© 2023 Bostonleatherman

…adds to the relief that Garrett allowed you tonight when he released you from the wall and unbuckled the arms of your straitjacket.

“Rise and shine!”

You woke to a bright light in the closet and the view of Garrett standing over you in the doorway. Or the view of his feet standing in the doorway. It took you a few moments to make sense of your situation: lying on the floor in a semi-fetal position with parts of you actually stuck to the floor. It started to come back to you as your eyes adjusted to the light: Garrett putting you in the straitjacket, locking you to the wall, forcing you to smoke a cigar in the enclosed closet, having to piss, pissing, Garrett pouring the glass of his own piss over you, and finally letting you down from the wall and leaving you on the closet floor for the night.

“C’mon, get up. Lots to do today. The least of which is cleaning up the fucking mess you made last night.”

You were stiff as you tried to move. Was it any wonder? And incredibly hungry. You remember Garrett feeding you something… What was it? It doesn’t matter; all you knew was that you were hungry now. You s-l-o-w-l-y pushed yourself up to a sitting position. Once you got there, you felt Garrett grab the D-rings on your shoulders and jerk you into a kneeling position in front of his cock. He guided your head onto it and you sat back on your heels and as he filled your mouth with his piss. You swallowed but knew you were spilling some in the process. What does it matter? The floor, and you, are a mess. That’s when you let your own piss flow. Its warmth felt good in your crotch. And its spread down your thighs, and over your taint and toward your hole soothed you. Garrett followed your hydration with the blowjob that frequently follows the pissing. You knew it was coming. You felt his cock thicken and harden as he was finishing his piss. But this time he was quick about it. Cum shot down your throat after only a half dozen thrusts.

“Carpe diem. Stand up.”

Garrett grabbed your shoulders and hauled you up onto your feet, holding you until you steadied yourself.

“Turn around.”

You do a 180 as ordered and feel Garrett really start to undo the buckles this time, for real. Unlike before when you thought you were going to get free, but were buckled in tighter instead. He turns you around and pulls the straitjacket from your shoulders and yanks on the ends of the arms to get it off you. The dried sweat on your arms causes it to stick and Garrett tugs harder to free it, almost pulling you off balance. You lean back to counter the force and it finally comes free. You fall backward but the wall catches you and Garrett lets the straitjacket fall to the floor.

“Get this mess cleaned up and then I’ll feed you some breakfast. Everything you need is in the kitchen closet.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Garrett heads to his study and you head to the kitchen and get what you need from the closet – bucket, Spic and Span, and rags. You fill the bucket from the kitchen sink and head back to the closet and get busy. The first thing you do is pick up the straitjacket and take it out to the balcony off the living room, turn it inside out to dry and hang it over one of the chairs. Back in the closet, you are down on your knees and cleaning the floor with a soaked rag. The slurry from your piss-drowned cigar ash has dried into a black crust and you scrub a bit to get it cleaned up. The soapy water has turned grey. Back to the kitchen to dump the filthy water and refill it to rinse down the floor with clean rags. Garrett walks past you toward the living room while you work and says nothing. After the floor has been wiped down to remove any soapy residue, you take another clean rag and dry it. It looks, and smells, as good as new but when you stand up the scent of last night’s cigar is definitely in the air. You close the doors, turn off the light and head back to the kitchen to clean your supplies and stow them for the next time.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Garret pours you a cup, puts it in front of you and then reaches into a lower cupboard and takes out the stainless-steel dog bowl. Your bowl. You blow across your cup of coffee and start to sip it. He then opens two packets of instant oatmeal in tandem and dumps them into the bowl. You are not prepared for what happens next.

Garrett unbuttons his fly, pulls out his cock and pisses into the dog bowl all over the dry instant oatmeal. He mixes it up with a fork and then puts it on the kitchen floor in front of you.

“Breakfast.”

You look at him. He nods toward the bowl. You should have expected something like this. He was kind enough to you last night when you needed it, but today is another day. You are still a little stiff and start to slowly get on your knees but Garrett stops you.

“Before you eat, one more thing.”

He reaches for his belt and you are fully expecting a throatful of his piss before you eat. But he pulls his belt out of its loops, steps behind you, pulls your wrists behind your back and binds them with his belt.

“Ok, you’re good to go.”

