blink. Your face is wet with tears and saliva and snot. Your jaw is stiff. He releases the straps one by one. Your arms and legs feel strange and heavy. The clamps come off. The pain that follows is sharp and throbbing. The steel ring is removed. The electrodes too. You lie trembling on the bench, naked, wet, exhausted.

He says nothing.

He pulls you upright. Your legs barely work. He leads you to a smaller room. No bondage bench. Only a sturdy chair in the middle and a few hooks in the wall. He puts you on your knees. Hands behind your back. A simple but hard fixation this time: wrists to ankles, a short chain to the floor so you cannot stand. Head down.

Then he begins.

This is no longer a build-up. This is for him.

He uses a heavy leather strap. Hard. Precise. Across your ass, your upper thighs, your back. Not in a rhythm you can follow. Uneven. Sometimes rapid succession. Sometimes long pauses in which you only kneel trembling and waiting. He almost does not speak. Only occasionally, when you make a sound he does not like:

“This is for me. Not for you.”

The words land heavier than the strokes. You understand them. This is not a scene you are supposed to handle or enjoy. This is him taking what he wants, as hard and as long as he wants. Your ass and thighs burn quickly. Then more than burn. Deep, penetrating pain that stays between the strokes. You start crying again. Really crying this time. Mouth open. Sound. He does not stop. When you scream too loudly he does pause — long enough to push a thick cloth between your teeth and knot it. Then he simply continues.

It lasts too long.

Much too long.

You drop through somewhere mentally. Not into subspace in the pleasant way. More into an empty, humiliated silence in which you stop trying to hold on. Your body keeps taking the strokes because it has to. You sob against the cloth. Saliva and tears drip onto the floor. At some point you can no longer even tense properly. Only endure.

He stops only when he is finished. Not when you are ready.

He removes the cloth. You breathe heavily, hanging in the chain. He takes your chin and lifts your face. Your eyes are red and swollen. He looks at you for a moment.

“That was for me,” he says quietly. “Not for you. Remember that feeling. The rest of the week you continue from here.”

He lets go of your chin.

You stay on your knees, burning, trembling, empty. And somewhere under the humiliation and the pain that still throbs, something new opens. A quieter, deeper layer of surrender. Not because it felt good. Precisely because it did not. Because he did it anyway. Because you underwent it without it being about you.

He stands in front of you. Looks down. His voice is calm.

“Do you want to continue, or do you want to stop?”

It is not a gentle check-in. More a test. He knows how you look. He knows what he just did. He knows that practically you have nowhere to go — your things still locked on the timer, the city not yours.

Your throat feels dry. You have to swallow before anything comes out. Your voice is hoarse and small.

“…continue.”

Not loud. Not convinced the way it was earlier. More a soft, almost broken word that comes out because the alternative — stopping, and then what? — feels heavier right now. Because you are here. Because your things are locked. Because you have just undergone something that was not about you, and part of your mind has already decided that this is the tone for the rest of the week.

He only nods. As if he expected that answer.

He releases the chain. Your legs tingle hard when you finally move. He does not really help you up. More that he pulls you upright and immediately steers you another direction. Back to the larger room. But not to the bondage bench.

He puts you on the floor, on a thin mat against the wall. Hands behind your back, this time with solid metal cuffs that are short, so your shoulders are pulled back. A spreader bar between your ankles. Not extremely wide, but enough to be uncomfortable. The steel ring goes back around your cock, feeling heavier now that you are already so sensitive. No electro this time. The clamps, though. Back on your nipples, still tender from before. He tightens them enough to be immediately present.

Then he sits down. In a chair. Opposite you. With a book. Or his phone. As if you are barely there.

You sit.

Burning.

Fixed.

With the aftertaste of the punishment still in your body.

With the knowledge that your things will only be free when the timer allows it.

With days still ahead.

He turns a page. Does not look at you.

And you sit there.

With that empty, heavy feeling that no longer asks whether this is still pleasant.

Only: this is how it is.

And he decides how long.

 

The first day

It does not happen at once.

You sit against the wall for a long time. The clamps bite. The steel ring pulls. Your shoulders begin to protest in the short cuffs. He sits in his chair, turning a page now and then, as if you are a piece of furniture that happens to be in the room. The pain from the strap still sits deep in your ass and upper thighs. Every small shift hurts. You breathe slowly. Empty.

