VRansomwear

By POW

CHAPTER 3

Sunday began with Colin trying to wipe away the crustiness of dried sleep-gunk in his eyes. Still only half-awake, he went to rub them clear and found his fingers’ way blocked by the confining rubber of the hood. For a brief moment overnight, it seemed he had been able to somehow forget that he was a prisoner in a form-fitting cell. His waking had been gentle; he rose smoothly and gradually from the depths of sleep. The lingering vestiges of a pleasant but already fading dream left him with a general sense of well-being. He was comfortable in his bed, the temperature was mild… and so when his hand failed to wipe his eyes the memory of his captivity came crashing back all at once. His mood instantly plummeted.

It was a tight fit, but by using more of the talc supplied in the gym bag he was able to work a finger into the mouth hole of the hood and worm it all the way up to the inner corner of his eye, clearing the tiny but infuriating chunks away. He worried the suit might zap him for tampering, but it allowed his action without interference. Even so, the effect on his mood lingered, and didn’t get better as the day went on.

He had promised Eva he would spend the afternoon at her sister’s birthday party. Prior to a few days ago, he would have told anyone who would listen “I’d do anything to get out of going!”. Now, today, he realized that there were limits on what “anything” might mean; an afternoon with Eva’s family started to seem downright appealing in comparison. Still, there was no way he could show up there. She wouldn’t like it, but he had to tell her he wasn’t going.

Texting seemed best, although it was awkward with rubber-coated fingers. Eva would have preferred he call, but that would have meant a 20-minute-long bitch session he was in no mood to listen to. So he sent a quick “Sorry got 2 cancel 2day. Will make it up 2 u promise.” She took a while to respond, but when she did, to his relief, it was to say “Thats ok, know u don’t like this kind of thing,” which was much better than he expected. He sent back “Thanks, ur the best” in appreciation.

Then it was a scrounge for breakfast – food was running low; he would need to grab some groceries soon. Preferably downtown, far away from home. There were no visitations from muscle-bound deities, so he was on his way by noon.

… and was back at home at 1:30 AM, exhausted, sore, and sporting a score of 193. An entire day of pounding the pavement, and a mere 72 points to show for it. Plus a bag of supplies bought while still downtown so he wouldn’t have to risk showing his masked face at a store near his home.

The leathermen that had been so abundantly strewn all over the place before were rarer and harder to find today. At least the ones he did come across tended to be the higher-value ones. He was starting to get a sense of how the game was organized, and was thinking of the leathermen he encountered as falling into categories of 1 through 5 based on how many points the initial tag was worth. During his travels, he racked up a 4-point “Inkatha (Zulu Leatherman)”, another giant of a man whose skin was so glisteningly black it was hard to distinguish it from the leather he wore. He also re-found two that he had seen on his first day: a 3-point Blueball cop, and a 5-point Sargeox.

The Sargeox was decked out in full military gear, but leatherized. He carried some formidable-looking weaponry, which told Colin that this game absolutely had to be imaginary. Or at least this one leatherman. There was no way a guy could be walking around the streets of New York carrying that much heavy-duty artillery with him; he had to be a fake. Or… maybe the guy was genuine and only the hardware was digital? Damn, it was so frustrating not to know what was real and what was a creation of the suit! If he had to spend many more days like this he would seriously start to worry about how he would hold onto his sanity.

Sadly, Colin was unable to get anything but a tag from the Sargeox. He had hoped that the 5-point multiplier effect would have helped out his score, but the leatherman showed not the slightest bit of interest in Colin, who eventually gave up and wandered off in pursuit of other more cooperative dots on his display. But they were few and far between, and he found himself roving far from what he thought of as the game’s home base: Times Square. He arrived home in a foul mood after exchanging inconclusive jerkoffs with “Fetter-cini” (2 points) and, later, “Dominus” (3 points).

 

Monday morning brought another frustrating bout of wanting… craving… NEEDING to get the hell out of the suit. Two and a half days… he could smell himself every now and again whenever a few odorous molecules worked their way past the tight confines of the rubber and into his nostrils. He was desperate to rip the fucking thing to pieces, and the only thing stopping him was the knowledge that his balls would be baked to a crisp before he could even get started. He contented himself with venting his frustration on the drawers and cabinets, slamming them around until the neighbor next door shouted at him to knock it the hell off. He shouted back and felt a tiny bit better.

A very large, heavy hand descended on his shoulder.

He spun around to look, but knew even as he did who it would belong to. His heart leapt with a purely involuntary spasm of memory at the near-religious experience he had experienced during the last visitation even as his rational mind knew the whole thing a trick geared toward making him compliant. Part of him wanted to beat the fucker to a pulp; a more sensible part knew he’d just be worked over like the last time, and so he – belatedly, after a long enough pause that the god very nearly lost patience with him – got down on his knees and stared at the floor between two tree-trunk legs.