Garrett leaves the kitchen and you to your awful meal. You are starving at this point and glance at the clock on the stove. It’s 12:19. No wonder you’re so hungry; this is the first time you’ve known what time it is since you arrived nearly 24 hours earlier. You carefully get to your knees. It’s not so easy with your arms bound behind you. Just one more fucking torment, you tell yourself. Fuck you, Garrett.

You lean toward the bowl, lose your balance in the process and nearly do a face plant into the bowl of pissy oatmeal. You catch yourself and pull back and sit on your heels for a moment. You take a few deep breaths and slowly, deliberately lower yourself again so that your face is just over the bowl. It doesn’t smell like you thought it would. Garrett’s piss must be pretty diluted this morning. You hover over it and try to lower your face slowly so that you can maybe start lapping some up with your tongue. Your abs don’t cooperate; you lose control and fall the two inches forward so that your nose, moustache, mouth and beard are now buried in the bowl of sticky, cold oatmeal. The stumble caught you off guard and you exhale and breathe in quickly, snorting some of the oatmeal into each nostril. You pull back as much as you can, cough a bit and try to blow the mess out of your nose.

“Everything ok in there?”

“Yes. Yes, Sir.”

“OK. Just checking.” You definitely heard Garrett chuckle.

You use every muscle in your core to control yourself as you go back to eat. The oatmeal has congealed a bit and it is actually easier to eat this way. You control your breathing while you eat – mouthful, chew, shallow breath, swallow, repeat. The strain on your muscles to eat in this position is worse than the disgusting paste you’re eating and you make quick work of it. You’re finally able to sit back on your heels and take a few deep breaths. You didn’t notice Garrett in the doorway watching you.

“Good work.”

“Thank you. I think.” You wink at Garrett and he winks back.

“OK. Get up.”

Not having your arms to help you, you struggle to get up. Garrett walks over, grabs your upper arms, and gives you a boost into a standing position. He takes his belt off your wrists and you automatically bring them in front of you and rub them.

“Wrists OK?”

“Yes. It’s just an automatic thing I do.”

“Get the bowl cleaned up and put away and then take a shower. You’ll find some gear in the study once you’ve cleaned yourself up.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Garrett heads back to the study, you clean out, then dry the dog bowl and stow it back in the cupboard, and head to the shower. You take off boots, socks, tee shirt and peel off your piss-stained jeans while the shower warms up. Once it’s ready you step into it and first rinse out your tee shirt and then your jeans. After they’re rinsed and wrung out, you place them over the shower rod and set to getting yourself clean. The warm water running over you is mesmerizing and you lean against the shower wall and close your eyes. The last 24 hours run through your mind and your cock has gotten hard thinking about it. You stroke it. And stroke it. And stroke it. But you stop yourself before you cum. Garrett would definitely not approve. He might not know if you did. But it’s Garrett, and 1) you don’t want to cum without his permission and 2) he would know. He has a crazy sense about things.

You grab the bar of soap and quickly clean yourself – hair, chest, ass, cock and balls, and legs. But not pits. You love the smell of ripe pits. Even your own. You spend some time washing your face, being sure to get all the oatmeal out of your moustache and beard. You turn the water off, grab your clothes from the rod and open the shower curtain. There’s no towel in sight, which you forgot to check before you got into the shower.

“Sir?” you call.

“Yes.”

“There’s no towel.”

“I know.”

“OK.” You get it.

You squeegee as much water off your body as you can, and then carefully hang your jeans over the shower rod to dry. Once you decide you won’t drip anymore you head to the study to see what Garrett has put out for you. He’s at his desk, smoking his pipe, and doesn’t look at you when you come in. There in front of you, laid out on his leather Mission recliner are your leather jeans and belt, and leather shirt. Your boots and a fresh pair of socks are on the floor next to the recliner. He must have come into the bathroom while you were in the shower to get your boots. You didn’t even notice they were gone when you stepped out of the shower.

“How’s that feel?”

“Much better, thanks. Sir.”

“Good. It’s after 1 p.m. What’s your plan?”

“Sir?”

“You’re making a fancy dinner tonight. I don’t have anything for it, remember?”

“Right. Well, I guess we need to get some stuff.”

“You need to get ‘some stuff.’”

“Umm… OK.”

“The market is very close.”

“OK. And they have parking?”

“They do. But you’re going to walk.”

“I see.”

To be continued …