Then, without clear reason, he puts the book aside.

He comes closer. Crouches in front of you. Not dominant or threatening this time. Simply… close. His hand goes to your face. Thumb strokes across your cheek, over the traces of dried tears. He looks at you. Long. Without saying anything.

And somewhere in that looking, something tips.

Not dramatically. More as if whatever resistance still remained somewhere simply slides away. The humiliation from earlier, the pain, the night, the knowledge that you have nowhere to go — it is all still there. But underneath it something else opens. A wide, quiet acceptance. As if you stop trying to decide whether this is good or bad. As if you are simply here, with him, in this moment, and that is enough.

It feels more intimate than the kiss of the night before.

Closer than when his tongue filled your mouth. Because this is not an act. It is only his presence, his hand on your face, his eyes looking at you while you sit fixed, burning, empty, and no longer try to get away. A connection forms that is heavier and quieter than arousal. As if for a moment you are completely visible. Without mask. Without negotiation. Just you, as you are now: surrendered, used, still here.

You notice your eyes growing wet. Not from panic. More from something too large to keep inside. He wipes the tear away with his thumb. Still says nothing. Only keeps looking.

That acceptance is dangerous.

Because it is so complete.

He feels it. Of course he feels it. He sees it in your face, in the way your body softens a fraction despite the cuffs, in the change in your breathing. And he uses it.

Not by becoming harder. By coming closer.

He releases the clamps. The pain that follows is sharp, but his hands stay on your chest, warm, present, while the blood returns. He kisses you again. Slowly. Deeply. But differently from before. Less taking. More as if he is simply entering the openness that is there now. You kiss back this time. Not because you are allowed to steer, but because there is nothing left to hold back. Your mouth is soft. Open. Submissive in a way that no longer needs to fight.

He unlocks the cuffs. Not to free you. To restrain you differently. Closer against him. Your wrists behind his back so you hang against his chest while he kisses you. You feel his heartbeat. His warmth. The steel ring is still around your cock, a hard reminder in the middle of something that now feels almost tender. The contrast only deepens the surrender.

He whispers against your mouth, almost inaudible:

“Now that you’re here… you stay here.”

Not a question. Not a threat. Simply a statement.

And you nod. Small. Against his lips.

He uses that openness for the rest of the morning. Not with more punishment. With proximity. He keeps you close while he restrains you again, this time on the bed, on your side, your face against his chest. An arm around you. Firm straps so you cannot roll away, but his body as extra weight and warmth. He leaves you there, against him, while he scrolls through his phone or is simply quiet. Now and then his hand strokes over your back, over the places that still hurt from the strap. Not comforting. More possessive. As if he is feeling what he left behind.

The connection stays.

Even when the pain builds again.

Even when he later reconnects the electro.

Even when he fills your mouth again and leaves you like that for a long time, face against his skin.

That wide acceptance from earlier does not disappear. He keeps it open. Uses it. Every time you threaten to sink back into pure endurance, he comes closer. A hand in your hair. A kiss against your closed eyelid. A low voice saying that you are lying well. Exactly like this.

And you stay.

Not because you have no choice.

But because that choice, somewhere along the way, has gone quiet.

The afternoon

In the afternoon he changes the tone again.

He puts the leather hood back on.

Complete darkness. The white noise comes hard and immediate in both ears. A posture collar clicks closed around your neck — high, tight, chin forced up. You can no longer bend your head. Cannot look down. Cannot look away. Only straight ahead into nothing.

Your wrists go behind your back. Short. Too short. Shoulders burn at once. Ankles fixed to the spreader bar. Firmly wide. The steel ring is still around your cock. Heavy.

Then he begins.

“On your knees. Now.”

You try. The posture collar makes it awkward. You drop too slowly. The first stroke of the strap lands hard across your already painful ass. Sharp. Burning. You groan.

“Faster.”

Another stroke. Harder. Exactly on the same place. Tears spring into your eyes behind the hood at once. You get to your knees, unsteady, legs wide from the bar.

“Mouth open.”

You open. He pushes his fingers in. Deep. Against your throat. You gag. He holds them there.

“Suck. Properly. As if you want it.”

You do it. Messy. Disordered. He is not satisfied. The strap comes down again, this time across your thighs. Left. Right. Rapid succession. You sob around his fingers. Saliva already runs over your chin.