“I come to offer you a hint. 10 points.”

Sure. No acknowledgement that he had, sheep-like, followed orders and dropped down on his fucking knees without being told to. The ungrateful bastard. Colin swallowed his anger. “What is the hint about? Sir.”

“Earning points. What else?”

Colin stewed. 10 points represented some serious effort on his part. It was not to be spent foolishly. Previous hints had certainly been helpful, but was the information he might learn something he could figure out on his own?

Maybe. And yet, given yesterday’s difficult performance, maybe not. Spending 10 points was worthwhile if it brought his income rate up. He risked a glance higher up the god’s body, as far as his waist. Not so much as a hair was moving, not a flicker of muscle twitch could be seen; he might as well have been a statue who could stand there waiting all day for Colin to make up his mind.

“Yes. Sir. I’ll take the hint.”

Colin’s score flipped into view and dropped to 183. The god said “When kneeling before a leatherman, hold your arms out to him, hands together.”

With that, the oak legs vanished into sparkles and Colin was alone.

Well. Something new to try. Perhaps that gesture would have made yesterday’s interaction with the implacable Sargeox a more profitable one.

Before heading off downtown for another day of cruising for leathermen, he called in sick to the construction job that his cousin had set him up with. He usually put in a half shift a couple of days a week, getting paid under the table to do the shitwork no one else wanted. The boss was pretty flexible if you caught him in a good mood, but could be an absolute jerk otherwise. Fortunately, Colin caught him on a good day. Then he was off to the touristy part of town.

At 7th and 35th, leathermen were once again scarce on the ground. He steadily worked his way uptown and found a few along the way, scoring a handful of points from them in the same way he had on previous days. But the hands-out pose didn’t prompt anything different.

Then he found “Bulldog (Truck Driver Leatherman)”, a 3-point tag. This was the first out-of-shape character he had come across, although on taking a closer look, he realized that the guy was not out of shape at all. He was just as thoroughly muscled as the others but his abs, instead of being washboard flat, were covered by a layer of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Colin knelt submissively on the street corner and held his hands out in front of him, wrists together.

The leatherman stared down at him for a moment and a pop-up appeared in Colin’s vision.

The leatherman wishes to control your suit. Permit this?
Yes   No

There was fine print. “You can revoke consent at any time by using the menu. You will forfeit any points earned if you do this.”

Yeah, sure, bring it on. Colin blinked “Yes”. A few seconds later, the Bulldog reached out and tapped twice at the spot where Colin’s wrists met, uttering the first word Colin had heard a leatherman speak: “cuffs”. Thick silver handcuffs shimmered into existence, already locked around his wrists. They were the tight hinged kind, with the two metal circles joined directly together at their bases instead of having a few links of chain between them.

Colin pulled his hands in and examined them. The cuffs looked absolutely real, as solid as anything else he could see. He tried to pry his wrists apart and found that he couldn’t. No matter how hard he pulled, he could not separate his hands. His mind reeled. The cuffs had to be fake. Real metal couldn’t just materialize out of nothing. If he could get out of the hood, he was sure he would see his rubber-gloved hands at the ends of his arms with no heavy bracelets adorning them, which made him wonder: was this a trick of his mind? If he could just get visual confirmation that there were no cuffs, would the restriction of his movement turn out to be an illusion too? Was he hypnotizing himself into playing by the game’s rules, or was there really some magic force holding his wrists together? It was getting too difficult to think about what was real-real and what was game-real…

The Bulldog beckoned for him to stand. As he did, the score counter dropped down and rose from 201 to 202. He followed the Bulldog down into an alley. They passed a dumpster and the Bulldog stopped and turned around. He tapped the cuffs on Colin’s wrists and said “remove cuffs”; obligingly, the heavy shackles vanished and Colin’s wrists were free to move again as if they had not just spent the last few minutes glued together. A message appeared: “The leatherman wishes you to remove your clothing.” Colin obeyed, stripping out of the baggy sweatshirt and pants he used to camouflage himself on the public streets until he was wearing nothing but the rubber suit.

The leatherman then pushed Colin up against the container’s side and tapped two fingers against Colin’s throat, growling “collar” as he did. Colin felt a heavy metal band materialize around his neck. He tried to look down to see it but found that his neck could not move – it was attached to the wall behind him. He could turn his head from side to side but could not get leverage to look down at his body. His score rose by another point as he began to feel the first twinges of worry about what he had gotten himself into.

The leatherman lifted Colin’s right arm up and held it in place while he repeated the tapping gesture and spoke the word “cuff” again. Colin watched a new cuff, a single shackle, appear around his wrist. Like the collar, it was fastened to the structure he was standing against. He tried to inspect the connection to see how the hell an imaginary handcuff could hold his arm in place against a real wall and in so doing missed the moment when the Bulldog attached his left wrist to the wall in the same way.