He pulls his fingers back.

“Tongue out.”

You stick your tongue out. Far. He rests the tip of the strap on it. Leaves it there. The threat alone makes you tremble.

“Stay like that. Don’t move.”

You stay. Seconds. Longer. Your jaw begins to shake. Saliva drips. Then, by accident, your tongue moves a fraction.

The punishment is immediate.

He takes the nipple clamps. Tightens them hard. Much tighter than before. The pain is white, cutting. You scream behind the hood. He turns them once more. You sob hard. Tears and snot already running.

“That was one. Every time you fail, it gets worse.”

He begins the commands.

Humiliating. Small. Absolute.

“Say thank you for being allowed to cry.”

Your voice is hoarse, broken. “Th-thank you for being allowed to cry.”

Not good enough. The strap lands hard between your legs, exactly over the steel ring and your balls. The pain is so sharp you almost fall forward. The posture collar keeps your chin up. You cannot even bend to process it.

“Clearer. And Sir.”

“Thank you for being allowed to cry, Sir—”

Another stroke. Even harder. You scream. Panic flashes up. Your breathing completely fractures.

He keeps going.

Commands you have to repeat while he hits you. Commands you have to perform while the pain still burns. Tongue out. Mouth open. Ass higher. Thank him for every stroke. Admit you are a crying, powerless slut who belongs here. Every hesitation, every wrong tone, every time your voice breaks the wrong way, is answered with more pain. The clamps are tightened further until you are really screaming. He adds weights. Lets them swing. Every movement is hell.

You beg.

Really. Messy. Wet. “Please— Sir please I can’t any more— I’ll do it— I’ll do everything—”

He laughs softly. Not kindly.

“You’re already doing everything. That’s the point.”

He works you like this for a long stretch. Not with the chaotic intensity of the first night, but with a colder precision. This is training. Conditioning. He is installing responses. The intimacy of being broken open in front of only him lands harder than the physical pain.

By the time he finally lets you kneel in silence — mouth open, chin forced up, clamps still on, ring still heavy — your body is shaking with more than the strokes. Fatigue has settled deeper. Your shoulders burn in a way that will not fade quickly. Your throat is raw. Your mind feels scraped.

He sits down again.

Leaves you there.

Every time you close your mouth or shift too much, a short, precise stroke or a sharp tug on a clamp reminds you that the training has only started.

You kneel.

Crying quietly now.

Trembling.

And beginning to understand that the week has a shape, and that shape is being carved into you one command at a time.

 

It continues

He does not give you long to recover.

The rest of the day continues in blocks. Periods of precise commands mixed with stretches where you are simply left kneeling or lying in whatever position he chooses, mouth open, chin forced up by the posture collar, the weights on the clamps slowly swinging with every small tremor. Your shoulders burn steadily now. The short cuffs keep them pulled back just enough that the discomfort never quite settles into the background. Your knees ache against the mat. The steel ring keeps a constant downward pull.

You are used to long bondage. You know how the body complains and then, eventually, adapts. This is different. The combination of the ongoing training, the lack of real rest, and the quiet intimacy of being watched while you fail and correct yourself is wearing something deeper. By late afternoon your reactions are faster, but they cost more. Each correct response still leaves a small tremor behind.

He notices.

In the early evening he stops the commands and simply looks at you for a while. Then he stands, goes to the table, and comes back with something you have not seen yet this week.

The riding crop is already in his hand when he holds the collar up.

Sturdy black leather. Wide. On the inside, left and right of the throat, two flat contact points. Not a decorative toy version. Clearly made to work. He holds it open so you can see the inside. Then you hear the lock. A heavy, mechanical click that sounds different from the buckles you have grown used to. More final. As if something is closing that is not meant to open easily again.

You have brought yourself this far.

You have been explicit: shocks on the neck are not your thing. Even the lowest setting feels wrong in a way you do not enjoy. He knows it. That is exactly why the pull is there. You said yes to the experiment. You said he could take you over lines you would not cross alone. The festival workshop needs someone who stands on the edge and is pushed across it. Now the edge is concrete and cold and very close to your throat.

He waits.

You stay silent while he brings the collar toward you.

You feel the leather tighten. The contact points settle exactly against your neck. The lock closes with that same heavy sound. He checks the fit, gives a firm tug. Your breathing is already higher. Your body knows what is coming before the first shock arrives.

He says only:

“Lowest setting first. So you know it works.”

And then he does it.

The pain is exactly as unpleasant as you knew it would be. Short, sharp, dirty in a place you do not want to feel it. Your head jerks, but the posture collar and the way he is holding you leave little room. A sound comes out of your throat that you would rather not have made.

He waits until you are relatively still again.

“Still on board?”

The question is calm. Not kind. More a final check that is not really a check any longer, because both of you know what you have already allowed this week and what you agreed to before you arrived.

You could still back out. Technically.

But at this point in the week, after everything, the threshold for doing so is higher than the threshold for staying.

You nod. Or you say a hoarse “yes.” Or you say nothing and simply let it happen.

He nods once, as if that settles it.

Then the training changes.

“Position.”

You drop. Too slow. The shock comes at once — a little stronger than the first. Short, but sharp enough to make you cry out. You drop lower, hands tighter on your back, chin forced up.

“Open.”

Mouth wide, tongue out. You do it quickly this time. He waits a few seconds. Then gives a short pulse anyway. Not because you were slow. Simply to let you feel that he can.

You sob. Saliva already runs over your chin. The burning stripes from the earlier strap make it impossible to stay completely still without pain, but stillness is exactly what is required.

He continues.

Commands.

Control.

Immediate consequence if you hesitate, are sloppy, or make too much sound.

Sometimes the shock is low and brief. Sometimes he holds the button longer so the pain keeps burning while you try to show the correct behaviour. You cry openly. Snot and tears. You beg occasionally, broken and wet, but he does not respond to the words. Only to whether your body does what is asked.

After an hour you are soaked with sweat, voice almost gone, neck sensitive, ass and thighs still burning from earlier, and you react faster. Not because the shocks are less unpleasant — they remain dirty and unwanted on your neck — but because your nervous system has begun to understand that hesitation costs more than obedience.

He only stops when you are noticeably quicker and quieter.

Then he simply leaves you kneeling. Mouth open. Collar on. The leash short enough that your head cannot drop. He sits down, takes his phone, and leaves you there.

Every time you move too much, or close your mouth, or sob too hard, a short warning pulse arrives.

Not hard enough to break you.

Hard enough to remind you that the thing is around your neck.

And that he still has days left.

You kneel.

Crying quietly.

Trembling.

With the taste of defeat still thick in your mouth.

And you begin to adjust.

The physical cost is becoming clearer.

Your shoulders no longer recover between sessions. The posture collar keeps your neck in a position that starts to ache in a deep, muscular way. The shocks, even at low levels, leave a lingering sensitivity that makes every swallow noticeable. Your knees are raw. The places where the strap landed earlier are still hot and swollen. Sleep, when it comes, is shallow and broken by the knowledge that the remote is within his reach.

He uses that.

The next blocks of training are shorter but denser. He adds distraction: walking around you while giving commands, touching the clamps, pressing lightly on the steel ring, sliding a finger or a small plug into you while you are required to hold position and respond. Every time your attention slips, the shock follows. Your body starts answering before your mind has fully processed the word. Sometimes too early. Then a shock arrives anyway, because you did not wait for the actual command.

By the time he puts you to bed that night — on your stomach, wrists high on the headboard, both collars still on, the remote on the nightstand — you are past the point of simple tiredness. Your muscles tremble with a fine, constant fatigue. Your thoughts move more slowly. The acceptance that opened earlier in the day is still there, but it now sits underneath a heavier layer of physical cost.

He turns off the light.

“If you move too much or make too much noise tonight, you’ll feel it,” he says calmly. “I sleep lightly.”

You lie in the dark with the collar around your neck, trying to breathe as small and quietly as possible.

And somewhere in that careful stillness you understand that the week is no longer only about enduring.

It is about being reshaped while you endure.

 

The next days

The following days settle into a harder rhythm.

Mornings begin with the collar already active. He does not always wake you gently. Sometimes a short pulse is the first thing you feel, followed by the order to present. Your body answers faster than your mind is ready for. The posture collar keeps your chin high; the shock collar keeps every swallow present. The steel ring stays on for long stretches. The clamps come and go according to his mood or the lesson he is reinforcing.