Another point was added on to his score. The Bulldog went on to fix Colin ever more firmly to the wall of the dumpster, adding cuffs around both upper arms and two large bands around his chest and waist. Once those were in place, the Bulldog did something that completely freaked Colin out – he kicked Colin’s right leg out to the side until it was off the ground and cuffed it into place… then did the same with his left. Colin was floating! Suspended off the ground by imaginary restraints wielded by an imaginary character.

This could not possibly be happening. He began to thrash about, moaning wordlessly. Nothing he did could break the metal bonds he could see and feel pinning him to the wall. He couldn’t move his arms or legs, chest, waist, or neck. All were firmly fixed in place, with his feet a good four inches off the ground.

The Bulldog watched him impassively. Colin’s score continued to climb, unheeded by Colin as his mind tried and failed to understand how this could be happening. His moans turned briefly into words – “uhhhh… uhhh… ah, god”…

FIRE!

His balls lit up with a blaze of electricity. His body convulsed but utterly failed to change position. “DO NOT SPEAK TO THE LEATHERMAN!” flashed red in his vision. Colin was beyond speech anyway… all he could do was scream, even for long seconds after the current stopped passing through his testicles.

The Bulldog continued to watch him hanging like a pinned insect. Colin thrashed uselessly, his mind surrendering now to full-on panic. It might have lasted for seconds. Or minutes, or hours. The part of his brain that tracked the passage of time had temporarily ceased to function.

Eventually, though, he began to calm down and felt some small sanity returning. He still hung trapped on the wall, but the rational part of his brain had kicked in with a suggestion: Out. There was a way out. He had read that somewhere in the menu there was a way to revoke consent. He could take control of the suit back. Still hanging, he eyed his way through the suit’s control menu and found what he was looking for. There were two “Are you sure messages” once he selected the proper choice from the menu, the second one reminding him that he would forfeit all points from the time he had given consent for the Bulldog to control the suit. With the panic fading, he flicked his glance upward to check his score just as it descended into view, morphing from 233 to 234.

That was much higher than when he had last checked. He wasn’t hurt, he wasn’t maimed… well, except for the ball zapping, but that was his own doing for breaking the no-talking rule. He was just being held still. He paused a long moment, then blinked the menu away. He couldn’t remember exactly what his score had been before he met the Bulldog, but he had to have earned somewhere around forty points since then. And it was still climbing. Just for hanging here on a wall! That was too many points to just throw away. Better to endure some short-term immobility if it brought him closer to eventual complete freedom.

He hung a bit longer, squirming against the restraints as they grew uncomfortable the longer he hung in them. It wasn’t unbearable, but he still felt better if he shifted position every minute or so. His score continued its steady rise.

Eventually another pop-up appeared. This one said:

The leatherman wishes to cause you discomfort. Permit this?
Yes   No

“Discomfort”. Right. Colin had been in this game long enough to know that word was almost certainly an understatement. He had earned maybe 50-some points so far… that was good enough for this session. He blinked “No”. Perhaps he’d be more desperate in a future encounter. Not just yet.

A different pop-up appeared. This one was familiar.

The leatherman wishes to touch your cock. Permit this?
Yes No

Yeah, that he could handle.

The Bulldog approached him and began to fondle his crotch. Colin shut his eyes and waited for it to be over. He was not surprised at this point to find himself boning up – after doing this with so many leathermen he had learned that his dick didn’t much care who or what it was being rubbed by.

This session went on longer than most. The hand played expertly with his cock. Colin didn’t even try to guess how the suit manufactured the sensation of a rock-hard erection being stroked by a confident hand when his cock was actually trapped tight in a confined space. But as time went on, that ceased to matter. The pleasant sensations washed over him and Colin found himself tensing in his bonds, desperately seeking… something. He opened his eyes to see the Bulldog’s face looming right in front of his and realized he was very, very close to shooting a load.

As if sensing this, the bulldog released his grip. Colin bucked his hips pointlessly a few times, but it was useless – he could only move them a negligible distance and there was nothing but empty air for his virtual erection to thrust into anyway. Biting back a cry of frustration, he sagged into his bonds and gave up trying to reach a climax. His dick slowly softened, leaving Colin aching to come. Unnoticed, his score silently crept higher.

The Bulldog set him free then, one limb at a time, releasing Colin’s feet until he was standing on the ground again, then taking off the chest and waist restraints and the wrist cuffs. Then, to Colin’s surprise, he turned and walked away, leaving Colin with his neck still trapped against the dumpster. He almost called after the guy, then remembered the penalty for speech and kept silent. Just as he was beginning to fume about having to use the control menu to free himself and maybe forfeit all the points he had earned, the leatherman turned at the head of the alley and pointed at him. The collar vanished and Colin stumbled forward, catching himself before he fell. He caught a glimpse of the man disappearing around the corner, then set out to put his clothes back on.