You know how the body adapts. This is different. The constant low-level threat of the shocks, the lack of real recovery time, and the intimate scrutiny of one person who is deliberately reshaping your responses are accumulating in a way pure restraint never did. Your shoulders stay tight. Your neck carries a deep muscular ache. The skin under the clamps is permanently tender. Sleep is fragmented. Hunger and thirst are managed by him in small, controlled amounts. You begin to lose the clear edges of the days.

He uses the growing exhaustion.

Training blocks become shorter and denser. He mixes the three core commands with physical distraction: a hand on the clamps, pressure on the ring, a finger or plug moving inside you while you are required to stay still and respond only to his voice. When you fail, the shock is immediate. When you succeed, there is simply the absence of pain and, occasionally, a brief touch that feels almost like approval. Your nervous system learns. Your mind lags behind, scraped raw by the constant demand to perform while already depleted.

The sexual use begins without ceremony.

One afternoon he restrains you more completely than before — arms strapped tight to your sides, legs closed and locked, the hood on, white noise high. He opens the mouth panel, removes the gag, and simply takes your mouth. The intimacy of it lands harder than the physical act. He does not wait for you to adjust. He uses the angle the posture collar forces, the fact that you cannot turn away, the fact that your throat is already sensitive from days of the deep gag. He talks over you while he does it, calm explanations of what he is training, as if your mouth is simply another tool in the room.

When he finishes he leaves the taste of him there and puts the gag back.

Later the same day he works you open from behind. Cool lube, steady fingers, then himself. The feeling of being filled while completely unable to move or modulate anything is overwhelming in a way the pure pain never was. He moves with the same methodical patience he uses for the commands. When your body tries to tense or escape, the straps stop it and a short pulse from the collar reminds you that struggle is expensive. You end up shaking, not only from the stimulation but from the sheer exposure of being used so thoroughly by someone who is also still training you.

He edges you the same way he conditions you: repeatedly, precisely, without allowing release until it serves him. Sometimes he brings you to the edge while the collar is active and a wrong sound or movement costs you a shock at the worst moment. Sometimes he leaves you there, hard and aching inside the ring, while he continues speaking or simply sits and watches. The frustration becomes another layer of the fatigue.

By the time the final training day arrives you are visibly worn.

Your reactions are quick, almost automatic. Your voice is rough. Your body carries the marks of the week — bruised shoulders, tender neck, swollen nipples, the deep ache of having been kept open and available. Mentally the wide acceptance that opened earlier is still present, but it sits underneath a heavy blanket of exhaustion. You no longer calculate how much longer. You simply respond, endure, and wait for the next demand.

He tests you hard that last day.

Longer holds on the shock button while you are required to stay in position. Commands given while he is inside you. Distraction layered on distraction. You fail more than once; the consequences are immediate and visible. You also succeed more than you expect, body answering even when your mind feels fogged. When he finally stops he removes one side of the headphones and speaks quietly near your ear.

“Tomorrow you stand in front of them like this. Blind. Controlled. Still responding. That is what I need them to see.”

He puts the white noise back.

That night the restraint is nearly complete again — arms, legs, torso, head, both collars, the hood. The remote stays within his reach. You lie in the dark trying to keep every breath small. Your body is heavy with the week’s accumulation. The places he has used still feel open and sensitive. The collar around your neck is no longer only a threat; it has become part of the shape you have been forced into.

You do not sleep much.

You simply wait for morning, knowing that the festival day is no longer abstract.

It is the next thing that will happen to you.

 

The workshop

The morning of the workshop feels heavier than the days that came before.

He prepares you in silence. Hood on. White noise high. Posture collar and shock collar both tight. Nipple clamps with small weights already attached. Steel ring around your cock. A firm plug that has been inside you since early morning. Wrists locked behind your back. Ankles fixed in a short spreader. The coat only comes off once you are already on the platform.

The room is full. You see nothing, but you hear them: chairs shifting, low voices, someone laughing quietly, a phone being silenced. The exposure is immediate and physical.

He does not begin with theory.

He begins with you.

“This is not a clean demonstration of conditioning,” he tells the room, his voice carrying clearly through the white noise. “This is overload. Pain, humiliation, sexual use, sensory deprivation and an audience at the same time. The point is not to show that the subject obeys when it is easy. The point is to show that it continues to obey when it is already broken down.”

He turns to you.

“Position.”

You drop. Fast. Kneeling, hands behind your back, chin forced high.

“Open.”

Mouth wide, tongue out. Saliva starts to run at once.

He does not wait.

He pushes into your mouth and takes it while the room watches. Deep. Steady. As if it is the most ordinary thing in the world. You gag. Tears come immediately. He continues speaking to the audience with his cock still in your throat.

“You can see the subject has already been under sustained load for days. Shock collar, impact, prolonged immobilisation, repeated sexual use. Yet it still responds to the basic commands.”

He pulls back, lets you drag in air, then gives the next order at once.

“Still.”

You freeze. He raises the collar setting and delivers a long, burning pulse. Your body seizes, a raw sound tears out of you behind the hood, but you do not leave the position. He shows the remote to the room.

“Even under direct pain it holds.”

After that he increases the overload deliberately.

He tightens the clamps until you are sobbing. Lets the weights swing. Works the plug deeper and keeps it moving while he uses your mouth again. Every time you make too much noise or react too violently, a shock follows. Every time you nevertheless stay in position, he says nothing. The absence of further punishment is the only reinforcement.

He leaves you kneeling with your mouth open while he explains how overload works: how the nervous system, under too many simultaneous inputs, still prioritises avoidance of the worst pain; how shame and an audience amplify that effect. While he talks he slides fingers between your legs, moves the plug, tugs the clamps. You tremble continuously. Saliva drips onto the floor. You cry openly.

Then comes the hardest part.

He puts you on hands and knees as far as the restraints allow, ass raised, head forced up by the posture collar. He takes you anally, firm and deep, while the room watches. At the same time he keeps the remote in his hand and delivers irregular shocks. You cry out against the hood. Your body tries to crawl away, but there is nowhere to go. He continues speaking almost the entire time, describing what is happening to your breathing, your muscle tension, your remaining ability to answer a command.

“Open.”

Even while he is inside you, you open your mouth. Tongue out. Tears and snot and saliva.

“Still.”

You try to keep the sound in while he thrusts harder and gives a longer pulse at the same moment. It does not fully succeed. The next shock is heavier.

By the end of the fifty minutes you are a shaking, sobbing, soaked mess. Saliva, snot, tears, lube. You kneel again, mouth open, chin high, while he summarises the session for the room. He shows them that, despite everything, you still respond to the three commands. Quickly. Almost automatically. Even while you cry without control.

People clap.

Someone whistles softly.

Someone says “fuck…” under their breath.

He waits until most of the room has emptied. Then he lifts one side of the white noise and raises the hood a little. His voice is low, only for you.

“That was overload,” he says quietly. “And you kept functioning. Exactly what I needed them to see.”

He lowers the hood again.

Attaches the short leash.

And leads you, still open, still used, still wearing both collars, out of the room.

The eyes that follow you burn between your shoulder blades.

The knowledge that they saw everything sits deeper than the physical pain.

And somewhere under the total exhaustion you notice that almost nothing left still feels like it belongs to you.

 

The aftermath

He does not take you back to the platform or the chair.

He leads you, still leashed and hooded, into a smaller room. It feels safe and familiar. The door closes. The sounds of the festival fade. For a long moment he simply stands behind you, one hand resting on the back of your neck above the collars, not moving.

Then, slowly, he begins to undo everything.

First the leash. Then the spreader. The wrist cuffs. The weights on the clamps. The clamps themselves. The steel ring. The plug. Each removal is careful, almost methodical, but without the earlier clinical distance. When the posture collar and the shock collar finally come off, the sudden absence of pressure around your throat makes you sway.

He removes the hood last.

Light. Air. His face.

You blink hard. Your eyes are swollen, your face wet and sticky with the residue of the last hour. Your legs feel unreliable. He steadies you with both hands, then guides you down onto the bed. Not into a position. Just down.

He undresses as well. When he lies down he pulls you in against him, chest to chest, one arm under your head, the other around your back. Skin on skin. No straps. No collar. No remote. Your forehead rests against the side of his neck. You can feel his pulse.

For a while neither of you speaks.

Your body is still trembling in fine, uncontrollable waves. Every place he used feels tender and open. The welts from earlier days throb in time with your heartbeat. The insides of your thighs are slick. Your jaw aches. Your throat is raw. But the thing that surfaces now is not the pain.