Dressed once more, he examined his score history since encountering the Bulldog.

Monday
Time	Event	Points	Balance
1:13 PM	Bulldog (Truck Driver Leatherman) Tagged	3	201
1:14 PM	Bulldog Granted Control (start)	1/min	–
2:04 PM	Edged by Bulldog	20	221
2:06 PM	Bulldog Granted Control (end)	52	273

72 points for an hour’s effort. If he had allowed the “discomfort” option, he had no doubt it would have been even higher. That was the key, then. Find the leathermen and let them have their way with him. Figure 90 or even a hundred points an hour… that was going to rocket his score up. Fast.

He was going to be out of this suit by the end of the day.

 

… or maybe not. Ten hours later he had reached 427 points. He was willing, dammit, but he had found only two other leathermen who wanted to play the game! He had figured out that the plain 1-point leathermen were never interested in the kinky stuff. They were good for a low-point five-minute grope and nothing more. It took a higher-rated leatherman to be willing to go further. Colin had gotten to the point where he didn’t even bother “respecting” the 1-pointers any more. It wasn’t worth the trouble. He just took the point for the tag and kept moving.

He had found a Blueball cop-type who had cuffed his hands behind his back, frisked him, and then let him stand there and sweat for a while right out on the street corner. People were walking past, giving him a wide berth, but Colin was past the point of caring what his bizarre activities must look like to normal, unaugmented bystanders. The Blueball put him through another edging session, again right there in the open, but never made the request to cause Colin “discomfort”. That session ran for not quite an hour and earned him another 62 points and left him so mind-warpingly horny he couldn’t think straight. He had to shoot a load soon, just had to… Once the Blueball had had his fun and set Colin free, Colin stumbled off in pursuit of other leathermen in a ball-churning daze.

After night had fallen he had come across a Terminator who looked just like Ah-nold straight out of the movie of the same name, only with a lot more leather. The Terminator had been much more aggressive than the Blueball. He had conjured gleaming chrome restraints of metal that looked and moved like a liquid but held Colin immobilized in a convincingly solid manner. The Terminator (a 5-point tag) had conjured the mercurial material out of thin air and caused it to pour down over Colin’s shoulders, where it ran down over his limbs and then hardened. Colin’s body was leaning up against a wall and after it solidified he might as well have been a steel beam for all that he could bend.

Then the request for “discomfort” had come. Colin had readily assented. The Terminator had placed his hands on Colin in various ways, uttering words like “fire”, “ice”, “clamp”, or “vise”. Each word and gesture sent the corresponding sensation tunnelling through the metal and onto Colin’s skin. The clamps (on his tits, of course) were so bitingly tight he couldn’t stop trying to lift his hands to yank them off, but the metal coffin allowed no such movement.

Scariest was the moment when the Terminator re-liquified the metal and made it start flowing up over Colin’s head. Colin could feel it climbing up his neck and chin and crawling over his scalp before starting to close in on his face from all sides. The Terminator pointed at Colin’s eyes right as the metal began to encroach and said “blind”. The world went black. Then Colin heard the word “deaf” and suddenly the only sound he could hear was the singing of his own blood in his metal-shrouded ears. Then he felt the metal finish coating his face and re-harden, encasing him entirely. Somehow he was still able to breathe, the air was flowing in and out through his mouth and nose just fine even though he knew in his gut the metal was there surrounding him completely leaving him alone in the black silence and he knew that this was the end, this was it, he was going to die in some anonymous alley in midtown Manhattan, killed by his own hyperactive imagination and why was his cock so damn hard? and then his thoughts went away completely…

When he returned to himself, he was still leaning against the wall, but sitting instead of standing. The Terminator was gone, he could see and hear again, his score had climbed by 92 points… and he was painfully desperate to grab his cock and squeeze a load out. It would only take two strokes, maybe three, that’s all. But it was still locked away behind an impenetrable layer of rubber.

Almost midnight. Colin climbed to his feet. Gotta find more leathermen…

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Metal would like to thank the author, POW, for sharing this story with Metalbond Prison Library readers.

Disclaimer: This story is a purely fictional account. Any relationship to any real person living or dead is coincidental. The narrative contains non-consensual male-on-male sex and torture. It is intended for mature readers who wish to view such material, and for whom it is legal to do so. The author in no way condones or promotes such acts in real life.

Copyright © 2016 by POW. For spam prevention, an animal name has been added to the author’s e-mail address. Remove the animal name to get the actual address: POWauthor zebra at yahoo dot com. This story may be freely copied and distributed so long as it is copied in its entirety, unchanged, including the author credit information and disclaimer. Other POW stories are available at https://powauthor.wordpress.com. The author welcomes feedback.