It is the realisation, delayed and heavy, that it was too much.

The week. The night alone. The punishment that was only for him. The collar you had said you did not want. The way he took your mouth and your ass in front of strangers while you were already past your limit. The fact that you kept responding even when you had nothing left. All of it lands at once, now that the structure is gone.

Your breath hitches.

He feels it immediately. His hand moves slowly up and down your back, not correcting, not directing, just present. You try to hold the sound in and fail. A broken, wet noise escapes against his skin. Then another. The tears come hard and sudden, the kind that have been waiting for days. You cry the way you could not cry while the hood was on and the white noise was running — openly, messily, with your face pressed into his neck and your hands curled weakly against his chest.

He does not tell you to stop.

He does not tell you it was fine.

He only holds you tighter and lets it happen.

“I know,” he says quietly, after a long time. His voice is different from the one he used on the platform. Lower. Closer. “I know it was a lot.”

You cannot answer with words. You only nod against him, still crying, while the overload slowly drains out of your nervous system and leaves exhaustion and a raw, shaky intimacy in its place. His hand keeps moving on your back. His breathing stays steady. The room is quiet except for the sound of you coming apart in the safest way the week has allowed.

Eventually the tears slow. Your body grows heavier against his. The trembling eases into ordinary tiredness. He shifts just enough to pull the blanket over both of you, still keeping you close, one thigh slotted between yours, your head tucked under his chin.

No one speaks about the festival.

No one speaks about the next thing that will be required of you.

For now there is only this: naked, marked, emptied out, and held.

You close your eyes.

And for the first time in days, you are allowed to simply be finished.

 

A friend

You are still lying against him, naked, the worst of the shaking gone. His hand moves slowly up and down your back. The room is quiet. For the first time in days your body is allowed to simply exist without a next demand attached to it.

He does not keep you there the whole night.

After a long while he sits you up, gives you more water, and says quietly:

“You’re sleeping with someone else tonight.”

Back in the house, he walks you naked to a room in the back. In the corner stands a large metal cage. Another man is already inside — naked, roughly your size, looking as marked and tired as you feel. He is a new face; you have never seen him before this week.

He locks both of you in together.

Light bondage first: soft cuffs that keep your wrists in front of you with enough slack to move but not enough to fight well. Then the heavy shock collars, one around each of your throats, thick and final-feeling. Matching muzzles that fill your mouths and buckle tight behind your heads, turning every sound into something wet and muffled. Last, the small earpieces. They seal in with a soft click. At first there is only a low, rhythmic hypno drone — calm, repetitive, wordless. It settles into your head the way white noise once did.

He checks both collars, both muzzles, both earpieces. Then he closes the cage door, turns off the main light, and leaves. Only a low amber glow and the tiny red light of a camera remain.

For a while nothing happens except the drone in your ears and the shared heat of another body in too small a space.

Then the voice in the earpiece begins to speak.

It is calm and absolute. It tells the other man what to do to you. You hear the shift in his breathing a second before he moves. When he hesitates the collar at his throat fires — a sharp, visible jolt that makes him jerk and give a muffled cry behind his muzzle. Tears start in his eyes, but the voice does not stop. He reaches for you.

He takes you roughly and without pause.

The cage is too narrow. Every time you push or twist he simply uses his weight and the bars to keep you where the instructions want you. He stays close — face to face, chest to chest, the muzzle pressing against your cheek — while he fucks you hard and deep. The intimacy is worse than the force. You feel every tremor when his collar shocks him for slowing down. You feel the wetness of his tears against your temple. He keeps going while he cries, rough and relentless, because the only way to make the shocks stop is to keep using you.

You make sounds behind your own muzzle.

Please.

Too much.

I can’t.

None of it changes anything.

You do not use the safeword.

The abuse continues until the voice in both earpieces changes.

Now the instructions are for you.

You understand the shift the moment the calm voice begins telling you what to do to him. The realisation lands heavier than any of the earlier pain: you are going to have to do the same thing he just did to you. Against the part of you that does not want to. Against the exhaustion. Against the knowledge that it already felt like too much when you were on the receiving end.

You hesitate.

The collar around your throat fires — sharp, dirty, immediate. Your eyes water. A muffled sound escapes the muzzle. The voice simply repeats the instruction. When you still do not move it shocks you again, longer. Tears start. The only way to make it stop is to comply.

So you do.

You take him the way he took you: roughly, closely, without pause. The cage leaves no room for distance or gentleness. You pin him with your weight and the bars, stay face to face, feel his muffled sounds against your cheek while you fuck him hard and deep. Every time you slow down or try to pull back the collar shocks you. You cry while you do it — short, helpless sounds behind the muzzle — yet you keep going because the alternative is more pain and the voice will not stop until the act is complete.

The intimacy of forcing him is worse than being forced.

You feel every tremor of your own shocks.

You feel his body trying to twist away and stopping it.

You feel the exact moment he realises you are not going to stop either.

Hours blur into the same narrow, overwhelming loop of being used and then using, both of you crying behind the muzzles when the collars fire, both of you continuing anyway. The camera’s red light never blinks. Your body, already ruined from the week, has nothing left. You undergo the abuse and then the act of abusing him because the only alternative is the word you have decided not to use, and because the shocks leave you no other choice.

By the time grey light reaches the bars you are both still, tangled, shaking, tears dried on the muzzles and each other’s skin. The earpieces have gone quiet. The collars are dark. The camera is still watching.

When the door finally opens the earpieces, muzzles and collars are removed.

A hand is offered to you.

You take it.

Your legs barely work.

He walks you back to the bed, lies down with you, and simply holds you — naked, close, no restraints — while the new layer of what was done to you and what you were made to do settles in silence.

You close your eyes against his neck.

It was too much.

And you did it anyway.

 

On the plane back home

The plane is half-empty and the cabin lights are dimmed. You have a window seat. Your bag is under the seat in front of you — the same bag that had been locked away for a week. Your phone is back in your pocket. Your clothes feel strange against skin that still carries the marks.

You stare at the dark glass.

The body is quieter than you expected. The deep ache in your shoulders has settled into something dull. Your throat is no longer raw. The places he used, and the places you were made to use, are only tender now. The physical part is already beginning to fade the way intense sessions always do.

The rest of it has not.

You keep replaying the final night in the cage without meaning to. The weight of the other man on you. The shocks that made him cry while he kept going. Then the moment the voice switched and you understood you would have to do the same. The way your own collar fired when you hesitated. The tears behind the muzzle while you pinned him and fucked him the way the file demanded. The red light of the camera that never looked away. That part sits differently from everything else. It was not only done to you. You did it. And you chose not to stop it.

On the plane you finally let yourself ask the question you avoided while you were still inside the week:

Was it too much?

Yes.

Not in the clean, exhilarating way that heavy play sometimes is. In the quieter, more unsettling way that leaves a residue. The public overload on the stage had a structure and a purpose you could still name. The cage did not. It was intimate in a way that felt almost private, almost domestic, and that made the force and the mutual helplessness harder to metabolise. You can still feel the exact second you realised you were going to cross the same line that had just been crossed on you. You can still feel yourself doing it anyway.

You do not regret using the week the way you did. You wanted the edges. You asked for them. You kept the safeword in your pocket the entire time and never took it out. That part is true. What is also true is that some of those edges landed further inside you than you had language for at the time.

Coping, for now, looks like this: sitting very still in an aeroplane seat, letting the thoughts come without forcing them into a neat story, and not deciding anything yet. You notice that your hands are steady. You notice that you are not spiralling. You also notice that something in your chest feels scraped, the way it does after a grief that has not fully declared itself.

Would you do it again?

The honest answer, right now, is that you do not know.

Part of you already misses the clarity of being completely held and completely used, of having every decision lifted off you for days. Part of you is relieved the timer unlocked and the plane is taking you home. Part of you is already turning the cage over in your mind, examining the mutual force, the tears, the camera, the moment you became the one who had to continue. That part is not finished with the question.

You lean your forehead against the cool window. The city lights fall away underneath the wing. Somewhere below, the week is already becoming memory instead of present tense.

You close your eyes.

You will need time.

You will need ordinary days.

You will need to feel the marks fade and see what remains underneath them.

And when the ordinary days have done their work, you will know whether the answer is yes, or not yet, or never like that again.

For now it is enough to be on the plane, still marked, still quiet, and finally alone with whatever the week left behind.

 

Metal would like to thank the author, ThomasBXL, for the fictional text and welcome him to the Prison Library!